Foxfire

by Carol Ann Erhardt

  Foxfire

  Published by Carol Ann Erhardt at Smashwords

  Copyright 2010 Carol Ann Erhardt

  2008 Eppie Finalist, Romantic Suspense Category

  “I sighed deeply as I read the last word as I knew I’d just been in the presence of a gifted storyteller.” – Kay James, Romance Reader at Heart

  “A rapidly-turning plot engages the reader’s attention…” – Frost, Two Lips Reviews

  “I loved the atmosphere, and the characters and setting held the warmth of a small-town, close-knit community. Ms. Erhardt brought to life every aspect of place and time—and I could easily picture this little community in my mind.” – Margaret Marr, Nights and Weekends

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may no be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter One

  “I'm sure you understand that given the circumstances we can't be married.”

  Connor's words hit Grace with the force of an invisible fist. The restaurant sounds grew louder with multiple conversations, a burst of laughter and the clink of silverware on fine china. All normal sounds in a normal world.

  He lifted his crystal goblet as if to propose a toast to the termination of their engagement.

  Beneath the artificial lights, the diamond on her finger winked lewdly. She yanked it off and dropped it into Connor's glass of merlot, where it landed with a satisfactory clink.

  He slammed the goblet on the table, sending forth a shower of wine. With an oath, he mopped at the spots of red on his otherwise pristine, and very expensive, designer shirt.

  “Damn it, Grace, look what you've done.”

  “I haven't done anything.” Her voice rose. “What happened to innocent until proven guilty? Who made you judge and juror?” More angry words sat on the tip of her tongue, but she squelched them. She slammed her hands on the table and leaned into his face. “You're off the hook, Counselor.” Grace's voice turned the heads of the couple seated at the table next to them.

  Connor gazed over the glasses resting on his nose. His eyes, which once heated her blood, now froze her with a blast of contempt.

  “For God's sake, keep your voice down.”

  Grace pushed her chair back and walked away, defying the bulls-eye she felt between her shoulder blades. The press loved Connor Thomas, prosecuting attorney and aspiring senator. At any moment she expected an eager reporter to jump out and blind her with flashbulbs. She maneuvered her way through the throng of waiting customers, pushed open the doors of the restaurant and burst into the warm Tennessee night.

  People passed, some giving her a quick glance, others too wrapped in their own world to notice. Her temples throbbed, amplifying the pain, the resentment, and the anger. The parking garage loomed ahead—only a short block away. She stepped off the curb and her foot landed at an awkward slant, her ankle twisting painfully. With a muffled gasp, she lurched forward. She might have fallen had a male passerby not reached out to steady her.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded through her tears.

  The woman beside him gazed at her with concern.

  “I'm fine,” Grace insisted in a shaky voice. “Really.”

  She continued on, ignoring the agony twisting through her body like a buzz saw. The hollow sound of her footsteps followed her to the parking garage, and she jabbed the elevator button. The ancient mechanism clunked and clanged, but climbed higher. She waited until it stopped and punched it again but the elevator didn't move.

  With a curse, she entered the dark fetid stairwell. Pulling her shoulders toward her chest to avoid brushing the stained walls, she surged up the stairs gagging at the vile odor of urine-soaked concrete.

  She plunged through the door and took a breath. Behind the elevator, metal scraped on concrete. She held her breath and listened, but heard no further noise. She placed her keys between her fingers and hurried toward her car. The click-click of her footsteps picked up pace, battling the thud-thud of her heartbeat. She reached her car and fumbled with the lock. Finally, she slid beneath the steering wheel.

  The car's interior light winked out, leaving her and her tumbling thoughts in semi-darkness. How had Connor learned her secret? He had the means to check into her background, but why had he waited until now? They'd worked together for a year, been engaged for six months, and never once had he seemed interested in her past. Evidently, she'd been mistaken.

  Once again, she heard the sound of metal grating across the floor. For endless seconds she held her breath, listening to her own racing heartbeat.

  With palsied fingers, she turned the key and the motor roared to life. She glanced through the rear window and inched her car out of the narrow parking space. Her headlight beams illuminated a man standing next to the elevator. Their eyes made contact, and with a sense of unease, she pressed the accelerator and sped toward the exit.

  She thought the man was most likely one of the city's homeless, of which there were many. Some lived on the streets because they had lost jobs and homes, while others had drifted there due to addictions. Once, had she not been strong enough to fight, she might have become one of the faceless forgotten souls.

  She paid her parking fee and merged onto the busy street, longing to get home where she could lick her wounds in private, but every traffic light conspired against her.

  “Come on,” she urged the red beacon holding her prisoner. She swiped at an angry tear running down her cheek. A haunting country tune wafted from the speakers, lamenting a broken heart and lost dreams.

  With the push of a button she stifled the singer's pain.

  ****

  Twenty minutes later, Grace Wilkins entered the sanctuary of home.

  “Tiff, here girl. Where are you?” She turned on the lamp, flooding the living room with light, but there was no sign of her canine friend.

