Mr. Perfect Read online

  Better to err on the side of caution, she finally decided, and chose the most severe man-tailored pants outfit she owned. Never mind that she had always liked the way the pants clung to her butt, or that it never failed to elicit a few admiring remarks from the male contingent at work; she wasn’t going to see Sam today. He had to be even more uncomfortable about what had happened than she was. If anyone avoided anyone, he would avoid her.

  Would a man who was embarrassed have flashed her that wicked grin? He knew he looked good; better than good, damn it.

  In an effort to get her mind off exactly how good he looked, she turned on the television to catch the morning news while she dressed and did her makeup.

  She was applying cover-up stick to the bruise on her cheekbone when the female anchor of the local morning newscast said in a chirpy voice, “Freud never found out what it is that women want. If he had talked to four area women, however, he would have known the answer to his famous question. Find out if your husband or boyfriend is Mr. Perfect when we return, after these messages.”

  Jaine was so stunned she couldn’t even think of a curse word to say. Her legs suddenly weak, she sank down on the closed toilet seat. Dawna, the bitch, must have given them up immediately. No—if she had named names, the phone would have been ringing nonstop. So far they were still anonymous, but that was bound to change today.

  She hurried into the bedroom and dialed T.J.’s number, silently praying that her friend hadn’t yet left for work. T.J. lived farther out than Jaine did, so she left home a little earlier.

  “Hello.” T.J. sounded rushed, and a little irritable.

  “It’s Jaine. Have you seen the news yet this morning?”

  “No, why?”

  “Mr. Perfect made the news.”

  “Oh. My. God.” T.J. sounded as if she might faint, or vomit, or both.

  “They don’t have our names yet, I don’t think, since no one has called. Someone at Hammerstead will figure it out today, though, so that means by afternoon it’ll be common knowledge.”

  “But it won’t be on TV, will it? Galan always watches the news.”

  “Who knows?” Jaine rubbed her forehead. “I guess it depends on how slow news is today. But if I were you, I’d turn off all the phones and unplug the one that’s hooked to the answering machine.”

  “Done,” T.J. said. She paused and said bleakly, “I guess I’ll find out if Galan and I have anything worth holding on to, won’t I? I can’t expect him to be happy about this, but I do expect him to be understanding. After we talked about our Mr. Perfect last week, I did some thinking, and, well…”

  And Galan hadn’t compared very favorably, Jaine thought.

  “On second thought,” T.J. said very quietly, “I’m not going to turn off the phones. If it’s going to happen, I’d rather just get it over with.”

  After she hung up, Jaine hurried to finish getting ready. The quick phone call hadn’t taken long, and the television commercials were just ending. The newscaster’s perky voice made her flinch.

  “Four area women have gone public with their list of requirements for the perfect man …”

  Three minutes later, Jaine closed her eyes and sagged weakly against the vanity. Three minutes! Three minutes was an eternity of airtime. Of all the days for there to be no shootings or accidents blocking the freeways or a war, a famine—anything to keep such an insignificant story off the air!

  The news story had stopped short of the raunchy requirements, but made sure the viewers knew they could get the List, as it was being called, and the accompanying article, in their entirety, on the station’s Web site. Women and men had been interviewed for their reaction to items on the List. Everyone seemed to agree with the first five requirements, but after that opinions began to vary widely—usually with women taking one view and men the other.

  Maybe if she took a week’s vacation, starting immediately, this would all have blown over by the time she got back from Outer Mongolia.

  But that would be the coward’s way out. If T.J. needed supporting, Jaine knew she had to be there for her. Marci could also be facing the end of a relationship, but in Jaine’s opinion, losing Brickhead wouldn’t be much of a loss, and besides, Marci deserved some flack for spilling this whole thing to Dawna in the first place.

  With dread weighting down her every step, she forced herself out to the car. As she unlocked it, she heard a door open behind her and automatically glanced over her shoulder. For a moment she stared blankly at Sam as he turned to lock his kitchen door; then memory came roaring back, and in panic she fumbled with the door handle.

  Nothing like a little notoriety to make a woman forget she wanted to avoid a certain man, she thought savagely. Had he been watching for her?

  “Are you feeling better today?” he asked as he strolled up.

  “Fine.” She half-tossed her purse into the passenger seat and slid under the wheel.

  “Don’t put it there,” he advised. “When you stop at traffic lights, anyone can come up, pop the window, grab the purse, and be gone before you know what’s happening.”

  She grabbed her sunglasses and slid them on, pathetically grateful for the protection they gave her as she dared to glance at him. “Where should I put it, then?”

  “In the trunk is the safest place.”

  “That isn’t very convenient.”

  He shrugged. The movement made her notice how broad his shoulders were, and that reminded her of other parts of his body. Heat began to build in her cheeks. Why couldn’t he have been a drunk? Why wasn’t he still wearing sweatpants and a stained, torn T-shirt, instead of oatmeal slacks and a midnight blue silk shirt? A cream-and-blue-and-crimson tie was knotted loosely at his strong throat, and he carried a jacket in one hand. That big black pistol rested in a holster against his right kidney. He looked tough and competent, and way too good for her peace of mind.

  “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you this morning,” he said. “I was still half-asleep and wasn’t paying attention to the windows.”

  She managed a nonchalant shrug. “I wasn’t embarrassed. Accidents happen.” She wanted to leave, but he was standing so close she couldn’t shut the door.

  He hunkered down in the V formed by the car and the open door. “Are you sure you’re okay? You haven’t insulted me yet, and we’ve been talking”—he glanced at his watch—“about thirty seconds already.”

  “I’m in a mellow mood,” she said flatly. “I’m saving my energy in case something important comes along.”

  He grinned. “That’s my girl. I feel better now.” He reached out and lightly touched her cheekbone. “The bruise is gone.”

  “No, it isn’t. Makeup is a wonderful thing.”

  “So it is.” His finger trailed down to the dent in her chin and lightly tapped it before withdrawing. Jaine sat frozen, ambushed by the abrupt realization that he was flirting with her, for God’s sake, and her heart was doing that sledgehammer thing again.

  Oh, boy.

  “Don’t kiss me,” she said warningly, because he seemed somehow closer, though she hadn’t seen him move, and his gaze was centered on her face in that intent look men get before they make their move.

  “I don’t intend to,” he replied, smiling a little. “I don’t have my whip and chair with me.” He stood up and stepped back, his hand on the car door to close it. He paused, looking down at her. “Besides, I don’t have time right now. We both have to get to work, and I don’t like rush jobs. I’ll need a couple of hours, at least.”

  She knew she should keep her mouth shut. She knew she should just close the car door and drive away. Instead she said blankly, “A couple of hours?”

  “Yeah.” He gave her another of those slow, dangerous smiles. “Three hours would be even better, because I figure that when I do kiss you, we’ll both end up naked.”

  eight

  Oh,” Jaine muttered to herself as she drove to work on autopilot, which in Detroit traffic was more than a little hazardous. “Oh?” What