When Night Falls

by Cait London

  “Sometimes I wonder if the Warren family has any couth at all,” Dani murmured, shaking her head.

  “Not much,” Mitchell said. “Goodnight, ladies.”

  “She’s…making…Christmas fruitcake,” Shelly leveled at him. Her ominous tone spelled trouble.

  Dani whistled through her teeth. “Man. He really must have pulled one. The last time she made fruitcake was—when she went after Billy Howard, right there on Lauren’s front yard, amid everyone buying her things. I’ve never seen Uma so mad, as if she could have picked up six-guns.”

  “She bought all the maraschino cherries, raisins, pecans, and walnuts in the grocery stores, got a bottle of rum from Clyde’s Tavern, bought Mrs. Clover’s frozen on-sale candied fruit, and enough flour and eggs to cause a real shortage.”

  “It’s only August, ladies,” Mitchell said warily, as if he were trying to connect the guilty dots—and they all led to him.

  “Well, she might cool down a bit by Christmas—just maybe. Or like the fruitcake recipe she has that requires aging to get the best flavor, maybe she’s just warming up. If I were you, I would either apologize or leave town. And I swear, I will help her with any plans she has to show you some manners.”

  Mitchell’s head went back at the threat, his eyes flashing. He started to say something, then nodded grimly and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

  “Let’s try this baby out,” Roman said as he rose awkwardly to his feet. He glared at Shelly as if reminded of his disability.

  She was still wrapped in Uma’s heartbreak. “Do you ever talk about what happened the night your father died?”

  “Why the hell would we want to do that?” Roman’s fierce scowl said he didn’t want to open that door to the past.

  “How you felt. Do you ever talk about that? Or your mother?” she pressed him.

  Dani stood still, clearly fascinated by her mother’s reaction to Roman. “Get him, Mom. Let it all hang out.”

  “Stay out of this, Dani. You’re in my face, Roman, pushing me. It’s only right that I push back. My turf, my house, and you’re in it. My neighbors are gossiping all up and down the street, whispering about you being here so much, about Dani being at the garage. I will not have her slandered.”

  “Your mom is a real tiger, kid,” Roman said too softly. “Too bad she’s revved up over the wrong thing.”

  Shelly’s hands went to her hips. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Figure it out,” he said darkly before slamming out of the house.

  Dani ran to the kitchen window and peered outside. “They’re out there, leaning against Mitchell’s truck. They’re not talking. How can guys do that, just stand there and not talk?”

  She jerked open the window and yelled, “I want to meet my grandmother, and no one is stopping me.”

  “I am, kid,” Roman shot back.

  Both men glared at her, then Mitchell jerked open his pickup door, got in, revved the motor, and backed out onto Tabor Street.

  Roman entered the kitchen to scowl at Dani and Shelly. “You know that there is some maniac here in town, up to no good. The pieces aren’t fitting together yet, but they will. Meanwhile, the two of you better get used to having me around.”

  Dani gripped a kitchen chair, swivelled it, and straddled it. She braced her arms over the back and rested her chin on it. “Here’s the deal. You can stay here—on the couch—and I’ll hit the books and play Little Miss Nice. But you’d better be nice to your mother—my grandmother—if and when she turns up.”

  “No deal. She ran out on us.”

  Shelly recognized Dani’s expression, just as stubborn as Roman’s, but aching, too. “I’ve heard that Grace was a good person.”

  “Sure, a mother who deserts,” Roman scoffed. “I don’t want to talk about her anymore.”

  “He’s holed up like a wounded old bear. I guess it’s up to us, Mom.”

  Roman eyed them. “Don’t get any ideas, either of you.”

  Shelly returned Dani’s look, smiled slowly, and asked, “Who, us?”

  Later, Roman was sitting on the couch, watching television and brooding. After her shower, Shelly decided she could ease the tension in her by ironing. In the kitchen, she inhaled the scent of freshly pressed clothes and ignored Roman, who came to stand, leaning against the counter and studying her.

  Instead of wearing her usual nightgown, Shelly had decided to wear a T-shirt and shorts, her freshly shampooed hair dampening the cloth. “I really don’t like you staying here,” she said, flipping a man’s long sleeve to the opposite side and ironing it briskly. “I want you to leave.”

