by Night Moves
Oh, Lord. Her heart was breaking all over again.
Where the hell was Phoebe? Why had she left?
And whose life, Jordan wondered, remembering her friend’s chilling, cryptic statement, was in danger?
Was it Phoebe’s?
Or was it Spencer’s?
Chapter Three
Drumming the fingertips of his right hand on the cotton tablecloth, Beau checked the Rolex on his left wrist. Again.
“Sir? Would you like to order a drink, perhaps?”
Beau looked up at the waiter who once again materialized beside the choice table for two—a table that was currently occupied by one, and soliciting aggravated stares from the waiting patrons clustered across the room by the hostess podium.
Beau cleared his throat and contemplated the question.
Would he like a drink?
Yes. He certainly would like a drink. A good, stiff bourbon. But he had learned the hard way that intoxication tended to hamper his efforts to avoid temptation of the feminine variety. After all, he had met Lisa while drowning his sorrows in a French Quarter bar, and the next thing he knew, they were living together.
Yes, but he had long since successfully extracted himself from his relationships with Lisa and with bourbon. He now considered himself past seeking the brand of comfort that both had provided in his time of need.
His time of need.
He didn’t want to go there.
No, he never wanted to go there.
Anyway …
He would be wise to conduct this evening’s social engagement with a clear head and chaste intentions—especially if Jordan Curry was as bewitching as Andrea MacDuff claimed.
“Nothing to drink yet, thank you,” Beau told the waiter. “At least, not until the lady arrives. I’m sure she’ll be here in a few minutes.”
But the lady didn’t arrive. Not in a few minutes, and not in fifteen. Nor in twenty.
When nearly a half hour had gone by, Beau reached into the pocket of his navy Brooks Brothers blazer and checked his cell phone to make sure it was on, just in case she was trying to reach him. Maybe she had called and he hadn’t heard it ring over the John Coltrane CD that was playing on the restaurant’s sound system….
The phone wasn’t even turned on. Darn.
He still wasn’t used to carrying one of these things around. His partner, Ed, had insisted that it would be good for business. It would make him more accessible to Ed, and to clients.
Well, it sure as hell isn’t doin’ me any good—for business or pleasure—if I don’t turn the damn thing on, Beau chided himself, shoving the phone back into his pocket in disgust.
Now what?
Jordan might have been trying to reach him.
Or they might have gotten their signals crossed. Maybe he had the wrong date. Or time. Or place.
Beau reached into his jacket pocket and took out his Palm Pilot—another electronic gizmo Ed insisted was indispensable. Flipping it open, he scrolled to today’s date to check the details. Nothing was written there.
He frowned. He was fairly certain this was the right date. He distinctly remembered Jordan asking him whether he meant this Saturday or next.
It wasn’t unusual that he hadn’t entered the date in his electronic organizer. As far as he was concerned, that was yet another device that was far more trouble than it was worth. The truth was, Beau happened to be an old-fashioned paper-and-pencil kind of guy, whether he was making a date or drafting a floor plan.
Shoot. If only he had grabbed paper and pencil and jotted down exactly when and where he was supposed to meet Jordan Curry. For all he knew, he was supposed to have picked her up at her place two hours ago.
Beau sighed and summoned the hovering, watchful waiter, who promptly rushed over.
“I’m afraid my date won’t be able to make it,” Beau said, pointing at the pocket that held the cell phone as though he’d just received the unfortunate news. He pushed back his chair, pulled several ten-dollar bills from his wallet, and handed them to the waiter. “I’m sorry I took up your table and your time. Have a good night.”
“You too, sir. Come back again.”
“I will.”
And he probably would, he thought, as he left the large dining room. The exposed brick walls and spinning paddle fans overhead, along with the delectable savory aromas and piped jazz, reminded him of restaurants back home.
But Beau doubted he’d be back with Jordan Curry. She probably thought he’d stood her up.
After retrieving his sleek black SUV from the valet attendant, he headed out onto M Street. Stopped at a light, he wondered if he should find a place to pull over and call her from his cell phone.
Or you could just go over to her place, he reminded himself. After all, he knew exactly where she lived. Andrea had casually mentioned that Jordan resided in an upscale, relatively new townhouse development, and it turned out to be one of the few local places with which Beau was familiar. He had visited a potential client who was temporarily relocated in the same complex after losing his home in a fire. The client, who ended up hiring Beau to design his new home, knew who Jordan was when Beau inquired about her, and pointed out her place just a few doors down from his own.
Small world.
So what would Beau say if he did decide to show up on her doorstep late, or possibly early, or perhaps not expected there at all?
After all, maybe Jordan really had stood him up just now. Maybe he had all the details straight and was in the right place at the right time, and she had simply blown him off.
But what if she was all dressed up and waiting for him, pacing her living room, thinking he had forgotten her?
It wasn’t as if a stranger’s perception of him mattered so much to Beau in the grand scheme of things. No, it wasn’t as though Jordan Curry’s concluding that he was a rude cad would preclude what might have been a lifelong romance. He had no intention of getting involved with her either way.
