Beckett's Cinderella

by Dixie Browning

  “Yeah, I know—it sounds crazy, but it happens more than most people think, if they think about it at all. Just like in the old days, it’s usually a matter of profit. Occasionally it’s desperation—a handful of poor thugs feel like they have nothing left to lose, so they hijack a ship, planning to sell the cargo to help feed their families. Mostly, though, it’s a calculated risk. Like bank robbery, only on a slightly larger scale. My business is to cut the risks for ship owners and insurance companies as much as possible.”

  “With what, armed guards?” She raked a few strands of hair from her brow, leaving a blob of soap-suds behind. Beckett turned her to face him, tilted her chin with one hand and blotted the suds with the dish towel.

  Without releasing her, he said gruffly, “Mostly tracking. Monitored GPS systems. If a ship goes off course, certain steps are taken and then—”

  He sighed. “Liza, I think I’m going to have to kiss you. Consider this fair warning.”

  She didn’t move. If anything, her mouth softened, those full, naked lips parting on the whisper of a sigh.

  One touch was all it took. What started out as a gentle exploration quickly escalated into a full-scale assault. His hands moved from her shoulders down her back, pressing her against him as he angled his face for better access. Scented heat seemed to rise and swirl around them. Her lips trembled and conformed to his as if they’d been made to fit together.

  Beckett groaned. His tongue engaged hers in a dance as old as time. Tasting mostly of coffee, with a deeper, more personal note that affected him profoundly, she felt incredibly right in his arms. Almost familiar—as if they’d done this a thousand times before, yet each time it happened it was a brand-new experience.

  Man, you’re losing it.

  Then consider it lost, the last reasoning cell in his brain shot back. She couldn’t have fitted him more perfectly if they’d been adjoining pieces of a puzzle, her pelvis nestled against his throbbing groin, her breasts flattened against his chest. It was like coming home. Forcing himself to hold back, he used the tip of his tongue to trace a line between her lips and her ear, nibbling little kisses along the way, grazing her with his teeth, then soothing her with his tongue.

  She was trembling, her breath coming in irregular little gasps. Her fists were bunched in his shirt—he imagined them clasping him the same way.

  Finally, painfully aroused, with no relief possible, he forced himself to begin easing away. He’d already put on his belt, but his shoes, wallet and cell phone were still in the next room, along with Uncle Fred.

  From outside came the abrasive blare of a car horn. Liza groaned softly and buried her face in his throat. Beckett wanted nothing more at that moment than to back her up to the table, spread her legs and move between them. But it wasn’t going to happen. Not now—probably never.

  Sounding flustered and embarrassed, she said, “I’d better go out and—oh, shoot! I’m not even dressed.” She was still wearing the shorts, clogs and faded shirt instead of her uniform of slacks and calico apron.

  Beckett caught her when she would have slipped past him to dart into her bedroom. “Liza…don’t.” He wanted to tell her not to be embarrassed. He settled for, “Don’t change, you look fine. Let me go out and see what they want. I’ll hold ’em until you get whatever you need and get out there, okay?”

  “My apron…the till,” she said breathlessly.

  And so he went outside, still barefoot, hoping his arousal would take care of itself before he had to discuss the price of turnips with a bunch of tourists.

  Seven

  “I want to go home.” Patty Ann’s face was pale under her freckles. Her conscience was bothering her. “Cammy, she hasn’t done anything wrong. Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

  “Head still hurtin’ you? Swallow another one of them pills.” She’d had a headache earlier. “Honey, you said yourself she was smart. Now I ask you, would a rich lady that was smart give away everything she’s got and walk off, not knowing where her next steak dinner was coming from? Trust me, in my line of work, you have to get to know people.”

  In his line of work, he had to know how to punch a clock, Patty Ann thought, and was instantly awash in guilt.

  Absently, Cammy patted her on the knee. “Look, the old man she’s living with, he’s not going to let her starve, right? He’s got a house and all—probably some rich old coot—maybe he’s kin, maybe not. But if she’s as smart as you say she is, she’ll stay put until she gets ready to make her next move.”

