The Dragon's Revenge Read online

  The Dragon’s Revenge

  Courtney Henke

  One

  Rats came in all shapes and sizes, but the wily beasts could learn a few lessons from a certain dainty, deceptively sweet old lady named Amanda, J. D. Smith thought as he watched painters hustle in and out of Rucker High School. He had to give his mother credit, though. For pure sneakiness she was unsurpassed.

  J.D.'s generous mouth twitched in amusement. Amanda had nearly suckered the board of trustees into believing Rucker High School was a worthwhile cause. But they hadn't emotionally fenced with the woman for thirty-one years as he had.

  His green eyes sharpened on the building as the setting sun illuminated every nook and cranny. The front and the leg of the first "R" in Rucker had been broken off so that the new name was hardly appropriate for any institution, and the coat of primer the painters had recently applied didn't hide the graffiti beneath the cracked brick walls. He understood now why Amanda had stalled the investigation with her ludicrous tales. J.D. had made it clear to her that her hopeless causes took too much of her charitable trust's budget—and this project demanded a good chunk. Obviously she'd gotten wind of his surprise visit and had decided to "pretty things up."

  A spattered workman bumped into him, glanced up to excuse himself, then spared a second, astonished look before hurrying by. As J.D. checked his clothing for residue and tamed his unruly brown hair with an impatient hand, he didn't wonder at the man's surprise. In a neighborhood that had once been called "the war zone," he in his conservative three-piece suit stood out like a peacock among the sparrows. As he brushed apricot paint flakes off his sleeve, J.D. hoped this excursion wouldn't ruin his plans for the evening.

  Striding to his left, he pulled his microrecorder out of his breast pocket and spoke into it as he walked around the building. "Nothing was allocated to chisel 'Rucker' in stone, Mother," he murmured wryly. "You must appreciate its present rather colorful name."

  After stopping the tape, he paused in front of a graffiti-covered wall. One inventive limerick in particular caught his eye, and stifling a chuckle, he read it into the recorder.

  As he rounded the corner of the building he heard male voices hooting in unison and saw a group of students racing across the field in formation, practicing drills. Football practice had started, he noted, even though the term didn't begin for three more weeks. He strode on, concentrating on his task. "This community consolidation project is laudable, Mother," he dictated, "but next time check your facts. You didn't do enough re—"

  "Not so high!" someone yelled.

  Something hit the wall beside him with a thud, and he instinctively crouched down—just, before an electric-blue blur slammed into him.

  His micro recorder went flying, and so did he, but reflexes honed by gruelling swordplay saved him from major injury. As the sandy ground rushed up to meet him, he didn't fight the impetus of his motion. He rolled with it, springing to his feet.

  Behind him, he heard a violent series of coughs. "Sunny beach!" a female voice spluttered. "Are you—hurt?"

  He turned to the blue-shirted woman who was doubled over, choking. J.D. grabbed her, burying his face in a wild mane of chestnut hair as he reached around to place his fist in her diaphram.

  "Don't—not the Heimlich maneuver!" she said between gasps, struggling in his arms. "I — busted my ribs —years ago."

  Since she could obviously breathe, J.D. hesitated, then pulled out one hand and thumped her sharply between the shoulder blades. She stilled for a moment, and he was suddenly aware that his palm nestled beneath a very generous breast, that her bottom fit snugly against him.

  Footsteps thundered behind them. He ignored his reaction and smacked her again. "I'm getting a doctor."

  "Hey, Dragon Lady! Hey, coach! Y'okay?"

  "She's—"

  "Don't—interfere." she managed to say, and peeled his fingers from her chest.

  "You need—"

  "I'm fine!"

  She tore herself away from him, and he caught a glimpse of sky-blue eyes before she turned to the line of tough-looking teenagers. Her spine straightened and her shoulders went back. He didn't know which surprised him more, her imposing height or her aggressiveness.

  "Watch your altitude next time, Mendez." Her voice was surprisingly steady as she addressed the boy.

