She's Got the Look

She’s Got the Look

Leslie Kelly

To my cousin, Louis Smith, and all his pals from the

1st Marine Expeditionary Force…you’re all heroes.

To my girlfriends, past and present, who’ve always

been there for the laughing, griping, celebrating,

crying, plotting, whining and wine. Most especially

Jill, Brenda, Julie, Karen, Janelle, Camille and

Roxanne. Life wouldn’t be the same without you.

And to my hubby, Bruce…you’ll always be number

one on my list. Just above Hugh Jackman.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Six Years Ago

“EVERY WOMAN NEEDS a list of men she’ll have sex with, no questions asked, if she ever gets the chance.”

Amazingly, despite her friend’s outrageous comment, Melody Tanner managed to avoid spewing the mouthful of margarita she’d just sipped. She stared at Tanya Williams, one of her bridesmaids, who cocked an unrepentant brow. The two additional women at the table—her other closest friends—snorted and laughed.

Since they were sitting in a crowded Mexican restaurant, and since Tanya was such an attention getter, anyway, with her beautiful ebony skin, striking features and imposing height, she didn’t figure there was much chance the comment had gone unheard by those around them. But she cast a quick glance anyway.

Nope. Definitely not unheard. The pudgy guy at the next table looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. The owner of the place, who always watched them, was keeping an extra close eye, as well.

Oblivious to the attention, Tanya added, “Married, single, in a relationship or not, a woman’s gotta have a go-for-it list.” She narrowed her eyes. “Especially if she’s stupid enough to get married at twenty-one.”

“Lovely idea,” said Rosemary, her maid of honor. “A get-out-of-adultery-free card.” Rosemary’s lyrical Southern accent could make anything sound elegant. Even a sex list.

“You’re both high,” Melody muttered before taking another sip of her drink, not taking offense at Tanya’s comment about her age. Her friend had made her opinion very clear on that matter. As had everyone else.

“Come on,” Tanya said. “You’re not married yet. Be honest, there have got to be at least five guys you’d leap on if you had the chance.”

Paige, her final bridesmaid, interrupted. “She probably doesn’t need a sex list.” Paige made up for her lack of height by speaking about three decibels louder than anyone else, so they were almost certainly being overheard now. “Face it, Mel’s probably on the lists of half the men in this country.”

Melody wrinkled her nose. “The blond twit in the swimsuit edition might be. But I’m not her anymore, remember?”

No, she wasn’t. She’d gotten as far away from her former career as she could in the two years since she’d shocked everyone—especially her mother—and quit modeling. She’d stopped coloring her reddish-brown hair blond, stopped starving herself to keep slim, stopped constantly traveling with no friends close by, no family.

No family…well, you couldn’t really miss what you’d never had, could you? Her mother had been family in only the most technical sense and she had no idea who her father was. So, to her, family was a fairly loosely defined word.

The three other women sitting around this table with her had been her real family—her chosen family—for a very long time. Rosemary, Tanya and Paige were the sisters she’d never had, the ones who’d supported her when she’d walked away from the job her mother had thrust on her as a baby.

Her mother, on the other hand, had stuck around just long enough to make sure Melody wouldn’t change her mind. Once she’d accepted that—and realized the money that had supported them was going to stop rolling in—she’d married a foreign designer and moved to England.

She’d sent a Crock-Pot for Mel’s upcoming wedding. It had a European plug. That pretty much summed up Mother.

But it was okay. Melody had been dealing with her mother’s less-than-maternal instincts for years. Melody had her friends. She had a normal life. She was finally going to pursue the passion she’d never gotten to explore since she’d always been in front of a camera: she planned to work behind one.

And tomorrow, to make things perfect, she’d have another new member of her chosen family. A husband. Her marriage to a nice, smart, nonglamorous dentist would be the dot on the exclamation point as she renounced the first two decades of her life.

“Well, if you’re making a Men Most Wanted list, I want to make one, too,” said Paige. She bent under the table to dig into her purse, until all Mel could see of her were the puffy, light brown curls on the top of her head. When she came back up, she was holding a pen and a small notebook. “Now, Mel goes first since she’s the one getting married. Tonight’s her last night to do this…since it’d be tacky to make a list of men you want to have sex with after you’re married, right?” She glanced at her friends, looking for confirmation.

At the table next to them, the pudgy old man began choking on a tortilla chip. Or his tongue.

“Turn the volume down, girl,” Tanya said. “And let me do it, your writing’s awful.” Grabbing the notebook, Tanya looked at Mel. “Okay, let’s do your sex list. Tell us everything. After all, who can you share your deepest fantasies with if not us?”

Melody glanced around the room. “Uh, half of Savannah?”

