by Amy Frazier
“Go on with your story,” she said, head and shoulders in the fridge. “About not being followed. I can hear you.”
“Ah, yes, back to eluding the noxious paparazzi.” From the dining room her mother’s voice tinkled like a wind chime. “Do you remember Bitsy Cross? People say we could be sisters. I let it be known I was going to the West Coast for a little cosmetic touch-up and that Bitsy would be accompanying me for moral support. Daddy announced he’d be meeting with suppliers in Romania—”
Samantha searched her cupboards in vain for tea-worthy dishes, then stopped herself. She wasn’t on display. She’d get out the locally made blue pottery she used daily.
“Well, Bitsy and I headed for California,” Helena continued, “where she, disguised in my clothes—a lovely de la Renta outfit—and a huge scarf and dark glasses, checked into Dr. Wheaton’s clinic. As me. Well, as me under an assumed name. She’s actually going to have a tummy tuck—”
“Mother! Back to the press, please,” Samantha urged as she arranged food on plates.
“This is all part of the story, darling! As soon as Bitsy was settled in, I flew to the Ipswiches’ home in West Palm, where Ruggerio was waiting. I think he took a bus. Your father arrived a couple days later, then we borrowed the Ipswiches’ limo—I’m surprised you didn’t notice it wasn’t one of our fleet—and drove north from Florida. And, voilà! Here we are. Without benefit of the media.”
Samantha’s heart sank.
“You don’t look pleased,” her father said as he appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“Oh, Dad. Would you convince Mother not to repeat that story?”
“Why not? It’s funny.”
Perhaps. But with its convoluted plot and gratuitous expenses, it was so far removed from everyday life in Applegate that people—Garrett sprang to mind—would look at her parents—and her, by association—as if the Lawrences had dropped in from Mars. Her parents would be leaving. Hopefully, soon. But Samantha intended to stay. And not as some alien.
“Ah-h-h!” Helena’s high-pitched scream sliced the air.
Samantha and her father rushed into the dining room to see her mother backed up against the wall as Percy’s head and neck, framed by two geranium pots, stretched toward the seat where Helena had just been sitting.
TEN O’CLOCK THAT NIGHT Garrett was in the parking lot behind headquarters, filling emergency sandbags by lamplight. Sampson’s Creek ran behind the buildings on Main Street and was known to overflow with a heavy rain. Enough that the businesses on this side of Main kept ready piles of sand, shovels and burlap sacks. Not that it had rained recently or that there was any forecast soon. Garrett simply needed some mindless physical labor to take his thoughts off his personal business.
Rory.
For the first time ever Rory was giving Garrett the silent treatment. Because Garrett had told him he couldn’t keep the job at Whistling Meadows.
“You need help?” The voice was startling in its familiarity. Mack.
Garrett turned to see his friend clean and apparently sober. Even so, that old devilish glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by…nothing.
“I never turn down an offer of help,” Garrett said, tossing Mack a shovel.
“That’s not what I hear.”
Damn. Was this a lecture coming?
“Okay, tell me what people are saying.” Both men began to shovel and bag. It was as good excuse as any to avoid eye contact.
“My godson’s mighty pissed you pulled him off the job,” Mack said at last. “And Red’s not so happy you won’t let him and Samantha work with you to sort Rory out. As if he were a bonafide employee and young adult and not some shrinking violet that needs the hothouse treatment.”
“You think I’m overprotecting him?”
“Hell, yeah. Don’t you remember the scrapes we were getting in when we were his age?”
Did he ever. Garrett found himself smiling at the thought of “borrowing” Jeb Whittaker’s ancient farm truck—the one that wasn’t even registered—to drive to the movies to sit behind Liz Humphreys and Caitlin Ford. They had been all thirteen at the time. Just about Rory’s age.
“You’re thinking about that old truck, aren’t you?” Mack asked.
“Yeah.” That night at the movies wasn’t the only time they used it. Garrett thought about the hairpin turns on the local roads. “God, we could have been killed.”
