Beckett's Cinderella

by Dixie Browning

  “Was it? Maybe not. Have you considered getting caller ID, or having your number changed?”

  “It’s not my phone, it’s Uncle Fred’s. Besides, I don’t know if the phone company would even let me do it.”

  “Who knows your number here?”

  She shrugged again, a subtle movement involving no more than the lift of one delicate shoulder. He’d seen mimes that were more expressive. “Nobody, I guess. Uncle Fred has a nephew-in-law who calls occasionally. He works on a boat—one of those big container ships, I think. I meant to let my maid know where to get in touch in case anything came up later, but in all the confusion of putting the house on the market and packing up and—and everything, I forgot.”

  “Can you think of anyone else?”

  She shook her head.

  He said, “Close friends? Not so close friends?”

  Boyfriends? It had been over two years since her husband had been murdered. If she’d been celibate ever since, it was a hell of a waste.

  “Actually, I was busy for several months before I left Dallas—I sort of lost touch with my friends there.” She smiled, and he wanted to tell her that it was okay. That he understood. But he couldn’t tell her that without disclosing how much he knew about her past. He wasn’t ready to do that.

  “If it’s someone from the IRS,” she said, making a feeble attempt to laugh, “then they’re out of luck. My income is a joke. If it’s one of Uncle Fred’s friends from Bay View—that’s a retirement home over on the river—they’d be calling during the day. So, you see, it has to be kids. School starts in a couple of days, though, so it’ll probably stop.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “If it doesn’t…” She bit her lip and looked away. Did she have any idea how tempted he was to gather her into his arms, find the nearest bed and curl up with her for the next few hours? No talking. No sex, just sleep.

  Although, all bets would be off once they woke up together, rested and refreshed.

  Six

  Patty Ann lay curled up on the bed, watching the Weather Channel. Cam was in the bathroom shaving. She’d been the one to insist on sleeping in a real bed instead of in the car, but he’d been quick to take advantage of the facilities.

  All she wanted was to stop moving, to get finished with this half-baked scheme, and go back home. She was beginning to think it was a bad idea even though Cammy said it was their big chance to get some free publicity.

  “They say it’s turning more northwest,” she yelled through the half-closed bathroom door. “They show this yellow shape on the Weather Channel that’s supposed to be where it’s going. Are we headed anywhere near a place called Outer Banks?”

  “Close, but quit worrying, hon, those guys always guess wrong. Anyhow, the place we’re going, it’s not right on the ocean. All we’ll see is a bunch of rain. Trust me, would I put you in any danger?”

  Patty Ann closed her eyes and sighed. She did trust him, she really did. Trusted his heart, at least, because that was just as honest as the day was long. His judgment was something else. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d taken hold of some brilliant idea and not bothered to work out all the kinks before barging into action.

  “Keep thinking about Camshaw and Camshaw, Private Investigations at Bargain Prices,” Cam called. “Hey, you want in here before I grab a shower?”

  “Uh-uh, I’m going to sleep.” She fumbled with the controls to tune out a noisy commercial. “Rambo Camshaw, Harebrained Ideas, Two For a Nickel,” she muttered under her breath.

  After a brief argument—brief because neither he nor Liza had the energy to do more—Beckett ended up spending the night on Fred Grant’s sofa. Lumpy didn’t begin to describe the cushions. Now he knew where Liza stored her stock of root vegetables.

  Still, it was better than trying to drive after about forty hours of sleep deprivation. He’d left a message, letting Pete know where he was in case anything came up at the office. Not that he expected anything to crop up over a holiday weekend. His partner was good at dealing with rules, regulations and red tape—better than Beckett was, at any rate. Which was why he’d hired him. As a negotiator, the guy had all the skills of a disgruntled cottonmouth, but he was a wizard with paperwork.

