What she understood was that she’d been played for a fool—paying most of the bills, being his personal housecleaner, trying to be the perfect housewife. Even a year later, it still stung like a paper cut right across her heart.
Zoe’s cell phone rang. Considering she’d gotten only two calls in the two weeks she’d been in Texas—one from her principal back in Alabama confirming she’d be at work on September 25, and the other a wrong number—a call was a big thing. Zoe checked the number. Unknown Caller.
“Hello?” Zoe answered. While she hated it, there was a part of her that hoped it would be Chris, wanting her back, telling her he’d screwed up. Not that she’d take him back, but it would be nice to know he missed her.
She heard someone breathing, but nothing else. “Hello?”
“Leave,” the whispery voice said.
CHAPTER TWO
“WHAT?” ZOE SAID, unsure if she’d heard correctly.
Click.
“You okay?” Dixie asked.
“Yeah. Wrong number.” Stashing her phone in her apron, she looked up at Dixie. “Can I use your computer?”
“You betcha. Just stay off those porn sites,” Dixie teased.
“Just can’t help myself.” Zoe scooted her butt off the stool. “It’s been a month of Sundays since I’ve known bliss.”
“I could remedy that,” offered Juan, the fry cook.
“I’ll consider it as soon as you get written permission from your wife.” She shot him a smile, knowing he was only kidding because she’d seen him light up when his pregnant wife stopped by earlier.
“Heck,” Juan said, grinning back. “I was only offering to make you some French toast.”
While all the employees snickered, Zoe grabbed her bag that held a change of clothes and went to the office.
Ten minutes later, Dixie brought two big bowls of chicken and dumplings into the office and set one in front of Zoe on the oversized and time-worn oak desk. “Eat before you go.”
Zoe smiled. It had been forever since she’d had anyone looking out for her. She was going to miss Dixie when she left.
“Thanks. I’ve smelled these cooking all morning.” She dished a spoonful into her mouth and moaned as the savory taste exploded on her tongue. “My mama used to make these.”
“Mine are better,” Dixie teased, and dropped into the desk chair beside Zoe and started eating. After a minute of silence, Dixie asked, “You miss her—your mama?”
“Like the dickens. She was special.” But if Zoe’s suspicions were true, her mama wasn’t the person Zoe had always thought she was. In the pro/con list Zoe had made before she decided to actually come to Texas, uncovering any ugly secrets about her parents had been the only con.
Dixie’s gaze shifted to the computer monitor.
Zoe reached for the mouse to delete the screen. Quickly realizing it would be rude, she moved her hand and spooned another dumpling into her mouth. Besides, Dixie had already gotten a peek at Zoe’s research last week when she’d gone for a potty break and forgot to close the screen. When she’d returned, Dixie was reading the article Zoe had found at the library and had downloaded onto a flash drive.
“The Bradfords again?” Dixie asked. “Is there a reason you’re so intrigued with that rich family?”
Zoe glanced at the screen. She couldn’t divulge everything. People would think she was crazy—hell, sometimes she considered the possibility herself. But she could tell Dixie part of it. “There was a story about them on that Unsolved Mystery Hunters show three weeks ago. I guess I love a good puzzle.”
“About the murder of that kid?” Dixie asked.
Zoe nodded and her chest constricted.
“I remember that. They never did find out who killed her. Sad stuff.”
“Yeah.” Zoe spooned another bite into her mouth and stared at the picture of Thomas Bradford. It was as if Zoe felt by staring at the man, she could discover the truth. But no such discovery came.
“I heard that old man isn’t doing so well. The kids and grandkids are fighting over his inheritance. Lucky for me, all I’ve got is this run-down café, and neither of my kids wants it.”
“It’s not run-down,” Zoe said. “Best food in town.” She spooned a big chunk of stewed chicken into her mouth.
Dixie chuckled. “That’s because you’re not a citified gal like my kids. My son ran off to California to learn to talk like they do on the six o’clock news. Works for a radio station out there. Boy’s ashamed of his southern roots. And my daughter—you wouldn’t catch a dumpling within six feet of her lips. Says she’s allergic to carbs.”
