Forever in Love

by Nadia Lee

  She gave him a few speculative looks during the evening. His awareness of her made the muscles in his jaw ache. He let Rick banter with her and had Janey take her orders. Rick was so whipped by Janey he wouldn’t hit on Catherine no matter how hot she was.

  If she wanted to cheat on her husband with Blaine…well, she wouldn’t be the first woman to want to do that, and he wasn’t going to say yes. He had his rules, and married women were off-limits.

  She cast him a final look, then took off her coat and strolled over to the pool table. There she smiled and flirted with a few of the guys—they were eating out of her hand in moments—and joined the next game.

  Blaine sighed. Dusty was playing her, and he supposed that was all right. Thin and awkward, Dusty was harmless. It’d make his week to hang out with somebody like Catherine.

  Or not, depending on her motives.

  “You said she came into town alone?” Blaine asked Irene, who had returned to the bar for a third beer.

  “Yep.”

  “Maybe some of her friends are coming later?”

  “Ain’t what the manager said. He said just to have the master bedroom ready.” She tipped her glass toward him. “There’s just the one tenant.”

  Catherine laughed at something Dusty said, putting a hand on his arm as she did so. Blaine’s eyes narrowed. The sight offended him for some reason, though he couldn’t say why. It wasn’t like Dusty didn’t understand what the ring meant.

  On the other hand, it hardly seemed fair for her to choose Dusty. Out of all the men in the bar, he was the least able to stand up for himself, and not all that popular with the ladies, so he was the most vulnerable to her charms. Of course, she probably knew that. Some women had an instinct.

  A fellow named Arty came over to the bar and asked for another beer. “Man, she’s pretty good.”

  “Is she?”

  “Been killing Dusty.”

  Blaine raised an eyebrow. Dusty was one of the best pool players in town. He was probably just taking it easy on the pretty lady.

  “Course, it probably don’t help that he’s been staring at her ass more ’n the balls on the table, know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Yep,” Blaine said.

  “But the woman can shoot. Gotta respect that.” He took the beer and left.

  Blaine watched Catherine make the final shot. She leaned far over the table, which accentuated her gorgeous curves and put her ass up in the air in a highly suggestive manner. His cock hardened instantly, and he bit back a curse.

  She sank the eight ball and straightened triumphantly while Dusty threw his hands in the air. The crowd around them laughed, and Catherine clinked her glass of water with everyone. She hadn’t touched a single drop of alcohol. And she’d barely had any of the dressing that came with her salad.

  A calorie counter, Blaine thought. One of the most miserable types of women he knew. One of his exes had been like that, and it’d been a pain to do anything with her since they could never have a meal without arguing. Everything was too high, too low, had the wrong balance between fat calories and carb calories, blah blah blah.

  Catherine might not even be all that beautiful without makeup. Some women were like that. Fancy makeup could explain her unnaturally good looks.

  “Think she’s pretty?” Blaine asked as Rick passed by him.

  “So hot you could fry an egg on her elbow. But I prefer redheads.”

  Blaine glanced over at Janey’s red hair and shook his head with a wry grin.

  “Why? You interested?” Rick asked.

  “Nah.” But his body said, Liar…

  * * *

  Catherine grinned victoriously. The game had been worth it. She had become part of the group around the table, and men were always willing to help her out. So she had learned a bit about Blaine while playing pool against Dusty.

  One: Blaine had been born and raised in Cooter’s Bluff and never left the state until a few years ago to visit Austin, Texas.

  Two: The bar/restaurant was something Blaine had inherited from his mother’s boyfriend. Which was interesting—he was more willing to take something from a non-family member than his own flesh and blood.

  Three: Blaine was unattached. Something nasty had happened between him and some “rich girl” from another town, but Catherine hadn’t been able to get any details. Did the event have something to do with Blaine’s standoffish attitude toward Salazar?

  “Rematch?” Dusty asked.

