Falling Hard and Fast

by Kylie Brant

  Afterward, she’d called Caroline’s answering machine. She hadn’t had to be concerned about waking her. Her sister was still in Paris, taking advantage of a two-week trip Zoey had arranged for her. Her lips curving, Zoey doubted that Caroline had been able to tear herself away from the art museums to bother with sleep for her entire stay. But she was due back in the States in a few days, and Zoey had left a message for her to call when she got home.

  Pulling up in front of Charity’s lone department store, she got out of the car and felt the slap of solid heat that thickened the air and squeezed the lungs. A few quick steps and she was pushing the store door open, breathing more easily in the cool air pumping through the place. Louisiana summers had made her newly grateful for the miracles of technology.

  Cruising the aisles, she found the pet supplies and began to load her cart. A blue-cushioned bed, which would no doubt only fit Oxy for a couple more months, two red bowls, a black collar and leash. She paused for a long time before the dog food, reading the labels. She was fairly certain that the three hamburgers she’d fried for the animal last night would not have qualified as proper puppy nutrition. She was wrestling a twenty-pound bag of dog kibble into her cart when a voice behind her spoke.

  “Well, Zoey, it looks like you’ve acquired a pet.”

  Turning, she saw the Potter sisters. She was almost certain it was Francine who had spoken.

  “I’m just keeping a dog for…a friend for a little while.”

  “Cage Gauthier’s dog, isn’t it?” Francine spoke with authority, while Lulu nodded in agreement. “Saw them both at your place yesterday evening.”

  Gritting her teeth, Zoey nodded. “Yes, it’s Cage’s dog.”

  “I guess he’ll have a reason to come over frequently, then.” There was no mistaking the satisfaction in Francine’s tone. “To see that dog of his,” Lulu added.

  Zoey looked from one sister to the other. Their identical white-coifed heads were nodding in unison. That their remarks so closely resembled the suspicion she’d had yesterday shouldn’t have surprised her. Her need to convince them otherwise did. “He said he won’t have much free time until this murder is solved.”

  “If I know Cage Gauthier…”

  “And we do…” interjected Lulu.

  “He never fails to make time for a pretty woman.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m not going to be able to make time for him,” Zoey said firmly.

  “Then you’re not as smart as you look.” Francine’s voice was tart. She lifted a thin, blue-veined hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t raise your eyebrows at me, young lady. I may be in my eighties but there’s nothing wrong with my eyesight. Cage Gauthier is the kind of man that makes hearts flutter regardless of age. Why, he’s as handsome as the devil himself—”

  “He has a real kind heart—”

  Francine continued as if she hadn’t heard her sister’s interruption. “He’s rich as Midas and best of all, none of it appears to have spoiled him overmuch.”

  “Leastways, no more than willing women ever spoil an attractive man,” observed Lulu.

  The forced smile on Zoey’s lips felt like a grimace. “No doubt he’s a real paragon, but…”

  “Now, I didn’t say that,” corrected Francine. She was the elder of the sisters by eight minutes, and considered it her duty and privilege to be the spokesperson. “The boy’s had a streak of wicked in him that those dimples never could disguise. He was forever letting that dog of his get away from him.”

  It took a few seconds for Zoey to follow their train of thought back twenty-odd years.

  “Constantly digging up our garden, too,” interjected Lulu.

  “Cage, or the dog?”

  Francine never missed a beat at Zoey’s dry question. “That dog of his, of course. But we never did tell Cage’s daddy. We figured between the mischief he and that Beauchamp boy cooked up, he got his share of whippings already.”

  “Every time we could catch him, though, we’d put him to work. To make up for the damage his dog did.”

  “He was always real sweet-natured, not like that sly Beauchamp boy.”

  Zoey felt as though her head was ringing with the two women’s litany of Cage’s virtues. She refused to let the image they painted unfurl in her mind. There were far too many uninvited thoughts of him crowding there as it was.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it, that such a prince should still be single?” Zoey inched her cart away from the two sisters, but they followed her relentlessly.

  Francine said, “A smart woman, mind you, would have that boy roped and hog-tied in front of a church, singing his I-do’s and thanking her for the chance to wear a tux.”

  Try as she might, Zoey had no success at keeping that mental image from unfolding in her mind. She shook her head, as much to dislodge the picture as at the words. “As…enticing…as the thought is, I’m really not in the market for marriage. With anyone.”

  The sisters looked at each other, their eyebrows climbing upward. “Sometimes,” Francine said, “what we want isn’t necessarily what we need.”

  “Sometimes,” Lulu intoned, with an arch smile at her sister, “life has a way of deciding things for us.” They moved away then, perfectly in step, leaving Zoey to grind her teeth ineffectually.

  Pushing the cart with more force than necessary, she wheeled it toward the back of the store. She shouldn’t let the two good-natured busybodies bother her. Things were done differently in Charity, it appeared, with every citizen feeling free to offer advice on the most personal of matters. Zoey doubted she’d ever get used to having others focus on her affairs, and she knew for a fact she’d never like it.