Zoe frowned. “I haven’t met a carb I haven’t loved. Guess it shows, too. I’ll bet I’ve gained five pounds since I started working here.”
“And you’re wearing it well, too, honey. You should see the guys checking out your butt.” Dixie looked back at the computer screen. “If you’re real curious about the Bradfords, you should ask those PIs who come in for my chili cheeseburgers on Tuesdays. They do work for the Bradfords, I think.”
Zoe’s interest was piqued. “What PIs?” She didn’t have money to hire a private investigator, but if they had knowledge about the Bradfords, she could at least ask them some questions. How much would they charge just to talk to her? Nothing, she hoped.
“Those three hunk-a-hunk men, two dark haired and one blond. All of them drool-worthy. They own that PI agency, Only in Texas.” Dixie shook her head. “Are you seriously telling me you haven’t noticed them?”
Zoe tried to think. “They only come in on Tuesdays?” While she didn’t recall them, she mentally stored away the agency’s title.
Dixie dropped her spoon in her bowl. “Girl, you are either blind or a lesbian not to have noticed them.”
“Neither. Self-preservation. Just mending a broken heart,” Zoe said. “I’m not sure men are worth the risk, so I’ve trained myself not to notice things like sexy bedroom eyes or broad shoulders.” But she was getting a little breathless just thinking about it. Maybe she should reconsider dating again. If for no other reason than to have someone call her, and make her cell phone worth its monthly charge.
“Oh, honey, those boys would be worth it. Then again, ’cause I like ya, if you noticed them too much I’d reel you in so fast you’d leave skid marks on my linoleum.”
“What’s wrong with them?” Zoe tried to feign only a mild curiosity while she pushed another dumpling around her bowl. But on the inside she felt her excitement growing by leaps and bounds. This might be her big break. The one that answered the questions Zoe had been looking for all her life.
God knew all of her other plans had seemed to fail these days. Phone calls to the Bradford businesses, and even a couple of drop-in visits to the mansion—not that she’d gotten past the security gate. The last time, she’d been told by one security guard that if he saw her there again, he was calling the cops.
Heck, last week, she’d even tried following the limo when they’d left the house, and got herself a nice little ticket for running a red light that she didn’t run. The cop who gave her the ticket suggested she go find another old fart to seduce because Mr. Bradford wasn’t in the market for an Anna Nicole.
“Nothing wrong with those three guys if you like suspected murderers.” Dixie arched her painted brow.
“They’re murderers?” Zoe asked.
“I said ‘suspected.’ They used to be cops. Supposedly, they got involved in some seedy drug deals, and then they got arrested for brutally murdering this couple. Practically decapitated the woman.” She ran a finger across her neck. “Then they got convicted and went to jail.”
Zoe touched her neck. “And what? They escape every Tuesday just for your chili cheeseburgers?”
Dixie laughed. “Hey, my cooking’s that good. But actually, they got let go.”
“So, they’re not guilty?” Zoe hoped that was the case. If she was going to look them up, and you could bet she was, she’d like it if they weren’t murderers.
&n
bsp; “Well, that depends on who you talk to. You know small towns—folks around here get one thing in their mind, and changing it is about as easy as chewing glass. My neighbor has a son-in-law who works for the Glencoe Police Department where they worked. According to him, they had those three down and dirty. But then they got themselves… What do you call it when the governor lets someone go?”
“Pardoned?” Zoe asked.
“No, the other word. Exonerated. That’s it.”
“Dixie,” someone called from out front. “Getting busy.”
“Guess I’m on again.” Dixie stood up and pressed a hand on Zoe’s shoulder. “Don’t know why, kid, but only after a couple of weeks I decided I like you. I know you said you were only here for a month to say you’d done Texas, but I really wish you’d stick around and become a full-fledged Texan.”