  She smiled at him. Dusty was older than her, but somehow seemed younger. Maybe it was his height, or how baggy his clothes were on his rather thin frame. His sandy brown hair stood up, but unlike the bar manager Rick’s gel-spiked hair, it was all natural and completely unstudied. “Sorry. I think I’m done for the evening.”

  “Aw, yer killing me.”

  “I drove for hours today, and I’m tired,” she said firmly. “But I’ll be in town for a while, so you’ll get a chance for revenge.”

  “Deal.” He grinned. “What’cha drinking? I’ll get you another.”

  “It’s all right. I don’t really drink.” She couldn’t, actually, since she’d already used up the day’s allotted calories on chicken. Maybe she should’ve eaten less and bought herself a dry martini instead. She went back to her stool, reached under it for her bag and frowned when her hand hit nothing but air.

  That’s odd. She’d put it right there, hanging off the hook. She looked around in case somebody had taken it by mistake. “Hey, Dusty?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you seen my purse anywhere?”

  “Uh…” He frowned. “What’s it look like?”

  “It’s a Dior bag, black and about yay big.” She indicated the size with her hands.

  “Willie Rae was in here,” some guy called out.

  “Ah, shit.” Dusty blushed. “I mean…darn it.”

  The back of her neck prickled. “What?”

  “She’s the town kleptophile.”

  “He means kleptomaniac,” said Blaine from behind her.

  Catherine turned around slowly. “What does that have to do with my purse?”

  “It has to do with that she probably took it.”

  “Can we call the police?”

  “Can if you want, but it won’t do any good.”

  I couldn’t have heard that right. “Why not?”

  “Because nothing will come of it.”

  “Excuse me? What kind of place lets a known kleptomaniac run free?”

  Blaine gave her a steady stare. “Careful there. You don’t want to antagonize people your first day in town, do you?”

  Chapter Four

  Left without a choice, Catherine waited for the sheriff at the counter. Rick came over. “Want a drink? It’s on the house.”

  A drink would be way over her daily allowable caloric intake, but this was no ordinary situation. Her purse—stolen! By a woman who was apparently famous for kleptomania! “Why not? Stoli Vanil with Diet Coke, please.”

  “Tastes better with regular.”

  “Diet please. Thank you.” She might be about to break her calorie allowance, but there was a limit.

  This was what she got for helping Salazar. Small town Americana, indeed. Amazing how nobody in the area thought it might be prudent to keep a kleptomaniac in jail. Or at least under house arrest to stop her from roaming around and helping herself to whatever caught her eye.

  Catherine couldn’t believe how blasé everyone was. Nobody seemed at all bothered by the theft, but the indignity was just too much for her. She’d lost her husband to one woman; did she have to lose her purse to another? Apparently fate wasn’t going to be satisfied unless Catherine suffered absolute and utter humiliation.

  The drink appeared in front of her. She noticed the tattoo on Rick’s ropey forearm—some kind of swirling initials melded together. The thorny vines around the letters and heart might have made the tattoo appear masochistic, or perhaps evoked heartbreak, but the plump roundness of the heart hinted at
enduring love. So what should have looked like high school graffiti was instead elegant and quite artistic, turning the work into something sharp and intriguing. Whoever had designed the tattoo had some talent.

  Sipping the sweet alcohol, she checked her watch. Where was the sheriff? Blaine had called a while ago. The klepto woman—Willie Rae—had Catherine’s wallet, plus her brand new phone and the fob to her Aston Martin. Until she got them back, she was effectively stranded.

  Catherine glanced outside at the parking lot. At least her car was still there. So the klepto hadn’t committed a grand theft auto…yet.

  A little bit later the door opened, and a large raw-boned man in a khaki-colored uniform walked in. A dark khaki hat that Catherine was certain wasn’t part of the uniform was perched on his head. Far too stylish to be government-issue. He had a pair of smallish blue eyes, set wide over ruddy cheeks. The only hair above his neck was an impressive handlebar moustache that looked like something out of the old West. He approached the counter, boots moving purposefully.

