The 39-Year-Old Virgin Page 2

  “Whatever you want,” Nancy agreed. “Next time,” she promised, “you get to pick the place.”

  Because she didn’t want to detain her cousin any longer, Claire nodded. But there wasn’t going to be a “next time.” Not for a while, anyway. After one venture, she knew she wasn’t ready for this. She needed to get used to the rest of her life first, get comfortable in her responsibilities and new routine. Then—maybe—she’d think about going to a place like Saturday Night and Sunday Morning to meet men.

  And then again, maybe not.

  Claire looked at Nancy as the latter pushed her chair in. “Give me a call and tell me how she’s doing when you get a chance.”

  Clutching her purse, Nancy leaned over the table and gave her hand a squeeze. “Will do. And try to have a good time while you’re still here.”

  Claire forced a smile to her lips. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Do better,” Nancy instructed, then hurried off. And Claire felt very alone.

  How long did these songs last, anyway? she wondered impatiently. Wasn’t it about time at least one of the girls came back?

  “Looks like all your friends deserted you, little lady.”

  Despite the noise, Claire heard the words clearly. Startled, she swung around and discovered a tall man standing directly behind her chair. And he was looking right at her.

  “Not quite,” she replied. “Three of them are on the floor, dancing. My cousin had to leave.”

  “Lucky for me.” He was good-looking in a non-rugged, stockbroker kind of way. If she were to judge, she would have put him in his early forties. You’d think after all that time, he would have learned not to go where he wasn’t invited. But instead, he dropped down into the seat beside her.

  Nancy’s seat, she thought grudgingly. “So, what’s your name, pretty lady?”

  “Claire,” she heard herself saying even though she had a feeling that she should have given him a false name, or, even better, none at all.

  “Claire,” he repeated, nodding his approval. “Nice change from ‘Tiffany’ and ‘Britney,’” he commented. Putting out his hand, he grinned broadly. She couldn’t get the image of a shark out of her head. “I’m Bill.”

  Not shaking his hand would have been rude and she didn’t want to be rude, so she shook it with no enthusiasm and murmured, “Hello, Bill.”

  He kept his hand around hers. “I like the way you say that.”

  Very deliberately, she withdrew her hand from his. “Look, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not here to mingle.”

  “Oh?” Rather than put off, he seemed pleased. Before she realized what he was doing, he ran the back of his knuckles slowly against her cheek. Stiffening, Claire immediately pulled her head back. “A lady who wants to cut to the chase right off the bat. I like that.”

  “I’m not here to ‘cut to the chase,’” she informed him. “I’m here with my friends to do a little catching up.”

  Instead of backing away, Bill took hold of her wrist and then rose, pulling her up to her feet with him. “Why don’t we teach your friends a lesson and have them come looking for you? My car’s right outside.”

  Obviously, the man refused to take a hint. There was no way she was about to go anywhere with this man. But she still tried to be polite. “No, thank you, I’d rather not.”

  A flash of anger came and went from the dark eyes. His grip on her wrist tightened. “Don’t be a tease, Claire. Men don’t like that.”

  She glared at him. Fear had left, replaced by anger. “And I don’t like being manhandled.”

  “What are you, one of them?” he asked contemptuously.

  She knew where he was going. It might be easier just to agree, to let him think her preference ran toward the softer gender, but that would have been an out-and-out lie. She preferred a shade of gray instead.

  “What I am,” she informed him, tossing her head, “is a nun.” God forgive me for lying.

  “A nun, huh?” The news did not have the desired effect on the man. Rather than release her and mumble an apology, Bill leered at her as he let his gaze travel over the length of her and then back up. “Never had a nun before.” His hand tightened even more around her wrist and he pulled her toward him. “Now you’ve really piqued my interest. C’mon, dance with me, ‘Sister’ Claire. Show me what you’ve got.” The leer deepened. “I bet you’re really starved for a little action.”

