The Rocky Road to Romance

  “Cab driver?”

  “Actually, I’m terrible. I get lost all the time. Traffic reporting is a snap compared to cab driving.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You have any other jobs?”

  “No. Well, yes, if you count the internship?”

  “What internship?”

  “It’s part of my doctorate program. I do some recreational counseling at a nursing home.”

  “You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”

  It had been more statement than question, and it took her by surprise. “No. How’d you know that?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  Her eyes widened when the waitress brought what looked like a taco mountain and plunked it down in front of her. “So what do you think?” she asked. “What am I doing wrong?”

  “You’re overcommitted.”

  She scooped up a glob of refried beans and taco sauce with a piece of tostado shell. “I’ve been thinking of giving up the paper route.”

  Good choice, he thought. The paper route would put a major crimp in his style. It would greatly restrict the early-morning activities he had planned for Daisy. “Definitely. The paper route should go.”

  They ate in silence for a while until a woman came over to the table and stared at Daisy. “Excuse me, but are you Daisy Adams, author of Bones for Bowser? I recognize you from your author photo.”

  “Yup. That’s me,” Daisy said with a smile.

  “I wouldn’t miss your show for anything!” the woman said. “I made your chicken-guts recipe for my dog Sparky, and he just loved it. Do you suppose I could have your autograph?”

  “Of course. And I’m glad Sparky liked the recipe.” Daisy scrawled her name on the woman’s napkin.

  The waitress sidled up beside the woman. “I couldn’t help overhearing. Are you really Daisy Adams? Did you do the traffic report today?”

  Daisy nodded. “I’m filling in for Frank Menken.”

  “Well, let me tell you, you were wonderful,” the waitress said. “It was the first time I could make anything out of that traffic report. I never knew what that Menken fella was saying. Everything was always so fast and technical. Now when you told us there was an accident by the gas station with the green-and-yellow trim and the tubs of red geraniums by the gas pumps I knew exactly where you meant.”

  Steve remembered the broadcast, too. That was when he’d sent his secretary out to buy more aspirin.

  The waitress patted Daisy’s hand. “The dessert’s on me, honey. You just have whatever you want.”

  “Vanilla ice cream,” Daisy said. “I need something cool after this taco extravaganza.”

  The waitress hurried back with a twelve-scoop bowl of vanilla ice cream smothered in strawberries and whipped cream. “We don’t often have celebrities here,” she said. “This is a real pleasure.”

  Twenty minutes later the ice cream had been greatly reduced, and what was left was almost completely melted. Steve and Daisy listlessly stared at the carnage.

  “I can’t eat any more,” Daisy said. “I’m getting sick.”

  Steve let one more spoonful slide down his throat. He had mixed feelings about Daisy’s celebrity status. As a businessman he knew he should be loving it. As a newsman he felt a little offended. And as her future lover, he didn’t like it at all. He was surprised at that last revelation. He’d never felt possessive about a woman before. It was a lot easier being a modern man when you weren’t in lust, he concluded.

  He paid the bill and escorted Daisy from the restaurant. When they reached the car there were three pieces of paper attached to his windshield wipers. “Junk mail,” he said, removing the notes and instantly crumpling them.

  “Don’t you want to see what they say?”

  “They’re phone numbers of women I don’t know. It’s the car. Women feel compelled to leave their phone numbers on it.”

  “How odd.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes it gets even odder.”

  The ride home was quiet, giving Daisy time to think about the notes impaled on Steve’s windshield wipers. It wasn’t the car that drew women, she thought. It was Steve.

  Most likely those women had seen him park or perhaps drive down the street. Not only was he drop-dead handsome, but he radiated sexual attraction. It was almost impossible to sit across from him and keep her mind on things like ice cream and radio broadcasts. Watching him eat had been torture. He had a great mouth, she’d decided. Nice full lips but not at all feminine. Probably he was a terrific kisser, probably she wouldn’t mind test-driving his lips. She gave herself a mental head slap. Daisy, Daisy, Daisy! What are you thinking?

