Chasing Perfect Read online

  The grin widened. “Sure. That’s why I have fans. To help with the heavy lifting.”

  Impossible man, she thought, trying not to laugh. She pointed to the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “Don’t pretend this isn’t the highlight of you day.”

  “Are you always so sure of yourself?”

  He held open the door. “It’s part of my charm.”

  She was sure it was—which meant she was in serious trouble.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JOSH LED THE WAY TO a shiny black SUV. A really big one that required a step to make it into the passenger seat. Charity was grateful that her simple navy dress hung past her knees and wasn’t very fitted. The style allowed her to make the climb without flashing any of the good citizens who might be watching.

  Josh climbed in next to her, moving with the easy grace of an athlete. He rested his arm on the console between them and leaned close. Too close. With her first breath, she caught the scent of his body—a warm and masculine smell designed to melt the last barrier between her good sense and a free-for-all begging for attention.

  He was exactly like the men who had drifted in and out of her mother’s life, she thought, determined not to be sucked into the same pain and heartbreak she’d seen countless times. Showy men were nice to look at, but horrible bets when it came to relationships. How many times had her mother had her heart broken? Ten? Twenty? It seemed as if every few months she found someone new. Someone perfect and shallow who promised everything, then left her shattered.

  Charity wanted happily-ever-after. And normal. Something Josh could never be.

  “What would you like to see?” he asked, his voice low and slightly suggestive.

  She forced herself to stare out the front of the SUV and told herself she was desperately bored. There were a thousand things that needed her attention back in her office. Phone calls to be made, plans to be started, lists to be reviewed. Nothing about her time with Josh was the least bit interesting.

  Charity sighed. At least when she lied to herself, there was no one to call her on it. “You’re the local,” she said. “I’ll let you pick the route.”

  “Fair enough, but you’re going to need to put on your seatbelt.”

  She reached for the strap. “Because it’s the law, right? We’re not going up a mountain or anything.”

  He chuckled. “Not on a first date. I like to save the intense stuff for later. To make sure you can handle it.”

  She wanted to point out this wasn’t a date, but that would require speaking and his verbal play had left her throat a little dry.

  The man was charm personified, she thought, wondering if it was a God-given gift or something he had to work at. With her luck, he was a natural. He probably didn’t even know what he was doing to the women around him. Not that she would tell him.

  He pulled into the street, then rolled to a stop at the light on the corner. “You take the interstate into town?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “See much of the area since you arrived?”

  “Just what I’ve walked to. I’ve only been in town a couple of weeks. There hasn’t been much time.”

  “You don’t get weekends off?”

  “I spent my first weekend getting ready for the meeting with the university.” She grimaced as she thought of how that morning had been a disaster until Josh had breezed in, spoken a few magic words and saved the day. Not that she was upset to have the contract signed. It was just that he’d made her feel bad at her job. Or maybe she’d done that all by herself.

  “Last weekend, I was getting ready for my meetings this week.”

  “I sense a pattern,” he said. “You need to get out more.”

  Was he offering? She desperately wanted him to be offering. Which was silly, because she would have to say no to any kind of offer from him. The man wasn’t good for her sanity. Plus, hello. There’d been a woman waiting in his room the other night. A close-to-naked woman obviously expecting her evening to take a turn for the erotic. Josh was a player and Charity had never understood the rules of the game.

  Note to self, she thought. She would look Josh up on the Internet when she got back to her room that night. Any kind of crush should be destroyed by the reality of his personal life.

  “I plan to be in Fool’s Gold for a long time,” she said. “I’ll see it all eventually.”

  He turned two blocks before the sign for the interstate, then headed west. “There are three different wineries growing grapes in the valley,” he said, pointing to the acres of vineyards sprawling to the horizon. “Mostly cabernet sauvignon, merlot and cab franc. Some other grapes for blending.”

  He flashed her a smile. “Which takes us to the limit of my wine knowledge. If you want to know more, they do tours every weekend, starting in a couple of weeks.”

  As they sped down the highway, Charity could see tiny buds on the bare branches—the promise of grapes to come.

  “Most of the wineries were started years ago,” he continued. “This whole valley used to grow everything from corn to apples. Gradually the vineyards are taking over. Something about the soil and the weather.”

  “And money,” she said. “For a lot of farmers, there’s more profit in grapes. Wine is very big these days.”

  He glanced at her. “Impressive.”

  She did her best not to blush. “I did my homework before I moved here.” She cleared her throat. “The wineries are closer to town than I realized,” she said, turning back to see the mountains rising against the blue sky. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small notepad.

  “What a great resource. Any company thinking of relocating here needs to be taken on a tour of the area,” she said more to herself than him. “This is a great selling point.”

  There had to be some kind of brochure the town used to promote itself. She made another note to review it when she got back and make sure the wineries and vineyards were prominently mentioned. Maybe look over Pia’s schedule. There had to be a wine or grape festival.

  “The wineries are just part of it,” Josh told her. “There’s also hiking and camping in the summer and skiing in the winter. The resort has a five-star restaurant and a cooking school. We get plenty of tourists coming through.”