  “I think he’s her uncle. She said something once…” Patty Ann’s voice trailed off as she thought of how well she’d been treated over the five and a half years she’d worked for Ms. Edwards. If she hadn’t already hired herself another maid, maybe Cammy could find a job at this place they were going, and she could go back to work for Ms. Edwards, and they could forget all about starting a private investigating agency. Cammy had been studying for months, but he still had to get a license. And even as brilliant as he was, Patty Ann wasn’t sure how good he was at taking tests. She would still love him. She always had, but in some ways men never did grow up.

  “Listen, the letter didn’t bounce. She’s still there—you found that out when she answered the phone.”

  “Yeah, well a man answered once.”

  “Sure. The old guy. Look, hon, chances like this don’t come along twice.’ Member that guy down in Atlanta when some creep set off a bomb at that Olympic place? He was a security guard, just like me. Once it was over, everybody in the country knew his name.”

  Patty Ann hauled off and whopped him on the shoulder, causing the old Chevy to veer toward the centerline. “Cam-my! Everybody thought he was a crook! We’re not crooks!”

  “Neither was he. See, that’s what I’m getting at, babe. Publicity’s the name of the game. You get it any old way you can.”

  He flashed her a quick grin, and Patty Ann was reminded all over again of why she loved this man. Most handsome guys were full of it, but Cammy had never been stuck on himself.

  “Like I said, once you get enough publicity, people remember your name, but they forget where they heard it.”

  “Yeah, sure they do,” Patty Ann grumbled half-heartedly. He was not only handsome, he was sweet and way smarter than people gave him credit for being. Sometimes she wished he wasn’t so smart. Truth was, it didn’t seem so smart to her to quit a good steady job to gamble on some crazy scheme that might even land them both in jail. For all she knew, calling somebody on the phone and then hanging up could be against the law. Cammy said it wasn’t, but he hadn’t graduated from his correspondence course yet. Maybe that was in one of the last lessons.

  “Look, we’ll stop off in the next town we come to and get something to eat, that’ll make you feel better.”

  “Starting my period’ll make me feel better,” she mumbled.

  “Jeez, you don’t think you’re pregnant, do you? Honey, I told you, we can’t afford kids until we get our business up and running. I figger a couple of years ought to do it if we can get us some publicity. Then we start with a blast and the sky’s the limit.”

  “Uh-huh.” The Edwards case had been big in Texas, but maybe not anywhere else.

  “Whatcha want for lunch, burgers and fries?”

  “I don’t want anything, I already told you. Maybe hot cocoa. Not the kind from a mix or a machine, either—the kind you make on the stove with cocoa and milk and all.”

  “Ba-abe, come on, we’re in this together, remember? Another few hours, we ought to be in the neighborhood, then I’ll spring for another motel room and we can shower and all before we show up at her place.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Hey, maybe she’ll invite us to stay. Ocean beach just a few miles away? Probably got a swimming pool and all?” Catching her skeptical look, he said, “No? Okay, but just keep saying it over in your mind… Camshaw and Camshaw, Private Investigations at Bargain Rates. Maybe something on the next line about discreet and all. Think abou
t it, okay? I’m going to stop in the next town for food and gas.”

  Liza sprayed a whiff of her favorite fragrance. The bottle was practically empty, and once it was gone she would do without. If Beckett thought she was wearing it for him, then that was just too bad. She was wearing it for herself, along with one of the few decent outfits she’d kept when she’d sold practically her entire wardrobe. For a while she’d felt guilty about keeping back anything at all, but now she was glad she had. It helped to remind her, in case she was in danger of forgetting, that there was more to life than a produce stand, a house that was gradually sinking into the ground and a dear old man who was totally dependant on her to look after him.

  “Just a few hours of my own, that’s all I want,” she told her mirror image as she arranged her hair in a softer style.

  Liar.

  She had just finished putting on her earrings—a pair of simple, inexpensive onyx studs, when Beckett arrived, his head and shoulders covered with a limp newspaper. “Hey, I hope you have a raincoat. It’s really starting to come down.”