  J.D. stepped back with a frown. His gaze zeroed in on her worn, nearly white jeans, which lovingly cupped her buttocks. He mentally cursed himself. The woman had practically choked to death, and he couldn't take his eyes off her backside!

  "You sure you're okay, coach?" one player asked.

  "I swallowed a triple-sized wad of chewing gum." She cleared her throat. "It's nothing a dose of drain cleaner won't cure."

  "Dragons can eat anything," someone muttered.

  "Watch it. Hogan." She chuckled and tossed the football out to them. "And so ends the demonstration on how not to catch a forward pass. Show's over! Get your playbooks!"

  Everyone turned at once, and two players bumped together, glared at each other for a moment, then wandered away.

  "Doesn't anybody ever watch where he's going around here?" J.D. murmured.

  She spun around, a wicked grin curving her full mouth. "Sorry, people usually watch out for me."

  J.D. caught his breath. So this was the freight train that had hit him!

  A bright blue T-shirt proclaiming quarterbacks make better passes was molded to an athletic, voluptuous frame that redefined the word "curve." Long chestnut hair laced with sere grass framed a makeup-free face. High, aristocratic cheekbones and an aquiline nose seemed at odds with her square jaw and stubborn chin.

  She gave him an appreciative look. "Pretty fancy footwork back there. You recovered well for a business type." She stepped forward to brush dirt from his suit. "Ever play football?"

  "No." He pulled away from her and continued the task himself. "I fence." The micro recorder lay at his feet, and he pocketed it.

  "Fence? As in stolen goods or chain link?"

  "Fence. As in swordplay."

  "Funny, you don't look like the leotard type."

  He'd heard all the jokes before and refused to rise to the bait. "And you don't look like a low-flying jet."

  "Look closer," she muttered as she tucked her hands into her back pockets.

  He couldn't help but look, yet it was her eyes that intrigued him. They were enormous, accented by lush, fly-away brows, and they were dancing with laughter. Yet something lurked in their depths, some trace of age-old wisdom and pain. Fencing had taught him to read his opponent with uncanny accuracy, but this woman was a mass of contradictions.

  "You look familiar. Are you a reporter?" she asked.

  "No." He tore his gaze away from her to glance at his watch. Irritated at himself for forgetting his purpose. Though it was understandable. He didn't look forward to the job that lay ahead. "I have a meeting with your principal."

  "David's here?" Speculation gleamed in her eyes for a moment, then she cocked her head. "Are you a new teacher?"

  "No." He regretted that fact.

  "Why don't you stick around?" she asked after a moment. "You'll never find David's office in that maze without a guide." She peeped at him from beneath full lashes. "Besides, you might learn something. About a real sport."

  Before he could comment, she spun around and called for the team's attention.

  "All right you guys! We’ll skip the laps today, since I don't know if the plumbers have hooked the showers back up."

  A cheer greeted this pronouncement.

  "Don't get used to it," she went on. "It's just for today. Study those playbooks and keep 'em safe! Watch for your openings, and be prepared to take 'em. Mendez, accuracy! Hogan, get a rein on th
at temper of yours, or you'll be easy prey for the offensive line. This is a game, not a gang war!

  "Remember this, everybody! The minute you let your personal feelings get in the way, the minute you give your opponent that edge, you're predictable. And the minute you become predictable, you've lost the game."

  J.D. frowned. Her philosophy was remarkably similar to his eccentric and manipulative family's. Too bad, he thought.

  Charly watched the team wander away, scowling over the first day's practice. Tempers were running too high, she realized. And if she couldn't straighten Hogan and Mendez out, she was in for major trouble.

  Oh, well, she thought with a mental sigh. "Trouble" was her middle name, "strength" her key word. She'd been through much worse in her life, and the players respected her authority. As long as she could remain stronger than they, as long as she could beat them with her inherent humor, she could do anything.

