Jasmine sighed. First the candles, then the oil would be next. Then, as was too often the case, instead of confiding in her daughter, Celeste would turn to the spiritual world for comfort. Though Jasmine knew she was wasting her time, she asked once again, “Mother, are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help you?”
From a vial on her night stand, Celeste poured out a dollop of bergamot oil and rubbed it into her left hand. “Jasmine, there’s no need to worry,” she said, her voice regaining some of its former confidence, though the dark circles under her eyes and the drawn features of her face did little to allay Jasmine’s concerns. “I just need some time alone. I hope you understand.”
“Yes, of course,” Jasmine said numbly. She understood all too well. As she had done so often these past few weeks, her mother was pushing her away. Celeste was pulling inside herself, struggling alone to find an answer to a problem that Jasmine knew nothing about. Frustration roiled inside her, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.
As though sensing her distress, Celeste crossed the room and enveloped her in a quick hug. “Don’t look so worried, dear. I’ll be fine. Go on back to your room. There’s no need for both of us to lose any more sleep.”
Jasmine had no choice but to comply. Slowly she crossed to the door. Her hand lingering on the knob, she hesitated, glancing back at her mother, watching as Celeste placed a thick candle on the braided rug in the middle of the room. Tucking her night gown around her, she assumed the lotus position, sitting cross-legged in front of the light. Folding her hands in meditation, she closed her eyes and began to chant beneath her breath.
Feeling like an intruder, Jasmine stepped into the hall and closed the door quietly behind her. As she headed back to her room, a renewed sense of resolve grew inside her, quickening her step.
Since the discovery of Raven Hunter’s body, her mother’s health and stability had been slowly deteriorating in front of her eyes. Something was troubling Celeste. Something that had to do with the murder of her sister’s lover.
She had no doubt Celeste knew something that she wasn’t sharing. She’d felt this as certainly as she had felt the tremors shaking her mother’s body. But without Celeste confiding in her, Jasmine’s hands were tied in her attempts to help her mother.
Which left her with only one choice.
Now there were two reasons to help Storm.
First, in the name of the Kincaid family, she would make amends to him for the wrongs committed against him and his brother. Second, for her mother’s sake, she would find out the truth—before it was too late.
Somehow she had to help her mother find peace of mind.
Because, if she didn’t, she was afraid that she might lose Celeste for good.
At precisely eleven o’clock the next day, a knock sounded at Storm’s hotel room door. Half dressed, his hair still wet and only finger-combed from his shower, he glowered at the closed door. Of all days for Jasmine to be prompt, why did it have to be today?
For the first time in weeks he’d been able to sleep the night through. In fact, he’d slept so soundly, he hadn’t heard his alarm. When he finally had awoken and had seen the lateness of the hour, he’d been rushing like a madman ever since.
Growling his impatience, he strode to the door and swung it open.
A smile of greeting died on Jasmine’s lips as she skimmed the length of his body, taking in his shirtless, shoeless, blue jeans-clad state. Swallowing hard, she stared at the smooth expanse of his bare chest.
“I’m not ready,” he said needlessly.
Raising a thin, dark brow, she quipped, “Isn’t that supposed to be a woman’s line?”
The tension eased from his muscles at her attempt to lighten the situation. “It’ll only take me a few minutes to finish dressing. Would you like to come inside?”
“Mmm…” She stole another glance at his naked chest and shook her head. “It’s too nice a morning. I’ll just wait out here. Take your time.”
He nodded, his lips twitching with the urge to smile as he recalled her bravado of the day before. How she’d assured him there would be no problem with their working together, since she was no longer interested in him in a physical way. It assuaged his bruised ego to know that Jasmine wasn’t as immune to him as she’d like for him to believe.
He turned, leaving the door open, and strode to the closet. Pulling out a neatly pressed blue chambray shirt, he slipped it on, tucking the ends into his jeans. Fastening the top button of his fly, he looped a woven belt around his narrow waist and stepped into his shoes.
