She stood quickly, too fast apparently, for it made her head swim. “You did what?”
Jonathan sighed with exaggerated patience. “A. You have a date, right? B. He told you to dress up.”
“You eavesdropped!”
“Yes. C. You didn’t pack for a date. I know you. So I called Mother to send you something.” He grinned like a brilliant tactician.
Summer fumed, shoving her clothes and hangers aside. “A. I’m capable of dressing for myself.”
He unzipped the bag.
“B. I can shop for myself if need be also.”
And removed the most gorgeous orange, shade- of-sunset dress she’d ever seen.
“And C. well, shoot.” She stepped over and fingered the fabric, as light as gossamer and just as soft. The color flowed from lighter to darker and back again, swirling in a gentle flowing brook pattern, a pattern that moved with the fabric. She fingered the spaghetti straps, contemplated the corset-like molding around the breasts.
“I can’t make that work,” she breathed.
“Sure you can. Right undergarments and shoes,voilà, sexy. Mother sent those too.”
Summer stared at him in disbelief, then laughed quietly. “Thank you. I’ve been driving myself crazy here.”
“You care about this one,cher. I see it in your eyes.”
She opened her mouth to disagree, but couldn’t. Damn him for knowing. “I can’t stay here, Jonathan.”
“Won’t stay here is more like it, but that’s not the issue right this moment. It’s a date, Summer. Not kismet, not destiny, not decision-making time. A date. Go eat, talk, learn, appreciate, kiss. For crying out loud, live.”
She fell back on the bed amid the clothes and shut her eyes, imagining Tom staring agog at the bottom of the stairs seeing her descend in this dress.
Jonathan laughed. “You should see your face,cher.”He walked to the closet, hung up the dress on the edge of the door, and dropped the bag with underwear and shoes on the bed. “Go take a bath. He’ll be here in three hours.”
He quietly shut the door on her. His three hours pronouncement shot through her brain, and she scurried off the bed and down the hall to the bathroom. Three hours? To make herself look like she’d hoped, to stun Tom Applegate out of his boots? Working that miracle would take that and then some.
££££££
Tom slid his employee ID card through the slot and went in the back door of the Echo Falls Police Department. The chief’s Blazer was parked in back, and Tom wanted a word with him before he picked up Summer. He’d tried during his shift, but the chief had gone to Conrad for a luncheon with the other area police chiefs. The department was quiet, all the other cars out on patrol.
His navy blue slacks and white shirt drew whistles from Dana Collins at the dispatch desk. He’d gone to school with her, so he kept walking, not wanting to get drawn into a conversation about why he was dressed up and where he was going. Dana was almost as bad as Meg.
Paul Hudson sat behind the monstrous mahogany desk he’d inherited from his predecessor, flipping a cigarette over and through his fingers and staring out the window at the hospital emergency room entrance. All was quiet there, too. Tom knocked on the opened door.
“Applegate.” He looked Tom’s attire up and down, but didn’t comment. “What’s up?”
“Problem.” Tom entered and sat in front of the desk.
The chief opened a drawer and returned the cigarette to a small case. “What now?”
“Summer LeFey, she’s an artist. Painter.”
“Her grandfather just died? The man you’ve been helping take care of?”
“Yes.”
“Madame Mayor has one of her paintings in her office.”
“Yes, it’s about that.”
“You’ve lost me. Her paintings?”
“Walter donated one to the nursing home.”
“Yeah. It’s in the entryway. I’ve seen it. Main Street. Nicely done.”
“It isn’t hers. Someone copied her style and created a painting of Main Street, apparently wanting people to think it was hers. It’s not a true Summer LeFey.”
Paul leaned forward on his elbows. “What?”
“There were three others in the attic of Walter’s house. They aren’t hers either. Forgeries again. And according to her manager, three more turned up in a small Florida art community that aren’t hers.”
“Not that I don’t believe you or her, but is she sure?”
