by Pennza, Amy
As she made her way up and down the aisles, it hit her that she should have asked him if he knew anything about the Smith guy who’d bought her grandmother’s house. She stopped, hooked her basket over her arm, and pulled Dean’s card from her purse. Under the harsh fluorescent grocery store lights, it was easy to see where the photographer had gone overboard with Photoshop. Nobody had teeth that white in real life.
She stuffed the card back in her purse. It was best to leave Dean out of it. There was no need to advertise her predicament. She’d finish her shopping, go back to the house, and talk to Mr. Smith herself. He was probably a kind, old man who’d love the idea of someone looking after his property.
Yes, she and Mr. Smith were going to get along just fine.
5
Where the hell is he? Ashley stood in front of the kitchen window, her gaze on the house across the lawn. Moonlight reflected in its darkened windows. She’d finished her shopping two hours ago, and there was still no sign of life inside. After she’d eaten a quick sandwich, she’d walked over and knocked again, just in case Mr. Smith had returned while she’d been out. But the house had remained silent, and her knocks had echoed around the deserted porch.
She sighed and pushed away from the counter. What if he didn’t come home at all tonight? What if he was on vacation? She put her hands on her hips and let her head droop forward, her gaze on the faded linoleum. Maybe he’d gotten married on a cruise ship like her mother. A sarcastic puff of laughter burst from her chest, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen. The panic she’d felt on the jetway that morning came back, swirling a jittery path up her spine. This whole trip had been a mistake. She never should have left L.A. If the universe was trying to send a message that she didn’t belong in Prattsville, it was doing a convincing job.
Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock chimed. She lifted her head, then left the kitchen and walked toward the front of the house. She’d done a quick inspection of the first floor after she’d put her groceries away, and she’d been happy to see that most of the furniture remained. It seemed Cheryl had only removed a few pieces. In this instance, her mother’s distaste for antiques had worked in Ashley’s favor. Cheryl had no idea how much Grandma Winnie’s old stuff was worth. If she had, she would have sold it off long ago.
Ashley trailed her fingertips over a marble-topped pedestal table on her way past the front parlor. The grandfather clock still bonged, the hours echoing after each other. Cheryl had always hated the sound and had often threatened to turn the tall, stately clock into firewood. Older than the house, it had stood in an alcove near the main staircase for as long as Ashley could remember. Grandma Winnie had claimed her own father brought it over from Scotland as a boy. Ashley stopped in front of it as it finished tolling the hour, the familiar sound a balm on her frayed nerves. She pressed her palm against the mahogany case inlaid with gold, scrolling vines. The wood was solid and warm under her hand. As the clock sang its ninth chime, vibrations traveled up her arm.
Home. Gentle as a cloud, the word drifted to the top of her mind and hovered. Even after eight years in L.A., she’d never felt at home there. Everything had seemed disposable. Once projects wrapped, production assistants dumped props and backdrops in warehouses. When shows ended, actors lost touch with each other. Nothing was permanent because entertainment had to constantly reinvent itself to survive. Here, surrounded by things that linked her to past generations, she felt…rooted.
She looked at the staircase. Six feet wide, with newel posts as thick as tree trunks, it ascended to the second floor and then made a right angle before continuing to the attic. Cheryl had stored the oldest, most fragile pieces up there—furniture too delicate to be practical. Ashley gave the clock a quick pat, then hit the stairs, careful to skip the broken tread on the second step. Moonlight streamed inside, illuminating her path.
Not that she needed it. She knew every twist and turn by heart. As she neared the attic, she flipped on a small hall light and pushed the door open.
Jackpot. The attic was just as she remembered it. A few dressers and a massive buffet lined the walls. Cedar chests, armchairs, and old bed frames crowded together under the sloped ceiling. The only light source was a single bulb screwed into a thick exposed beam. She skirted around a barrel top trunk and tugged the bulb’s pull chain. The light clicked but stayed dark. She walked back to the door and pushed it as wide as it would go. Light from the hallway spilled into the room and cast a soft glow over the furniture. Dust motes drifted through the air like tiny golden snowflakes. Excitement swelled in her chest as she took in the cluttered attic. Half the struggle with refinishing furniture was finding quality pieces. That wouldn’t be a problem now. There were enough pieces here to keep her busy for months.
Her gaze landed on a small, oval nightstand near one of the attic’s two dormer windows. She picked her way around tables and old sofas until she reached the nightstand. A matching piece sat just behind it. She bent and ran her hand over the delicate legs.
A floorboard creaked, and a deep voice boomed across the room. “Don’t move!”
Her lungs seized. She jerked upright and whirled. A man stood in the doorway pointing a pistol at her head. Silhouetted by the hallway light, he was a towering black cutout. Her vision shrank to the barrel of the gun. Every hair on her body lifted. Her heart seemed to stop then stutter back to life. It pounded so hard her chest hurt.
After a tense second, the man walked to the center of the room. Moonlight from the window struck his face and shoulders. He held the gun parallel to the floor, his arm bulging with muscle. He cupped his free hand under the pistol grip. As he looked her over, his hazel eyes went wide, and he lowered the gun. “You!”
