“Mm.” Her baby-blues said she didn’t buy it. “So, what are you shopping for?”
What was he shopping for? He glanced around, and noticed for the first time the quantities of children’s books and videos spread out on tall shelves like notes on a staff. Everything was neat as three-quarter time except for one corner that was piled with cartons. Runners as faded as the curtains ran between shelves, a kid-sized table squatted in front of the bow window. The walls were blotched with stains. The odor of mildew underlay the smell of her perfume, and the light from the window was harsh against the miserly glow of several globes—one cracked—that hung from the stamped-tin ceiling. He’d guess the place wasn’t a gold mine.
He pushed himself up. “Kids’ books. I’m looking for kids’ books.” Wouldn’t hurt to show up with presents for Melanie and Michael before he hauled them out of the only home they knew. “For my daughter.”
“How old is she?” She hadn’t moved, but her voice was stronger, maybe because this was familiar ground.
“Ten, maybe eleven.”
There was silence, and he read her mind. He warmed. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t remember Melanie’s age. His ex-wife Belinda narrowly defined visitation rights. If he couldn’t come to them—and he usually couldn’t—he couldn’t see them. Period. She named every excuse from school schedules to fear of flying (which he thought was her own invention) whenever he suggested they visit Nashville. But this time he had her over a barrel—and she knew he was ready to crack a whip.
“Does she read a lot?”
“I think so.”
Another silence. He felt stupid. “What about these?” Recognizing a title, he motioned to a some books. Little House on the Prairie was a damn fine TV show, even in reruns, no matter what Zeke said.
“Which ones has she read?”
The question held the tone of a challenge. He shot a look over his shoulder, but except for an odd light in her eye, her face was smooth. Still, he bristled. Everybody judged him. What did she know?
“Well?”
It was a challenge. Something had moved her beyond alarm.
He straightened to his full height, which was a good six feet, but, he belatedly realized, only a couple inches taller than her. She didn’t look intimidated, only disapproving.
“I want the whole series.” He gathered them up and spilled them on the counter, liking it when she jumped. Moving over the runners, he grabbed a couple of Disney CDs, a few videos and some picture books. “And these.”
“X-Men aren’t very popular with girls, and these picture books are too young for an eleven-year-old.” Then she added, disdain no longer hidden, “Or even a ten-year-old.”
“I have a son, too. He’s younger. Five. Definitely five. I’ll take these, too.”
She sniffed. If he meant his extravagance to impress her (and he suspected he did), his ploy hadn’t worked.
A thought struck him. He’d forgotten his fan club. He paused at the window but saw nobody. He pressed up closer to see down the street. A wrinkled face, pocked with liver spots and grizzle, popped from the side and peered back. He got an impression of sharp bones and bib overalls before the face disappeared.
He fell back. “Who in the hell is that?”
“Paddy O’Neill. He owns the Emporium and takes pride in knowing everything that goes on in this town. You’re a stranger. A rather odd-looking stranger. I’m sure news of you is now winding its way down to Peg O’ My Heart. Will that be all?”
He blinked at the sudden flood of words. The appearance of the town’s rumor monger had obviously dispelled the rest of her nervousness. It had increased his. “Huh?”
“I said, is that all?”
“That’s it.” He needed to get out of here, but he returned to the counter and leaned against it. He watched her hands as they ruthlessly sorted his merchandise. They tapered long and narrow, proportioned, strong but feminine. Musician’s hands. His eyes traveled from her hands, adorned by a cheap watch and that blasted wedding band, up to her face. He tried to make amends. “So, do you have kids, too?”
She snapped up like an overtight guitar string. “No.”
Under a glare as hard as sapphires, he held up his hands. “Sorry.” He fumbled for a change of topic. “You and your husband own the shop?”
“He’s dead. That will be two-hundred-forty-three dollars and sixty cents.” She held out a hand.
About to suggest rudeness wouldn’t help sales, he changed his mind when he saw her hand was shaking. “I’m sorry. Really.” And he was, for upsetting her, but not, he realized, because her husband was gone.
