Burning Bright

by Anne Stuart; Maggie Shayne; Judith Arnold

  “Sure. Thanks,” Jeff said, shaking the police chief’s hand once more as the man slid out of the booth.

  The seat across from Alana was now empty. Jeff could move across the table from her. But the chances of their bumping elbows across the table were slim, so he decided to stay where he was.

  She twisted in her seat, poking his thigh with her knee, and glowered at him. Even glowering, she looked magnificent. “Is ‘Aunt Marge’ Marjorie Willis?” It was an accusation more than a question. “Is Robert Willis your uncle?”

  “By marriage,” Jeff admitted. “Marge Willis is my father’s baby sister.”

  “You didn’t think to mention that yesterday.”

  “What difference would it make? Bob might need a lawyer, and I’m the best one he knows. So here I am.”

  “He might need a lawyer?” Alana harrumphed and twisted forward again, repeating the knee bump.

  He smiled, wishing she would bump him some more. “You don’t sound too objective,” he chided. “As a journalist, shouldn’t you keep your opinions out of your reporting?”

  “I’ve never said Robert Willis was guilty.”

  “You just implied he needs a lawyer.”

  “I mean, I never said it in the newspaper. The article I wrote was very fair. And as the story continues to unfold I’ll write another article, and it’ll be fair, too.”

  “I’m sure it will be.” He didn’t bother to filter the skepticism from his voice. “Are you going to eat that muffin?”

  She nudged the plate toward him. “Help yourself.”

  He allowed himself another smile. Just like last night, when she’d invited him back to her house for a drink, she seemed occasionally able to forget they were adversaries. Her instinct was to be generous. Not necessarily a useful trait in a journalist, he thought, but a very desirable trait in a friend.

  He helped himself to a piece of her muffin. It was bran with bananas rather than raisins, and infinitely tastier than the bowl of oatmeal Aunt Marge had insisted he eat before leaving her house. “So, what happened? Did the Bridgeport News fire you?”

  Whatever kindness he’d sensed in her evaporated like dew on a hot morning. “No, they didn’t fire me,” she said curtly.

  “You quit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “What makes you think that’s any of your business?”

  “I’m eating your muffin,” he said.

  For some reason, she accepted his answer as reasonable. “I had no mobility there,” she said. “I wanted to do some editing, some news analysis, but that wasn’t going to happen at the News, so I quit. At the Chronicle, I’m encouraged to do everything. It’s been a great experience.”

  “Yeah, but you’re in Crescent Cove. The middle of nowhere.”

  “This is a lovely town,” she argued.

  “You like living in a town where the biggest story your paper’s covered is that seventy-five thousand dollars of the school-board’s budget has been misplaced? In Boston, seventy-five thousand dollars gets misplaced in at least three city departments every day. News like that wouldn’t even make the comics page.”

  “Maybe that’s why I like Crescent Cove,” she pointed out, sounding less argumentative than philosophical. “There’s something nice about a town where this is a big deal. We don’t have big-city crime or corruption here. Reports of murders and assaults and fatal accidents don’t dominate our front page.”

  “Can you actually imagine yourself spending the rest of your life here?” he asked.

  She helped herself to another bit of muffin. “The rest of my life? That’s a long time.” She mulled over the idea, then added, “It depends on how my Hanukkah party goes.”

  Jeff let out a laugh. “If the party is a bust, you’re going to move back to Bridgeport?”

  “I have no intention of ever moving back to Bridgeport,” she muttered, a hint that more than just a lack of professional mobility had driven her from that city. “It’s just…I want to feel at home here. And I do. But things like Hanukkah…” She appeared to be thinking aloud. “The Jewish holidays are important to me. I don’t know how I’d feel if I was the only person in town they were important to.”

  “Your party’s going to be a big success,” he predicted, because she seemed so pensive, all of a sudden. “Of course, it would be an even bigger success if you invited me.”

  She grinned and shook her head, her spirit recovered. “Yeah, right. Sue me for libel and then come and drink my wine.”