  Good thing he’d driven instead of flying this time, he thought the next morning, yawning. Looked like they might be in for some heavy-duty weather. Lying on his back, Beckett squinted up at the ceiling for several minutes, trying to focus on how much more he needed to explain before he handed over the money, got a signed receipt and headed back to Charleston. He made a mental note to check on the storm situation. The last thing he needed was to get caught in an evacuation situation. Everything up and down the Eastern Seaboard was subject to that, if Tropical Storm Greta took a notion to upgrade and move inshore.

  He yawned again as his eyes gradually shifted to the front windows. When the view registered on his brain, he sat up abruptly, grabbed the small of his back and groaned, staring at a pair of women’s shoes planted on the top visible rung of the ladder.

  What in God’s name was that crazy fool trying to do? Avoid confrontation by breaking her neck? That ladder was a homemade job, the rungs roughly eighteen inches apart. It hadn’t been designed for a woman, even a long-stemmed woman like Liza.

  Beckett had slept in his clothes, removing only his belt, his shoes and his socks. He had about a two-days’ growth of beard on his face, and his back felt as if it were broken in at least three places.

  And now he had to go drag a crazy woman down from a roof?

  Yeah, now he had to do that.

  Barefoot, he let himself out the front door, wondering how he could get her attention without startling her into losing her balance.

  She was humming. Either that or she’d disturbed a nest of yellow jackets. With his luck, it would be the latter. “Liza?” he called softly, trying to sound as nonthreatening as possible when what he wanted to do was grab her, haul her down and shake some sense into her stubborn head.

  She stopped humming.

  “What are you doing up there? If the eaves are rotten that ladder could shift any minute. Dammit, woman, it’s dangerous!”

  “Shall I rent a helicopter to check out the roof? Sorry, my budget doesn’t run to aerial inspections.” She started down, first one foot then the other, feeling for the rungs while he held his breath and stared up at her long white thighs. She was wearing shorts today. Not the kind cut up to the creases, thank God. His heart couldn’t have survived that.

  “Easy, easy—just two more rungs,” he cautioned, moving into position to catch her if she stumbled.

  “Get out of the way, in case I fall. I don’t want to mash you.”

  “Go ahead, mash me,” he said with a shaky laugh. By the time she was one rung off the ground, his arms were around her. Breathless, she turned, placed her hands on his shoulder, and he lifted her down. “Judas Priest, woman, don’t do this to me. With PawPaw in the hospital, my dad hooked up to a breathing machine, my cousin in a cast and my favorite aunt forgetting where she lives, I don’t need any more problems.”

  “Well, it’s going to rain and the roof leaks,” she said, looking at him as if she thought he’d lost his mind. Funny thing, though…she didn’t move out of his arms. Just went on staring up at him while his senses absorbed her soap-and-shampoo smell, the heat of her skin and the birdlike delicacy of her bones.

  At six-one, 182 pounds, he was not a huge man by today’s steroid standards, yet she felt fragile in comparison. For one fleeting moment, before other impulses kicked in, she reminded him of a stunned dove he’d once briefly held in his hands after it had flown into a window.

  Reminded him, too, of just how long it had been since he’d made love to a woman. She was staring up at him, her eyes wide with…shock?

  Yeah, well, he was feeling his share of that, too.

  When it came to women, Beckett’s record was less than impressive. A generous man might describe him as cautious. He’d come close
to falling in love a couple of times, but since his first disastrous affair, he’d made it a policy to steer clear of anything resembling commitment. Bad case of Once Bitten, Twice Shy.

  So far as he knew, bachelorhood didn’t run in his family. Just the opposite, in fact. His parents had fallen in love on their first blind date, married three months later to the day and never looked back, as his mother made a point of reminding him each time she launched into one of her latent-grandmother talks. Even PawPaw, when he used to talk about his Emaline, would get a certain look in his eyes.

  Oh, yeah, Beckett thought wryly. The marriage gene was one family trait that had passed him by.

  Not that what he was feeling had anything to do with marriage.

  He’d held the woman’s hand, eaten her scrambled eggs and tried to give her some money. He’d gone a lot further than that with dozens of women.