But the old-fashioned Southern gentleman part of Beau simply wouldn’t let it rest. He couldn’t drive home and forget about Jordan. He couldn’t let her think he was the no-show.
If it turned out that this was her fault, consciously or unconsciously—if she didn’t want to meet him for whatever reason—well, he could deal with that. But he had to find out.
But if it turned out she was all dressed up and merely thinking he was late—or early—well, he would come up with a fitting excuse and never mention having waited at the restaurant at all. They would go to dinner—someplace other than the restaurant he had just left—and his obligation to Jordan Curry and to Andrea Mac-Duff would be fulfilled. End of topic.
It was a terrific plan.
His mind was made up.
Whistling, he drove the few short blocks to the familiar brick town houses on a quiet side street.
Jordan sat on a stool beside Spencer’s, her chin in her hand, watching him push his food around on the cobalt blue plate.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I am, but…”
“But what?”
He didn’t look at her. In fact, she couldn’t recall his looking directly at her since this morning, when she told him his mother was gone. He went out of his way to avoid her gaze—sort of the way Kevin had the one time they saw each other after the wedding that wasn’t. They had bumped into each other in the supermarket back home around Thanksgiving, and it had been one of those superficial conversations about the weather and the Steelers and the recent election.
Jordan had been having superficial conversations like that with Spencer all day. Only they talked about butterflies and chocolate and cartoons.
Rather, she talked while he listened. Or didn’t listen. She couldn’t tell. She wanted to know what was going on inside that poor little boy’s head, but she didn’t have a clue.
He mumbled something now as he dragged his fork through a pile of mashed potatoes.
“What was that, Spence
r? I didn’t hear you.”
She bent closer to him.
He visibly moved back an inch. “I said, I don’t really like this stuff.”
She looked at his plate. “But when I asked you, you said you liked mashed potatoes.”
“Not like this. This has little green things in it.”
“Those are scallions,” she explained. “To give it flavor. Scallions are kind of like onions—”
“I don’t like onions, either.”
“Oh.” She looked at his plate. “How about the chicken? You said you like chicken.”
“I meant McNuggets.”
“Oh,” she said again. “Well if you try this—”
“It looks yucky.”
Yucky. Huh. Who would guess that somebody would call her cordon bleu yucky? It had taken her three years to perfect the recipe.
“Maybe if you try the greens,” she offered.
He made a face.
“Look, I know you probably think you don’t like it, but this isn’t just regular spinach or something. I sautéed…” She trailed off, watching his face. He probably didn’t even know what sauté meant. He was just a kid.
Well, she wasn’t used to kids. She didn’t know any kids. She might have been one once, but that didn’t mean—
Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing doorbell.
Jordan’s heart leaped.
“Do you think that’s my mom?” Spencer asked, brightening for the first time.
Please God, I hope so, Jordan thought, hurrying to answer it. “Maybe it is,” she called over her shoulder, which was enough to send Spencer careering after her.
But when she opened the door, she didn’t find Phoebe standing on the step.
She found a lanky, sandy-haired stranger wearing what was practically a business-casual weekend uniform: pressed khakis, a chambray shirt, a navy blazer, and polished loafers. He was so put-together—and so good-looking—that Jordan was instantly aware of her own appearance.
She had on a plain white Gap T-shirt tucked into her oldest pair of jeans, her feet were bare, and her pedicure was a week old. She had skipped her standing Saturday morning appointment at the salon in favor of watching cartoons with Spencer. Come to think of it, she hadn’t combed her hair since pulling it back with a rubber band while brushing her teeth at five-thirty A.M. Oh, and she must have big, dark circles under her eyes. Lovely.
“Are you Jordan Curry?”
She recognized his voice as soon as he spoke.
She also remembered something.
It was as though a thunderbolt struck her from above.
“Oh, my god!” She clasped a hand to her mouth. “I completely forgot.”
He looked mildly amused. “You forgot who you were? Glad I could be of service, ma’am.”
Caught off guard by his quip, she found herself looking into a pair of green eyes—eyes that were precisely the shade of her own, she noticed. In fact, there were circles under his, too, but they were better concealed by a tan. There was an outdoorsy look about him, as though he belonged on the range or splitting wood rather than on this Georgetown doorstep in dressed-up clothes.
“You’re Beau Somerville,” she said.
“Thanks, but I knew all along who I was. I thought you were the one who had the problem.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. The man was charming. And for a split second, looking into those moss-colored eyes, she forgot all about Spencer.
Until Beau Somerville glanced at something over her shoulder, and she followed his gaze right to the child who stood in the doorway of the kitchen, disappointment written all over his round little face.
“How about you, fella? You know who you are?” Beau asked.
Spencer nodded.
“You sure? What’s your name?”
“Spencer,” the little boy said in a near-whisper.
“Hey, how’s it goin’, fella?” Beau asked gently, as though sensing something was wrong.
Spencer hung his head. “Okay.”
“Nah, something’s buggin’ you. I can tell,” Beau said, with a wink at Jordan.
Her heart melted despite the surge of worry that rose within her at the realization that somebody now knew about Spencer’s presence. Not just somebody—a total stranger.
