Gloria finished her drink and set the glass on the coffee table with a loud clink. “Herv’s oldest child was Kitt—the reason he had to get married. Then, like stair steps, there were three more little ones—boys—boom-boom-boom. Those Mitchells bred like rabbits.”
Mel did some swift figuring. “So Nora and Kitt were actually kids growing up together.”
“Right. And Nora was like a little mother to that child. Good thing, too. Kitt’s own mother couldn’t keep up with all those children. Ha! She didn’t even try.”
Mel felt an irrational desire to defend Kitt Mitchell. “Kitt did all right for herself. Exclusive’s a fine magazine.”
“I never said the girls weren’t smart,” Gloria said with a sniff. “They were. But…blood will tell. Nora no sooner turned sixteen than she got pregnant by that no-good Gordon Jones.”
Mel’s face hardened. “What about Kitt?”
But Gloria’s mind was on its own track and would not be derailed. She leaned forward conspiratorially. “There was something funny about how Gordon Jones died. It happened at the McKinneys’ lake house. Cal McKinney himself was there. And so was Nora. And Ken Slattery—the man she married—the McKinneys’ foreman.”
Gloria looked at him with malicious satisfaction. He didn’t like it. It was his job to find the weaknesses of Fabian’s enemies, and the McKinneys were among those enemies. But where in hell was this leading?
With cool politeness he said, “I asked about the reporter.”
The woman tilted her head knowingly. “And I’m telling you about her background.” She jabbed her manicured finger toward his chest. “There was something strange about Gordon Jones’s death. Cal McKinney and Nora and Ken were in it up to their necks. The McKinneys have enough money to buy their way out of anything.”
Mel looked at her in disbelief. “You’re saying they bought their way out of a killing?”
Her little pink mouth smiled, but her eyes were hard as ice. “I’m pointing out things, is all. Suspicious things. You get my drift.”
Mel clamped his mouth shut so that he wouldn’t swear. Ralph came in, bearing a pitcher of fresh margaritas. “Woo, boy!” he said. “This is some party, eh? Well, how’s my girl doing, Belyle? She giving you an earful?”
“I think I’ve shocked him plumb silent,” Gloria said smugly. “And I haven’t but scratched the surface of what I know. Now Bubba Gibson—do you know he served prison time?”
Hell and damnation, thought Mel, who did this woman think she was? The Recording Angel of All Sins? “Kitt Mitchell,” he said. “Was she even in town when this—Gordon Jones died?”
“No,” Gloria said, holding out her glass to be refilled. “She was at her fancy college. But I want to tell you about Bubba Gibson—he was cheating with this woman young enough to be his daughter—it was a scandal.”
Mel interrupted. “How did a poor kid like Kitt Mitchell get to a rich school like Stobbart’s?”
“I’m telling you about Bubba going to prison,” she said. “When you want to know something about somebody in this town, Mr. Belyle, you come to me. I know where all the bodies are buried.”
Time for my vanishing act, Mel thought grimly. He was sick unto death of this fat gossipy woman. “I really have to go,” he said rising. “Long day. Had to get up early. Jet lag.” He made his way toward the door and as he did so, he lied about having a nice evening and being grateful for their hospitality.
Gloria tried to follow him, but she wasn’t quite steady on her feet. He’d just made it to the porch. She peered out through the screen door and added, “We didn’t talk about your brother.”
His spine stiffened, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. She didn’t notice. “And that woman he married. If you want to know the full truth about Shelby Sprague and your brother, ask me. I have the goods on her and him. Because I know—”
—where all the bodies are buried, you bitch, he finished mentally.
This last jibe, at his brother’s wife, somehow offended Mel most deeply. He could not forgive his brother, and he did not want to. He had no desire to meet Nick’s wife. So why did he resent Gloria Wall mentioning them?
He drove back to the Crystal Creek Hotel, smoldering with anger. He hadn’t merely disliked the Walls, he detested them with vehemence.
And these people, God help him, were his allies.
