I had just turned sixteen when my father went to prison for manslaughter and possession of a controlled substance. My mother, unable to handle the shame, loss of income, and reduced social status, had dropped me on my grandmother’s front porch with a fifty-dollar bill and a couple of suitcases containing all that was left of my previous life. Having disposed of her burden, Mom then headed to California to start over, leaving my grandmother and me to face the town’s condemnation by ourselves.
“Ms. Sinclair?” Xylia slipped from behind the soda fountain and scurried over to me as I flicked off the neon OPEN sign. It was Friday and we closed at six o’clock.
“Yes?” I had given up trying to persuade her to call me Dev or even Devereaux. She claimed it didn’t show the degree of respect an employee should have for her superior. Sometimes I wondered what century Xylia thought we were living in. While I loved vintage collectibles and antiques, I had no desire to bring back the formal manners and rigid customs of days gone by.
“What about them?” Xylia glanced uneasily between the men and the locked door. “Are they staying?”
“Apparently.” They obviously had no intention of budging from their perches. Having swiveled around to face the store, they had crossed their arms in identical gestures of stubborn defiance and were now glaring alternately at me and at each other. Their silence was unnerving, and if looks could kill, both guys would be dead and I’d be fatally wounded.
“But we have to get ready for the book club.” Xylia fingered the tiny heart-shaped birthmark on her cheek, something she did only in times of extreme stress. “They aren’t members.”
“It’ll be fine.” Throughout Xylia’s shift, I’d noticed that she had been even more tightly wound than usual. Now I realized that she must be nervous about hosting her club’s meeting. It had been her idea to have it at the dime store, and she probably felt responsible for the event’s outcome.
“We won’t have enough chairs.” Her voice rose. “Mr. Quistgaard was very specific in his requirements. He’ll leave if anyone is standing. Everything will be ruined.”
“We’ll work it out,” I assured her. “Do you know Mr. Quistgaard?” Seating for everyone seemed an odd condition for an author to have, especially one who wasn’t a “big name.” If J. K. Rowling or Nora Roberts wanted everyone sitting, you damn well better have everyone off their feet, but Lance Quistgaard, not so much. “Did you select his book for your club?”
“Our president, Mrs. Zeigler, engages all our speakers.” Xylia backed away from me, bumping into the APRIL SHOWERS BRING MAY FLOWERS display. “Usually through their Web sites.”
“I see.” I bent to replace an overturned red clay pot on a bag of mulch.
“Let me do that.” Xylia nudged me out of the way and moved the small Victorian iron patio table a fraction of an inch to the left, then straightened the two matching chairs. “I’ve been meaning to fix this all afternoon.” She adjusted the shepherd’s hook plant hanger that was holding a basket of yellow and purple pansies a smidgen to the right.
Did I mention that my clerk was a little OCD?
As I leaned against the gas grill that the hardware store had loaned me for my display, I said, “Did you enjoy this month’s book?”
“Uh.” Xylia bit her lip. “I’m sure I will once I understand the poems better.”
One of the men at the soda fountain cleared his throat, and Xylia flinched at the sound. She grimaced, then put her hand on my arm and pleaded, “Do something before they spoil the whole evening.”
“Don’t worry.” I turned away so she couldn’t see me roll my eyes. “They’ll be gone before the author arrives.” I was fairly certain neither of the men currently scrutinizing me was interested in hearing a poetry reading.
“But wh—”
“I’ll handle it.” I cut her off before she could hyperventilate. “My Supergirl cape is at the dry cleaner, so you’ll just have to take my word for it, but I promise they’ll leave before you’re finished setting up.”
Xylia opened her mouth to protest, but closed it when I frowned and ordered, “Go start getting the crafting alcove ready for your group.”
With one last worried peek over her shoulder, Xylia headed toward the back room, where the folding tables and chairs were stored.
The minute she was out of sight, both men shot off their seats and stomped toward me. Taking a deep breath, I focused on the one who, by elbowing his competition, then cutting his opponent off at the pass, got to me first. Tall, dark, and devastating, Deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Del Vecchio had blown back into town an hour ago, plainly expecting us to pick up where we had left off and just as plainly unhappy to find another guy warming his stool at my soda fountain.
I had met Jake when he was recuperating from a line-of-duty injury at his granduncle’s ranch. He had helped me clear my name when I had been accused of murdering my old boyfriend’s fiancée. Then a month ago, after being declared fit for duty, he’d returned to St. Louis. And except for a brief visit and make-out session a few weeks ago, that was the last I’d seen of him.
