The Keeper

by Rhonda Nelson

  Mr. Jefferson blinked and then seemed to snap to himself. “Sorry,” he said, mopping his face with a handkerchief. “Didn’t mean to go off on a tangent. What can I help you with?”

  Jack hesitated. Where to begin? “I know this is going to sound like a weird question, but have you had anyone steal butter from you recently?”

  Jefferson’s face went comically blank. “Steal butter?”

  “Right,” Jack told him, feeling more ridiculous by the minute. “One of your clients, Mariette Levine, has had thirty pounds of butter stolen from her over the past three days. The guy broke in again last night. When Mariette interrupted him, he threw a rolling pin at her and knocked her out cold.”

  Alarm raced across the older man’s features and he leaned forward. “What? Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine,” Jack assured him. “More annoyed than anything else, but we’re checking every possible source to try and make some sort of connection. Since you’re her supplier, I thought I’d check here first. See if you’ve had any similar occurrences.”

  “I haven’t,” Jefferson told him, a thoughtful expression on his lined face. “Business has run as usual.” He frowned. “I just can’t imagine why anyone would want to steal her butter. It doesn’t make a damned bit of sense.”

  “Is there anything special or different about the butter that you supply Mariette?”

  He shook his head. “Not a thing. I send the same thing to bakeries and restaurants all over the city.”

  “The packaging is the same, as well?”

  “It is. Five-pound loaves.”

  A movement behind him snagged Jack’s attention and he turned to find a young man with a pair of unfortunate scars on each side of his face peering around the doorframe. A blond, short-haired dog with large, alert ears and big brown eyes sat at his heels. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Jefferson.” His gaze flitted to Jack and then away. “Just wanted to let you know that I was back.”

  Jefferson nodded and the boy turned to leave, clicking his tongue at the dog. “Come on, Prize. Time to get to work.”

  “Bobby Ray,” Jefferson called, halting him. “Mariette Levine was attacked last night in her shop. Someone’s been stealing her butter. Have you noticed anything odd? Seen anyone lurking about around here or her back door?” He looked to Jack. “Bobby Ray is my right-hand man and delivery guy. He’s been an incredible help since I lost my Martha.”

  The younger boy blushed and ducked his head and instinctively reached to pet the dog, who’d nudged up under his hand. “Mariette was attacked?” he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “Is she all right?”

  “She is,” Jack told him, watching the kid carefully. He was awfully…twitchy.

  “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary, son?”

  The boy thought about it for a minute, then shook his head. “No, sir. But I’m not looking, either. I make my deliveries and head to the next drop.”

  Jefferson nodded. “That’s a good lad. Thanks,” he said, dismissing him with a nod. The older man speared Jack with a direct look. “I don’t know what’s going on, but that boy doesn’t have anything to do with it,” he said. “He’s a good kid that’s been dealt a bad hand. Those scars on his face? His dad gave them to him when he was eight.”

  Jack winced, more than a little shocked. What sort of parent purposely disfigured their own child like that? And those were the scars that could be seen. God only knew about the ones you couldn’t.

  Jack nodded, accepting the warning for what it was, but didn’t intend to completely dismiss the kid. Point of fact, he couldn’t afford to dismiss anyone at this stage of the investigation. And while it was entirely possible that he was just the type who got nervous around an unfamiliar adult, he hadn’t seemed surprised that Mariette had been hurt and that threw up a red flag.

  Jack pushed to his feet and extended his hand. “Thanks so much for your time, Mr. Jefferson.”

  “Most welcome,” he said. “Let me know if there’s anything at all I can do.”

  “If you notice anything out of the ordinary or—”

  “I’ll call you,” Jefferson told him. He winced. “I hate that for Mariette. She’s a good girl with a good heart. And next to my Martha, she makes the best pound cake I’ve ever had. Tell her I’m thinking of her, will you?”

  “Of course.” Jack made the return trek to his car and noticed that Bobby Ray had retreated to his own car for a smoke break. The dog sat next to the back tire, seemingly guarding the boy. Was Bobby Ray nervous? Jack wondered. Or was this simply a regular occurrence? Either way, he bore watching. Jack made note of the tag and waved on his way out. As soon as he turned onto the main road he dialed the office and asked for Payne.

  “What’s up?”

  “I need you to run a tag for me. I’ve got a first and middle name, but not a last.”

  “Sure.”

  “Bobby Ray. The car is an older model Buick.” He reeled off the series of numbers and letters. “He’s the delivery boy for Jefferson’s Dairy.”

  “You think he’s got something to do with this?”

  “It’s too early to tell,” Jack said. “But he was as nervous as a whore in church when he walked in and found me talking to his boss.”

  “He could always be in some other sort of trouble.”

  That was true, Jack knew. Those scars, in addition to being a constant reminder of his father’s abuse, had more than likely made him an easy target, as well. And kids could be so damned cruel.

  “Jefferson warned me off of him. Said he’d been dealt a rough hand.”

  Payne whistled low.

  “I see you’ve found him. His father did that. When he was eight.”