  She had a cheap plastic raincoat. No way was she going to wear that. Instead, she reached into the coat closet for her uncle’s big umbrella. It was so old the black had turned green in streaks, but it didn’t leak. Uncle Fred was watching an Andy Griffith rerun, waiting out a rain delay before the game could get started. He would stay up for hours if there was the slightest chance of resuming play.

  Liza had cooked him a squash casserole with cheese and made apple pie for dessert.

  Before coming to North Carolina she’d done very little cooking. They’d always had a live-in cook while she was growing up, and James had preferred eating out. Actually, he’d preferred being seen in all the best restaurants among all the best people, only his idea of best and Liza’s had gradually diverged.

  After seeing the way her uncle ate, mostly junk food and things that came out of a can, she had quickly learned her way around the kitchen. In fact, she might even write a cookbook one of these days—101 ways to use up leftover produce.

  Beckett stepped inside, looked her over and whistled silently.

  “Too much?” She shouldn’t have dressed up, especially as it was starting to rain really hard. Now he’d think he had to take her somewhere special.

  “Too much,” he echoed admiringly, giving the words an altogether different meaning.

  She looked in on her uncle to be sure his chair was tipped back so that he wouldn’t topple out if he fell asleep. Gently she removed the remote from his hand so that he wouldn’t drop it when he dozed off, and then touched him on the shoulder. “Uncle Fred, I’m leaving now.”

  “Wha—what’s that? Who’s this? Who let you in?”

  “It’s Liza, Uncle Fred. I told you, I’m going out for a little while, but I’ll be back soon. You go on to bed whenever you’re ready, I’ll look in on you when I get back.”

  The old man smacked his mouth few times, mumbled something about possums and was snoring softly by the time she reached the front door. “I don’t know if I should go or not. I feel guilty about leaving him, even for a few hours.”

  “How long had he lived here alone before you came?”

  “You’re right. I guess I’m trying to make myself feel indispensable. He lived here alone for years before I arrived on the scene.”

  Beckett took the umbrella from her, opened it on the porch and held it so that it covered them both as they passed by the ladder that was still propped against the eaves. “Notice I didn’t open the umbrella in the house, and we walked beside the ladder, not under it.”

  She slanted him a quick smile that made even the soles of his feet tingle, “Duly noted.”

  To shield them both from the blowing rain, he had to wrap his free arm around her waist. Feeling her hip pressed against his as they hurried out to the car, he found himself almost regretting his impulsive dinner invitation. Liza in calico and wrinkled linen was enough to make a man forget his own name. Liza in a flowing black skirt with a silky shirt was enough to make him forget to breathe. He finally remembered, only to be sucker punched by the tantalizing whiff of some cool fragrance that mingled enticingly with her own subtle scent.

  “You did something to your hair,” he accused, steering her carefully over the uneven flagstones. It was looser than usual, a few wisps left to trail down her nape and over her temples. Tempting as the devil.

  He hurried her out to where he’d parked his car, a few feet away from where the tin roof of the produce stand was being hammered noisily by the rain. Even for a guy who knew his way around most of the large port cities on three continents, it was surprising how quickly this particular wide spot in the road had come to feel so personal.

  Beckett held the passenger door open, shielding her with the umbrella as she swung her long legs inside. If he got any wetter he’d be sending off steam.

  Once inside, he started the car and backed out, unable to think of a single intelligent thing to say. Delayed adolescence overlapping premature senility. Hell of a thing.

  “You probably know more about the restaurants around these parts than I do. Any recommendations?”

  “Beckett, we can get something from a drive-in if you want to. I just needed to get away for a little while. You don’t have to feel obliged to entertain me.”

  They were on a straight stretch of highway, which helped, because he found it impossible to devote his full attention to driving. “Look, let’s get one thing straight. No, let’s get several things straight. I came here with a purpose, we both know that—not that we ever reached an agreement, but at least you know why I tracked you down in the first place.” He waited for a response.