KITT DROVE BACK to the hotel about ten-thirty.
The night was cloudy, drizzle fell, and the darkness seemed supernatural. Twice she had to swerve to avoid hitting white-tailed deer that suddenly bounded into the glow of her headlights.
Kitt had grown used to New York, where there were always nearby buildings and lights burned all night long. This black, vast space on either side of the highway almost frightened her.
She was restless and fidgety, too. This restiveness came from unpleasant truths that she didn’t like to face. But Kitt was not cowardly about such things. She made herself face them.
In truth, she was surprised by Nora’s marriage, maybe even a bit…jealous? When Kitt had heard, years ago, that Nora had married Ken Slattery, Kitt had thought: Another cowboy. Won’t she ever learn?
As a girl, Kitt had paid little attention to Ken. He’d been attractive in an old-fashioned Randolph Scott sort of way—but aloof. The sort of man who’d worked hard, kept to himself, and talked little.
She’d told herself that since he was foreman, Nora might have some security at last. She had never imagined that Nora could really be in love with him or that he would treat her as anything more than a hardy pioneer wife, born to do woman’s work.
“Okay, so I was wrong,” Kitt admitted to the darkness.
The man obviously adored Nora, and she adored him in return. Kitt had sensed the strength of their feeling every moment she was with the two of them. From the way they’d looked at each other when they’d said good-night, they were probably making love at this very moment.
The thought of Nora, naked and happily abandoned in Ken’s strong arms, made Kitt feel like a voyeur. She quickly shooed the image away.
But still she felt unsettled. Kitt had always considered herself the lucky one, the one who escaped. She’d thought of Nora as trapped—and that sex was what had trapped her.
So why did Kitt feel suddenly lonely? She never felt lonesome; she never allowed it. And why did her series of safe, comfortable affairs suddenly seem empty, almost soulless?
Kitt wasn’t promiscuous. She took her time between romances—in fact the time between romances usually lasted far longer than any of the romances themselves. Nora was right. Kitt seldom stayed involved with a man. She’d always thought it the fault of the men. But maybe it was something that was missing within her….
Thinking of the men in her life reminded her again of Mel Belyle. There was no sense in this linkage of thoughts; it just happened. All evening he’d haunted her.
She was above all a professional, but she had acted frivolously with him. That was a mistake. This assignment made them adversaries. That could not be helped. But at least he should see her as a worthy one.
Did she think of him as a serious opponent? She would be a fool if she didn’t. Nora had told her that Nick Belyle was smart as hell—and that he himself had said his younger brother just might be smarter.
KITT PARKED in the hotel’s back lot, picked up her laptop and backpack and went in the service entrance leading to the lower floors. She remembered it from years ago, when she and Nora used to deliver fresh eggs to the hotel kitchen. Kitt’s mother had raised hens on her patch of tenant land. The yard around the house had always been pecked bare and smelled of chickens. Kitt still hated eggs.
She went down the long hall that led to the registration desk. The hotel had been spiffed up nicely, she thought with approval. She eyed the oak paneling and the spruce green carpet with its pattern of thistles.
At the desk she smiled at a blond woman with a Scottish accent. She’s a newcomer, I don’t know her, thought Kitt. The realization m
ade her feel odd. This was her hometown, but she was a stranger in it.
She took the brass keys to the back entrance and her room—no plastic card keys for this old-fashioned place—thanked the blond woman, and picked up her bags. She turned from the desk and looked directly into a man’s broad chest.
He smelled divinely of expensive aftershave, and the sweater looked like cashmere. Sapphire blue cashmere. She looked up and met the beautiful, enigmatic eyes of Mel Belyle.
Although she knew he was staying here, he’d caught her by surprise. Her heartbeat sped, and her breath felt just as stuck in her throat.
His perfect mouth twitched, as if he might say something. But he was silent, and almost self-consciously he touched his forefinger to his upper lip. There was something shy in that gesture, and it surprised her.
