Live and Let Love

by Gina Robinson

  Willow’s heart thumped. “Not red roses? Please tell me he didn’t. I’m definitely not ready for that.”

  “Relax,” Ada reassured her. “I would have steered him away from something so inappropriate, especially given the day.” She immediately looked as if she’d said something wrong.

  Willow gave her a smile meant to reassure her.

  “He bought you cockscomb. A large vase full of bright, beautiful magenta blooms. They’re gorgeous, but, really, who gives them to a date?”

  Willow sat back in her chair. “Cockscomb?”

  “Yeah, odd, huh?”

  “Well, it definitely doesn’t send too strong a message or look like he’s pushing too fast for a relationship. That’s good. On the other hand, You remind me of barnyard fowl? Is that really a good message to send to your date?” She wrinkled her nose and noticed Ada wasn’t laughing. “What’s really bothering you?”

  “He just seemed so pleased with himself for picking them out. Almost as if they were an inside joke. It was odd. They don’t mean anything to you, do they?”

  Willow shook her head and shrugged. “No.”

  “Well, okay, then. Just my imagination. I arranged them with a spray of greens. You’ll like them. Try to act surprised when he gives them to you.”

  “You got it.” She studied Ada. “Is something about Shane’s flower-buying proclivities still bothering you?”

  “It’s probably nothing.” Ada took a sip of her coffee. “I just think you should be careful around him.”

  Willow studied her suddenly serious friend. “You mean because of my delicate emotional state?”

  Ada shook her head. “No, I know you’re strong and can handle yourself. But there’s just something about Shane that’s a little off to me.”

  Willow sometimes had the same feeling about him, but she kept it to herself. “You must be the only one in town. He’s charmed everyone else. What are you thinking?”

  Ada waved her hand, making a dismissive gesture. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “Oh, come on. Spill it.”

  Ada shrugged. “He doesn’t seem like a genuine apple man to me. I know he’s just here for a few months to run Grant Cooper’s orchard and bring the harvest in for Grant while he’s in Phoenix taking care of his dying dad. But it seems as if Grant would have picked someone with more of a feel for the business.”

  Willow trusted Ada’s intuition, but she didn’t see the problem. “Why shouldn’t Grant trust a college buddy from agriculture school? As suddenly as his dad got sick and Grant bolted out of here, he was lucky Shane’s family could spare him from their orchards in the Northeast to come help out on a moment’s notice.”

  “You’re right.” But Ada didn’t look convinced.

  “I just wish he’d pay more attention to his dogs. Buddy and Duke are such sweeties.” Willow loved dogs. Shane treated his more like machines to serve him than companions. “They deserve some loving and kindness.”

  Ada laughed. “You’re the only one who thinks so. Everyone else is scared to death of them. Those brutes are vicious.”

  “Not if you know how to handle them.”

  “You and your passion for dogs.” Ada smiled and changed the topic of conversation. “Hey, have you heard? Aldo’s cousin Con has finally arrived. Lettie saw him when she stopped by the Villa to drop off a punch bowl for tonight.

  “She says Con is drop-dead, to-die-for gorgeous and if she were in her thirties, heck, if she were in her forties, she’d chase that man until he surrendered to her passion.”

  “I know. I met him.” Willow blurted it out without thinking.

  “You met him?” Ada’s eyes lit up. “Then you have the scoop. Is Lettie exaggerating?”

  “No. She may even be underexaggerating, if you can believe that.” Willow winked at her.

  Ada started laughing and clapped her hands. “Then the ladies are really going to have fun tonight. No wonder Lettie was so delighted he’d be at the dinner.”

  Willow gave her a puzzled look. “Why?”

  “You know we have a special charity fund-raiser every year at the dinner and it alternates between ladies’ choice and gentlemen’s? This year it’s ladies’ choice.”

  “Yeah?” Willow had only been once, last year. Her grief had still been too fresh for her to really enjoy herself. But everyone else had.

  Last year the men designed the ladies’ challenge—a competition to see how fast three lady contestants could assemble a precut wooden bench using only a hammer and screwdriver. No instructions.

