No Perfect Hero Page 3

  Haley West.

  That was the name Flynn gave me when I’d cornered him over the room fuckups and stared him down.

  He started stammering, flinching like my glare could actually hurt him. Nothing new.

  Flynn’s got no backbone, just a hollowed-out tube for a spine full of Jack or whatever else he’s guzzling today. It's amazing why the hell Grandma keeps him on payroll. The boy rolled over pretty fast after I said I wanted her out.

  I should’ve known there was more to the story than he was telling me.

  There always is with girls like her.

  There's always trouble, too.

  Damn if I could let that hotheaded little spitfire go wandering around Heart’s Edge with nowhere to stay and not even a working car.

  But I’ve got to get her out of here.

  She almost blew my cover. As long as everyone thinks I’m the reclusive small town boy returning home for a hello, nobody blinks my way. Or even thinks twice about me staying at Grandma’s inn.

  Naturally, I picked one of the cottages rather than the basement in Grandma's house. A grown man needs his privacy, after all, and rumor has it I’m just staying here till I buy my own place in town.

  Sometimes rumors are useful.

  Say as little as possible, and usually people will invent the most plausible cover story without you having to speak a word.

  The truth is, I can’t let my dirty business touch my grandmother or all the hard work she’s done keeping Charming up and running.

  So I’ve got my business squirreled away behind lock and key – but leave it to that green-eyed little vixen to almost walk right into my war room.

  Fuck.

  If she’d seen my whiteboards, my newspaper clippings, my pin maps tracking movement...there's no telling what she’d have thought. I'd probably be in handcuffs right now, answering Sheriff Langley's questions.

  I know what I thought about her.

  That she’d been sent by Dennis Bress.

  That he’d figured out I was hot on his trail and figured I wouldn’t react ugly to a beautiful woman casually strolling in to find out what I know. I’m still not totally convinced.

  But the broken-down Ford Mustang just outside the fence is pretty plausible.

  Still. I’ve got to get her gone.

  She’s a liability and a distraction. The worst kind, when she’s petite, curvy, tight-bodied, and from what I saw last night, far too fond of tight jeans and short, loose shirts that bare the tanned, toned curve of her waist every time she so much as breathes.

  And the way that tumble of dark brown hair falls down, framing her face, lashing and swaying with her sharp, high-energy gestures...a man couldn't ask for a better way to make his dick like diamond.

  Not something I need to be focusing on right now.

  Not something I need at all.

  She’s hardly the only problem. Fuck, that poor kid with her came about a foot away from stumbling into my weapons cache.

  Cases of guns, and I haven’t had a chance to unpack everything and separate the ammo from the firearms yet. That could’ve been disastrous.

  Ms. Haley may be annoying as hell, but I couldn’t live with myself if I let her or the kid get hurt.

  I knew setting up shop back home wouldn’t be easy. Cornering Bress, even harder.

  I just didn’t expect this kind of complication.

  But there’s one way to get rid of her. And that’s why I’m out here in the dead of night, on the cement floor of Flynn’s dirty garage in the barn he lives in on the edge of the property, after we hooked up the old man’s truck hitch and dragged Haley's Mustang inside.

  It’s a pretty car, that’s for sure.

  Well-loved, but someone’s been putting used parts in it and while that’ll keep it going for a while, they’ll break down faster.

  Looks like she’s got a busted carburetor, but I might be able to work up a temporary fix that’ll last her another hundred miles or so. Long enough to get her to a bigger city with a chain or a custom shop that carries Mustang parts.

  It doesn’t take me long to root around and realize she’s got a stuck float valve.

  A little shake, a little tap, and it comes loose.

  It’s just going to get stuck again – once a carburetor starts going downhill, it goes fast – but she’ll be all right for another day or two of driving. Just have to make sure she knows to get it replaced in the next city she hits, whenever she hauls ass out of here – and out of my life – in the morning.

  “Hey now, War,” a familiar voice says from the doorway. “Keep right at it, and you’re going to put me out of a job.”

