Stealing Taffy

by Susan Donovan

  “Just say your piece so you can leave,” she said.

  Dante opened his eyes once more and looked right at her. Taffy was leaned back in the angled chair, her lovely legs crossed at the knee, her pale denim skirt tight against her upper thigh. She wore pearls at her neck, dangly pearl earrings, and another pink top, though this one seemed to have more orange in it than the others he’d seen her in. Dante couldn’t help but notice that she matched the stripes in the evening sky, and it made him smile.

  “What color do you call what you’re wearing?” he asked her.

  Taffy stared at him for an instant, then began to rise from her chair. “I’ve had enough,” she said softly.

  “No! Wait!” Dante touched her knee, truly confused by her reaction. “Why are you so angry? It was just a simple question.”

  Taffy pursed her lips tightly. “Because you’re making fun of me, and I don’t deserve it. I won’t stand for it.”

  Dante leaned forward and took one of her hands in his. The feel of her silky skin and slim fingers was enough to make him shiver with remembered pleasure, but he knew he needed to be on top of his game here. He pulled himself together. “I’m not making fun of you, Tanyalee. I sincerely wanted to know what it’s called because you wear a lot of pink, but every time I see you it’s a slightly different shade.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “It’s ‘seashell blush.’ But how do you know I wear a variety of pink shades?”

  “You were wearing pink when I met you, and you’re wearing pink today.” Dante smiled at her, but apparently this observation was not a conversation starter on its own merits. “So what exactly is seashell blush?”

  Taffy pulled her hand from his grasp and looked at him like he was an idiot. Maybe he was.

  She tilted her head to the side. “Listen, secret agent man. It’s called seashell blush because it’s the color of the inside of a seashell when it … oh, forget it. So you asked for five minutes and I agreed, but if you think you get extra time for empty sweet talk you’ve got another thing coming.”

  * * *

  Wainright Miller poked his head into the old insurance office building and felt his eyes widen. “Well, what do you know?” he mumbled to himself. “Candy-ass Carmichael’s really pulling this off.”

  Her mother—the crazy, oversexed, rabble-rousing old bat who happened to be one of his residents—had told him that renovations were coming along nicely at the bakery, but he hadn’t believed her. He hadn’t trusted Jacinta Carmichael since she’d whipped the senior citizen residents into a frenzy over the quality of the dining room food.

  Cherokee Pines belonged to him. Not the oldies. And that was something Jacinta had never seemed to understand.

  Miller sighed in resignation. The sole reason for this uncomfortable visit was the promise he’d made to the residents. He’d assured them that Candy’s desserts would be available in the assisted living dining room. But God, did it ever pain him to have to pay the bitch for pies and cakes—no matter how good they were.

  There was another reason this visit was going to be just downright unpleasant. Miller hadn’t spoken to Candy since the day Gerrall Spivey—that useless moron of a front desk clerk—had bound and gagged him, pushed him into the trunk of his own car, kidnapped Candy, and taken them both out to the compound.

  Months had passed, but the irony of it all still made him smile. By the time the cops showed up to rescue the two of them, anyone who could identify his role in the meth operation was either dead or bleeding in the dirt, and poor Mr. Wainright Miller was just the victimized owner-operator of Cherokee Pines Assisted Living.

  It was incredibly good luck, a random stroke of universal genius. Of course, the Ramirez camp hadn’t been happy that about eighty thousand in product had been confiscated and one of their busiest kitchens busted. But months of the cartel’s profits were safely stashed in the Cherokee Pines front office safe, next to the insurance checks and legitimate cash receipts, and because of that, they’d given him a chance to redeem himself.

  All he had to do was manage logistics for the Possum Ridge pot farm until harvest—his last job in the drug business. After this, he was out. By quitting time he would have all the loose ends tied up. Cherokee Pines would be sold to the Charlotte-based management group who’d been courting him for years, and every dime of profit from the sale—and every dime skimmed from the top of Ramirez’s operations—would be safely deposited in his Cayman Islands accounts. He would have a new identity so he could enjoy it all in peace.