Slowly, her brain started working again. Those eyes were familiar. So was the voice and the uniform. He was the cop who’d stopped her earlier! “You…” The words wouldn’t come. She swallowed, but her throat was so dry, the sides stuck together. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, making her shaky. She sagged against the nightstand.
He swore and holstered the gun. “What are you doing up here?” His tone was harsh as he scanned the room, one hand resting on his holster.
Anger swept through her like a brushfire. He’d just pointed a gun at her face! She straightened and pressed a palm to her chest. “Me? I live here. What are you doing?”
In an instant, she had his full attention. His eyebrows snapped together in a frown. “What do you mean you live here? I own this house.”
What? She shook her head, even as a creeping awareness made her scalp prickle. “But…my mom said she sold it to a man named Smith.”
“I’m Smith Salvatierra. I bought the house and all the furnishings six months ago.”
She darted a look at his name tag. Yep, it was still there, and it still said Salvatierra. So Smith was his first name?
After a beat, he pulled a wallet from his back pocket. He flipped it open and held it out, displaying a police ID with his photo and badge number. His first and last names were printed underneath it in small block font.
She lifted her gaze to his. He’d seemed tall when she’d been seated in her car. Standing next to him now, she realized he was even bigger than she’d thought. His dark head almost brushed the ceiling. His size was intimidating. The uniform only added to it. And then there was the fact that the man who apparently owned her grandmother’s house was also the really hot cop who’d given her a ticket a few hours ago.
So much for making a good first impression. What did she say now? “Sure, I break the speed limit and drive without insurance. I also broke into your house. Please, can I live here for a few weeks?” She waited, hoping he’d speak first, but he just watched her with the same patient stare he’d displayed when he’d stopped her before. She tried to manufacture what she hoped was a friendly smile. “Smith. That’s an unusual name.”
Smooth, Ashley.
He stared at her for a long moment, then brushed past her and went to the window, his dark head bent as h
e looked at the street below.
She stayed put as she tried to figure him out. She was good at reading people, but he was unlike anyone she’d ever met. Whereas most people’s faces reflected their feelings, his was blank. No, that wasn’t quite right. It was…hard—as if he held his emotions on a tight leash.
“Is there anyone else in the house?” he asked without turning around.
“No! Of course not. I’m here by myself. I-I mean I flew in alone. I’m h-here alone.” What was it about this man that made her stammer like an idiot?
He faced her. “You said you came to Prattsville to see your mother.”
Heat rose in her cheeks at the reminder of their earlier encounter. “That’s right.” She gestured around the attic. “This is—was—my grandmother’s house. Then my mother’s. When I got here, the house was empty—”
“The house was locked. How did you get in?”
“There’s a key above the outside kitchen door.”
“So you just decided to let yourself in?”
“I didn’t know my mom had sold the house!”
For the first time, the hard look cracked. He raised an eyebrow. “You just said your mom told you she sold it to a man named Smith.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know that until I arrived.”
He walked forward and stopped a foot away. His gaze was just as penetrating as it had been on the roadside. “Miss Scobel, I thought you were an intruder. I could have shot you. I don’t know about you, but I take that very seriously.”
She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand.
“I need the full story from you right now, from the beginning. Please.”
Her heart pounded, and she resisted the urge to rub her damp palms on her jeans. He hadn’t yelled—hadn’t even raised his voice. But the undercurrent of authority in his tone was unmistakable. Lying to this man was out of the question. Good grief, how did anyone get away with crimes these days? She wanted to crumple into a ball, and she hadn’t even done anything wrong.
Well, not really. She hadn’t known she was trespassing the first time she’d done it. The second time, however…
He stayed silent, obviously waiting for her to start.
She sighed. It was one thing to be evasive with Pia or Dean. The fewer people who knew the reality of her situation, the better. But if she had any hope of staying here, she had to lay out every ugly last detail. That meant telling this tall, stoic near-stranger things she’d never told anyone.
He watched her, his hard mask back in place.
She took a deep breath. “I—”
A scrabbling sound near the doorway made her jerk around. Seconds later, a furry beast bounded into the room and shot straight at her. She yelped and stumbled backward. Strong hands grabbed her upper arms, steadying her.
“Deuce, stop!” Smith shouted, his deep voice vibrating against her back.
The beast froze, then sank onto its haunches. A long, pink tongue trailed out the side of its mouth. Now that the animal was out of the glare of the hallway light, she could see it was a German Shepherd. Its ruff of tan-and-black fur gave it the look of a small lion.
Her heart pounded, but she wasn’t sure if it was because of the dog’s unexpected entrance or the man who held her. Smith was a solid, warm presence at her back. His fingers curled around her biceps. “Easy,” he said above her head. “He’s friendly.” He released her arms and stepped around her, then knelt in front of the dog. “You were supposed to stay downstairs.”
The dog must have taken that as permission to break position, because he stood and sniffed all around Smith’s head. The pink tongue flashed.
“Hey!” Smith nudged him away. “No kisses, remember?” His voice was firm but gentle—the kind of tone an indulgent parent might use with a toddler.