Tanya leaned in. “We won’t tell. We’re your best friends.”

“Yes, you are,” she murmured, silently thanking them for their support. For being here when they all thought she was making a mistake. For loving her as much as she loved them.

The four of them were an unlikely group—Rosemary, an elegant blonde and a member of one of Savannah’s wealthiest families. Paige, the loud, giggly one who discarded jobs like some people discarded tissues. Tanya, the nearly six-feet-tall African-American who was such a perfect foil to Rosemary’s spoiled Southern belle act.

Then there was Melody, whose face had been plastered on baby-food jars as an infant, whose famous diaper commercials had become a pop-culture reference. The one who’d hammed it up on a bunch of kiddie TV shows, and whose teenage butt had filled out the curves of designer jeans. The one who smiled to show sparkling teeth and cried to sell booboo medicine and who’d landed a spot in a swimsuit issue at seventeen.

Most importantly, Mel realized, she was the one who’d kept her most valued friendships alive by winning one battle against her mother: she’d insisted they have a real home in Savannah. Which was why Paige, Tanya and Rosemary had been there for every major event in her life. Like the one tomorrow. Her wedding. To nice, handsome, considerate Dr. Bill Todd of Atlanta.

The only man she’d ever have sex with again.

Grabbing for her margarita, she drained the glass. Then she reached for the pitcher, suddenly wondering if twenty-one really was too young to give up sex with every man in the world but one. Almost without thinking about it, she mumbled, “Brad Pitt.”

Tanya snorted. “Oh, please, be a little original. If that man had sex with every woman who wanted him, he’d have to be on an intravenous Viagra drip with Spanish fly on the side.”

“I thought this was my fantasy list.”

Paige agreed with Tanya. “Fantasy, but with a shot of reality. Still, I suppose if a man knew you were the Luscious Lingerie Peacock Feather Girl you could get—”

“Ugh, don’t remind me!” Mel snapped. “People still ask me about that stupid one-of-a-kind bra-and-panty set. I would burn it, but I have a feeling it could fund my retirement.”

She’d only done one photo shoot for Luscious Lingerie, yet it seemed that’s how most of male America was going to remember her. As the Peacock Feather Girl. Funny, that particular job—which she hadn’t wanted to do in the first place—was what had made her decide to quit her former profession. Her mother-manager had insisted the exposure would be wonderful. In Melody’s opinion, the exposure had been nearly X-rated. Only if she wanted to be a porn star would the Luscious Lingerie shoot have been a wise move. Tanya had compared it to Shirley Temple posing for Penthouse after she’d gotten off the Good Ship Lollipop.

After the catalog had come out, she’d been stalked by so many men she’d had to hide out in her apartment for months. But hearing a fan say how proud he was that he’d walked in on his twelve-year-old son having his first yank-and-pull session while holding the photo of Mel in the peacock ensemble had been the last straw. Being a pinup girl for prepubescent boys to get off on was gross to the nth degree.

That’d been the moment she’d decided to quit. And finally—thankfully—she’d begun feeling she could go out without people whispering about her. The hair-color change had been a big help. So had her co-ed wardrobe and normal-person lifestyle.

“I think I’d rather be remembered for almost anything else,” she said, shaking her head. Maybe as the three-year-old running to the bathroom with her hands frantically clutching her training pants. Or, gads, as the scrub-faced teen who sang the praises of a certain brand of tampons. Like at age fifteen, she’d wanted the whole world thinking about her being on her period!

Still, they’d be better than the Peacock Feather Girl.

“I know,” Paige said. “But what I meant was, the lingerie model might have had a shot. Movie stars, however, are not in the future of Mrs. Bill the Dentist from Atlanta.”

Melody sipped again, trying to laugh at Paige’s words. Deep inside, however, she wasn’t laughing. She was wincing.

She loved Bill. She felt sure she did. He was the first man who hadn’t treated her like an object, who’d supported her decision to change her life. Marriage to him would be perfect.

So will the sex.

That was when she figured out what was really bothering her about this list thing. It was bizarre to think about having sex with a stranger—even jokingly—when she hadn’t had it with her fiancé. Bill was old-fashioned and wanted to wait.

Oh, God, what if we just don’t click in bed?

Forcing the traitorous thought away, she said, “So it’s my fantasy list, but I don’t get to say who’s on it?”

“There just have to be some ground rules,” Tanya announced.

“Why, Tanya, honey, I thought you never paid any attention to rules,” Rosemary said, sounding amused.

“First of all,” Tanya said, ignoring Rosemary, “we each need to write down copies of all four lists and hold on to them so we can keep an eye out for each other’s men.”