  I roll myself from under the car, picking up a rag and swiping at the grease on my fingers.

  Stewart Saxbe stands in the open garage, leaning one shoulder against the frame with an easy smile, his brown eyes glittering and his mechanic’s fatigues straining against his blocky, muscular frame.

  He’s like me, ex-military, and can’t let go of those old habits that say stay in shape and combat-ready at all times. We weren’t deployed on the same team, even if we shared the same base camp many times, but you might say we served together in Afghanistan.

  Jenna got to work alongside Stew and a few others I’d trust with my life.

  Or hers.

  But Jenna was the one who didn’t come back.

  No time to let myself linger on those memories, though.

  I offer Stewart a smile as I stand, reaching out to clasp his hand firmly. “Just taking care of a nuisance. Nosy neighbor who’ll be gone as soon as her car’s fixed.”

  “I heard. Flynn gave me the rundown.” He lifts his brows. “Figured I’d come take a look on the way home. What’s wrong with it? Sweet lookin' ride.”

  “Bad carburetor.” I shrug, leaning my hip against one of the work tables. “I popped the float valve loose. It’ll hold till she can get it done up right.”

  He gives the car a measuring look, then pops the hood and leans in to peer. “Looks all right,” he says, reaching a hand in and fiddling around. “Hm, the choke needs adjusting, too. You sure you want to send her on her way with this?”

  “Not much choice,” I say.

  I can’t really tell Stewart the real reason I want her gone quickly. I can’t tell anyone.

  I trust him more than anything, but he’s friendly with everyone, and he might let something slip. News travels too easy in a small town, and it's too easy for it to reach somebody connected to Dennis Bress. “I doubt you stock a carburetor for this particular model of Ford. Unless you just happen to have one on hand?”

  “Nah, but I could get a custom order in a few days. Fix her up good as new. Then she won’t have to worry about breaking down before she gets somewhere safe.”

  I grimace. A few days.

  He’s right, and I can’t think of any reason to argue that wouldn’t draw suspicion and make him wonder why I’m so adamant about getting this girl out of here. “Won’t that be expensive, for a classic like this?”

  “That’s what eBay’s for.” Chuckling, he pats the hood, straightening and giving the car an appreciative once-over. “Besides, having a pretty girl like that around? Should keep you plenty busy while you're back in town – and that’s just what you need.”

  It’s exactly what I don’t need.

  And exactly what I’m afraid of.

  Too bad I’m out of excuses, for now. I’ll take it.

  It’s not like my stay in Heart’s Edge is finite. I have time. I can wait until Haley West and that adorable kid – her daughter, I'm guessing, the young lady who isn’t a munchkin – get their need for a little rustic mountain life out of their system after a few days and head on down the road.

  Dennis Bress isn’t going anywhere.

  Neither am I.

  Not until I get what I’m after.

  Stewart gives me a long look, measuring, knowing. He's a good friend, always seems to know what’s on my mind, even when I don’t say anything – or maybe
because I’m not saying anything.

  Thoughtful, quiet, he leans against the driver’s side of the Mustang and folds his arms over his chest, studying me.

  “You’re not upset about the girl,” he says softly. “It's something else eating you, isn't it? And if I know you as well as I think I do, War, it’s the same something you’ve been upset about for thirteen years.”

  I tense, looking away, grinding my teeth. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “No, you never do. Listen, Warren...” He sighs. “I thought maybe you’d come back to Heart’s Edge to get some closure, but you’re still as raw-edged as a razor, ready to cut shit to pieces. Why are you really here?”

  “It’s home. Don’t think I ever need an excuse to come home.”

  “If it was home,” he points out quietly, “you wouldn’t be paying to stay in a room.”

  I smile, faint and humorless. “Come on, man. Haven’t you heard the rumors? I’m in the market for a house and a wife. Eligible ladies beware.”

  Stew chuckles, then sends another worried look my way. “Well, your business ain't mine. Maybe you should just pick up Miss Mustang and head on out of town? Talk about easy.”