  The process for selecting the contestants was simple—people paid for votes and cast them for the attendees they wanted to see participate in the challenge. At the same time, possible participants could pay to have votes removed from their name. At the appointed hour, those with the most votes competed. It was all in good fun and for a good cause.

  Everyone had had a good laugh at the bench-building process—the ladies really hammed it up. Of course the men had all voted for the women who were least handy with a set of tools. And the results were hilarious. Several of the benches were deemed un-sit-worthy. But they were all still auctioned off for charity. The winner, the one whose bench went for the most money, won a day at the spa and the privilege of presenting the check to the charity.

  “As elected Town Grump, Lettie designed this year’s challenge,” Ada said. “I’m sworn to secrecy, but I’ll give you a hint—Lettie loves dancing.”

  * * *

  Orchard Bluff was basically two large loops of roads dotted with orchards. The “town” center, and town was a loose term, sat at the junction of the loops. Cooper Orchards, the orchards the Rooster was purportedly babysitting, sat off the east loop on an offshoot dirt road.

  Of course it did, Jack thought. All the better to stay out of sight and away from prying eyes.

  What a perfect setup for an explosives-smuggling operation. Just a hundred miles from the Canadian border. People coming and going at the orchard all of the time. No questions asked if strangers stopped by and left with loads of boxes. Genius, really.

  It would have been even better if the Rooster weren’t pretending to be an organic farmer. But, as Jack knew full well, no cover was perfect. Especially those set on the fly.

  Jack didn’t believe the story about Kennett coming to town to help out an old friend in need. Kennett was here to pump Willow for information and draw Jack out while he planned his attack on the summit, pure and simple. Grant Cooper, organic apple farmer, was probably dead and buried somewhere on the property. RIOT assassins like the Rooster didn’t leave loose ends and they didn’t have friends.

  Like all the farms of Orchard Bluff, Cooper Orchards sold fruit out of a metal, barnlike building next to the house. The Agency had heard rumors there was an old bomb shelter somewhere on the property. Jack was on the lookout for it. What an ironic and perfect place to build bombs. And hide out. If the bomb shelter existed, it was heavily shielded. The Agency hadn’t picked up any transmissions from it.

  Some of the homes on the bluff were large and fantastic. Others modest. Kennett had taken up residence in Cooper’s, an old farmhouse on the modest side, with a steep, pitched roof.

  As Jack pulled to a stop in the hard-pack dirt parking lot, he felt his adrenaline spike. Showtime.

  He was here to rattle the Rooster’s coop. Get him to mess up and spill intel. Make him wonder—was Con Russo Sariel or not? Had he drawn out his prey? Or would he have to try harder?

  Jack was prepared to play head games with him. And enjoy it.

  Only one other car sat in the lot next to the barn.

  Good. Jack didn’t need any extraneous eyes watching him scope the place.

  He’d already stopped by Aldo’s, reunited with the “cousin” ten years his senior who—he hadn’t “seen since he was a baby”—a piece of pure fiction—and settled in. Funny what people will “remember” and believe when you prompt them hard enough. Jack had never met Aldo before in his life. Aldo had no i
dea of Jack’s true identity. And Jack intended to keep it that way.

  Then he’d been ogled by the officially elected Town Grump as she delivered a punch bowl and tried to micromanage Becky and Aldo as they set up for the growers’ dinner, which raised money for a local charity. And finally escaped by volunteering to run to Cooper’s to pick up the apples the Rooster was donating for the party this evening. Aldo, who was running around in a panic, was only too happy to take Jack up on his offer.

  Jack jumped out of the car and went into the barn for a box. He was going to insist on picking as Aldo had requested. Aldo wanted the very crispest, freshest apples at his soiree. And it suited Jack’s plan perfectly.

  Jack would have preferred to roam the orchard at will, but U-pick apple farmers were peculiar about people free-ranging in their orchards and he didn’t want to draw the wrong kind of attention. Farmers liked to point you to particular rows of trees they wanted picked first.

