PAR FOR CINDERELLA

by MCCARTY, PETIE

  “Aidan was right to ban that little pissant,” he said quietly. “If he hadn’t, I would have. Banning PJ from this course was far more painful a retribution for him than kicking his butt. Though I would have enjoyed that too.”

  “How do you figure?” she asked. Even Aidan gave Frank a puzzled look.

  “Golf is the only thing that boy is good at, besides following his daddy’s orders. And we just took golf away from him. That will get his attention far better than any ass-whupping.”

  “I hope getting his attention doesn’t make him dangerous,” Aidan pointed out. “He could come after Casey again.”

  “If he does, then we have no choice but to press charges,” Frank said grimly.

  “I better go make sure they left,” Aidan said.

  “No! You stay here with Casey. I’ll go.” Frank started for his cart, then stopped and stared in amazement at the tractor and ball collector as if noticing them for the first time. “The dang tractor’s still running.”

  He squinted back at Aidan, who shrugged. “I was in a hurry.”

  Her uncle grinned. “Good man. Now get that tractor off my fairway.”

  Frank took off. Aidan ignored the tractor. He stepped close, held out his arms, and Casey willingly went into them. She didn’t want to fight with him. Aidan had rescued her. Saved her before PJ became dangerous. The feel of those big, strong arms squeezing her tight dissolved the last quakes of terror and left only a wonderful feeling of safety.

  “I went crazy when the tractor slowed on a close turn, and I heard you scream,” he murmured into her hair. “And then when I saw him on top of you—”

  She could feel both of his hands ball into fists at her back. “What if you hadn’t come?” she whispered into the warmth of his shirt.

  “Don’t think about it. Ever,” he said gruffly and tilted her chin up. “Are you really okay?”

  She nodded and tried for a smile. “Now I am.”

  “Then I need this.”

  His mouth took hers in a wild mix of relief and unspent adrenaline as though wanting her to feel his own terror at her attack. She melted against him, and once again, she could hear her heart hammering in her ears. In the span of two pounding beats, he’d gentled the kiss to a sensuous nuzzling of his lips against hers, though he still held her tight in his arms. He ran a trail of feather-light kisses across her cheeks, her eyes, her nose, her chin.

  He finally lifted his head, his smile as tender as his kisses had been. “I had to see for myself.”

  She hadn’t thought anything could top his earlier kisses, but this one did. This one said he cared, worried about her—again.

  “When I came through the trees and saw him on top you, I wanted to tear him apart,” he growled, and she felt his body shudder. “All I could think was . . . mine.”

  Casey’s heart skipped a full beat. She had desperately wanted to hear those words from Aidan. She wanted to be his, but her head screamed, Watch out! She had to get that heartbeat back. If she let it go, she would fall for him. Losing that beat now would break her heart later.

  She stiffened in his arms and drew back—the hardest thing she had ever done.

  His brows arched.

  “I can’t be yours,” she whispered. “You’re leaving, remember?”

  His expression grew even more puzzled. Had he not realized what he’d said?

  “How about mine while I’m here?” he said softly and leaned in to kiss her again. “I’ll take what I can get.”

  She eased back even farther. “Your friend while you’re here,” she clarified and caused a giant tug at the muscles around her heart.

  He stared at her for several long uncomfortable moments as though measuring his next words against a reaction from her.

  Someone hollered at them, and two golf carts hurtled around the dogleg and sped downhill. When the next tournament foursome reached their side, one of the golfers said, “We heard someone scream and thought we’d better come see.”

  “Just a couple drunks we had to ask to leave,” Aidan said easily.

  The golfer eyed the tractor with misgiving as well as the path of destruction through the trees. “If you say so.”

  “Everything’s fine,” Casey assured them. “Do you want drinks?”

  Aidan took their money and dispensed the appropriate drinks and beer, then sent them back to the sixth tee. Casey was glad for the extra few minutes to gather herself.

  “Wait right here,” Aidan told her. “I’ll put up the tractor and come back to get you. You can rest in the clubhouse, and I’ll do the drink cart.”

  “No, I’ll be fine.” This time she meant it. “You chased the bad guys away. I can finish the cart run.”

  Aidan only frowned.

  “I appreciate my friend worrying about me,” she added and ignored his scowl at the word friend. “I’m not going to fall all apart, just because those bullies tossed me around. I’m tougher than that.”

  She didn’t feel nearly as tough as she made out, but she really wanted Aidan Crosse to see her that way, remember her that way. And see her as a friend. That was the only chance her heart had at not being broken.

  “I want you to press charges,” he insisted. “At least on PJ.”

  “No. Watson is looking for any reason to come after you again. He’ll twist everything around until he makes it your fault, and no one will argue with him.”

  “I’m not afraid of some small-time sheriff—”

  “Please, Aidan. The Trio knows I can press charges, and if I don’t, it will keep them at a distance for fear I’ll change my mind. I have a witness to prove my story.”

  She didn’t mention Watson wouldn’t consider Aidan much of a witness.

  “I don’t like it. Too risky.”

