Because of Jane

CHAPTER TWO

“UH, OH.” Jane did not like animals. Animals were smelly and slobbery and usually an all-around pain in the neck (just like football players, come to think of it). Her eyes already burning, she said, “Get off me, you big lug.”

Taking her verbal plea as an invitation, the dog pawed his way up her dress, whimpering for attention. Jane grabbed his dirty paws, desperate to get him away from her personal space. “I said, get off me.” She backed against the screen door, causing it to squeak and creak. Grabbing onto the doorjamb, she tried to save the last of her dignity before Lenny found her standing here, cowering.

But it was too late. The groaning door gave way while the dog kept advancing toward her. Jane backed up, her hand slipping from the doorjamb while the screen door banged open.

She fell back against Lenny Paxton’s hard chest, felt the solid wall of his body and immediately felt a charged current of energy radiating from him. Before she could pull away, the dog came running and crashed into her—front side. While Lenny held her—back side.

“Boy!”

At Lenny’s harsh command, the dog dropped, whimpered a retort then gave Jane a big-eyed look as if to say, “Aren’t I lovable enough for you?”

Jane looked around at the man fogging up her usually sensible brain right along with her really sensible glasses. Lenny lifted her away, his movements shaking the old floorboards of the porch, his famous frown locked inches from her nose.

Looking just about as flustered as she felt, he said, “I told you I have a dog.”

“Is that what this is?” she managed to ask through a shaky laugh, her eyes on the huge monstrosity sitting at her feet. “More like an ox.”

Judging from the smirk on his face, Lenny was enjoying her discomfort. But Jane also saw something else in his diamond-edged eyes. Fear and apprehension. He’d done this on purpose. Let her walk right into this big animal. His scare tactics weren’t going to drive her away, just because he was afraid to have her here. She’d take an allergy pill and get along with this big brute. And the dog, too.

To prove she was in this for the long haul, Jane wiped her sweaty hands on her dress then leaned over and tentatively patted the dog on its splotchy gold-and-white head. “Nice doggy. What a nice fellow.”

Lenny gave her a once-over, surprise settling on his face like a flag falling after a football play. “Boy—his name is Boy. And he’s harmless but overly friendly. It’s part of his charm.” He smiled as if to say it was also part of his charm. Then he lifted her bags to settle them in a spot by the stairs.

At least her bags were advancing, even if she wasn’t.

Jane followed, stepping around groaning bookcases and ancient sideboards stacked with dishes and dolls, hoping to open a dialogue. “Boy? Your dog’s name is Boy?”

Lenny shrugged, stalked to the refrigerator in the long, multi-windowed kitchen. This room had a lot of country charm, all frilly and old-fashioned and overdone with roosters of various sizes. And more dishes, along with cabinets filled with pots and pans, and more dolls on some of the counters. The only saving grace—the big windows were thrown open to allow the crisp fall breeze to play through the lacy white curtains.

Lenny Paxton looked as out of place in here as a gladiator in a queen’s sitting room. Which only added to his mystique. Why had he come to this particular place in this particular time of his life? And how could someone so intimidating and burly live with all this dainty stuff?

Jane jotted copious notes in her writing pad. When Lenny turned around, she hid the pad then pushed at her glasses. “Boy?” she repeated, trying to work up some meaningful discussion. Since he seemed to love the dog, she decided to start with that. Except that every time she said “Boy” the dog looked at her with hopeful expectation. The man did not.

“Yes, his name is Boy.” He patted the dog’s head. “It was the only thing he’d answer to when my granddaddy found him up on the highway. It kinda stuck.” He looked out over the big backyard. “Granddaddy died about a year after he found Boy.”

Jane registered that information and the reverent way he’d told her, since she hadn’t been able to find out much about his early years. Famous she could research; private, what-makes-you-tick stuff was harder to investigate. “I’m sorry. Were you close to your grandfather?”

He turned with another attempt at a smirk, his hostility bouncing off the walls like the beats of a big brass drum. “You are not going to get any fodder out of me, so don’t even try. I don’t have any issues. I’m perfectly content. Or at least I was until you got here.”

“Sorry. I was trying to be polite.”

Lenny gave her a long, curious stare, then nodded toward the dog still hassling at her feet. “At least Boy seems to trust you. But then, he’s dumber than dirt.”

