I'd gone over the approach in my mind all afternoon as I'd done up the veggie platter for Emma Shaw's party. The phrasing had to be just right so he knew I was there for purely nonromantic reasons. I need your help was way too melodramatic. You owe me crossed the line into bitchy, even if it was true. I'd settled on, we have a common goal, finding out who killed Zoltan Farnsworth, and I'd be willing to work with you so we can catch a killer.
Catch a killer? The way my luck was running, the only thing I'd catch was a cold.
There was no answer to my knock, so I repeated it with a little more gusto. Was Jones even home? I hadn't seen his SUV, but after the state it had been in yesterday, that was no surprise. Finally, I heard footsteps, and the door opened, and I stood face to face with Malcolm Jones.
Unfortunately, he wasn't alone.
"Andy?" Kyle asked, scowling from me to Jones and back again. "What are you doing here?"
Crap. I couldn't go into anything with Kyle standing there, and double crap, Lizzy right behind him.
"I invited her," Jones said without missing a beat.
So he could use his powers for good as well as evil. Not that lying to Kyle and Lizzy was a big deal to me, not even a twinge on the old Catholic guilt-dar. Nope, fibbing to them held no consequences for me. Maybe it would for Jones though. Lizzy was his sister, and Kyle would soon be his brother-in-law.
"Sorry I'm late," I smiled and stepped through the doorway before he could change his mind and shut me out. "I had to drop Aunt Cecily off with Pops. How are you feeling?"
"Better," Jones said.
"You two are really together?" This from Lizzy who didn't look happy at the prospect.
"Not really," I said before Jones could dig himself in deeper. He was the one who had to live with them, and Lizzy already hated me. "He's been helping me on the Chef Farnsworth thing. You know background research and whatnot."
Lizzy looked relieved, but Kyle's expression was pained. I was pretty sure the good sheriff didn't appreciate amateur hour horning in on his investigation. Before he could lecture me I turned my attention to the house. "Quite a place you have here."
The inside of the house was equally impressive to the breathtaking surroundings. A gourmet kitchen in the center, connecting the two wings of the house, spectacular western views of the valley below with glass walls all around. From where we stood I could see into the spacious kitchen, a true sight to behold.
Quartz countertops and cherry cabinets with glass front doors filled the decadent space, all utterly spotless with nary a crumb or a smudge in sight. Wine glasses and plates marched in even rows all the way to the back, a full set of china—not the mishmash stuff I used at home. An industrial-sized gas range had been built into the center island, with a hanging rack of copper bottom pots and pans suspended directly above. Two built-in wall ovens loomed opposite a glass front refrigerator. The large country-style sink was double the size of a standard sink, and the dishwasher was one of those awesome deep basin deals. If Jones turned his back, I might be tempted to rip it out and take it home with me.
"Thank you," Jones said. "Would you care for a tour?"
His eyes glinted, and I saw something in them, something that looked like a warning. Was the tour an excuse to get me alone? "Sure."
"Why don't you two head on out to the patio?" Jones suggested in that easy managing way of his. I had no doubt they'd obey. He'd capably maneuvered Aunt Cecily. Lizzy and Kyle were putty in his hands.
I followed him into the living room. The floor was blond parquet, the walls white, the windows sparkly clean. The black and white couch looked like a Rorschach test and was an artistic masterpiece in itself. The prints on the walls were absolutely fabulous, stark and dramatic black and white photos, some blown up to poster size, others cropped and displayed in eight by ten-inch black frames.
"Are these yours?" I asked, studying the photos in awe. An old apple tree, barren and leafless, its gnarled branches reaching toward the malevolent sky above. The starkness of an empty street, a skyscraper taken at such an angle the viewer was staring at the corner. A lamppost lit the sidewalk before it like a spotlight, the dramatic shadowing of the building setting the stage for life that didn't reveal itself. Shot after shot of barren desolation, all of it calling to me, underscoring my loneliness.
