The village shops and boutiques were dressed for the season with pumpkin and scarecrows on display and yellow-and-orange fairy lights lining the windows. She breathed in the clean air, edged with the faintest scent of a hearth fire, and remembered how her inner voice, on the day she’d learned about her father’s imprisonment and the state of her own personal accounts, had told her to see the situation as an opportunity.
It had untethered her from her misplaced sense of responsibility to her father. Yet, being unmoored was a little scary. More than a little. Still, she had employment and shelter and people who knew her, at least a little.
And a person she wanted to know a lot more about.
Of course, all afternoon as she’d scrubbed and vacuumed, she’d thought of Brett and how that reporter had broken his heart. Mac hadn’t said more—Angelica wasn’t sure she knew more anyway—but it had been like a puzzle piece she’d examined for hours. How did it fit with all she knew of him?
And then she’d remembered something else. Nan and George at Oscar’s. The older woman leaning close. He received a medal on his very first day in Afghanistan—it was all over the local paper.
It was something she could investigate without opening herself up. No one would have to know how everything about him fascinated her. That could continue to be her secret even as she delved into this aspect of his life.
It was all over the local paper.
That had to refer to the Mountain Messenger. The local newspaper had ceased publication a few years back, but Angelica happened to know they had twenty years of its issues archived on the computers in the historical society offices. She had the key to the front door in her purse.
She had an easy excuse for being there, if anyone even happened to ask. A couple of times a week she stopped by to sift through the incoming mail. Junk to the trash. Bills in the treasurer’s box. Other correspondence was destined for the president. It was a little chore she’d assigned herself, else the letters that were shoved through the slot in the door would pile up and then be scattered or worse when one of the board members finally ventured in.
There was still some daylight when she reached the headquarters. The porch light was already on, however, triggered by the shadows of the towering trees, and she didn’t feel nervous as she let herself inside.
“Miss you, Piney,” she said aloud, noting his empty place in the foyer. She hoped Brett was right and the bear would be returned after the high school’s homecoming.
Then she bent to gather up the armful of mail. She dumped it onto the nearest desk. Before starting to sort, she flipped on the computer. It wasn’t a quick starter.
With the correspondence divided into appropriate stacks, she dropped the circulars into the round file and seated herself in front of the now-humming computer. A rattling sound at the door sent her heart to her throat. Spinning on the seat, she saw a figure through the half-open blinds covering the door.
Vaughn.
He waved and gestured her toward him.
Damn. She glanced back at the computer screen, still a solid blue. With slow footsteps, she approached the door. “Can I help you?” she asked, pitching her voice so he could hear her through the closed door.
“Open up,” he said. “I have to get some materials for the newsletter.”
“Now?” But it was only a perfunctory protest, because she remembered an email that had reached her yesterday. Vaughn had volunteered to take over the society’s newsletter, the most thankless task of every organization Angelica had ever been involved with. The woman who’d had the job before him had been doing it for four years and begged at every meeting for a replacement.
He smiled as she let him in. If he made a move again, she decided, she’d go straight for his balls.
But he beelined for the wooden inboxes where information for the board and committee members was routed. The one labeled Newsletter was stuffed full. “What are you working on?” he asked Angelica, as he began pulling out papers and assembling them into a neater stack.
“What? Oh, a few odds and ends.” She found the mail she’d meant to put in the newsletter box and walked it over. “It’s good that you’re taking on this job,” she said. “Janice was more than ready to hand it over.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Vaughn said. “My first issue is going to be all about the auction and the pieces we sold and where they ended up.”
“You’ve taken quite an interest,” she said, then frowned. “But we can’t announce who won the items, remember? That’s confidential.”
“Mmm. Right.” Vaughn didn’t look up. “I’m still hoping I can sweet-talk our president into relaxing that rule. Unless you...”
She shook her head. “I don’t have access.” Or she wasn’t supposed to have access.
Vaughn shrugged. “I can make a good start with simple word of mouth. Rumor flies around these mountains, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
He received a medal on his very first day in Afghanistan.
She broke my brother’s heart.
“I’ve noticed.” Then a new thought struck her. “Hey, Vaughn...”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Are you related to Zan Elliott?” she asked. “Alexander Elliott?”
“He’s my cousin.” Vaughn’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know Zan?”
“I don’t. I just heard his name come up.”
“Because he inherited our grandfather’s estate, I suppose.”
“I didn’t know that,” Angelica said.
“Well, it’s true. Grandpop had two beneficiaries, Zan and the historical society.” One of the papers in his hand crumpled in his sudden fist. “Everything. The house, the cash, the stocks, the bonds.”
“Oh. Well.” There was a new, bad vibe in the room and Angelica decided to leave. Immediately. Trying to appear casual, she strolled to the computer, turned it off and picked up her purse. “Can you make sure the door locks when you let yourself out?”
He was muttering something as he shuffled more papers.