Emotion filled Zoe’s chest. Reaching back, Zoe put her hand on top of Dixie’s. “I like you, too. But I’ve got a job and a life waiting for me in Alabama.” A lonely life. The thought whispered across her heart.
“Well, if you change your mind. You got friends here.” With a wink, Dixie walked out of the room.
Zoe sat there a few minutes, savoring that wonderful feeling of hearing Dixie’s words. Nothing like feeling someone cared about you.
Shifting her mental gears, she wondered if she should wait until Tuesday and hope the PI threesome showed up, or if she should take matters into her own hands. Impatience stirred inside her; she had less than a month before she was expected to be back at work. She hit the Google search engine. Typing in the agency name, she whispered, “Come to Mama.” Then she touched her neck again, hoping her impatience didn’t lead to her losing her head. Figuratively, of course.
Less than thirty minutes later, Zoe parked in front of the Only in Texas office. The sign in the window read they were open. The fact that her Google search informed her that until recently their place of business had housed a funeral home almost seemed absurd. Convicted—albeit exonerated—murderers had bought an old funeral home to house their business. Was there not something slightly off about that? Maybe three angry ex-cops making a point to the townsfolk who’d judged them unfairly?
But angry men or not, she wanted answers. She grabbed her purse, climbed out of her silver Chevy Cobalt, and went to see if she could wrangle herself up some answers. Stopping at the large redbrick building door, she released her shoulder-length auburn hair from her ponytail and shook it out. Her hair, a tad too thick and too curly, usually caught a man’s eye. And if it took letting her hair down for a bit to encourage one of these men to talk with her, she wasn’t above doing it.
All she had to figure out was how much to tell the PIs. Sooner or later, she was going to have to trust someone. She just wasn’t sure who or when. Stepping inside the business, leaving the bright sunshine for a dark room, she allowed her eyes a second to adjust. And when they did, her gaze caught on the only piece of “furniture”—if you could call it that—in the room. She took a quick step back. A coffin, yup, an honest-to-goodness coffin with a raised lid, bracketed the back wall.
“Hello?” she muttered in the dead silence. And it did feel dead. Like a funeral home felt. She’d been in too many already in her life. First her dad when she was sixteen, her best friend who’d been killed in a car accident their senior year of high school, and then her mom. Personally, she preferred to never visit another one.
A noise, a slight moan, echoed from the room. No wait… not from the room, from the casket. Shit! Her heart started racing. Her eyes shot back to the casket, and her hands jerked behind her, feeling for the doorknob. Then another snortlike noise came from the coffin. Suddenly, a big canine face popped up and rested its round head on the coffin’s wooden edge.
Zoe chuckled. “A vampire dog, huh?”
The dog stretched its neck—what little neck it had—and leaped out of the casket and came sniffing around her feet.
“So, you’re the official door greeter?” She knelt to pet the English bulldog as it started sniffing her up and down. “You smell Lucky on me? Or is it the Slam Dunk, Three-Egg Dollar Ninety-Nine special you smell?” It took two or three shampoos every night to get the smell of bacon from her hair. After a couple of seconds of giving the animal attention, she stood up.
“Hello?” she called again.
And again no one answered. She walked down the hall. The dog followed, his paws clicking on the wood floor, but the lack of noise filtering into the building seemed louder than the clickity-clack of his paws. The first door to the left was a large office. Three unmanned desks filled the room. She stepped inside.
A sign hanging from the front desk said, “If no one is here, press the button.”
Zoe looked for the button. Various files and papers covered the desk. Was the button under those? Moving in, she looked around the desk. She lifted a big pile of files when a name on one of the folders caught her eye. Bradford.
The same Bradford?
Zoe reached for the file, then pulled her hand back as if it might bite. Then she reached for it again and pulled back just as quickly. Yanking her purse higher on her shoulder, she stood there while her conscience played tug-of-war with her desire for answers. She gave the room a good look-see for anyone who might tattle if she… took a small peek.
Looking down at the dog, she asked, “You wouldn’t tell on me, would you?”
