leaned toward her. “Who is he?”
She flushed and stared down at the countertop. “Grant Truitt.”
“As in, Police Chief Grant Truitt?”
She nodded.
He gripped the edge of the counter and groaned.
“What’s wrong?” She looked alarmed.
He could hardly speak around the knot of anger in his throat. “Your father is the police chief and I’m betting he doesn’t want you here.”
She stuck her chin in the air. On anyone else, the gesture might have looked fierce. She looked like a girl facing down a firing squad. “I’m old enough to do as I please. Besides, he doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Right. And you think he won’t find out?” Just what Zach needed—another excuse for the cops to hassle him and his customers.
“What’s wrong?” She leaned toward him, her fingers almost—but not quite—touching his wrist.
“Congratulations,” he said, turning to her. “You’ve just given your old man one more reason to hate me.”
2
ZACH FELT A MEASURE OF relief at the blatant confusion in her eyes. At least he could be fairly sure she wasn’t part of some plot to trick him into giving the cops a reason to shut him down. Grant Truitt was buddies with the mayor. Between the two of them, they were delivering on a campaign pledge to rid Austin’s Sixth Street entertainment district of any business the mayor deemed “not friendly to families.” He’d specifically mentioned Austin Body Art as the kind of place he’d like to see closed down.
Never mind that the majority of citizens cared more about getting potholes patched than whether or not the tattoo parlors and “gentlemen’s clubs” were run out of business. The mayor and the police chief had zealously harassed anyone and everyone who didn’t fit their definition of a respectable businessman.
“What do you mean, my father hates you?” she asked. “He doesn’t even know you.”
“Oh, we’ve met. Right after the election, he and the mayor made a point of stopping by here, with the press in tow, to point out that I’m the type of person they wanted to run out of town so they could make everything squeaky-clean and bland.” That little publicity stunt hadn’t gone over well, ending with Zach threatening to throw both of them out of the shop. Though he hadn’t seen Grant Truitt in person since, he was sure the police chief hadn’t forgotten him.
Zach had dealt with a barrage of health, fire and building inspectors looking for violations, and nosy cops who had accused him of everything from selling dope to working on underage kids. When they couldn’t find anything to pin on him, they’d laid off him for a while. Having the chief’s daughter added to the mix was just what he needed to stir things up again.
“Why would my father hate you?” Jennifer asked.
“Why does the sun shine? Play-by-the-rules pricks like him can’t stand people like me who don’t color in the lines.”
She looked thoughtful. “I guess you’re not the type of person my father approves of. I’m sorry.”
The words sent an uncomfortable quiver through his stomach. As though she really was sorry, not mouthing words. “Oh, hell, it’s not your fault.”
“Thank you…Zach.” She smiled, a shy, sweet look that made him want to reach across the counter and pull her down behind it. Who would have thought sweetness and light would be such a turn-on?
She signed the charge slip and left, pausing at the door to lift her hand in a wave. Before he realized what he was doing, he waved back. By the time he jerked his hand down, she was gone.
Theresa’s laughter was loud in the sudden silence. “I can’t believe this! She got to you, didn’t she?”
He opened the cash drawer and shoved the charge slip beneath the stacks of bills and checks. “Miss Mary Sunshine? As if.” He shook his head, though he avoided looking at his sister. She could always tell when he was lying.
“Maybe that’s exactly what shook you up.” She busied herself disassembling the tattoo machine and disposing of the needles into the red plastic biohazard container. “She’s very pretty.”
“Yeah, if you like white bread and sugar.”
“I don’t know.” When he glanced up, Theresa had her head tilted to one side, studying him. “I think there’s more to her than that.”
He shook his head. “You’re imagining things.”
“You mean you aren’t interested in seeing her again?”
He gave her a dark look. “If I never see Grant Truitt’s daughter again, I’ll die a happy man.” Maybe that wasn’t exactly true, but close enough. He didn’t need the kind of trouble a woman like Jennifer Truitt could bring into his life.
THOUGH SHE LIVED AT HOME, Jen tried to retain as much independence as possible. With her hectic practice schedule and her teaching job, she often went days without having a real conversation with her parents. But that evening she made it a point to stop by the living room and visit with them.
“Hey, Mama. Daddy.” She kissed her father on the cheek, then settled on the sofa next to her mother and pretended to study the abstract painting of swirls of gray and blue that hung over her father’s chair. He was quite proud of this newest acquisition, painted by some up-and-coming new artist. What would he think of Zach’s work? she wondered.
“Hello, Jennifer. To what do we owe—” Her father looked up from his paper, and his mouth dropped open as he stared at the tattoo peeking above the neckline of her dance leotard.
“What is it, dear?” Her mother frowned at her father.
“Exactly what I want to know.” He stood and crossed the room, looming over Jen.
She set her jaw and forced herself to meet his gaze. “It’s a calla lily.” She thought again of what Zach had said about the flower, and about her—innocent, yet sensuous—and felt a flush of pleasure.
“It’s a tattoo!” Her father spat the word like a curse. “Who did that to you?”
She’d expected him to be annoyed, but the strength of his anger surprised her. Honestly, did he think someone had attacked her and forced her to do this? “I paid to have it done.”
“Where?” he demanded.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I just decided to do it, and did it.”
“I don’t know,” her mother said. “Aren’t you afraid you might catch some disease?”
“Your mother’s right. Some of those places are filthy and—”
“This was a very clean place. I’ve been in doctors’ offices that weren’t as clean as this place.”
“Tell