“What exactly is he?” Jane asked as she brushed off her dress. She could feel the hives working their aggravating way up her neck. Thankfully, she had a good supply of hand sanitizer and allergy pills in her bag.

“Part hound, part collie, I think.”

“Are you sure there isn’t some wolf and wild boar mixed in there somewhere?”

That actually made the man smile. He had a nice, devastating smile.

Clearing her throat, Jane watched as he took a vintage Fiestaware pitcher out of the refrigerator then poured some water into a plastic Razorback cup. Pushing at the various dishes, he found a dainty crystal glass and filled it with water then shoved it at her. “Drink this.”

Jane took the water, watching as he picked up the plastic cup then lifted it in a salute. When he downed the whole thing, desire flooded through her system with a thousand-watt brilliance. Desire for the water, not the man, she assured herself. And just to prove that point, she also downed part of her glassful.

He turned, stared at her as if she were in the way then shrugged again. “I’m so sorry. Where are my manners? We need to sit down and talk about how to get you back to wherever it is that shrinks go to roost.”

He was playing hard to get, siccing his dog on her, making insults. Typical hostile male behavior. Meaning this would not be a good time to tell him she was also on assignment with Sidelined magazine. “Just pass the water jug again, would you? I’m hot and tired, and the least you can do is allow me the courtesy of your time. I might be able to help you if you give me a chance.”

He stood back, his intimidating crystal eyes shot full of misgivings. “Is this one of those shrink games? A trick to make me change my mind?”

“No, absolutely not,” she said, advancing a step. Boy followed her, stopping whenever she stopped. She didn’t like playing the helpless female, but Jane had to try a different tactic with this one. “I was counting on this assignment. I like the money, of course, and I need some time away from my other patients.” Almost to herself, she added, “They’re really getting on my nerves.”

He arched his thick eyebrows, his nostrils flaring as if he’d just sniffed something in the air. “I thought it was your job to keep people from going crazy.”

“It is. I mean, I do. Actually, I just help people to gain self-esteem and get rid of some excess baggage in both their personal and emotional lives. I’ve written books, based on some of my experiences, with my clients’ permission, of course.” She glanced around at the ceramic roosters filling the kitchen, her fingers itching to straighten things about as bad as the hives on her neck were itching to be scratched.

“Don’t count on doing that with me,” he retorted, his tone quiet and deadly, even with lace curtains lifting behind him in the afternoon breeze.

“Uh…well…it’s not just that,” she said, wondering if she’d ever gain his trust. “Sometimes, it’s good to get out of the office now and then.” Rummaging through her purse, she found her allergy pills, took one with the water then sat the glass on the one clear spot amid the sports magazines and obvious unopened bills on the table.

Lenny cranked up a portable CD player sitting on the counter. Steve Miller’s “Abracadabra” filled the air. “Running from something, doc?”

Jane realized her mistake. Lenny Paxton thought she was too wacky to advise anyone. And maybe he was right. She was a klutz at times. And she did have her own issues. Especially regarding jocks. She was so not a jock-type woman.

Reminding herself to stay professional, she pushed at her chignon. “Could I sit down, please?”

He found a clear chair—all chrome and red aged vinyl—then with a flourish, lifted his hands toward her and said in a sarcastic tone, “By all means, sit, take a load off.”

Jane urged her tired bones toward the cushioned chair. Didn’t this house have air-conditioning? In spite of the cool breeze coming from the window, she felt flushed.

“Thank you,” she said, taking in the old, linoleum-topped breakfast table. Then she sank against the table, causing its chrome legs to scrape across the wooden floor. “I didn’t want to be a part of all the Razorback hoopla back in Little Rock. My family tends to take game day very seriously.”

He grinned the way a warrior with a spear would grin as he went in for the kill. “You don’t like football?”

Jane stood up straight, trying to focus, trying to reach the volume dial on the CD player. “Not at all.”

Lenny pushed her hand away. “But you came here anyway, to fix me? Or is that it? You hate football, so it’s your goal to fix all football players?”

She cleared her tight throat. “It’s a paying assignment, regardless of the unpleasant subject matter.” Then Boy decided to make another play for her. Gasping, Jane backed up against the chair. And got dizzy again.

Lenny caught her by her elbows, then frowned an inch away from her face. “What ails you, anyway?”

“I…missed lunch.”

“Sit down,” he said, shoving her onto the chair. “You obviously aren’t used to this late-summer heat.” His mock-concerned look didn’t give her hope that the man did have a heart.