  So much for being polite, she thought. “If I were, it wouldn’t be with such a Neanderthal,” she declared, trying in vain to pull back. She was no weakling, but he was far too strong for her.

  “Not the right answer.” The warning came out like a half growl.

  “But it’s the one you’re going to accept,” someone said directly behind her. “Now.”

  Chapter Two

  Caleb McClain ran his fingers along the chunky shot glass sitting on the slick bar before him.

  He knew he should be on his way.

  Hell, he wasn’t even sure what had made him stop here at Saturday’s rather than simply going to Lucky’s, the bar located near the precinct.

  Maybe it was because he wanted the excuse of going to a restaurant rather than a bar. More likely, it was because he didn’t want to run into anyone from the station. Tonight of all nights, he didn’t feel like talking. Not that anyone would expect him to be talkative. Never one to shoot the breeze, the way his partner, Mark Falkowski, did, he’d become one step removed from being a mummy in the last year.

  At least that was what Falkowski maintained. Ski was the only man who would attempt to broach the subject that had so viciously scarred him and even the six-foot-six vice detective didn’t venture very far into that territory. Ski knew better. Everyone knew better. Just like everyone knew the reason why he’d withdrawn so completely into himself.

  One year. One year today.

  How the hell did time go by so fast when it felt like it was standing still, when every second of every day seemed to pierce him with sharpened spears?

  And today was the worst of all. Today marked 365 days since it’d happened. Since Ski had come to him with a long face and sorrow in his eyes to tell him what the beat cops in East L.A. had just called in.

  Getting out of bed today had been almost impossible. He’d thought of calling in sick, but where would he go, what would he do? Everywhere he went, his mind went with him.

  There was no escape.

  Staying in the house wasn’t the answer. Danny would be there. He didn’t want his son seeing him like this. The boy needed to be shielded, but he couldn’t pretend that he was all right. He could pull it off for short periods of time. But not today.

  The mere thought of his wife had his throat threatening to close up on him. Whatever air was left in his lungs wasn’t enough.

  Jane.

  Jane, with her bright, eager smile, her desire to put a bandage on the whole world and somehow make it all better through sheer force of will and her infinite capacity to love.

  Anger surged, channeling itself through his hand. His fingers tightened around the glass so hard, he realized that he’d wind up shattering it. Loosening his hold took effort. Effort not to go over the edge. Every day was a struggle.

  If it hadn’t been for that Mother Teresa attitude of hers, her determination to boldly go where even angels had better sense than to tread, Jane would still be alive today. Alive instead of a victim of the mindless feuding of two rival gangs. She was there, about to get into her car, when the shooting started. Caught in the cross fire, she was one of several people to die that afternoon.

  The only one who’d mattered to him.

  A year ago. Exactly one year ago today, her young, beautiful life had been senselessly cut short because she had to go see the pregnant girl who was one of the cases she handled as a social worker. The girl was sixteen and already the mother of two. He’d told Jane she was wasting her time, but Jane had been convinced she could turn the girl around, help her get her life together.


  She could be so stubborn when she wanted to be. He’d begged her to take a different job, to be reassigned, or, even better, just stay home and be Danny’s mother and his wife and make them both supremely happy. But Jane had to be Jane. She was determined to save the world, one lost soul at a time. So she went.

  And instead of saving that pregnant girl, Jane had lost her life that day and he, he’d lost his main reason for living. Nothing else seemed to really matter to him, even though he kept trying to go through the motions. He continued being a cop because that was all he knew and he had to do something to pay the bills and keep a roof over Danny’s head.

  He shouldn’t feel this way. Jane wouldn’t want him to be like this and it was because of Danny that he hadn’t pulled the trigger of the gun he’d cradled in his lap night after night that first week, raising it to his lips time and again, desperate for oblivion.

