Evernight Publishing ®
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2014 Allyson Young
ISBN: 978-1-77233-116-5
Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs
Editor: Karyn White
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
Thanks to author Jennifer Simpkins for diligently reading everything I send her and providing such valuable feedback. And to Karyn White, editor and amazing mom who taught me about fancy dialogue tags and a new word this time around! As an author I’d be lost without my beta readers and editors. Evernight Publishing has treated me so well I’m forever grateful they accepted my first submission and we continue to have such a good working relationship. Finally, to my readers…I write for personal enjoyment, and sharing with you is the butter icing on my cake. Ally
FATED
Marking Time, 2
Allyson Young
Copyright © 2014
Chapter One
Candy Grant stared down at her phone, setting it on the front counter of her boutique, all the while blinking furiously against the moisture threatening to spill over her lower lids and drag her carefully applied mascara in dirty rivulets over her cheeks. That wouldn’t do. Not only did she have customers perusing the high priced items stocking the shelves, but her tears would signify both envy and ridiculous self-pity, two emotions she wasn’t going to let herself sink into. One errant tear somehow escaped, fortunately from the eye further away from the clientele, and she dashed it harmlessly aside, rubbing her dampened finger against her skirt.
The Russell brothers had obviously figured out they’d driven away the best thing that could ever have happened to them, and she could picture them in hot pursuit of her best friend, Sinclair Renton. A smug smile, in direct contrast to her previous emotional reaction, twitched her lips, and she could only picture Sinclair’s mixed reaction when they caught up with her. Candy had total faith they’d work it out, and her friend wouldn’t blame Candy for snitching on her. Besides, who ran away on a bus? To Canada? What about the fact Candy had had to make do with email and phone contact for all those years while Sinclair was away at school? It was high time her best friend stayed home so they could spend more time together. That was, if Craig and Ashton ever let Sinclair out of their bed.
Pushing away thoughts of the presumably happy threesome, Candy turned her attention to the immediate present. She’d decided to close a little early, and head out of town and hit a club in Sheridan, nearly a two hour drive away. Not really qualifying as a city, but at least it wasn’t here, and far enough from here to give her some anonymity. Lord knew her small town kept no secrets, and the county wasn’t any better. Her daddy’s money and status focused more attention on Candy than she preferred, especially when it curtailed her activities and carried tales back to her father, who was big on presenting a shiny image to the public. But that money also enabled her to dabble in things that interested her, like Sweet ’n Sassy Things, her boutique, a storefront that brought a little class to small town Barrister. And, she fervently hoped, some excitement.
With another smirk, she watched old Mrs. Leffert heft a gorgeous piece of sculpture, a well turned piece of erotic bronze that would set any red-blooded, heterosexual woman’s blood heating. Mrs. L ran a thorny finger down the muscled back of the male cast in the age-old pose of coitus, his partner a lithe beauty, writhing beneath him. It was the gorgeous strain on his features, and the pleasured agony wrought on the woman’s face that told the true story, however. Not pornography. Not even close. Candy wished someone would gaze upon her with that kind of love and devotion to her pleasure, and her heart actually ached at the idea. She thought someone had, once upon a time, and hadn’t been able to forget him.
An image of a scowling face, craggy brows drawn together over a pair of piercing green eyes filled her mind’s eye. Before she allowed herself to recall a finely crafted, sensuous mouth, Candy jerked into action.
“May I be of help?”
Mrs. L twitched, her stooping shoulders beneath the floral print of her dress dropping another inch before she faced Candy. The older woman’s face wasn’t pinched with judgment or distaste, although her pale eyes might have flickered with guilt or embarrassment.
“This is beautiful, my dear.”
“It is.” It was easy to agree when Mrs. L spoke the truth, but Candy wanted to ease her out of the shop, along with the two other women examining some diaphanous lingerie in the far corner.
“I’ll take it.” That was a surprise. The bronze wasn’t priced cheaply.
With what she hoped passed for an accommodating—and patient—smile, Candy nodded. “I’ll wrap it up.”
“You have some lovely things in here.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Leffert.”
“Patricia, my dear. If we’re to have discourse over such an object, then I believe first names are appropriate.”
A little stunned, Candy managed another nod. “Uh, sure … Patricia.”
“I knew your mother. Taught her actually.”
That was right. Mrs. L—Patricia—had been an English teacher at Barrister High, and Lenore Grant, née Rounce, had attended that school. Candy’s knowledge of her deceased parent was meager, but she knew her mom had been born and raised near here. She had a few vague memories of a tall, slender woman with gentle hands who carried the scent of lily of the valley.
But her dad never talked about his wife, and her mom was a subject Candy had learned at an early age not to broach. Her daddy was her only living relative aside from a distant aunt, and while she knew why they’d moved here, it was still a place where surely the memories of her mother abounded for him. Maybe he was into self-flagellation, like her. After all, she was still here.
