Can't Help Falling In Love (3 page)

Randa nodded her understanding.

Tony pointed. “See that building?” When Randa peered through the glass, she leaned
close enough to smell Tony’s detergent and aftershave. He smelled so, so good. Not
rich, but healthy. She stepped back quickly and bumped the wall. “Those are the employee
apartments where you’ll be staying.”

Randa wrapped her arms tightly over her chest. “Thanks for the tour. I appreciate
it.”

Tony was serious as his eyes met hers and finally he sighed. “Welcome to the Rock’n’Rolla,
Ms. Whitmore. I hope you enjoy your stay. Please let us know if there’s anything we
can do to ensure a pleasant experience.”

He’d just put together more words then than she’d heard him use since she arrived.
But the impersonal hotel-speak showed less personality than his dark eyes had. She
had a feeling that the real Tony was as much like his professional persona as the
Rock’n’Rolla Hotel was the typical business-class Whitmore property.

As she walked back to her room, she realized she already missed Misty. And she was
more intrigued by the Rock’n’Rolla and its manager than was good for her. She’d have
to get over both. She wanted a place of her own and the time was now. She couldn’t
be distracted by beautiful dogs or distracting, mysterious men. She had a job to do.

Chapter Two

T
ONY STOOD IN
the shade and watched Misty nose her way through the flowerbeds that lined the pool
area. At first, the blast of heat was welcome. It took his mind off the hotel’s newest
guest. The heat was sticky, uncomfortable, and the concrete around the pool was probably
set to broil. But he’d been hotter. In Iraq, the heat had been deadly: thirty or forty
degrees higher, and his combat gear hadn’t helped. Memphis in August might have been
like the face of the sun; Iraq had been more like hell.

In a lot of ways.

As he stood in the shade wearing a truly ugly shirt, khakis, and comfortable shoes,
he counted his blessings again. It had been six months or so since he’d experienced
an episode—one of the nightmares that made him question his own sanity. Six months
since he’d woken up fighting for his life, bathed in sweat, and lost in the past.
Asleep, the details of the worst days in the desert were clear, but once awake, it
took a while for the sound of gunfire and explosions and the feeling of imminent danger
to recede, especially in the dark of night. Maybe it had been even longer than six
months since he’d been able to sleep more than four hours, but every day free of nightmares
felt like progress. And he was happy for it.

Reentering normal life had been a slow and painful process, but he could see he was
headed in the right direction. It had been more than two years since he’d been discharged.
And after fifteen years of service and three combat deployments, it had taken some
time to find his way. For too long, a sort of numbness had helped him ignore fear
and grief and any other emotion that got in the way of surviving a war zone and he
hadn’t been able to let it go easily when he got home. He wasn’t sure he wanted to
in the early days. Life could be painful no matter where he was. Keeping all the things
that might hurt at a distance had seemed like a good idea, but since he’d started
at the hotel, he’d realized he was missing out on all the good things too. Memphis
was home now and forever. Life at the Rock’n’Rolla was changing him, maybe healing
him. The better he felt, the surer he was that he could make it the home he always
wanted. Eventually.

Misty moseyed over to the gate that led to the staff apartments and tilted her head
while she waited for him.

“Smart dog. You’ll be stretched out in the kitchen floor in about three seconds, won’t
you?” He unlocked the door and stepped into the shadowy coolness of his small apartment.
Misty waited patiently for him to give her a dog biscuit and then she stretched out
on the cool linoleum with a satisfied sigh. The green ribbons on her ears fluttered
and then stilled.

Tony smiled and shook his head. The dog had the right idea. He’d worked until eight
this morning and then went to give Laura a lunch break. With Willodean, the hotel’s
owner, on vacation and their best front desk clerk out with a sick kid, they were
even more short-handed than usual. He really ought to take a little nap before he
was back on duty.

Little naps were all he really needed anyway. Even after the nightmares faded, he
had a hard time slowing his mind down to rest. The night shift was the perfect solution.