  She was a quiet overachiever who was going to spend the rest of her life counseling senior citizens. Steve Crow would find her boring beyond belief. And she was sure she’d find him overwhelming. Steve Crow belonged with a hot pink, hot-pants type of woman. Daisy ran more to well-washed denim. Besides that, he was her boss.

  It was dark when Steve parked in front of Daisy’s town house. The subdivision wasn’t exactly run-down, but it wasn’t spiffy either, he decided. The houses were small, mostly brick and he guessed about twenty years old. It was a modest neighborhood with small front yards overrun with azaleas and impatiens. Maple trees shaded slightly neglected lawns. Roots snaked beneath sidewalks, causing them to shift and crack. It would be a childless neighborhood, Steve thought, inhabited by singles, newlyweds, and seniors. Families required more space, more yard. Families lived in the nearby subdivisions of colonial houses that had spread like a heat rash through Northern Virginia.

  Okay. Steve thought. This is it. This is where I get to make a move. Casually but suggestively slide my arm across the back of the seat. Give her the never-fail little smile. Slight devilish sparkle in my eye. No, wait a minute, not the sparkle. The sparkle isn’t sincere. I should look sincere. Smoldering, maybe. Let her know how I feel right up front. No, that’s not right either. If she knew how I felt, she’d probably leap out of the car and run for cover.

  Suddenly the front door to Daisy’s house crashed open, and Kevin came flying out, followed by a big black dog. Kevin spotted the car, ran up to it, wrenched the door open and jumped in, pushing Daisy over the gearshift, squashing her against Steve Crow. Kevin slammed the door just in time to shut out the dog. The animal snuffled at them through the window and licked the glass.

  “Hi,” Kevin said. “Have a nice dinner?”

  Steve went with what he had and put a protective arm around Daisy, drawing her even closer. “Very nice. How were the ribs?”

  “Oh, man, the ribs were great.”

  Daisy felt a thrill race all the way to her toes. Her skin felt scalded where it pressed against Steve Crow. Too bad it was just an innocent scrunching together, she thought. It had been way too long since she’d felt like this about a man. Actually, it had been never.

  “So what’s with the dog?” Steve asked Kevin. “He a friend of yours?”

  Kevin’s eyes bulged. “I opened the back door to take out the garbage, and he lunged at me!”

  “It’s only Fang,” Daisy said. “He belongs to Emily Atkinson, two doors down. I don’t have a dog so I use him to test my new recipes. Sometimes when he’s hungry he finds ingenious ways of getting into my backyard—like digging under the privacy fence.”

  “I’m telling you, that dog’s a killer!” Kevin said.

  Daisy leaned forward a little and looked at Fang. “He’s just a puppy. He hasn’t learned manners yet. He starts obedience school next week.”

  Kevin wasn’t convinced. “I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.”

  “You’re going to have to get used to him,” Daisy said. “He’s the only dog in the whole subdivision. I promised my publisher a sequel to Bones for Bowser, and Fang is my guinea pig.”

  Steve leaned forward, pretending to look at Fang, but actually finding an excuse not to lose body contact with Daisy. She felt good tucked back against his chest—too good to let go. He looked at Fang and had a stroke of genius.
He rested his cheek against Daisy’s blond curls and lied to her. “You could use my dog.”

  His voice was low and raspy, whispering through the loose tendrils that had escaped the comb and curled around her ear, and it took her a moment to realize he hadn’t said something seductive. She turned to face him and was intrigued by the amused curve to his lips—as if he’d done something very clever and was enormously pleased with himself.

  “I didn’t know you had a dog,” she said.

  “Yup. I’ve got one.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Steve stared at her for a full minute. “Bob.”

  Fang circled the car, snuffled into the window one last time, and left. Everyone watched while he walked down the street and scratched at his door to be let in. Emily Atkinson opened the door and shook her finger at him. A moment later, she dragged him in by his collar.

  “Bob would be a real challenge,” Steve said. “He’s very finicky.”

