by Peggy Webb
“I got sidetracked—by Jim Roman. What in hell is he doing in Greenville?”
“Hannah! Watch your language. I declare, I don’t know where you get that talk, your brother Paul being a preacher and all. It’s enough to scare any man off. Why . . . how in the world did you get sidetracked by Jim Roman?”
“His car broke down, and I fixed
“Oh. Is that all?”
Hannah chuckled at the crestfallen look on her mother’s face. “Don’t start putting one and one together and getting six.”
“Who? Me?”
“Yes, you. I know what you’re up to, Mom. And it won’t work. You’ll just have to be satisfied that you raised one daughter who’s content to be an old maid.”
“Pshaw! You’re always teasing me. Just like your father. He’s a nice man, don’t you think?”
Hannah grinned. “Pop? I’ve always thought so.”
“There you go, teasing again. Of course your father is wonderful. That’s a given. I’m talking about Jim Roman.”
“What I think about Jim Roman won’t do to tell in polite company. How do you know him, Mom?” Jim had told her, but she wanted to hear it from her mother. She figured he wasn’t above lying to get what he wanted.
“He’s the son of my college roommate and one of my best friends, Mary Louise Pritikin. You remember Mary Louise, don’t you?”
Hannah laughed. Her mother had so many people she called best friends, it would take the census bureau to keep up with them all. “No, Mom, I don’t. That was before my time, remember?”
“I forget. My, my, it seems like yesterday—me and Mary Louise getting our first pair of silk stockings together.” Her face became dreamy as she thought of old times. “Anyway, she married and moved off to California, but we’ve kept in touch over the years. I still have the card she sent me when Jim was born. She sent me a card when he got his big, fancy job too. He writes for that paper . . . what’s it called?”
“The Daily Spectator.” Hannah smiled at her mother’s perception of Jim Roman’s work. “Writes for that paper” didn’t touch the scope and influence of Jim’s column. “I still don’t see what he’s doing here. Surely The Daily Spectator isn’t interested in covering a wedding.”
“Mary Louise told me he works for a John Searles, who is head of what’s called a publishing empire. Isn’t that a silly name for a few newspapers and magazines? An empire. Makes me think of the Queen of England.”
“Mom . . .”
“I know.” Anna held up her hand. “You want me to get to the point. I declare, Hannah. You were always the impatient one. I remember that time Reverend Clemstattler dragged his sermon out so long. You stood up on the back pew and yelled, ‘Amen, now let’s go home.’”
They laughed together. Then, Hannah, as impatient as ever, gently urged her mother back on the subject.
“Well, you see, Jim Roman is going to write about your sister’s wedding for one of those magazines, America’s Elite. Isn’t that nice? I think Tanner’s wedding was written about in there, too. My, my. Two of my children making big news. And both of them happy as pigs in the sunshine. Did you know Amanda’s pregnant again? She and Tanner are not letting any grass grow under their feet. Making up for lost time, they say.”
“I didn’t know. That’s wonderful, Mom. They both want a big family.”
“Somebody shot at Jim Roman.”
“What?” Hannah was accustomed to her mother’s way of dropping one subject and plunging into another. She thought of the rifle she’d hung on the rack on the back porch and wondered what Jim Roman had told her mother about their encounter.
“In San Francisco. That’s why Mr. Searles sent him to Greenville. Mary Louise called last night and told me the whole story. I don’t think Jim Roman ordinarily writes about weddings, does he?”
“No, Mom. He covers the crime scene.”
“Some name that sounds like an Italian cake. That’s who’s after him. Poor man. I told him he could stay here.”
“Here? In this house?” Hannah jumped up and went to the kitchen window. Sure enough, Jim’s dusty rented car was parked in their front yard.
“Of course. Would I turn away the son of my best friend, especially after she called and asked me to watch after him? She’s had a hard life, and Jim is all she has.”
“What about the wedding, Mom? You’re swamped as it is. I don’t see how we can have another guest in this house. Especially an outsider.” Even as she reasoned, Hannah knew it was useless. Her mother had a heart big enough to take in everybody who knocked on the front door, and she also had a stubborn streak. Hannah could see her mind already was made up.