  During his second year at Clemson he’d been involved with an art teacher who was really into New Age stuff. Claimed she’d recognized him from a former life. At the time, he’d been more interested in sports than philosophy, which had pretty much ended that affair.

  But maybe there was something to the karmic theory. Why else would a woman he barely knew affect him the way this one did? Lust, he could understand, but this feeling of…of something else, that was harder to explain.

  Karma. Sure. Like maybe you ripped her off in a past life, and now you’re trying to make amends.

  He’d been standing there for what suddenly seemed like hours, holding her—staring at the way her mouth looked up close, full and gleaming with moisture after she’d run a nervous tongue over it once or twice.

  It would’ve been nice if one of them had a functioning brain. What the hell did a man say at a time like this, when he was visibly aroused with no chance of doing anything about it?

  She was wearing a thin cotton top again, and it was pretty obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath. Or if she was, it was no match for those nipples of hers. They were standing at attention. Which sure as hell didn’t help his condition. Here it was, broad daylight; they were standing out in the front yard, and he had no more control over his urges than a teenager.

  He was about to make some inane remark about the weather when she reached up, brushed the hair off the back of her neck and said, “I wish it would hurry up and rain, leaks or no leaks. We need some relief from this heat.”

  Lady, you don’t know the half of it. “You’re not worried about the storm?”

  She frowned up at the sky, which had taken on a nacreous tint as the first wave of clouds moved in. “Not worried exactly. It’s awful for business, of course. Mine and everyone else’s if they call for an evacuation, but I don’t think it’ll come to that. Uncle Fred says it’s going to veer offshore.”

  Liza willed her heart to slow down. She’d never been afraid of storms, anymore than she’d been afraid of heights. It was neither the storm nor the ladder that had her gasping for breath, trying to slow down a runaway pulse. If she had to fall, she’d rather fall off the roof than fall in love again. It would be far less painful.

  The first time it had happened she’d been eleven years old. Kermit Bryant—she’d never forgotten his name—had edged his seat closer to hers, leaned over and sniffed loudly. He’d told her she smelled good. Thrilled and embarrassed, she’d blushed and scowled down at her paper. Then he told her she sure could run good for a girl. She’d been thinking of asking if he wanted half of her devil’s food cupcake when she’d caught him copying answers off her test paper.

  Tall and skinny, she’d never been wildly popular with the opposite sex, but she’d dated some in high school and college. The next time she’d fallen mindlessly in love, however, she’d been a sensible, mature and independent twenty-seven-year-old gallery assistant. They’d been introduced at a charity fund-raising concert and James Edwards had literally swept her off her feet when someone in front of her had spilled a drink. She’d known him all of five days before ending up in his bed.

  God help her if she ever did anything so stupid again.

  Now she caught herself staring at Beckett’s bristly jaw and wondering if it would grow out as black as his eyebrows. Embarrassed, she blurted, “Do you want coffee before you go?”

  Oh, God. She had all the savoir faire of a week-old gosling. His smile was so gentle she had to wonder if he’d read her mind.

  “I’ve already put you to enough trouble.”

  His khakis were wrinkled, the tail of his black knit shirt hanging out; his hair was standing on end, he needed a shave and he was barefoot. And at this moment if he’d asked her to undress and follow him into the nearest bedroom, she wasn’t entirely sure she’d say no. Even rumpled, there was something remarkably appealing about him. He smelled warm and clean and real, the way a man should smell. James had adored cologne and used it with a lavish hand.

  Whatever it was with Lancelot Beckett that affected her the way it did, it was 100 percent natural. Pheromones. She hadn’t a clue about their chemical components, but they were clearly potent. That much she did know.

  “We’re out of prunes again,” came a disgruntled complaint from the doorway.

  Liza closed her eyes, torn between laughter and tears. They went through this every morning. It took Uncle Fred awhile to assimilate new developments. At this particular moment, she could certainly empathize.

