percent cotton and fifty percent sandpaper, I get looked at funny. People start to wonder if I’m capable of doing my job.”
Harvard tried to make her smile. “Personally, I stay away from the lacy underwear myself.”
“Yeah, but you could wear silk boxers, and your men would think, ‘Gee, the Senior Chief is really cool.’ I wear silk, and those same men start thinking with a nonbrain part of their anatomy.”
“That’s human nature,” he argued. “That’s because you’re a beautiful woman and—”
“You know, it always comes down to sex,” P.J. told him crossly. “Always. You can’t put men and women in a room together without something happening. And I’m not saying it’s entirely the men’s fault, although men can be total dogs. Do you know that I had to start fighting off my mother’s boyfriends back when I was ten? Ten. They’d come over, get high with her, and then when she passed out, they’d start sniffing around my bedroom door. My grandmother was alive then, and she’d give ’em a piece of her mind, chase ’em out of the house. But after she died, when I was twelve, I was on my own. I grew up fast, I’ll tell you that much.”
When Harvard was twelve, he’d had a paper route. The toughest thing he’d had to deal with was getting up early every morning to deliver those papers. And the Doberman on the corner of Parker and Reingold. That mean old dog had been a problem for about a week or two. But in time, Harvard had gotten used to the early mornings, and he’d made friends with the Doberman.
Somehow he doubted P.J. had had equally easy solutions to her problems.
She gazed at the ocean, the wind moving a stray curl across her face. She didn’t seem to feel it, or if she did, she didn’t care enough to push it away.
He tried to picture her at twelve years old. She must’ve been tiny. Hell, she was tiny now. It wouldn’t have taken much of a man to overpower her and—
The thought made him sick. But he had to know. He had to ask. “Did you ever… Did they ever…”
She turned to look at him, and he couldn’t find any immediate answers in the bottomless darkness of her eyes.
“There was one,” she said softly, staring at the ocean. “He didn’t back off when I threatened to call my uncle. Of course, I didn’t really have any uncle. It’s possible he knew that. Or maybe he was just too stoned to care. I had to go out the window to get away from him—only in my panic, I went out the wrong window. I went out the one without the fire escape. Once I was out there, I couldn’t go back. I went onto the ledge and I just stood there, sixteen stories up, scared out of my mind, staring at those little toy cars on the street, knowing if I slipped, I’d be dead, but certain if I went back inside I’d be as good as dead.” She looked at Harvard. “I honestly think I would’ve jumped before I would’ve let him touch me.”
Harvard believed her. This man, whoever he’d been, may not have hurt P.J. physically, but he’d done one hell of a job on her emotionally and psychologically.
He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “I don’t suppose you remember this son of a bitch’s name?” he asked.
“Ron something. I don’t think I ever knew his last name.”
He nodded. “Too bad.”
“Why?”
Harvard shrugged. “Nothing important. I was just thinking it might make me feel a little better to hunt him down and kick the hell out of him.”
P.J. laughed—a shaky burst of air that was part humor and part surprise. “But he didn’t hurt me, Daryl. I took care of myself and…I was okay.”
“Were you?” Harvard reached out for her. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew that just touching her lightly under the chin to turn her to face him would be too much. He knew her skin would be sinfully soft beneath his fingers, and he knew that once he touched her, he wouldn’t want to let go. But he wanted to look into her eyes, so he did. “Tell me this—are you still afraid of heights?”
She didn’t need to answer. He saw the shock of the truth in her eyes before she pulled away. She stood up, moved toward the water, stopping on the edge of the beach, letting the waves wash over her feet.
Harvard followed, waiting for her to look at him again.
P.J.’s head was spinning. Afraid of heights? Terrified was more like it.
She couldn’t believe he’d figured that out. She couldn’t believe she’d told him enough to give herself away. Steeling herself, she looked at him. “I can handle heights, Senior Chief. It’s not a problem.”
She could tell from the look on his face he didn’t believe her.
“It’s not a problem,” she said again.
Damn. She’d told him too much.
It was one thing to joke around about her dream house. But telling him about her problem with heights was going way too far.
It would do her absolutely no good to let this man know her weaknesses. She had to have absolutely no vulnerabilities to coexist in his macho world. She could not be afraid of heights. She would not be. She could handle it—but not if he made it into an issue.
P.J. rinsed her hands in the ocean. “We better get back if we want to have any lunch.”
But Harvard blocked the way to where her sneakers and T-shirt were lying on the sand. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me,” he said.
She nodded, still afraid to meet his eyes. “Yeah, I’m glad we’re friends.”
“It’s nice to be able to talk to someone in confidence—and know you don’t have to worry about other people finding out all your deep, dark secrets,” Harvard told her.
P.J. did look at him then, but he’d already turned away.
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