“The son of a friend is never an outsider, and we have plenty of room. Tanner and Amanda and their two girls will be staying in her house in Greenville. Paul and Mattie and their children will be here, but your brother Jacob will be the Lord only knows where. I’ve put Jim in Jacob’s room. Right next door to yours.”
Hannah sat back down with a plop. She’d known she’d have to deal with her bossy Aunt Agnes; she hadn’t counted on having to deal with the West Coast Warrior.
CHAPTER TWO
When Hannah left the kitchen, she went straight to the library to deal with Aunt Agnes.
As she pushed open the door, she saw Agnes, her back ramrod straight, her lips pursed, running her finger over a Victorian table.
“Checking for dust, Aunt Agnes?”
Agnes jerked her head around at the sound of Hannah’s voice. Hannah always was taken aback that Agnes was so like her brother Matthew in looks and so unlike him in personality. Both were tall and slim with an elegant bearing that spoke of royalty in their lineage. And both had the bright blue eyes of the Black Irish. While Matthew was good-natured and easygoing, Agnes had the disposition of a prickly pear.
“Hannah, you always did have the habit of sneaking up on people. I guess you learned it up there in the frozen wilderness, having to sneak around so polar bears won’t eat you up.”
“Don’t change the subject, Aunt Agnes. The library’s clean. I dusted it myself.”
“Then you missed a spot.” She took a big swipe at the table and held up her hand. “There, see it? If Anna’s going to have the wedding reception here instead of at the country club, where all the Presbyterians and Episcopalians go, then I’m bound and determined to see that she does it right. After all, Hallie is my only brother’s child, and my favorite niece to boot.”
She narrowed her eyes, obviously calculating the effect of her last statement on Hannah. Hannah laughed.
“So you’ve always said, Aunt Agnes.”
“Lord, child, you know I’m just kidding you. I love all of you like you’re my own. But I don’t see how we’re ever going to get you to the altar till you change your ways. Thirty’s mighty old not to be married.”
“I’m not altar bound, Aunt Agnes. But Hallie is.” She crossed the library and took her aunt’s arm. “Let’s make a pact. Let’s work together to make Mom’s job easier instead of aggravating her with suggestions. You know she’s going to run this wedding exactly as she pleases anyhow.”
“Well, I guess if we’re not going to the country club, that’s all right. But it does appear to me that since Anna’s insisting on fixing everything herself instead of having it catered, she could serve Italian bowknots. They’re the latest thing in finger foods, you know. Italian bowknots. I read about them in Redbook.”
“It you want Italian bowknots, Aunt Agnes, I’ll see that they’re served. But Mom doesn’t have time to make them. You have to.”
“You know I can’t cook worth a flitter.”
Hannah knew it was true. “I’ll come over to your house and help you, Aunt Agnes.” She’d just made the supreme sacrifice. Her cooking was on a par with Aunt Agnes’s, but she’d do anything to make this wedding run smoothly.
“That’s fine with me. But don’t you bring that wolfhound of yours. Your uncle Charlie’s allergic to dog hairs.”
“Pete’s
a Siberian husky.”
“Husky, smushky. It appears to me that’s one of the major reasons you’re an old maid. Keeping company with nothing but dogs and whales.” Agnes gathered up her hat, a dashing straw bowler, and set it on her head at a jaunty angle. Hannah was reminded of the way Hallie wore her Stetson. “I’ll see you this afternoon at four, and don’t you dare be late.” With that final order, Aunt Agnes swept from the library.
As soon as the door was shut, Hannah picked up the first thing she could get her hands on, a fat book of Eudora Welty’s collected stories, and flung it across the room.
“Hell’s bells.” The book sailed across the back of the sofa and landed with a satisfying plop on the hearth.
“Temper, temper, my dear. Is that any way to catch a husband?” Jim Roman’s head appeared over the back of the sofa, then his broad shoulders, then his impressive chest. “You almost beheaded me.”
“Pity I didn’t. How long have you been back there eavesdropping?”