  “Damn. Poor kid. His name is Bobby Ray Bishop,” he said. “He’s nineteen. I’ll run a full background check and forward it to you with his address.”

  “Thanks, Payne. I appreciate it.”

  “How’s Mariette?”

  “She’s cooperating,” Jack told him with less confidence than he actually felt, but when in doubt, bluff, right? “I’m heading back over there now.”

  Much as it galled him to admit it, he couldn’t deny the twinge of trepidation tightening his gut. Him, afraid? Of a little slip of a girl? He’d waded into gunfire, fought his way out of countless battles when death had been a serious concern—and Mariette Levine and her dairy thief were making him nervous?

  It was ridiculous, Jack told himself, tapping a thumb against the steering wheel. Utterly stupid. It was this case, his first for Ranger Security, his only in the private sector. That was the root of the problem. A fear of failure, of not knowing the proper rules, nothing more.

  And if he managed to sell that line of B.S. to himself, then there was some beach-front property in Oklahoma he needed to look at, as well. Jack snorted.

  Sexy woman + small space + overnight stay = hell on earth…squared.

  And he knew it.

  RESIGNED AND MORE THAN A BIT chastened for being less than grateful when Payne had first told her his security plan, Mariette had decided that she was going to do everything within reason to make Jack comfortable. And frankly, she was just vain enough to want him to, at the very least, like her. Probably that was stupid, but as evidenced by her most recent failed romance, she didn’t always make the most intelligent decisions.

  That was a thought she’d need to ponder later.

  Additionally, whatever hell he’d been through that Charlie had alluded to—her heart gave an involuntary squeeze—would certainly be compounded by staying away from his own place, a fact she should have considered when she was mentally whining about her own inconvenience.

  And this particular inconvenience was for her safety.

  The very least she could do was be gra
cious about it.

  At present Jack and Charlie were briefing each other and, in order to give them a bit of privacy, she’d retreated to her apartment above the shop. Because she spent so little actual time in this space she hadn’t had to do much in the way of cleaning it up for company. She’d dressed the spare bed in clean sheets, stocked his bathroom with plenty of linens and had made sure that the batteries in the seldom-used remote control for the television still held a charge.

  Because she was still putting the bulk of her disposable income back into the shop, her apartment had been decorated with hand-me-downs from her aunt, thrift-store finds, the occasional antique and do-it-yourself art.

  She’d framed some of her favorite old album covers, picked up bits of old wrought iron and beaten-up architectural pieces salvaged from old homes. Her curtains were bits of scrap fabric with hot-glued hems and had been hung with pretty upholstery tacks that she’d nailed directly into the window frame. It was junk-store chic, she liked to joke, but it was home and she loved it.

  He rapped softly at the door and called her name. A line of gooseflesh raced down her back and she sank her teeth into her bottom lip as that same phenomenal need she’d experienced in the shop earlier broadsided her.

  And she’d only heard his voice.

  “In here,” she said, feeling unaccountably nervous. Geez Lord, Mariette. Get a grip. She’d actually popped up earlier in the day and put a couple of baking potatoes into the Crock-Pot, an ingenious tip she’d learned from Aunt Marianne. Between her mother and her aunt, she’d been thoroughly educated on all things relevant and domestic. She felt a grin twitch at her lips. The whole how-to-choose-a-good-man lesson had been the only one that hadn’t stuck.

  Mariette had harvested enough fresh greens from her rooftop greenhouse—another little sanctuary—for a couple of salads and had just put the steaks beneath the broiler when she felt him move into the kitchen. The atmosphere seemed to change, become more charged. The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled and a tremor raced along her fingers.

  “Something smells good,” he said, venturing farther into the room. His mere presence considerably lessened the space, made her feel small but, curiously, not claustrophobic. “I hope you didn’t go to a lot of trouble.”

  Mariette smiled drolly. “Then you’re different from the rest of your gender,” she said, shooting him a look over her shoulder. “In my experience, men like it when women go to a lot of trouble, particularly where it pertains to food.”

  He chuckled softly. “A really good meal is a gift that most anyone with a brain should appreciate. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  She gestured to two empty glasses on the counter. “You could put some ice in those. There’s tea in the fridge.”

  Looking as at-home as it was possible to be for someone who didn’t live there, Jack did as she asked. She darted another look over her shoulder at him, and smiled when she realized his head damned near brushed the suspended light fixture. She chuckled under her breath.

  “What’s funny?” he asked suspiciously. “Don’t tell me I’ve done this wrong. I was always the official drink maker at our house growing up. Charlie set the table, I handled the drinks. I’m a champion tea pourer. I couldn’t have possibly screwed this up.”

  Mariette laughed harder and shook her head. “It’s not that,” she said, giggling. “I was thinking about Livvie’s ‘corn man’ comment earlier today.” She turned the steaks. “Another inch and some green paint and you could pass for the Jolly Green Giant.”

  He sighed dramatically and shook his head. “Out of all the tall men she could have chosen, that’s the one I brought to mind. A man in a leaf dress with girlie little booties on his feet?”

  She swiveled to look at him. “He’s wearing booties? Seriously?”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve been mistaken for the big green guy,” Jack told her. “It’s always a kid’s first frame of reference.”