Shaking my head, I withdrew, turning to face the window. What fresh pile of bull crap was that? I wasn't lonely. I barely had a minute to myself in a given day. This was no time to feel abandoned and alone.
Yet the stark beauty of his photographs unmasked the yawning chasm deep inside. Did he feel the way I did, that no matter how hard I tried, I still stood on the outside, looking in? To my horror my eyes filled, and I turned my back on Jones, staring out into the purpling twilight.
My go away body language didn't stop him though. He stood behind me, and I could see his reflection in the flawless glass. "I'm surprised you're here."
"Well, what I told them was true. You have resources that I don't, and I need more information on Chef Zoltan Farnsworth."
"Andrea," Jones said and paused. "I'm truly sorry I lied to you. It wasn't only about the job. I don't open up to people often."
As apologies went, it was astonishingly half-baked. He'd pushed and prodded and cajoled me the same way he did everyone else. But I wasn't so subtle, and I didn't need a broken man to make me into half of a matching set of damaged goods. Whatever. Jones wanted to keep his secrets? Fine by me. I had bigger fish to fry. "It's behind us. So, will you help me?"
Pasta Carbonara
What you'll need:
1 pound pasta, not yet cooked (You will need some of the starchy water.)
1/2 pound pancetta, cut small
1/4 cup garlic-infused olive oil
4 cloves crushed garlic
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
2 large egg yolks
4-6 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese
A handful of fresh parsley leaves, finely chopped
A few grinds black pepper
Place a large pot of water on the stove to boil. When water is rolling, add some salt and the pasta, and cook to al dente, about 8 minutes, reserving 1/4 cup pasta water.
While the pasta cooks, heat large a skillet over moderate heat. Cook the pancetta in oil, 3 to 5 minutes. Add garlic and crushed pepper flakes. Sauté garlic 2 minutes. Add wine or stock to the pan, and reduce liquid by half, 2 minutes.
Beat together egg yolks and cheese, and while whisking vigorously, stir in a ladle of the boiling pasta water. Add parsley and pepper and set aside.
Drain the pasta, and add it to the pan with sauce. Toss pasta with pancetta, and then add egg mixture and toss 1 minute, then remove from heat. Continue to toss until sauce coats the pasta and serve.
**Andy's note: This dish can be made with rigatoni, linguini, or fettuccini. Personally, I think fettuccini makes it oh, so much sexier.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"No," Jones said. His voice was quiet but underscored with steely resolve.
My shoulders slumped. "No, you won't help me?" Dang it, I really hadn't considered that possibility.
He shook his head slowly "No, as in, I'll help you, but I won't accept your conditions. I'm not like Kyle, Andrea. I'm not easily managed. And I refuse to let you push me away because you're afraid of getting hurt."
I made a noise, somewhere between a gasp and a squawk. The nerve of this guy! "You can't force me to date you, Jones."
He folded his arms over his chest, and my heart did this stupid little fluttering thing at the sight of his chiseled muscles flexing under the tight shirt. Jones stared me down with those bright blue eyes and one side of his mouth curved up in a sinister smile. "You're right. But I will refuse to assist you unless you spend time with me."
"That's blackmail," I hissed. "Are you really that hard up for a date?"
A shrug. "Believe what you want."
I didn't believe that for a second. I had no doubt that in spite of the rumors, Jo
nes could stand in the town square, snap his fingers, and all the single women of Beaverton would come a runnin' like he was the Pied Piper of Orgasms.
So why did he want to bother with poor, notorious Andy Buckland, the Death Chef of Doom?
The sound of footsteps coming down the hall interrupted our silent standoff. Lizzy glanced between the two of us, gave me a tight-lipped smile, then bee-lined for her brother. "Malcolm? I have to get home. The florist will be there in an hour, and if I'm not there to run interference, mother will cancel my order and take over everything."
Though it was demented, I sort of envied Lizzy and her problems. What I wouldn't give to have the chance to bicker with my mother over my wedding flowers. But my mom was gone, and I should probably get started collecting the cats that would one day eat my face when I died, bitter and alone. Instead I'm mucking about with Jones and his bedroom eyes and interfering with a police investigation.
