by Hunt, Evelyn
“O-oh?” she prompted. “Yes,” he continued, oblivious to the reaction he was eliciting, “I’m looking for some flowers to bring to my mother,” he said, grinning a bit ruefully, “but I don’t know the first thing. Could you put something together for me?” “Certainly,” Rose practically tripped over herself to comply in her relief. “I AM paranoid,” she thought, “not to mention, hard up.” She tied some glorious alstromeria, peonies and stargazers with a sheer organza ribbon and presented them. “Wow,” he said, green eyes widening, “you really know your stuff.” Rose bowed slightly and thanked him for the compliment. He paid for the bouquet and left, heading east in a sleek black sedan, Rose’s eyes following him until he disappeared.
“My mother,” he snorted, tossing the flowers into his trunk and slamming the door. “That’ll be the day,” he thought, adjusting his sunglasses and tucking his lanky frame behind the wheel. He pointed his car towards the nearest supermarket. He’d need supplies if he were going to stake out this one-horse town for any length of time.
His money — actually, his client’s money — was on Little Miss Posey turning out to be Mrs. Rose Cavanaugh, runaway bride of Sean. Now the private investigator just had to prove it, and he’d be in for one sweet payday. Why Cavanaugh was willing to pay him quadruple his usual rate to retrieve his wayward spouse was a mystery, but since no one was paying him, Neil Patrick Madigan, to solve it, he didn’t rightly care about the answer.
His thoughts drifted to Posey’s ripe, soft mouth as he tooled around the curving tree-lined lanes. “I’ll bet she tastes like a sweet, strawberry surprise,” he mused, loins stirring, “all over.” He inhaled the fresh, country air and chuckled to himself. “One that’s worth quadruple pay.” She’d seemed so blameless, so happy to hand him those flowers. Could Cavanaugh be selling him a story? It wouldn’t be the first time. Then again, Madigan wasn’t being paid to believe anyone’s tale of woe: this was a simple seek and retrieve job.
***
HE STOPPED off at the house he’d rented just outside of town; its charming, clapboard façade matched his cover story perfectly. Visiting home to tend an ailing mother who’d been moved to an assisted-living facility, he was staying at his childhood home, sorting through memories and preparing to say good-bye. Madigan believed that a credible back story was never a waste, and he’d been saved by one on too many jobs to get careless now.
Three hours later, with the remaining inventory — just a few potted palms and a shrub, she’d almost sold out — safely stowed away on the truck, Rose and Julio, one of Maeve’s day workers, were heading back to the nursery. “I just need to stop at the Mightee Mart for a few things,” Rose said, “I’m helping Maeve make dinner.” She almost bounced on the seat with excitement, reflecting that today had been a good day, one of many to come. They pulled off into the lot on South Main, finding a spot near the street. Weekends were usually busy at the Mightee Mart.
Scanning the crowded lot as she climbed down, Rose did a double take. There was her mysterious man in black again, right across the aisle, loading two bags full of groceries into the trunk of his matching car. She bit her lower lip, hoping she hadn’t dismissed her earlier paranoia too quickly. She watched his shoulders and back muscles rippling fluidly under his clingy tee as he lifted the last bag. She gulped.
From the corner of her eye, Rose noticed a delivery truck turn down their aisle, a bit faster than was safe. She squinted; the truck was speeding up and swerving, accelerating and narrowly missing the row of parked vehicles as it approached their end of the lot. She looked back and forth a few times in quick succession, yelling “Hey!” to get the stranger’s attention. He was oblivious, staring at something in the trunk, holding the lid open with both arms. The truck was bearing down on him, and he still hadn’t looked up.
Rose dashed across the parking aisle, her heart in her throat. She grabbed the stranger’s elbow, shouting and yanking him around to the side between the cars. “Hurry! This way!” A split-second later the truck scraped by, shearing off a layer of chrome from the black car’s bumper, jarring it where they stood before veering wildly and careening off the lot at an angle, finally colliding with the corner of the grocery store with a crash.
Smoke started pouring from under the hood, and the driver staggered out, holding his head between his hands. Rose stared at the skid marks on the pavement, the grey clouds floating overhead, the panicked customers flocking to the van. She looked up at the stranger, who was staring down at her open-mouthed, green eyes wide.
“Y-you saved my life,” he gasped. “I tried to yell,” Rose said feebly, “from over there.” She pointed across the aisle. Her mind was curiously blank, and it felt like her tongue was too large for her mouth. She swallowed and tried to sound matter-of-fact. “Looks like the driver is either drunk, or he lost control of the vehicle,” she stated, nodding in the direction of the wreck, now swarmed by the local fire department, police and half the population of the town, most of whom had been inside the store.
Madigan moved around to block her view of the accident, placing a large hand on each of Rose’s shoulders. Green eyes looked deep into blue. “Thank you,” he said, amazed. Rose shrugged. “I’m all about customer service,” she attempted. The stranger laughed, a surprisingly light, joyous sound. “I didn’t realize your flowers came with bodyguard service and a lifetime guarantee,” he quipped. “You should advertise that somewhere.” Rose blushed. This stranger’s broad grin, outlined by the neatly trimmed facial hair, was doing weird things to her equilibrium. She swayed on her feet.
