The Love of a Stranger Page 8

  ****

  Jeans. Doug wouldn’t have guessed her to wear jeans, ever. He crossed the dining room’s hardwood floor, back to the breakfast bar and took a seat.“So who was the gorilla and why’re you afraid of him?”

  “Did I say I was afraid?”

  “Didn’t have to. It was pretty plain.”

  She went to the cupboard. “It was not. He’s nobody. A friend of my…”

  She stopped talking and stood there blinking at the cupboard door, as if her thoughts had zoomed to another place. He waited for her to break down or shed a tear, as some ex-wives might when a long-term spouse had died tragically less than a week earlier. The cave-in didn’t happen.

  “…of Charlie’s,” she finished softly.

  What had distracted her? Doug had to wonder. “Came to offer his condolences, huh?”

  She returned to earth, opened the cupboard door and lifted out a heavy-looking teapot, then began searching the lower cupboards. She brought out a kettle, filled it with water at the sink, then set it on a burner.

  Oh yeah, hot tea. He had seen her drinking it in the café downtown. “Tea, huh? Never learned to like it myself. Cops thrive on coffee, the more like kerosene the better.” He blenched at the choice of words, remembering the determination had been made that the cabin fire was started by a lantern. He tipped his head toward her suitcase. “Where you going?”

  “I was planning to leave town before Charlie—” She stopped and drew herself up. “Not that it concerns you, but I’m going to California on…”

  She stopped speaking again when she spotted the check he had placed on the cooking island. She went to it and picked it up. “Did you put this here?”

  He shrugged. “Hey, babe, I found it on the floor.”

  Her jaw clenched, she tore it into one-inch pieces and flushed the pieces down the garbage disposal.

  “Wow,” Doug said, stunned. His blackmail theory washed down the drain with the check pieces. “I gotta say, that’s the first time I ever saw somebody shit-can half a million dollars.”

  She looked at him as if he had just embarked from a space ship. Tears shimmered in her eyes, which only compounded his confusion. The kettle’s whistle went off and they both jumped. He rose from the stool, rounded the end of the breakfast bar and lifted the kettle off the burner. “Let me do this. You seem a little out of it.”

  “Be my guest.” She left his side and took the seat at the breakfast bar where he had been sitting. Arms crossed under her breasts, she watched him. Sure as hell, she was assessing him, trying to determine what he was about, he believed. He didn’t want to be pleased by that idea, but he was.

  He had never made tea, but how hard could it be? He had seen tea bags while searching for coffee. He found them again—jasmine something—and dropped a couple into the teapot. Then he covered them with the boiling water. “How long before this is ready?”

  Her body language didn’t change. “A few minutes.”

  He braced his hands on the counter, waiting on the tea. “Look, if that dude’s giving you a hard time, take it up with the sheriff. File a complaint against him.”

  “He and the sheriff are friends.”

  “So what? The sheriff’s sworn to uphold the law. If a citizen files a complaint—”

  “Where do you think you are, Mr. Hawkins? This is the Wild West. In Callister, it’s every man for himself.”

  He chuckled at that, though after seeing the sheriff at the fire scene, a part of him didn’t doubt what she said. “What, the sheriff would shine on an abuse complaint?”

  A frown creased her brow. “Did I mention abuse? I can take care of my own problems. And I don’t want to discuss it.”

  Yessir, she just might be the most exasperating woman he had ever met. And that was saying a lot. He wanted to discuss it in a big way. Now that he had spotted some kind of conflict he believed could be serious and she had used him to escape it, he wanted to know what he had stepped in and how deep.

  He found another mug like the one into which he had poured coffee and poured the tea for her. “Let’s see, you put milk in this, right?”

  He crossed to the refrigerator and opened the door. Inside, he found close to nothing—a hunk of cheese so dried and cracked a rat would turn up his nose, a tub of butter of indeterminable age and a partial quart of milk. On the lowest shelf sat three cans of Diet RC Cola and a gold box of Godiva chocolates. He grinned. Women.