He thrust a hand in his pocket but emerged with only a few melting M&Ms. “Uh—”
She snatched a container from under the counter, yanked out a towelette and thrust it at him.
Dare he ask her out? He hadn’t had a real date in years; he hadn’t wanted to risk one. Wiping his fingers, he considered. He doubted she was the type to play come-see-my-guitar or visit a man she didn’t know in the confines of his resort cabana. Or, he gave a sigh, go out with the madman who’d almost knocked her on her butt.
But those eyes… He smiled, thinking chatty might do it. “Ah, that smell reminds me of the last time I saw Michael. He was three, still in diapers.” He wadded the towel and when she didn’t take it, stuffed it in his pocket. His hand still came up empty. He felt his face flame around his smile. No cell phone. No wallet.
“I don’t have the first Wilder book.” Another pause. “You haven’t seen your children in two years?”
“Don’t judge me. What book?” Maybe he didn’t want to ask her out, after all.
“You asked for the whole series. Big Woods is out of stock, although I can order it if you’ll pay in advance. And I’m not judging you. I don’t even know you.”
“In my experience, that’s not a requirement.” If the news of his two-year absence had thrilled her, the next piece of information he had for her would drive her wild with excitement. “I have a problem.”
Picking up a pen, she nodded decided agreement, but said, “It’s not a problem. We deliver to the Sedalia and lake areas, both Ozarks and Kesibwi. I can have it there within a few days.”
“Clever.”
She laid the pen down and explained in the same voice she would use with the village dunce. “You see, in order to deliver the book, we have to know where to deliver the book.”
“Jesu—” She gave him a hard stare. “I mean, jeepers.” Jeepers? “I know that. I meant, that’s a clever way to get my address.”
Her mouth went slack, but she recovered fast. “Really. You might be good-looking. You might be extremely good-looking. To some people. But let me assure you, I have no intention of using your address for anything besides delivery.”
He shuffled his feet. So, he wouldn’t be asking her out. Better for everyone, anyway. “You really don’t have a clue, do you?’
“I don’t believe I’m the one who’s clueless. And if you don’t wish to give me your address, that’s fine.”
Once more, she picked up the pen and waited. Great, now she thought he was a paranoid, arrogant madman.
“What the hell. I’ll be at the Royal Sun Resort for the next six, seven weeks.”
“And your name?”
A drum roll filled his head. “Jonathan Van Castle.”
Her eyes briefly shot north. “Is that with a capital V and C?”
He deflated. “Yes. Deliver it to the front desk. They’ll get it to me.”
She finished writing, looked back up. “Two-hundred-forty-three dollars and sixty cents?”
“I still have a problem.”
“Which problem are we discussing?”
“I seem to have left my wallet in—” He backed toward a door he assumed led to a storeroom with a delivery door and motioned toward the pile of books. “Just pack it all up. I’ll be right back.”
He turned, headed through the back room before she could protest and found the delivery door. Just
as he’d thought, it led to an alley.
“We do have a front door. The one you came in.” She’d paused in the doorway, arms crossed.
He peered up and down the alley, then looked at her over his shoulder. “My phobias.”
“Oh, yes. Your phobias.”
The thermostat in his face ratcheted up another notch. He turned and almost banged the nose Country Dreaming called regal into the jamb. Muttering a curse, he slipped out.
Dodging through the warren of alleys at full tilt, he wondered if he’d gone nuts. What difference did it make if he returned? From the tone of her voice to the slant of her eyebrows, it was obvious she thought he was a jerk. A few bucks wouldn’t change anything, and it wouldn’t matter even if it did.
He reached a copse of trees that bordered the back of the park. The bus slumbered in a clearing and hadn’t gone undetected. He spotted an orange head among a few women leaping to try to see through the tinted windows, but most milled yards away around the park entrance. Roy stood at the closed bus doors, thick arms crossed. Only his eyes moved, sweeping the park and finally lighting on Jon. His chin, the edge of an anvil, moved up a notch in acknowledgement.
