Author's Note: This book was originally published as Lost and Found.
It now has a new title and new cover.
U.S. Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Marc Rahn, Jr. enlisted after high school graduation to escape the pain of his parents' fatal car wreck. Now on leave after eight years and multiple Middle East deployments, he returns to his hometown to put to rest his suspicions that the "accident" might actually have been anything but.
What he doesn't expect on move-in day from the neighbor across the street is an intriguing flash of pierced nipple. The breast's owner, Phoebe Barnes, is a beautiful young jazz singer who has plans to make it big in the music business. Her early years in foster care made her hungry for attention and fame, and she's out to achieve both at almost any cost.
Despite their differing goals, Marc and Phoebe quickly give in to the sizzling attraction between them. But will their passion turn deadly when the person who killed Marc's family decides two murders might not have been enough?
Review for Lost and Found
The Jeep Diva -- "The characters are strong, compelling and easily related to and the author conveys their emotions, passions and personalities with vibrant intensity making it easy for the reader to become engrossed in their stories."
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The Gunny & The Jazz Singer
A Birchwood Falls Novel
by Jane Leopold Quinn
Chapter One
Birchwood Falls, Iowa
Early May
In the inky blackness of the small club, a lone spotlight beamed down on her. At this moment in time, Phoebe Barnes was the center of the universe, all eyes on her. She heard only her accompaniment, Hank One at the piano, Hank Two on sax. The minor notes of both instruments filled the room, overshadowing the clinking of bottles and glasses and the low-toned conversations. Blocking other sights and sounds, she sang of the sadness of trying to save love only to lose it in the end.
Her petite body sheathed in a floor-length black tank dress with ruffles running diagonally across the bodice, Phoebe warbled into the microphone. The campy thick streak of her bright fuchsia bangs belied the melancholy, bluesy tones of It Doesn't Matter Any More by Eva Cassidy.
Deep in the moment, she closed her eyes, tipping her head to the side, her pursed lips stretching out the words "over you". Selling the sorrowful lyrics wasn't hard for her. In her soul she'd never gotten over being left literally on the firehouse doorstep as an infant. Her adoptive family loved her, and she loved them back, but there was still an emptiness inside her. She'd been abandoned as some woman's mistake.
She held the last note, softening it, gentling it into a dreamy musical sigh. Head bowed, hands clasping the microphone to her chest, she waited for reactions. Then at the sound of applause and with a gracious smile, she raised her head to make eye contact with the audience. A lot of them were friends here to support her in the new series of songs she was trying out. She knew they would have cheered her on even if she'd sung flat. But she hadn't. That was the best part. She was succeeding in her chosen profession, and she'd never been happier.
Moira Logan, a model-tall svelte redhead, approached the small stage. "Phoebs, that was wonderful. Did you send a tape to William Morris?" She referred to the iconic artistic agency.
Phoebe stepped down and leaned in toward her best friend. "Tomorrow. I wanted to see if anything needed to be re-recorded after this set."
"Well tonight was fabulous, so it's a go."
The noise level in the club had kicked in and seemed even louder compared to the moody silence when she'd been singing. She loved the clubs, the excitement, the din of laughter and conversations. She loved being out with people and having fun. But unfortunately she had to go home. Singing at night and working a day job was an exhausting combination.
"Baby." Davy bumped shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. "You were hot."
"Thanks, honey. And thanks for coming." Sliding an arm around his waist, she gave him a quick squeeze. Davy, her other best friend, had features almost as pretty as Moira's but softer and sweeter. His glacier-blue eyes were the most striking color she'd ever seen.
"I wouldn't have missed it. I can't wait to go to the Grammys and tell everyone that I knew you when," he said, offering her a glass of white wine.
"You're not going alone on that trip, Davy," Moira chimed in.