“I grew up in Arkansas,” she pointed out, a triumphant tone in her voice to undermine her wobbly legs. “I know all about heat and humidity. It’s rather nice out today and the leaves are just starting to turn.” She smiled, squirmed, looked away. “All in all, rather enjoyable. In fact, I’d forgotten how lovely the fall leaves are.”

“Too bad you won’t get to stick around. Fall in the Ozarks is really pretty. That is, when you’re out in the peace and quiet of the country.”

“All the more reason to be here, instead of cooped up in my office back in the city.”

He made a sad face. “If only you could stay.”

“Let’s forget all about that for now. Did you grow up in Arkansas?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he slapped her question back at her. “Did you grow up in Little Rock, or just find a place to roost there and hang out your shingle?”

“Yes, I grew up in Little Rock,” Jane replied, trying to be honest in hopes that he’d do the same. “My dad was in the air force so we traveled a lot, but when he retired we settled back in Arkansas. My parents are both college professors now. We moved to Fayetteville when I was in high school. They taught at the University of Arkansas there for years.”

And she’d been an awkward, geeky teenager who’d babysat instead of going to homecoming and prom. “So my family—I have a sister and a brother, both younger than me—are all Trojan and Razorback fans. My parents moved back to Little Rock a few years ago, and during football season, everyone congregates for football parties. Everyone but me, unless I’m forced to do so.”

“Wow, you really do hate football. Isn’t it sacrilege to miss a Razorback game?”

Jane felt the need to defend her position. “I work a lot. I keep a private practice, and my self-help books and magazine articles are doing quite well. I lecture at major companies, help train employees, get people motivated to live their best lives. I can do the same for you.”

He ignored that suggestion. “Why didn’t you move—say to New York or Los Angeles? You know, some place where all the really crazy people live?”

“I love Arkansas,” she said, not even daring to voice her real reasons for staying close to home.

The music ended and he didn’t move a muscle, but the tension in the room seemed to tighten with each breath Jane took. Lenny Paxton sure wasn’t the chatty type, and so far she’d shared more with him than she had intended. Which only made Jane want to question him. But she held her ground, smiling up at him with what she hoped was a serene demeanor.

He came toward the table then leaned down to plant both his big hands across the faded linoleum, his buff body hovering inches from her. Then he smiled, another real honest-to-goodness smile, but his tone was low and drawling, his eyes bright with a dare. “A southern girl. I like southern girls. And I especially like home-grown Arkansas girls.”

Jane pulled back. He was too close, way too close. She did not like people getting in her face. Or her space. “Could I have some more water, please?”

He pushed off the table, poured the water then turned to watch her. “See, I told you…even though the wind is cool, that sun is still hot. I think it addled your brain. You look flushed.”

“I’m fine, really.” Sweat poured all the way down to her toes, but she didn’t dare tell him that, especially with him looking at her as if he’d just met his next conquest and he’d already won. “My trip across the state was a bit rough.”

“All the more reason for you to not be here,” he replied as he handed her another glass of water. “Want a piece of peach pie?”

Jane’s stomach lurched at the mention of food, and at the way he’d changed from disagreeable to debonair. “No, I…I have a delicate stomach. I think something at the truck stop—”

“You should never eat truck stop food.”

“I didn’t. I skipped breakfast and lunch, but I grabbed a cup of something that resembled coffee and I had half a Luna bar in my car.”

“Some coach you are,” he retorted, reaching for a loaf of what looked like fresh-baked bread. “I’m gonna butter this and toast it for you and you’re gonna eat, okay?”

“Okay.”

She wasn’t used to being ordered around, but she was hungry. She should have eaten. Low blood-sugar and all that. But she was surprised by his abrupt need to feed her. Was it part of his obvious compulsions, in the same way his hoarding things around him seemed to be? Deciding to test that theory, she said, “Could you put some cheese on it? I need some protein and calcium.”

He gave her a perturbed look and then busied himself with cutting the bread, buttering it, laying the cheese down in precise order and finding a broiler pan, his actions methodical and organized. “You’re too skinny.”

“Thank you so much.”

“I’m just stating the obvious.”

At least they were making polite (well, polite on her part, anyway) conversation. She would have to build his trust one affirmation at a time. The man was notorious for his skepticism. And he had an ego the size of Texas. He had ticked off coaches and reporters across the country with his glib attitude and his blunt retorts, and he’d infuriated women on a global level with his definite lack of commitment. A tough case.