Paige nodded. “Good idea. And the men should be improbable—not impossible. What fun is having a fantasy if there’s not a teeny chance of it happening? It’s like buying a lottery ticket when you know you have better odds of getting hit by a low-flying seven forty-seven than winning. But you do it anyway because somebody’s gotta win.”

Melody wasn’t convinced. “This is only a joke, right? So who cares if I put Brad Pitt on there?”

Tanya blew out an impatient breath. “Of course it’s just for fun. We know you’re not a hootchie mama who’d hook up with a dude because he’s on some list. But don’t you sometimes like to wonder ‘what if?’ What fun is wondering ‘what if’ if there’s never a chance in a million years that it’ll happen?”

“Hootchie mama?” Rosemary rolled her eyes. “Really, Tanya, you’re so…descriptive.”

“Up yours,” Tanya said sweetly. She lifted the pen. “Now, Mel, your list?”

Nibbling on her lip for a second, Mel thought about it. Thankfully, the margaritas were finally kicking in. Besides, these were her best friends and, like Tanya had said, it was just silly fun. No way would any of them really jump into bed with a man at first sight. Well…maybe Rosemary, who, to be honest, had a more-than-active libido. But probably not.

Tapping her index finger on her cheek, she came up with what she thought they’d find an acceptable choice. “Jonathan Rhodes.”

“Ooh, our hunky new congressman?” Paige said.

“What can I say? I had to admire his guts with the sexy way he said his slogan.” She lowered her voice and did a bad Austin Powers impression. “I will take you with me to Washington, baby.”

He hadn’t done the baby part, but it was implied. Every time she’d heard it, Mel had given reluctant credit to the guy for appealing to female voters, who were obviously supposed to ignore the second half of that sentence and vote for him on innuendo.

The others nodded their approval, so Melody added another name—of a local guy who’d been making a name for himself on the PGA tour. His preferences meant he wasn’t much of a possibility, but he did have a cute smile. And a decent backswing.

“You know, honey, that sweet-looking man is probably not out of the realm of possibility,” Rosemary pointed out. “I bet he’d let you handle his putter any old time you asked him.”

“I hear he’s gay.”

“Ahh.” Rosemary nodded, not doubting Melody’s infamous sources, who’d kept them all in-the-know in the old days.

“Isn’t that cheating if he’s gay?” Paige asked indignantly.

“You said improbable. Not impossible. Besides, this is for fun, right? I don’t have to be too realistic. Even if he is gay, he’s still more likely than Brad Pitt.” Then, thinking of someone else, she added the name of a local TV reporter. “Drake Manning.”

Paige wrinkled her nose. “Slimy.”

That was surprising coming from Paige, who was, to be honest, the nicest one of their group. “You think?”

She nodded. “His hair never moves. I think you could hit it with a sledgehammer and it’d bounce right back into place.”

Tanya harrumphed. “It’s Mel’s list. You can put nothing but fluffy-haired heterosexuals on yours but it’s not your turn.”

“Sorry,” Paige said, looking sheepish. “Go on, Mel.”

Melody continued to think, but it was tough. Eliminating movie stars cut out about eighty percent of the men she’d ever fantasized about. Frankly, she’d never had much time for men. Her few sexual experiences before her chaste fiancé had been on-the-run affairs with an ambitious photographer who wanted to take her picture more than he’d wanted to take her. And then there’d been a male model who made friends with every mirror he met. That was it.

She sighed. “Lately my only fantasies have been about the chocolate volcano cake at Chez Jacques. I’m dying for some, but one bite’ll make my butt bulge out of my wedding gown.”

Tanya grunted, probably because she was thin as a rail and ate like a linebacker. Unlike Melody, who had been taking note of every morsel she consumed since her ninth birthday when her mother had given her an electronic calorie counter instead of the Hello Kitty play set she’d asked for.

“My father knows the chef at Chez Jacques,” Rosemary said. “His name’s not Jacques, it’s Charlie.”

“Okay, Charlie the chef,” Mel said. “He’s fourth. A man who makes art out of chocolate must be good with his hands.”

Then there was one slot left. One more fantasy guy. One more traitorous thought of another man before she ended the naughty game and focused on her fiancé. Her reality.

Draining the rest of her margarita, she contemplated naming whoever had invented fat-free cheese curls, if only to balance things out with the chocolate guy. The words were on her lips when suddenly the big-screen TV over the bar caught her eye. Or, rather, the news segment playing on it did.

She couldn’t hear well, but she didn’t have to. She knew the story. Everyone was talking about the Georgia hero who’d rescued some orphans in a third-world country. A photographer had captured the amazing moment, right in the heat of battle, and the picture had graced the cover of Time magazine last week.