She took it as a yes and, tense and suddenly tired, slipped through the front door. Though her legs ached from her day spent cleaning, she jogged toward the village, slowing only when she reached the main street. A couple of blocks more and she’d be at her car. Though she still felt a little skittish, she forced slow breaths as she continued onward.
Several of the boutiques were open late. A cute wine bar was doing a booming business, and a German polka sounded from the beer garden across the street. It wasn’t nearly as crowded as a summer night—when you had to dodge and weave to make it from one establishment to another—but apparently this was a popular destination on a fall Friday night.
Now that she was away from Vaughn, she cursed her nerves. If she’d just waited him out, she could be satisfying her curiosity about now. He received a medal on his very first day in Afghanistan.
She supposed she should feel guilty for wanting to dig into Brett’s secrets. When not a drip of shame trickled through her, she decided it was his fault. Don’t look like that, don’t touch like that, don’t kiss like that, she’d tell him if he’d ask. Then I wouldn’t want to know everything about you.
Up ahead, a woman slipped out of Bon Nuit, the sweet boutique that sold expensive nightwear, soaps and fragrances. A small bag hung from her hand. Angelica’s gaze sharpened.
Lorraine Kushi.
A wild impulse overtook Angelica. Maybe from too many Nancy Drew books, an early love for Harriet the Spy, a onetime obsession with Veronica Mars. Keeping her distance, Angelica began to trail the other woman. Was she here to make another play for Brett?
Lorraine’s high heels clicked on the sidewalk. In her sneakers, Angelica was silent on the cement. When Lorraine fished through her purse and brought her cell to her ear, Angelica hurried to get closer. To eavesdrop.
“No luck yet,” the reporter groused into her phone. “I’m staying in a B and B for the night.”
The woman glanced over her shoulde
r and Angelica ducked behind a seven-foot carving of a bear climbing a pine. When Lorraine continued without pausing, Angelica drew her hood over her hair and returned to her surveillance. A little grin tugged at her mouth. This was kind of fun!
Then a hard hand closed around her arm. She yelped, and a palm was put across her mouth as she was yanked into a recessed, darkened doorway. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a man’s voice hissed in her ear.
She already knew it was Brett. That soapy scent, that hard body, was impossible to mistake.
There was no way to answer with his hand clamped over her mouth. She considered biting him, then decided good manners dictated she wait for him to figure out her silence for himself. On a curse, he let her go, then got his face so close to hers that even in the dim light she could read the fury in his eyes. “Well?”
“I was merely enjoying the evening—”
“And I’m Kriss Kringle.”
“You need to fatten up, Kriss,” she said, patting his flat belly. He placed his hand over hers, holding it against the basket weave of his long-sleeved, long-underwear-style shirt. Beneath it he was furnace hot.
A little shiver tripped down her spine. If she went on tiptoe, she could put her mouth to his throat. She could lick the strong column of his neck, find the place where smooth skin turned to sandpaper whiskers. If she ran her tongue over his bottom lip, would his anger melt? Would he let her in?
“Angelica...” It came out low and drawn out, like a groan.
Her fingers curled beneath his, her nails digging through the fabric of his shirt, wanting a more intimate touch. Skin.
Then he shook his head and ripped her hand away from his body. “We’ve got to get out of here.” Once again wrapping his fingers around her arm, he towed her in the opposite direction to that Lorraine Kushi had been moving.
“Wait—” she started, then clamped her mouth shut. She could hardly tell him she wanted to return to trailing his ex-lover. That would be weird, though short of kissing him again, that’s what she wanted to do most. Call her curious, but she was wildly interested in learning more about the former object of his affections.
“Wait what?” he asked, without slowing.
“My car’s in the other direction,” she said, feeling a bit triumphant. “I left it in front of Mac’s office.”
“No duh,” he said, continuing his long strides. “How do you think I knew where to start looking for you?”
“Oh.” Tired of being pulled along like a toddler, she lengthened her steps. “You wanted me?”
He sent her a scathing glance. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”
She bristled. “Hey!” Planting her feet, she was gratified when he was forced to turn and face her. “My car. The other way.”
“I’ll be driving you home tonight. That candy-ass thing you call a vehicle shouts your name in neon letters.”
“Another useless piece of fluff, huh?”
“I’m not going there with you,” he muttered, and started towing her again.
“Your truck says your name on the side of it,” she pointed out, though not entirely sure what this focus on anonymity was all about.
“I have my SUV. There are hundreds of black SUVs in the mountains.”
“Oh.” Still, none of this was making sense. Not his tension, not the way he’d tracked her down after avoiding her so studiously since their night together. At his car, he unlocked the passenger side and practically threw her inside.
Then he was behind the wheel and gunning out of town. “Buckle your seat belt.”
Obeying, she glanced over. “I assume there’s a reason we’re being all Bonnie and Clyde.”
“That may be more apt than you know,” he muttered. “There’s a manhunt going on.”
She frowned. “What?”
He muttered again, then said, “Lorraine Kushi.”
“The reporter?” Angelica said, as if she didn’t know. As if she didn’t know he’d once been lovers with the woman. “What’s she got to do with, um, us?”
