Hero For the Asking Page 4

  "In that case," Derek asked, "would you like to join us for dinner? We're going out."

  Sprawled in the easy chair Summer had abandoned, Clay nudged the pile of packages on the floor before him with one black-and-white-clad foot. "Sure you can afford that? Or were all these purchases made with Arkansas money?" he teased, smiling at Spring.

  "I bought my share," Spring admitted with a shy attempt at friendliness. She was very much aware that Clay had not yet accepted or declined Derek's invitation to join them for dinner. She wasn't sure which option she preferred him to take. Suddenly and inexplicably nervous, she stood and began to gather the much-discussed packages. "I suppose I should start freshening up for dinner."

  "Let me help you with those," Clay volunteered immediately, jumping to his feet.

  "Oh, that's not—"

  But he'd already grabbed an armload and was headed for the hallway that led to the guest room. Spring pointedly avoided Derek's amused gaze as she followed Clay.

  "Where do you want these?"

  "Just throw them on the bed," she replied, walking past him to do so with hers.

  He grinned tantalizingly and muttered something that she thought sounded vaguely like, "I'd like to throw you on the bed," but prudence kept her from asking him to repeat himself.

  Instead, she waited until he'd unloaded his arms, then commented, "You look tired. Have you been searching for Thelma all day?"

  "And most of last night," he admitted, running his fingers through his luxurious hair, his grin fading.

  "Didn't you get any sleep at all?"

  "About five hours. Why? Are you concerned?" he asked with interest.

  She shrugged, toying with a button on her lavender cotton shirt to avoid looking at him.

  When it was obvious that Spring wasn't going to answer his question, Clay shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his slightly wrinkled black slacks and flicked a glance around the room. "Are you enjoying your visit with your sister?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you have a good time on your shopping spree?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you want to have an affair with me?"

  Spring almost choked. "No," she managed at last, hoping she looked more sincere than she felt.

  "Do you like going to plays?"

  The man was certifiable. Deciding that the course of least resistance was to humor him, Spring nodded slowly. "Yes."

  "I have tickets for an opening Monday night. Will you go with me?"

  "I, uh—"

  "I'm only inviting you to a play, Spring, not an orgy," he told her with mock impatience. Then he added with a near smirk, "Although I'd be happy to arrange the latter, if you like."

  "I think we'd better stick with the play," Spring answered hastily.

  He grinned. "Okay, I'll pick you up at six-thirty. It starts early."

  She'd just agreed to a date with him, Spring realized belatedly. She started to tell him she'd changed her mind, then stopped as she focused again on those tiny, weary lines at the corners of his eyes. Damn her soft-heartedness, she thought with a resigned sigh. She wouldn't change her mind. "Fine. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to freshen up for dinner."

  "Okay." He dropped a kiss on her lips as he passed her. "See you Monday."

  Her entire body tingling from that too-brief contact. Spring spoke before he was completely out of the room, detaining him. "Aren't you joining us for dinner?"

  He looked back at her. "Not tonight. I'm going back out on the streets."

  "But—" She stopped, then shrugged slightly and continued, "You look so tired. And you have to eat."

  His handsome face softened and his mouth dipped into a warm smile, as if her concern pleased him. "I'll grab a sandwich. And I'll try to get more sleep tonight. But I have to find Thelma, if I can."

  She nodded, aware of her acute disappointment and annoyed with herself for feeling it. "Good luck."

  "Thank you, Spring." He looked at her for a moment longer, then left, closing her door behind him.

  Spring stood so long staring at that closed door that she was almost late for dinner.

  * * *

  Derek's secretary, who'd been on maternity leave for the past month, had her baby Saturday night. Summer and Derek felt obligated to pay a brief visit to the hospital on Sunday. They invited Spring to join them, but she begged off. She had always been a person who needed time alone occasionally, and knowing that, Summer did not press her to go. Promising to be back soon. Summer and Derek left shortly after lunch.