  He reached for the milk, unscrewed the top, sniffed and deemed it fresh, then returned to the breakfast bar and added a dollup to her tea. He pushed the mug toward her with a smile. “Who was it said tea without milk is uncivilized?”

  She gave him a flat look. “I have no idea.” She lifted the mug and sipped.

  “So whaddaya think? I’m a pretty good tea maker, huh?”

  Her mouth twisted into a sardonic smirk. “Passing.”

  He grinned, feeling he had mounted some kind of hurdle, and refilled his own mug with coffee. He moved around the end of the counter, sat down on the stool beside her. “Why don’t you have any food in this palace?”

  She swallowed another sip of tea, but didn’t look at him. “I’m fine now. I have things to do. I don’t think Kenny will be back. You can go.”

  “Where am I going? How about you tell me what’s going on with him? If he scared you, babe, he’s bound to be a hard case. If you don’t have any confidence in the sheriff, maybe I can help you figure out how to deal with the guy. Hard cases used to be my specialty.”

  He would swear she almost smiled, but caught herself and sipped again. “I’m not sure hard case is an adequate description for Kenny. Thank you for the offer, Mr. Hawkins, but I don’t need your help any longer. I really want you to go.”

  ****

  Doug groused aloud as he descended the driveway. “Driveway, shit....Insult to a man’s intelligence.”

  Besides having a half a hard-on for the past two hours, he was approaching the tunnel of bushes that had already scratched his new truck. He veered to the right as Cindy had directed him last Monday night.

  You can go.... Mr. Hawkins....I don’t need your help any longer. I really want you to go...

  Damn her. What royalty did she think she belonged to? He had been two-timed, lied to and led down the garden path by any number of women, but never had he been sent home like some pesky little boy.

  His right front tire dropped into a hole, the jolt nearly loosening his teeth. “Goddammit!” He shifted down and pulled out.

  By the time he reached home forty-five minutes later, hurt pride had switched to anger. Too uptight to go to bed, he plopped onto his sofa in front of TV and channel surfed for something to take his mind off that cranky blonde. He stopped on a documentary about salmon fishing in Alaska. But even something that really interested him, something he intended to do someday, couldn’t force the loony witch on Wolf Mountain out of his head.

  He shouldn’t have told Ted he would babysit her. Now that he had been assigned responsibility, he had to think about what she was doing. Was she driving to California? Or driving to the airport in Boise? And when was she leaving? And, other than promising Ted he would look after her, why did he care about such details? The sooner she left, the better. Once she was gone, he wouldn’t have to worry about her.

  But those questions and answers were petty and niggling compared to the ones that loomed foremost in his mind. He couldn’t erase the image of that rough-looking dude he had met in her office, a giant of a man who literally threw around half-million dollar checks. And he couldn’t keep from wondering what might have happened between him and her if Doug Hawkins hadn’t showed up at her door.

  The documentary ended and if someone had asked him where in Alaska it took place, he couldn’t have said.

  Shit.

  Chapter 8

  A blue steel hard-on stirred Doug awake. He lay there, wallowing a filmy fantasy of disrobing a leggy blonde from thin beige pajamas. In the gauzy twilight of half-sleep, he cupped her
ass with both hands, lifted her and sat her on the edge of a white granite counter. Her long legs came up and wrapped around his waist and…

  He popped his eyes open, wiping out the erotic image. Sweet Jesus. He knew better than to even think of peeling the clothes off a honed body of a woman like Alex McGregor and stretching out next to her. Free-climbing a vertical rock face would be less dangerous.

  His bedroom was semi-dark, so it was early. His departure from the Wolf Mountain witch came back to him and an edgy anger was stuck in his craw. He couldn’t think of the last time he had failed so completely at connecting with a woman.

  Then he remembered his workshop. No rain in the weather forecast. This was the perfect weekend to tear the old shingles off the roof out there. A task that dirty and difficult ought to derail his libido and/or make him too tired to even consider sex. If he got those shingles off, Monday, after his meeting at the law firm in Boise, he could stop off at Home Depot for a few tools and supplies and new roof shingles.