Glancing outside, he saw Jasmine with her back to him, leaning against a concrete pillar, gazing in the direction of the distant mountains. Her black cowboy boots were crossed at her ankles. She wore a pair of snug blue jeans, coupled with a black scoop-neck T-shirt. The outfit emphasized the flatness of her stomach, the gentle curve of her hips and the primal beauty of her body.
Awareness stirred in Storm, warming his blood, making the fit of his jeans even tighter. He stifled a moan. Jasmine wasn’t the only one not immune. The day had barely begun and already his libido was working overtime. He inhaled a steadying breath, releasing it through clenched teeth.
It was going to be a long, long day.
With fierce, punishing strokes, he brushed the hair from his face, tucking it behind his ears. Letting the wet strands air dry, he picked up his keys and headed for the door.
At the sound of his approaching foot steps, Jasmine turned to face him. In the revealing rays of sunlight, he saw for the first time the dark smudges beneath her eyes. He paused in the doorway and frowned his concern. “You look tired.”
“I didn’t sleep well last night.” Self-consciously she raked both hands through her cropped hair. With a quick smile, she said, “It was too warm in the house. I couldn’t seem to get comfortable.”
Storm didn’t believe her for a minute. Jasmine was a terrible liar. There was something she wasn’t telling him. He could see that as clearly as the blush of color rising on her cheeks.
He couldn’t help but wonder if her restlessness had anything to do with her decision to help him. She had been honest yesterday about her family’s wishes for her to not become involved with him. But she’d offered to help him nonetheless. Perhaps the burden of betraying family loyalties was beginning to wear on her.
For his own sake, he hoped not. As hard as it was to admit, he needed her. There was too much depending upon the success of their mission. He owed his brother the truth. And he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of uncovering that truth without her.
Closing the door behind him, he joined her on the walkway. Standing close, he experienced the first of what he was sure to be many second thoughts of the day. She looked so fresh, so beautiful. His fingers itched to reach out and touch her. Not trusting himself to indulge his hormonal urges, he crammed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and wondered how he was going to get through the day without giving into his desires.
“So, where do we begin?” he asked, unable to keep his eyes off the delicate features of her face.
“The Hip Hop Café,” she said. At his look of surprise, she gave a self-deprecating smile. “I made break fast for our guests this morning at the B and B, but I didn’t have time to eat my own. I can’t think straight on an empty stomach.”
His own smile was obliging. “I guess I could use a cup of coffee, too.”
“Good,” she said, giving an audible breath of relief. “Without food, in another hour, I’d have been a real bear to live with.”
Somehow, he doubted that.
The heel of her boot scraped against the concrete as she turned toward the parking lot. He followed behind her, cutting his long-legged strides to match her smaller steps. But he stayed close enough to be on the receiving end of a heady dose of her sweet smelling perfume. The scent reminded him of warm, sunny days, of lazing in a meadow surrounded by wild flowers. In the parking lot, she hesitated, glancing between his silver luxury car and
her Jeep Wrangler.
“There’s no need for both of us to drive,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “We may be visiting some rugged territory. Four-wheel drive will come in handy. I guess we should take my Jeep.”
“Whatever you say,” he said, distracted by the way she chewed on her lower lip when trying to work her way through a problem.
Jasmine didn’t move. Instead, placing her hands on her hips, she glared at him. “It’s not just my decision, Storm. We’re supposed to be partners, remember? If you’ve got an opinion, say so!”
After a moment’s consideration he said, “In my opinion, we’re wasting time standing here in the parking lot. The daylight’s burning. Let’s go.”
She hesitated. Then, looking as though she’d like to pick up the argument where she’d left off, she gave an impatient humph and strode to her Jeep.