  “What kind of dog is he?” Daisy wanted to know.

  “Big. He’s a big dog, so he has to eat lots of good food. But he’s gentle. You’d like him. I could bring him over tomorrow after work.”

  Daisy really didn’t have time. On the other hand, a finicky dog would make a much better guinea pig than Fang-who-ate-everything. And she would like to see more of Steve Crow. She might even be able to find a way to plaster herself against his incredible body for a few minutes. Not that she wanted anything to come of it, but another innocent scrunching wouldn’t be too terrible. “Okay,” she said, “I have a recipe for stir-fry I could try out on him.”

  “You make the dog food, and I’ll bring the people food,” Steve said.

  “All right!” Kevin gave Steve a high five and got out of the car. “See you around.”

  “See you around.”

  By the time Daisy slid over the gearshift Steve was waiting to help her out of the car.

  “It’s nice of you to offer,” she said, “but it isn’t necessary for you to bring dinner tomorrow.”

  “It’s the least I can do. After all, you’re going to be slaving away over a great meal for old Fred.”

  “I thought his name was Bob.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I meant. Bob.”

  He was a little forgetful. She thought that was endearing. “Well, good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Neither of them moved.

  The devil in Steve’s head whispered, “Hell, go for it!”

  “One more thing,” he said to Daisy, taking her by the shoulders. He pulled her forward into the circle of his arms and kissed her. It wasn’t a getting-to-know-

  you kiss. It wasn’t at all polite. It was pure passion, deep and hard, right from the beginning. He felt her respond, felt the tip of her tongue against his, and he crushed her closer, leaving no doubt about his future intentions.

  When he finally released her and stepped back she noticed that his satisfied smile was back in place. “Good night,” he said pleasantly. Then he turned on his heel and left.

  “G’night,” Daisy said. Wow.

  Chapter 3

  Daisy pulled into the Belle Haven Marina lot, parked the newscar facing the river, and blew out a long sigh of relief. She’d managed to drive the entire loop without having an accident. She’d even given traffic reports.

  Now she slouched against the door, angled her legs across the floor, and closed her eyes, trying to remember the last time she’d been this tense. This morning, on the way to work, she decided. She’d been tense when her car had stalled at the fast-food drive-through and fifteen angry motorists, hungry for their morning coffee and muffins, had piled up behind her. She should have had breakfast at home, but Kevin had eaten all twelve of the pancakes she’d prepared. She made a mental note to stop at the store on the way home from work. She’d also been tense at two in the morning when she woke up in a cold sweat thinking about another evening with Steve Crow, realizing he was coming to visit, and remembering the house was a wreck. The shower-stall door needed the grunge scrubbed away and the living room rug was due for a vacuuming. There were cobwebs on the dining room chandelier, fingerprints on the kitchen cabinets, and if he looked in her oven, she’d die.

  So she’d gotten up and cleaned her bathroom, dusted the chandelier, scoured the cabinets, and said the heck with the oven. As far as she was concerned any man who looked in a woman’s oven wasn’t worth snake spit anyway.

  Exhausted, she dozed off with her forehead resting on the wheel. She’d slept for only a few minutes when she woke with a start. The car phone was ringing.

  “Good morning,” Steve said. “Just calling to see if everything is okay.”

  “Yup. Everything is fine.” Not counting the heart arrhythmia she got when she thought about the way he’d kissed her.

  “I also wanted to make sure our dinner date was still on for tonight.”

  “Of course,” Daisy said. “I’m looking forward to meeting Bob.”

  “Uh, right. If you run into any problems on the job, be sure to call me.”

  “Thanks, but things are nice and quiet.”

  She gave her last report at three-fifty-five while she was en route to the radio station. As she was heading north on the George Washington Parkway back to the station, a D.C. police call for backup came over a scanner. The officer was shouting into his two-way, giving his location. Gunfire rattled in the background. It sounded as if there was a firefight going on in the southwest section of the city in an area well-known for drugs and violence. There was a request for an ambulance. One of the officers on the scene had been shot. More gunfire.