  He closed his mind against Alex McGregor. From the looks of the packed suitcase he saw on the end of her sofa last night, she would probably leave town today. By the time she returned, perhaps his baby-sitting job would be over. Ted would be back from Montana and could worry about her himself.

  By Sunday night, the roof of his workshop and its old plywood interior walls lay in a burn pile on the ground and his truck bed was empty and ready to be filled with supplies from Home Depot.

  Monday morning he dressed in slacks and sport jacket for the first time in months, even put on a tie, and headed for Boise for a nine-thirty appointment with Henderson, Crowe & Culpepper.

  ****

  Alex had never liked Charlie’s car, she thought, as she arranged luggage and boxes in its roomy trunk. He had seen a Cadillac with all the whistles and bells as a success symbol. Her brokerage partner in L.A. knew someone who would buy it. Probably a pimp. All she had to do was deliver it. Ridding herself of the car and the hassle of selling it were worth the extra effort to drive it to Southern California.

  The most dismal mood into which she had sunk in years had settled on her. First, she had overslept. Packing and organizing had taken until late into the night. Then this morning, even dressing had had a bad outcome. For comfort on the long drive ahead, she had put on white jeans and a yellow knit shirt. In a hurry and still distracted by the meeting with Kenny the Menace Friday night, she spilled the chicken and rice soup she had heated for breakfast down her front and on her lap.

  She had changed into khaki Dockers and a royal blue polo. Having to re-dress had made her late and only compounded her negative frame of mind. Upon reaching Manhattan Beach, she would have a massage and a facial, then let her favorite hairdresser work on her color. Personal pampering, though expensive, always improved her attitude. Her fingers would need a few more days of healing before she could have a manicure, but she would do that, too.

  Besides improving her outlook, all of the above were accoutrements of a successful Realtor and businesswoman. When she walked into a gathering of the managers of the ten Charlie Boy’s Old South Barbecue restaurants, she planned to look like what she was—The Owner.

  All the way to Boise, the Friday night meeting with Kenny and his parting warning replayed through her mind. You’re wrong, blondie. This ain’t over by a long shot.

  Unfortunately, she believed him. Kenny was a monster unaccustomed to people standing up to him or telling him no. Who knew what he might do to coerce her home or a right-of-way across her land from her? All future communication with him would have to be through a lawyer and she planned to take up the injunction against his road construction with Bob Culpepper in person today—just in case leaving a message with his assistant hadn’t been adequate. She dared not leave town without her lawyer having a clear understanding of what she believed had to be done.

  She arrived at the law firm at eleven-thirty, half an hour late for her appointment. She was rarely late for a meeting. Embarrassed and irritated at herself, she apologized to the receptionist.

  “That’s okay,” the smiling young woman said, picking up the phone receiver. “His nine-thirty ran a little late.”

  Cheery. Everyone in Bob’s office was cheery.

  Just then, he stepped out of his office, wearing a big smile and invited her inside.

  Even he was cheery. Alex grumbled mentally. “I know I’m late,” she told him. “I’ll be brief.”

  “No apology necessary.” He closed the door behind them and directed her to an armchair in front of his desk.

  His first words were condolences. She skirted the subject of Charlie’s death–what could be said, after all?–and launched a discussion of Kenny Miller and his ardent desire to drive logging equipment across the back of her property. Bob told her he hadn’t been back from vacation long enough to get her injunction against the road construction in front of a judge.

  Employing the “squeaky wheel” premise, she insisted he give it priority and press the environmental issues. A discussion of options followed and once a plan had been devised, she was satisfied to bring the meeting to a conclusion. She picked up her purse. “Well, I have to be on my way. I’m headed to L.A. The barbecue restaurants, you know.”

  “L.A.? But what about Ed and Martha Anderson?” The lawyer paged through a calendar on his desk. “I thought you were meeting with them tomorrow. I thought they were why you came to Boise.”

