Crazy in Love

by Lani Diane Rich

  Flynn was so immersed in her panic that she hadn’t even noticed Jake Tucker hop out and grab her luggage from the bed of the truck until he was there before her, suitcase in hand, opening the passenger side door.

  “Wow,” she said, barely able to take her eyes off the grand, disapproving columns that banked either side of the dark French doors at the mouth of this great behemoth of an inn. A bead of sweat trickled down the small of her back.

  “Welcome home.” His voice was softer than it had been at the train station, and Flynn had to look to make sure it was still the same guy standing there. It was. His expression was less condescending now, though, almost . . . sympathetic, like he could tell how panicked she was, and was making an effort to be kind. Not that she was going to let her guard down with him just yet, but she allowed the possibility that he might not be a total asshole. Only time would tell.

  “Oh, and . . .” He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a set of keys. “Here. These are yours.”

  She glanced down. They were the keys to the truck. She looked back up at him. “Why are you giving me these?”

  “The truck’s yours. A small gesture of independence, from the inn to you.”

  She laughed out loud. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not at the moment. Why?”

  “You don’t actually expect me to drive that thing, do you?”

  His eyes darkened, and the condescension returned. “Sorry, Ms. Hilton. Limo’s in the shop. You’ll have to slum it for a while.”

  Flynn clutched the keys tightly in her hands and looked up at him, anger coursing through her. She was leaning back toward total asshole. “Excuse me?”

  His eyes met hers, and they weren’t apologetic in the least. “Esther didn’t drive, and this is the extra truck from maintenance. You want a town car and a driver, you’re gonna have to make your own arrangements.”

  “That’s not it,” she said tightly. “I just . . .” She held the keys out to him. “I don’t drive.”

  He blinked, the shock clear on his face. “You’re thirty years old and you don’t know how to drive?”

  “Twenty-nine.” She hopped out of the truck. “And I grew up in Boston. Anywhere I needed to go, it was either cab, T, or walk.”

  A smidge of contrition crossed his face, and Flynn figured that was as close to an apology as she was likely to get from this guy.

  “Well, that’s not the way it is here,” he said. “There are a few basic things within walking distance, but sooner or later, you’re gonna want the truck.”

  She released a breath, and stuffed the keys in her purse. “Fine. Thank you.”

  He nodded, hitched up her suitcase, and started down the sidewalk, away from the inn.

  “We’re not going inside?” Flynn asked, shuffling to keep up with his pace.

  “You’ll be staying at the cottage,” he said, leading her onto a cobblestone path that curled around to one side of the inn. “It’s where Esther lived. It’s just around past the east wing here—”

  “The east wing?” Flynn said, realizing as they walked that the east wing stretched a good thirty yards back. Hadn’t Freya said it was a little inn?

  “There’s an east wing and a west wing. Three floors, thirty rooms, and two suites each. They’re connected by the lobby, bar, and restaurant. The courtyard stretches out between the wings, going back to the rose garden. And at the edge of the east corner of the courtyard is . . .”

  He trailed off as they reached a small cottage, painted white with green shutters. The cobblestones curved toward it, leading right up to the tiny little front door, also painted green. The porch held a two-seater porch swing, and the trees that flanked the cottage on either side were turning shades of brilliant red and yellow, except for the tremendous evergreen that shaded the front porch. Some leaves had started to fall, softening the walk as they moved toward the cottage.

  They reached the first porch step and Flynn put her hand to her chest over her erratically beating heart. The cottage itself looked like it had hopped off the cover of the Saturday Evening Post, and that was nice and everything, but all the trees and the mulchy smell of the fallen leaves made Flynn’s skin itch. Would a little cement kill these people? Seriously.

  Tucker motioned down at the leaf-covered path. “Herman doesn’t usually rake out here. Esther liked the leaves. I can tell Annabelle to send him over in the morning if you don’t like it.”

  “No,” Flynn swallowed, not wanting to admit that it bothered her. She could live with a few leaves. “It’s fine. It’s nice. It’s . . . um . . .”