  “Hello?” Miller called out into the cavernous open space. “Anyone around?”

  Fuck. Halliday is here.

  “Hey, Mr. Miller! Come on in. Candy’s back in the kitchen and she’s expecting you.”

  “Hello, Sheriff. Nice to see you.”

  Halliday crossed the wide expanse of the room and held out his hand for a shake. Miller smiled. It gave him a perverse thrill every time he ran into this buffoon and played all nicey-nice. The guy was clueless. No wonder the Ramirez cartel was still willing to invest in Cataloochee County. For every operation that was busted, ten more went undetected. Selling drugs out of this county was like doling out funnel cakes to fatties at the Volunteer Fire Carnival.

  “How’ve you been, Wainright? You doing okay?”

  “Ah, you know, things are getting back to normal after that horrible kidnapping ordeal I went through with Candy. I’m trying to put the past in the past, but I’ll tell you…” He shook his head and sighed dramatically. “I’ll be happy if nothing that exciting ever happens to me again, that’s for damn sure.”

  Halliday patted him on the back. “I hear you,” he said, leading Miller down a hallway to the kitchen. “Mr. Miller’s here, baby!” he called out.

  They got to the doorway of the kitchen just as Candy finished stacking baking sheets into a lower cabinet, rising from her knees. He had to admit that Jacinta Carmichael’s daughter was pretty enough, but she was a dishonest sneak—slipping in the back of Cherokee Pines to live with her mother when she knew it was against the rules. He hated sneaks.

  “Hi!” Candy wiped the back of her wrist against her cheek, then did a double take. “Oh, my goodness! You look fabulous, Mr. Miller.”

  “Thank you.” He’d lost thirty pounds in the last six weeks, and was damn glad to see that somebody had noticed. “I’ve got a ways to go yet, but my blood pressure is down and I’m feeling like I’ve got more energy.”

  “Well, it certainly shows. But…” Candy frowned. “I hope all these desserts aren’t going to tempt you off your course. I’d hate to do that.”

  Miller saw her smile at him and thought it almost looked sincere, so he smiled back. But this bitch had caused him a lot of grief, showing up at Cherokee Pines, sneaking in her desserts, and making Gerrall fall in love with her. Candy Carmichael coming back to town had led to the downfall of a very profitable little meth operation, and he’d never forgive her for that.

  “Oh, no worries, Miss Carmichael,” he said pleasantly. “That’s my battle to fight, not yours, and the residents are looking forward to another of your German chocolate cakes.”

  She seemed embarrassed by the flattery, and her cheeks flushed. Miller took a sidelong glance at Halliday and was nauseated by the puppy love in the sheriff’s eyes. These two deserved each other. She was a conniving bitch and he was a dim-witted dolt. They were going to make each other deliriously happy.

  Candy grabbed a notebook from the stainless steel counter. “I’d ask you to sit down and join me for a cup of coffee, but we’re not set up for coffee yet and our tables won’t get here until next week.”

  Miller waved his hand through the air to dismiss her concerns. He wouldn’t tell her, of course, but if the place were decked out like a five-star French restaurant and served the best cup of joe this side of Paris, he still wouldn’t want to sit across from Candy Carmichael. The business they needed to discuss would take just minutes and could be done standing.

  “I’ve got the list,”
he said, pulling a sheet of paper from his pants pocket. “These are the results of our questionnaire, after some compromise. If it were up to the residents, they’d want an entire dessert buffet every lunch and dinner, and fancy baked goods at every breakfast, but there is a limit to what our operating budget can afford, I’m afraid.”

  Candy nodded and gave him a sweet smile. “I know. My mother told me the process was like negotiating a peace treaty.”

  Miller laughed, hoping to God he could get out of there before losing his mind. He began reading from the list. “Okay, so on Saturdays and Sundays we’ll need two kinds of breakfast pastries or baked goods. The residents have asked for sticky buns and popovers, but feel free to substitute other items, or the next thing they’ll complain about is a lack of variety.”