  “Only if it’s good wine. Not that sweet kosher stuff.”

  She crumpled her napkin and tossed it onto the table. “Why don’t you go find out if Aunt Marge has any errands she wants you to run. I’ve got work to do.”

  Reluctantly he stood to allow her to escape the booth. Sitting so close to her had been nice. Much too nice. “No errands for Aunt Marge,” he said as he pulled his wallet from the hip pocket of his jeans. “I’ve got work to do, too.”

  HE WORKED at a polished mahogany table three away from hers in the reference section of the library. Like her, he was flipping through old school budgets. Like her, he had a pad at his elbow, a pen in hand. What was he looking for? Something that might exonerate his uncle?

  What Alana was looking for had nothing to do with exonerating Robert Willis. She’d spent nearly an hour in Dorothy’s office. Barrett had accompanied her there and she’d been unable to come up with an excuse to bar him from the discussion, since it was about a public matter. Then he’d accompanied her to the town library to examine school budget reports dating back more than a decade. He knew what she did: that Dorothy believed someone had been systematically skimming money from this year’s school budget, that she was currently reviewing past budgets to see if the theft had been going on prior to this year and that she had asked Jason Farrar to scare up a bunch of bank statements for her.

  Alana glanced at Barrett. His head was bowed over the ledger and a frown line creased his forehead. The ceiling fixture captured the highlights in his hair and his shoulders filled out his sweater much too nicely. What would he look like without that sweater? she wondered. What would it be like to sit as close to him as she had at Mort’s, only without layers of clothing separating them?

  With a sigh, she lowered her gaze back to her own ledger. She had no good reason to think about Jeff Barrett that way—other than the obvious one, which was that he was the most handsome man to enter her field of vision since she’d settled in Crescent Cove, and arguably for a long time before then. When a man could look as sexy as he did in a bulky sweater and old jeans and poring over school budgets, a woman was entitled to ogle. And fantasize.

  The librarian had brought out so many ledgers for them to review that they’d decided to divide them. This meant that if she found any questionable calculations or mysterious deficits, she’d have to share her discovery with him. And if he found any, he’d have to share it with her. She hoped she could trust him. Even if he hid discrepancies from her, hawk-eyed Dorothy Callahan would unearth them eventually, so it wasn’t as if he could protect his uncle forever. And discrepancies might actually work in his uncle’s favor; some of the ledgers Barrett had dated back to a time before his uncle became the superintendent of schools. If he discovered a pattern of lousy bookkeeping, he could make a convincing case that the school department’s comptroller was habitually careless.

  So far, Alana had seen nothing worth noting. A couple of errors appeared in the records, with asterisks and corrections penned in. The numbers were beginning to blur before her eyes. To rest them, she shifted her gaze, and it zeroed in on Jeff Barrett again.

  Had she noticed yesterday how rugged his jaw line was? She’d been keenly aware of it that morning at Mort’s, when she’d had a close-up view of his profile. She’d had to exercise enormous willpower not to reach up and trace the sharp angle of his chin with her fingertips. Thank God she’d had a mug of coffee to occupy her hands.

  A muted voice spilled from speakers
in the ceiling: “The library will close in fifteen minutes. If you wish to check out material, please do so now.”

  She glanced at her watch: quarter to five. On weekdays, the library stayed open until eight, but on Saturdays it closed early. Just as well; she was tired of reviewing the records, and she doubted she was going to find anything interesting in them.

  Three tables away, Barrett folded his ledger book shut, leaned back in his chair and stretched. His gaze collided with hers and he smiled.

  She felt warm. More than warm. She felt the way she had when he’d appropriated her muffin that morning. It had been such an intimate act—just as her drying his socks in her clothes dryer had been an intimate act. She shouldn’t have done that, but she couldn’t have let his feet freeze, could she?

  The way he was smiling at her now, his arms extended above his head and his back arching… It made her contemplate what he would look like when he woke up after a night’s sleep. Without any clothes on.