"You guys are totally welcome. If I'm ever lucky enough to even go to the Grammys, let alone win one, I'll want you there." She rolled the cold, crisp liquid around her tongue and swallowed it with a tired sigh. "But I've got to get some sleep. It's been a long day."
"The most hyper woman I know is finally tired?" Moira grinned sympathetically.
"I had to be at work early this morning to open the store. At least I can sleep in tomorrow. Thank goodness my neighborhood is quiet."
***
Unhhh, what's that? Phoebe cranked open one eye to check the time. Nine twenty-two. Shit. She'd wanted to sleep until at least ten. Nine twenty-two wasn't really too early but still—
Rolling off the bed, she slowly trekked to the front room of her small house and peeked out the picture window to see what the ruckus was about. Someone was moving into the bungalow across the street. Finally. The house had been empty for quite a while and was too cute not to have a family living there.
A big man at the back of a truck directed movers into the house. It was a small truck so there wasn't all that much furniture. An iron bedframe balanced against a tire while the man bent over, his gray t-shirt riding up exposing a muscular back and giving her a peek at a gorgeous ass in snug jeans. He and another man in work clothes hoisted a black leather couch into the air and marched it up the porch steps and through the door.
She put out a hand to balance against the window frame, too curious now to go back to bed. When the man bounded back down the porch steps, his chin lifted and his gaze riveted on hers.
His face with its hard features, strong chin, and dark shadow of a beard tugged at her heart. Short black hair stuck up over his forehead, which would have made him look boyish if he hadn't been filling out that t-shirt and jeans so well. She saw all this clearly. The street was only two lanes wide. Did this small amount of furniture mean the fascinating-looking man didn't have a wife and family? Not that it would make any difference to her.
He lifted a hand to shade his eyes, a big grin splitting his face.
She shivered. The arm holding her up shook. "Oh my God!" Slamming back to the side of the window, she pressed both palms against the wall's rough plaster.
Naked! She'd just shot him full-frontal nudity. She'd been so engrossed in the sight of him she'd completely forgotten her own bare-assedness. Oh shit! He'll either never speak to me or he'll be over here in five minutes.
How the hell was she going to get back to the protection of the bedroom? Her tiny house offered a clear view from the front window all the way through to the back. Afraid to peek around the curtain to see if he was still watching, she realized how cold she was. Her nipples—with a little gold ring piercing one tip—stood out like ripe, hard raspberries. Of course it was the chilly temperature and not her immediate attraction to the man's jeans. And chest. And flat belly…
Okay. Pull yourself together. Just sprint to the bedroom. He's probably not looking any longer. Just go!
She flew through the bedroom door, threw herself onto the rumpled bed, and pulled the covers up to her chin. A fine time to be embarrassed by her nudity but she liked to pick the time and place to grace a man with her body.
And welcoming a new neighbor with a buck-naked flash wasn't quite the same as taking over a plate of co
okies or a tuna casserole.
Then it hit her again. She had just flashed the new neighbor. Laughter pealed out in a rush. Jesus. What a nutcase. Well it probably wasn't the first naked woman he'd ever seen. Unless maybe he was gay?
Crap! What a waste that would be.
Chapter Two
"Well I'll be damned."
"Did you say something, Mr. Rahn?"
His balls had instantly drawn up into the hot shelter of his groin, his cock swelling in interest. Swallowing heavily the last spit in his mouth, he stood transfixed.
He would have to have perfect long-distance eyesight.
He reluctantly turned from the view of the picture window back to the mover. "Um, no. Nothing important." Luckily the guy hadn't noticed the show. Was this an example of the neighborhood's welcome wagon? Not a bad idea. It's better than a casserole.
But right now his job was to move in. Being distracted was not in the plan, but his brain remembered very well the slender figure with long, dark hair on her head and a nice dark bush at the juncture of her thighs. Because he was a man, his eyes had alternated between pubic hair and breasts. There might have been a pretty, delicate face too. He thought so. And he was pretty sure he saw an intriguing bright flash on her chest.