  “You know a lot about the area. How long have you been here?” she asked.

  “I grew up here. Moved to the area when I was ten.”

  “That must have been nice,” she said enviously. “When I was a kid I dreamed of staying in one place, but my mom liked to travel.”

  Josh glanced at her. Something questioning flashed through his eyes, then was gone. “Did she say why?”

  “She had a lot of reasons. She liked the thrill of a new place. The possibilities. She used to say she was born wanting to move on.” Part of the motive to move had always been to escape from anything bad that had happened before, Charity thought. Which was mostly a man, and the end of a relationship.

  Charity had loved her mother, but the constant moving around hadn’t been easy. Especially because Sandra moved whenever the mood struck her. She didn’t care if Charity was only a few weeks from finishing a semester or a school year. “I grew up being the new girl.”

  “Was that a problem?”

  “I wasn’t outgoing. By the time I’d made a few friends and settled in, we were moving again. I felt like I was always scrambling to learn the rules.”

  “You’ll like Fool’s Gold.”

  “I already do. Everyone is so friendly and open.”

  He made a couple of turns, then they were heading back toward the mountains.

  Charity found herself relaxing a little. Being close to Josh wasn’t so scary—not if she remembered to keep breathing and ignore the steady hum of awareness that connected them. At least from her side.

  A bright red import came toward them. The car was filled with college-aged girls who rolled down the windows and hooted and waved at Josh. He nodded back.

  “Fans?” she
asked, watching the car zip past.

  “Probably.”

  She risked turning toward him. “It’s the bike thing, right?”

  His mouth twitched as if he were trying not to smile. “Yeah. The bike thing.”

  “Because you’re a famous bike rider?”

  “Me and Lance Armstrong.”

  “So you’ve ridden in the Tour de France?”

  He glanced at her, his humor obvious. “Do you even know what that is?”

  “It’s, ah, a famous bike race. In France. It’s done in parts or stages or legs or something. And there’s a yellow jersey.”

  “Good start.” His voice was teasing. “It’s stages, by the way.”

  “I’m not really that into sports. But from what I’ve heard, you’re very impressive.”

  He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything.

  “Do you make a good living at that? The bike riding?”

  “You can. Prize money can be substantial. A top rider can pull in over a million.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Tour de France pays in Euros.”

  “Right.” She was feeling a little sick to her stomach.

  “Endorsements bring in the big money. Multimillion dollar deals.” He glanced at her. “They pay in dollars. Or yen.”

  A million here, a million there. Did currency really matter? “So you were successful?”

  “A case could be made.”

  “And worth millions?”

  “On a good day.”

  Because the sexual appeal, incredible body and handsome face weren’t enough.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “In the SUV or in Fool’s Gold?”

  “Either. Both.”

  “I’m showing you the area because Marsha asked me and I’m in Fool’s Gold because I live here. I’ve retired from racing.”

  She shifted to face him. “Retired? You’re barely in your thirties.”

  “It’s a young man’s sport.”

  How young? Retired? That didn’t seem possible. She wondered if he’d been injured. Not that she would ask. It seemed too personal.

  “What do you do now?”

  “This and that. I keep busy. I have a few things going on in the area.”

  They were back in town. Josh drove around the lake. There were small hotels, a couple of B&Bs, restaurants and vacation homes. Across the street were the boutiques, a bakery and an open, grassy park.

  “Angelo’s has great Italian food,” he said, pointing to the entrance to a large restaurant. “Margaritaville has the best Mexican food.”

  “Named after the Jimmy Buffet song?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Avoid the extra shot with the margaritas unless you’re a professional. It’ll knock you on your butt.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’m more a single glass of wine kind of girl.”

  He mentioned several other restaurants, a couple of bars and the drive-in with the best fries and shakes anywhere. All of which made her happy she’d taken the job in Fool’s Gold. If only she’d been able to grow up in a place like this, she thought wistfully. But her mother would have hated everything about the town. Especially the close ties.

  Her mother liked to come and go as she pleased, always looking for new adventures—especially where men were concerned. Charity had learned early not to expect any one guy to stick around for long. They were always moving through, too.

  She’d vowed her life would be different. That she would find someone special, get married and be with that person forever. So far, she hadn’t been very successful in that department but she was determined to keep trying.

  Rather than dwell on her sucky love life, she asked, “Did you ever have any bike races in town?”

  “No. There was some talk, but nothing was arranged.” He glanced out the window.

  “What about a charity event? To raise money for kids?”

  “I don’t ride anymore.”

  “At all?”

  He shook his head.

  She thought he would continue to circle the large lake, but instead he made a few turns and before she realized where they were, he’d pulled up in front of City Hall. Their time together had ended abruptly, as if she’d done something wrong.

  When he didn’t turn off the engine, she got the hint.

  “Thanks for the tour,” she said, feeling awkward. “I appreciate you taking the time.”

  “No problem.”