She swallowed and found herself saying, “I’m sorry for what happened this afternoon. You bought me a drink. I’d like to buy you one in return. After all, why not?”
The words sprang from her mouth before she had time to think of them. Instantly, she regretted them. He would of course say no. He would be scathing; she would be resentful, and they would dislike each other more than before.
He kept his finger resting on his upper lip thoughtfully. He looked at her such a long time that she thought he was not going to speak, only snub her. She was ready to spin on her heel and go.
But he said, “I could give you fifty reasons why not. Instead, I’ll say it’s a good question. Shall we start over, Mitchell?”
She looked up at him. For some reason she felt a smile stealing across her lips. “Let’s,” she said.
CHAPTER FIVE
NOW WHY THE DEVIL HAD HE said that? He wasn’t supposed to talk to her.
But he already had in the airport, by accident, and the accident had turned out to be disastrous. Damage control was in order. Or so Mel told himself, looking into those blue eyes that were so lively—and so lovely.
He must change her image of him—not for his own ego. Of course not. For Fabian’s sake and the sake of the assignment.
But part of him wondered if he didn’t sympathize with her after listening to Gloria Wall dredge up the Mitchell family scandals. She had implied Kitt’s own past was stained. Had the woman spoken truth? Or slander?
But finally, Mel admitted that he was with Kitt because he wanted to be. As a lawyer he could think of a hundred reasons to justify this urge. As a man, the desire was reason enough.
Besides, for years Mel had followed Fabian’s whims and weird rules. He was smart enough to know when they could and should be broken. He certainly wasn’t going to surrender corporate secrets to this woman. He was merely going to repair some wrong impressions.
He looked down at her—Lord, but she was a little thing. She came just to his collarbone. She had her laptop computer slung over one shoulder, her bulging backpack over the other. Its weight made her lean to one side.
“You’re listing to starboard,” he said. “Can I carry something for you?”
“No thanks. I can handle it myself.” She shook her head for emphasis, and the ponytail flashed like silken fire in the lobby’s subdued light.
I can handle it myself. He bet that was the motto of her life. She probably had it tattooed on her forehead under her bangs.
They paused at the entrance of the pub. The place was indeed a piece of Scotland transplanted to the Texas Hill Country. Tartans and crossed broadswords ornamented the paneled walls. The sound system played Scottish music. Mel recognized Andy Stewart’s voice singing of pining for the love of an elfin queen.
A friendly waitress saw them and called, “Sit anywhere, y’all.” Mel nodded. A booth in the far corner promised privacy. He bent to speak in Kitt’s ear. “Back there?” Her minty perfume tickled his nostrils. He was both surprised and pleased at the old-fashioned scent.
She nodded. “Fine.”
He put his hand on the small of her back to guide her. Although all he touched was her travel vest, it was as if sparks jabbed the palm of his hand, shot up his arm and struck him through the heart.
She stiffened and jerked away slightly, as if she felt the same instantaneous shock. He snatched his hand back, thinking, What the hell? He told himself they must have worked up a charge of static electricity crossing the carpet, but he knew it was a lie.
Without touching again, they moved to the booth and slid in gingerly, facing each other. Their corner was secluded and dim. A candle in a pewter holder threw a flickering glow over the table.
The candlelight danced on her face, emphasizing her delicate features, the marvelous hair. Suddenly Mel thought, I shouldn’t be doing this.
She looked wary, as if she felt the same. He folded his hands on the table, locking his fingers firmly together. He gave her a smile he hoped was businesslike and neutral.
“What I say here is off-the-record, right?” he began. “Just between you and me. It doesn’t end up in print.”
“Absolutely,” she said. “This is a truce.”
“Temporary?” he asked. “Or permanent?”
“That’s up to you.”
He took a deep, uncomfortable breath. “Whichever, I think we need to do some fence-mending.”
She tossed him a wry look. “Good fences make good neighbors.”
“To help us wall each other out?” he asked. “It has to be done, you know. We have to maintain barriers.”