“But we weren’t.”
Garrett looked at his friend. “Why was it no big deal then when I was actually going through it, and now…just the thought of my son in harm’s way makes me feel sick?”
A shade seemed to drop down over Mack’s features. “I don’t know.” He stuck his shovel in the pile of sand with a violent stabbing motion. “I gotta get going. But I wanted to ask you to give Rory another chance.”
“Even if I wanted Rory to keep his job at Whistling Meadows, there’s something about the Weston woman that makes me uneasy.”
“Samantha?” Mack looked dumbfounded. “Man, she’s a stand-up individual. Salt of the earth. You have no worries where she’s concerned. She’ll do right by Rory.” He turned to go. “Don’t be so quick to judge. Be more a man and less a sheriff.”
“You need a ride back to Red’s?” Garrett asked, looking for a way to change the subject.
“No, thanks. My sponsor’s picking me up. Driving still makes me jumpy. And nights are trouble.”
Garrett had to ask. “Are you seeing your way to come back to the department?”
“Sorry, but I can’t plan that far ahead. I’m having trouble figuring out fifteen minutes at a time.” Without looking back, Mack disappeared around the corner of the building, leaving Garrett with a small mountain of excess sandbags and the incessant mournful cry of the whip-poor-will.
He’d better head home, although he still hadn’t decided whether to cave to the entreaties about Rory’s job. Hell, if he let his son back on that farm, he’d just have to keep a sharper eye on Tanner’s activities.
His cell phone chirped. “Hello?”
“It’s Noelle. I forgot to ask you what you thought Rory might like for his birthday.”
He’d totally forgotten Rory was going to be thirteen next Monday.
“I’m going to try to get away to celebrate with the two of you,” Noelle continued, seemingly without taking a breath, “but I made it to the second round for that promotion. I may need to fly back to London next week. So if I can’t be in Applegate, Rory’s present has to be awesome. Any ideas?”
“I’ll do some probing and get back to you.”
“Money’s no object,” she said, and Garrett could hear the smug satisfaction in her voice.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied, signing off and reminding himself Rory’s upcoming birthday was a passage in their son’s life. Not a competition.
Any therapeutic benefits of an hour’s worth of shifting sand had worn off in one brief conversation. He needed a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. He stuck his shovel next to Mack’s.
Rounding the corner onto Main, he automatically did a visual check. At this end of the street, the Laundromat was still open—two men were playing checkers on a bench inside as their clothes tumbled in dryers—as was the liquor store. Nothing out of the ordinary there. But parked in front of the liquor store was a big black limo. Not a stretch, but definitely a limo. With a uniformed chauffeur standing outside the driver’s door. In a minute a young woman stepped out of the store, wine bottle in hand. She seemed to hesitate. The chauffeur, who was facing the street, didn’t notice her immediately.
But Garrett sure did.
There was no denying this woman was the limo’s passenger. Sophisticated and beautiful, she wore a strapless black dress. Elegant and sexy at the same time. Her blond hair was swept high on her head, leaving a pale neck and shoulders that gleamed satiny smooth in the lamplight. And because she looked so out of place on Applegate’s Main Street, as if she’d been dropped from the sky, she took Garrett’s br
eath away.
When she glanced across the street and caught his eye, he couldn’t believe she was—
“Samantha?”
The chauffeur turned toward her, then rounded the hood to open the passenger door.
With a startled look on her face, she whipped the wine bottle behind her back. Maybe Garrett was a fool for interfering, but there were too many people—three males in particular—who trusted this woman. “Samantha, wait!”
He crossed the street to confront her.
The chauffeur discreetly returned to the driver’s side of the car.
“Garrett…hello.” She suddenly appeared less like a woman of the world and more like a kid with her hand caught in the cookie jar.
He reached around her to take the wine bottle out of her grasp. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Oh, I do.” Her shoulders slumped. “I do, I do, I do.”
