Her Kind of Hero

  Her Kind of Hero

  By Kathleen Dienne

  Kissing him is better than nothing.

  Young widow Vanessa Bingham is ready to stop mourning. She misses the intimacy and tenderness of a man’s touch. It’s obvious her old friend Derek Lane wants her, so why does her first attempt at seduction cause him to flee?

  Kissing her is a dream come true.

  Derek has been in love with Vanessa forever. His feelings have kept him from having a serious relationship—or a casual one—with any other woman. So when she finally turns to him, he doesn’t want to settle for being friends with benefits. But Vanessa is a hard woman to resist for long…

  Someone doesn’t want them kissing at all.

  Just as things with Derek begin heating up, disturbing photos start to arrive at Vanessa’s door. Someone is watching her every move: someone she may know. Terrified by the stalker’s very real threats, Vanessa soon realizes that Derek may be just the hero she needs after all.

  Dear Reader,

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  Executive Editor, Carina Press

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  Dedication

  To my husband, the most romantic man on earth who ever nearly punched a stalker.

  Acknowledgment

  Melissa Johnson, editor extraordinaire—for two books now, she has known what I meant to say, and nudged me into saying it.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  I kissed him because he was better than nothing.

  Derek froze for a moment and I thought I’d made a mistake. I felt better when he rested his hand on my hair, even if it had all the weight of a butterfly’s wing.

  “Do you mean it, Van?” he asked.

  I couldn’t look at him. “Of course I do,” I whispered into his neck.

  He put his arms around me. I rested my head against his chest and listened to his heart thump at a rate that contrasted with his calm embrace. With one finger I doodled on his shirt pocket.

  “That’s interesting,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ve got quite a pectoral muscle here.”

  “I should think so,” he said drily. “I lift a lot of heavy things.” He worked as a research librarian at the college, but a few years back he’d bought a little land where he grew hay for two elderly horses. I’d tried to lift a bale of hay once, and the attempt almost yanked my arms from their sockets. I’d noticed a few months ago that farm chores had put some serious muscles on this quiet, gentle man.

  “I see.” I put my hand on his arm. “Derek, I’m going to buy you short-sleeve shirts for your birthday.”

  “Why?”

  “Long-sleeve shirts rolled to the elbow are not showing off your arms.” I had my fingers on an incredible biceps.

  He laughed. “I can’t wear short sleeves to work. Too cold in the winter, and the air conditioning at the library makes it way too cold in summer.”

  “You’re too practical.”

  “Probably.”

  This time he kissed me. He was still tentative, but his lips were soft and warm. His unexpected strength warmed my response. I let my lips open a little wider and wrapped my arms around his neck. He tightened his embrace but made no effort to speed up our kiss.

  I pressed against him and moaned softly. His breathing picked up. Finally I felt his tongue against mine, hesitant and slow. I ran my fingers into his thick brown hair and pulled him closer.

  That convinced him I was serious, I guess. His lips grew firmer, and his tongue explored mine with more sureness. When he nibbled gently on my bottom lip, I jumped in surprise and pleasure. He smiled and went back to kissing me. I let my hands wander down his powerful arms, hidden in the loose oxford shirt.

  He broke it off just as I was getting into a groove. “What’s wrong, Der?”

  “Nothing. Just remembered…need to stop by the farm supply store, get a thing,” he muttered. He went to the front door where he’d left his coat. I followed, wondering if I should stop him. He looked at me, agony on his face. He took one step toward me.

  When I held out my arms, he fled.

  Derek Lane was my husband’s best friend, and when Luke died three weeks after turning thirty-six, Derek kept me going. When I accidentally gave the funeral home Luke’s cell phone number on the contact form, Derek stepped in and finished the planning. When the last mourner left my house, Derek awkwardly hugged me and handed over a thumb drive. It contained a spreadsheet with the name and address of everyone who’d sent flowers or cards.

  That was Derek’s style in a nutshell. Reliable, thoughtful and low key. Nothing wrong with that, of course. It’s just that Derek would never sing love songs at karaoke night. Derek would never propose to a woman on a Jumbotron. And Derek would certainly never stop mowing the lawn to seduce his wife under a tree.

  Derek would finish mowing the lawn. Then he’d put away the mower, lock the shed, take a shower and lead his wife to the bed with the blinds drawn.