  “Of course,” she said, writing quickly. “So a total of about a hundred pieces each weekend morning?”

  Miller swallowed hard—this was going to cost him a fucking fortune. “Yes, please. And for weekly desserts, the residents have decided they’d like something of your choosing on Monday and Friday, but they insist on Cupcake Wednesdays.”

  “How fun!” Candy started scribbling notes on her pad of paper, and all he could think was how much he hated cupcakes. They were just too damn delicious, and they went down so easy. They were like potato chips—he could never stop at one.

  Or five.

  Candy gave him a big smile. “You know, Mr. Miller, in all honesty I was quite surprised that you called me. I’m thrilled, but … well, I know we had a rocky start.”

  Jesus. Get me out of here. He tried to smile back. “As I just mentioned to the sheriff, all I want to do is put the past in the past.” Miller retrieved his checkbook and a key from an inner pocket of his suit jacket. “This is for the first month,” he said, handing her the check he’d prepared in advance.

  “Oh, my goodness! Thank you!” Candy broke out into a huge grin and her eyes shot to Halliday. “My first standing order, Turner!”

  “You’ll have to photocopy that and frame it, baby,” the sheriff said.

  “What a great idea!”

  If Miller didn’t get out of there in the next few seconds, he feared he would vomit. “And here’s the key to the kitchen door,” he said to Candy, noting the way she averted her eyes shamefully as she took it from him.

  And rightly so. Gerrall had let her in through the kitchen night after night so she could illegally stay in her mother’s apartment. It still made his blood boil that she’d had no respect for the bylaws. Despite his attempts to be friendly, he couldn’t pass up a chance to stick it to her. “I know that you’re familiar with the kitchen entrance, Miss Carmichael.”

  Candy laughed uncomfortably. Miller felt Turner’s eyes bore into the side of his skull. Time to go.

  He said his good-byes and got out of there. Fun was fun, but the last thing he needed was to give Turner Halliday a reason to be unhappy with him.

  * * *

  Tanyalee didn’t know how much longer she could keep up this charade. After she’d blown her top because he’d popped up in her life without warning—which was just plain wrong—she did manage to cool off and stay cool. Since then, she’d been striving for aloof. No-nonsense. She wanted to appear as if she were completely unwilling to give an inch. She needed Dante Cabrera to understand that she was a woman who would not tolerate nonsense from a man under any circumstance.

  Why? Because Tanyalee knew if she revealed even a sliver of what she was really feeling—that she was deliriously happy to see him and thrilled she’d been more to him than a no-tell motel rendezvous—she’d likely scream with happiness, rip off her clothes, and jump in his lap!

  She fanned herself and stared out over the stillness of the lake. Sweet baby Jesus, help me keep it together.

  He touched her hand again. Lightning strikes of delight zapped through her. She kept her eyes on the water and willed the thudding in her chest to subside.

  “All right, Tanyalee. I’ll skip the sweet talk and get to the point. And then I’ll disappear, just like you want.”

  Tanyalee whipped her head around. No! She hadn’t really meant it! She loved the sweet talk! She wanted him to stay! Tanyalee felt her pulse spike in alarm. Had she pushed too hard? Had she pushed him away?

  Then she saw the smile in his eyes. Dante Cabrera knew her game, and he knew exactly how to play. Something about that made her panties wet and her heart soar.

  Tanyalee tried hard not to smile. “I’m listening, Agent Cabrera. Just get to the point.”

  Dante placed his other hand on hers, which meant he was now cradling her wrist, palm, and fingers in complete safety. She felt his fingertip brush against the tender inside of her wrist. She nearly moaned.

  “Yes, I did track you here to Bigler,” Dante said, his voice soft and rhythmic. “To be perfectly honest, I’ve been thinking about you a lot since we met. I told myself it would be best to let it go but I just couldn’t.”

  “I see.”

  “As difficult as this might be to believe, I work out of the DEA’s field office in Asheville.” He looked at her expectantly, like he thought she was going to jump in with a comment.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Because I didn’t tell you.”