Storm continued at a slower pace. On this warm, cloudless day, she’d driven with the top down. Adjusting the mirrored sun glasses onto the bridge of his nose, he slung himself into the passenger seat and buckled in, adjusting his long legs to the limited space.
Once they were both settled, Jasmine gunned the engine to life. As she popped the car into gear, her long, slender hands caught his eye. Instead of being smooth and manicured, they were red and rough, the nails cut to the quick. They were the hands of a laborer, not of a woman who lived her life at ease.
Curiosity getting the better of him, he asked, “You said you made breakfast this morning?”
“Uh-huh.” She turned onto Center Avenue, heading for the café. A brisk wind lifted the short strands of hair from her face. Raising her voice over the noise of the engine, she said, “I make breakfast every day. I’m the chief cook and bottle washer at the B and B. Not too bad at it, either.” Her grin was rueful. “At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I guess all that time I spent at culinary school has paid off.”
“You’re a chef,” he said, once again, unable to hide his surprise.
She flashed him an amused glance. “You seem shocked.”
“No…well, maybe a little surprised. You don’t look—”
“Old enough?” she finished for him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat as she raised a brow in question. Despite her light tone, he heard the annoyance in her voice when she said, “Don’t worry, Storm. Just because I look like a teeny bopper, it doesn’t mean I live like one.”
“That’s not what I meant. I—”
“No, I know exactly what you meant. You’ve got some strange idea in your head that I’m just a kid.” Gliding the car into a higher gear, she stomped down on the accelerator. The sudden surge of momentum pushed him back into his seat. She tilted her pert nose skyward, the indignation rising with each word as she said, “Well, you’re wrong. I’m twenty-three. Old enough to know what I want to do with my life, and believe it or not, it’s being a chef. I’ve always loved working in the kitchen.
“Learning to hone my skills seemed only logical, since my family owns a bed-and-break fast.” Her brow furrowed. “Actually, I’ve been trying to talk my mother into expanding the dining room at the B and B, but she’s been hesitant about taking on the added responsibility.”
She was rambling.
Surprisingly he didn’t seem to mind.
Storm normally tuned out the intimate details of the women who’d come and gone in his life. Most of the time he was interested only in surface information such as name, phone number and address. Not to mention how fast he could sneak out once he’d sensed a woman was becoming too interested.
But with Jasmine it was different. He wanted to know all he could about her. Instead of being discomfited by the personal bent of their conversation, he found himself listening carefully, watching the slight pout of her lush lips and the lively sparkle in her eyes as she spoke.
Did she have any idea just how beautiful she really was? She had the finest, most delicate complexion he’d ever seen. Her smooth, flawless skin reminded him of a porcelain doll. But more than just her exotic looks, he was intrigued by what she had to say and how she said it. He’d never met anyone quite like her.
Everything about her seemed to fascinate him.
Braking hard, forcing his thoughts back to the matter at hand, she pulled into the lot of the Hip Hop. Switching off the engine, she turned and looked at him expectantly.
He studied her for a long moment, raising a curious brow. “May I finish what I was about to say now? Or do you have something else to add?”
A flush of pink tinged her cheeks. She waved a dismissive hand. “Go right ahead. Speak your piece.”
Biting back an amused smile, he said, “What I was about to say—before I was rudely interrupted—was that I couldn’t picture you as a chef because you’re so thin. You don’t look like a person who spends her time working with food. My surprise had nothing to do with your age, but with your size.”
“Oh,” she said, her flush deepening. “Sorry, I’m just a little self-conscious about my age. Everyone seems to be pointing out my youthfulness lately. I guess I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
“No apology is necessary,” he said, his tone brisk. Reluctantly he glanced at the diner. As usual, it appeared busy. “Should we go inside?”
“Sounds good to me. For once I’d like to put something other than my foot in my mouth.”
Storm chuckled. Unbuckling his seat belt, he swung himself out of the Jeep, stepping down onto the paved lot. Still smiling, he held open the door to the café, then stepped inside.
