by Ann Yost
“She’s a little impulsive. Junie, I mean. Sometimes things just happen.”
He squeezed her hand and she realized he was still holding it. “Junie is safe with me.”
****
Hours later Nick kicked off the Daisy quilt. It smelled too damn much like the woman for whom it was named and that fragrance had kept him tight and hard and sleepless. She’d shocked him with the reference to sex. Hell. Maybe he should’ve done what all his hormones urged him to do. Maybe he should’ve kissed her and let things take their natural course. He wanted her badly enough. Unfortunately, he seemed to have developed scruples. He breathed deeply and willed the tension to leave his body. This made no sense. Daisy Budd wasn’t even his type. But he responded to her warmth, her earnestness, her soft curves like a Pavlovian rat. She was capable of great passion in building her business and protecting her sisters. What would that passion be like unleashed on him? His blood zoomed south and his body tightened with need. Damnation.
****
Daisy kicked off her blankets. Again.
She’d spent the past several hours flopping from side to side. Occasionally she tried her back and then her stomach. She could find no comfort. Her body still felt hot and tight from those moments on the sofa. She’d wanted to taste his kiss. Just once. Merde as Junie would say. Who was she trying to kid? She was twenty-six years old and, if past was prologue, she wouldn’t be attracted to anyone else for another twenty-six years. The fact was she wanted Nick to make love to her.
Unfortunately he was only interested in her cellar. Except that, for a few moments, she’d felt a connection, as if, given half a chance, he’d like to make love with her, too. She screwed up her face. It wasn’t like she was asking for happily ever after with Prince Charming.
She just wanted one dance at the ball.
But it didn’t look as if it would happen.
A rumbling sound rolled through the cabin. Daisy pulled her pillow over her ears.
Dang. Even his snore was sexy.
****
The tinny notes of a cell phone roused Nick from his half-slumber. He heard Daisy’s sleep-roughened voice and the rest of his body roused, too.
Well, hell.
It had to be one of her sisters. Since she was doing much more listening than talking, his money was on Junie.
Nick got up and moved into the small kitchen. He measured coffee into the familiar, dented percolator and pasted a smile on his face moments later when he heard the bedroom door open.
She wore a lime-colored, sleeveless blouse that tied at her waist and showed off a pair of well-defined, lightly tanned arms, a pair of pink cropped slacks and pink tennis shoes encrusted with rhinestones. A perfect outfit for a dyed-in-the-wool romantic.
“You’re a symphony in pink,” he said.
“Watermelon. “I’m a symphony in watermelon.”
He grimaced. “Don’t remind me of fruit. Have you heard my stepmother’s new name?”
“Harmony Lime? Sure. We’re doing a handfasting for her coven this week.”
He didn’t really want to talk about Judith.
“I get the sense you like bright colors.”
She laughed. The light sound got under his skin and slid into his pants.
“When you grow up sandwiched between two biscuit queens you learn to distinguish yourself any way you can.”
He studied her flushed cheeks, small nose and wide golden eyes. Her flaming corkscrew curls were already fighting the confines of her barrettes.
“You don’t need to compete with your sisters,” he said. “You’re unique.”
She grabbed the sink in a mock faint. “Take me now, sailor.”
“It would be a mistake.” He said the words quickly, knowing he had to say them, wishing it were otherwise.
Her flush deepened and she shrugged.
“You made coffee?”
“And I cooked breakfast,” he said. He handed her a bowl filled with Count Chocula.
“A useful man in the kitchen.”
Nick poured her a cup of coffee and tried to remember the last time he’d waited on a woman and the answer came easily: never.
“You got a call.”
She nodded.
“Junie’s worried. Her boyfriend never showed up for their date last night.”
“Maybe he listened to the tornado warnings.”
“He never checked in at home, though.”
“Home?”
She made a face. “He lives at the Theodore Bowman Homeless Shelter.”
He frowned at her. “You’re letting her date a drifter?”
“She’s twenty. I can’t tell her to not to date someone.”