  Spring relished the time to herself. As much as she was enjoying her visit, it felt good to kick off her shoes, stretch out on a lounge chair by the pool on this unseasonably warm March afternoon and dive into the pages of a book she'd brought with her from home. She had dressed more casually than was her habit in a long-sleeved aqua-and-white-print cotton pullover and snug, matching aqua jeans. Her hair was in its usual soft knot on top of her head, and she wore a minimum of makeup. She was comfortable, contented and relaxed.

  Until a rich male voice interrupted her solitude and shattered her peaceful idyll. "Now this is a lovely picture."

  Spring jumped, dropping her book, and jerked her head around. "Clay!" she exclaimed, her pulse racing—because he'd surprised her or because he looked so incredibly sexy? She didn't choose to analyze. He wore jeans, washed-soft Levi's worn almost white at the knees and seat and button fly. Red tennis shoes matched his old-fashioned red suspenders. The sleeves of a blue chambray work shirt were turned up on his forearms, and a battered tweed cap completed his outfit. "You startled me," she accused him breathlessly.

  "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to. I thought I saw someone back here when I drove up, and when no one answered the doorbell, I decided to come around and see."

  She eyed his clothing. "You look like the president of the Roy Underhill fan club," she told him.

  Clay's blond eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Now how do you know who Roy Underhill is? Are you into woodworking?"

  "Not really. But I am into remodeling old homes—theoretically, anyway—and Roy Underhill's The Woodwright Shop comes on PBS just before Bob Vila's This Old House on Sunday afternoons at home. So are you an Underhill fan?"

  "As a matter of fact, I have both of his books at home in my workshop," Clay confessed. "I love working with wood."

  "Are you any good?" she asked curiously.

  "Oh, I'm good," he replied audaciously. "I'd be happy to demonstrate at any time."

  She just managed not to blush at his innuendo by busying herself with swinging her legs over the side of her chair and sliding her feet into her white flats. "I'll let you know if I'm interested," she informed him coolly, her tone implying that the time would never come.

  "You do that," he answered, his eyes telling her that it would—and sooner than she expected. "Summer's not home?"

  "No, she and Derek went to the hospital to see his secretary's new baby. They should be back in another hour or so."

  "What did she have? Boy or girl?" Clay inquired as he draped himself into the chair beside Spring's.

  "Boy."

  "That's nice."

  Since he seemed to be settled in, Spring decided she might as well play hostess. "Can I get you something to drink, Clay?"

  "No, thanks. Maybe later." He smiled at her, apparently quite content to be with her on this pleasant afternoon.

  She relaxed a bit, silently admitting that she was content with his company, as well. If only she weren't so aware of how very attractive he looked in the afternoon sun, how well the soft fabric of his shirt and worn jeans defined his lean muscles. "Have you heard anything more about Thelma?" she asked to distract herself.

  He shook his head. "No. I've got a lot of feelers out, but no leads so far. I'm pretty sure she's still in the area, but she's well hidden."

  "I hope she's all right."

  "So do I. What are you reading?" he inquired, deliberately changing the solemn subject.

  "It's a new one by�
�" She stopped when the cordless telephone that she'd carried out with her earlier rang. Derek was expecting a business call later, and he'd asked her to take a message if it came in while he was away. She reached out to answer the phone, picking up the pencil and pad beside it. A moment later she held out the receiver to Clay. "It's for you. It's Frank."

  "Thanks. Hi, Frank, what's up? What? When? Where is she? Yeah, I know where that is. Okay, I'm on my way. I'll call you later. Thanks."

  He was on his feet immediately, dropping the phone onto the glass-topped patio table. "Frank's got a lead on Thelma. One of her friends broke down and told him where she's been staying. He thinks she may be ill. Tell Summer I'll call her later, will you?"

  "Clay," Spring said suddenly, when he appeared to be on the verge of leaving. "Would you...?" She faltered when he turned to look questioningly at her.

  "What is it, Spring?"

  "I could go with you, if you'd like," she offered in a rush of words. When he looked surprised, she hurried to add, "I just thought I could help. If you think I'd only be in the way, I'll understand."