Heads turned, and curious stares bore into them. More than one eyebrow of surprise was raised. Hushed whispers followed their entrance into the restaurant.
And Storm realized their mistake.
Last evening they’d dined at a restaurant owned and operated by a Cheyenne. Not only that, but they’d been accompanied by Gavin and Summer. Their presence together hadn’t raised any alarms.
Not so today. Storm wasn’t certain if the fact that he was a Native American and Jasmine was white was what had set the town’s gossips abuzz. Or if it was the fact that he was a Hunter and she was a Kincaid. Either way, in the town of Whitehorn, the two did not mix.
If Jasmine noticed the extra attention, she gave no outward indication. Instead, with her head held high, her shoulders ramrod straight, she made a beeline for a pair of empty stools at the front counter. Sliding onto one, she glanced at him, waiting for him to join her.
With one last self-conscious glance across the café, he sat on the vinyl stool.
“What are you having, Storm? The Western omelettes are good,” Jasmine said, her light tone sounding forced. She picked up a menu and scanned the plastic-covered sheet. Lowering her voice, she whispered, “Ignore them, Storm. Whitehorn’s a small town. There’s not a lot to do around here. People have to have something to entertain themselves, even if it is just finding something to gossip about.”
Obviously he’d been wrong. She was fully aware of the extra attention their entrance had brought.
But she was wrong, too. It did matter what others thought.
The reaction of the citizens of Whitehorn to their being together today was the same reaction Raven and Jasmine’s aunt Blanche had received when they were secret lovers nearly thirty years earlier.
The disapproval in the air was palpable.
Storm’s chest tightened with an unwanted emotion. He didn’t want to admit how much it disappointed him to know that nothing had changed in Whitehorn since he was just a boy.
Janie, the blond-haired waitress who’d waited on him the last time he’d dined at the Hip Hop, joined them at the counter, wearing a contagious grin. “Jasmine Monroe, this certainly is a pleasant surprise. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you in here.”
Jasmine’s returning smile was pure mischief. “Just came to check out the competition, that’s all.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to tell the cook to be extra careful with your order.” Her gaze moved from Jasmine to Storm. “And you brought a frie
nd. It’s good to see you again, Mr. Hunter. What can I get for you today?”
“Just coffee, please,” he said, his somber tone spoiling the light hearted banter.
“Not too hungry, huh?” Janie turned to Jasmine. “How about you, Jasmine? What would you like?”
Sighing, Jasmine placed the menu back in its spot between the sugar and napkin holders. “Coffee, and one of your special cinnamon rolls. Only could you make both of our orders to go. We’re running a little late.”
“Sure thing.” Janie’s smile faltered. She glanced around the café, catching the curious stares of the other patrons. With a quick nod of understanding, she said, “It’ll only be a moment.”
Neither Jasmine nor Storm spoke again until they’d paid for their order and had left the café. Once they were out of earshot of others, only then did he realize just how upset she really was—with him.
She turned on him, anger flashing in her eyes. “Why did you let them bother you? It doesn’t matter what they think about our being together. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”
“Of course it matters,” he said, his voice harsher than he’d intended. He stopped short, his shoes skidding against a loose rock. The coffee sloshed in his cup, nearly spilling over the brim. Brusquely he added, “You live here, Jasmine. You need these people’s approval.”
She pointed an accusing finger in his direction. Her voice and hand trembling with barely controlled anger, she said, “Don’t you dare tell me what I need. I don’t need a watchdog keeping track of my status in the community. I’ve long given up on the idea of seeking Whitehorn’s approval.”
Despite her adamant tone, he heard the pain that underlined the words. A pain that he knew only too well. A pain that came only from a lifetime of shame and guilt.
Somehow, Jasmine had been exposed to the prejudices of others.
Perhaps he’d been too hasty in his assumption of her so-called privileged life style. Perhaps they had more in common than he’d first imagined.
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