“At least we can do it politely,” she said, gazing at the candle flame.
“The bottom line is we’re on opposite sides.”
She met his eyes with a steadiness that made an odd quiver dance down his spine. “I want to cover both sides of the story. But I was told you won’t talk to me.”
He cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “You’d be fair? I doubt it. It’d be a first where Fabian’s concerned. No. You might tell both sides. But you’ll tip the scales against Fabian.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Try me. Defend what he’s doing. My job’s to be objective. I’m willing to listen. I want to.”
He remained skeptical. “Then listen to the people around here who like the idea of Bluebonnet Meadows. There are plenty of them.”
She took the challenge with a gambler’s coolness. “Like who? Ralph and Gloria Wall? You were there tonight. I know.”
He nodded in appreciation. “Ah. See? You must have an excellent intelligence network already set up here.”
“It’s a small town,” she said. “People talk.”
“It seems they do. So tell me—what do you think of the Walls?”
Her expression hardened. The change was subtle, but he saw it. “The Walls? As I said, people talk. And some talk too damn much.”
The waitress appeared, order pad in hand and pencil poised. She had a round face and a ready smile. “Something to drink?” she asked. “The kitchen’s closed, so all we’ve got are chips and salsa, but they’re on the house if you want them.”
Mel thought of the orgy of cream cheese he’d just escaped at the Walls’. “Food? No thanks. Just a scotch and water.”
“A glass of white wine,” said Kitt. “The local Chardonnay, please.”
“You got it,” the waitress said and bustled off.
Mel leaned closer to Kitt. “Who told you where I was tonight?”
Kitt tilted her head. “There’s a vineyard nearby. I heard it through the grapevine.”
“Cute,” he said. “And where were you? At your aunt’s? That’s the one honest thing you said this afternoon. That you have an aunt.”
She folded her arms on the table nonchalantly. “Ah. I suppose Gloria Wall told you that.”
“Her name’s Nora. She’s not much older than you. She owns the Longhorn café and motel. She’s married to the McKinneys’ foreman.”
Kitt maintained her cool. “Hmm. So you’re a detective. I hear there’s a giant hound hanging around the Baskerville place. You ought to check it out.”
“I thought we were mending fences,” he said, leaning c
loser.
She sighed. “Look, the way I treated you today? That wasn’t professional. I’m sorry.”
“I accept your apology,” he said.
“But,” she added, spirit glinting in her eyes, “you were really obnoxious.”
He gritted his teeth. She was right, dammit. “Yes. I was. I apologize, too. I’m not usually like that.”
She smiled as if she didn’t believe him.
“I’m not,” he protested. Good grief, he had all the women he wanted, prettier and more cooperative than she was. He certainly didn’t make a habit of picking up strange ones in airports.
She looked him up and down. “You weren’t yourself?”
“Exactly,” he said. “So just wipe it from your memory, all right?”
“What was wrong with you? Worried about facing off against your brother?” His muscles tensed. How in the hell had she known that? She’d thrown the question into the conversation like a grenade and hadn’t even blinked.
“No comment,” he said sharply. He was relieved when the jolly waitress reappeared and set down their drinks. “Last call,” she said. “Anything else?”
Mel shook his head. Kitt said, “No thanks. And put it on my bill, will you? Room 203.”
“You got it, hon.” She turned and trotted away.
Mel squinted at Kitt in disbelief. “Room 203? That’s right next to me. Did you do that on purpose?”
“Hardly,” she said. “How come you’re so touchy about your brother?”
“Because he’s my brother. I don’t talk about him. Period.”
She toyed with a strand of hair, winding it around her finger. She said, “This is off the record, remember?”
“On or off,” he returned. “I don’t talk about him. We’re not part of your story.”
“That remains to be seen,” she said. “How come you’re so loyal to Fabian when he wasn’t?”
Mel straightened, drawing back in his seat. “You want to talk family? Why don’t you tell me about your aunt? I hear you used to be very close. So how come you didn’t come back to see her for twelve years?”
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