by Sandra Brown
Even hearing her name set his teeth on edge. “She’s part of it, but it’s way more complicated than that.” Don didn’t say anything, but Ledge sensed his interest. He turned his head toward him. “You’ll have to take my word for it, Don.”
“Can’t talk about it?”
“No. But I will tell you this. Rusty isn’t fucking around. We’re not in a pissing contest for playground dominance. He had me locked up today so I would have time to think about all the ways he could hurt me if he took a mind to, and his weapons of choice are the people close to me. So keep that shotgun loaded and handy.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I do.” He gave him a wry grin. “You are a friend.”
“And you are a pain in the ass,” Don grumbled, but with evident love. “Unfortunately, when Henry hired me, he told me that you came with the job.” He opened the passenger door and climbed out. “See you at the bar?”
“Since you’ve got backup, I think I’ll call it a day and go home.”
Don regarded him with concern. “Ledge—”
“I’m good.”
“No, you’re not. I haven’t seen you this low since just after you got back from Afghanistan, and I had to tell you about Henry’s frequent memory lapses. Tough time for you.”
That was putting it mildly. He had survived two bloody wars with barely a scratch, only to come home and be felled by that news. As soon as they’d swept up after his welcome-home party, he’d gone on his first bender. He’d stayed away for days, finally stumbling home like the proverbial prodigal.
Henry had met him with a heavy heart but open arms, hugging him tightly, weeping with relief, telling him over and over again that he would do whatever it took to heal Ledge’s wounded spirit. But in the cruel game of give-and-take that Fate often played, as Ledge had improved, his uncle had declined.
“That was a tough time,” he said. “But I didn’t know how good I had it. I’d give anything if Uncle Henry was half as cognizant now as he was then.”
“Me too, Ledge.”
Both were quiet, then Don asked, “You gonna be all right?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
Ledge assured him with a nod, but only because he didn’t want to lie to his friend out loud.
“Ya know,” the guy working the cash register drawled, “you can get this for free out at your own place.”
Ledge fixed his iciest stare on him. “I like to support the local economy.” He didn’t wait for a sack but grabbed the bottle of bourbon by the neck and carried it out to his truck, which he’d kept running while he went into the liquor store.
He was breaking all kinds of rules today. Even self-imposed ones.
The trees along the curving lake road were cloaked in Spanish moss, which could look either beautiful or bleak. This evening it resembled tattered winding-sheets hanging heavily from the branches. The surface of the lake was as still as death. The cypresses growing up out of it, looking like life-forms from fantasy fiction, made for stark silhouettes against a glowering dusk.
The entire landscape appeared haunted and forbidding, adjectives that also described his frame of mind.
Gravel peppered the underbelly of his truck as he took the turnoff to his house at an unsafe speed. The potholes seemed to have deepened since he’d driven over them at dawn on his way out. He hit them deliberately now, punishing the shocks on his truck. He narrowly missed flattening an armadillo stupid enough to cross the road in his path.
He rounded the last curve, his house came into view, and he braked suddenly, causing the seat belt to catch across his chest.
Her car was in his driveway.
“Fucking perfect.”
Chapter 15
Ledge turned in. Arden had parked to the side of the drive, so as not to block his spot. Thoughtful of her.
She wasn’t inside the car.
It had grown dark enough for him to realize that as he’d headed out this morning, he hadn’t left any lights on inside the house, but there was a glow coming from behind it. He took the bourbon with him as he got out of his truck and followed the path around to the back. The workshop’s garage door was up, but no overhead lights were on.
Because it was partially dark inside, it took him a moment to spot her. She was standing with her back against the drafting table, silhouetted against the shaded bulb suspended above it. It made a halo of her hair.
He went over to a table where he kept a coffee machine and fixings. He broke the seal on the bottle and poured a goodly portion of sour mash into a coffee mug, then shot it.
“The deadline was noon,” she said.
“Time got away.” He poured another drink and shot that one, too.
“I called you several times.”
He poured more liquor, looked down into it, then turned and raised the mug. “Drink?”
“Yes, please.”
He was surprised she accepted, but she didn’t come over and take it. She made him walk all the way across the shop to deliver it to her. He extended her the mug, handle toward her. She hooked it with her fingers. “Thank you.” She took a sip. “You must’ve had a full day?”
“You could say.”
She used the mug to point out the raw wound on his cheekbone. “What happened there?”
“Bee sting.” He ignored the look she gave him and tried to keep his focus off her plush, whiskey-damp lips. “You came all the way out here to give me your answer in person?”
“You gave me no choice. I’m a woman of my word, and I had promised that you would have my decision by noon. But you didn’t answer your phone or return my calls. I called the bar and was told by the person who answered that you hadn’t been in all day. There’s no email address on your business card. I didn’t know how else to reach you.”
She took another sip, then ran her finger ’round and ’round the rim of the mug. He felt that spiraling touch low in his belly and had to stifle the groan that tried to push its way from his throat. He told himself it was the booze hitting rock bottom on an empty stomach, but he knew better.