“What was she like?” The question slipped out before she could think to stop it. Her desire to get gone and up to Sheridan clouded her judgment. Her daddy would kill her if he thought she was asking the locals about her mom. As she got older she’d figured out it was grief that had turned him so cold and reserved, and her own heartbreak gave her a better understanding. Not that she thought about her own issues in that regard anymore.
Mrs. L’s attention was on the tissue paper cradling the bronze as Candy tucked it into a box, but she raised her eyes. “A good girl, that I recall. Smart. You look quite like her, actually. The resemblance is remarkable.”
Really. No pictures from the past, aside from several of her as a child, adorned their home. And yes, she still lived at home, albeit in a self contained suite, a hard fought battle she’d won in negotiation with her father. He told her all the photo albums and other sentimental objects had perished in the fire along with her mother and her visiting grandparents. She and her dad had been out shopping when the gas explosion immolated the house, and she chose not to think much about the devastation amongst innumerable flashing lights at the scene when they’d driven up to the roadblock and yellow tape. The sight of that fluttering and ominously printed barrier on television shows could make her belly clench. Funny how a three-year-old could retain that memory with such clarity, and so few of her mother and grandparents. Another reason to keep Reece Murdoch at bay, given his chosen profession, not that she was giving any consideration to having him in her life again, despite the way he looked at her. She pressed a hand against the flutter and sudden heat in her belly, hoping to
short circuit any migration to other, lower areas. Funny how her heart was a hard, chunk of coal, but other parts of her body didn’t notice.
“Candy?”
“Oh, sorry. Thinking about my mom.” And that my daddy likely sees her each and every time he looks at me.
Mrs. L’s face softened. “You were so young. We weren’t surprised that your father brought you back here to the family home. Picked up the pieces and carried on the business.”
Yup, her daddy picked up the reins of the natural gas empire her maternal grandfather had spearheaded—and willed to her mother—and had never looked back. If anyone saw the irony in how that man had died, along with his wife and only child, nobody was unkind enough voice it within Candy’s hearing. She sometimes saw it on their faces, though.
“He did.” That seemed safe enough to say. Her daddy wasn’t particularly well liked in these parts, but did command respect of sorts, she supposed. Money and power garnered that emotion in some people. And she’d be a hypocrite if she didn’t own up to that money easing her way in life. If it hadn’t been for her friendship with Sinclair, both of them the same age and arriving in the area at roughly the same time, she might have turned out a complete wastrel. Her daddy didn’t care if she did well in school or established herself in sports or anything else. Nope, Daddy Dearest lavished all his austere attention on his stepsons and his second wife, Roslyn, who’d tried to parent Candy early on but had given it up as a bad job. Candy was purely decorative and expected to marry at some point to someone her father approved of, although he did demand a certain decorum. Never shit in your own nest, was one of his pithier sayings. Which was why she needed to get to that damn club!
“Thanks for your purchase, Patricia. Hope to see you soon.”
Mrs. L clutched the box to her bony chest and smiled, apparently not fazed by Candy’s thinly veiled dismissal. The little girl in her whimpered and asked for more information about her mother, but she bade her to be quiet. It hurt, and she wasn’t going to allow herself to experience any additional negative emotions. Candy Grant was a good time girl, happy-go-lucky, footloose and fancy free. All that jazz.
“If you’d like to talk about your mother, dear, give me a call. Some of my friends and their children knew her better than I, and they’d be happy to chat.”
Lungs constricting, remembering how her daddy reacted to anybody even speaking her mom’s name in his presence, Candy had to force a smile in return. “Thank you.”
With a wave, Mrs. L departed, the little bell above the door tinkling to signal her exit.
The other women soon left, one with a gossamer scrap of lace masquerading as a nightgown, and the other with a discreetly boxed vibrator, misleadingly labeled personal massager. Barrister was conservative, although Candy had faith in the upcoming generation. Most of her coevals had hightailed it out of town, with the exception of those who found employment around here, several in her dad’s company.
Not that she particularly enjoyed the company of her peers, aside from Sinclair. Lord, she’d missed her friend. Once again the image of the Sheriff infiltrated her consciousness, probably summoned by the reminder of high school. She banished it, resolutely, extinguishing that tiny flame sparking to life in her belly.
Crossing to the door, she flipped the sign to signal her establishment being closed, and threw the deadbolt. Nothing stirred out on the sidewalk or the street, and she figured no one else would be shopping at Sweet ’n Sassy this late in the day. Not that it mattered. Her need for some kind of social outlet was climbing and any hopeful customer would have to come back on Monday.
Hurrying into the back, part stock room, part change room, she stripped the plastic from the outfit hanging on the rack. The camisole was a beautifully crafted piece of silk and lace, a cleverly constructed shelf bra concealed behind the fabric. It was black with silvery grey inserts and paired nicely with the short, flirty dark grey skirt. Candy knew, without conceit, that both the cut of the garment and the color set off her fair skin and blonde hair. Pulling off her more decorous outfit, she hung it carefully on another hanger and draped her bra strap over the hook. She caught sight of her curvy body in the long mirror outside the change room, and swallowed a sigh. She took care of her health for the most part, eating well, paying attention to nutrition, but she’d never be the svelte catwalk type. Poor little rich girl. With that derisive thought, she shimmied into her outfit for the evening, then stepped into the matching sky high stilettos. At least she’d capture the height of one of those runway models.