  Flynn looked up to find him watching her, a bemused smile on his face. He knew she was freaked out. How did he know? Was she that transparent? She turned away from him, cleared her throat, and hardened her voice a touch. “This was my aunt Esther’s?”

  He nodded. “It was the manager’s quarters back in the day, but Esther’s been here as long as anyone can remember. Mercy—she’s the chef—has put some basics in the kitchen for you, but if you need anything else, just let her know and she’ll get it for you.”

  Jake unlocked the front door as he talked, then handed the key to her and moved to the side to allow her through. She stepped inside and . . .

  “Oh, my God,” she said without thinking. “It kinda smells like old lady in here.”

  Her suitcase landed with a thunk by the front door and she could tell when she glanced behind her that Jake hadn’t appreciated the comment.

  “You know, that kind of . . . peppermint smell. It’s not bad. I wasn’t being . . .”

  He just stared at her, all virtuous and offended, as if he hadn’t said a million mean things to her since picking her up at the station. She inhaled again, and decided it wouldn’t kill her to offer a tiny olive branch. After all, she couldn’t fire him for another seven days.

  “I mean, it’s beautiful.” She glanced around at the little living room. There was lace everywhere. Everywhere. But the space was nice, and she was sure that once she opened the windows and cleared some of the knickknacks away, it would be fine. She took a step closer to the wall and squinted in the dim light to see if she was really looking at what she thought she was looking at.

  Yep. It was a shelf dedicated entirely to ceramic cow creamers.

  She crossed the room and poked her head in the bathroom. It was laid out in peach tile, which would take some getting used to, but it had a gorgeous claw foot tub, a stylish pedestal sink, and a door leading directly to what she assumed was the bedroom. She glanced over her shoulder as she walked toward the bedroom door.

  “So, they, uh . . . they haven’t cleared out her stuff, then?”

  He shrugged. “Her clothes and personal things are packed away, but we didn’t really have time to redecorate, no.”

  Flynn nodded, poked her head into the bedroom. A big four-poster bed, large cherrywood armoire, two ornate nightstands, a lace bedspread, lace curtains. It was pretty much an even mix of nice and yargh. She stepped back into the living room and found Jake Tucker, still standing by the door, watching her. Why wouldn’t he just leave?

  “Oh, sorry! Of course!” She pulled a twenty out of her purse as she crossed the room to him, then stuffed it into his hand. “Thank you. Bye.”

  He leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared at her. What? Was he holding out for forty? Greedy bastard.

  “You still haven’t answered my question about whether you’re selling or not,” he said.

  She put her hand to her temple, which was beginning to pound. “Is everyone in this town so direct? Because if that’s the case, I’m going to need to find a pharmacy.”

  “You’ve never lived in a small town, have you?” he asked, but didn’t wait for the answer. “They all know I came to get you. The second I leave this cottage they’re going to descend on me like locusts and ask me if I think you’re going to sell the place.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Would that I were,” he said. �
�And right now, based on the way you’ve dodged my questions, I’m thinking you’re going to sell.”

  “No!” Flynn said. “God, no. Don’t tell them that.”

  “Is it the truth?”

  “Well.” She tried to keep a straight face as she parroted the company line Freya had given her. “We haven’t made any decisions just yet. That’s why I’m here. To help make the decisions.”

  “Right.” He kept looking at her, that sly little smirk on his face, and her stupid traitor heart got all fluttery under his gaze.

  Knock it off, she told herself. Charming and handsome do not trump jerk.

  “Mr. Tucker . . .”

  He smiled. For the first time, she noticed that his front teeth were slightly crooked. “Jake.”

  “I can’t call you Jake.”

  His eyebrows quirked toward each other. “Why not?”

  Duh. “Because then you win.”

  The sheer ridiculousness of it all seemed to hit them both at the same time. They shared a smile, and once again, Flynn went all fluttery inside. She took a deep breath and mentally envisioned herself hosing the butterflies down with insecticide.

  “Okay,” he said, breaking into her thoughts. “We’ll compromise. You can call me Tucker.”

  “Fine, Tucker. Thank you for the ride, but if we’re done here, I’d really like to unpack, pee, and take a nap.”

  He chuckled. She raised her eyebrows and looked meaningfully at the door.