  “Blaine,” he said in a surprisingly resonant voice.

  “Hey, Earl.”

  “So. Where’s the victim?”

  “Here.” Blaine gestured at Catherine. “Catherine, Earl Webber, Cooter’s Bluff’s sheriff. Earl, Catherine.”

  Touching the rim of his hat, Earl tipped his head. “Ma’am.”

  Catherine ground her teeth. First the waitress and now him. Did she look that old? But her purse took priority. “Sheriff. Thank you for coming over.”

  “I went by Willie Rae’s place.” He paused meaningfully. “She wasn’t home.”

  “But she has my purse, and it has my car keys and everything.”

  “Now, don’t be hasty in making accusations, ma’am. You don’t know if she has your purse.”

  “It seems to be the consensus around here.”

  “Did you see her take it?”

  “No, but—”

  “Did anyone else see her take it?”

  “No, but—”

  “So we don’t know what really happened to it.”

  He had to be joking. Everyone in town seemed to know that Willie Rae was a kleptomaniac. Why was the sheriff defending the woman? Was he just trying to dot his is and cross his ts in case he got sued?

  “If she’s not home,” Earl began, “there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Can’t you find her? It’s not a big town.”

  “Probably can, if I have the time to look around some. We don’t exactly have a big city force here in Cooter’s Bluff.”

  Catherine rubbed the bridge of her nose. That made sense, but she didn’t have to like it. “I see.”

  “If you want, I can stop by her place again tomorrow. Where are you staying?”

  “On Peach Street. Um… I can’t remember the exact number. That’s also in my purse.” Which you’re refusing to look for.

  “It’s the Blue House,” Blaine said.

  “Okay. As for your car, ma’am,” Earl began, “maybe you can call one of the dealers around here and see if they can help out?”

  “You have luxury car dealers?”

  “Yes. Mercedes and BMWs and such over in Greensville.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure they don’t have anybody who handles Aston Martins.”

  Something flickered in Earl’s gaze. “No, they don’t. I suppose we have to wait until you get your purse back unless you want it towed back to your place.” He turned to Blaine. “You mind her leaving her car here overnight?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Excuse me, how do I get back to my place?” Catherine asked.

  Earl frowned. “I can take you, if you want to leave now.”

  “I’m not ready to go back just yet.”

  “Well then, I’m sure one of these fine gentlemen will be happy to give you a ride when you are.”

  The slow way he spoke like she was some stupid child infuriated her, but she kept a tight leash on her temper. “Are you seriously suggesting that I get in a car with some stranger I met in a bar?”

  “I know all the men here. They’re good guys.”

  Catherine felt her jaw drop. No wonder Salazar hadn’t wanted to come here himself. This place was no Small Town Americana. It was more like Loony Bin Americana.

  “I’ll drive her on over,” Blaine said. “I don’t mind.”

  “See, problem solved. No need to worry. Have a good evening, ma’am. Blaine.” Earl tipped his hat, the bar-lights reflecting briefly off his cue-ball pate, and left.

  Catherine rubbed her temples. A knot had formed behind the right one, a sure sign of a headache to come. “You don’t have to drive me,” she said to Blaine. “I can figure it out on my own.”

  “It happened here, and I feel partly responsible.”

  “Well, if you’re sure…” She picked up her coat, holding it possessively. “I guess I should be grateful she didn’t steal this, too.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Catherine let Blaine lead her out of the bar, his hand warm at her elbow. He towered over her. He might have been the tallest Pryce; they were all known for their height except for Salazar’s daughter Vanessa. This close, it was easier to see the clean Pryce lines on him. They softened his rough edges. He also smelled nice, warm clean cotton and hard soap. If she’d been looking for a quick, no-strings-attached affair, she might have invited him into her bed.

  But that wasn’t what she was looking for. Her mother was right: she was becoming a fossil. Just look at the way people were starting to address her. “Ma’am” indeed! It hadn’t been too long ago that people had called her “miss.” She needed to get a husband who was rich enough to never go bankrupt as soon as possible…before people started calling her “hag.”

