morning?”
“I was starting a new job. I wanted to get in early and take a look around before anyone else showed up.”
“Oh, no,” she groaned, “first day on the job, and I broke your arm.” She looked at the jeans and scuffed boots. He had removed his sweatshirt in deference to the cast, leaving him in a yellow short-sleeved T-shirt, which said CONSTRUCTION WORKERS USE THEIR TOOLS. The shirt clung to a flat stomach and broad, muscled chest, the sleeves spanning well-defined biceps. His forearm was corded, the back covered with a silk mat of black hair. There was no doubt in Chris’ mind that he could crack a walnut as easily as an egg. Her eyes glazed over in silent admiration.
“Earth to Chris.”
“Uh, I was just wondering about your shirt. You do construction work?”
“Yeah.”
Not a laborer, she decided. He didn’t seem the sort to take orders. A project manager or a supervisor, maybe. Certainly someone who worked in the field. He didn’t get all those muscles sitting behind a desk. “Should I take you to work?”
He looked at the cast. “I think I’ll pass on work today.”
“Won’t someone be upset if you don’t show up?”
“Relieved would probably be a better word.”
The truck idled at a standstill in the parking lot. “That’s a strange thing to say. Are you insecure?” she joked.
He shook his head. “No. I’m ruthless.”
An inadvertent shiver ran down her spine at the bitter tone in his voice.
“And I’m disreputable,” he teased, trying to lighten the conversation.
“It’s the stubble.”
He rubbed his hand across his whiskered chin. “Twenty-eight of my last forty-eight hours have been spent on a plane. And only three of the remaining twenty hours were spent sleeping. I was afraid to take a razor to my face at four-thirty this morning.”
“Where did you fly in from?”
“Everywhere.”
She felt him slump in the seat next to her. He passed a hand through his hair and sighed. “I’ve been to three countries and seven cities in the last forty-eight hours. Six job sites. This would have been number seven. Maybe I’m glad you broke my arm. I think I’m running on empty.”
“Are you some sort of troubleshooter?”
“Troubleshooter? I guess that’s as good a name as any, but lately I feel more like a troublemaker.” He quirked a smile at her. “I’d like to make a pass at you, but all of a sudden, I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open.”
“Would you like me to drive you home?”
“I don’t think I have a home.” It was a flat statement issued in a voice totally devoid of emotion. “There’s this place out in Loudoun County where I stay sometimes.”
“Loudoun County! After I drop you off, how will I ever get back here? Loudoun County is miles away. There aren’t any buses running to Loudoun County, there isn’t a subway running to Loudoun County, what are you doing living in Loudoun County?”
He sat with his black curls resting against the rear window, his eyes closed in exhaustion, his cast propped in a ridiculous position on the head of the Rottweiler. “You could spend the night,” he smiled dreamily. “It’s lonely in Loudoun County.”
“I’ll pass on the night stuff, but I guess I can drive you home. After all, you did try to help me.”
“Mmmmm.”
Chris glanced at her watch. “I have students waiting for me right now. Would you mind hanging around at the skating rink for a couple hours? I’ll be done at ten-thirty, and then I can make arrangements with one of the other coaches to follow us out and bring me back home.”
“Mmmmm.”
Chris looked at him suspiciously. “Did you hear anything I said?” There was no response. He was asleep.
Chapter 2
Chris dried her skate blades and put the custom Harlicks in her locker. She slipped her feet into her tennis shoes and wondered about the man and dog she’d left slumbering in the parking lot. She’d treated them equally, cracking a window for ventilation and covering them with a blanket from the coaches’ lounge. Toward the end of her last lesson she’d had visions of man and beast perishing-like the little match girl-frozen to death under a mantle of dog-induced frost. She pushed through the heavy lobby door and stared horrified into the parking lot. There was no truck. There was no trace of Ken Callahan. No dog.
Bitsy Schoffit barged through the doors behind her. “Okay, I’m ready to go.”
Chris spread her arms in a gesture of confusion. “He isn’t here. The truck is gone.”
“I thought he couldn’t drive.”
“I dunno. Maybe he called someone to come and get him while I was on the ice.” She clapped her hand to her forehead. “And he’s got my purse. I left it in the truck.”
Bitsy shook her head and made motherly clucking sounds with her tongue. “Dumb, dumb, dumb.”
“It’s not so bad. He probably got someone to take him home and didn’t realize the purse was on the floor. I’ll just go home and call the hospital. Maybe someone there can get in touch with him.”
Bitsy unlocked the door to her BMW, motioned for Chris to get in, and plunked her own small body into the plush red seat. At forty-three she was still slim and graceful on ice, moving effortlessly with her students through difficult choreography. On land she was an ox. On land she stomped and plunked and stumbled with unconscious abandon.
Bitsy turned the BMW onto Little River Turnpike. Half a mile up the road the two women simultaneously spotted Chris’ abandoned tan hatchback on the far shoulder. They gave it a cursory glance, as if it belonged to some unknown person, and continued on to the next light.
“Old news,” Chris said finally-her thoughts returning to the car.
Bitsy was familiar with the Chris Nelson philosophy of car care. “Time to buy a new one, huh?”
“Five weeks too early. I have my money tied up in a savings bond that doesn’t mature for five more weeks.”
Bitsy gave another series of clucks. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” She pulled into Chris’ subdivision and rolled to a stop in front of her house. “Let me guess,” she said, pointing to the blue pickup parked at the curb. “Is this the phantom truck?”
“Oh no! What’s he doing here?”
Bitsy chuckled. “I imagine he’s in there having tea with Aunt Edna.”
“Just what I need. Edna’s convinced I should remarry. Remember poor John Farrell? And last week she arranged a date for me with the guy who came to read our electric meter. Edna’ll take one look at Ken Callahan and think she’s gone to matchmakers’ heaven.”
“Wow. That nice?”
“An eleven, no sweat. And I don’t want to have anything to do with him. I like my life just the way it is.” Chris slammed the car door behind her and took twelve feet of sidewalk in two strides. She turned, waved at Bitsy, and hammered on her front door.
Aunt Edna bellowed, “Hold your pants on,” and glared out above a security chain. “Well, good golly,” she complained, “what with all that thundering, I thought it had to be some lunatic escaped from Lorton prison. Why didn’t you just use your key?”
“It’s in my purse, and I don’t have my purse with me.” Chris pushed past Edna. “Where is he?”
“You mean that nice Ken Callahan?”
Chris moved from the foyer to the living room, to the dining room. She felt her patience evaporating and