  “Those bulletholes in the ivy aren’t exactly friendly. How would you feel if they’d hit Dani instead?”

  Shelly shivered, terrified by the image of Dani crumpling as Lauren had. “We’ll be careful.”

  Roman rubbed his jaw and the sound of stubble grated in the silence. “I want to do something. It’s late, but I want to protect my daughter and you.”

  Shelly locked her eyes with his. “I don’t want you here. I need to be comfortable in my own home.”

  “So be comfortable.”

  “You’re a whole invasion, Roman. We’re not used to having a man around. There’s the toilet seat up and things changing, and I—”

  “I’d like to hold you, Shelly. Just hold you. I know that you’re scared for Dani and Uma and Pearl and you can’t forget how Lauren died—”

  “Do you know how many times Uma looks at her hands every day? Still seeing Lauren’s blood?” Shelly wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head. “Do you think whoever it is will try to hurt her?”

  “Mitchell will take care of her—if she’ll let him.” Roman hesitated and then came to look down at Shelly. “Here,” he said simply and folded her into his arms, bringing her close to him.

  Shelly closed her eyes and absorbed the comfort she needed so badly. “Dani—”

  Roman’s lips moved against her temple. “I know. You’re worried about her. I am, too. Our guy likes to make his moves at night. Let me stay, Shelly. Please.”

  She knew how much that soft “Please” had cost him, a proud, arrogant man. He’d used it only once before, asking to be a part of Dani’s and her life.

  “For Dani’s sake,” she agreed slowly and moved away from him. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Dani.”

  “Nothing is going to. Tell me why you’ve never married or dated,” he asked rawly, tension humming around him, ricocheting from the silence into her heart and lying there, pounding at her.

  Roman stood still, his hands at his sides, looking so lonely she ached. She turned away, because she wanted to hold and comfort him, too. That wouldn’t do, not with what hummed inside her, the need of a woman for a man. He’d been her only lover, and her body hadn’t forgotten his in those eighteen years.

  The truth was that she’d never wanted anyone else. Inside her, she knew that she’d bonded with Roman Warren, that he was in her blood and staying there…and now the fever was hot and mature and explosive—just like him.

  “I thought about it.”

  “Dani said they were after you—some with marriage on their mind, and others who wanted to play.”

  Shelly thought of Walter Whiteford exposing himself to her, as if she’d be hungry for the likes of him.

  “I don’t owe you any explanations, Roman. I’ve got plenty to do without you interrupting me with talk all the time.” With that, she whipped another shirt out of the plastic bag and began fiercely ironing it.

  “You sure don’t owe me anything,” Roman said softly as he stood watching her, his arms crossed. “But I’d like to help.”

  She brushed away the tears burning her lids, her emotions frantically tumbling through her. She burned her hand and cried out, bringing the small wound to her mouth.

  Then Roman took her hand, inspected it, and brought it to his chest. “I’m not much, Shelly, but I’m trying. I don’t know if the station is a go
or not, but I’m not leaving this time—unless you tell me to.”

  His eyes locked with hers and he brought her hand to his lips. The gesture was humble and honest. “That’s all it would take, Shell.”

  When he turned and stood by the window, his hands braced against the countertop, his back stiff, she knew then that Roman probably needed redemption more than she needed her pride.

  And she knew that she’d never stopped loving him. “Thank you for the dishwasher,” she said quietly.

  “Sure.”

  Roman stared into the night and wished he could take back all the years, the bars and the women. He had absolutely nothing to give a woman who had paid so dearly.

  But he’d work his heart out trying…

  TWELVE

  “Hello, Everett. Nice night.” Taking care to let Rosy work her way up Uma’s front steps, Mitchell nodded to Everett. Uma’s ex-husband sat on the front porch; his oak rocker creaking on the painted wood. The glass of iced tea at his side said Uma had been hospitable; Mitchell wasn’t expecting any real welcome, yet he had to see Uma.

  Images of her passionate anger at the garage stormed at him, generating an uneasiness that she would never speak to him again.

