Melissa’s tactic was the kind of thing Valerie might have done, and it had worked. He drove straight to the P.I. firm on Wasatch Boulevard, feeling as if he’d just survived a blizzard before reaching the top of Everest.
En route, he rang Deana and told her Casey was back in class, hopefully for the whole day. Travis planned to pick him up, but he would appreciate her staying until they got home, in case something went wrong before the school day was over.
Because of the therapist’s clever handling of his son, life looked as if it might be getting back to normal. He was indebted to Melissa and her unorthodox methods. At the same time, he felt conflicted. He knew it wasn’t her fault she reminded him of Valerie. And therein lay the problem. She wasn’t his deceased wife. That woman was gone. More than ever he didn’t want to be around her stand-in.
With a groan of frustration, he pressed on the accelerator, anxious to get to his office. What he needed was to dig into a new case, something that kept him physically active so he wouldn’t have time to think. Roman had told him that a half-dozen cases he’d probably like were waiting for him. He could choose the one that appealed to him most.
As for Casey, he would have to go to the movie with his father and his eleven-year-old cousin, Jack. Or maybe just the two of them would go. He’d given in to his son’s wishes long enough.
ON THURSDAY Melissa rushed inside Rinaldo’s at the lunch hour. The place was crowded, but Tom had grabbed a booth and was waiting for her. She walked over and sat down opposite him.
“Sorry I’m late, but my last appointment lasted longer than I’d planned.”
“Don’t worry about it. I took the liberty of ordering our lunch, since I know you have to get back to work soon.”
“I do. Thanks for going ahead. You’ll be glad to know I’ve finished my part of our project.” Melissa handed Tom the portfolio containing the artwork she’d done in watercolor for his book.
After the waitress brought their food, she ate while he looked through it. “These are perfect, Melissa.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased. Go ahead and take it to your office to scan everything before you send it off to your publisher.”
“I want to do more than that,” he said, with a look of longing in his eyes. “I’ve got ideas for a whole series of books based on World War II. Take a peek.” He opened his briefcase and handed her a proposal he’d put together. “We make a great team.”
No. Not in the way he meant. It was code for he wanted to marry her. This had to end now.
“Tom, I’m flattered that you want me to collaborate on your terrific stories, but I’m not interested in doing more of this kind of work.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re serious. You’re a wonderful artist.”
She’d been afraid of this, but it had to be said. “Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity, but I have my reasons.”
“What are they?”
“Well, I’ve discovered that my work as a therapist keeps me so busy, I don’t like the outside stress of deadlines. I’ve always painted for pleasure and don’t want that to change now.”
“Surely you realize a lot of money could be involved here—” The mention of money couldn’t mask the hurt in his voice.
“I’m not after money,” she stated quickly.
“Then it’s me you don’t like.”
“Of course I do, or I wouldn’t have worked with you on this.”
He seemed to hesitate before he said, “Don’t you realize how I feel about you?”
“Oh, Tom. Since my divorce I’ve been focused on my work. You’re in a different place than I am. I love my freedom and don’t want that to change.” She hated it that he’d gotten emotionally attached without any encouragement from her. For him to have built a romantic fantasy about them was ludicrous. In Melissa’s opinion he ought to go back to his wife, but she would never say that. All she could do was be firm.
When he didn’t respond she added, “You’re the writer and can attract other artists much more talented than I am. I don’t doubt that in time you’ll meet that special someone.”
“Wait,” he said, as she put a twenty-dollar bill on the table and got to her feet.
“I can’t. I have to get back to the clinic. Let this lunch be on me. Naturally, I’ll be available for anything else I have to do before the book goes to publication.”
On that note she turned and worked her way through the lunch crowd, doubly thankful she’d never been anything but professional with Tom. He certainly couldn’t accuse her of leading him on.
In truth, she’d been distracted by something else since she’d awakened that morning. For some reason she’d expected a phone call from Mr. Stillman, telling her Casey was back to not wanting to go to school. But then she did a rethink. If the little boy pulled another stunt, his dad would most likely go through another avenue to get help, and she would never know how things worked out for him.
For the rest of the afternoon she stayed busy, then left for the gym. A good workout was what she needed; it always helped relieve tension. But when she got home, she still felt at loose ends. She wanted to blame it on the unhappy moments at the restaurant earlier with Tom.
She should have been able to see his real intentions when he’d asked her to collaborate with him. But she didn’t blame him. He was only doing what a divorced man would do to move on, and she must have seemed like a perfect start.
Casey’s widowed father, on the other hand, wasn’t looking. Any woman who hoped to draw the former Texas Ranger’s attention was delusional.
In the end, Melissa climbed into bed with a portfolio of some of her old paintings. For years she’d been working on characters that one day might be the inspiration for children’s cartoons for the screen. She worked with acrylics, and little by little she felt she was improving. But she hadn’t yet achieved something she considered good enough to send to an agent who would approach a film studio for her.
After studying some of her paintings, she set the portfolio aside and began a new sketch.
The next thing she knew, it was morning. When she rolled out of bed, her right foot landed on the sketch pad, which had fallen to the floor at some point in the night. She picked it up and was shocked to discover a familiar face looking back at her.
Casey Stillman. Somehow he had worked his way onto the paper. An older Casey—maybe thirteen—astride an animal with three horns coming through a prehistoric-looking forest. Over his strong body he wore skins, and a thong around his forehead. One hand clutched a spear. His leg carried a jagged scar from thigh to ankle. A teen superhero …
Pleased with the drawing, she sat on the mattress and added a few more touches. Finally satisfied, she removed the sketch from the pad and slid it under the bed. Later she’d take it to an art store and have it framed. After taking her pad and portfolio to the other bedroom, which she’d set up as a studio, she showered and dressed for work.
Since she