Touching up her makeup, going for a little smokier look around her blue eyes and applying a darker rose lip gloss, she finished things off by lifting her hair up and into a fashionable twist, displaying the silver waterfall earrings—and her considerable cleavage—to advantage. Surveying herself with satisfaction she snatched up her purse and keys, exiting the building into the alley where her car was parked. She didn’t care to display her look to the local populace, so after ensuring the door locked behind her, she hustled to the vehicle. Her wrap was in the backseat to guard against the inevitable chill of the evening, although she also had a small suitcase in the event of someone or something giving her a reason to stay overnight.
After easing out of the back lane, she turned onto the main street, accelerating in smooth, short bursts as she shifted through the gears. The town of Barrister soon filled her rearview mirror as she passed the crossroads and headed toward the interstate. There was no traffic either behind or ahead of her, and she kicked her baby into a higher gear, relishing the open road ahead and the strains of her favorite song belting out from the speakers. She could really give the car its head once she reached pavement. All unpleasant thoughts temporarily banished, she allowed herself to anticipate the evening ahead.
****
Reese Murdoch slouched comfortably against the broken-in seat of the county’s second best cruiser, gripping the wheel with one big hand. He was headed home after a day in court at the county seat, testifying against some poor excuse of a criminal who’d thought to rob the lone bank in Barrister a few months previous. The guy had used a flare pistol for Christ’s sake, and was so intoxicated he’d dropped it—twice—before the manager smacked him upside the head with a decorative statue enshrining one of the town’s founders. Louisa Bennet had a wicked swing, because the would-be thief hadn’t woken up for two days.
He found himself sighing. Barrister wasn’t a bad place. Born and raised there, he knew pretty much all the inhabitants, as well as those living in the surrounding area, except for the ones who’d arrived while he was overseas. Being elected as Sheriff had been a no brainer, his being a military man home from Iraq and all, presumably well versed in weapons and leadership. Both true, except he was hampered by a paltry budget, and the people he’d sworn to serve and protect were scattered over a huge part of the state. Good thing the work wasn’t onerous, the abortive bank robbing being the biggest thing to happen in his tenure thus far.
No doubt that would change over time, people being what they were, but he was bored for the most part. The one thing—person—who could easily obliterate that boredom didn’t deign to recognize either his existence or his authority, and he hadn’t decided which plan to pursue in that regard. It had been months, but if he’d learned anything in the military, it was that an offensive had a better chance of succeeding if one gathered solid intelligence and formulated a careful plan of attack. He wryly admitted he’d come home because of Candace, if only to determine why she’d ignored all of his efforts to get in touch with her over the years. Some might call it closure. He just plain wanted her, and knew enough about women to know that while her demeanor said one thing, something else was operating behind that icy exterior.
In the meantime, there was the odd drunk and disorderly to deal with, complaints about cattle rustling to investigate, a few domestics—and didn’t he hate those—and some traffic violations.
The road dipped to accommodate an arroyo, and he rose up out of
it to crest the slight hill. And speaking of traffic violations, the unmistakable silver Bimmer hammering in his direction, trailing a dusty rooster trail, caused him to grind his teeth and war with his responding arousal. Damn her. She was going to kill herself one day in that stupid car, maybe before he put the final touches on his plan. He supposed he should be grateful Candace hadn’t bought the convertible version. Flipping on his lights, he considered his strategy, noting the way the smaller vehicle’s hood dipped in response to the application of brakes. She’d been flying along.
She pulled the Bimmer over, and he drifted on by, to pull a three point turn and come up behind her. Candace hadn’t made eye contact at all, staring straight ahead through the windshield, and he figured she had to know it was him. She didn’t cut his two deputies dead when they either spoke or approached her. As he parked he reached for his hat, running a finger along the brim, before exiting the vehicle. He took his time settling it on his head, watching Candace’s profile in the side mirror, willing his professionalism to the fore when all he really wanted to do was drag her back to the cruiser, handcuffed, and take her home with him. Someplace safe—and easily accessible for both their pleasure. The plan suddenly came together.
Approaching the open window, he spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “You were hitting seventy, Candace. We’ve had this discussion before.”
She didn’t reply, instead thrusting her paperwork toward him. Her picture on the license didn’t fit with the stony visage looking dead ahead. Despite the customary, don’t smile, hair tucked behind your ears, dictates of the DMV, Candace’s full mouth, with its eminently bitable bottom lip somehow quirked up at the corners, and there was no mistaking the sparkle in those baby blues. Just as he remembered her—full of life and joy, bubbly, vivacious, and all those adjectives people applied to her. But then, he’d admit he’d hardly given her anything to smile about, primarily because she wouldn’t give him the time of day. That was gonna change.
Fated Page 1