“Well, she never saw my grandmother’s house until yesterday. One of the paintings is of the house. Plus, she says she never painted Main Street. She signs the back in big flowing letters with a date. These don’t have that. Not many people have access to Walter’s house, and there’s really no reason for those to be in the attic. I think there has to be someone in town doing the forgeries.”
“How much are Summer’s paintings worth?”
“They run anywhere from $10,000 to $25,000 a piece, depending on the size. Murals are more.”
He whistled. “So seven paintings forged. That’s a chunk of change.”
“Yet, there isn’t a way for the forger to collect the money. I’ve got a call into Nora Drury.”
The chief frowned. “Why?”
“I’m not conversant on the parameters of criminal fraud and need some legal guidelines.”
“All right. What else?”
“We don’t know if that’s all the forgeries. Fortunately, Summer does mostly high-end paintings for corporations and private collectors. Only a small number go out to galleries, but if the forgeries go unchecked, it’s a problem. Jonathan Freeman, her manager, is doing a check of all the galleries that have Summer’s paintings and all of the sales in the last few months. I need to check around town to those who have her paintings, starting with my mother and Bret, and make sure those are true Summer LeFey’s.”
“All right. File a report, open a case, and let’s see what we can find out.”
“Thanks, Chief.” Tom rose and headed for the door.
“I knew it was too quiet around here,” the chief muttered.
££££££
Tom pushed aside the picnic basket and lifted the Main Street painting from the backseat of his truck where it was wedged with the one of her grandmother’s garden from Walter’s room.
When he’d stopped at his grandmother’s on the way to the grocery store for his date dinner, she’d wheedled out of him what he was doing and had insisted on making the picnic basket herself. He’d left her to it and had gone on to the nursing home to gather the paintings before returning for the basket. He’d told the director Summer wanted to touch up the Main Street painting, repair a few of the spots she thought had faded, and he had wrapped the large frame in brown paper to protect it. The man had agreed to sign it out to Tom, none the wiser.
Tom hefted the awkward weight and walked to the front door of Summer’s house.
When had the old house become Summer’s and not Walter’s?
The lawn needed to be mowed. Regret sliced through him when he realized the grass wasn’t his problem anymore and that rankled. He couldn’t let go of the need to take care of the place.
The front door opened before he could get to the porch. Jonathan came out. Tom stopped at the base of the steps and carefully set the painting on the ground.
“She is the sister I never had.” Jonathan moved to the edge of the porch and stood with his hands in his pockets. “She busted a painting over my head. That’s how we met. I’d gone to the pier for a cup of coffee and a stroll. I came up behind her to look at the painting she was doing. She took exception to my criticism of the color palette, and broke the damn canvas over my head.” Jonathan laughed, a full-on belly laugh. “Not the usual reaction I get from women.”
Tom grinned. “That’s the sassy woman I want to know.”
“We’ve been family ever since. Don’t hurt her.”
“She’s not staying long enough for me to hurt her,” Tom said, questioning again the fo
olhardy date idea.
“Oh, she hurts and she can break. Don’t do it.”
Tom didn’t know what to answer to that. Finally, he offered the man what he wanted to hear. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good enough. That the painting from the nursing home?”
“Yes.” He lifted the frame and walked up the steps. “I have the other one from Walter’s room too.”
“Let me have that one.”
Tom handed off the painting and returned to his truck for the other canvas. Jonathan waited on the steps until he returned.
“Come on in. Summer is almost ready to make her grand entrance.”
Anticipation and nerves stepped with Tom into the house.
Summer stood at the top of the stairs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tom’s mouth dropped open.
His reaction was unexpected, yet hoped for. Jonathan’s mother had outdone herself and Summer wanted to twirl and preen in the face of Tom’s stunned appreciation. She’d seen him look at other people with his impassive cop face. She’d seen him look at Boo and Lindy with family-tied affection. He’d looked at her with disgust in his eyes, but the way he was staring at her now soared her pulse and her expectations.