  Whoever had tried to hurt Rosy had also served Uma a warning with that bullet; and he was definitely going to tuck Uma under his protection, too—if she accepted his apology or not. He wasn’t letting whoever prowled Madrid and knew the habits and lives of the city hurt Uma. Who could it be?

  Everett, as an unseated potential lover-husband, was a definite suspect to serve Uma a warning, but not to hurt her.

  “Took you long enough. I thought you’d show up, and I wanted to be here when you did.” Everett flung into the hot, honeysuckle-sweet August night. His usually neat hair was standing out in peaks and he hadn’t shaved, his tie askew on his short-sleeved dress shirt. Mitchell recognized the ominous signs of Everett’s bad temper; on the other hand in the last three hours of mulling at his house, Mitchell had shaved and dressed carefully. While pasting toilet paper on the tiny shaving cuts caused by his concern for Uma, he’d practiced his apologies to the mirror, and tried to put a logical spin on his actions as he tried to explain to Rosy.

  His logical spin was very important, because Uma had to understand that he took care of himself. He didn’t need a nurturer and a fixer; he needed Uma, his lover.

  On the other hand, he’d hurt her. That was unforgivable, and he felt like a lowdown cur.

  But then, a man had his pride. He couldn’t have a woman meddling in his life. Once the rules of who stepped where were established, Mitchell intended to share Uma’s bed every night. The segment in The Smooth Moves List on “Make-Up Sex” taunted him. He really needed to reach that bonding, to know that lovemaking with Uma had really happened.

  The taste of her skin, her body swirled around him, those soft, hungry sounds had pursued him all day, contrasting with the pain in her expression when he’d ordered her to “get out.”

  Then her anger at the garage had shocked him.

  Mitchell frowned at his highly polished shoes. Women’s volatility and moods weren’t something that had mattered and he sensed that what preceded the make-up sex, referenced in her book, was very, very important. He wasn’t that easy to stun, and Uma the lover, Uma the hurt, and Uma the angry had battled across his mind all day. He’d snarled at Roman’s sensitivity lecture, Lonny’s silent accusations, and every time he looked at the dent in his pickup, smeared with Uma’s car’s red paint, he knew she had declared war.

  By evening, Shelly’s jab and the ominous fruitcake-baking warning had made him see how badly Uma ached. When a woman resorted to making fruitcake, the circumstances might be critical.

  He just wanted to hold Uma—and keep her safe. If she wouldn’t let him near her, he couldn’t protect her.

  If she didn’t let him near her, he couldn’t make love with her.

  Careful of the peacemaking bag of Chinese fortune cookies he’d brought and letting Rosy plop onto the front doormat as he held her leash, Mitchell eased into the rocking chair next to Everett. Mitchell felt like a schoolboy about to be lectured. He wasn’t certain how he liked that served by an ex-husband.

  “I ought to beat you to a pulp,” Everett snarled. “She’s all worked up in there. You hurt her somehow. She’s a good woman and she says she has feelings for you. She told me so last night at Pearl’s.”

  Get out. Mitchell’s words echoed in the night as the cat came to sit on the railing, yellow eyes studying the two men, tail twitching slowly as if watching a game to be played. Rosy snorted as if in agreement.

  And within his home, Mitchell sensed that Lauren wasn’t happy, either. The house had a closed feel to it, as if she had shut him away for hurting Uma. Mitchell shook his head; dealing with Uma, all revved and angry, and the sensations that Lauren might possibly still be in the house and not happy with him were enough to make him take a bracing drink while getting ready. He’d managed tough boardrooms; he decided he could manage two women, one alive and one not, who somehow managed to make him feel like a guilty brute-clod.

  The cat had pushed the glass off the counter, breaking it.

  On Uma’s front porch, Mitchell stretched his taut neck within his collar. He had the uneasy sense that Lauren used the cat to transmit her feelings. Women and eerie sensations were enough to throw a man off-balance. That unsettling softness within him didn’t feel right, not like a man’s clear-cut emotions would feel.

  When he walked into a board meeting, he was usually prepared with alternatives which would still get him what he wanted. However, this wasn’t a business meeting. He’d wounded her and he’d have to apologize.