  “And what tall man would you rather be mistaken for?” she asked, quirking a brow.

  He shrugged magnanimously and took a sip of his tea. “Atlas works.”

  She felt a choked laugh break loose in her throat. “Atlas?”

  “Hey, don’t knock him,” Jack told her. “It’s a big job, holding up the world.”

  She turned back to the stove and chewed the inside of her cheek. “True,” she conceded. “I suppose I’d rather be compared to Atlas than the Jolly Green Giant if I was tall, too.”

  “Damn straight,” he said with a grim nod. “I’d never wear a dress or booties.”

  “But the loincloth would work for you?” Dammit, she shouldn’t have asked that question because she could most assuredly see him being able to rock a loincloth. Her gaze turned inward at the thought and she unwittingly held her breath. Sleek, sculpted muscle and fine bone structure, his masculine form a bare work of art…

  “I don’t know about that,” he said with a humble nod. “But I’d prefer it to the other, that’s for damned sure.” He shot her a speculative glance and a wicked gleam entered his blue gaze. “I suppose you get mistaken for Julia Child all the time.”

  “Right,” she said with a snort. “Because I’m also six two and we favor so much.”

  He arched a surprised brow. “Julia Child was six two?”

  She nodded. Mariette Levine, gatherer of pointless trivia.

  He hummed under his breath, seemingly filing that away. “You don’t favor anybody I’ve ever seen,” he said a beat later, his gaze drifting over her face as though trying to figure out what it was exactly that made her so different.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. Heat spread over her face. “I think.”

  “It’s a compliment,” he said. “You weren’t at all what I was expecting.”

  Then that made two of them. Because she’d met most of the men who worked for Ranger Security she should have anticipated a fit, attractive guy—the rest of them certainly were. But none of them tripped her trigger the way this one had. She’d never looked at any one of them and felt her personal mercury hit critical mass in the time it took to draw a breath.

  No man ever had, for that matter.

  Remember the man hiatus, Mariette? Remember Nathaniel? Remember feeling stupid?

  Evidently not.

  “Oh?” she remarked, blatantly fishing. “How so?”

  “I’d expected you to be older. I like your name—it’s very different and it suits you—but it’s a bit old-fashioned and, as such, I had this mental image of a plump, gray-haired granny with soft cheeks and laugh lines.” He paused and sucked in a long breath, his eyes widening significantly as his gaze once again raked her from head to toe. “You’re…not,” he finished on a laughing exhale.

  Wow.

  “Not yet, anyway,” she said, feeling feminine delight bloom in her chest and a corresponding tug deep in the heart of her sex. Mercy, that look…

  And yes, she knew her name sounded old-fashioned…but that’s not where it had come from. She inwardly grinned. Its origins were as unique and singular as her mother had been. And that was saying something.

  She plated their steaks so that they could rest, then added the salad and potatoes and moved everything to the table. He pulled her chair out for her—an unexpected gesture she’d admit to enjoying—then took the seat opposite.

  Mariette cleared her throat and cut into her baked potato. “My mother named me after her two favorite things,” she said, her tone purposely light and matter-of-fact.

  He carved off a bit of steak. “Really? What was that?” He popped the bite into his mouth and groaned appreciatively.

  Mariette dropped a large pat of butter into her steaming potato, then looked up and smiled. “My aunt Marianne and Smurfette.”

  5

 
JACK CHOKED, HIS EYES watering. He thumped his fist against his sternum and tried to swallow, then gulped down some tea.

  Eyes twinkling, she continued to blithely eat her food. “You okay?” she asked, arching an innocent brow.

  He cleared his aching throat. “Yes,” he wheezed. “Just trying to make my lungs digest some food. Wonder of wonders, they’re not designed for that.”

  She chuckled. “Sorry. I should have let you swallow it first.”

  “Smurfette?” he all but croaked. “Your mother named you after a little blue cartoon character? Seriously?”

  “And my Aunt Marianne,” she reminded him.

  “That’s…interesting,” he said with a burst of air, because honestly he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He’d heard lots of interesting names over the years and the tales of how they’d come about—hell, he was named after a damned tree—but this one… This one certainly took top billing for ingenuity and definitely fell into the WTF category.

  “She had Down’s,” Mariette said, looking from beneath a sweep of dark lashes, evidently to gauge his reaction.

  Oh. Oh.

  Admittedly, this was a degree more shocking than how she’d gotten her name, but Jack kept his expression neutral. She’d said it without the smallest trace of self-consciousness or inflection. She might have said the sky was blue or “pass the salt.” It was a simple, matter-of-fact statement. And it was in the past tense. Though he longed to ask several questions, he chose one he hoped was innocent enough.

  He forked up a bite of salad. “What was her name?”

  “Marlena.”

  “Also unusual,” he commented, still trying to find footing in this treacherous terrain. “But lovely.”

  “She was a lovely person,” Mariette said, her tone fond and wistful. “We lost her three years ago. Heart failure.” She winced. “Sadly, it’s all too common among those with the condition.”

  He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”