  “Big Louie told Frank he overheard Watson telling one of his deputies at the coffee shop yesterday that you were a troublemaker, and he intended to handle you himself. He’s just waiting to nab you for something.”

  Best to just keep Aidan away from Sheriff Watson as long as he was in town.

  Aidan shook his head and muttered, “Have it your way,” as he climbed onto the tractor and drove back to the driving range.

  Chapter 11

  Aidan was still beating himself up a couple hours later in the maintenance shed as he emptied the golf balls out of the collector box and loaded them into driving-range baskets. What had possessed him to think of Casey as his in the first place? Let alone admit it to her. But that was exactly what he’d thought when he witnessed PJ manhandling her. Aidan had wanted to tear the guy apart. Would have, too, if Frank hadn’t appeared. Would have whupped the other three right along with PJ for standing around and watching—there was that much rage bottled in him.

  When anything threatened Casey, a gut-deep protectiveness welled up in him, and Aidan could no more control it than he could the tides in the Gulf. He couldn’t explain the feeling or where it came from. The protectiveness just was.

  And dammit, she does feel like she’s mine.

  Casey asked to just be friends. Fine, that’s what she’d get. He could keep his hands—and his lips—to himself. He didn’t need to chase this woman. Heck, he’d never had to chase a woman in his life. He was too busy running when the women chased him.

  Okay, not all of them. He had let quite a few catch him when the mood suited. He would go back to letting women chase him if that’s what Casey wanted.

  For now, he needed to keep his distance from her. How many times had he sworn to do that in the last couple days? Especially now as vulnerable as she was. She had fed him that hogwash about being tougher than he gave her credit for, but her eyes had told a different story. Her eyes yelled vulnerable and still a little scared.

  And he had been more than a little scared too when he dro
ve the tractor through the woods. He would carry the image of that bastard PJ’s body smothering Casey for a long damn time.

  PJ Bartow and his friends must have had supreme confidence in their invincibility to try a fool stunt like that, which meant PJ’s sire held the reins on this town, and that Aidan didn’t like. Not if he was going to put a Cross Enterprises resort here.

  What he ought to do was pack up, go home, and forget this idiotic plan of his. Forget using a made-up name and getting involved—or not—with a local girl and the niece of his bail bondsman to boot. This plan may just beat Garrett’s for stupidity.

  Aiden knew he should be spending his time discovering what he could about Archer and Evelyn Bartow, and their daughter Deedee would be a good place to start. After their tète-â-tète in the bar last night, the little man-eater had called the pro shop looking for him, according to Mamie. Aidan would have plenty of sources for information on Archer Bartow, and that was Aidan’s gift—getting people to talk.

  Speak of the devil.

  Through the side windows, Aidan spied Archer’s gold Cadillac turning into the parking lot. The arrogant son of a gun drove right past the Golf Course Personnel Only sign and onto the gravel drive to the maintenance shed. The crunch of stones under tires signaled his arrival at the open door.

  “Just like his son,” Aidan muttered and hurried for the door before the mayor barreled his way inside.

  Frank must have spotted the man, too, for his maintenance cart raced toward them at top speed.

  “Can I help you?” Aidan asked, without a trace of welcome, as Bartow angled his pear-shaped frame out of the caddy.

  The flush in Bartow’s face and neck said his usual cool had slipped. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

  As ominous went, Bartow’s tone wasn’t bad. Could even be considered a might threatening. Trouble was Aidan didn’t do threatening.

  “The guy who threw your worthless bastard of a son off this golf course and banned him forever.” Aidan met the man’s unblinking stare and stepped forward.

  “You can’t do that!” Bartow shouted, spittle forming in the corners of his mouth. “You’re nobody!”

  “Oh, he’s somebody all right,” Frank intervened gruffly, as his cart slid to a halt alongside the Cadillac. “Aidan’s the guy who dragged PJ off my niece. She’s going to press assault charges.”

  “That’s ridiculous! They’re old friends from high school. My PJ was just hugging her. He told me so.”

  “Then your PJ is a liar,” Aidan retorted, taking great care to make PJ sound like something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

  “He assaulted my niece, Archer. He’s banned along with his friends,” Frank growled, “for life.”

  “You can’t ban Jerry Sanders too. He was just part of the foursome.”

  Now why would Archer Bartow stop to worry about the spineless banker?

  “He stood by and watched when the other three manhandled her,” Aidan snapped.

  “Manhandled? That’s outrageous!” Bartow shouted.

  “You’re right,” Frank shot back. “It was outrageous. Attacking my niece on my own course? If PJ sent you over here to beg my forgiveness, you can forget it. He is never getting back on my course.”

  “Forgiveness!” Bartow’s face had gone beet-red, and a vein bulged at his temple.

  A stroke might make a lot of Cypress Key residents happy.

  “You should never had banned him in the first place. He’s the best golfer in Cypress county.”

  Frank’s answer was to cross his arms over his chest, and Aidan wanted to clap him on the back. Had to be tough to stand up to the mayor—who owned the sheriff and the judge and the bank president—in a small town like Cypress Key. Aidan had to give Bartow credit. The man managed to calm himself fairly quick, and the calculating gleam in his eye said he was reassessing his position.