Okay, that didn’t come out right.
“With you,” Brett said.
“With me?” Did she want to beat up Angelica for sleeping with her ex?
“Think, darling. She’s an investigative journalist and she’s on the prowl for an exclusive interview subject.”
Angelica’s chest tightened and she wrapped her hands around the shoulder strap as if it could keep her safe from everything. How dumb of her! She’d been so focused on finding out about the woman who’d broken Brett’s heart, she’d not considered that a story might have brought the reporter to town. “Me?”
“You.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ANGELICA HAD GONE screamingly silent.
Brett glanced over, trying to get a bead on her expression in the meager light of the dashboard. It revealed nothing.
Fingers tightening on the steering wheel, he cursed silently. Lorraine, himself, Angelica’s vulnerable state. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice gruff.
He didn’t want to care if she was all right. He didn’t want to be drawn into any drama between the woman who’d once fucked him over and the woman he was dying to fuck all over again.
“I’m all right,” Angelica said, the strain in her voice evident. “How do you know she wants an interview?”
“Because she tracked me down.” And wasn’t that pleasant. He’d been stowing his tools in his truck when he’d felt a warning tickle at the base of his spine. He’d looked up to see Lorraine’s cold and beautiful face. The scars on his had instantly begun to throb. “She wanted me to point her in your direction. Knowing how small our little world here is, she thought I might know how to find you.”
“You didn’t tell her.”
“Hell, no. I wouldn’t send a wolf on the trail of a rabbit.”
“I can take care of myself.”
He snorted. “Do you want me to make an introduction, then?”
“No, thank you.”
So effing polite. He squeezed the steering wheel again, wishing he could throttle down all his emotion. But he hated the idea of the razor-edged reporter getting within an arm’s length of Angelica, who didn’t have what it took to protect herself from a bristly bush, let alone a predator like Lorraine. It made his skin itch and his mood smoke like a poorly banked fire.
The princess needed a shield. A knight. A protector.
And, for the moment, she only had him. “We need to think of a place you can go. Have you reached your mother?”
“We haven’t spoken.” She hesitated. “And I feel good here. I—I don’t want to leave just yet.”
Of course she didn’t. That would make things too simple for him. Since she’d shown up last summer, everything about her had been a challenge. Her warm brown eyes, her dangerous curves, her tender mouth.
How she made him feel...as if he couldn’t control himself.
His car started climbing the steep drive that led to the cabins. Once she was stowed away in her place for the night, he’d breathe more easily. And maybe think more clearly. There had to be some way of keeping her safe from Lorraine, who would tell Angelica’s story with a minimum of sympathy and a maximum of scandal-mongering.
The first thing he noticed was that the porch lights over both their entry doors were off. “Shit,” he said, glancing over as she straightened on her seat. “Looks like the bulbs went out.”
“Both at the same time?”
He parked between their cabins, leaving the headlights on. “Stay here,” he said, but wasn’t surprised when she followed him out. The lack of light didn’t set off any warning bells. Squirrels could have been trying to nest in the light covers and broken or loosened the bulbs. It had happened before.
“Give me your keys,” he said, and she placed them in his hands.
The switches just inside the entry weren’t working either, though the gas heater must be, because the interior was pleasantly warm. “Hell,” he muttered. “Electricity’
s out. We’re going to have to head back to the village.”
“And do what?”
“Bunk with Poppy or Shay for the night,” he said, glancing down at his phone. “Cell coverage is crap as usual. We’ll have to surprise one of them.”
“I’ll get a couple of things from my room.”
It was pitch-black down the hallway, but he figured she’d lived there long enough to know her way. He lingered by the front door, remembering that time he’d spooked her in the dark.
Listening hard, he traced her footsteps along the braided runner. Then there was a thump, a cry, a louder thump. His heart slammed against his ribs, and his pounding footsteps mimicked the noise of it in his head.
He caught himself on the bedroom’s doorjamb, the dark so impenetrable that he worried he might slam into her if he moved farther inside. “Angel face?”
“I’m okay,” she said in a small voice. He sensed rather than saw her rise off the ground. “I tripped.”
“This way,” he said, hoping to guide her with his voice.
She seemed to move closer, then she let out another surprised sound and pitched into his body.
His arms closed around her. Tripped again, he thought, his hands running over her body to make sure she wasn’t hurt.
She trembled against him, and she released another strangled cry of distress.
Shit. He leaped away. “Sorry, sorry. Are you all right?”
“Yes. No.” Her voice sounded thick with shame or tears.
“Let’s get you to the car. Light. People other than me.”
“You know it’s not you.” She inhaled a shaky breath. “I don’t even mind the dark as a general rule.”
“Let’s get you out of here, anyway.” To Shay, to Poppy. Someone who had the power to comfort and soothe.
“This is horrible.” She was hauling in breaths, but still sounded strained. “You must think I’m some nutcase.”
He closed his eyes. “I don’t. But we should go.”
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