  He had to apologize delicately, and yet firmly hold his line that she didn’t step into some areas of his life. With Uma, that balance might be impossible. Her weapons weren’t graphs and reports and surveys. Her actions all came from her heart.

  “What’s this about Uma baking fruitcakes?” he asked Everett.

  “It’s not good,” the other man replied flatly.

  A screen door creaked at the MacDougals’ and Everett said, “Old Edgar is watering his wife’s roses. At least he has a wife. I’ve been waiting years for Uma to see that we belong together. Then you come into town, and you don’t have one damn intention of marrying her. I’ve waited twelve years since our divorce for her to realize that we are meant to be together. Twelve years, and I don’t regret a minute of being her friend, but I am going to be her husband again. I heard about today—how she ran you down. Lonny said she was hot-tempered. Uma never gets angry or frazzled; she’s a very safe driver, and Sissy said that Uma rounded the corner from Main to Maloney on two squealing tires. Someone has to protect her from you, and I’m that someone.”

  Mitchell stared at the cat. Uma hadn’t exactly been in control last night—neither had he.

  Apparently Everett was just getting worked up, his face tight with anger reflected by the rest of his body. Mitchell ran through the consequences of brawling with Everett—Uma’s lifelong friend. They were a couple; he was an outsider trying to get an edge…rather, possession of Uma.

  Everett’s expression said he knew that Mitchell was determined to be a solid contender for Uma in round two. “You’re pure trouble, and everyone in town knows it.”

  The door creaked open and from behind the screen Uma said, “Shoo. Get off my porch, both of you. The whole neighborhood is watching.”

  Mitchell turned, with his best smile, and found Uma scowling at him, a streak of flour across her cheek. She was definitely still simmering.

  “No,” Everett answered as the scent of baking cakes swirled out into the night. “I’m staying right here until I know you’re okay. He can leave.”

  Mitchell wasn’t going anywhere until he saw Uma and spoke to her—privately. He’d handled this morning wrong and knew it, and he didn’t want Everett seeing him grovel. Uma was worth groveling over, though—but Everett was not included in the sorting-out mél
ée. “I could, but I won’t, not until I’ve talked to Uma.”

  Uma stepped out from the screen door, holding it as if for protection. The circles beneath her eyes said she hadn’t rested, her skin pale as her eyes flashed gray steel at him. Had he done that to her? Made her afraid of being hurt?

  She looked down at Rosy, who had refused to leave the comfortable doormat, and blocked the full opening of the door. “I’ll call Lonny.”

  Mitchell took in the flour on her hair, that precious little topknot, the tendrils swirling around her flushed face. He watched that delectable pulse throb in her throat and traced the flour dust over her checkered shirt and jeans and sandals, over the curves he wanted to hold close to him. He knew instinctively that deep inside her was the warmth and oneness that he craved.

  Oneness. He wanted that all the time with her, not just sexual.

  Not just sexual, he repeated mentally. She’d ruined him for other women—of course it was sexual, but it was different, too. And he didn’t like being vulnerable. “You just do that. I’m sure the neighbors would like excitement.”

  The cat twitched his tail, waiting and watching the two men.

  The door slammed and silence circled the front porch; Mitchell hoped she would offer him a glass of tea. He’d never wanted an indication of welcome so badly in his entire lifetime.

  “I’ve loved her all my life,” Everett said slowly, fiercely. He reached to grab the sack of fortune cookies, dropped them to the porch, and stomped on them.

  “Take it easy, Everett,” Mitchell warned softly as Rosy grunted and stood, happily rooting through the plastic sack to the crushed sweets.

  Everett’s blue eyes blazed. “Just what’s going to be left of her pride when you decide to move on, Warren? You going to desert, are you? You don’t come from people who stick around.”

  “Lay off,” Mitchell warned again. He’d heard enough about his mother. Also, Tessa’s eye-opening jolt this morning, combined with Uma’s hissy fit, were riffling his emotions. In a boardroom, he could close any discussion he wanted, if he wanted. Uma, on the other hand, acted because she cared with a nurturer’s instincts, and he would be that brute-clod if he didn’t find a way to negotiate an interaction with her—a oneness sort of discussion and an amenable finalization to the negotiations, which he hoped would end in make-up sex, concluding any more riffs in their alliance.