  Shrugging off the thought, she closed the book she’d been scrutinizing, pushed back her chair and stood. She turned to lift her parka from the back of her chair and spun around when she heard a muted thump. Barrett stood directly across from her, adding his ledgers to her stack. “Uncover any deep, dark secrets?” he asked in a hushed, library-appropriate voice.

  “Not even any shallow, light ones,” she said, relieved that her words didn’t reveal her thoughts about waking up with him. “How about you?”

  “No, but I’m pretty hungry. Is there someplace a step up from that diner where we could get some dinner?”

  We. He assumed she would join him. Well, why not? If she went home, she’d spend the evening fussing with the candles for her menorah and trying to figure out her grandmother’s recipe for potato latkes. “This isn’t Boston,” she pointed out, “but you can get a decent meal at Sister Krissie’s.”

  “Great.” He hoisted the ledgers into his arms and lugged them to the reference librarian’s counter while Alana put on her jacket and ordered her imagination to stick close to home. She could eat dinner with Barrett without getting fixated on his silver eyes and his heart-stopping smile. She could eat, and she could remember that he was a hired gun in town to defend his uncle from a journalist who had the audacity to report the truth.

  Dark had fallen while they’d been shut up inside the library, and the night air was raw. His car was parked near hers in the lot behind the building. “Why don’t we use my car,” he suggested. “I’ll drive you back here after dinner.”

  Hopefully, the pavement under her tires wouldn’t be slick with ice when they returned. But if it was, he could push her out of the spot. The parking lot was relatively clear, and he was wearing what appeared to be waterproof work boots, so she wouldn’t have to dry his socks afterward.

  Sister Krissie’s was bustling on a Saturday night; in Crescent Cove five o’clock was considered a fashionable hour to dine. Fortunately, the hostess found a small table in a back corner for them, and within a few minutes they’d ordered: steak and a beer for Barrett, grilled salmon and a glass of Chardonnay for Alana. The waitress brought them their drinks and a basket of warm bread, removed their menus and vanished.

  “So,” he said, “do you think your buddy Jason Farrar is going to arrest my uncle?”

  Talking about Robert Willis was safer than pondering Barrett’s bedroom eyes. “Jason knows his job,” she assured him. “If he arrests Willis, it’ll be because he’s got the evidence he needs.” She traced the edge of her napkin with her index finger and recalled her desire to trace Barrett’s jaw. The same urge attacked her now, and she was glad her napkin was spread across her lap so he couldn’t see her fidgeting. “Have you noticed your uncle’s spending habits changing recently? Did he suddenly buy a new car or a high-definition TV?”

  “He’s a frugal Yankee.” Barrett drank some beer and shook his head. “He’s not a thief, Alana. He and Aunt Marge have been married for twenty-eight years, and they’ve raised two kids. Bobby is in dental school now, and Emily is a senior up in Burlington, at the university. This is not a family you’d associate with embezzlement.”

  “Do you think maybe someone’s conned him?” Alana asked. “Is there someone else who has access to the school department’s accounts?”

  “How would I know?” He took a slice of bread and spread butter across it. “You’re plugged into the local scene. I’m not.”

  “What kind of law do you practice in Boston?” she asked.

  “Labor law, mostly.” He smiled sheepishly. “Uncle Bob isn’t exactly my specialty, but I’m as qualified to offer him legal assistance as anyone around here. Probably more qualified.”

  His arrogance amused her. What else could she expect from a Boston legal eagle? “And you’re doing it pro bono, I’m sure. Such a noble gesture.”

  He laughed. “What can I say? I’m a good nephew.”

  “Do you live right in the city?”

  “Back Bay,” he told her. “Nice neighborhood. Grossly over-priced.” He shrugged and took another swig of beer. “Tell me, does the peace and quiet up here ever get to you? Do you miss the din of traffic? Fresh sushi? Decent cell-phone service?”