“Are you OK?” he asked, those big warm hands suddenly holding her elbows now. “Oh, I’m fine,” Rose gushed, a bit too emphatically, raising her small, heart-shaped face to meet his gaze and smiling brightly. She shrugged her elbows free of his grasp. “Well,” Madigan said slowly, and held out his hand, “I’m Neil. Miss…?” Rose shook his hand, ignoring the electric jolt that sprang up her arm and tingled between her legs at the contact. “Carmichael,” she croaked hoarsely, “Posey Carmichael.”
“Thank you Miss Carmichael,” Neil said, “I owe you one.” He seemed surprised to have said those words aloud. “Don’t mention it,” Rose said, “and please, call me Posey.”
“Let me buy you dinner, Posey,” Neil purred, again looking surprised to have uttered anything. He smiled to cover his uneven delivery. Rose paused. She couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do than look at that smile, those green eyes… until she remembered how strokable his shoulders had looked. “It’s the least I could do for my savior,” he prompted in a brisker tone, turning up the wattage on that disarming grin. “Okay,” Rose relented. “Tomorrow night? Eight o’clock?” he suggested. “Okay,” Rose repeated, her smile less certain. “I’ll meet you,” she added.
“Please, let me pick you up,” Neil pursued, “I insist.” “Okay,” she gave up, remembering her scrapheap of a car. “Um, I’ll be at the nursery, over on Shenandoah Lane.”
“Tomorrow night, eight o’clock, Paradise,” Neil recited, holding her gaze. “Okay,” Rose smiled back, nodding, and ran back to the truck, holding her breath. Julio tried to say something. “Just drive,” Rose said absently.
***
MADIGAN watched the truck pull away, waving. He turned back to his ruined bumper and the near-fatal bouquet, now buried under jostled groceries, and shook his head ruefully. His manhood had stiffened when he just shook her hand. And how long had he been staring at those flowers, mooning like a schoolboy? “Guess Cavanaugh knows what he’s missing after all. And that back story is going to come in handy,” he thought bitterly, shutting the trunk and heading back to the “old homestead”.
Maeve forgot to be upset about the missing groceries after she heard what happened — both the accident and the aftermath. “A date, ay?” she teased, beaming. “Good for you, dear.” “It’s not a date,” Rose protested, cheeks reddening furiously. “It’s just a thank-you gesture.” She bit her lip, remembering how his green eyes had glinted in
the late afternoon light. “Maybe I shouldn’t go,” she said, “and leave you here all alone.” “You’re going, no ifs ands or buts about it,” Maeve asserted, waving a wooden spoon in her face as punctuation. “You’ve been cooped up here like a bulb in winter,” she went on, “it’s about time you peeked out and got some sun.”
Later that night, Rose stood in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to decide which of her two good dresses to wear. She turned to and fro, studying her reflection. Her five-foot-seven-inch frame was on the slight side, her breasts small but pert and high, her waist trim, her legs long and well shaped. She touched one of many thin, raised scars that criss-crossed her back and thighs, glowing faintly in the moonlight.
“No minis for me,” she thought for the hundredth time. “At least all the bruises are faded,” she consoled herself. She remembered another night nearly a year ago, when her skin had bloomed with livid purple and black patches, angry red hash marks oozing in place of the pale white lines she sported now. She shivered despite the warm closeness of her little attic studio. “Just dinner,” she whispered to the moon.
The next day flew by and eight o’clock arrived seemingly seconds after sundown. Rose tried to tame her nerves, twisting the bare ring finger of her left hand over and over. Neil’s black sedan pulled up to the nursery gate promptly, and Maeve walked out to greet him. “Take good care of my best employee, you hear?” she warned playfully. Rose was a bit shocked at how flirtatious Maeve grew the minute Neil appeared. She actually caught her batting her lashes! “Guess some things you never outgrow,” Rose wondered silently. She had to admit, her tall stranger looked handsome in his black suit jacket, charcoal shirt, matching tie and black slacks.
“I booked us a table at The Mews, over by the lake. I hope that’s okay,” Neil said as he ushered her into the passenger seat. He tried not to notice how her breasts and legs informed the soft, filmy fabric of her dress. “Are you sure? I’ve heard it’s very fancy,” she queried, unable to help herself. He didn’t seem poor, necessarily, but she hoped he wasn’t splurging just for her benefit. She’d had her fill of empty, expensive gestures with Sean.
“Don’t you worry about that,” he smiled. Upon closer inspection, lit by the reflected moonlight inside the cab of his car, her eyes were really quite something, he thought. Thickly fringed with brown lashes and somewhat wide apart, her eyes seemed to entice and rebuff simultaneously. “After all, you SAVED MY LIFE.” He switched to a theatrical, movie-trailer-announcer voice on the last phrase to rob it of its seriousness. Rose giggled appreciatively, admiring the way Neil’s muscles flexed through the sleeve of his jacket.
“That’s right, I’m your HERO,” she echoed playfully, dimpling. Neil smiled and turned his attention to the road, spirits sinking a little. “Damn,” he thought, “Dimples too? Not fair.” They drove the rest of the way in silence.