“Unless it’s me.”
Her eyes widened. He couldn’t decide which of them was more shocked by his curt words.
“That was a joke.”
“Oh.” She licked a drop of milk from her full lower lip and sexual awareness surged through him.
“All I want,” he lied, “is a decent night’s sleep.”
“Maybe,” she drawled, “you ought to find a bed.”
He wanted it to be her bed. “Yeah.” He jumped to his feet. “You ready to go?”
A clear blue sky greeted Nick and Daisy when they stepped into the clearing but there were signs of the storm. Despite the way the Jeep wheels were mired in mud, Daisy slid under the steering wheel.
“It’s stuck,” he said.
“I’ll get it out.”
He sighed. Sometimes a cockeyed optimist had to learn things the hard way.
He returned to the porch and settled in one of the Adirondack chairs.
“Nick? Aren’t you going to get in?”
“I’ve got some time.”
She shrugged, got in under the wheel, and gunned the motor. Mud flew and the tires dug deeper into the soaked earth. Stubborn woman.
“Need help?”
She didn’t answer. She gunned the motor again. The tires dug a deeper groove into the mud. She continued to bury the vehicle until he got out of his chair, circled the cabin, and returned to the car.
She looked at the two-by-fours.
“What’re those for?”
He held them up for her inspection before he wedged them under the vehicle’s back wheels. An instant later he opened the driver’s side door.
“Switch places.”
“I’ve got it.”
He couldn’t believe she was arguing with him.
“Daisy, if you want to get to work before Christmas, get out of that car. Now.”
“But it’s my car,” her words escalated into an incoherent shriek when he succumbed to an irresistible urge to scoop her into his arms. She wiggled and protested as he carried her to the passenger side and stuffed her in the car.
He backed away, annoyed and aroused.
A moment later he extricated the Jeep and slogged down Trout Lake Road.
“You might want to figure out what to tell people.”
“Tell people about what?”
He glanced at her. Was she that naïve?
“I spent the night at your place. Again.”
“No one will know and, in any case, no one would believe we fooled around. I’m not your type.”
He glanced at her. “You’re not?”
“That’s the word on the street.”
Nick wished he could convey the wisdom to his bothersome libido.
“Omigod! Look at the tree.”
He pulled to the side of the road. Damn. Where the hell was his head? He’d forgotten all about the fallen tree. He’d been forced to leave the Malibu out here last night and now they were knee-deep in mud. They climbed over the thick trunk.
“Go ahead,” Daisy said, with a cheerful smile, “work your magic.”
He made a choked sound. “I appreciate your confidence but it’ll take a truck and a winch to get this baby out.”
“That’s okay.” She took her cell out of the oversized purse. “I’ll call for a ride.”
“Daisy?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re gonna need a story.”
“Hmm.”
Twenty minutes later a silver convertible arrived with a stylish redhead at the wheel.
She spoke to Daisy but kept her cool, blue gaze on Nick.
“I happened to be at the Biscuit with Junie. She’s got some lip-shaped scones in the oven so I volunteered to pick you up.” She turned to Nick and batted her synthetic lashes at him. “You sit up front, Sugar.”
“Nick, meet Debbie Popple,” Daisy said as she stepped onto the convertible’s running board and climbed into the backseat.
“Ah. I believe I saw your calendar in the Biscuit. ‘Debbie sells Mayville?’”
The realtor licked her lips. “Debbie sells whatever your little heart wants...”
****
The commute to town had never before bothered Daisy. Normally she rolled down all her windows and cranked up her tunes. This morning, though, as she listened to Nick respond to Debbie’s broad flirting, the trip seemed endless. She finally sat back and called Parker Wilson at the service station. He told her he’d use the county wrecker to get the tree off her road and Nick’s car out of the mud. No charge.
She started to relate the good news but at the sound of Debbie’s wickedly seductive laugh Daisy clamped her teeth shut. She reminded herself she had no claim on Nick Bowman. Thank God they hadn’t gotten physically involved.