  She stopped before a selection of dog toys. She supposed a puppy needed something like that rawhide bone to chew on. There were also some balls he’d probably dearly love to catch, and toys that squeaked when squeezed. She added several more items to her cart.

  “Oxy’s going to think he’s died and gone to puppy heaven.”

  Stiffening slightly, Zoey looked up into Cage’s lazy smile. Bumping into the man, almost literally, so soon after she’d been subjected to the sisters’ discussion of him made her tone less than welcoming. “I’m just picking up a few things to help him feel at home. He had trouble sleeping last night.”

  His smile grew wider. He had no trouble imagining where the dog had ended up sleeping. The pooch hadn’t looked slow to him. “What you need is a hot water bottle and an old-fashioned alarm clock—one with a real loud ticking. It’ll make him feel like he’s curled up next to his mama, listening to her heart.”

  She hated to admit that his idea made sense. “I guess I’m not done shopping then.” When she would have pushed her cart past him, he reached out a hand to stop its progress.

  “I was wondering if I could ask you to do me a favor first.”

  “Seems to me that’s why I’m here to begin with.”

  The smile was still there, but his attention was diverted, as his gaze swept the store. “This is a bit different. See that truck out front?”

  She stared at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. Slowly, she turned and glanced over her shoulder. And then backed up for a better look. It appeared to be the same truck she’d seen in front of her house—the one that had passed her on its way from Cage’s home.

  Retracing her steps, she asked, “Is it the Rutherfords?”

  “One of them, I expect. Here’s what I’d like you to do, Zoey. Go up to the front and position yourself beside the big window. Pretend you’re looking at magazines, or whatever. Just do your level best to block the view the truck’s driver has into the store.” His gaze met hers then, with a serious light she rarely saw there. “Will you do that for me, honey?”

  “But why…” He slipped around the aisle, and her words tapered off. Muttering to herself, she considered for an instant, just an instant, going about her business and letting Cage play his games with someone else. But then she looked at that pickup again and remembered the damage that had be
en done to his home that night; the injuries to his back. With a sigh, she guided the cart toward the front of the store and parked it with seeming nonchalance right in front of the store window.

  She plucked a few magazines from the rack and pretended to riffle through them, gauging her position carefully. And then she turned to see what Cage was up to.

  It shouldn’t be a surprise to see him deep in conversation with a woman. But her initial disgust dissipated when she studied the woman more closely. No amount of makeup could disguise the rainbow shades surrounding her puffy eye. And there could be few reasons a woman would choose to wear long sleeves in the Louisiana heat. Apparently Donny Ray and Stacy Rutherford had come to town.

  Casting another surreptitious look out the window, she replaced the magazines on the rack and pretended to take her time choosing some others. Donny Ray was fidgeting in the front seat of the truck, craning his neck to get a better view of the store. Zoey remained firmly in place. Turning her head slightly, she checked on Cage’s progress.

  The woman was looking around furtively, and then accepted something Cage handed her, slipping it into her pocket. Wondering about it, Zoey looked back outside, and then froze. Donny Ray was out of the truck and headed for the front door of the store.

  Impulsively, she threw the magazines in her cart and wheeled it around, halting before the door as he began to enter.

  “These darn things,” she said in a ringing voice. She shrugged apologetically at the man, whose way she was blocking. “Seems like I always choose the cart with a stubborn wheel.” Hoping that her ruse had warned Cage, she pretended to right the cart and slowly moved it out of the man’s way.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Stacy scurry to the front counter with her purchases. Donny Ray stood watching her, his gaze sweeping the rest of the store. Zoey did the same. But other than the Potter sisters, who were conversing with the store owner’s wife, there was no sign of anyone else.

  She didn’t breathe easily again until Donny Ray had hustled his wife out of the store and the truck had pulled away from the street out front. Wheeling the cart around toward the checkout, Zoey started at the voice behind her.

  “Looks like I owe you one.”

  She whirled around to find that Cage had made a reappearance. The shelf of aspirin he was leaning against was a perfect backdrop for him, she thought unkindly, since he seemed to be an incurable headache.

  “Mind telling me what that was all about?”

  His smile was slow and engaging, but his eyes remained sober. “Nothing cloak-and-dagger. I just wanted to talk to Stacy Rutherford. Without Donny Ray seeing.”

  “Did she tell you how she got those bruises?” Even the memory of the black eye the woman had sported was enough to make Zoey’s spine go stiff.

  “Stacy and I sort of have a deal. She doesn’t spin fairy tales about her injuries anymore. At least, not to me.” All semblance of affability had vanished. His face was set and hard. “I do my part by not letting that piece-of-scum husband of hers see me near her.”

  This was a new side of him—one she couldn’t help but be intrigued by. “What did you give her?” At his sharp look she added, “I saw you slip her something.”

  He stared past her shoulder pensively. “Nothing I haven’t given her before. Just an address and a phone number of a place that would provide help. If she ever decides to take it.”

  She understood his meaning. There were shelters for abused and battered women. But first Stacy Rutherford would have to overcome her fear, or whatever tangle of emotions she felt for her husband, and leave him.

