Desperately Seeking Daddy. Arlene James

some nerve, Carmody, waltzing in six months behind on your child support and asking to borrow my car! Are you out of your mind?”

      The object of her wrath bobbed on the balls of his feet and slung thick, pale blond hair out of eyes that one moment looked green and the next blue. “You’re never gonna give me a break, are you? I’m behind on the child support because I don’t have a job!”

      “That’s funny,” she retorted, dropping back onto her heels and folding her arms. “You play almost every night!”

      “For drinks, Heller! For drinks! I haven’t had a real paying gig in a year—because I don’t have transportation!”

      “And you expect me to provide you with transportation?”

      “Who else am I gonna ask? Besides, it’s to your benefit.”

      She bulged her eyes. “My benefit? How do you figure that?”

      He dug his hands into his pockets, causing his jeans to sag on his lean frame, and ducked his head. It was his whywon’t-you-believe-me look. “I’ll give you half my pay,” he promised solemnly.

      Anger momentarily gave way to sheer need. God knew an extra buck would come in more than handy around her house. But Carmody’s promises were like water under the bridge, gone and forgotten—especially by him—in less time than it took to recite the alphabet. She shook her head. “Half of nothing is nothing, Carmody. Besides, how do you expect me to get around without my car?”

      “I’d be glad to give you a ride anywhere you want to go,” said a deep, familiar voice.

      A thrill shot through Heller. She suppressed it ruthlessly, sticking up her chin and glaring at Jack.

      He lifted a cold, unopened soft drink, as if justifying his presence, and muttered, “Couldn’t help overhearing.”

      Carmody danced closer, ready to seize the opportunity. “There you go, sugar. Problem solved.”

      “Oh, shut up!” she snapped, turning her attention back to Jack. Carmody leaned a slim hip against the counter and prepared to observe. Heller ignored him. “You taking me to raise, Tyler?”

      He sat the soft drink on the counter and flicked his gaze over her. “You look full grown to me.”

      Heller caught her breath, then let it out again slowly, determined not to overreact. From the corner of her eye, she saw Carmody take an agitated step closer to the bigger man, then fall back again. She pursed her lips against a smile. Jack would make two of Carmody, standing easily four inches taller and outweighing him by sixty, maybe seventy, pounds. Carmody’s continued proprietary air irritated her, so she leaned into her side of the counter and smiled up at. Jack Tyler.

      “The thing is, I get off here at nine, and I have to be at the nursing home by nine-thirty, and that gives me just a half hour to change and get there.”

      “No problem,” Jack said lightly, cutting a glance at Carmody.

      “There. See?” Carmody grinned, holding up both hands. Then he suddenly lunged over the counter, snatched Heller’s purse off the shelf where she kept it and stuck his hand into the side pocket.

      “Carmody!” She made a grab for the purse, but Carmody came up with the keys and danced back out of reach. “Damn you, Carmody Moore!”

      “You won’t regret this!” he called, pretending she had agreed as he scurried toward the door. He shot a look at Jack, then grinned broadly at Heller and pushed through the door. “I’ll have the car back by morning, I swear!”

      Heller beat a fist on the countertop. “Oooh! That…man, that…worm!”

      “Want me to go after him? I can stop him.”

      She had no doubt that he would do it or that he was capable, but she couldn’t quite believe that he had made the offer. What was it to him if Carmody all but stole her car? He was too good, this man. Too good to be true?

      She realized that he was waiting for an answer. “No, I guess not.” She shrugged. “There’s a chance of getting some money out of him, I’d be foolish to pass it up.”

      Jack popped the top on the soft drink can and took a swallow. “What does he do?”

      “Oh, he thinks he’s some kind of musician, guitar mostly, a little drums. He sings some, too, when he can borrow a hat.”

      “A hat?”

      “It’s Country music.” She made a face. “Supposed to be, anyway.”

      He chuckled. “So the ex is a sometime C & W musician.”

      “And a full-time bum.”

      “Which is why he’s the ex.”

      She wrinkled her nose. “He should’ve been a ‘never was,’ but I was stupid at seventeen.”

      He gulped and abruptly set down the can. “You were seventeen when you married him?”

      She nodded disgustedly. “Home was hell, and I was in luv.” She grimaced. “Anyway, I thought I was.”

      He lifted both brows and seemed to think about it. “Well, at least you have the kids.”

      She smiled. “Yeah. I wouldn’t take a million dollars for my kids. They’re it, you know?”

      He canted his head, turning the soft drink can in circles with his fingertips. “I can imagine.”

      She nodded, and folded her arms across her middle. She didn’t know why she said it, but she did. “I was pregnant with Davy when we split. Came home in the middle of the day sick and caught him in my bed with some slut he’d picked up in a bar.”

      He stared, a muscle ticking in his clenched jaw. After a moment he looked away. Then he picked up the soft drink can. “Bum is a mild word for a man who would do that.”

      She nodded, then she shrugged, keeping her eyes averted. “Ah, well. Done and gone. That’s how I think of Carmody Moore, done and gone.”

      “In your car,” he muttered wryly.

      She had to laugh. “It’s your fault, you know. If you hadn’t offered me a ride…”

      He slugged back the cola and crushed the can in his fist. “I can still go after him.”

      He was angry, angry at Carmody; she could see it behind his eyes. A kind of brightness burned there, bringing out the yellow spokes in mottled gray and green irises. He was angry for her. Had anyone else ever been angry for her? She shook her head, telling herself that this man would be angry over any injustice, however small, however far removed from him personally.

      “I—if he doesn’t bring it back by morning, I’ll call the cops,” she said softly.

      “Your choice.”

      “Yeah. Um, I am going to need that ride.”

      He waved a hand dismissively, then dug into his pocket, pulled out a dollar bill and slapped it onto the countertop. “No problem.”

      She pushed the dollar bill back at him. “Hey, if I can’t give away a few soft drinks after all these years, well, I may as well quit, huh?”

      He tossed the crushed can into the trash container behind the counter and shoved the dollar back into his pocket. “Nine o’clock, right?”

      She smiled, trying to ignore the heavy beat of her heart. “Right.”