  But that would have left Danny an orphan and he couldn’t do that to the boy. It wouldn’t have been fair to deprive him of a father after he’d lost his mother. So he’d put the gun down and stayed alive. In a manner of speaking.

  Instead of killing himself, in order to survive, to deal with the huge waves of pain that would wash over him without warning, he’d gone numb. Absolutely and completely numb.

  A twinge would break through, every now and then, and Caleb would tell himself that he’d try. Try to break out of his invisible prison and be emotionally available to his son. But every time he did, the pain would find him, oppressing him to the point that he was no good to anyone. So he retreated, telling Danny he’d make it up to him later. And the boy forgave him, each and every time.

  I’m sorry, Danny. I really am.

  Caleb looked at his near-empty glass. He debated getting another drink. The raw whiskey went down much too easily. But it made no difference. One or ten, the result was the same. Nothing really blotted out the pain and he had to drive home. Killing himself was one thing, but possibly killing someone else, someone who had nothing to do with the tragedy that haunted him, was something he wasn’t willing to risk.

  Besides, Mrs. Collins had a home to go to. She’d already been there longer than agreed upon. Edna Collins was a godsend who lived in the single-story house across the street. The widowed grandmother was more than happy to watch Danny for him after school and whenever his work took him away. It gave her something to do, she’d told him. She hadn’t even wanted payment for her time, but he’d persuaded her to take it.

  Tilting his glass, Caleb stared down at the bottom. The amber liquid was all gone except for what amounted to one last drop. Despite his earlier resolve, he debated getting just one more before he hit the road and went home.

  Caleb really wasn’t sure just what had made him look in the direction that he did. Over at one of the tables, a woman tried to fend off the advances of some would-be Romeo who didn’t look as if he liked taking “no” for an answer. Well, what the hell did she expect, coming to a place like this?

  He was about to look away, when something nudged at a vague, faraway place in his brain. A memory tried to break through.

  Something about the torrent of red hair, the way she tossed her head, seemed familiar to him.

  Remembering was just out of reach.

  Did he know her?

  Probably not. Maybe she just resembled someone he’d dealt with. God knew he came across so many people in his line of work….

  Caleb looked closer.

  And then he remembered.

  Or thought he did. Curious, he decided it bore investigation. But for that, he needed to get closer. Setting down his glass, he tossed a tip onto the counter.

  The next moment, he was striding across the crowded floor, carelessly moving aside anyone and everyone in his way with less regard than if they’d been cardboard placeholders.

  The closer he got, the surer he became. And yet, it hardly seemed possible.

  But it was, wasn’t it? he silently asked that part of his mind that still retained a few less damaged memories, memories that had been gathered before Jane had entered his life.

  And before she’d left it.

  Red hair, skin like alabaster. Green eyes. Delicate-looking.

  It was Claire Santaniello.

  No one else had hair quite that shade of red. Confusion snaked its way through him at the same time that a tiny microchip of warmth made its appearance.

  Damn, what was she doing here in a place like this?

  Assessing the situation with lightning speed, he told the other man to back away. The expression in the other man’s eyes was pure malevolence as he looked away from Claire and at him.

  “You want her for yourself?” the other man growled, holding on to Claire’s wrist as firmly as a handcuff. “Tough. I was here first.”

  This was absurd. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever conceived of this kind of scenario. Served her right for not standing her ground and leaving the moment she realized what sort of place the girls were bringing her to.

  “Nobody was ‘first,’” Claire snapped, losing her patience. “I’m not some bone you two can scrap over. I’m not interested. In anybody,” she declared with finality just in case the man who’d just come to her so-called rescue had any ideas about the “winner getting the spoils” once he got rid of Neanderthal Man.

  It was Claire, all right, Caleb thought. He was sure of it. “You heard the lady,” he said evenly. “She wants you to go.” It wasn’t a statement, it was an order.

  The other man obviously saw it as more of a challenge. “You gonna make me?”