  It seemed to Daisy that this was the sort of news a radio station should know about, so she called WZZZ’s editor and told him about the incident, concluding, “I can hear the gunshots coming over the scanner.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Coming up to the Eighteenth Street Bridge.”

  “Take the bridge, babe. Go for it.”

  “Go for it? What do you mean ‘go for it’?” Daisy asked.

  “Go mobile. That’s what you’ve got the tape recorder for. You’ve got the tape recorder, haven’t you?”

  “You mean you want me to go to report on this? Don’t you want to send someone else? Someone with more experience?”

  “Hell, no. It’d take too long for anyone else to get there.”

  Daisy looked overhead, saw the bridge directions flash by, and followed them. “Watch out, Lois Lane,” she said. “Here comes Daisy Adams!”

  Fifteen minutes later she was driving down a strange street lined with litter and boarded-up buildings. The scanner was still tuned to D.C. police. The confrontation had quieted down. SWAT teams were at the site and had a lone gunman pinned down in a row house. The gunman held a little girl hostage. It was a standoff.

  A large TV news truck blocked off part of the road, and Daisy felt a stab of disappointment. She didn’t have a “scoop.” Then she looked at the equipment in her car and realized she still could beat out the TV crew. She had the ability to broadcast sooner.

  Suddenly the scanner came alive again with shouting. The gunman was coming out with the hostage. They were in the doorway of the house. They were on the steps.

  Daisy turned the car down the cross street. She didn’t want to miss seeing the gunman. She took the corner and found at least half the road clogged with police cars. They’d kept a lane open for emergency vehicles, and Daisy told herself this was an emergency. She was relieved that she was driving a compact and could squeeze through the narrow corridor of empty roadway. A man darted from between two parked cars. Daisy slammed on the brakes the moment she saw him, but it was too late. She would never forget the look of astonishment on his face just before impact—just before he was deflected off her right front fender.

  An instant later the area was swarming with police. Daisy’s car door was opened and she was helped out. The minicam appeared. Medics and police surrounded the man Daisy had hit.

  Daisy tried
to go to the man, but she was restrained by a cop.

  “Is he all right?” she asked. “This is terrible!” She felt the tears gathering behind her eyes.

  The man was on his feet, swearing at Daisy. “I’m gonna get you!” he said. “You’re a marked woman. Your life is gone, sister.”

  “I’m sorry,” Daisy said. “I didn’t see you…”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” the cop told Daisy. “You were going real slow, and there was no way you could have seen him. He ran right into the side of your car. Besides, you’re a hero. He let the little girl go and made a run for it, but we couldn’t get near him what with all these bystanders. We might have lost him if you hadn’t knocked him on his keister.”

  “Oh no,” Daisy said. “Are you telling me that man was the gunman?”

  The minicam zoomed in on Daisy.

  “How does it feel to have captured Barry LeRoy, the Roach?” a woman asked.

  “Well, I didn’t exactly capture him,” Daisy said. “I sort of inadvertently ran into him.”

  The minicam swung around to record the Roach, handcuffed now, being led to the paddy wagon.

  The woman continued the interview. “Are you a police officer?” she asked Daisy, noting the antennae sticking out of her car like porcupine quills.

  “No! Goodness. I’m the WZZZ traffic reporter. I was hoping for an interview. I suppose it’s too late for that,” Daisy said, watching the doors clang closed on the police van.

  Steve Crow was on his way to the pound to get a dog when he heard the bulletin come over the radio. The Dog Lady of Snore had just run down the Roach, a major dope dealer. Steve made a U-turn and put in a call to the station.

  “Who the devil sent her out on an interview?” Steve yelled into his phone.

  “I did,” the editor said. “I thought that’s what she was supposed to do. We always use the traffic cars as mobile units.”

  “She bakes dog biscuits!” Steve shouted. “For crying out loud, she gives fashion reports on accident victims.”

  “It’s the human interest angle,” the editor said. “People seem to like it.”