  Then, a direct man by nature, he figured he might as well lay his cards on the table. “What happened next was as big a surprise to me as it is to you. I don’t know what to call it. I do know—at least I hope—that it’s not entirely one-sided. You want to tell me I’m wrong?” he challenged.

  Passing cars and the occasional neon sign only served to emphasize the premature darkness. Rain continued to fall, creating an odd sense of intimacy. By the time they reached the Currituck Sound Bridge on the way out to the beach area, traffic had noticeably increased. It was all headed inland, a steady stream of oncoming headlights.

  “What was the name of that man?” she said.

  “You mean Wrong Way Corrigan?” Beckett picked up on it immediately. For every three cars headed to the beach, at least a dozen were headed the other way. “Turn on the radio, see if you can find a weather broadcast. I have a feeling we’re missing some information.” Come to think of it, he’d stopped following the storm news once he’d got here. Too many other things on his mind.

  She scanned past blurbs of music, past several commercials, and stopped on a news break. “…not expected to run for another term. Meanwhile, Greta is now a full-fledged hurricane. She’s expected to strengthen by the time she reaches land. Hurricane warnings are posted for—” a burst of static interrupted “—South Carolina. If she stays on her present course—” More static. Before he could switch to an FM station, the cheerful voice came back. “…or possibly head inland. Stay tuned for the next update.”

  He turned the sound down. Neither of them spoke. As Beckett continued to drive, the only sound was the slap-slap of the windshield wipers and the rhythmic bump-bump of expansion joints as they crossed the long bridge. Nearing the beach, the unbroken line of oncoming headlights had Beckett swearing under his breath.

  Suddenly he turned sharply, pulling into a visitors’ center perched high on a dune. Parking so that they had a clear view of the intersection where north and south beach traffic merged to head inland, he switched off the engine and said quietly, “Well, hell.”

  For several moments the only sounds were the tick-tick of cooling metal, the steady drumming of rain and the occasional sound of screeching brakes and blaring horns. Even so, as evacuations went, it was surprisingly orderly.

  “He said something about South Car
olina. How far is your family from the coast?”

  “Not right on the beach, but close enough to catch hell if it comes ashore anywhere in that area.” Beckett shifted in his seat so that he faced her. “About the same distance as you and Fred are, but at least our roof doesn’t leak. Dad replaced the whole thing after Hugo.”

  “Know what I think? I think we should just forget about this family debt business. If it’s waited this long, another generation or so won’t matter. Whatever Greta does, you need to be there for your family and I need to be there for Uncle Fred. In fact, I think we’d better head back and get started right now.”

  “Get started doing what?”

  She appeared to consider the idea. He waited, aware of her warmth and the faint scent of a very good perfume. He didn’t know what it was, but it lacked the shrill edge of some of the more modern scents. Just as Liza lacked the hard edge of too many women he’d met, including a few he’d been briefly involved with.

  “Well, actually, I’m not sure. In Dallas we don’t get too many hurricanes. Uncle Fred will know, though. At any rate, you don’t need to waste any more time here. If you start back right now…” Her smile was a little too quick, a little too bright.

  “I’ll get bogged down in traffic. If this really is an official evacuation, every room within miles is going to be booked up. People who’ve rented cottages for a week aren’t going to miss out on any more beach time than they have to.”

  “You can’t drive all the way back to Charleston tonight.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  “But what about your family?”

  “I’d say South Carolina’s pretty much in the clear by now, if they’re starting to evacuate this area.” He turned to her then, both his features and hers illuminated by the security lights surrounding the sprawling rest area. “Liza, things aren’t turning out the way I’d planned. Under the circumstances, I guess dinner at a restaurant is out. They’re probably busy right now boarding up windows. So why don’t we find a grocery store and stock up on the basics, then go back to Uncle Fred’s, light a few hurricane candles for a festive touch, and open a few cans? What do you say, corned beef hash or roast beef hash? Fried up with onions and tomato sauce, they taste pretty much the same to me.”