  Jack stood in the doorway, observing the Rooster. It took every ounce of strength Jack had not to kill him on the spot. Jack flashed back to holding Kyle in his arms as he bled out after being hit by one of the Rooster’s sniper shots.

  A good sniper kills instantly. The Rooster had wanted Kyle to suffer and Jack to see it.

  “Welcome to Cooper Orchards.” The Rooster looked up from measuring apples into boxes in the back of the barn.

  Jack was a master at reading body language. He watched the Rooster study him. He knew the instant Kennett sensed something familiar about him. Jack saw Kennett’s confusion and kept his hand in his pocket on his weapon in case he needed to use it.

  Jack strolled in, trying to keep his hatred from showing. “I’m looking for Shane Kennett. My cousin Aldo sent me over to pick apples for the big dinner tonight at his place. He said Kennett offered to donate as many as Aldo needs.”

  Kennett wiped his hand on a towel and came forward. “I’m Kennett.” He extended his hand.

  “Con Russo.” Though his skin crawled, Jack accepted Kennett’s hand and shook.

  Kennett’s handshake was crushing, a little too firm to be polite. More of a show of power and threat.

  “So you finally arrived. Aldo’s been talking about you.” Kennett’s gaze swept over Jack, leaving the impression the Rooster didn’t approve of Jack and was assessing him.

  No doubt the Rooster measured every new arrival in town against the possibility he was Sariel returned from the grave. That’s why Kennett was here, wasn’t it? To draw Sariel out.

  “Good things, I hope.” Jack kept his tone casual, though he guessed it would be evident to anyone watching that the two men disliked each other on sight.

  Kennett laughed. “He forgot to mention what a sharp dresser you were.” It wasn’t a compliment.

  Jack smiled back, making a note to scold Malene when he got back to Langley for making him wear these non–alpha male outfits. They put him in the weak position and he damn well didn’t like it. He didn’t care what James Bond did; real men on missions dressed to intimidate their opponents, not give them ammo to poke fun at.

  Jack held Kennett’s gaze. They were definitely two adversaries sizing each other up. He saw the indecision in Kennett’s eyes—was Jack the one, Sariel or not?

  Good, let him sweat it. Uncertainty was Jack’s friend.

  Kennett nodded. “Take your pick from any of the bins.”

  Jack shook his head. “Aldo says I should pick. He wants fruit right off the tree. Nothing else will do.”

  Kennett stared at him, shaking his head in the patronizing way bullies use. He was the kind of rugged, good-looking man women drooled over, before they realized he was a cold-blooded killer. And the type of guy other men had the natural inclination to punch out. Jack more than most men. Or so he imagined.

  The Rooster laughed. “Sounds like Aldo. He’s a perfectionist.” He left off the word prick, but Jack heard it in the Rooster’s voice. “Are you sure you want to go out in the orchards in those shoes? You’re taking a chance with those fine leather loafers.”

  Jack looked down at his Italian leather shoes and back up at Kennett. “They’re hardier than they look. I’ll take my chances.”

  Kennett shrugged. “I grow a dozen varieties. Does Aldo have a preference? What do you want?”

  A quick way to kill you and get the hell out of here, Jack thought. He could do it. No problem. It was the making it look like an accident part and the sudden appearance of an elderly couple also looking to pick that tripped him up.

  “Aldo said Goldens,” Jack said as the older couple strolled into the metal barn. He’d already studied a map of the orchard and knew rows of Golden Delicious apple trees provided him with the best area to scope out the place. Conveniently, his desires and Aldo’s coincided.

  Kennett handed him a box and gave him directions to the trees with ripe fruit. As Jack took the box, Kennett glanced at his watch. “A heads-up. I’m closing early today.

  “I’m taking the hottest woman in town to the party.” He watched Jack closely for his reaction. “Should be a good time.” He winked at Jack.

  Jack was a master at reading microexpressions, tiny, barely perceptible involuntary muscle movements that betrayed a person’s true emotions. The Rooster was goading him to see if he was Sariel. It was written all over his face.

  Compartmentalize.