  “Bull. Don't even think about playing matchmaker. And no trying to run me off.” I push away from the work table, straightening, and toss the greasy rag at him. “You just want me gone because you owe me...what, six beers now?”

  He raises both brows with a deliberately blank look. “No earthly clue what you’re talking about.”

  “Uh-huh. That shitty poker face of yours is why you owe me six beers.” Snorting, I elbow him. “Help me do one last check and close this thing up.”

  It’s comforting, having Stew with me.

  A reminder of better days, maybe. For a little bit, as we give the Mustang one last once-over and make sure everything's tight, it almost feels like old times.

  Before that fateful day.

  Before the news that made me beat my knuckles bloody. Before the folded flag, the sorrowful salute, the fucking obituary.

  Before I knew Jenna wasn’t coming home ever again.

  For a little while, it’s just me and Stewart swapping old stories, giving each other shit. And when he leaves to head home...

  I feel a little more grounded. A little more centered, ready to get to work.

  Sure, it might be past the town’s bedtime, but I’m just getting started.

  And I only spare one glance for the darkened windows on the other side of the duplex before I shut myself in my war room and get to work on counterintelligence.

  It’s almost dawn before I finally give up chasing ghosts for the night and fall into bed.

  I barely bother to strip out of my shirt and jeans, down to boxers, before I pass out face-first across the mattress. I’m used to keeping long hours, but the past twenty-four have thrown enough curve balls my way to completely wear me out. So I’m really hoping to get some solid shut-eye.

  Unfortunately, my new next door neighbor has other plans.

  I think I’ve only been asleep for ten minutes before someone starts tap dancing on my skull.

  Or at least, that’s what I’m dreaming. Someone standing over my bed with a little hammer like the kind doctors use to test your reflexes, tapping on my skull, and in my sleeping imagination, the sound is tinny and rhythmic and flat, more like my head is a ball of glass.

  It's actually a little wildfire standing on my doorstep, tapping away at the glass of my front door.

  I groan, rolling over, letting one arm fall to the floor as I peer through the bedroom door and down the hall. Fuck.

  I can just glimpse the front door from here, a fuzzy mess of too-bright sun glowing through the glass and turning the small, curving shape on the other side into a blur.

  I don’t need to see her clearly to know she’s pissed. It’s in her stance, hip cocked, her arms folded over her chest in between every round of impatient knocking that could give a woodpecker a good run for its money.

  Grumbling, I turn my face into the pillow and muffle a curse into the cotton case.

  What the fuck now?

  Maybe if I stay put, she’ll go away. Just get in her nice pretty working car and go.

  “I know you’re in there!” Haley calls, the glass paneling hollowing her voice. “I can see your ass.”

  Then you can kiss it, darlin', I almost throw back, before forcing myself to clamp my jaw shut, shove myself up on both arms, and slog march out of bed.

  She'll probably think I’m hung over – shirtless, pantless, hair sticking up everywhere, bleary-eyed – but I don’t care.

  It’s Come As You Are in Chateau Ford when you drag my sorry ass out of bed. Staggering to the door, I drag it open, leaning an arm against the frame over my head and eyeing her sourly.

  “What.”

  It's not a question.

  She doesn’t say anything. Just blinks at me, staring blankly, her gaze starting at my head and dropping to my feet before yanking back up again as if pulled on a leash, her pretty high cheekbones coloring – and I don’t think that’s blush.

  “What the hell's the matter? See something you like?” As pissed as I am, I might as well have a little fun with this.

  A guilty sound sticks in her throat. She looks away too quickly, clearing her throat and scowling at the distant, sunny horizon.

  “Do you not understand the concept of clothing, you—you—”

  “Warren,” I say with a touch of dry amusement. “Name's Warren Ford, since you didn’t bother asking last night.”

  “You Warren.” She says my name like it’s the name of a particularly filthy breed of wild animal, and I almost smile. Her scowl deepens. “And you didn’t exactly give me a chance for polite introductions. Not like you asked my name, either.”