Fewer people. Plenty of quiet. No reason to worry about dreams. Maybe it wasn’t quite
the normal life most everyone else had, but it was good for him. It wasn’t like he
had a family to work around.

Tony leaned one shoulder against the wall as he stared at his cluttered bookcases
without really seeing the titles. He had no idea how Willodean Jackson had known just
exactly what he’d needed but she had. She’d been looking for a bartender when he came
in to apply. Instead, she created a head of security position and gave him the job.
And after three months, she’d made him manager of the hotel.

Not that it was some endorsement of his excellent performance. Willodean was crazy.
She hadn’t asked for references. She hadn’t put him on probation. She hadn’t asked
if he was a foster kid with a rap sheet listing a few petty crimes. His first big
lucky break had been graduating high school. His second, enlisting in the Marines
the day after graduation, and third, making it back home in one piece. But none compared
to meeting Willodean.

Crazy as she was.

He shifted through the messy mash-up of paperbacks, looking for the proper distraction,
and finally yanked one off the shelf. Whether he could sleep or not, he could relax.
That he’d learned to do. Almost. He kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the
long couch that took up most of his living room. He currently owned more than he ever
had: a couch, a bed, a nightstand, a desk, enough computer equipment to land spacecraft
if needed, and about a thousand ratty paperbacks in almost every fiction genre.

That, frozen dinners, and enough uniforms to get him through a week were all he really
needed. When he looked around his place, he felt pretty lucky.

Randa Whitmore’s shoes had probably cost more than everything in this apartment combined.
Of course, when they looked like they did, thanks to those crazy long legs, they were
probably worth every penny. Might even be priceless, like works of art. He had a feeling
their appeal had a lot more to do with the legs than the shoes. When she’d stretched
her legs out to conquer the lobby floor, one step and hip shake at a time, it had
taken nearly all of his self-control to keep his mouth from dropping open. Strong
reactions like that didn’t happen often, but he took it as another encouraging sign
that the numbness he felt was fading. At the same time, it scared him that a woman
so far from his type nearly had him drooling on the front desk.

Misty sighed heavily as she meandered in and rested her head against the cushions
by his feet.

He shook his head and lifted his feet out of her way. She crawled up and circled three
times before she curled into a ball and blinked sleepily at him. There was something
about the way those damn bows trembled and her soft brown eyes focused on his face.
Now he’d be contorted into an S but Misty was happy. He scooted his feet under her
head, muttering, “Silly dog, you should not be this cute,” and felt some of the tension
that came from too much time spent with people—noisy, demanding, unpredictable people—ease.

Truth was he loved having her here. He rested better when Misty was around. Probably
because she was the poster dog for taking it easy. He’d been Willodean’s designated
dog sitter since the day they met. The first time he’d kept her at his place, he’d
decided to remove the bows over her ears, thinking he’d be doing the dog and her social
standing a favor. She’d howled so mournfully that he’d had to scramble to figure out
a way to get them back on and fast.

He hadn’t told Willodean about that. Apparently Misty hadn’t either.

Tony squirmed a bit and ignored Misty’s grumble before he leaned back with a sigh.
He should kick her off the couch. He should go nap in the bed he hardly ever used.
He should get up and do something useful. Elvis Week was looming, the hotel was short-staffed,
and he could have worked for two days straight on all the paperwork already piled
up on his desk.

Willodean’s plans to expand the hotel’s services had brought an avalanche of paperwork.

But everyone he worked with would benefit from his time out.

He closed his eyes and counted to a hundred, concentrating on nothing more than the
cool air around him, the warm weight of Misty’s head, and the quiet that almost pounded
in his ears, forcing himself to relax every muscle.

Facing people, even in the completely nonthreatening jungle-like lobby of the hotel,
took effort. He was very good at his job. He just needed time alone to deal with the
low-level tension that built with noisy crowds, loud music, and too much togetherness.

But he still couldn’t sleep. That was nothing new. He picked up the book he’d dropped
next to the couch.

“Aw, shit. Romance.” Not that he didn’t like romance. Obviously, he did. This one
had made it onto the keeper bookcase.

He just didn’t need anything bringing the hotel’s newest guest to mind.