It was the magazine cover that filled the screen right now as the Savannah station picked up on the Georgia-boy-done-good angle. Melody stared, unable to tear her eyes away from the haunting image. The thick-armed marine—strikingly handsome even while covered with grime and streaked with soot—was heroism personified. In one arm, he cradled a baby while, with the other, he braced an older child against his side. A tiny pair of hands and a little tear-streaked face peering above his shoulder said there was a third youngster clinging to his back.

The soldier’s dusty face was grim with resolve, his body reportedly wounded yet still so strong. The taut cords in his neck spoke of adrenaline, anger and battle—all so stark against the tenderness with which he held the children. Behind him was the outline of a burning building, orange flames merging with streaks of light that could only have been mortar fire.

But it was the eyes that got to her. The dark brown eyes, full of determination, emotion. Anger and mourning. Eyes that said he had seen too much and been cut too deeply for someone as young as he appeared to be.

His image burned itself into her brain, remaining there long after the news segment had ended and the picture had disappeared.

“Mel? You okay?” Paige asked.

She nodded slowly. Then, without having to give it another thought, she whispered, “Move everyone on the list down one.”

Melody didn’t even know the guy’s name or where he lived. Or even if he’d make it back from his next mission in whatever war-ravaged country he was in now.

She wanted him. Passionately. Unequivocally. Undeniably.

“Marine hero on Time magazine. He’s in first place,” she murmured, still visualizing his face.

There was no doubt in her mind that if she ever met the man with the haunting brown eyes—which had seemed to stare directly at her from the cover of the magazine—he’d be absolutely impossible to resist. He was larger than life, a once-in-a-lifetime fantasy man. A hero.

And now, the number-one guy on her Men Most Wanted list.

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day

THE REDHEAD WITH the camera was spying on him again.

Nick Walker glanced into his rearview mirror and saw the woman skulking around the corner of the church across the square. Every once in a while, she lifted the big camera that hung from one shoulder, swinging it in front of her face to snap off a shot of the trees. The birds. The sky. The church.

All of which was to hide her real photographic subject. Him.

He sighed deeply, shaking his head, wondering how long he could wait—and how far he could let her go—before his cover was blown. Not too much longer, that was for sure.

He hadn’t figured on going unnoticed when he’d started this undercover assignment a couple of days ago. Nobody dressed in his ratty clothes, with the shaggy beard, and two-days-past-needing-a-shower hair wouldn’t be looked at in old Savannah. Not to mention the car. It was a standard, city-issued, undercover P.O.S—Piece Of Shit—the color showing through the rust falling somewhere between puce and putrid.

But the cover was still a good one, considering the eclectic nature of the population in this area. There were just as likely to be panhandlers as millionaires moseying around some of the city’s famous squares. This getup was noticeable, but quickly forgotten by the busy residents who really didn’t want to think too much about how the “other half” lived.

So yeah, he’d been prepared for some attention. What he hadn’t expected was a frigging Nancy Drew out with her camera, snapping clandestine shots of a suspected bad guy and his license plate. She was about as clandestine as a tank.

“Lady, go home,” he pleaded softly, willing the woman to retreat into the building where she’d recently moved. The building where he was supposed to be conducting this stakeout.

That’d been the plan, anyway, which made the woman’s nosiness even more aggravating. His partner, Dex Delaney, was involved with the daughter of the building’s owner. Dex had felt sure his girlfriend, Rosemary, could arrange to let them use the building. It would have been perfect—discreet, vacant. An ideal place to stake out the first-floor apartment in the building across the street where a suspected drug trafficker resided.

Then, after Nick had grown in a beard and scavenged clothes from Goodwill, the ax had fallen. Rosemary’s father had refused, saying he’d rented the building to a family friend in need. Considering Rosemary’s social circles, the woman probably needed a place to stay so her mansion could be painted.

One thing he hadn’t needed was to have his stakeout made ten times tougher because of a rich woman’s whim. “Why the hell couldn’t she have moved in next month?” he muttered, still frustrated by the change in plans that had him sitting here on a sweltering ninety-five-degree day in a car that smelled like the last ninety-five men who’d been in it.

Sometimes he really didn’t like his job.

“But not often,” he admitted to himself.

Most times, he loved his job. Being a cop gave him more satisfaction than he’d ever dreamed of having in his civilian life. Funny, coming out of the marines four years ago, he hadn’t been sure what he’d do. Going back to his hometown had been impossible. College? A fantasy. He’d gotten used to being in action, to fighting and surviving. To nailing bad guys. On a big scale or on a small one, taking criminals out of commission was what he did best…he’d figured that out back when he wasn’t sure he’d ever give a damn about anything again.