“Long enough to know that Aunt Agnes considers you to be doomed to oldmaidhood. That’s a quaint term. I never hear it on the West Coast. It must be a southern expression.”
“We have a lot of things in the South you’ve never heard of. Manners, for one thing. The very idea, lying on the sofa eavesdropping.”
“Actually I was napping until you and Aunt Agnes got into that interesting discussion about Italian bowknots and old maids and wedding receptions. Your charming mother told me to make myself at home. I was looking for a book to read, and all this bucolic peace and quiet put me to sleep.” Jim Roman unfolded his long legs and stood up. Picking up the book she’d thrown, he started toward her.
“Don’t come any closer,” Hannah’s hand closed around a brass candlestick. Jim merely laughed and kept on coming.
His lazy grin and relaxed manner almost made Hannah forget his transgressions. But they were many, and she was determined to deal with them.
“Mr. Roman—”
“Call me Jim,” he interrupted her smoothly. “After all we’ve been to each other, don’t you think mister is a little too formal?”
“All you’ve been to me is a pain in the—”
“Association with polar bears has made you testy, Hannah. I have to agree with Aunt Agnes. Unless you mend your ways, you’ll never make it to the altar. A sharp tongue, my dear, is a definite obstacle to romance.” In three quick strides he was beside her. His hand snaked out and closed over Hannah’s, just as she was hefting the candlestick aloft.
Hannah tried to jerk her hand free. But as strong as she was, she was no match for Jim. If she couldn’t win the physical battle, she was determined to win the verbal one. “You could use a few lessons in romantic techniques yourself. Women don’t like to be manhandled.”
He took the candlestick from her hand and pulled her tight against his chest. “What do they like, Hannah?”
Strength and power, she thought as she looked up at him. Even the arrogance he wore like a merit badge attracted her. The sense of danger that hovered over him was a powerful aphrodisiac. All the things he was—bold and brash and wild and ruthless—reminded her of Alaska, the land that had held her captive for years. But she was a willing captive of Alaska’s; she would never be a willing captive of Jim Roman’s.
Putting on her most fetching smile, she looked into his eyes and lied. “We like to be asked.”
“Then, Miss Hannah Donovan, I’m asking politely. May I kiss you?”
“No.”
His lips descended on hers with the swiftness of the eagles she’d seen attacking their quarry. She gave back as much as she got. When she finished with him, he’d know he wasn’t dealing with any lilywhite, trembling maiden.
She twined her hands in his hair, fitted herself brazenly against him. She had the satisfaction of feeling his sharp intake of breath as her tongue boldly explored his mouth.
His arms tightened, and he deepened the kiss, a fever began to build in Hannah’s blood. She felt her control slipping, something she absolutely would not allow.
Abruptly she pulled away, laughing as she looked up at him.
“I told you no.”
“Your eyes said yes.” Jim released her and took a step backward. Hannah liked to think of it as a retreat. “You’re a torrid woman, Hannah.”
“I try . . . but only when it suits me.”
“An intriguing woman,” Jim continued, dismissing her last remark as if she’d never made it. “What makes a woman like you bury herself in Glacier Bay?” He leaned casually against the back of the sofa, his gaze almost insolent as it swept her from head to toe. “Dr. Hannah Donovan, marine biologist, head of the North Pacific Institute of Oceanographic Research. Two years in Sri Lanka studying sperm and blue whales, one in the rugged, remote Kenai Fjords of Alaska charting the humpback whale, and the last three in Glacier Bay. Raises huskies and competes in the Yukon Quest for recreation. No romantic entanglements.” He quirked a sardonic eyebrow upward. “Have I missed anything?”
“I don’t do windows.”
“I guessed as much.”
“Who told you? Mom?”
“A good reporter never reveals his sources.” He chuckled. “But I’ll have to admit that this source makes the best gingerbread I’ve ever tasted.”
Hannah circled him, giving him the same frank once over he’d given her. “Jim Roman, the West Coast Warrior, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for a newspaper series on the gang wars that shook the streets of San Francisco a few years back. Knifed twice in the line of duty, the recipient of one car bomb, and most recently the target of the Mafia.”