But it was too late. Randa Whitmore.

In the Marines, he’d spent a lot of time with sand in really uncomfortable places.

He had a feeling she’d be a lot like that. Irritating and impossible to ignore.

When he’d been promoted to general manager, he’d kept the whole “head of security”
label too. The front desk had small monitors tied to cameras around the property so
he hadn’t missed Randa Whitmore rolling up to the hotel in a limo. That was rare enough
to raise his first red flag. The clientele of the Rock’n’Rolla Hotel was more into
land yachts, minivans, and buses hauling large groups of people over any distance.
Fan clubs stayed here. Die-hard Elvis fans on their pilgrimages to Mecca rested here.
Even foreign tourists picked the Rock’n’Rolla for their Elvis fixes.

None of them arrived in limos.

She didn’t fit here.

Tony had learned a long time ago that the pieces that didn’t fit always caused trouble.

Foster kids brought out the worst in bullies. The slowest guy in the group never lasted
long. And that pile of trash hiding in plain sight on the side of a dusty road could
be the last mistake a soldier ever made.

If he’d had a better idea of what sort of trouble she might be, he’d have told Sam
to turn right back around with Randa’s bags. He’d have been doing himself a favor.

But he hadn’t. And the very first thing she’d done, after confronting the overwhelming
foliage in the lobby, was stoop down to pet Misty.

Something in the region of his heart had shifted at the sight. And he’d felt a different
situation, something hotter, harder, a little lower down. A gorgeous, expensive blonde
squatting in tight jeans and killer heels to pet a floppy bloodhound with stupid green
bows. He’d have to be dead not to be… interested in her.

The idiot part of him that perked up when beautiful women with killer curves were
in the neighborhood was alive and well.

Thank God.

Even without the limo arrival, Randa Whitmore screamed money and polish and better-than-you.

Thanks to the Marines and Willodean Jackson, now he had money. And except for his
weekly trip to his favorite bookstore, he didn’t do much with it.

Randa Whitmore probably spent money with every breath she took. She looked like she
wiped her nose on twenty-dollar bills.

And she was going to be his neighbor in two days. He was probably going to spend too
much time replaying her strut across the lobby in his mind. If there’d been a wind
machine and Def Leppard playing in the background, she’d have been his every teenage
fantasy come to life.

Control was important. He’d spent a lot of time with none. Now, no matter how he really
felt, he was a solid picture of control. He’d spent a lot of time perfecting a poker
face. Randa Whitmore had threatened his skills a minute after she’d walked into the
place.

And then she’d reminded him why imagining her, doing the same walk, wearing nothing
but those heels was a complete waste of time. Fun. Arousing. And a happy boost to
his recovery maybe, to feeling more like his old self, but not a good use of his time.

He had as much chance with a woman like her as he did winning a singing competition.
Tomcats circled when he sang out loud.

Finding a normal girl, one who worked for a living and paid her bills on time…
that
would be a good use of his time. The new bartender Cat was more his speed.

Tony shook his head. He hadn’t thought about women and “his speed” in a long time.
That was sad because ever since he was a kid, he’d wanted to make a new, better, stronger
family than what he’d started with. Doing that without the normal girl would be difficult.

Maybe he ought to send Randa Whitmore a thank-you note for that. In one stroll across
the lobby, she’d gotten his mind moving in the right direction. Now he just had to
convince the rest of his body that another kind of girl would be more fun.

And all the therapeutic work to relax his tension away was now another waste of time.
He was restless. Wide awake. Possibly horny. The last thing he needed was a romance.
He sat up and shoved the book back in the crowded bookcase before he scratched Misty
behind the ears.

“What do you think, Mist? Maybe I ought to try getting out more.”

Misty smacked her floppy lips and stretched her back legs so he could scratch her
stomach.

“Glad you agree.” Tony shrugged his shoulders. Napping was out. He’d worked out right
after his shift ended. The apartment was spotless. And Laura would chew his head off
and spit down his neck if he tried to go back into his office to work on paperwork.
She worried like the mother she was.