“Let me guess what the problem is. Hmm … You just stepped in dog doo?”
Jordan was shocked when a sudden giggle erupted, and she realized by process of elimination that it had come from Spencer.
“No!” he said, looking up shyly at Beau. “I didn’t step in dog doo!”
“Then what can it be? Oh, I know! You accidentally ate a caterpillar? Because it happens to the best of us, you know.”
Another giggle. Another emphatic “No!”
“How did you do that?” she murmured to Beau under her breath. “He hasn’t laughed all day.”
“Kids love gross stuff,” he muttered back. “Works every time.” To Spencer he said, “Well, if it’s not a caterpillar and it’s not dog doo, I can’t imagine what’s got you so down.”
“Guess!” Spencer commanded.
“Let’s see … oh, I know what it is. Your mom’s making you eat eyeball soup, right?”
This time, there was no laughter.
Spencer’s face fell.
Jordan realized why.
It was the mention of his mom.
Beau must think Spencer was her son. He couldn’t possibly realize that the little boy was pining for a mother who had brought him to a strange place, vanished into the dead of night, and hadn’t been heard from since.
“Listen, Beau,” she said hastily, to change the subject, “I’m so sorry I stood you up. Were you waiting for me at the restaurant?”
He paused, then shifted his attention from Spencer back to her. “Actually, I was. I presume you forgot all about it?”
“I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I did something like this. I never do things like this. I’m usually so organized, but…” She gave a helpless shrug.
“It happens to the best of us,” he said. “But look, why don’t you guys get your shoes on and come out with me to grab a bite to eat now? I’m starved, and it looks like there are lots of good restaurants right in your neighborhood.”
“There are, but I just ate,” she confessed.
“How about you, fella? Did you just eat, too?”
“Nope,” Spencer said morosely.
“How come? I smell something good coming from that room behind you, and I’m thinkin’ it must be the kitchen.”
“It is,” he said. “You want my chicken? You can have it.”
“What’s the matter? You don’t like chicken?”
“Not the blue kind,” Spencer said.
Beau chuckled. “Well, I don’t imagine many people like blue chicken.”
“It’s cordon bleu,” Jordan inserted. “And it happens to be my specialty.”
“Chicken cordon bleu? That happens to be my favorite.”
“There’s plenty left,” Jordan said. Having no idea how much little boys ate, she had doubled the recipe. “Would you like some?”
Beau Somerville nodded. “That sounds good to me.”
“Come on in.” Jordan couldn’t believe she was doing this—inviting a strange man into her kitchen and volunteering to feed him. But it was such a relief not to be alone with Spencer for the first time today, and Beau seemed to know how to interact with the little boy in a way she did not.
Belatedly, she remembered Phoebe’s warning. She wasn’t supposed to let anyone know Spencer was here.
But after this, she would never see this man again. Now that he was here, face to face, she could explain that she wasn’t really actively dating these days because …
Well, why wasn’t she?
As she led the way to the kitchen, with Spencer trailing behind alongside the ruggedly handsome Beau Somer-ville, Jordan couldn’t seem to remember why she wasn’t dating. Or why she had thought dinner with this man was something to
dread.
“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing at the breakfast bar as she walked over to the stove, where the serving platters waited.
He sat. So did Spencer. Right next to Beau, she noticed.
When she’d invited him earlier to sit down to eat, with her, he had left a stool between them.
Obviously, the little boy felt a kinship with this stranger that he didn’t feel with his own godmother.
Jordan tried not to let that bother her. After all, Beau was incredibly charismatic. He seemed to know just what to say to Spencer, and how to say it.
Come to think of it, he knew just what to say to her, too.
Warning bells went off in her head.
Don’t let him charm you, Jordan. You fell for a charmer once before, and look what happened.
Well, she was on guard. She would never fall for a good-looking, smooth-talking man again. Period.
“Nice place,” Beau said, looking around Jordan’s kitchen. He surveyed the three big foil-covered casserole dishes on the stove. “You always cook like this for just the two of you?”
“Actually, I never cook like this here at home,” she said, her back to him as she took down a plate from the glass-fronted white cabinet.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right, you’re a caterer. I almost forgot. Guess that means I’m in for a treat.” He leaned forward and peered at the contents of Spencer’s abandoned plate. “What’s this, mashed potatoes with chives?”
“Scallions.”
“And—hey, are those sautéed greens?”
“Yes!” She turned to look at him, obviously pleased at his culinary detective work.
“I love greens,” he said. “My grammy used to make them in one of those big old white enamel pots. She would let it simmer for hours, with bacon and onions and vinegar and molasses and her secret ingredient.”
“Secret ingredient?”
“She never would tell my mama what it was,” Beau said, smiling at the memory. “She said that as long as she could stand at the stove and make her greens, nobody else was going to have her recipe. She said she would give the recipe to Mama when the day finally came that she couldn’t do the cooking herself anymore.”
“But she wouldn’t tell her the secret ingredient when the day came?” Jordan asked, taking flatware from a drawer.