Stay (Dunham series #2)

by Moriah Jovan

  Still, there was Wild, Wild West. The magazine covers. Eric could think of a few ways those could be spun—all bad, which boiled down to the fact that it wasn’t appropriate for someone with conservative values to pose semi-nude, though neither he nor Vanessa could be defined as true conservatives. For those who understood the difference between a libertarian and a conservative, it would make no difference and, in fact, might enhance his standing. The religious right would have a “moral” problem with Vanessa, but without a right-wing candidate who could win, they would take what they could get.

  And, as Glenn had pointed out, if it came out that Vanessa had been the one to provide the proof of Eric’s innocence, well . . .

  His opponents and enemies would have a field day with that.

  Eric sighed.

  It didn’t matter. No matter how much he wanted to, he knew he couldn’t ask it of her. She would never leave Whittaker House for him, for his career, had said as much.

  Annie had what he needed in a wife, but he couldn’t go back to that type of relationship. Not now. Now Eric was spoiled. Greedy.

  He wanted it all: a political powerhouse of a wife he could love, quiet companionship, hot sex.

  With Vanessa, he could have had that.

  But by Thursday afternoon, elbow-deep in cops, evidence, and witnesses—with Vanessa reluctant to speak or write, and Eric knowing she’d been right all along about the reasons not to get involved—he’d decided just to break it off, leave it alone, and get on with his life.

  You should, um, just stay there until it’s over with. You know, no distractions.

  Exactly. He could not afford to spend time building a relationship right now. Even if she came to see him, even if she were willing to communicate long distance, she would distract him. He’d spend every second thinking of her and make stupid mistakes: the little ones, the ones that would stack up until they were insurmountable, which he wouldn’t realize until he tripped over his stupidity in front of a judge and jury, on a capital case that was as important to his career as it was to the county and the principles of justice.

  But . . .

  r u coming fri?

  One line of text on his phone sent from a Mansfield number, but not from one that belonged to Vanessa.

  Vachel.

  That could mean only one thing. If Eric knew nothing else about that kid, it was that if he wanted Eric to ignore him, he would to go to ground. If he wanted attention, he’d go to great lengths to get it, but he had never requested anything of Eric straight out. He had to want Eric to come for the weekend to be so direct.

  yes dont tell v—dont hunt or fish.

  u work dinner fri & close.

  run wh sat-sun.

  going away 4 wkend.

  Eric didn’t know where the hell that had come from, but it had flowed from his thumbs so easily.

  He found himself on the road Friday at five o’clock sharp, letting his staff deal with some of the minutiae of the case that was starting to draw media attention. He had to win that woman’s conviction. If he didn’t win it, the county would want him to deal with her some other way—the way Knox had taken care of Parley.

  But Knox had been young and inexperienced when he’d lost the trial that set a serial killer free, and he’d reacted in naïve outrage. Eric was a seasoned trial attorney with a bright future. He couldn’t afford to do it even if he wanted to; he not only needed to get a guilty verdict, but to win a sentence on death row for the county.

  It was a painstaking process.

  Eric really shouldn’t have gone anywhere, but he needed the break and Vanessa needed to be taken care of.

  Clear as day.

  Vanessa could take care of everyone—

  She could rescue Knox whenever he’d found himself strapped for cash, then let him go on his merry way without a word to let him know she still needed his help. She could take on a troubled teenage boy as his legal guardian, make sure he got everything he wanted and needed to become a productive member of society. She could take care of the old man at the back of her property without his knowledge, because he’d resent it otherwise. She could hide a country star so well that for three years the world was convinced he’d died. She could supply employment for half a Mormon ward, and room and board for the area’s missionaries. She could provide business opportunities for the area’s craftsmen and get their products showcased nationwide.

  —except herself.

  They rolled into Branson and Vanessa stirred. Awoke. Looked around to see where they were. Without a word, she pointed the way to Silver Dollar City. Yawned. Stretched.