  “Okay,” he said, nodding. “Fair enough.”

  He tossed the twenty down on the half-moon table by the door and left. Relief flooded her entire body. Her reprieve wouldn’t last long, though, she knew. Soon she would have to call a staff meeting and look them all in the eye and lie like a bastard. But for the moment, she was safe.

  The hair on the back of her neck rose suddenly, and she got the distinct feeling that she was being watched. She glanced around, her eyes finally landing on the cow creamers. She walked to the shelf and stared them down.

  “You guys? Will be the first to go.”

  Feeling marginally better, she turned and headed toward the bathroom, working hard to shake the absurd feeling that behind her, the ceramic cows were laughing.

  There were three messages waiting for Jake when he walked through his apartment door. The first was, predictably, from Mercy, lecturing him on being nice to the niece, lest she sell the place and fire them all, et cetera, et cetera . . .

  . . . et cetera. His sister had definitely inherited the Tucker gene for excessive chattiness.

  Pfft, he thought as Mercy rattled on. Nice to the niece. Like he needed to be told. He was always nice. And he’d been on his best behavior with the niece, if you didn’t count the badgering, which he didn’t. It was a necessary evil to see what he was dealing with in this Flynn Daly person. If the niece was in it with Chase, Jake had to know that. If it meant pissing off the niece in the process, so be it.

  The thing was, even after the badgering, he wasn’t at all sure what he was dealing with. His gut said she was okay, and his gut was usually pretty reliable, but there was definitely something weird about her. His research had painted a pretty clear picture of what to expect; your basic spoiled rich girl who’s never had to work a day in her life. She’d gone to Boston University, gotten a degree in Liberal Arts with a minor in Theater, and had gone on to be an actress for a while, with mentions peppered in some regional papers outside of Boston. In recent years, she’d disappeared off the radar, with the exception of occasional mentions in the Boston society sections, usually for attending an event for one of her father’s pet charities. Based on all that, Jake had been expecting a spoiled socialite out here to charm the locals while Daddy skewered a deal back at Rich Dude HQ.

  Instead, what he’d gotten was a mass of contradictions with a heartbeat. She was both confident and insecure. She stood straight, but walked with a tentative gait, like a little girl in her mother’s heels. She was sharp, but still easily taken off guard. She had this crazy hair that was tame and wild at the same time, hazel eyes that seemed to see more than she let on, and a smile that reminded him of a Disney heroine—wide, toothy, and with an uncanny ability to knock his train of thought right off the tracks every time.

  She was . . . weird.

  And Jake was pretty sure she was just a spoke in this wheel; he really didn’t think she was involved with Gordon Chase. Of course, Chase would still be on the prowl—Jake gave it twenty-four hours max before he showed up at the Arms, ready to use Flynn Daly to get his grubby hands on the sale. And she’d fall for his act. Most women were helpless in the face of men like Gordon Chase. Which could actually work for Jake; if he stuck close enough to Flynn Daly, she might be his ticket to bringing the asshole down.

  The machine finally beeped—what happened to the good old days when answering machines cut people off after a minute or so?—and the second message started. Mercy, again, announcing that someone seemed to be filching the toilet paper from the executive commode, and she would gladly pay a real private detective to investigate if, alas, only there was one in town.

  “It’s a damn shame,” he muttered as he hit the delete button.

  Then he listened to the third message. It was from a voice he didn’t recognize, a woman’s voice so small and mousy he was a little surprised his machine had picked it up at all.

  “Hello? Um, Mr. Tucker? This is Rhonda Bacon, Gordon Chase’s secretary, and I’m calling because . . .” There was a long pause, and in the background a man’s voice was talking. Finally there was the sound of a door closing and she was back, her voice even lower than before. “I’m calling because I have information I think you might be interested in.” She cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “Information about Mr. Chase. About what he’s been doing.” There was the sound of a door opening. Jake thought he recognized Gordon Chase’s deep, greasy tones this time, and then the line went dead. The electronic time stamp lady announced that the call had come in on Tuesday at 3:13 A.M., which was of course wrong, since it was Monday; Jake had never bothered resetting his machine after the last storm had knocked the power out. Which had been about a month ago. But based on his estimates of when Mercy would have left her messages, he figured the call came in sometime after two-thirty that afternoon, right about the time he was showing Flynn Daly into Esther’s cottage.