  He smiled at her, that deep-cornered, male-model smile that made her leg bones soften. "Why, thank you, Spring. I would like for you to go with me."

  "You're sure?"

  "If you are. We won't be going into the nicer part of town."

  She nodded, gathering her things and the cordless telephone to carry them into the house. "I didn't think we would be. Just let me leave a note for Summer."

  "I'll wait for you in the car."

  Even as she scribbled the note for her sister, Spring asked herself why she'd volunteered to accompany Clay. He obviously didn't need her help. Spring grudgingly suspected that the reason she'd suddenly offered to join Clay had been that she hadn't wanted to see him walk away. She had definitely left her common sense back home in Little Rock, she concluded, even as she grabbed her purse and locked all the doors.

  Spring wasn't particularly surprised to discover that Clay's car was a fire-engine-red Mazda RX-7. It was exactly the type of car that she would have expected him to drive. Of course, she would have been no more surprised to find him in a psychedelic-painted van, circa 1968 San Francisco. Come to think of it, she mused, there wasn't much Clay McEntire could do that would surprise her.

  "How old are you, Clay?" she asked as the powerful sports car sped them across the Golden Gate Bridge.

  He shot her a sideways glance before answering the first question she'd asked since they'd left her sister's house. "Ill be thirty-five in June. How old do you think I look?"

  She thought about that one for a moment before answering honestly. "Anywhere from mid-twenties to late-thirties, depending on your expression."

  He grinned. "Guess I'll have to practice that mid-twenties expression."

  She didn't bother to tell him that he looked equally devastating either way. She figured he already knew it. There had to be mirrors in his home. She wondered where he lived. And then she wondered with whom. Shifting in her seat, she searched her mind for an innocuous topic of conversation, something that would keep him from worrying about Thelma until they reached their destination, finally settling on his work. "Summer tells me that you have a Ph.D. in adolescent psychology."

  "Yes."

  "Do you enjoy counseling in public schools?"

  "I wouldn't be doing it if I didn't enjoy it."

  "No," she murmured. "You wouldn't, would you?" She couldn't imagine Clay doing anything he didn't enjoy. Unlike herself, who often acted from her overdeveloped sense of duty and responsibility at the price of personal pleasure. People like Clay, and like Summer, had a way of taking whatever life handed them and making it suit their own purposes. Spring wished she knew their secret.

  "What about you?" Clay asked suddenly.

  "What about me?"

  "Do you ever get bored passing out prescriptions for reading glasses?"

  "I might, if that was all I did. It's not. Only recently I had a patient—eight years old—who's been classified as mentally handicapped. His teacher recommended that the boy be placed in special classes for children with learning disabilities, despite his parents' belief that their son had an average IQ. After trying tutors and child psychologists they brought him to me. We discovered that he had a visual impairment—an inability to process the two separate images detected by his eyes, to put it simply. He's really a very bright child, considering what he's had to deal with. My job is particularly rewarding when children are involved."

  "That sounds fascinating," Clay conceded, and the look he turned to her was sincere. "And it seems that we have something in common if you enjoy dealing with childhood problems."

  She lowered her chin and toyed modestly with her seat belt. "Not all my cases are like that," she admitted. "Most of the time I do pass out prescriptions for reading glasses. But I love my work."

  He reached across the console to catch her left hand in his right one. "I wasn't trying to offend you when I asked that question. Sometimes I don't mean things exactly the way they leave my mouth."

  "I understand. And there was no offense taken," she assured him.

  "You're a very special person, Spring Reed," he said softly, lifting her hand to his mouth. "Are you sure you won't reconsider having an affair with me? I'm yours for the asking, you know."

  She laughed lightly, genuinely amused, despite her concern at what they may find in a few minutes. "I'll let you know if I change my mind," she told him.

  "You do that," he replied. Then he kissed her knuckles again and placed her hand back in her lap.

  Spring turned her head to look out the window beside her, but her thoughts were not on the passing scenery. Instead, she thought of Clay. She liked him. She really liked him. She liked his melting smile, his offbeat humor and his obvious sensitivity. She liked his blue-green eyes, his golden hair and the pleasure he seemed to find in the most casual of touches. She was even beginning to like the way he dressed. Now that should have been frightening. Yet somehow it wasn't.

