stick with something more centrally located … oh, shoot!”
“At the end of our rope, are we?”
“There’s an understatement … oh! What are you doing?” she asked as C.J. took her by the elbow, ushering her through the glass door.
“Break time. For both of us.”
“I don’t—”
“You’re making yourself nuts. Hell, you’re making me nuts. This is only a preliminary look-see, Dana. No one expects you to sign a contract today.”
“Good thing,” she said, her hand shooting up to shield her eyes from the glaring late afternoon sun as they walked back to his Mercedes, “since it’s all a blur.” He opened the car door for her; she didn’t protest. Once he’d slid in behind the wheel, she plonked her head back on the headrest and closed her eyes. “But what a weenie-brain,” she said on a sigh. “I can’t even eliminate the dogs.”
C. J. felt a smile tug at his mouth as he pulled out into traffic. “I can assure you I’ve met a fair number of people who’d qualify for that title, Dana. You’re definitely not one of them.”
She seemed to consider this for a moment, while her perfume sambaed around the car’s interior. Something high-end and familiar. But, on her, unique. “Thank you,” she said at last, her eyes still closed. “But I sure do feel like one.” Her eyes blinked open. “Why are we pulling in here?”
“Because it’s at least five-hundred degrees out, you’re obviously fried, and this joint makes the best ice-cream sodas in town. My treat.”
A pickup festooned with yapping mutts rumbled up the street behind them as a whole bunch of questions swarmed in Dana’s hazy gray-green eyes.
“You hate ice-cream sodas?” he asked.
A startled laugh burst from her throat. “No! I’m just …” She shook her head, dainty, dangly earrings bobbing on tiny earlobes that had gone a decided shade of pink. “But I think I’ll stick with Diet Coke.”
A four-by-four roared past, spraying soggy gravel in its wake.
“It’s that woman thing, isn’t it?”
Her eyebrows lowered. “Excuse me?”
“Where you won’t eat in front of a guy. If at all.”
Her mouth twisted, her gaze slid away. “I think it’s kinda obvious I’m no anorexic.”
“Good to know. Because I’m here to tell you that not-eating business annoys the hell out of me. But hey—” he popped open his car door, then loosened his tie, having already given his jacket the heave-ho three properties ago “—if you really want a Diet Coke, knock yourself out.”
“Actually …” She hugged her purse to her middle, as if trying to shrink. “I can’t stand the stuff.”
“Then it’s settled.” He shoved open his door, then went around to open hers. “Maybe if you just chill for a bit, you’ll be able to think more clearly. Damn,” he muttered as his phone rang again. He grimaced at the number—a deal he’d been trying to close for nearly a month—then at her.
“Hey—” she said, as they both got out of the car “—you’ve got ice-cream sodas to pay for, far be it from me to hinder your earning capacity.” She glanced up at the sky. “Wonder if it’s going to rain again? It sure feels steamy, doesn’t it?”
It did. But somehow, he mused as he answered the phone, he doubted the humidity had anything to do with it.
Chapter Two
Dana would lay odds the diner probably hadn’t changed much in twenty years. At least. Formica soda fountain and booths, nondescript beige vinyl upholstery. It was clean, though, and light, and hummed with conversation, laughter, canned mariachi music. Despite the dearth of patrons this late in the afternoon, C.J. swore the tiny restaurant would be packed by six. Dana believed it. Although Albuquerque had more than its share of tony eateries, this was one of those unassuming little holes-in-the-wall the well-off liked to think they’d “discovered,” where the menu selections were few but the serving sizes generous, the food simple but excellent and the staff treated everyone like a lifelong friend.
And, if she’d been here with Mercy or Cass, she’d definitely be more relaxed. But sitting across from C.J., she was about as relaxed as Sallymae Perkins’s hair on prom night.
Plus—to make matters worse—she also had to admit that none of the places they’d looked at was going to work.
“Sorry,” she said, her mouth screwed up as she poked at a lump of ice cream in the bottom of her collarbone-high glass, dolefully considering the wisdom of broiled chicken breasts and salad with lemon juice for the next three nights.
“Don’t apologize.” C.J. certainly seemed unfazed, slouched in the booth, the top two buttons undone on an Egyptian cotton shirt only a shade lighter than his eyes. Light brown hair sprinkled with gray shuddered in the breeze from a trio of lazily fwomping overhead fans, as his mouth tilted up in a half smile. A gentle smile. A tired smile, she thought, although she doubted he’d admit it. Especially since she was, in all likelihood, as least partly to blame. “That’s why we’re here.”
“But I took up half your afternoon—”
“Would you stop it?” he said gently. “That’s what the first rounds are for, to get a feel for what the client really wants.”
Lazy raindrops began to slash at the window by their booth, while, in the distance, thunder rumbled halfheartedly. What she really wanted, Dana thought with a stab, had nothing to do with anything C. J. Turner had to offer. Unfortunately. She speared the chunk of ice cream, popped it into her mouth.
“So why not just ask?” she asked over the whir of the milkshake mixer behind the counter, the high-pitched chatter of a bevy of kids three booths over.
“I did. And Cass gave me the basics.” One arm now snaked out along the top of the booth seat; he offered her another smile. “The rest she left to you … damn.”
A salesman’s smile, she told herself as he answered his phone with yet another apologetic glance across the table. Impersonal. No different from those he’d bestowed on everyone they’d met that afternoon, on everyone who’d called.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught the sudden appearance of tiny, dimpled fingers hooking the edge of their table. Seconds later a mass of fudge-colored curls bobbed into view, over a set of matching, devilish eyes. Just as quickly, eyes and curls and pudgy fingers vanished, supplanted by a howl.
Dana was out of the booth and on her knees at once, hauling the sobbing baby onto her lap. About two years old, she guessed, smelling of chocolate sauce and baby shampoo.
“Oh, now, now,” she soothed as she struggled to her feet, bouncing the child on her hip, “you’re not hurt, are you?” Laughing, she glanced over at C.J., whose stony expression knocked the laughter right out of her.
“Enrique, you little devil!” A pretty young woman dashed back to their booth, taking the child