  Jake stared at the machine for a while after Rhonda’s message ended, then walked over to the fridge to grab a beer. He wasn’t typically a daytime drinker—wasn’t much of a drinker at all, actually—but this was an occasion that called for a beer.

  After all, this just might be his lucky day. How often did the secretary of your sworn enemy call you offering evidence on a silver platter? Jake was no statistics expert, but he figured not often.

  He took a swig from his beer and stared at the machine, his brain getting to work on sorting out the stuff that didn’t make sense. For one, why had Rhonda called him? If she knew that Chase was guilty of something, didn’t it make sense to go straight to the police? Why call a disgraced—and prematurely retired—rookie cop? Even if he was still on the force, he’d be little more than a grunt with the ability to ticket people for speeding and indecent exposure. He was small potatoes any way you sliced it, so it made no sense for Rhonda to be beating down his door.

  Unless maybe she was implicated. Maybe Chase had somehow gotten her to break the law without her realizing what she was doing. Jake knew precious little about Rhonda Bacon, but in the months following his termination from the Scheintown Police Department, he’d done some digging on everyone connected with Chase. From what he’d gathered about Rhonda, she was quiet and easily intimidated, and Chase was just the kind of asshole to use her as a human shield should the circumstance require it.

  Jake put the beer down on the coffee table and rubbed his hands over his eyes. He could feel the build happening, the energy pooling under his feet. This was it. This was his chance. He could jump on it, try to take Chase down, and final
ly end this thing. It wouldn’t bring his dad back. It wouldn’t get him his job back. It wouldn’t even make him feel better about the night he followed Elaine Placie, her rhinestone flask and her killer legs, out to the parking lot at the police station while that laptop disappeared.

  But it would feel really, really good.

  On the other hand, this was also an opportunity to heed the plaintive advice of Mercy, his three other sisters, and his mom, and just move on. Grow up. Pass Go. Collect $200. This was what his oldest sister Liv liked to call “a defining moment,” a moment in which you have a choice, and you can either choose the path that leads to growth and enlightenment, or you can continue fucking everything up just like always.

  Liv would be disappointed, but he wasn’t that interested in growth and enlightenment. He was more interested in finding that laptop, which was impossible. It had surely been wiped clean and either tossed or sold. But that was the beauty of fantasy, no reality required, and in his, he would bring that laptop straight to Gerard Levy, dump it on his desk, and let the justice system take care of Gordon Chase. Then the town would throw a big parade, give him the key to the city, and beg him to come back to work. With a raise.

  And as long as he was fantasizing, he wanted Elaine Placie back, too. Not in the sexy con artist way she’d used to tank his career, but rather in the humble, remorseful, begging-for-forgiveness way. Jake leaned back and closed his eyes, picturing her in an orange jumpsuit, blond hair scraggly, wrists manacled, mascara smudged and running, as she begged the judge not to blame Jake.

  “It’s not his fault,” she’d say. “Do you see these legs? He was only human, Judge. And I’m so, so, so”—here, she’d turn her eyes, welling with tears, to Jake—“so sorry. I was wrong. And naughty. Very, very naughty.”

  That, of course, wasn’t going to happen, either. Less than a week after Jake had traded his career for silky legs and a rhinestone flask, Elaine Placie had cleaned out her apartment and conveniently disappeared. Jake had looked for her for a while with some fantasy of her testimony helping to take Chase down, but the trail had gone cold before he could find her. His best guess was that she was out there somewhere, living under an assumed identity and sleeping on a mattress stuffed full with cash courtesy of Gordon Chase. The assumed identity seemed like overkill to Jake, but if she was the kind of girl who’d distract a cop on watch for money, who knew what else she had done? And an assumed identity was the only way to explain how there’d been absolutely no blip on any of the radars he’d set up to look for her. As far as the general bureaucracy of life was concerned, Elaine Placie no longer existed.