  He parked and tugged her out of the car, then twined his fingers with hers. She smiled shyly and looked away.

  “Nice nap?”

  She blushed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not a problem. You needed it.”

  “I’m sore,” she said. “In my butt. I think you rubbed too hard.”

  “Yeah, and you need more of that. Go to your spa next week.”

  Vanessa sighed.

  “Have you ever been on a date?” he asked abruptly, snapping her attention back to him.

  “Well, yeah,” she said after a few seconds. “Guys asked me out, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What’d you do on your dates?”

  She shrugged. Pursed her lips, as if she had to think about it. “Dinner. Movie. The usual.”

  “Did you have any boyfriends?”

  She huffed. “Why are you still harping on that?”

  “No, I don’t mean them. I mean boyfriends. Dating. Going out, having a relationship.”

  Her mouth tightened, but then she sighed and her body released its sudden tension. “Well, no. I haven’t. Nobody asked me out after two or three dates, when they figured out I wasn’t going to sleep with them for a while. If ever. And no, I haven’t been on any dates like what you talked about. Bowling. Miniature golf. Good Lord. I guess I never really thought about it.”

  “Knox told me you weren’t the most accessible woman in the world.”

  She shrugged. “I got spoiled early, but— Honestly? Most men bore me. And I just saw too many smart women get stupid over a man and I am not stupid. Or at least, not that stupid.”

  “Do you think this is stupid?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  His mouth twitched, satisfaction washing through him in a wave. “So . . . I’m your first.”

  Vanessa laughed. “Yes, I guess you could say that.” She turned and walked backward in front of him, keeping firm hold of his hand, looking into his eyes. “You know, I really don’t like how you swooped into my business and took over, but you work hard and help me out. You got so much done for me I could kind of take a breather for a while. What you got done— It’s why I can’t be mad about today. I’ve never had that. I appreciate it and I . . . enjoy being with you. That week— I know I was acting weird. But I liked knowing you were near, even if I didn’t have a chance to talk to you or see you. Liked knowing I’d get in bed and there you’d be, even though we didn’t do anything. I trusted you with my baby and I started to depend on you. It was very . . . odd . . . for me. It still is. Mostly because I know I can’t allow myself to get used to it.”

  Eric studied her. She returned his gaze second for second until she stopped walking and allowed him to press into her with his next step. He bent to taste that sweet mouth of hers, knowing he was falling in love with her—wanting to—yet still without a clue how to arrange his life, his goals, to include her. He could see her with him, that gracious innkeeper sitting next to him at a state dinner giving him strength and credibility even as he took care to give her the fun and laughter she’d never had, to work out the knots in her back, to seduce her slowly over days and weeks and months and years.

  Their kiss deepened and he released her hands to cup her face between his. She sighed through the tangling of their tongues, making him ache for her, all of her, not just between the sheets, but by his side.

  At midnigh
t.

  Holding hands.

  On a stage with an American flag behind them, red, white, and blue balloons falling around them, confetti flying, staring into the faces of thousands of people packed into a convention center chanting “U-S-A,” enormous vertical banners with his name and the states’ names bobbing above the crowd, the arena speakers blasting adrenaline-pumping rock which kept the floor thundering from feet stomping in time.

  Marry me, Vanessa.

  Come with me, Vanessa.

  Nine years ago in Utah, he’d packed a U-Haul and driven twelve hundred miles straight home, parked it in the Chouteau County courthouse parking lot, and gone into the office he’d last seen as a seventeen-year-old loser nobody, fresh out of jail.

  Newly minted diploma in hand, he’d walked through the bullpen, into Knox’s office, and dropped it on the desk in front of him.

  Hilliard, I want your job.

  Why?

  I got a plan.

  Which is?

  Attorney general. Governor. President of the United States. As of your fortieth birthday, you hand off your job to me. If not before. In the meantime, you make me your executive.