Now, as he cupped my cheek, his words sent a sizzle down my spine. “I’ve been dreaming about doing this the entire time I was gone.”
He leaned in for a kiss, but with his mouth inches from mine, I stepped back, and his hand dropped to his side. It had been hard to pull away. The electricity between us was enough to light up most of North America. But I knew that if I let our lips touch, I’d lose all my willpower to resist, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.
In the meantime, the guy who had been sitting next to Jake had reached my side. Sleek, elegant, and aristocratic, Dr. Noah Underwood had been my high school boyfriend. Because both our mothers had been pregnant at the same time, we claimed to have known each other since the womb. The Underwoods and the Sinclairs were two of the five founding families of Shadow Bend, Missouri, our hometown, which meant while growing up we were constantly thrown together at parties, charity events, and community functions. So when Noah and I hit adolescence, it had seemed inevitable that we would become sweethearts.
For a while, we were inseparable. During that time, Noah was the most important person in my life, and I had thought I was the most important one in his. Sadly, I’d been mistaken. When we started dating, the Sinclairs and the Underwoods were social equals. But after my father’s disgrace, the Sinclairs became the town pariahs, and Noah dropped me like a lit match before his reputation could go up in the same flames that had consumed my family’s good name.
According to Noah, he’d had a noble reason for breaking off with me. However, even though he’d proven there was still a spark between us, I wasn’t sure I believed his version of past events. And I definitely didn’t trust that he wouldn’t dump me or betray me again if a similar situation were to occur.
Moving with an inherent grace, Noah put both hands on my shoulders and spun me so that I was facing him. That I now had my back to Jake was probably just a bonus. Once Noah was sure he had my attention—he was a methodical kind of guy—he put his lips to my ear and whispered, “Get rid of Deputy Dawg. I’ve got a surprise planned for you.”
“What?” His warm breath tickling my neck sent a bibbidi-bobbidi-boo message to my girl parts. Both of these guys could melt my panties right off my hips. “Were we supposed to get together tonight?” I knew we didn’t have plans because that wasn’t something I would have forgotten, but I wanted to hear his explanation.
“No.” Noah’s head dipped closer. “I thought it would be fun to be spontaneous.”
“Possibly.” I finally got control of myself and leaned away from him. “Except I have a club meeting here at seven and Gran is expecting me home after that.”
“Take your hands off of her, Frat Boy.” Jake muscled his way in between Noah and me.
I moved so that I was facing both guys, but when they crowded forward, I realized that I had let them corner me. My back was against solid shelves, so I couldn’t retreat, and the men had cut off any possible
forward escape route.
“Hold it, fellas.” I crossed my arms. “Let’s maintain a little personal space here, shall we?”
Jake cocked a dark brow and gave me a badass grin, but he didn’t budge, and Noah, despite looking a little sheepish, didn’t give an inch, either. Frustrated, I put a hand on each of their chests and shoved. Even though Jake was brawnier, Noah had a lean strength, so it was like pushing against twin statues.
Lowering my gaze to their crotches, I threatened, “Don’t make me go for the family jewels.”
Jake raised his hands. “Fine.” He tipped his head toward Noah. “But are you really dating this bozo?”
Noah tensed, then narrowed his slate gray eyes, shouldered his way in front of Jake, and said to me, “After not hearing from this jerk for weeks, you’re not thinking of seeing him again, are you?”
Well, hell! This was truly a hot mess. I so didn’t want to have this conversation with either of them right this minute. Mostly because I had no idea what to say. Both men were gorgeous, in utterly different ways. Mysterious versus familiar. Strikingly masculine versus classically handsome. A German shepherd versus a Russian wolfhound.
However, both had significant drawbacks as well. While the sexual chemistry between Jake and me was off the charts, he lived in St. Louis, a good five hours away. There was also the troublesome detail that he worked closely—very closely—with his ex-wife, who happened to be his team leader and thus his boss. In fact, his most recent assignment had required that they pretend to be boyfriend and girlfriend.
So, Noah had the advantage of availability, but I had a painful history with him. Jake had a clean slate, but complications.
Neither guy was a sure thing; nor was either one an obvious choice. With all that in mind, as well as the knowledge of my many previous romantic missteps, I figured that dating either man would probably be a lesson in candy-coated misery.
What I should do was convince them that we could all be friends and keep both relationships platonic. Of course, I rarely did what I should. Still, I had to do something before they killed each other or shed someone else’s blood, namely mine. I’d detested being a suspect in a murder case, but I was pretty damn sure I’d hate being a victim even more.
Murder of a Stacked Librarian: A Scumble River Mystery Page 25