Taking a deep breath, Jon sprinted. He was on them in seconds. Before the women could squeak, Roy had shoved him in the bus and muscled in after him. The driver slammed the doors.
Roy flopped into the first available seat and mopped at his head with his bandanna. Jon patted thanks on his shoulder.
Zeke turned a page of his magazine. “Having an adventure, my man?”
Jon leaned down to give the driver directions, then shoved Zeke’s feet off the couch and took their place. Zeke gave him a look of mock annoyance and straightened the crease in his trousers.
“Just a slight detour,” Jon said.
The driver shifted into gear. Zeke’s eyebrows shifted higher.“She must really be something.”
“She? I just found something I want—”
“I’ll bet.”
“—and I forgot my wallet.”
“Mmm.”
The driver eased the bus up to Merry-Go-Read. It halted with a hydraulic wheeze. The bookstore lady couldn’t help but notice.
Jon stood up, signaling Roy. The other security guards also stood, abandoning their cards, and got out. Sure she was watching, Jon bypassed his usual leap from the bus, gathered his dignity, ignored Zeke’s eyebrows and promenaded between his sentries the eight feet to her door.
Inside, everything was still in its place, including the bookstore lady. She stood behind the counter, her hands folded, and if she’d noticed his triumphant return, she didn’t betray it by even a blink. “Two-hundred-forty-three dollars and sixty cents?”
Wilting, he approached. “I know.” With one final flourish, he handed over a Platinum Visa with Jonathan Van Castle emblazoned across the front.
Now she would recognize him. She would finally put two and two together. He pasted a modest look alongside a grin and waited for her hand to fly over her fluttering heart. But she only slid the card through the machine and waited for it to belch out a receipt.
His grin faded. He reached for the card, but she pulled it back and slid the receipt in front of him. “Please sign.”
Hell. He grabbed a pen, scrawled his John Henry and when he was done, she by-God picked it up and compared it to the card. Satisfied—and she’d better be—she offered him the card and receipt. He snatched them from her.
“Thank you. Have a nice day.” Polite words, no smile.
He’d have a nice day all right, no thanks to her. He grumbled his way to the door. As he reached for the handle, voices crescendoed outside.
The soft scent of honeysuckle tickled his nose. The bookstore lady had moved up behind him. “My goodness. Mari! What is she doing?”
“The redhead?”
“My little sister.” Her tone was grim.
Roy held the redhead back as she and her friends tried to force their way to the bus. Apparently they thought he was in it. Jon turned to look at the bookstore lady.
For once, she was looking back. “Who are you?”
Finally. He let his slow smile surface but didn’t reply. Instead, he chucked her gently under the chin. Curiosity turned to a glare. He opened the door, and stepped into his world. Squeals rose, hands reached but his guards held firm. As he swung into the bus, his smile lingered.
Zeke glanced up. “Get what you wanted?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“A phone number? A date?”
“Nope.” He tossed down his sack, settled onto the sofa and locked his hands behind his head.
Zeke raised an eyebrow.
“I got the last word.”
The memory of a pair of startled big blues stayed with him all the way to Monaco, making him grin. Once in Monaco, though, Belinda wiped the smile right off his face.
CHAPTER TWO
WHAT A CONCEITED cretin! Crumpling Mr. Van Castle’s receipt in her fist, Lilac O’Malley Ryan scrubbed at her chin. As the bus pulled away—good riddance—Mari banged through the door. The patch of hot pink fabric she called a shirt was stained with sweat.
Disregarding Lil’s disapproving look, Mari hoisted her narrow derriere onto the counter and grumped, legs swinging along with the earrings that almost brushed her shoulders.“I can’t believe you met Jonathan Van Castle. You, who wouldn’t know George Strait if he sidled up and sat on your lap.”
“George who?” Lil unwrinkled the receipt, then looked at the sister ten years her junior. “If I’m supposed to be impressed, I’m not. He might be good-looking in an outlandish sort of way, but he’s arrogant, rude and he doesn’t even know his own daughter’s age.”