She started down the steps, feeling wonderfully alive and hopeful.
At the bottom of the stairs, Tom reached out his hand.
The gesture requested permission to touch while demanding she acknowledge the powerful moment of attraction.
She met the demand by lacing her fingers with his. He brought his other hand up to cup her face. “You look beautiful,” he whispered.
Jonathan had disappeared with the paintings. She was grateful for the moment alone, where only they could share the arc of intimate awareness.
She stumbled over a thank you and blushed.
Tom’s smile turned to a grin. “You know how to wreck a guy, lady.”
“I try,” she whispered back.
A long moment of silence passed while the heat smoldering in his eyes flooded her with a wave of wanting. Tom squeezed her fingers, finally breaking the spell.
“Let’s get out of here. I have something special planned.” He didn’t release her hand, but led her out the door, down the sidewalk, and to his truck. The spell wrapped around them again as soon as Tom entered the truck and started the engine. His aftershave, a hint of musk, wafted across her senses bringing familiarity and a chasm-deep aching need.
What the hell was she getting herself into?
She’d built a life in San Francisco, one she worked hard for and liked.
Yeah, that’s why you can’t paint.
“Something wrong?”
“No, no,” she stammered. “Where are we going?”
He gave her a long look that said he knew she was evading his question, like he’d read her mind. “I know.” His low intonation shimmered over nerve endings already stacked with sensations like so many books in a library.
She licked her lips, probably smearing a perfect application of lipstick. “You know, what?”
“It’s a tad overwhelming being around you.” He gave her a look, no smile, no teasing glint in his eyes, just plain-dead seriousness.
Summer blushed. He’d read her mind. “It can’t go anywhere. I’m leaving.”
“I know.” He backed out of the driveway and put the truck in gear. “Let’s see where it goes anyway. I never did care for I-should-haves.”
She didn’t answer him, couldn’t. Her brain, heart, soul, body weren’t anywhere near close to any kind of articulate agreement.
But he was waiting for some kind of response. Had stopped at the corner and eyed her expectantly. “Yes or no?”
Her heart won. “Yes. Let’s have dinner. See what happens.”
Shoot me, please.
Because she was in over her head and dying here.
He didn’t give her a chance to change her mind, just slipped back into driving and soon they pulled up on the backside of the main street park near the gazebo.
She’d thought restaurant or…she didn’t know what, but the park?
She wanted to be cool and sophisticated, to carry this date off with a bit of aplomb and admittedly some detachment, but his admission that she was getting to him as bad as he was to her left her floundering for composure. “The park?”
“Picnic.” He got out and came around to her side, opening the door. “We’re lucky there’s a breeze. It’ll be a nice night.”
She stepped to the sidewalk. “Can I help?”
He reached into the center console and came out with an iPod. “You can carry this.”
She looked at the player in her hands and then back at him. “Music too?”
“Dancing if I’m lucky.”
He grinned, and all the tension from lust, from the complex upheaval of her emotions coalesced into one gooey mess. “Why Mr. Applegate, I do believe I’m charmed,” she drawled, winking at him.
He fumbled the cooler and wicker basket with their dinner, making it her turn to grin. He saw and brought his mouth next to her ear, sending a shiver down her neck, across her shoulders, and shot it to points south like a starship going to warp. “I think we can do better than…charmed,” he drawled back
His nearness damn near melted her to a puddle at his feet.
“We shall see,” she answered, her lips a mere inch from his. She had no clue where she learned to play coy and hard to get. She tended toward being direct. Too direct sometimes, as it was less time and energy consuming.
Tom smiled, masculine superiority laced with unvarnished confidence. The man was a menace or plain damn good. Either way, she intended to make him work for her attentions.