She was saying, “I don’t get the impression that you’ve been on tenterhooks to hear my decision. On the contrary, you’ve led me to believe that you don’t give a damn one way or the other.”
“Not really, no.”
She looked up at him with challenge. “You’re a liar.”
“Busted. It wasn’t a bee sting.”
“You’re lying about not giving a damn.” She indicated the table behind her. “These drawings are of my house.”
Going through his mind was a litany of military-born, illustrative obscenities. But he made a motion of indifference. “Couldn’t sleep last night. I did some doodling.”
She set the mug down with a thump on the most convenient level surface, which was his computer desk, then turned to the drafting table and began sorting through his drawings.
She selected two of them and positioned them side by side. “Variations on how to widen the upstairs hallway. This one, turning it into more of a gallery. Very detailed, down to the molding around the recessions cut into the walls.
“This,” she said, pointing to the other, “takes out a wall altogether, and, by doing so, opens up the extra bedroom and converts it into a sitting area/TV room. These aren’t doodles at all.”
She slid forward a sketch. “The front elevation. The windows enlarged. The porch expanded. Or, as you’ve designated it here, the veranda.” She looked at him for comment. He didn’t say anything, but she wasn’t deterred.
She pulled another drawing to the forefront. “Reconfigured master bath. There’s another for the layout of a modernized kitchen.” She ran her fingertips over the drawing, then faced him. “They’re brilliant.”
“Thanks.”
“When did you study architecture?”
“I didn’t.”
“Where did you learn to do this?”
“It’s just something I know how to do.” She was fru
strated by his answer and showed it. “I see it in my head,” he said, not knowing how else to explain it. Motioning toward the computer, he added, “CAD helps.”
“Why are you repairing squirrel damage and getting closet doors to hang straight when you can do this?”
“Hanging closet doors is honest work.”
“Yes, but it’s also a waste of obvious talent.”
He picked up the mug she’d set aside and drained it. “How long have you been here?”
“A while.”
“Making yourself at home. Going through my stuff.”
“Why are you so angry?”
“I don’t like people meddling in my business.”
“Well, you’ve had a heyday meddling in mine,” she said loudly. “Imagine my surprise when I got back from Dallas this afternoon to find a locksmith’s van parked in my driveway.”
Shit. In light of everything else that had happened, he’d forgotten about that. He’d called a locksmith from his truck immediately after leaving the memory care center. It had scared him to think that if Rusty chose to, he could get just as close to Arden as he had to Henry. Not that door locks would protect her, but he’d acted on a compulsion to take at least one preemptive action.
But he’d gotten snagged by something else she’d said. “You made a round trip to Dallas today?”
“To talk over something with Lisa.”
“Something you couldn’t talk over by phone?”
“You’re getting me off the subject. Why did you take it upon yourself to order new locks for me?”
“Because you didn’t take it upon yourself. You needed stronger door locks, and now you have them.”
“He said you told him that it was an emergency.”
“If something had happened to you, at least I would have a clear conscience. I’d have done my best to protect you from an intruder.”
“The only intruder I’ve had was you.”
“And you should be damn glad it was me,” he shouted.
In the sudden hush that followed, he could hear her breathing as she forced it to slow down. Then, speaking quietly, she said, “He gave me a receipt. He had already charged your credit card. I’ll pay you back.”
“Whenever,” he mumbled.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
After another laden silence, she said, “It didn’t really qualify as an emergency.”
That’s what you think. Rusty fought guerilla-style. He struck without warning and in nefarious ways. Likely, she would never see him coming, and it sickened Ledge to think how creative Rusty could be, he who had no scruples.
She seemed a lot smaller here in his cavernous workshop than she had in her kitchen. The glow of the light fixture gave her a fairy-like quality. She looked even more delicate and vulnerable than she had in her insubstantial nightgown. Her hair looked softer, her eyes larger and more innocent.
But he realized that it wasn’t the setting or the lighting that made her look more fragile here and now. It was her contrast to him. Big and mean him, shouting, incautiously slamming back shots, trying to keep a leash on rampaging lust.
He needed to get her away from him. “What have you decided about the house?”
“Who is Crystal?”
He didn’t actually reel backward a step or two, as though he’d taken a blow right between the eyes, but that’s what it felt like. Vulnerable, fairy-like, fragile? Like hell. She was a steamroller.
He didn’t answer her question.
“The reason I ask,” she said, “is because when I called the bar, and you weren’t there, it was suggested by the person I talked to that I should check with Crystal, that you might be with her.”
“I wasn’t.”
“She’s…?”
“A friend.”
“With benefits?” When again he didn’t respond, she said, “Given that you kissed me last night, it’s a fair question.”
He gave a precise nod. “Who was your baby’s father, and why isn’t he with you?” He arched his brows and looked at her expectantly. “What? You’re allowed to ask fair questions, but I’m not?”