Neil and Rose danced around the truth for the next hour and a half, trading small talk over drinks and appetizers, skipping to respectively false biographies over the main course. By dessert, Rose’s nerves were shredded from trying to keep all the manufactured details straight in her mind, and Neil’s smile had grown strained by his guilty conscience.
He was certain this woman was the one he’d been sent to find, but her sweet, humble demeanor didn’t match Cavanaugh’s description. He was tempted to come clean, not only to appease his guilt but to see how she’d react. Would the scheming, gold-digging bitch Cavanaugh accused her of being show her face if pressured? He allowed his smiling façade to slip, frowning slightly as the waiter cleared their plates.
“Is something wrong?” Rose asked, brows lifted in question. “Maybe Sean was right,” She thought despondently, “no man will ever want me again, not after what I did.” She twisted her napkin in her lap.
“Of course not,” Madigan forced another smile, “I just ate too much, I think,” patting his flat tummy. “Let’s go for a walk.” Rose nodded and shot out of her chair, grabbing her wrap and bolting from the restaurant. Neil had to hurry to keep up, her hips’ side-to-side motion flirting with his eyes.
***
ONCE outside, she headed for a path that circled the lake, shaded by trees. Neil grabbed her elbow to slow her down. “Hey, what’s your hurry?” he asked. “You wanted to walk,” Rose said, breathless, “so I’m walking.” She glared up at him, her blue eyes flashing a challenge. “You want to know what I want?” he demanded. “Yeah,” Rose retorted heatedly.
Neil pulled her further under the cover of the oaks. His hands moved to hold her by the upper arms as he stared down, green eyes searching her face. “I want,” he started, “I want—,” with an impatient groan, he enfolded her in his arms, tilting her head back and lavishing her mouth with a long, slow, deep, wet kiss. It could have been minutes or hours later that he raised his head; neither of them cared. “We should have skipped dessert,” he murmured against her mouth, “You’re delicious.” He began worshipping her cheek, ear, jaw, neck and décolletage with a trail of blazing, open-mouthed caresses that stole her breath. Her eyes popped open and she reeled at a view of the all-encompassing ink-dark sky.
Rose’s body flooded with heat and light. Her limbs had to be glowing, the intensity of her response shining out like a beacon in the dimness of the forested shore. Neil held her behind the waist, steadying her against the onslaught of his lips as they continued to descend, inflaming her breasts through the thin fabric of her dress, then her stomach, one hand moving lower, cupping her ass through the skirt, eliciting a faint moan from deep in Rose’s throat. He groaned hungrily in reply, his face moving lower, panting hot against the throbbing core between her legs, his hand drifting below her skirt, reaching up to clasp the back of her thigh—
“No!” Rose blurted, struggling to free herself with frantic jerks and starts. “Stop,” her voice trembled. “Please, take me home,” she gazed down into Neil’s face, eyes filling with tears. Neil returned her look, confused. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked, still dazed with desire. “Didn’t you feel them?” she asked, “my — my scars?”
Neil moved his hand against her leg, tracing faint ridges with his fingertips. His expression darkened. “Who hurt you?” he demanded, barely controlling his voice to keep from shouting. He rose to his full height and grasped Rose by the arms again, eyes never leaving hers. “Who?” Rose looked down at her feet. “It’s a long story,” she quavered. Neil pulled her close, hugging her gently. “Come on, you can tell me in the car.” They walked back to the privacy of the sedan.
“We’re not leaving until you tell me,” Neil continued from the driver’s side, “who gave you those scars?”
“Sean,” Rose admitted, biting her lower lip. “My husband.” Her eyes sought Neil’s apologetically. His face had frozen into an impenetrable mask. “No one here knows about him, or me, the real me I mean, I ran away, I can’t let him find me, I couldn’t tell you, and I didn’t expect —“ she paused for breath, flailing, hands waving. “Posey isn’t even my real name,” she confessed, shoulders slumping in defeat. “My real name is —”
“Rose.” Neil cut her off quietly. He was resolved to follow his gut, payday be damned. Rose looked at him aghast. “You knew?” she accused. “How? Did he send you here to find me? I thought you looked like a hired thug, no one around here wears that much black,” she spat, turning to wrestle with the door handle. “Child-proof locks,” Neil said, not moving. “Let me go!” Rose shouted. “Please let me explain, I promise I won’t hurt you or turn you in,” Neil went on.
He kept his distance, staying firmly on his side of the vehicle, but raised one hand imploringly as he began. “I’m not a thug, I’m a private investigator. Sean Cavanaugh hired me to find you. He told me you’d cheated on him with a string of guys, then stole a sizeable amount of money and absconded with the cash.
Not a pretty story, but one I’ve heard more than a few times in my line of work,” he explained. Rose opened her mouth to protest, but he waved his hand, “please, let
me finish. I could tell the moment I saw you that at least one part of Cavanaugh’s story was a lie. You’re clearly here on your own, you have no money, and that car of yours is an abomination. I mean, Jake’s Junk Yard? Who goes there to buy a car?”