  “Why don’t you step up to the plate and see?” Caleb’s voice took on a sort of deadly calm. He deliberately moved so that the other man could see the holstered gun strapped on beneath the navy sport jacket.

  His eyes fastened on the weapon, Claire’s would-be lover sucked in his breath. He let loose a scathing curse before abandoning the virtual tug-of-war.

  “She’s probably frigid,” he threw in with contempt. “You’re welcome to her.” With that, he turned away and melted into the crowd.

  Squaring her shoulders, Claire turned around to get a good look at the man who had come to her aid. She was torn between thinking that chivalry wasn’t dead and wondering if she’d just gone from the frying pan into the fire.

  Most of all, she didn’t want this new contestant in the battle of the dance floor thinking that she was some kind of defenseless weakling. She’d stood up to more dangerous men than the one who’d just left. Of course, that had been when she and God had been on speaking terms.

  Was this some guardian angel He’d sent in His place? She would have liked to think so, but she had a feeling that wasn’t the case. “Thank you, but I could have handled him.”

  “No, you couldn’t,” Caleb said matter-of-factly. There wasn’t a hint of amusement in his voice, but neither was there any annoyance. “He had at least a hundred pounds on you.” He paused, then added, “He’s not a little boy you can just send off to bed because it’s past his bedtime.”

  The voice was deep and slightly gravelly. There was no reason for it to be familiar, and yet, the cadence managed to rustle a deep, faraway corner of her mind.

  Did she know him? Was he someone she’d gone to school with? The lighting was far from good, designed more for seduction and to hide imperfections than to highlight anything. Claire squinted, studying the rugged, chiseled face, the somber yet ever so slightly amused expression beginning to emerge. Her eyes shifted to his sandy-blond hair and light blue eyes.

  He didn’t look familiar, but that didn’t take away from the fact that he somehow seemed familiar. She wasn’t about to ask “Do I know you?” because even she knew that would sound like a line and it might very well open an undesirable door.

  And then the familiar stranger stopped being a stranger with his very next words.

  “What’s the matter, Claire?” he asked. “Don’t you remember me?”

  She stood there, trapped in a memory that refused to gel even i
f it did produce flashes in her head. “You know my name.”

  “I know a lot of things about you,” he told her, his amusement growing. “I know you used to like to watch detective shows, but that you wouldn’t if you had any homework to do. You did it first, then watched. I know you used to sing to yourself when you were studying when you thought no one was around to hear you.”

  Her mouth dropped open as she stared at the tall man before her. She should know him, she realized, and yet, no name rose to her lips. “Who are you?”

  Caleb had no idea why he didn’t answer her question directly, why he didn’t just tell her his name instead of choosing to prolong the mystery for her just a little longer. He nodded at the table, indicating that she take a seat, then, switching it around, he straddled a chair himself. He watched her sink down into the nearest one as if she intended to shoot up to her feet at any second.

  “Who do you think I am?” he asked her.

  Claire stared at him intently, her green eyes sweeping over him. When he’d stood behind her and she’d turned around, she’d noted that he was almost a foot taller than she was. The man had shoulders like a football guard and it wasn’t thanks to any padding in his jacket. She could tell by the way he moved.

  “Possibly what I’d imagined my guardian angel looked like,” she answered, her mouth curving slightly, “but then if you were my guardian angel, that Neanderthal wouldn’t have been able to see you.”

  For a glimmer of a moment, he was back in the past. The past where anything was possible and the blinding hurt hadn’t found him yet. Caleb decided to give her another clue.

  “I became a cop because of all those detective shows you used to watch. You didn’t know it, but I used to sneak out of my room and watch them with you. I’d sit on the top step, just outside my bedroom door, and watch the show—when I wasn’t watching you,” he added. Then, for the first time in a very long time, he allowed himself a genuine smile. “I had one hell of a crush on you, Claire.”

  He said her name as if they were old friends. So why couldn’t she remember him?