Plus, his smile annoyed her. His smile and the little flip her stomach had done every time he’d used it. Still, she guessed she should be grateful. He was responsible for the biggest single sale Merry-Go-Read had made all week. Maybe all month.
Definitely all month.
She set the receipt in a prominent spot on the counter where the shop’s owner, their sister-in-law Patsy Lee, would see it first thing. Still, the amount was too little and too late to save Merry-Go-Read. A chill crept over her. When Jonathan Van Castle had been here, the shop had seemed overly warm, but now it was cold.
“I’ll be right back.” Avoiding the sandal swinging from Mari’s toe, Lil headed to the storeroom to adjust the thermostat, not that the cantankerous thing ever paid any attention. She didn’t bother to flip on the lights. In the last few years, she’d gotten to know by memory the musty room where she’d methodically received and unpacked inventory. Only shipping returns to publishers was done here now.
Mari’s voice followed her. “You’re hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”
Lil turned the dial. Mari was right. She was hopeless. Hopeless and helpless. She rubbed her arms. And scared.
She turned to go back into the shop, stumbled over something on the floor and cried out before she could stop herself. Everything was a mess since she’d started packing.
“You okay?” Mari called with the worry Lil had learned to expect from her family.
“I’m fine.”
She picked up the book she’d tripped over. Little House in the Big Woods. She pressed her lips together. She must have set it back here sometime this past week when she was moving books around, then forgot it.
Dammit. Double dammit. Now she’d have to run the danged thing all the way to Lake Kesibwi. Thinking of the lake, tears gathered behind her eyelids. Impatiently, she blinked them away. She’d thought she was done with crying.
“Mari, I’m going to stay back here and pack a few books I need to return.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
Lil swallowed through a tight throat. “I’m sure.”
There was a pause and Lil could picture Mari worrying a lock of hair while she debated whether to check on her sister. Her family’s vigilence was wearing. “Well, then, I’ll pack some out here, but only if you promise me on pain of
death you’ll dish up every word Jonathan Van Castle uttered. Promise—or you can find another slave.”
“I promise.”
She’d lied to Mari. She wasn’t fine, there were no books back here to pack and everything was a mess—not just since she’d learned Merry-Go-Read would close, but since the car wreck that had taken Robbie from her three years ago.
She banged her palm on a utility shelf. Damn him for not taking care of the car. Damn him for not listening. Damn him for dying and leaving her alone.
Again Mari’s voice rang out. “Lil?”
“Just dropped a book,” she called back.
As the months had ticked by after his death, she’d slowly rebuilt an existence. But, oh, Robbie. What should I do now?
“Lil! Aren’t you done yet? I’ve packed up a box and I can’t find the blasted marker for the label and you promised me you’d tell—”
“I’m coming.” Lil put her hands to her cheeks to cool them and carried the Little House book into the shop.
“So. Describe him.” Mari hopped back up on the counter and scrunched her freckled nose. Maybelline had never dusted that nose—Mari rejected heavy makeup and mousse, just like her sister. Although for Lil, it wasn’t a cause, simply a matter of disinterest.
“I thought I did.”
“Don’t make me wrench it out of you.” Mari twisted to turn on the radio. She tuned in a country station, cranking up the volume until Lil’s molars buzzed. “Ooo. I love this song! New one by Van Castle. From their Country Comeback CD.” She played air fiddle, then razored her eyes at Lil. “And I don’t want editorial comments. What I want from you is a description of every gesture, every word, every look, every…”
Lil tried to tune Mari out—she could hardly hear her anyway—put the book on a shelf and rummaged in a drawer, unwilling to admit she didn’t want to talk about Mr. Van Castle because she’d found his presence unsettling.
“Come on! Tell. I hardly got a glimpse of him over that musclebound bodyguard.”
The image of a slow, sultry smile rose in Lil’s mind. Feeling cranky, she found a marker and handed it off to her sister. “Ridiculously tight leather pants and boots, melted candy in his pocket—”
SING ME HOME (Love Finds A Home - Book One) Page 2