When he shook his head back and forth, she laughed.
Finally, her desire for answers won out. She flipped open the file. Less than a dozen sheets of paper resided there. The first one looked like a resume. She picked it up to read it, when the sound of a door opening filled the quiet office.
The dog barked and took off running.
She dropped the papers back on the desk and slapped the file closed. She stepped away from behind the desk, but in her haste, her purse knocked the folder off, and the file and all dozen or so papers scattered on the floor.
“Damn.” She dropped to the floor on her hands and knees to gather the evidence of her wrongdoing. She heard footsteps moving closer, and her heart pounded.
Snagging the folder and papers, she threw them on the desk and was about to stand up when she heard those footsteps enter the room, followed by the sounds of clicking paws.
Friggin’ great.
Now all she had to explain was why she was down on all fours behind someone’s desk. Her heart did another flip-flop when she remembered she was possibly dealing with angry ex-cops, now ex-cons, who’d been accused of murder.
The dog pranced around the desk and licked her right on the lips, then started sniffing her bacon-scented hair. Those footsteps moved closer still, and her mind raced right along with her heart.
The deep masculine sound of a man clearing his throat came from behind her. “Nice view.”
“Oh, I was just…” She looked back over her shoulder, praying she’d come up with a good excuse for being in this ridiculous position. But the moment her gaze landed on the clown, the only thing she came up with was a scream. A loud one.
CHAPTER THREE
DIOS. TYLER WATCHED the shapely jeans-covered butt disappear around the desk. He did a side step so as not to lose the view and watched her crawling at an amazing speed toward the door. It wasn’t every day he found a woman on her hands and knees behind his desk. So he jumped into action and planted his clown feet in front of the door.
The woman, long red hair hanging free and swishing around her arms, came to a dead stop about a foot from him. She raised her face. Her blue eyes, wide with what looked like panic, stared up at him. As soon as he got over the sheer terror he saw in her eyes, he realized the view from this side was just as nice as the one from her backside. Maybe even better. Her green scooped-neck T-shirt hung low, providing a nice view of her tan, lacy bra and ample breasts. Damn, she was hot.
“Hello,” he said. Then, somehow sensing the costume might have something to do with her fear, he yanked off the wig and without meaning to, his gaze sho
t back to her bra, or rather at the size Cs that were close to falling out of it.
Clearly seeing where his gaze had fallen, she slapped a hand to her chest. Balancing on one hand and two knees, she attempted to stand up. Apparently still shaken, she almost fell. He reached for her, but she lurched back. When she was finally on her feet, he summed up the package. Maybe five-four or-five in height, ample breasts, and a round ass.
“Nice,” he said without meaning to. “… to meet you.”
Alarm remained clear on her face—a face that would have been appealing if not for the fear. A face that stirred a slight flash of recognition, too.
“Do I know you?” He ran his hand over his swollen and bloody knuckles.
“I was…” She swallowed. “The… my purse hit it. I was…” She stopped jabbering and gazed at his injured hand.
He stopped trying to make sense of her mumbo-jumbo and shrugged. “Had to teach someone a lesson.”
She drew in a breath and stepped away from him as if thinking she might be next in line.
“He deserved it.” He studied her face again. “Who are you?” And just like that, he remembered Dallas saying he’d hired a receptionist. He looked back at the stack of files on his desk, then at her.
“My contact…” She slammed one eye closed. “My contact fell out.”
“You’re the new receptionist,” he said, and let himself give her another glance up and down. “Nice… to meet you,” he said again, but sexy, hot, and stacked were the words that came to mind.
Damn, he could kiss Dallas. She’d make a breathtaking addition to the office. Of course, it was going to be hard to focus on anything but her. Hard being the key word. And a certain southern part of his anatomy had already twitched its approval. Which was a bit bothersome. He usually had better control. Thank goodness he had room in the costume.
“I’m Tyler.” She didn’t answer, just stared.
He frowned. “You don’t like clowns, do you?”
Blame It on Texas Page 2