Main Street, when they finally reached it, looked like a battlefield after a skirmish between the oaks and the elms. Leafy branches lay like dead soldiers on lawns and sidewalks and across the road.
The town’s public works department which consisted of Wilmer Osgood and a handful of volunteers, scooped debris into trash cans which they dumped into the pickup with “Mayville Public Works” printed on the side.
Nick failed to consult her when he agreed to Debbie’s suggestion to stop for coffee at the Biscuit and, sick of being ignored, Daisy excused herself and set out on foot for Happily Ever After.
The brisk three-block walk helped clear her head. She went right up to her office and called Miss Florence, who assured her the flowers for the handfasting had survived the storm.
“I brought the Queen-of-the-nights inside and I covered the tiger lilies. Everything sailed through without a bruise. It’s been a delightful challenge to come up with the right posies for a hand fast. I have to thank you again, dear. Flowers by Florence is, quite simply, my dream come true. Oh, I understand the Bowman boy got stranded at your place last night.”
Daisy marveled at the grapevine’s efficiency. She reminded herself Nick’s overnight was hardly a secret.
“He’d driven out to the cabin to check on it. While he was there a tree came down and blocked Trout Lake Road.”
“No need to explain, dear. I know you are not the type for hanky-panky.”
The comment irritated her. She had to stop living like a nun. In fact, she was danged tempted to find some willing male and indulge in a one-night stand. Just for the heck of it.
“On the other hand,” Miss Florence said, “my niece’s daughter, Gailee, well, she’s a different story. Perhaps you’d mention her name to Mister Bowman.”
Daisy knew Gailee. She was about Junie’s age and worked as a nail technician in Titusville. She was also a single mother.
“I don’t believe he’s looking for someone to date, Miss Florence. He won’t be here very long.”
“Nonsense. That old goat always intended to bring Nick back. Just in time, too.”
“You’ve heard about the problems at Bowman’s Biscuits?”
“I was referring to the dynasty. The family needs an heir and Buzz’s marriage appears fruitless.” Daisy did not know what to say to that. “Gailee is a sure thing. And, you know, she makes her own pickles.”
Miss Florence wanted Nick Bowman to marry Gailee? Daisy pictured suave, urbane Nick Bowman with Gailee and her pickles.
“If the subject comes up, I’ll mention your niece,” she promised.
A moment later Caroline arrived with a bag of fresh biscuits. Her exquisite face wore the pinched, pale look Daisy remembered from earlier years. Her sister did not beat around the bush.
“Nadine said Nick Bowman slept at the cabin.”
“He did. On the sofa.”
Caro’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Of course on the sofa. The question is why was he there?”
Daisy buried her irritation. It was important to soothe Caro but how could she do that without revealing his secret? “I can’t tell you but rest assured it has nothing to do with you or any of the family.”
Caroline’s mouth tightened. “How long will he be in Mayville?”
There was no chance to answer the question. A familiar shriek echoed through the big house, accompanied by frantic footsteps on the stairs.
“OMIGOD! OMIGOD! OMIGOD!” Junie’s words arrived in the kitchen before she did. “It’s Adrian! OMIGOD! It’s ADRIAN!” Her ponytail swished and tears poured from her eyes. Sobs and gulps punctuated her report.
“Call an ambulance,” she yowled. “He’s in the fountain!”
Chapter Nine
Daisy stared at the man face down in the shallow water of the Cupid Fountain. He wore a red-and-orange Aloha shirt and sandals. Khaki shorts ballooned around his pale legs and long hair floated near his head like seaweed. Daisy knew immediately an ambulance would be no help at all. She glanced at her younger sister whose face was buried in Caro’s shoulder.
“This is why he never showed up last night,” Junie wailed. “And why he never came back to the shelter. He fell into the Cupid Fountain and drowned. What a cruel accident!”
Adrian, or whatever his name was, had certainly drowned. But was it an accident? Or was this the death predicted in the anonymous letter? Daisy wrapped her arms around her waist as a shiver coursed down her spine.