  Why have you not informed me of this before now?

  You were too busy grilling me about my grades. I could never get a word in edgewise.

  Mmmm. Okay, well go find a place to live and take a shower because you stink. Then I expect to see your ass planted somewhere in this office tomorrow morning at eight, in court at nine for arraignment. File cabinet’s over there. Find those fucking employment papers and do whatever you’re supposed to do with them.

  The kiss softened and he opened his eyes to watch her. Her eyes still closed, she whimpered into his mouth, which meant only one thing—and for that, they could have just stayed in bed.

  He knew how she tasted, how she felt, how well he fit inside her. How she made love and fucked and had sex—and she was very good at it. He had only worn a condom with her once, and the lack thereafter didn’t bother him.

  He knew how she worked, how she made money without the benefit of location-location-location, how she drew people to an inn with no technology available as part of the package and, in fact, advertised her lack of technology as an attraction. How she tended guests and treated those she considered her family, how she loved them: Quiet. Solid. Constant. In deed, without pretty words.

  He knew how she coddled the volunteers who worked at Rocky Ridge Farm’s museum and gift shop, with her offerings of cookies and gossip. He knew the grove where she went to meditate, to find some measure of peace in her chaotic world, how she cherished those moments in the woods behind Rocky Ridge Farm where she sat and spoke with Mrs. Wilder as if she were right there—in the grove where they’d worshipped together early one Sunday morning in May as the sun rose, and she’d cried his name to the gods.

  Eric needed to know how Vanessa laughed, how she played. He needed to draw out her entire range of emotion, something other than the carefully controlled innkeeper’s face she presented to the world, something other than the heartbreak he had seen all too often directed his way.

  “Vanessa,” he whispered into her mouth. She opened her eyes and pulled away just slightly. “I could kiss you forever.”

  She began to smile.

  “But I can’t kiss you and ride roller coasters at the same time.”

  She laughed and turned, tugging at his hand. “Then let’s get that done so we can go back to kissing.”

  They reached the entrance of the amusement park, and she stopped. Looked around, as if seeing the world for the first time. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Eric watched her enjoy the sweet Ozark air and the feel of having no responsibility for the day, her body relaxed if not because of his massage, then because he’d given her permission to have fun with no purpose.

  She opened her turquoise eyes and smiled at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Thank you, Eric,” she whispered. “This is the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me. Well, you know,” she amended with a laugh, “except for Knox rescuing me from LaVon and giving me a life.”

  He grinned, and lifted her hand to his mouth for a kiss.

  They walked into the park, and once Eric looked around to see exactly what Silver Dollar City was, he sighed. Knott’s Berry Farm all over again, with its 1800s Ozarks hillbilly feel, log buildings, period dress, train around the park, stores and stores of handicrafts—and very few rides. He hated parks like this, but it was the only thing he could think of on short notice when he didn’t know the area. On the other hand . . .

  She was having a blast.

  Eric watched Vanessa soak it up, every detail, her grin wide, her eyes crinkling. He loved her crinkly eyes.

  “I’m hungry,” he announced.

  “I’ve heard good things about that restaurant right there,” she said, pointing to what seemed a decent place to eat. “I mean, you know, for a place that serves regular food.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  She laughed.

  The day passed in a blur for Eric, not because he wasn’t having fun, but because he spent it watching Vanessa do exactly what he had wanted to see her do, what he had brought her here to do. They stood in line for the saloon show and she tucked herself in his arms. “Have I adequately demonstrated a willingness to have fun yet?”

  He burst out laughing. “Are you trying to fake me out?”

  “Oh, no, I’m having fun. I just want to know what your standard is so I know what I have to look forward to tonight.”

  “Eh, I told you. It’s not always about the sex.”

  She harrumphed. “That’s supposed to be the girl’s line, isn’t it?”

  A costumed saloon dancer pranced by, in deep purple satin and black lace, hollering at the crowd to get everyone excited. “I could see you in that dress.”