  Automatically, she groped for her whistle, then remembered it was missing. She glanced around the barren ground. Beside the building, beneath a perpetually leaking faucet, a tiny purple-and-white lupine struggled for life. It reminded her of her football team. In desolation, something wonderful always emerged.

  "Is this what you're looking for?"

  She turned, having forgotten about the stranger in her musings. He stood just behind her, holding out an object in his palm.

  Why did he look so familiar? Though he still bore traces of their tumble, his green eyes showed no trace of any emotion. And he held himself as if he had no idea that his expensive, conservative suit looked ready for Goodwill. The man had class, she thought, and that indefinable something that indicated command.

  A shiver traveled down her spine.

  "My whistle," she said.

  "The chain broke." He dangled it upside down from his fingertips when she made no move to take it. "Probably in the collision."

  Charly couldn't take her eyes from his hand. Muscle and sinew were clearly defined. He was probably built like a rock under that suit, and he had the reflexes of a cat. Something that had long been dormant stirred within her, but she tamped it down. "Thanks," she said, taking the whistle from him. "Clapping and yelling can be exhausting."

  "You're the coach."

  She nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. "Are you surprised?" she asked.

  J.D. raised one imperious brow. "Should I be?"

  "I hate people who can do that! Mine both go up." She demonstrated. "See? I just can't seem to get the hang of it."

  He shrugged. "It's genetic."

  She nodded solemnly. "That's what my mom used to say. I can't wiggle my ears either." She sighed. "Life is hard."

  Was it her imagination, or did his green eyes darken and focus on her chest? Her breasts tingled as though he had touched her there. She spun from him, confusion clouding her judgment. She didn't even know him, for heaven's sake! And she didn't want to.

  "The office," he reminded her.

  She pasted a smile on her face. "Follow me," she called over her shoulder as she strode toward the building.

  Charly headed for the nearest door, the one she always left unlocked so the team had access to the bathroom, and reached for the knob. A strong hand got there first. Startled, she glanced up into faintly mocking eyes. "Allow me," he said, and pulled.

  Nothing happened. Stifling a grin, Charly kicked the lower edge and hip-slammed the middle. Then she waved him on. This time the door opened, and she preceded him into the building, jerking the crashbar tight to lock it behind them. "Chivalry isn't dead, huh?" she murmured with a cheeky grin.

  "Fencing is the last of the chivalrous sports."

  There was a touch of dry humor in his voice. Charly liked that quality in him. "Chivalrous?" she asked. "Or chauvinist?"

  "Women compete all the time."

  "Ah, but against themselves, or against men?"

  "Themselves."

  She nodded firmly. "Chauvinist."

  "But I would never stop a woman from going against me. Can you say the same for football?"

  She raised both brows. "I amend my statement." Her eyes narrowed. "Sexist, not chauvinist."

  He stifled a tiny smile. "I’ll be certain to avoid a match with you."

  She chuckled and waved him forward. The smell of wet paint made her wrinkle her nose as they wandered the maze of hallways toward David's office. His ease with repartee exhilarated her, she realized as they walked, yet his conscious repression of humor confused her.

  "This is it." she said, and pounded on the unmarked door once before entering. "David, you have a visitor."

  At first David appeared to be startled, then he grinned. At least she thought he did. She could never tell what was going on beneath that mangy, silver-streaked bush he called a beard. “Don’t you ever knock?”

  It was an old, running argument. She pretended affront. "I did!"

  "Just before you waltzed in."

  "Why should I ruin my record?"

  David's gaze traveled to J.D., and apprehension clouded his features. He raked one hand through his dusty blond hair, using the other to straighten his tie.

  David? In a tie? Good grief, who was this man she'd shown in?

  "Mr. Smith, I'm happy to meet you at last."

  As the men greeted each other Charly frowned. She hadn't seen David so nervous since… she couldn't remember ever having seen him so nervous. "David?" she asked softly, her protective instincts leaping to the fore.

  "Won't you be seated?" he told the stranger, then he hurried over to Charly. "Go put your equipment away," he said.