  Blaine unlocked the passenger door to a relatively new, tan-colored truck. It was enormously tall with huge tires. How in the world was she supposed to get inside? Her dates had all driven low-slung European cars.

  “Let me help you in,” Blaine said. He boosted her up easily, his hands warm and strong around her waist. And because they felt too good on her, she climbed in faster than she might have otherwise. She didn’t like the way her heart was thumping. She needed to keep focus, remind herself why she was in the town in the first place.

  The inside of the truck was surprisingly clean with a couple of receipts and an open can of Coke in a cup holder. The only people she knew who kept their cars neater were Jacob and Salazar, but both had chauffeurs to clean up after them.

  Blaine got in the driver’s seat and started the engine. It purred like a large cat getting scratched behind the ears. Catherine buckled up and leaned back in the seat. He started toward the river, one big hand resting on the wheel. He handled the truck the same way he’d worked behind the counter—calmly and with an assured confidence. Would he be like that in bed too? Or would he lose all control? Catherine looked outside and ignored the slick heat gathering between her legs. Perhaps she should’ve had an affair before coming here. It’d been so long since she’d felt a man’s passion. Jacob hadn’t been interested in sleeping with her for two years.

  Blaine and Catherine didn’t speak on the short drive to the Blue House. Thinking about the modest home, she decided the name fit. It must be something the town’s people had given it since Salazar hadn’t called it that.

  Catherine stole a quick glance at Blaine. His eyes were glued to the road, and he seemed content to ignore her. Why did he want to be nice to her but then ignore her? She wasn’t used to this kind of treatment from men. Or was the only thing he felt guilt that the town’s famous thief had taken her purse at his establishment? Maybe, like the sheriff, he just didn’t want to get sued.

  Within fifteen minutes, he pulled in front of the house. He helped Catherine out, his hands lingering on her a bit. Or was that wishful thinking?

  Taking half a step back, she tilted her head. “Thank you for the ride.”

  “No problem. Have a good night, sweetheart,” he said.<
br />
  Her eyes narrowed. The “sweetheart” sounded like an insult, a euphemism for “spoiled little girl.” “I’m not your sweet anything.”

  “Never said you were,” he said as he vanished into his truck. He started to back out of the driveway. “You’re somebody else’s.”

  The retort was so unexpected she stood mute for several long moments. “No,” she finally murmured as Blaine’s truck disappeared down the road. “I’m not anyone’s.”

  * * *

  Sighing, Kerri Wilson took her seat next to Ethan Lloyd in the living room of their Arlington condo. It was a few weeks away from their wedding, and she couldn’t believe how much more work was required. He took her hand and kissed her fingers. “Tired?” he asked, massaging her tense neck muscles.

  “A little,” she said. “Anybody on yet?”

  “Nope. But it’s still early. I haven’t even started the call.” He turned on the monitor and set up the video conference Kerri had asked for.

  “You sure you don’t want to just, you know…elope?”

  “Nah. Let Barron spoil you a little bit.”

  “Spoil me? He’s trying to drive me insane. Thank god your mother went to Thailand to stop him.” Barron had insisted he could single-handedly plan his precious granddaughter’s wedding himself, but Stella wasn’t going to let some high-handed “spoiled rotten” billionaire venture capitalist single-handedly “ruin” the wedding of her son. “I just want to marry you and live happily ever after.”

  “I know, but a few months from now you’re going to be happy we had a big blow-out with all our family and friends. A small ceremony—just us with Alex and Natalie as our witnesses or something like that—simply wouldn’t be the same.”

  She mulled that over and rested her head on his broad, strong shoulder. “You’re right. Still, I wish things didn’t have to be this elaborate. It’s sort of…” She trailed off as everyone from the Lloyd side of the family showed up on the giant monitor in their living room…well, everyone except Stella.

  “Show time,” Ethan murmured, and she sat up straight.