The jury was back—I was officially nuts.
"I'll see you later, then." Jones brushed a quick kiss over Lizzy's cheek, a tender gesture. No one would ever mistake the two of them for brother and sister, not in looks anyway. He was dark, almost swarthy where she was typical Sothern Belle milquetoast. Yet there was something similar in the precise way they squared their shoulders and lifted their chins, as though bidding one another farewell before heading into battle.
Just another reason getting involved with Malcolm Jones was a heinous idea of the first order. Related to my nemesis, a P.I., a liar, a blackmailing scoundrel. Plenty of reasons to run the other direction. All that was on the other side was his tall, dark, and handsome allure.
A smarter woman would run, screaming.
"Andy," Kyle pulled me to the side while Jones and Lizzy continued their goodbye. "Don't go digging into the Farnsworth case. It's an open murder investigation, and you'll be charged with interfering with a police investigation."
I looked up into the puppy dog brown eyes of the man I'd once thought I'd spend my life with. There was nothing there anymore, no anger or regret over the path not taken. Just a familiar face from long ago. "I know you can't discuss it with me, but do I need a lawyer?"
"You don't, no." Kyle's gaze slid to Jones. Though we already spoke in hushed tones, he lowered his voice even further. "Do yourself a favor and stay away from him."
"You don't get to tell me what to do," I said sweetly.
"I mean it, Andy. He's trouble."
"That trouble is about to be your brother-in-law." I folded my arms under my breasts and held my ground. "You can't arrest him for murder just because he's new in town."
"You know I'm not like that. Besides, it's not my investigation—the police force is running the show. Detective Brown will get to the bottom of it. Even if he's not a killer, he attracts trouble."
"Nana use to say the same thing about you. Should I officially change my name to trouble?"
Kyle made an exasperated sound. "I heard about the car accident. Someone tampered with his brakes, and probably that same someone is trying really hard to make it look like Jones was involved with the murder. The man is dangerous. I don't want to see you hurt again. Not like you were after—"
"Kyle," Lizzy's voice was borderline shrill, and she made an effort to soften it. "You ready, Sugar Bear?"
Gack. That nickname was even worse than Little Bit. I was still grateful for the interruption because I didn't want to venture any further down memory lane with Kyle.
"Yeah. Think it through, Andy." Kyle clapped his hat on his head, took Lizzy's arm, and escorted her out.
"Well, that could have been less awkward," I said as the door shut behind them and I turned to Jones. He looked tired and sore, a rainbow of bruises and dark circles beneath his pretty eyes. It was obvious he was still suffering the aftereffects of the car accident, and I softened my tone. "Have you eaten?"
One sardonic eyebrow went up. "Are you offering to cook for me, Andrea?"
"Maybe I just want to play in your fabulous kitchen." I shrugged and turned my face away so he wouldn't see me blush. "Besides, you look a little pathetic."
"Flattery will get you nowhere." Jones smiled. "And yes, I would love if you cooked in my kitchen."
That sounded suggestive as all get-out. I didn't know what to do with my warring emotions, so I did what I did best and set to making a meal.
The fridge was well stocked, lots of fresh veggies and herbs. The pantry was full to bursting. Jones settled himself on a barstool, obviously content to watch. I took a few minutes snooping through cabinets, assessing the equipment I had to work with. All of it was top of the line, no expenses spared. Must be nice. I filled a pot with water, added sea salt, and set it on the gas stove to boil.
"Do you cook?" I asked as I opened a can of crushed tomatoes.
"Now and again. When you live alone there isn't much point."
He was right about that. I cooked out of habit more than for the pleasure of it. Good food was meant to be shared. I focused on my sauce for a spell, chopping mushrooms, onions, and garlic. "You seem very settled here."
"That's because of Lizzy," he said with a smile. "She got the house ready for me, hoping it would encourage me to stay."
"Are you planning to stay here in Beaverton?" I poured him a glass of wine, a bold red, then added some to my sauce.