Damn hot!
He sighed. She'd disappeared from the window. Time to get back to work. Furniture didn't move itself.
What belongings he had were minimal. It wasn't like he was used to sumptuous living after eight years in the Marines. He did desire comfort, though. Big, overstuffed black leather man couch, laminate wood coffee table for holding beer cans and pizza boxes—no need for femmy things like coasters—a round maple kitchen table, four matching chairs, and a king-size bed with a black wrought iron headboard.
He was only home on a six-week leave and had bought just what he'd need for now. The rest could wait until he was finally out of the service by the end of the year. The closet was plenty big enough for his few clothes and had built-in drawers for the underwear.
He'd rented the Linden Lane house empty but had the realtor stock it with kitchen items and food before he moved in. No way was he going to trek to a housewares store for dishes and pots and pans. He did want to buy a gas grill for the backyard though. He was a man, after all.
The mover was finished and paid and Marc slumped at the kitchen table, cold beer in front of him, elbows just barely holding him up. He gazed out the window over the sink to the yard and the line of trees at the back. He loved the idea of having country behind him, the way it had been growing up. But he couldn't keep his mind off what he'd seen across the street, could not forget the sight of that lush body.
His nuts tightened, the warmth radiating into his belly and down over his thighs. Did chocolate cake come with the girl? Apple pie? This was what he'd fought and sacrificed for. He didn't regret his years in the military. After his parents were killed, he'd lost his bearings. The Marines had become his home and family. He'd grown close to some of his buddies. Closing his eyes didn't banish the sudden memory of the losses he'd suffered in Iraq deployments either.
Having no major wounds was a miracle. He'd kicked in as many doors as anyone else. He'd run for cover along pockmarked, crumbling stone walls. He'd been inside a Humvee when it went over an IED. He'd survived when others hadn't. Shit!
With sheer grit he held back his tears. The last thing he wanted was to wallow in depression. He'd grown up in the safety of his home in Birchwood Falls with a mom and dad who loved him. Losing them had almost destroyed him. He'd done his crying for his parents years ago, and once he opened that door he wouldn't be able to do what he'd come home for.
For years he'd been tortured by the questions in his mind. That's why he'd finally come home. To find the answers.
After setting things up in his bedroom, Marc headed out to survey the town he hadn't seen for just short of a decade. He strode down Linden Lane toward Route 20 and hooked a right down the long block to the courthouse.
Everything looked different. New businesses had built out from the center of town and joined the old reliable ones. Trees and bushes had grown taller and fuller. What did look the same was the gas station on the corner of the highway and Third Street. He smiled at the sight of the old-fashioned, rounded-top gas pumps.
Time slipped away at the sound of the ding of the service bell. A bored-looking gas jockey meandered out toward a car, nodded at the driver, and proceeded to fill 'er up. They still did that in B Falls. His shoulders twitched at the chill racing along his spine. Things looked different, but some things never changed. Would he get used to this again?
A square in the center of town held the more than hundred-year-old ornate county courthouse surrounded on three sides by a large park with flowerbeds, walkways, and iron benches. The fourth side was always left open for weekend farmers' markets.
The building housed the police station, jail, courtrooms, the mayor's office, and city council chambers—and was his destination. He climbed the wide stone steps to hunt up Butch Wilcox, an old high school buddy who was now a Birchwood Falls cop.
Memories raced through his mind of long-ago football games, make-out parties with the cheerleaders after those games, rolling eyeballs at each other during the most boring of classes. More reminders of a life that had happened what seemed like centuries before. Simpler, safer, fun times. It was good to see Butch. He wanted to catch up with Mike Banning too. He'd been friends with Butch but best buds with Mike.
Butch came out immediately and greeted him with a hearty handshake and a welcome home.
"Come on back to my desk, Rahn. It's good to see you in one piece. Are you coming back to B Falls to live or just passing through?"