He broke away first, thank God. She was on the verge of jumping him—so not the way to make him earn her favor. She followed him down the sidewalk, admiring the shift of his muscles underneath the crisp, white shirt. He crossed a long expanse of green grass with threadbare patches here and there and led her to a large, white gazebo with scrolled panels. Cozy and intimate and perfect. There were four small tables each with two simple wood chairs. He led her to one on the right, near bushes blooming with bright red wild roses.
He made her stand and watch while he opened the basket, spread a blue-checkered tablecloth over the table, extracted a single thick white tapered candle in a small crystal petal holder, placed it in the center of the table, and lit it. Once the flame settled, he placed a glass hurricane lamp over the top.
She had to work to keep her heart from fluttering. She’d been on dates where the maître d’ did all these functions, and her dates had looked bored. Watching Tom set the stage for their meal had her thoughts wandering to the bedroom and what kind of care he would take there. And that just plain made her shiver.
“Cold?”
“Overwhelmed.”
He frowned. “Too much?”
“No,” she whispered.
He stared right to her soul, checking she supposed, to see if she was telling him what he wanted to hear or the truth. Satisfied, he took his iPod from her. The brush of his hand stopped her breath. When he held her chair, she took a subtle whiff of his aftershave and savored the sensuous tingle flashing across her skin. He moved away and fiddled with the player, putting it on the six-inch railing near the table. She mourned the loss.
Sarah Vaughan’s Summertime floated through the air. Sarah Vaughan had been her grandmother’s favorite singer. She knew every song, remembered every lyric.
“How did you know?”
Tom set three covered containers on the table and looked at her. The dishes took up all the space without being crowded. “Know what?”
“My grandmother loved Sarah Vaughan.”
“Did she? I didn’t know. I downloaded this awhile back for Adelina. She was a friend of Walter’s at the nursing home. She got me hooked on all this vintage stuff.”
She hummed part of the tune while he popped off the lids and revealed a fruit bowl, a chicken dish, and a pasta salad.
> “Are these Clem’s chicken-bacon bites?” She leaned to breath in the mouth-watering aroma. “I haven’t had these since I left home.”
“Grandma made these. Rumor has it Clem got his recipe from her.” He reached into the cooler and pulled out two glasses and poured lemonade. “I thought about going for wine,” he said, apologetically, “but with it warm, I thought something thirst quenching would be better. It’s fresh, not frozen.”
The iPod switched to Rosemary Clooney. “I don’t like wine much anyway. But please don’t tell me you made fresh squeezed lemonade for our date.”
“No, my grandmother did.” He handed her a tablecloth-matching napkin and silverware. “I’ve got plates, but it might be easier to just eat out of the serving dishes. You mind?”
“I don’t mind at all. Let me at the chicken-bites.” She took the silverware and speared one, taking a small bite. The brown sugar, bacon, and chili seasoning exploded across her tongue—sweet, tangy, and oh so satisfying. Much like it was going to be to kiss Tom Applegate.
“Oh, God,” she moaned.
“That good, huh?” His eyes swept over her face, down to her breasts and back up.
She nodded. No way in hell was she admitting to him how wayward her thoughts were, or how much that look fried the circuits of her thinking. “I think these are better than Clem’s.”
He shrugged. “Grandma’s are pretty darn spectacular.”
She watched him bite into a piece, his straight white teeth inciting further imaginings. She looked down at the fruit bowl and picked through the grapes, cantaloupe, watermelon, and strawberries. She hesitated over what to talk about, suddenly nervous. Maybe lust was all that was going on here?
Whether planned or not, Tom eased her nerves by starting on stories about the town, things that had happened since she’d left. Most left her laughing, some brought back good memories. They discovered a mutual love of all types of music, and were opposites in books and movies, leading to a good-natured discussion of the two latest blockbusters.
Night eased upon them, the dinner disappeared along with more than a few decadent chocolate chip cookies. Fortunately, the park was quiet. Not many people out on a school night, the few folks in the park kept their distance, there to exercise or meet friends. The atmosphere swept over her, quiet and intimate like a cocoon.
Echo Falls, Texas Boxed Set Page 53