  If he had a wife, which he didn’t.

  But it had been two years since Luke died in a motorcycle wreck. And whatever Derek lacked in romance, well, he was dependable. He’d taken to showing up every Saturday (always calling first) and doing what he called “man jobs.” It started when I needed help setting up my computer, but he kept finding other stuff to do. Things like cleaning gutters and caulking windows, or putting in a garbage disposal. Afterward we’d walk a few blocks to eat at the Mexican restaurant, the one with the day’s special on a chalkboard outside.

  Not once did he make a pass at me. After a year of the chore-and-chicken-burrito routine, he started coming back to my house after dinner and watching a DVD in the dark, but that was as far as he’d gone.

  And yet, there was something in the way Derek looked at me. That something had been in his eyes once before, at the moment Luke introduced me to his best friend and roommate at a party. I admit, at the time I felt a little zap of attraction to the tall, quiet stranger. Luke and I were already friends from singing together in the college choir, with not even a hint of more than friendship. I might have given Derek a chance, or I might have asked if he felt the same way.

  But it wasn’t to be. I don’t know what happened, and Luke could never explain, but that was the very e
vening Luke saw me in a new light. With the full force of his charm, he swept me off my feet before Derek did anything more than look at me, and that was that. Derek did not indulge in looks at married women.

  I was no longer a married woman. The look in his eyes was back, and I did appreciate him. I respected him. He was a sure thing. I hadn’t been with anyone since Luke died, and Derek hadn’t been with anyone in at least that long. Why shouldn’t we have each other?

  So I had leaned over and kissed Derek in the middle of our third viewing of our favorite movie, The Princess Bride. I’d been coming on to him for weeks, but it was time for me to try something he couldn’t miss.

  I’ve had less successful attempts at getting a man into bed, I’m sure, but this one was still going down in the record books. I went back to my den, feeling somehow more alone than I’d been an hour ago.

  On-screen, Cary Elwes swashbuckled his heart out, and I snapped the movie off in disgust. The room went completely dark.

  In the window behind the screen, I saw a man’s face. His head was ducked down a little, and a trucker’s cap shadowed his face, but he was clearly watching me.

  I stomped across the room and threw the back door open. “What is wrong with you? Either come back inside and tell me what the hell just happened, or run away, whatever, but don’t stand in the alley and stare through the window like a pervert.”

  The man turned and ran. That’s when I realized he was wearing a leather jacket and was too short to be Derek, anyway. A diesel truck engine roared to life before I could move, and I saw a red blur flash by under the streetlight. I felt a little sick.

  Worst of all was the feeling that I’d seen that man somewhere before.

  Chapter Two

  Another work week came and went without my noticing too much. I had a job in the university transcript office that paid the bills. Not a holy calling or anything. It was the kind of job you have if you don’t think of anything better to do after graduation.

  There weren’t a whole lot of options besides the university, anyway. If you took away the school, there’d be nothing in town at all. Nothing, that is, in terms of careers, but there’s a lot more to life than a career. Being in the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains gave us clean air and beautiful views. The little downtown area catered to kids and academic types, with plenty of bookstores and bars. There were a few dozen restaurants, most of them started by former students like me who hadn’t wanted to leave.

  To the west of campus was a wilderness area that I could see from my office window. The other three sides of the town were surrounded by nothing but rocky farmland and pastures. Well, that’s not quite true. An hour north of us was Roanoke, a city big enough to support a theater, an orchestra and all the rest of the cultural advantages. As far as I was concerned, I lived in the most perfect place in the world.

  I grew up in a giant suburb with all the charm of a strip mall. It wasn’t the kind of place anyone was really from, or the sort of place that made you want to put down roots. When a subdivision is named for what was destroyed so the endless rows of houses could be built, its residents tend to be cynical. Seriously, if you live on Woody Pine Lane in a neighborhood called Beaver Creek, but there are neither pine trees nor beavers and the creek has been reduced to a concrete culvert, you’d wonder if there was anything real in the world at all.