  “Look, Stuart, why don’t you just give up and sell me the course. You can’t make a go of this place and I can. I can build houses along most of the fairways. What do you say? I’ll give you seven hundred and fifty thousand, and you and Casey can retire in luxury . . . for you.”

  Aidan shot a quick glance at Frank. The course was worth well over a million or more, but the selfish side of him wanted Frank to hold out, so Aidan didn’t have to blow his cover to step in and buy the course. No way would he let Frank’s pristine course end up in that shyster Bartow’s clutches.

  Frank—God bless him—said, “Time for you to git, Archer. I’d suffer foreclosure before I sold you my course.”

  “You just might get your wish,” Bartow sneered and climbed in his Cadillac. He purposely spewed the gravel in every direction as he spun the vehicle around and rocketed toward the parking lot.

  “What a—”

  “—son of a gun?” Frank finished and grinned at Aidan. “My thoughts exactly. I told you that banning PJ would hit him where it hurt.”

  “Why didn’t Bartow offer you a loan like he did Traynor?” Aidan wanted to know.

  “Byford and Big Louie and too many of the shrimpers are just one lousy harvest away from foreclosure themselves. They’re good men—honest, hard-working men—but they’re sitting ducks for Bartow’s takeover schemes. The bastard.”

  The shrimpers may be lousy business investments, but Aidan made up his mind right then that Cross Enterprises would provide them business loans. This would be his resort town, after all. A place he might call home one day.

  “The last of the tournament stragglers will be finishing soon,” Frank said. “Why don’t you go find Casey and head for home. She can get a head start on dinner.”

  “No, I’ll stay and help you.”

  Frank frowned at him. “Problems?”

  “Some. I’d like to catch a ride to the diner on the way home.”

  “I thought you and Casey had worked things out.”

  Aidan forced a smile. “We did. We’re friends. All is good. I just feel like eating at the diner is all.”

  Frank muttered something that sounded like, “Stupid idea when dinner at the house is free,” and left Aidan to fill the last driving-range baskets.

  ~ ~ ~

  Frank had dropped Aidan in front of the quaint 1950s-style diner known as Maisey’s. Aidan spied another Seafood Festival poster board taped in the front window as he stepped through the door into the restaurant owned by Mamie’s sister.

  “I was wondering when you’d be in. I already heard all about you,” the just-as-round-twin-to-Mamie greeted him.

  Aidan matched her wide smile and liked the woman on sight. “Here I am.” He held his arms wide. “I’m told your food is as good as Mamie’s.”

  Maisy stared unblinking for a long moment, then let out a bark of laughter. “My sister said you was a rascal.”

  “That I am.”

  “Come here. I’ll seat you by the window at my best table.”

  It was early, only six, and the restaurant was but half full. Maisy handed over a menu and told him a waitress would be out in a few minutes to take his order.

  He took his seat feeling somewhat exposed by the window. In Palm Beach, he chose dark, quiet corners or risked being pestered by contractors, investors, and any old girlfriends who spied him. He doubted he would run into any girlfriends in this diner.

  Voices argued in the back corner of the diner, one male, one female, sounded older. Aidan cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder and spotted Archer Bartow, face bunched up in a frown, arguing with a petite white-haired woman whose back was turned.

  Was the shyster going after widows too?

  When the argument continued unabated and voice levels raised, Aidan thought he’d better go back and see if he could be of assistance. Bartows were proven bullies after all.

  As he scooted his cha
ir back to rise, Archer’s voice rang out. “You’re making a grave mistake. I could provide you a comfortable retirement.”

  The widow—as Aidan now thought of her—gave him a reply that apparently didn’t sit well, for the mayor stormed out the front door seconds later. Aidan still had an urge to go back and make sure she was all right, though the tempest had subsided.

  Before he made his move, the widow rose to her feet and called a cheerful greeting to Maisy, who delivered coffee to customers at the rear of the diner. The widow waved her cane like a magic wand at several other patrons, all the while slowly making her inexorable way over to Aidan at the window.

  The wand never stopped moving. He observed her approach with apprehension and readied to duck when she got too close with that wand, as two other patrons had already done. He recognized her immediately.

  His gut twisted. Aidan’s jig was officially up. This woman had sold him the property for his golf resort, and darned if she didn’t smell like cotton candy just like the first time he’d met her at the closing.

  Instead of moving past as he had hoped, she stopped at his table. “So, you’re Aidan Cross with an e.” A statement, not a question.

  He rose and gave her a little bow. “I am.”

  She held out her hand. “Maybelle Crawford. Pleased to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine.” He played along and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles.

  Her eyes twinkled with merriment. “You’ve been stirring up trouble I hear.”

  “I—” What should he say? Had she already given him away? Did she remember him from the closing? Of course, she did. She’d made a point of saying, “Cross with an e.”

  She took the seat across from him without waiting for an invitation and lowered her voice. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”