So why the need for perfection with the grilled cheese sandwich?

“You don’t have to put too much butter on the bread.”

He glared at her, looked back at the sandwich and then looked at the trash can.

“Don’t throw it away,” she said, knowing he wanted to do that very thing. “I’m too hungry to wait for another one.”

One compulsion won out over the other. He finished cooking the sandwich, but he kept lifting it with the spatula to stare at it.

Jane was sure she could handle anything this man tried to dish out. But she couldn’t help but admire his backside as he buttered that bread and crisped that sandwich.

About an hour later, after one perfect grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of sweet lemonade, Jane felt refreshed, but sleepy. That surprised her. She didn’t require much sleep. Maybe it was just the way the breeze moved through those lacy curtains, or the way Boy sighed in his doggy slumber at her feet. Or maybe she needed to rest and try to get her brain back on task, instead of wondering why Lenny had hidden himself away behind clutter here on this remote farm for eight months, when the world was waiting for his next move.

Pace yourself, she thought. You just got here. Plenty of time to get inside his head. If she could get past all that indifference and male-speak.

The good news—Lenny stayed with her while she ate. The bad news—he was reading the paper and listening to more Steve Miller—“Jet Airliner” this time—instead of talking to her. Although she couldn’t be sure if the issue he was reading was current since the small table was full of all types of publications.

She glanced through the arched kitchen opening toward the hall to the right into a formal dining room/living room combination, wondering why this house was part dainty organization and part mixed-up male. “Tell me about your grandmother, Lenny.”

LENNY LIFTED HIS GAZE toward her, then checked his watch. Exactly fifteen minutes. That’s how long she’d stayed quiet. He’d almost expected her to fall asleep right there at the table. No such luck. “Who wants to know?”

Shaking a finger at him, she said, “Well, I do. She had a lot of things from what I can see. Was she a collector?”

Deciding he’d best make hay while the sun was shining and answer some of her annoying questions, he said, “Yes, she collected antiques and junk and…dolls.”

That was an understatement. This old house looked like a flea market. Lenny knew things looked bad. Okay, worse than bad. But he just didn’t have the energy to deal with that right now. And he didn’t have the energy to get to the bottom of his new anxieties either. So he let all the collected things sit, neat and tidy, while he kept piling his messy things all around them. The clutter brought him a small measure of comfort. The questions from the perky woman across the table did not.

“What was her name?”

“Bertie.” He went back to pretending to read the paper. And put up a solid wall around his pent-up emotions.

“And how long do you plan to keep all of her things around?”

“Forever.”

Jane leaned forward, his noncommunicative mood seeming to bounce off her like sun rays. “Why did you walk away after losing the Super Bowl, Lenny?”

He looked up at her and saw the earnestness in her eyes, but Lenny put on his game face. At first, he didn’t answer. Then he said, “I was tired.” That admission seemed to make him feel a whole lot better about things. Maybe he did need therapy, after all. But who would believe him? The whole world had given up on Lenny Paxton.

“You look tired now. You have dark circles under your eyes. Do you sleep at all?”

Lenny’s brand of tired creaked all the way to his bones. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a good night’s sleep. “I get by,” he said. “But I suppose you can help me find some new energy?” Exploring the possibilities of that proposition did intrigue him. Analyze a little bit; flirt a little bit. See which one of them caved first. That tactic had always garnered him a pretty woman on his arm. But then, maybe he didn’t have the energy to even flirt.

“That’s part of the therapy, yes.”

He watched as she started stacking magazines, clearing away the section of the table she had somehow managed to take over. “Even if you think you’re too old for football, even if you don’t get this current contract dispute settled, you could be a commentator or a spokesperson. Your agent says you’ve got offers all over the place, endorsement deals, movie offers—”

His halfway good mood turned to ice as a kind of panic knocked the wind out of him. “My agent—the one I just fired—talks too much and presumes too much. Those deals aren’t worth the paper they’re written on. Most of them are comical or beneath my dignity. I’m not ready for stupid reality shows about has-beens.” He flipped open his phone, then shook his head. “Eight messages from Marcus already. Got him backed against a wall.” Then he closed the phone but kept his bravado. “I’ll let him stew a little bit more.” Getting up, he cleared away their dishes. “Oh, and did I tell you—you’re fired, too.”