What had happened since four o’clock that afternoon?
Samantha looked at Garrett and tried hard not to cry. He was the last person she wanted to see her backslide. The wine was the topper, but the rest was equally embarrassing. The use of her father’s limo, her mother’s dress. The return of the woman who, to keep the peace, had transformed herself into the dutiful daughter for an evening. The dutiful, unhappy daughter.
“What’s wrong?” Garrett’s voice was low and full of concern. Lacking any of the macho bluster of this afternoon. “Where are you going?”
“Where have I been, you mean.” In the borrowed strappy sandals, she kicked at a sidewalk planter filled with geraniums. “I’ve been to hell. Camouflaged as the Grove Park Inn’s formal dining room.”
“Who’s this guy?” Garrett cocked his head toward Ruggiero. “Does he turn into a mouse at midnight?”
She forced a smile. “My parents’ chauffeur. They’re staying at the inn. Ruggiero’s driving me home.”
“Were you planning to drink this?” Garrett held up the bottle.
“Most definitely.”
“Why didn’t you call your sponsor?”
“That sounds so easy.” He couldn’t know how much she wanted that wine. “It’s not.”
“Then you’re stuck with me. Let’s find somewhere we can talk.” As he looked around the last of the storefronts on the street went dark.
Ruggiero, his back still to them, cleared his throat.
“We can talk in the limo,” she said. “Ruggiero will drive me home, then you.” She tried to think of how angry she’d been with Garrett that afternoon. Over Rory. But that was before her past had shown up. Now she only felt vulnerable. “I could use the company.”
Ruggiero walked around the car, opened the door, then handed her into the seat. He stepped aside and waited for Garrett to follow her. Settled in the back, Samantha made certain the soundproof partition was closed. If she was going to vent—and she most certainly was going to—she didn’t want her parents’ loyal employee carrying tales.
Feeling the powerful purr of the limo’s engine as Ruggiero pulled onto Main Street and headed toward Whistling Meadows, she kicked off the uncomfortable spike-heeled sandals. The heady aroma of leather and of the fresh-cut flowers in small sconces next to the windows pulled her into a world that seemed foreign to her now. Even stranger was the presence of the man beside her. Talk about a heady experience. Although his presence filled the darkened interior of the luxury car, he sat quietly next to her, his knee touching hers, his demeanor one of discomfort.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, automatically falling into hostess mode. “Mother made sure the bar was stripped of alcoholic beverages, but there’s soda.”
“Forget the drinks,” he said, looking straight at her. “Tell me what has you so upset?”
“My parents. Now doesn’t that sound ungrateful?” Remembering that he’d been brought up in foster homes, she mentally kicked herself. “Let me start again. I love them both dearly. But I can’t play the role they’ve designed for me.”
“I take it they don’t want you running llama treks in Applegate, North Carolina.”
She rolled her eyes to indicate the limo. “You think?”
“Hey, it could be a rental.” There was the hint of a smile in his eyes.
“Well, it isn’t a rental.” Borrowed didn’t count when the Lawrences’ own fleet included a dozen or more. She threw her head back against the cushioned seat. “I’m never going to survive their being here!”
“Tell yourself it’s just a visit. How long are they planning on staying?”
“Oh!” she wailed, “for as long as it takes to complete their projects.”
“Projects?”
“Mother can’t wait to decorate the farmhouse. Can you say ‘extreme makeover’? And Daddy always likes to look for large tracts of land—”
She saw Garrett’s eyebrows jut skyward and realized she’d said too much. Earlier she’d made her parents promise, promise, promise they wouldn’t blow her cover. She’d even played the melodrama card and told them if the equanimity she’d achieved in Applegate wasn’t maintained, Dr. Kumar feared she’d suffer a relapse. That had frightened them enough that by evening’s end they were calling her Samantha.
“I don’t want to talk about my parents,” she stated emphatically.
“Then let’s talk about the bottle of wine you bought.” Which lay on the floor between his feet. “Wasn’t that just running away from your problems?”