"That depends," Jones said, sipping his wine.
Was he trying to play coy? "On?"
"Several things."
Some hair fell into my eyes as I added pasta to the boiling water. "Are you trying to drive me nuts?"
"Short trip," he grinned at me, obviously teasing. "That smells divine."
"Stop changing the subject." I brandished my pasta fork like a weapon. "You're cagey, you know that?"
"I've been called worse."
I took my frustration out on the sauce, stirring it ferociously. Soon enough it was done, and I drained the water from the pasta, loaded it into a bowl, topped it with the sauce, and set it before Jones with a little more force than necessary.
There was mischief in his eyes as he looked at my flushed face. "You're cute when you're irritated."
"You would know." I poured my own glass of wine and set up a much smaller bowl of pasta for myself.
"This is magnificent," he said after swallowing his first mouthful.
"It would be better with fresh pasta." I scooted several mushrooms to one side. I liked the flavor they added to certain dishes but had never been a fan of the texture.
"Why can't you just take a compliment?" Jones cleaned his plate in about five minutes flat, then rose stiffly and went back for seconds.
I shrugged. "Never had practice with it. Aunt Cecily doesn't exactly exude praise in the kitchen. Nana was more encouraging, but if I ever did get a compliment out of Aunt Cecily, it was like I'd moved a mountain."
"She's a perfectionist?"
I snorted. "I'm pretty sure they put her picture in the dictionary next to the word."
Jones tried to refill my wine glass, but I waved him off. "I have to drive home still."
I helped clean up, storing the leftovers in the fridge and washing dishes. Jones walked me to the door. "I'm glad you stopped by."
How long had it been since somebody said that to me? "Because I cooked for you?"
"That too." He leaned down and kissed me, and I couldn't bring myself to pull away. It was soft and sweet, a promise of more good things to come.
"I'll have the information on Chef Farnsworth for you tomorrow. Should I bring it by the pasta shop?"
I'd be an idiot to get involved with him, to let him bully his way past my defenses. Cripes, I knew better. I did.
"That'd be great," I said. "See you then."
* * *
Donna called when I was halfway home. Luckily I had my phone hooked up to the Bluetooth and didn't have to pull over to tell her the latest. "I'm an idiot."
"You're just figuring this out?" she teased.
"Laugh all you want, but that man makes sexy a
superpower."
A pause. "Andy…" Her tone was chiding. "What happened to using him for his resources?"
I blew out a breath. "Now I want to use him for his resources and his body. Not necessarily in that order."
"Is he on board with that plan?"
"Donna, he's practically insisting." I summed up my visit to Jones's house and added, "You should see his photographs. They're a life changing experience."
"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
"Shut up. Besides, Kyle and Lizzy were there for most of it."
"Are you serious?" The incredulity was clear even with a spotty connection. "What does Lizzy think about you just popping by her house like that?"
"Her house?"
"Bought and paid for. Didn't you get my text?"
"No." I hadn't checked my phone.
"Yeah, it seems that Malcolm Jones is only a temporary resident. The property was deeded to Lizzy by their father, and she had the house built for her and Kyle. My guess is they intend to move in after the wedding."
"And be right up the hill from her parents." It explained why there weren't boxes everywhere even though Jones had just arrived. Lizzy was letting her brother crash at her place, until she moved in fulltime.
"You know, you should totally have sex with him in her bed."
"Donna!" I screeched.
"What? It would drive Lizzy bonkers. She'd probably light fire to the mattress. And it would give you a good excuse to do what you want to do anyway."
"You mean get naked with Jones?"
"Andy when was the last time you had a real relationship? And don't say Kyle, or I'm going to beat my head against the wall."
"Have you been drinking?"
"No." A pause. "Well, not too much. Seriously though, how long?"
"I've been busy. You know, becoming a celebrity chef, then crashing and burning—it was all time consuming." Not to mention mood annihilating.
Murder Al Dente: A Southern Pasta Shop Mystery (Southern Pasta Shop Mysteries Book 1) Page 13