Ashley’s anxiety faded. A man who fussed over his pet like a child couldn’t be that bad. Maybe this was going to go better than she’d thought. “Is he a police dog?” she asked.
Smith stood and faced her. “Uh, no. Not officially, anyway.” He brushed his hand over the dog’s head. “He rides with me, though. I think he’d follow me to work if I tried to leave him at home.”
The dog leaned against Smith’s leg, a look of utter adoration on its face as it gazed up at him. The bottle brush tail thumped hard against the wooden floor.
“He’s beautiful,” she said.
“Thanks.” Just like that, his expression turned impenetrable once more. He studied her for a moment, then tossed his head toward the open door. “Let’s talk in the kitchen. It’ll be more comfortable down there.”
“Okay.”
He stepped aside. “After you.”
* * *
Good God, her ass was perfection. Smith fought to tear his gaze away from Ashley’s pert backside as he followed her down the grand staircase. For such a small woman, she had curves that should have come with a warning label. Her clothes weren’t provocative. On the contrary, her navy-striped shirt covered her from her collarbones to her forearms.
But he hadn’t been able to avoid looking at the generous swells of her breasts as they’d faced off in the attic. Her chest had risen and fallen rapidly, each breath pushing the thin, blue stripes up and down at the edge of his vision. Every inhale and exhale had pulled his gaze like a magnet.
Which was a completely inappropriate reaction, given the circumstances. When he’d seen the attic light from his driveway, he’d suspected looters or maybe a few bored teenagers looking for something to do on a chilly Saturday night. Even so, no cop worth his salt cleared a room without a weapon in hand—never assumed a building was empty. Assumptions led to dead bodies. He’d been prepared for anything when he’d entered the attic.
Or so he’d thought.
When the blonde beauty from the traffic stop had whirled from the window, it had been like a sucker punch to the gut. Anger had quickly replaced his astonishment as a movie reel of alternate outcomes had flickered through his head—a parade of worst case scenarios every cop dreaded. If he hadn’t recognized her. If the shadows had confused him. If something in her hand had looked like a weapon. Sweat had broken out on his forehead, and his hand had trembled as he holstered his gun.
He knew he’d scared her. And damn if that wasn’t tearing at his insides. She’d stammered and hugged her arms around her middle. Her gaze had been wary until Deuce had crashed into the room. And just like that, his silly dog had captured another heart. Smith had seen it before—women took one look at the German Shepherd and fell in love.
Right now, Deuce seemed to feel the same way about Ashley. He’d fallen in beside her as they’d left the attic, leaving Smith to bring up the rear.
Not that he was complaining. Her breasts had distracted him in the attic, but it was her ass that captured his attention now. Like the rest of her, it was perfectly proportioned—the perky curves encased in faded denim that seemed to fit her like a glove. He bit back a curse and forced his gaze up.
Mistake. The curling ends of her pale hair bounced against her back as she descended the last few steps. With each step, his blood pumped harder.
Focus, idiot. He was thirty-two years old, not a horny teenager trying to hold it together around a pretty woman.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Watch the second step from the bottom. It’s broken.”
Smith looked down as he stepped over it. Sure enough, the tread was cracked along the edge. He’d have to bring his tools over and fix it.
Ashley reached the bottom of the stairs and turned right, Deuce on her heels. She navigated the darkened house like she’d walked it a thousand times. Of course, if she was telling the truth about this being her grandmother’s place, she probably knew every nook and cranny by heart.
When they reached the kitchen, she leaned against the counter. Deuce trotted to the fridge and collapsed in front of it, his big head on his front paws. Ashley watched him, a soft smile curving her lips. “How old is he?”
Smith stood in the doorway betwee
n the kitchen and dining room. “He’ll be two in a couple months.”
“You got him as a puppy?”
“Yes.”
“His name is Deuce?”
“Deuce and a Half, actually.” At her look of confusion, he added, “It’s a type of military truck. I call him Deuce for short.”
“Oh. Were you in the—”
“You were going to tell me about why you’re in the house.”
She met his gaze, and her eyes looked startled at his abrupt change of subject. He could have explained his reasons for switching the topic of conversation, but that would have opened doors he’d rather not walk through, so he stayed silent. She hugged her arms around her waist again.
An invisible fist squeezed his heart. Dammit, he didn’t want her to fear him. He couldn’t do anything about his size, but he forced his facial muscles to relax. There. That was close enough to a smile, wasn’t it?
She looked away. “Uh…yes,” she said. “It’s kind of an embarrassing story, actually.”
At this point, another man—a better man—would have said something to put her at ease. His brother Juan was good at that sort of thing. He always knew how to make people feel confident and less awkward. It was one of the reasons women flocked to him.
But that required an ability to project those same emotions—like heat that seeped from a radiator and warmed an entire room. Smith had been too long in the cold to ever feel warm again, let alone lend comfort to someone else. So he stayed where he was and waited for her to tell her story.
She sighed, a little sound of resignation that made Deuce lift his head. “I grew up in Prattsville, in this house. I moved to L.A. my senior year because I got an acting job on a TV show. It ran for six years.” She lifted her gaze. “Maybe you’ve heard of it? Bewitching University.”