  Glaring at him, Charly answered back, "The team is taking care of it."

  A pleading light filled the eyes of a man who'd been more of a father than her own. "Charly—"

  "What's wrong?" she whispered. "Who is that?"

  "J. Derek Smith. He holds the purse strings on one of the biggest charitable trusts on the West Coast. Remember Amanda?"

  "That odd little old lady who came by last week?"

  He nodded. "His mother."

  No wonder he looked so familiar, she thought. She had barely spoken to the other woman, but she had been memorable. "But David—"

  "Mr. Bakker, can we get on with this? I have another appointment."

  "I've got a bad feeling about this," she murmured as David closed the door on her. If this was about David's precious community consolidation, she had a horrible feeling he was dead in the water. And she had delivered the executioner!

  Charly pressed her ear against the panel.

  "... Though the gang wars ended years ago," she heard David say, "my job isn't finished. I propose to establish a network of community, parental, and student involvement."

  "Right on," she whispered. "Get 'em, David." Though she had very little to do with his project, David was usually right. Lord knew he'd proven that to her over the last twelve years.

  "My hands are tied with the present system," David went on. "I can only do so much here, and it's just not enough. I want to break the cycle."

  She heard the other man murmur a response, but couldn't understand his words. Frowning, she turned the knob slowly, carefully, and the door opened a crack. She could hear no better, but she couldn't widen the slit without its becoming noticeable. Crouching, she craned her neck to listen.

  The door opened.

  Charly glanced up into cool green eyes. She straightened quickly, surprised to find she still had to look up at him. Why hadn't she noticed how tall he was before?

  "Waiting for someone?" he asked in a dry tone.

  "Godot?"

  He looked startled for a moment, then his face went blank. "He's not coming."

  "He never does." She cleared her throat. "Finished already?"

  "Yes." He nodded once, then strode down the hall toward the main entrance.

  "Hey!" she called, but he disappeared around a corner.

  David walked out of his office looking defeated. "Charly, what are you still doing here?"

  "You
weren’t in there long." Her hopes sank. "David, what happened?"

  “Well . ..." he said heartily, but he wasn't able to relate the bad news. “The building is secure. Be sure and use the side door—the front is chained. I’m on my way out," he stated, turning to leave.

  Her heart twisted with David's pain. "You didn't get it." she whispered.

  David sighed. "Charly, I didn't have any time. His foundation ..."

  "Turned you down," she supplied.

  His shoulders slumped. "Yeah." He sighed again. "I knew it was too early."

  "But you presented it anyway."

  "I had to. He called me a couple of hours ago. I thought we'd have a week at least. But he wanted to see it right away."

  "That—" Indignation filled her, and her chin tilted up. She knew something David didn't, and it was an opening she could use. "I’ll see you tomorrow, David." She rushed toward the main doors.

  "Charly, where are you going? They're chained."

  "Just some business! See you tomorrow!"

  She glanced behind her long enough to ascertain that David was indeed leaving, then she broke into a run. She found her quarry staring in frustration at the padlocked chain strung through the crashbars on the double-doored main entrance.

  "Mr. Smith!"

  He glanced up, then strode past her. She tried to catch his arm. but he was too fast. "Wait a minute! I want to talk to you!"

  “There's nothing to talk about."

  "Dammit, stop!" He didn't, but she did and stamped her foot. "I owe the cuss bucket a dollar, and it's all your fault."

  He froze. "The what?"

  She slipped around in front of him, grinning. “The cuss bucket. The language can get pretty blue here."

  His smile warmed the cool green of his eyes to the color of summer leaves and spread slowly into shallow dimples. Charly could only wonder why she'd thought breathing a necessary function in the past. She didn't seem to need it now.

  "Make much money?"

  "Enough for a VCR," she muttered, tearing her gaze away. Holy cow! It took an act of will to remember why she'd stalled him. "But not enough to fund the community consolidation."

  His smile faded. "I'm sorry, Ms. . . . ?" He raised an inquiring brow.