  “Not in purple, you can’t.”

  “Okay, pink.”

  “That’s more like it. Maybe I’ll have one made for the masquerades this year.”

  “Mmmm, I want to see that. So what’s with all the pink?”

  “Do you remember how Laura hated the pink ribbons? How she wanted to wear the blue ones Mary got to wear?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have brown hair. Like Laura. So I wear pink. Like Laura. Whether she wanted to or not is irrelevant. She wore it and I like it.”

  Vanessa had to sample food from every booth and restaurant and shop. She took one look at a kiosk tucked into a corner of a garden and said, “Stay here.” He watched her jog toward it, pick out several pieces of what looked like jerky, pay, then trot right back.

  “Try this,” she said, and shoved a stick of it in his hand. He looked at it warily; something about beige jerky didn’t seem kosher to him.

  “What is it?”

  “Try it.” She proceeded to bite off a huge chunk of hers and closed her eyes, chewed slowly, sighed in over-enthusiastic ecstasy.

  But he took a bite of his. Chewed. Wondered what the fuss was about. “It tastes like spices and . . . something chewy. This could be tofu for all I can taste anything.”

  She opened her eyes, scowled at him, and took a bite of his. She blinked. “Oh, you’re right. Too bad, too. Interesting concept.”

  “Well?”

  “Yours is kangaroo. Mine’s crocodile.”

  Eric gaped. “I ate a kangaroo?”

  “No! You ate a bite of kangaroo.” She offered him hers. “Want a taste?”

  “Fuck no, Vanessa. I don’t have a cast-iron stomach.”

  Vanessa laughed wickedly and said, “Want to know what’s on the menu tonight?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Rattlesnake.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “And cottonmouth. With an apricot glaze. Over native rice. Served with a Caesar salad, ho hum, but it goes well.”

  “How do you make that sound halfway decent?”

  “It’s my job.”

 
; She ordered quantities of jarred preserves and fruit butters, marmalades and pickled everything. Every time she arranged for shipment to Whittaker House, the clerks got stars in their eyes. One chef came out of his kitchen to speak with her and she was as gracious as she ever was.

  More than a few of the park’s guests recognized her. The first time she dug a Sharpie out of her little purse to sign autographs, Eric started.

  “I don’t go anywhere without a couple of these,” she muttered once the little crowd dispersed.

  “You’re not supposed to be working,” he grumbled.

  She shrugged. “I’m not going to be rude to people; it’s just not good business. And I like food. I like to eat. I can’t sample every single thing right here, right now. When I get home, I’ll sift through it all and see what I can use and what I can better and what I can’t stand.”

  “Why’d you become a chef?”

  “You read my Esquire interview. You know why.” He stared at her and her mouth twitched. “It’s not the right question.”

  For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what the right question was.

  She pursed her lips and drew in a deep breath. “I was starving to death by the time Knox rescued me. I weighed maybe sixty, seventy pounds tops. LaVon spent her time sitting in the diner smoking and eating. I guess it didn’t occur to her that if she wanted me to get my own food, she should probably go shopping for some. I was grubbing around in trash cans at night, when no one would see me, and the bad part was that my father made a good living. It wasn’t like we didn’t have money.

  “Pops was at work at the GM plant in Fairfax, so he ate there and by the time he got home, he was too beat to notice what wasn’t happening in the kitchen. He must have assumed LaVon had taken care of dinner. Simone— Well, Simone had the survival instincts of a tomcat. Sometimes Dirk’s mother would notice me and get me to stay for dinner, but I was proud and refused more often than not—until I got so hungry I couldn’t say no.”

  Eric shook his head. No matter how crappy his life had been, he had never starved.

  “Anyway, after the first time Knox fed me, I determined I would never go hungry again. Like Scarlet. I didn’t have any pride left. I was too hungry and I would’ve gone to Dirk’s mother and begged.”