They walked past a few officers doing paperwork or talking on the phones. "I'm only on a six-week leave and not sure about the future, Butch."
"After graduation no one knew what happened to you beyond going into the Marines."
"Yeah…" His throat clogged with emotion. He'd hated the town after his parents died. But to forestall more questions he wasn't ready to answer, he asked one himself. "How about you? How long have you been a cop?"
"Since after college. I like it here. Not quite as quiet as Mayberry but it suits me." Butch indicated a chair for Marc as he sat down behind his own desk.
Sitting, Marc leaned back, brought his right ankle up to rest on his left knee and chuckled at the reference to the old Andy Griffith TV show. "Married? Kids?"
"Nah, not yet. For either. I've got someone in mind though. You?"
Marc gave a quick shake of his head. "Nope."
"Well, I'll have to show you around the hot spots of the burg, such as they are."
"Sure." He wasn't too enthusiastic about it, but Butch could be a good source of information.
"How about tonight? Later, like nine."
Marc nodded this time. "Where."
"I'll pick you up. Marietty's moved to Dad's resort. Oh sorry, you probably don't know my dad built a resort along the river, south of the church. Marietty's is part of it. Good music, booze, and food."
"Sounds fine but I'll meet you there."
"Okay. Great. I'll introduce you to the singer. She's mine."
His? That sounded like an overly possessive thing to say. "Yeah, but before I go I wanted to ask about any records or files you might have here about my parents' car accident."
"Damn, Marc, that was so long ago. Anything we have would be in storage, but I doubt there's much." Butch fiddled with papers on his desk, sliding them from one pile to another.
"Still, I'd like to see whatever you got."
"Why do you want to rehash that?"
Marc didn't want to tip his hand. He hadn't thought it was an accident for several years. He'd come back to town to lay the matter to rest once and for all. There was some reason his folks' car ran off the road, and he couldn't believe his dad had been drinking. He needed to know what would explain them careening nose-first into Falls River that night. "I just want to be sure."
"Yeah, okay, I understand. I can order up the files. Do you want to come back tomorrow morning?"
At that, Marc nodded. Butch walked him to the door of the sheriff's office where they shook hands. "I'll see you later on at Marietty's."
Well, that hadn't been too bad. The last semester of high school had been a blur of grief and shock, but older memories were coming back as he strolled around Courthouse Square. Some of the stores—more than he'd expected—were the same. Fourth Street had a pet store and Third had a chain coffee shop. Those were new.
He just couldn't get over how quiet it was, with grass, trees, neat lawns, and flower beds. He'd been on the other side of the world for so many years that it would take some getting used to seeing green grass instead of tan sand and dust. Just thinking about the dust made him thirsty, so he turned in to Java Joe's.
Taking his iced coffee, he strolled through the short hallway into the bookshop. What the people of the Middle East wouldn't give for normalcy like this, the safety and security of a cup of joe and the peace to read a book.
A quick flash of bright pink caught his eye. A woman's hair—her bangs to be exact. The figure had brushed past him from behind then turned around to speak to a store clerk. His body heated. He'd know that face anywhere even though he'd mostly ogled her body. Just this morning it had been. Yup. It was the same delicate, pretty face and petite body of the woman in the picture window.
When she glanced up at him, warm green eyes widened in recognition, then shuttered. She obviously remembered him from that morning, but since two red spots flamed across her pale cheeks she was understandably embarrassed. She shouldn't be.
His cock swelled and his balls tightened as he did his own remembering of her lovely body. It had been a long time since he'd been with a woman. Surprisingly it hadn't been the first thing on his mind lately. He was that focused on his parents.
They were mere feet apart and staring at each other when someone jostled him. He muttered a perfunctory "sorry". But the moment passed. Another woman—he hadn't noticed her—took Pink Bangs' arm. Before they could move on he touched his brow with two fingers, giving his new neighbor a sharp salute.
The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1) Page 1