  She missed all those things, but not all the time. “If I could afford it, I’d keep my house here and have a city apartment, too, so I could enjoy both. I grew up just outside Philadelphia and went to college in Manhattan. My grandmother lived there, so even after college I spent a lot of time in New York.”

  “This is the grandmother who gave you the menorah?”

  Alana nodded, waiting to speak until the waitress delivered their salads and left. “She died last spring. She and I were very close, especially when I lived in Bridgeport. I could just hop on the train and go down there for lunch, and be home in time for supper.” She poked at her salad with her fork. “She always made a party out of everything. Passover, Hanukkah, birthdays, the Fourth of July. She loved being a hostess.”

  “Do you?”

  “Love being a hostess?” She snorted. “I’m not sure. I’ve never hosted a party like this open house before. My grandmother always hosted the parties.” She speared an out-of-season tomato, pink and mealy, then changed her mind and dropped it back into the salad dish. “I’ve got all her recipes, but I’m not as good a cook as she was.”

  “Do you need help? I’m no great cook myself, but I can peel potatoes.”

  The hotshot Boston lawyer was offering to peel potatoes for her? Was that some new strategy sophisticated urbanites used to pick up women? Actually, any guy willing to peel potatoes would have an inside track with her. And a guy with Jeff Barrett’s sex appeal…

  On the other hand, maybe this was a sleazy legal ploy. Maybe he’d say he would peel her potatoes if she’d agree not to write any more articles about his uncle.

  But when she lifted her wine and caught him watching her, and his gaze met hers over the rim of her wineglass… She couldn’t help thinking that something more was going on. She wasn’t sure what, but something was definitely going on.

  Chapter Four

  Jeff Barrett showed up at ten Sunday morning, looking surprisingly eager to peel potatoes.

  It wasn’t as if Alana had expected him to renege on his offer of KP services. Last night’s dinner had been too pleasant, the conversation too easy, the drive back to the library for her to pick up her car too friendly. His car, one of those pricey all-wheel-drive BMW models, had handled beautifully on the wintry roads. She bet he never got stuck on an ice patch in a parking lot.

  After pulling into the space next to her old clunker, which was the only vehicle parked in the lot at that hour, he’d climbed out of his car in some misguided gesture of chivalry. He couldn’t have walked her to her door; it had been only inches from the BMW’s passenger-side door. Maybe he’d just wanted to survey the lot, to make sure no creeps were lurking in the shadows. As if anyone would want to lurk outside on a December night in Crescent Cove, when the air was cold enough to freeze tears.

&
nbsp; For one insane moment, she’d thought he had gotten out of his car to kiss her. But he’d only watched her fiddle with her keys and unlock her door, and once she’d settled herself in the driver’s seat, he’d closed the door behind her. Then he’d waved, circled his own car, gotten in behind the wheel and waited for her to back out of her space—probably concerned he might have to rescue her again. He’d followed her to the parking lot’s driveway and turned right when she’d turned left.

  No kiss.

  Just as well, she thought as she bent over and gripped Nellie’s collar so the dog wouldn’t charge out onto the front porch and knock him down. Nellie weighed only about thirty pounds, but she was fast and solid, and she could blitz like an NFL lineman.

  Jeff stomped the snow off his boots before entering her house. “Your peeler has arrived,” he announced with a grin that was just mischievous enough for her to consider the different connotations of the word peeler.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked as he removed his coat and hung it on a hook of the coat tree in the entry.

  “As opposed to what?”

  She shrugged. “Driving back to Boston?”

  He followed her down the hall to the kitchen, Nellie scampering alongside him. “I’m not going back to Boston until I’m sure Uncle Bob doesn’t need me anymore.”

  Alana had a strong suspicion Uncle Bob would need a good lawyer soon enough, but she kept that thought to herself. “If you’d really rather peel potatoes than go home, I won’t complain,” she said, crossing to the loose-leaf binder that held her grandmother’s recipes. It lay open on the counter, beside a couple of large bowls and Alana’s food processor. The bags of potatoes she’d bought on Friday sat on the kitchen table.