  She hesitated, wanting to say something else, then got out of the SUV. He drove off without a word.

  She stood on the sidewalk, staring after him. What had just happened? What had she said? She felt oddly guilty and wasn’t sure why.

  “Because the hormones weren’t enough of a complication,” she murmured with a sigh.

  THE NIGHT WAS COOL, the sky clear. There wasn’t any moonlight to illuminate the road, but that didn’t bother Josh. He knew every bump, every curve. There was no danger from other riders because he rode alone. He had to. It was the only way to work through his issues.

  As he headed up the incline, he pedaled harder, faster, wanting to increase his heart rate, wanting to feel the blood pumping through his body, wanting to exhaust himself so maybe, just maybe, he would sleep.

  The darkness surrounded him. At this speed the only sound was the wind in his ears and the tires on the pavement. His skin was cold, his shirt wet with sweat. Goggles protected his eyes, the helmet was snug on his head. He sped over the top of the hill and onto the straight five-mile stretch that led back to town.

  This was the only part of his ride he didn’t like. There was nothing to distract him, nothing to keep his mind busy, so he had time to think. To remember.

  Without wanting to, he was back in Italy, at the Milan–San Remo, or as the Italians referred to it, la Classica di Primavera. The Spring Classic.

  A sprinter’s dream race, but deadly for the sprinter who wasn’t prepared for the hills. It was one of the longest single-day races. Two hundred and ninety-eight kilometers, or one hundred and eighty-five miles. That year Josh had been in the best shape of his life. He couldn’t lose.

  Maybe that’s what had gone wrong, he thought grimly as he rode faster and faster. The gods had decided such arrogance had to be punished. Only he hadn’t been the one struck down.

  A bike race was all about sensation. The sound of the crowd, of the peloton—the pack of racers—and of the bike. The feel of the road. The burn of muscles, the ache of a chest sucking in air. A racer was either ready or not. It came down to talent, skill, determination and luck.

  He’d always been lucky. In life, in love—or at least in lust—and in racing. That day he’d been luckiest of all.

  That’s what the photographs showed. As fate, or luck, would have it, someone had been taking a series of pictures of the race just as the crash had occurred. There, in single-frame clarity, was the sequence. The first bike to go down, the second.

  Josh hadn’t been in the lead. He’d been holding back deliberately, letting the others exhaust themselves.

  Frank had been young, early twenties, his first year racing professionally. Josh had done his best to mentor the kid, to help him out. Their coach had told Frank to do whatever Josh did and he wouldn’t get into trouble.

  Their coach had been wrong.

  The still photographs didn’t capture the sound of the moments, he thought as he rode faster. The first guy to go down had been on Josh’s right. Josh had felt more than heard what had happened. He’d sensed the uneasiness in the pack and had reacted instinctively, going left then right in an effort to break away. He’d only thought about himself. In that second, he’d forgotten about Frank. About the inexperienced kid who would do what he did. Or die trying.

  They’d been going around forty-two miles an hour. At that speed, any mistake was a disaster. The pictures showed the bike next to Frank’s slamming into him. Frank had lost control and gone flying into the air. He’d hit the pavement, going forty miles an hour. His
spine severed, his heart still pumping blood through ripped arteries, and he’d died in seconds.

  Josh didn’t remember what had made him look back, breaking one of the firmest rules of racing. Never look back. He’d seen Frank go flying with an unexpected grace, had—for a single second—seen the fear in his eyes. Then the body of his friend had hit the ground.

  There had been silence then. Josh was sure the crowd had screamed, that the other riders had made noise, but all he’d heard was the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. He’d turned back, breaking the second rule of racing. He’d jumped off his bike and run to that kid lying so very still. But it was already too late.

  Josh hadn’t raced since. He couldn’t. He’d been unable to train with his team members. Not because of what they’d said, but because being in the peloton made him nearly explode with fear.

  Every time he got on his bike, he saw Frank’s body lying there. Every time he started to pedal, he knew he would be next, that the crash was coming any second. He’d been forced to take a leave of absence, then retire. He gave the excuse that he was making way for the younger team members, but he suspected everyone knew the truth. That he didn’t have the balls for it anymore.

  Even now, he only rode alone, in the dark. Where no one could see. Where no one would be hurt but him. He faced his demons privately, taking the coward’s way out.

  Now, as the lights of town grew closer and brighter, he slowed. Bit by bit, the ghosts of the past faded until he was able to draw in breath again. The workout was complete.

  Tomorrow night he would do it all again: ride in the gloom, wait for the final stretch, then relive what had happened. Tomorrow night he would once again hate himself, knowing that if he’d only been in front that day, Frank would still be alive.

  He pulled off the main road to a shed behind the sporting goods store he owned. He went inside and drank deeply from the bottle of water he’d brought. Then he removed his helmet and pulled on jeans and a shirt, replacing his cycling shoes with boots.

  He was sweaty and flushed as he made his way back to the hotel. If anyone saw him, he or she would assume he was returning from an evening rendezvous, which was fine with him.