  The Blue Ridge region of Virginia was a revelation after a childhood spent loitering in a convenience-store parking lot. I’d fallen in love with my college town almost as hard as I’d fallen in love with Luke. Lucky for me, he felt the same way about our adopted home. His reasons to love it were a little different from mine. He’d grown up an hour away in a town that turned off the single stoplight at 8 p.m. To him, five bookstores and a local place to buy motorcycle parts was heaven. So we stayed, and we got married in the college chapel, and then we bought our little house a few blocks from Main Street.

  Anyway, my job was nothing special. It was also pretty mindless, which left me with plenty of time all week to dwell on Derek’s bizarre performance and the peeping Tom. Mostly, I obsessed about Derek. I’d been so focused on coming on to him and so sure that he was into me, that it never crossed my mind that he might turn me down. It finally hit me on Thursday that I might have damaged our friendship, a thought that made me a little nauseated.

  In the evenings I had plenty of time to wonder if I was doing the right thing waiting for him to call me. The peeping Tom hadn’t come back, but it would have been nice to have Derek’s company when I searched over the alley at night and closed all the curtains. Fortunately, there had been no sign of a man or a red truck, and by Friday I’d stopped looking.

  My usual Friday night routine involved a trashy book and a bubble bath, but I kept thinking of stuff to look up on the internet. The stupid computer, which sat on my kitchen counter, was running as slow as maple syrup through a sieve. I made a note to ask Derek for help.

  That’s when I realized I was stalling in the hope that Derek would email or call. He hadn’t missed a Saturday, or a Friday confirmation call, in months.

  I winced at my own ridiculous adolescent behavior. I was how old? “Just call him,” I said aloud to the empty room.

  With perfect timing, the phone rang. It barely had time to trill at me once before I had it in my hand. “Hello, stranger,” I said. “I kind of missed you.”

  “Well, that’s encouraging,” said an adenoidal voice. I recognized the voice of the only other person besides Derek who hadn’t missed a regular call in two years.

  “Oh. Hi, Anthony.”

  “I guess you thought it was someone else.”

  “Yeah, sorry, man. I grabbed the phone before checking the caller ID. What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Hadn’t talked to you in a while, thought I’d say hi.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Anthony, only you would think two days was ‘a while.’ We had coffee on Wednesday.”

  “Want to get ice cream on a Friday? I’m nearby, just got off work.”

  “Mmm.” He was talking about the place on Elm and Main that made pineapple ice cream from scratch. I refreshed my email. Nothing new. “I’m tempted, but I’m kinda settled in for the night already. Rain check? One I’ll cash next week, maybe Tuesday?”

  “If that’s the best I’m gonna get, I’m gonna have to suck it up.”

  “Anthony…”

  “Sorry. Hey, Vanessa, are you okay? You were a little distracted on Wednesday and you sound bummed now.”

  “Yeah, I’m okay. Just in a weird mood, I guess. Thanks for asking, buddy.”

  “Don’t give me that. We’ve been friends for how long?”

  I sighed. “Busted. I’m thinking about, well, dating.”

  “Holy moly, is the champ coming out of retirement?”

  “Hush, you. I said thinking. And what do you mean, champ? Champ of what? Serial monogamy?”

  He laughed. “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant more like, this legend is back in the public eye kind of thing. Besides, compared to me, anyone would look like a champ.”

  “You just haven’t asked out the right girl,” I said automatically. That theme of Anthony’s was as old as our friendship. “Or ‘a’ girl. When are you going to start dating?”

  Anthony completed the ritual. “Only when I find a girl as pretty as you. So who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Derek. Maybe. I don’t know. He’s acting like a freak.”

  “Derek.” He made the name sound like a third-world bathroom, faintly dirty and not to be trusted.

  “What’s wrong with Derek?”

  “Nothing, just, you know, he’s not really your type.”

  “What the hell is my type after fifteen years of either Luke or nothing?”

  “Hey,” Anthony said in a hurry, “I’m just thinking of stuff you’ve said over the years. How exciting Luke was, what a take-charge guy, you know. Derek’s not like that.”

  I threw myself on the couch. “I know. You don’t have to tell me. But he
’s a really good guy. I care about him. I know he likes me even if he’s acting like a spaz. It could be worse.”

  “There are a billion guys like that. Why settle?”

  “I don’t know if it’s settling anymore. I do need to get laid. Maybe that’s all it is, and I’m just an idiot, thinking with my groin and not my brain.”