She smirked in retaliation for his smirk. "Remember that," she said, and turned to leave the garage.
He slipped past her. "I go first," he said. "I want to see you stepping into the sunlight."
Her hands clamped back in position over her breasts. "Spoilsport," he muttered, and slid sideways through the narrow opening. He stepped back inside so abruptly she collided with him.
"You have two problems," he said.
"I do?"
"Yeah. First, you left the water on. You're going to have a hell of a water bill."
She sighed. The driveway must be awash by now. Sam had obviously driven her insane, or she would never have been so careless.
"What's the second problem?"
"Your yard is full of those reporters you mentioned."
"Oh, shit," she moaned.
CHAPTER TEN
Sam handled the situation. He left the garage, locking the padlock behind him so no particularly nosy reporter could peek inside and see her – though she rather thought he was protecting the car more than he was her. She listened at the door as he walked over to the Viper and said, "Excuse me, but I need to get to that faucet to turn off the water. Would you move, please." He was extraordinarily polite. Jaine wondered why he was never that polite when he was talking to her. Of course, his tone was such that it was more of an order than a request, but still… "What can I do for you guys?"
"We want to interview Jaine Bright about the List," a strange voice said.
"I don't know a Jaine Bright," Sam lied.
"She lives here. According to public records, she bought this house a few weeks ago."
"Wrong. I bought this house a few weeks ago. Damn, there must have been an error when the deed was registered. I'll have to get this straightened out."
"Jaine Bright doesn't live here?"
"I told you, I don't know a Jaine Bright. Now, if you guys don't mind, I need to get back to washing my car."
"But – "
"Maybe I should introduce myself," Sam said, his tone suddenly soft. "I'm Detective Donovan, and this is private property. You're trespassing. Do we need to continue this discussion?"
Evidently they didn't. Jaine stood motionless as engines started and cars departed. It was a miracle the reporters hadn't heard her and Sam talking in the garage; they must have been talking among themselves, or they would have. Certainly she and Sam had been so engrossed in their own conversation they hadn't heard the reporters arrive. She waited for Sam to come unlock the garage. He didn't. She heard water splashing and tuneless whistling. The jerk was washing her car.
"You had better be doing it right," she said between clenched teeth. "If you let the soap dry, I'll skin you alive." Helplessly she waited, not daring to yell and bang on the door in case a reporter was still lurking. If any of them had half a brain, they'd know that while Sam might be able to squeeze into the Viper, no way would he spend that kind of money to buy a car he'd have to drive with his knees jammed up around his ears. Vipers weren't made for tall, linebacker types. He was better suited to a truck. She thought of the red Chevy four-wheel drive and began to pout. She had almost bought one, before the Viper won her over.
She wasn't wearing her wristwatch, but she estimated it was over an hour, closer to an hour and a half, before he unlocked the door. Twilight was deepening into night and her T-shirt was dry, that was how long she had stood impatiently waiting to be freed.
"You took your sweet time," she hissed as she stalked out of the garage.
"You're welcome," he said. "I finished washing your car, then I waxed and buffed it."
"Thank you. Did you do it right?" She rushed over to the car, but there wasn't enough light left to tell if there were any streaks.
He didn't take umbrage at her lack of faith. Instead he said, "Want to tell me about the reporters?"
"No. I want to forget the whole thing."
"I don't think that's going to happen. They'll be back as soon as they check the records and find out I own the house next door, which will be first thing in the morning."
"I'll be at work by then."
"Jaine," he said, and this time he used his cop tone of voice.
She sighed and sat down on the porch steps. "It's that stupid list."
He settled beside her and stretched out his long legs. "What stupid list?"
"About the perfect man."
He came to attention. "That list? The one that was in the paper?"
She nodded.
"You wrote it?"
"Not exactly. I'm one of the four friends who came up with the list. All this hullabaloo about it is an accident. No one was ever supposed to see the list, but it got into the newsletter at work and it's even on the Internet, and everything has snowballed from there." She folded her arms on top of her drawn-up knees and rested her head on them. "It's a mess. There must be no other news at all for the list to be getting this land of attention. I've been praying for a stock market crash."
"Bite your tongue."
"Just a temporary one."
"I don't get it," he said after a minute. "What's so interesting about the list? 'Faithful, nice, employed.' Big deal."
"There's more than what was in the newspaper," she said miserably.
"More? What kind of more?"
"You know. More."
He thought about it, then said cautiously, "Physical more?"
"Physical more," she agreed.
Another pause. "How much more?"
"I don't want to talk about it."