  The Rooster read microexpressions, too.

  “I’m going stag,” Jack said, letting his tone imply he didn’t intend to finish the night alone. “I’ll see you there.”

  There was no way in hell Jack was letting the Rooster go home with his wife.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The doorbell rang at precisely six. Willow’s little dog, Spookie, barked and went crazy at the sound.

  Willow hopped to the door with one white sandal in one hand and another in her other hand, trying to cram one onto her foot along the way. And doing an awkward dance in the process as she clattered across her wooden flooring with Spookie playing toy guard dog at her heels.

  Why did Shane have to be on time, especially when she was running late? What was it with men? Didn’t they understand the rules? Give the girls a few extra minutes, boys.

  “Coming!” She slid the second sandal on, took a deep breath, and smoothed her blue chambray baby-doll shirt, contrasting red stitching, shirred bodice, empire waist, and all, as she came to a stop in front of the door. She’d loved this simple blouse with its stitched red and white country flowers on sight when she found it in town last week. Now she was wondering whether its innocent style was flashy enough to catch Con’s sophisticated eye. Jack, however, would have loved it.

  She ran her fingers through her hair. She’d spent an inordinate amount of time on it, trying to get it to look as if it always just cascaded in natural, loose waves about her shoulders with no effort at all. After all, she had to dispel that severe, prim image of her in a ponytail that was Con’s first impression of her.

  It was probably bad form to arrive on the arm of another man when all she could think about was Con Russo and how she was going to do everything in her power to get to know him better. She hadn’t felt like this since the first time she’d seen Jack in that coffee shop in Seattle. And she’d do just about anything to hang on to that feeling, including being treasonous to her date.

  Her heart felt as if it was waking again after a two-year sleep. And she blamed it all on Jack.

  He’d set her expectations and standards for men high. She was always looking for him, for any sign of a hero, in any man she met. Right now she couldn’t decide whether her attraction to Con was purely because he reminded her of Jack or not. But she intended to find out.

  She put her finger to her lips and gave Spookie a stern look. “Hush. This is our guest arriving.”

  But Spookie ignored her and went crazy yipping and barking as Willow opened the door to Shane. Willow had never been much of a disciplinarian. Jack had trained Spookie. He had a way with dogs. Willow used to tease him that he could hav
e been a dog whisperer.

  Just as Ada had said Shane would, he arrived brandishing a lush bouquet of cockscomb. He handed them to Willow as Spookie hunkered down and growled at him in her attempt at a menacing stance. With his hair combed up in a faux hawk, Shane looked a bit like a rooster himself. Maybe he’s just going with a theme for the evening? Willow thought to herself, half-amused.

  “These are beautiful! Thanks.” Was that surprised enough? “New haircut?”

  “Yeah.” He ran his hand quickly and lightly over the top of his hair. Then he grinned. “You look gorgeous.”

  Spookie chose that minute to attack his leg. A look calculated to kill crossed Shane’s face as he glared at Spookie. It passed so quickly Willow wondered whether she’d imagined it.

  She bent down and scooped Spookie up and stood aside to let Shane in. “Come on in. I’m running a little behind. Let me just put this killer dog of mine in the back and stick these in some water.”

  She carried Spookie back to the bedroom and, against her protests, gated her in with a child gate, dashed on a stroke of lip gloss, and returned to find Shane studying her living room.

  He turned and smiled at her as she entered the room and went to the kitchen to fill a vase with water. “How are you holding up today?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Oh no, now he’d want to talk about Jack again. And her feelings. As if he were some kind of grief counselor because he’d lost his fiancée. Willow didn’t want to talk. She wanted to be normal, feel normal, act normal, and be treated normally, not make people behave as if they had to tread delicately around her.

  “You don’t have to hold it all in, Willow. Not around me. I understand. I feel the loss every year on the anniversary of Crystal’s death.” Shane had told her about his late fiancée shortly after they’d met.

  He liked to talk to her about Crystal and encouraged her to talk about Jack. But, frankly, she wanted to be dated because she was a desirable woman, not because she was a sympathetic ear.