  “Women like Stacy,” he continued softly, “sometimes feel like they have no other choices, no one to turn to. I just like to remind her when I can that she has both.” A moment later, his gaze returned to hers, that familiar grin curling one side of his mouth. “You understand why that doesn’t make me real popular with Donny Ray.”

  What Zoey was beginning to understand, at least about him, was threatening to shred the deliberate defense she’d carefully maintained. It was comfortable to believe in that veneer he affected, the slightly-addled good-old-boy routine that was contrived to disarm. These hints of the man beneath that surface softened something deep inside her—enough to coax an inner door, one she’d thought was tightly closed, to creep open.

  She drew a shaky breath. “I’m surprised that he’s out of jail. I’m sure that was the truck I saw the night your house was shot up.”

  “You’re right about that. It is Donny Ray’s truck.” A masculine dimple flashed. “The clan must have drawn straws to see who was going to drive. I’ll bet Donny Ray was ready to spit glass when he found out he wasn’t going to get to take part. Ended up being the only thing that kept him out of jail. We can’t prove he was the driver, of course, and since there was no trace of gunpowder residue on his hands, we had nothing on him.”

  “That’s too bad,” she said grimly. “At least if he were in jail his wife would be safe from him for a while.”

  “Not for as long as you’d think.” He watched her closely, wondering at the faint shadows beneath those incredible green eyes. If Oxy had been the cause of a sleepless night, he owed her for more than the cartful of merchandise before her. “His brothers made bail a few days after their arrest. All except for Carver,” he added. “I did manage to convince the judge that he was a flight risk on the meth charge.”

  The outrage on her face was a delight to behold. “They got out? After shooting at you?”

  “Darn lawyer is going to make a good case that the boys weren’t aiming to hurt me at all, just blowing off steam. He’ll go for criminal mischief.” Absently, he crossed one foot over the other, slipped his hands in his pockets. “Guess it will be up to the prosecutor to make something more stick.”

  “That is totally disgraceful!” The anger bubbled up inside Zoey and spilled over. “People can’t get away with endangering others’ lives, or their property. I’d like to talk to that prosecutor myself.”

  Something lightened inside him as he watched her work herself into a lather. Her creamy cheeks were flushed with emotion and her eyes were hot. No doubt she’d claim that she was upset about what she considered a miscarriage of justice. It suited him better to believe that her anger stemmed at least in part from concern for him.

  “Trial’s set for three months from now. You going to be around by then?” Although his tone was casual, his intent wasn’t.

  The question took her off guard. “I—That depends. Probably.” She shook off the indecision that had colored her answer and added more firmly, “I’ll be here until I finish the book. That will take a few more months.”

  “And then what?”

  Something about his steady gaze was disconcerting, and made formulating an answer difficult. “And then…I’ll go back to Chicago.”

  “To what?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “To my life. My apartment. My friends.”

  He nodded, as if accepting her answer, but there wasn’t acceptance in his head, in his gut. She spoke of leaving so nonchalantly, as if Charity had been merely a stopping place—one easily left, easily forgotten. The thought of her leaving burned, and he didn’t want to consider the reason for that. “Seems to me there must not be much in Chicago to go back to.”

  Because there was more than an element of truth in his words, she angled her chin and straightened her shoulders. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because you came here.” His voice was gentle. “You don’t leave Chicago to write each of your books, do you?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again. He was skirting too close to matters she’d rather not remember, much less discuss. She didn’t want to be reminded that the emptiness in her apartment these days reflected a larger void in her life; didn’t want to admit just how little appeal going back home actually held right now.

  Instead, she avoided the question, and his eyes. “Every book is different.”

  “I’m sure it is.” W
ith a slow nod he gave consideration to her words. “And I expect you’d be the one to know if it was only the book that sent you from Chicago, or something more. I do know that there’s a damn sight more to be found here than ideas for a new story.”

  It was probably a rare occurrence for Zoey Prescott to be speechless, and, back at his office, Cage took pleasure in the memory. She’d regained her voice quickly enough when she’d heard him tell old man Kreger to bill her purchases to him, but he’d ducked out the back door again, and had let her argue it out with the store owner.

  He’d surprised himself as much as her with his words, but he didn’t see much point in denying the feeling behind them. She would probably like to believe that the distance she maintained with him was due to a lack of interest on her part. Hell. His mouth quirked upward. She’d done her best to convince him of that very thing. But she hadn’t been successful—not because he thought of himself as irresistible, but because more than once he’d caught a glimpse of an uncertainty in her eyes that was totally at odds with her usual cool manner. She was a woman who liked—no, demanded—control in her life. But she wasn’t nearly as certain in her dealings with men. He didn’t know why he should find that contradiction so endearing.

  There was a rap on his door, and then it was opened by Tommy Lee. “Excuse me, Sheriff. Someone to see you.” He stepped aside to allow the coroner from Baton Rouge to enter the office.

  Before requesting assistance from the Baton Rouge Coroner’s office, Cage had known Dr. Margaret Wu only by reputation. It was a reputation, he’d since learned, that was totally deserved. She was sharp, efficient, and thoroughly professional. She marched into his office right now, her diminutive height aided by the heels she wore, and took a seat, waving Cage back into his.