“This is my fault,” Junie cried. “I didn’t think he’d come with the tornado warning and all. I tried to call to postpone but his cell wasn’t working. Oh, I’ve turned into one of those creatures who lure sailors to their death!”
“Sirens,” Caro murmured. She patted her little sister’s back.
Daisy with horror stared at the body. Was this related to the anonymous letters? She’d allowed herself to get distracted by her regrettable attraction to Nice Bowman when she should have been investigating the ominous happenings at the Gray Lady. This was her fault.
“Daze, you’d better call 9-1-1,” Caro said, in a quiet voice.
Junie lifted her head. “You think they can revive him?”
Daisy retrieved her phone and punched in the emergency number.
“This is 9-1-1. How can I help you?”
“Miss Myrna? Why are you still on duty?”
Miss Myrna Whitcomb, an octogenarian photographer whom Daisy had hired to work at Happily Ever After, also worked the night shift for the Mayville Police Department. Daisy checked her watch. Miss Myrna should have been off two hours ago.
“Oh, hello, Daisy, dear. Arletta’s girl went into labor so I agreed to pull a double.”
Daisy frowned. At eighty-plus years of age, Miss Myrna needed her sleep.
“How are things at the mortuary, dear?”
“Not good, Miss Myrna. I need you to send Jimmy over.”
“Jimmy’s at the Biscuit, dear, with the chief. You know Winthrop. You can’t disturb his breakfast unless it’s a dire emergency.”
Winthrop Sharkey had served as Mayville’s police chief for the past thirty years. The job suited him perfectly. What little crime there was in Mayville went largely ignored and Sharkey spent all morning, every morning in his designated booth at the Biscuit.
Daisy knew the drifter’s death would present a serious affront to the chief.
“This is a dire emergency. We’ve got a body at Happily Ever After.”
Miss Myrna paused.
“Is it Ora, dear?”
“No, no. Someone else. A man. In the fount
ain.”
“My land! That must have given you a turn. Is Nick Bowman still with you?”
Daisy swallowed her exasperation. Thank the Lord there was never a real emergency in Mayville.
Almost never. She infused steel into her voice.
“Miss Myrna.”
“All right, Daisy. I’ll page the chief.”
Miss Myrna, Daisy knew, had the Buttered Biscuit on direct dial.
****
Winthrop Sharkey looked like what might happen if a snake swallowed a mongoose. Well over six feet tall with thin, elastic arms and legs he sported a gut that had long since defeated the efforts of his belt and could only be held in check by a pair of thick suspenders.
His passion for food was rivaled only by his dislike of work. Luckily his second-in-command had Mayville’s criminal population under control.
Jimmy Crossfield, red-haired and freckled with the lithe body of a former high school wrestler was both conscientious and smart. He was also a friend. He’d been Daisy’s date to their senior prom.
The two officers stood by the fountain and stared at the body while Junie’s hiccups broke the stillness of the summer morning.
“Who the hell is he,” Sharkey finally asked.
“My boyfriend,” Junie sobbed. “Adrian Smith.” She told the tale of the aborted date.
“Where did you spend the night?”
The question, naturally, came from the ever-alert Jimmy.
“At my apartment.”
“She lives above the carriage house next to Caroline Budd’s place,” the deputy told his chief.
Sharkey stared. “So you didn’t see this, uh, Adrian last night.”
Junie blinked. “That’s what I said.”
“Chief needs to clarify everything for the report,” Jimmy soothed. He’d grown used to running interference for his boss.
“I knew something was wrong,” Junie whimpered. “So I called Daisy.”
Sharkey perked up. “Was she with the deceased last night?”
“Oh, do you have to call him that? Of course she wasn’t. I always call Daisy when things go wrong.”
Sharkey looked at Daisy. “Did you see this fella last night?”
“No, chief. I live out at the cabin on Trout Lake.”
“Not safe near the water in a storm, gal.”
Daisy nodded. “I hung out in the bathroom.”