  Broadway, with its strip joints and businesses catering to every prurient interest, had been Spring's least favorite part of the quick sight-seeing tour of San Francisco that Summer had given her the day before. Clay took her into an area that Summer had avoided altogether. He parked in front of a crumbling dump of a building that should have been condemned years earlier, and probably had been. The littered street was completely deserted in the bright afternoon sunlight, but Spring suspected that the shadows of evening would bring out all the human flotsam that would inhabit such a place. She shivered, thinking of a lonely fifteen-year-old girl. "This is where she is?"

  Looking grim, Clay tugged at his tweed cap. "That's what I was told."

  Something in his posture told her that he wasn't telling her everything he'd heard. She only hoped she would be able to help him. Following his lead, she took a deep breath and climbed from the car. She noticed that his eyes, no longer smiling, darted all around them as they entered the dark, unwelcoming building through a door that had long since ceased to lock or even close properly. Clay walked unerringly to a flight of bare metal stairs. "Up here," he told Spring.

  She hesitated for only a moment. He reached out and took her hand. Strengthened by the contact, she nodded at him and walked just behind him up two flights to the third floor, the top floor of the building. Clay looked around for a moment, seemed to get his bearings, then led her down a hallway to their left, never releasing her hand, for which Spring was grateful. At the end of the hallway was a closed door. Clay stood for a moment before it, then knocked tentatively. "Thelma? It's Clay. Are you there?"

  When no answer came from the other side of the door. Clay knocked louder. "Thelma? Come on, sweetheart, let me in. I only want to talk, to make sure you're okay. Can you hear me?"

  Again, silence. Clay looked at Spring, then at the doorknob. Still holding her hand, he twisted the rusted metal knob. The door wasn't locked. It opened with a screech of angry hinges.

  The smel
ls struck her first. She didn't know what they were, nor did she want to. Her eyes were focused on the teenager sprawled on a filthy bare mattress that lay on the trash-covered floor. The girl wasn't moving. Spring was horribly afraid that she was dead.

  Clay was already across the room, down on one knee in the dirt as he touched Thelma's face. He looked up at Spring, his face as expressionless as if carved of stone. "She's burning up with fever. She's very ill."

  "Do you know what's wrong with her?"

  "No. Flu, maybe, or pneumonia. God knows when she ate last. I was told by one of her friends that she wasn't well when she disappeared. Her mother was mad at her for missing a couple of days at her after-school job in a fast-food restaurant. Thelma's tiny salary is more important to her mother than Thelma is, it seems." Dull fury glinted in Clay's eyes, making them seem suddenly hard, without a trace of his usual laughter.

  "I'll find a phone," Spring told him, moving backward.

  "No." The harsh, flat syllable stopped her. "I don't want you out on those streets. I'll go. Do you mind staying with her?"

  "Of course not."

  Clay touched her shoulder in passing. She could feel the fine trembling in his fingers. He paused at the doorway. "You'll be okay? You're not frightened? I won't be long."

  "I'm fine," Spring assured him. "Hurry, Clay. She looks so ill."

  He ground out a curse between clenched teeth and ran.

  Left alone with the unconscious teenager, Spring breathed deeply for courage, then almost gagged as the rank odors assaulted her again. She took Thelma's limp hand in hers, fingers closing around the thin brown wrist to monitor the reedy pulse. She's just a child, she thought, looking down at the vulnerable face. She'd been told Thelma was fifteen; she would never have guessed so from looking at her. Thelma's hair, which was now badly in need of washing, was cut to curl around her head. Long eyelashes lay on soft, full cheeks that would normally be a rich chocolate but were now ashen. Her mouth was a child's mouth, tender and full, open to expose even white teeth. Spring felt her heart twist in her chest. She eyed the girl's dirty sweatshirt and torn, faded jeans and blinked back tears. "Don't worry, Thelma. You're going to be just fine," she murmured, though she doubted that her words registered.