  “No, you didn’t, Mr. Big Cheese.”

  Dante smiled sheepishly.

  Tanyalee shook her head. “That is quite a coincidence, I will give you that, but then how did you find out I lived in Bigler?”

  His eyes flashed, and Tanyalee suspected that whatever was about to come out of his mouth wouldn’t be entirely truthful. “I thought I saw you in Asheville one evening, so I decided to find out who you were and where you lived.”

  “Really, now?” Tanyalee hadn’t been spending much time in Asheville these days, except to attend 12-step meetings, and she sure as hell hadn’t seen Dante Cabrera at one. The man would have stuck out like a fly in a bucket of buttermilk. “Where exactly did you see me?”

  He inclined his head over his shoulder. “Behind the wheel of that pink Cadillac.”

  “Oh,” she said, laughing. “Kind of hard to miss, I guess.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you traced the license plate, like on TV?”

  Dante smiled softly. “I did. I do apologize if that violated your privacy.”

  Tanyalee stared at him—torn. This Dante Cabrera person was difficult to pigeonhole. Part of what he said seemed sincere, and part was complete horseshit. He was handsome and sweet. He was dangerous. He was equal parts good guy and a bad boy. She’d never known anyone like him, and it threw her off balance. “Why did you follow me to Gladys Harbison’s house?”

  “I didn’t. I went there on DEA business. That is the absolute truth.”

  She cocked her head at him. “So this isn’t one of your Monterey Jack stories?”

  Dante leaned his head back and laughed. It provided Tanyalee an opportunity to check out the muscled shoulders and arms beneath his shirt and tie, the corded strength of his neck, the slight shadow of beard along his jawline, the thick black hair that brushed against his shirt collar. Oh, God! She remembered what he’d looked like the morning she tiptoed from the hotel room, his big body asleep on the bed, sunlight pouring down on him …

  He lowered his gaze once more, and caught her staring. He grinned. “And then, Miss Newberry, when you answered the door, I forgot how to breathe.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tanyalee said. She squeezed her thighs together to stop the rush of heat between her legs. What this man did to her with a simple touch, a glance, a smile or a laugh … it wasn’t fair. She didn’t react to men in this way. What she came to understand while at Sedona Sunset—because Dr. Leslie forced her to—was that she’d always been the manipulator of men. Tanyalee’s approach was to decide in advance what she wanted from a man, and then take every step necessary to get it. She made sure the man believed he was the seducer, when in reality, he was the seduced.

  That meant that what Dante was doing to
her at that moment was positively unnatural. Criminal. He should be arrested!

  “I know it shocked the hell out of you. It wasn’t my intention, Tanyalee. I’m sorry.” With that, he raised her hand to his lips and planted a soft, warm kiss on her knuckles, just the way he did as the plane had taxied down the runway, gaining speed before it climbed into the sky.

  “All right, but…” Tanyalee knew she was supposed to be indignant about something—or at least needed some clarification on what he’d just said—but for the life of her she couldn’t remember what that was.

  “Yes?” Dante finished kissing her knuckles, then nonchalantly placed her open palm on the large, hard surface of his knee and held it in place. Her breath went shallow.

  “I … what?”

  “Were you going to say something?”

  “I was?”

  “I think so—”

  “Wait. I remember now.” Tanyalee blinked hard and refocused. “You said you went there on DEA business. What kind of business? Is Gladys under suspicion for some crime?”

  “Not that I am aware.”

  “Then—”

  “Fern. I wanted to speak with Fern Bisbee.”

  “Oh, my goodness, now that is a complete fabrication if ever I heard one! How can a twelve-year-old girl be in trouble with the law?

  “She isn’t,” Dante said, his voice suddenly more serious than seductive. “I wanted to speak to her, but I can’t really discuss it in detail, I’m afraid.”

  “Why in heaven’s name not?”

  “It’s part of an ongoing investigation.”

  Tanyalee stared at him, then sputtered in surprise. “That’s it? That’s the case you wanted to plead to me?”

  Dante chuckled. “It’s the short version, anyway.”