  “They’re in the cereal cabinet, Uncle Fred. I’ll come show you.”

  “Young man here for breakfast? That’s nice. Game starts at one. That new feller’s pitching. Reminds me of Maddux in the old days.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t stay,” Beckett said. “As soon as I have a few words with Liza, I’ll be on my way.”

  Already hurrying into the house, Liza glanced over her shoulder, “I can’t talk now—I have to find Uncle Fred’s prunes, and then I have to dress and get ready to open up in case any stragglers stop by.” She paused long enough to say, “Look, do we really need to talk anymore? I think we’ve both said everything that needs saying.”

  “One thing I learned a long time ago—when it comes to negotiations, you’re not finished until both sides agree that you’re finished, even if it’s only an agreement to disagree. So far we haven’t even reached that point.”

  “Sure we have, don’t you remember?”

  “Look, I’ll drop by later, all right? I’ve got a few calls to make—I might even run up to Newport News, but I’ll be back this afternoon. Have dinner with me and we’ll wind things up.” He turned away before she could reject the invitation. Halfway to his car, he realized he’d forgotten his shoes, his belt, his wallet and cell phone.

  Well, hell. Wincing at every other step, he avoided the buckled flagstone walk as he made his way back to the house.

  “Forget something?” she said a little too cheerfully from the open doorway.

  He glared at her. “Go ahead, gloat,” he muttered under his breath.

  “It’s the holly leaves. They’re almost as bad as cockleburs.” She was grinning broadly by the time he reached the front steps. “I never would have taken you for a tenderfoot.”

  His dignity already in sad repair, he tried to glare at her, but ended up chuckling. “I’d forgotten how long it’s been since I went barefoot.”

  Still smiling—he refused to call it smirking—she led the way past the living room where he’d left his personal effects. She nodded toward the bathroom and suggested he might want to wash up before he left.

  Splashing cold water over his face and throat, Beckett considered telling her that there’d been a time when he could grind out a cigarette butt with his bare heel. Back in his reckless, hard-drinking, sports-fishing, womanizing days.

  Aware that he was in danger of regressing, he combed his hair, examined his stubble and decided it could wait another few hours before reaching the itchy stage. By the time he returned to the kitchen, she had his breakfast on the table. The electric moment they’d shared out in the yard might never have happene
d.

  Or maybe they hadn’t shared anything at all—maybe he’d been the only one stunned by the unexpected current that passed between them when he’d lifted her down from the ladder. Sure, she’d been breathing hard. The pulse at the side of her throat had been fluttering like a captured wild bird. It could have been from exertion.

  But dammit, exertion couldn’t account for the fact that her nipples had been standing up like a pair of tiny thumbs poking through her soft cotton shirt. And it sure as hell wasn’t the temperature, because today promised to be another steam bath. There was only one explanation: she’d been as aroused as he was.

  Smiling, Beckett slipped into a chair and inhaled the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee. The kitchen was about a third of the size of his mother’s kitchen back in Charleston, yet there were enough similarities to make him feel right at home. It was a…a family feeling, for lack of a better word.

  Liza shoved the fig preserves across the table. Uncle Fred smacked his lips and said, “What did you say you did for a living, young man?”

  He didn’t recall saying, but maybe he had. “I sell insurance.” It was the simplest way to put it. He sold security systems that could be installed on ships to help track them and alert the owners if one of them strayed off the charted course.

  “Got anything that covers rotten roofs?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” So then he had to add a little more, explaining the growing threat of piracy that had bankrupted more than a few small-ship owners. While the two men talked, Liza listened, her expression telling him she wasn’t buying it. Not the whole package, at any rate. But then, she’d probably earned the right to be suspicious.

  “Pirates? You’re kidding, right?” They were sharing cleanup tasks while her uncle read the morning paper in the living room. Liza had gone out to open the stand and returned a few minutes later. When business was slow, she explained, she could keep an eye on it from the house. Today she’d be lucky to sell much of anything.