“Your facts are wrong. A good reporter always gets his facts straight.”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
“No.”
“Then allow me to create a scenario. Famous reporter flees San Francisco, leads the Mafia straight to Greenville and the innocent Donovan family.”
“Your family is in no danger.” His expression was serious. “Believe me, Hannah. Everybody assumes the Mafia is responsible any time a bullet is fired. We don’t know who’s after me. We’ve made some educated guesses, of course. If I had my choice, I’d still be in San Francisco. John Searles took that decision out of my hands. He thinks it best that I keep a low profile for a while.”
“If the Mafia is not after you, who in the world mentioned it to my mother?”
“Probably Aunt Agnes. She seems to be the authority on everything.”
“What are you working on now, Jim? Who is shooting at you?”
He grinned. “You’re the only one who has tried it lately.”
“I should have pulled the trigger.”
“Think of all the fun you’d have missed, Dr. Donovan.”
“It boggles the mind, Mr. Roman.”
They were facing each other now, squared off like two championship boxers. They both thrived on challenge and battle—Jim against the evil man does in society, and Hannah against the evil man does in nature. The air between them fairly sizzled. Unconsciously Jim braced against the sofa and Hannah ran a hand around the neck of her T-shirt to release the heat.
When the silence between them had stretched almost to the breaking point, Jim spoke. “Truce, Hannah.” He held out his hand.
Hannah took it without hesitation. Her grip was firm. “Truce.”
He smiled. “This is not a promise to behave.”
“I would have been disappointed if it were. I’m beginning to enjoy our battles.”
“You’re going to enjoy our loving even more.”
“You never give up, do you?”
“Never. Not until I get what I want.”
“And what is it you want, Jim Roman?”
“You.”
He was whistling when he left the library. The massive carved door creaked shut behind him. Hannah looked around the peaceful book-lined room and wondered why, all of a sudden, it seemed so empty—and so dull.
“I won’t waste a minute thinking about the West Coast Warri
or,” she said aloud, as if the sound of her own voice made her words more convincing, as if she could cleanse him from her mind by merely saying so.
Her feet tapped smartly against the wooden floor as she hurried from the room. There were a dozen wedding chores that needed her attention.
o0o
Jim had no idea where he was going when he left the room. All he knew was that he had to get away from Hannah. He was accustomed to being the aggressor, and she’d neatly turned the tables on him.
He needed to regroup before any more encounters with the delectable Dr. Donovan. What was it about her that made him throw manners and caution both to the wind? The first had been grilled into him by his mother, the second by a career that demanded it.
Besides, he was a guest in the Donovan home. He didn’t want to upset the senior Mr. and Mrs. Donovan, and he certainly didn’t want to piss off the Donovan brothers.
He detoured by the kitchen long enough to thank Anna for her invitation to the family supper and to decline politely. He was sidetracked by Tanner, who had just arrived from Dallas and wanted to show him the stables.
Then he got into his rental car and headed into the city.
There was always something exciting to do in a city. He’d seen nothing of Greenville except the airport and the rural areas outside the city limits. He’d prowl the riverfront, locate an out-of-the-way dive. The best food and the best music were often found in unexpected places. Two things John had told him about the Mississippi Delta: The food was delicious, and the jazz was exquisite. He’d find out for himself.
o0o
Hannah told herself she wasn’t listening for Jim’s car. She rolled over and punched her pillow, then she lifted her head and peered at the clock. Three A.M. Where in the world was he? She hadn’t seen him since he left her in the library. Of course, that didn’t mean much. She’d been so busy with wedding preparations, she’d barely seen Tanner and Paul and their families after they’d arrived.
She thought she heard the scrunch of gravel under tires and cocked her head, listening, but it turned out to be a mouse in the wall.
“Hell’s bells.” She rose from the bed, secured her hair on top of her head with a couple of large combs, reached for her robe, and headed to the bathroom. On her way, she picked up a thick book, a horror story by Robert R. McCammon. If Swan Song couldn’t take her mind off Jim Roman, nothing could.