“As fast as I possibly could.”
“Do you still want that drink?”
“Yes, please.”
“Samantha…” With his foot he drew the bottle up against the seat and out of sight. “How would your sponsor counsel you?”
She sighed. He wasn’t going to give her the wine. “She might first suggest a strong diversion.” She turned to look at Garrett, whose eyes were trained on her in the most disconcerting way. “Do you happen to have any knitting on you?”
“No…” His gaze was faintly roguish. “Guess we’ll have to come up with something else to distract you.”
Was he flirting with her?
She looked away to trail the pad of her thumb over the petals in the nearest sconce. “Flower arranging?” she suggested. Lame, Samantha, really lame.
She felt his fingertips on her chin. With just the slightest pressure, he turned her face toward his. Seeing undeniable want in his eyes, she realized this wasn’t just about her needs anymore.
He was going to kiss her.
He moved so slowly she could have turned away, but that was the last thing she wanted to do at the moment. Call her crazy.
When his lips found hers, she inhaled sharply. He was so warm. How had she ever thought him cold? When he pulled her up against him, she twined her arms around his neck and gave in to the kiss. It was hot. And sure of itself. And like no other kiss Ashley Lawrence had ever experienced—
But did Garrett want Samantha Weston of the jeans and T-shirts or this dressed-up, false reflection of her past life?
She pulled away just as the limo came to a stop in front of her farmhouse. Without waiting for the chauffeur to open the door, she got out. To Ruggiero she said, “Take the sheriff home.”
To Garrett she said, “That wasn’t a diversion. That was a potentially dangerous detour.” Angry at herself for giving in to the second incautious impulse of the night, she slammed the car door before he could reply.
She was walking a tightrope in her recovery. Hadn’t the wine purchase proved the precariousness of her balance? How could she possibly consider romantic involvement, no matter how fleeting? Dr. Kumar had said she needed to learn to love herself before she could consider sharing that love.
Sadly, she watched the limo pull away and realized she wanted that drink more than ever before. Barefoot—she’d left her mother’s sandals in the car—she hobbled across the pebble-strewn yard and up the porch steps. To call her sponsor.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GARRETT STOOD ON HIS FRONT steps and watched the retreat
ing taillights of Samantha’s limo. What had he told himself only days ago? Ask her out. Prove how unsuited they were for each other. Get over her.
Yeah, right.
So the past half hour hadn’t been a date, but it had been enough time to highlight how wrong she was for him. If that big chauffeured car didn’t prove it, Samantha’s slamming the door in his face did. Now came the hard part—getting over the thought of her.
That wasn’t going to happen.
Mack had told him to act more like a man and less like a sheriff. Well, the reaction Garrett had experienced seeing Samantha dressed to kill was miles from sheriff. The kiss had been instinct. So where did acting like a man get him?
Alone on his front steps. Thinking about a woman he couldn’t have. Wanting more than that first electrifying kiss.
Puzzled, he ran his fingers through his hair, shook himself back to reality, then entered the house. Rory was watching TV in the living room. “Hey,” Garrett said, standing in the doorway.
Rory ignored him.
His interpersonal skills were taking a hit these days. Determined not to let his most important relationship deteriorate, he sat on the opposite end of the sofa from his son. “You can’t stay mad at me forever. We need to talk. Let’s start with a positive subject. What do you want for your birthday?”
Rory actually looked at him. “I want to keep my job at Whistling Meadows, and I want you to take a whole day off Monday.”
“I think your mother was thinking of something she could wrap.”
Shrugging, his son turned back toward the television screen. “That’s all I want.”
The job-bargaining chip Garrett might have foreseen, but the request for him to take a whole day off surprised him. He was sheriff and could pretty much arrange his own hours. But right from his election, he’d taken the public trust thing seriously. Because it wasn’t so much a job as a commitment, he’d never officially put himself down for a day off on the schedule. Not a day went by when he didn’t put on his uniform.