“I just don’t want some woman I’ve never even met coming at me and accusing—”
“Ain’t gonna happen. Not unless you tell.”
“I have no intention of telling anyone.”
“Me neither. So we’ve got no problem.”
She propped her hands on her hips. “Well, I disagree. It’s a problem for me if you’re cheating on—”
“Cheating?” he repeated with incredulity. “It was only a kiss.”
In the face of such a blatant distortion of fact, they held each other’s stare longer than they should have, and, at some point during it, she lowered her hands from her hips. In the end, he couldn’t say for sure who looked away first, but it was awkward.
She turned to face the drafting table and neatly stacked the drawings. “You have a great eye for design, and, even though it irritated you for me to say so, your talent is being wasted. But…” She took a breath. “I won’t be going with your ideas.”
It crushed him to hear that, for so many reasons, most of which he couldn’t rationalize. But rather than show his disappointment, he made a gesture of dismissal. “I guessed as much.”
“I will, however, be using your services. If you’re still available.”
“Doing what? Rehanging your closet doors?”
“Removing them. You see, I’ve changed my mind about restoring the house. I want you to take it apart. Piece by piece. Board by board. Nail by nail. Tear it down. To the ground.”
Chapter 16
Ledge stood there looking at her for what seemed an interminable amount of time. Then he turned, saying over his shoulder, “I haven’t eaten all day,” and walked out of the workshop.
Arden didn’t know what to make of his exit, but she couldn’t leave things up in the air, so she followed. As an afterthought, she went back for the bottle of bourbon.
He entered the house, and lights came on inside, illuminating the steps leading up to the back door. He’d left it standing open. Not quite an invitation, but not a lockout.
She went inside. His kitchen was surprisingly modern. It certainly showed hers up.
He was standing in the open door of the refrigerator and didn’t turn when she closed the back door to let him know she had followed him in. He sailed a deli package from the fridge onto the granite countertop, then a second landed there with a plop. After taking some items from the shelves in the door, he bumped it closed with his hip.
As he set a butter dish and jar of mayonnaise on the counter, he said. “Grilled cheese?”
“No thank you. But you drank my whiskey.” She lifted the bottle.
“Glasses are up there.”
She took a glass from the indicated cabinet and poured herself an inch of the liquor. “You?”
“No thanks.” He turned on the griddle section of the range and dropped a slab of butter on it. “Bad idea to drink straight bourbon on an empty stomach.” The butter began to sizzle. He came around to face her. “Makes your belly burn like hellfire. Makes your brain go to mush.”
He came toward her and, with the back of his hand at her waist, eased her out of his path. “For instance…” He went into a walk-in pantry and emerged seconds later with a loaf of bread in one hand and a bag of potato chips in the other. He tossed the latter onto the dining table.
He hefted the loaf of bread in his hand as he came to within inches of her. “For instance, I thought I heard you say you wanted me to tear your house down.”
In defiance of his thunderous expression, she casually took a sip of the whiskey. As she lowered the glass, she said, “You look like you’re gauging the weight of that loaf of bread. Are you going to hurl it at me?”
He muttered something foul as, this time, he sidestepped to go around her without touching.
He kept his back to her and said nothing more as he slathered a slice of bread w
ith mayo, then piled on slices of cheese he took from the two deli packages. He laid the stack carefully on the griddle in a pond of melted butter, which had filled the kitchen with a mouthwatering aroma that made her stomach growl.
He turned only his head to look at her.
Abashed, she said, “Maybe I’ll have a sandwich after all.”
He built her one and laid it on the griddle beside his. He topped them with slices of buttered bread and stared at them as they cooked.
She said, “Aren’t you going to ask—”
“Not yet.”
She set her drink on the table. “Would you like for me to set the table?”
“Plates are up there.”
With a brevity of words, he told her where to find things, and when the sandwiches were ready, they sat down across from each other. He plucked a paper napkin from the holder in the center of the table and began to eat.
She followed suit. The sandwich was delicious, and she told him so. “What kind of cheeses did you use?”
“One’s yellow, one’s white.”
That was the extent of their mealtime conversation.
When he’d demolished his sandwich and several handfuls of chips, he wiped his mouth and hands, balled up the napkin, uncapped his bottle of water, took a long drink from it, and returned it nearly empty to the table. Folding his arms across his chest, he stared at her for ponderous seconds, then said, “What the fuck?”
“I know it seems an odd—”
“No. No, odd would be you wanting to put statues of cartoon characters along the expanded veranda. That would be odd. This,” he said, stabbing the table with his index finger, “seems calculated.”
Of all the words she had anticipated—crazy, fickle, addlepated, just plain dumb—calculated wasn’t among them. “Calculated?”
“Yeah, planned. Devised to make a fool of me.” His eyes were as hot as twin blue flames.
At a loss, she said, “Why would that have been my intention, when I didn’t even know you?”
“Who sent you to me?”
“What?”