  “What? Oh–” Her memory zoomed back to the phone conversation with his assistant before the fire. Hell. She had completely forgotten the Andersons, who were desperate to sell their apple orchard. She really didn’t want to remember them now, but she had promised Bob. She pulled her small calendar from her purse and there the date was, written in blue ink—tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.

  Alex had been a career salesman since before the word “salesman” became politically incorrect. Her income depended solely on commissions. She couldn’t afford to ignore an opportunity for one. She never slighted a referral, a habit so ingrained, it was almost automatic. Setting aside a meeting with a prospective client for the sake of illness, ennui or a death in the family was difficult if not impossible. Like a stage performance, the show had to go on.

  The money from the commission might be needed in the coming days. She didn’t know what financial minefield awaited her in Charlie Boy’s Old South Barbecue. “I’m sorry, Bob. With all that’s happened, it slipped my mind, but yes. Yes, I’ll be there.”

  She left the law firm and entered the multistory building’s elevator in no better spirits, but glad she had stopped in to visit Bob in person. He might be a good lawyer and most of the time she liked him, but he had never seen her home or Granite Pond and she wasn’t convinced he understood her passion. Beyond that, it did no harm to remind someone who charged as much as he did that she was anxious.

  To be at Anderson’s place in Marsing tomorrow morning, she would have to kill an idle afternoon in Boise, rent a hotel room and stay over. With her itinerary turned upside down and her thoughts in a jumble, it took great effort to call up the traits that separated her from her peers. But as the elevator began its descent, she began the mental exercises that would put her in a state of optimism and confidence to face a client who might expect her to perform miracles. Meeting with a client would probably be a good thing. It would help her return to a routine, put her back on track toward some kind of goal.

  Last, but not least, the potential buyer for Anderson’s orchard, Hayes Winfield, was a player in Boise real estate. A contact important to her future in the Idaho commercial arena, someone she needed to know.

  When the elevator landed, she shoved on her sunglasses and hooking the purse strap on her shoulder, strode toward the front exit already planning tomorrow’s pitch to the Andersons. She was passing through the building entrance when a familiar raspy voice said, “Hey.”

  She turned and there leaning a shoulder against the marble wall stood the stranger, Doug Hawkins. Her heartbeat picked up
and her brain went dead. Finally her tongue engaged. “Are you following me?”

  His mouth tipped up at one corner, into that smirky grin that seemed to be a part of him. “Nope. But I saw you go inside a little earlier. I figured you had to come out sooner or later, so”—his right shoulder lifted—“I waited.”

  He had on dress clothes. Aviator sunglasses covered his eyes and gave him a mysterious continental look. The sun highlighted strands of both gray and gold in his brown hair that looked soft as a breeze ruffled it. What was he doing here in downtown Boise in front of the building where her lawyer officed? She looked up at him through narrowed eyelids. “Okay. I’m out. Is this part of making sure I’m okay? Don’t tell me you’re going to tail me everywhere I go.”

  “It’s lunchtime and I’m new around here. Want to show me a good place to eat?”

  “Not really.” The she had a second thought. Why not? She had to eat, didn’t she? She glanced at her wrist, then remembered she no longer had a watch. “Oh, hell…I guess I could eat. All I’ve had today is a little soup.”

  His head tilted back and he laughed, a rich male laugh that made an odd nervousness spill through her. “Now, that’s what I like. Taking a gal to lunch who’s crazy for my company.”

  “I’m not a gal and you aren’t taking me to lunch....But I don’t mind if we eat in the same place.”

  There, that should shut him down. She knew his type. Movie star looks, cocky attitude, God’s gift to women. Southern California was crawling with men like him. She started in the direction of the capital building’s whitish dome looming on the horizon against a clear blue sky. “There’s a mom-and-pop type cafe up this street.”

  He shifted manila file folders and a neatly folded newspaper to his left hand and took her elbow with his right. She lifted her arm away. She might be ready for lunch, but she was far from ready for contact with a man who caused a change in her pulse rate. “How do you happen to be hanging out on this street?”