  “I know who you are, Haley West.”

  She blinks, snaps a look back at me, then immediately looks away again. “How do you know my name?”

  “Relax. Flynn told me when I went to sort out the rooms.” I sigh, shifting to lean fully in the doorway, folding my arms over my chest and crossing my ankles. “So what do you want, Haley? I'm a busy person, and I'm guessing you are too.”

  My question seems to strike the fury back into her.

  Little Ms. Nosey turns her glare back on me, planting her hands on her tight, curvy hips.

  Damn if my eyes don't go there.

  She’s in cutoff shorts today, barely long enough to qualify as pants, tight-fitting enough to cut into the soft flesh of her thighs. The oversized baseball tee over them has been sawed off ragged, so it hangs loosely from her sweet pair, exposing hints of her midriff every time she moves.

  Consider me completely screwed – or wishing I'd be. So distracted by the teasing glimpses of her navel that I almost miss her biting off her next question.

  “What did you do to my car?”

  “Car? The 'stang?” I frown, diverting my attention back to her face and those snapping green eyes, framed by a few ribbons of brown hair escaping in delicate little wisps from a messy clipped-up twist. “I fixed it for you.”

  “Without my permission?”

  “You were going to get it fixed anyway. Does it matter who did the job?” I shrug. “Hell, I saved you a little time and money. Sue me.”

  Her rosy little cheeks fold in like she's just picked up a lemon with her teeth.

  “You need a new carburetor, by the way, but I got the old one working. Well, enough to get you to Billings or the general vicinity.” I arch a brow. “Unless you really want to stay in this little Podunk town long enough for the local shop to order you a new one?”

  I don't tell her Stewart said he could.

  Her eyes narrow. There’s something stubborn in the set of her mouth. Something that tells me she just might take that as a challenge. “Really? I’m supposed to take some random stranger’s word that he fixed my car and it’s safe enough for me and a minor over open highway?” She sniffs as if she's holding in a how dumb do you th
ink I am? “I’ll wait for a professional opinion, thanks.”

  Goddammit.

  She has a point, but I just – I can’t function with her here. Separated from me and my grand plan by a wall that's too thin. Sure as hell can’t make the kind of moves I need to corner Bress if she’s over my shoulder all the time. I growl in the back of my throat, glaring at her.

  “Fine. Suit yourse—”

  Suddenly, I’m staring at her back.

  She tosses a middle finger at me and stalks away, slamming the door to her half of the duplex.

  I drag a hand over my face, groaning.

  God damn it.

  Whatever.

  She’ll get bored and move on soon enough. I can tell a city girl when I see one.

  There’s not much in Heart’s Edge for people who are used to metropolitan night life. The mosquitoes get old real fast. Not to mention the constant call of the crickets and the lack of any high-end entertainment venues beyond a single pub with a dartboard that’s got more holes than a cork.

  It’s everything that gives Heart’s Edge its charm.

  I'm sure it’ll send her running for more civilized pastures by dawn with her kid in tow.

  Sighing, I push myself back inside and close the door. I'm awake now.

  I’ll have to make do on a few hours of sleep. Maybe catch a nap after sundown before I need to be up after dark again, playing secret agent around town, digging for more intel.

  Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I stumble into the shower, shocking myself awake with a cold, sharp rush of water right to the face. Old habit from the Army Rangers.

  We’d be deployed too often in places where we’d be lucky to have running water at all. I learned to be mighty grateful for those cold showers to slap us back to our senses and keep us sharp.

  That saying, water is life, never took on more meaning than with Uncle Sam.

  I’m feeling more brisk by the time I towel off, dress, and head into the kitchen to whip together a quick breakfast scramble and coffee. I glance up, though, as I catch motion through the window over the sink.

  Haley’s pulled the Mustang out of Flynn’s garage. It's parked off the little dirt lane running along the side of the house, just outside the fence, her and the girl rummaging in the back with several bags.