  Grace tossed her purse on the sofa, kicked off her shoes, and padded to the kitchen. The humiliation she'd swallowed had formed into a lead cannonball in her stomach. She rummaged through the refrigerator and pulled out a partial bottle of wine. She poured herself a glass and carried it to the bedroom, hoping it would help kill the parasites of anger and hurt chewing her from inside out. She stepped out of her slacks and quickly removed her other clothes, assessing her body in the mirror. She frowned. Her hips were fuller than fashionably acceptable in today's world, especially for someone of her short stature. Her breasts, while not Playboy material, weren't too bad. Her best feature was her naturally curly red hair. She looked normal on the outside, no visible scars. The scars were inside where she kept them hidden from the rest of the world. Connor had inflicted another one tonight.

  She wrapped herself in her worn terrycloth robe, then sank onto the mattress and stared into the mirror at her own haunted gaze. Silently, she asked the image if it would have been so wrong for her to marry, have a decent home, maybe one or two kids? She'd been so close to fulfilling her dreams. If only—

  The pet door rattled and Tiffany's claws scrabbled across the kitchen floor. The black and white collie-lab bounded through the bedroom door, waving her tail like a banner.

  The dog gave a short bark. Ninety pounds of animal leaned against Grace's leg.

  “Where've you been?” Grace sat the wine on the nightstand and ruffled the dog's fur with both hands. Tiffany gazed at her with total adoration, freeing the tears Grace could no longer stifle. They streamed down her cheeks and
she slipped to the floor, throwing her arms around the dog's neck. Grace burrowed her face in the soft black fur and her shoulders heaved. Deep coughing sobs erupted from the depth of her scarred soul.

  Tiffany squirmed closer and licked at Grace's damp cheeks. Suddenly the dog stilled and her ears perked. At a knock on the door, she hurtled away.

  Grace grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. Only one person would come calling this time of night—Brad, her next-door neighbor and the closest thing to a grandfather she'd ever had. Tonight she wasn't eager for his company. She didn't want him to see her broken spirit. Not even if he could almost make her believe she deserved more out of life.

  Tiffany whined at the front door, nose to the crack.

  Grace flicked on the porch light and opened the door without looking through the peephole.

  Tiffany nosed the wooden screen door, squeezed through, and jumped to rest her front paws against the chest of a man Grace had never seen before. Grace stepped outside, letting the screen door close behind her.

  The dog's tail wagged so fast a breeze stirred the robe Grace clutched tightly against her chest. She held it together with one hand and reached blindly with the other for the belt. Finally she secured the two ends in a semi-knot.

  “Down, Tiff,” she ordered.

  Her visitor laughed, a deep warm from-the-toes burst of mirth. He rubbed the dog's neck and gently sent her back to all fours.

  “It's all right. We're old friends.”

  Tiffany plopped at his feet and stared up at Grace with a panting smile.

  The man's gaze fell to Grace's bare feet, and then lifted slowly, heating her blood inch by inch.

  “Sorry if I've caught you at a bad time.” Emerald eyes locked on hers, belying his apology. “Tyler Sandford.” He held his hand out. Laugh lines added character to his handsome face. “I'm your neighborhood veterinarian. I bought the house through that stand of trees.” He nodded to his left.

  He had caught her at a bad time. She jutted out her chin, daring him to acknowledge her puffy eyes and red nose. She let go of her robe and gripped his hand firmly. “Grace Wilkins.”

  Why hadn't she checked before opening the door? What must he think of the half-naked, sniffling, woman before him? And why did she care? Somewhere deep inside, hurt knocked against her ribs. She pulled her hand out of his warm grip, and adjusted the robe to protect her cleavage. She nodded at her dog, who acted as if she'd found a new best friend. “And this is Tiffany.”

  His emerald eyes held her gaze, pulling her in, magnetizing her. “You have a beautiful name, Grace.”

  What kind of line was he dealing? She hated her name. She didn't even have a middle name since her mother hadn't given her only daughter one. She was Grace Wilkins. Period. No middle name. No middle initial. One man had dubbed her Gracie Jo. She suppressed a shudder.

  Tyler's heated glance threatened to melt her armor, but she stood strong against the assault. She'd met his kind many times. His dark hair and equally dark lashes set off his chiseled face. He was handsome, flirtatious and most likely unfaithful.

  She eased back toward the door. “Did you stop by to borrow a cup of sugar?”

  Obviously unfazed by her saccharine barb, he knelt beside the dog. “Your dog and I met on the path in the woods.” His chin rose to avoid Tiffany's tongue. “I followed her here, noticed your lights on, and decided to stop and introduce myself.”

  Grace stared. Both of his knees shone through the gaping holes in his threadbare, tattered jeans. Dirty tennis shoes peeked from beneath the ragged cuffs. Though they were in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains where people didn't exactly dress for success, his attire didn't fit her image of a veterinarian.

  Grace snapped her fingers signaling Tiffany, but the dog remained frozen to his side.

  His dark smoldering gaze swept down Grace's bare legs, and a smile teased the corners of his mouth. Slowly he rose to his full height to tower over her.

  If he thought she'd succumb to his not-so-charming come-on, he'd be disappointed. He didn't know the real woman behind the tear-ravaged face. “So we've met now.” Grace placed her hand on the gap of the robe and pressed her knees together. “As you can see, I'm not exactly dressed for company.”

  His gaze caressed her again, pausing briefly where her hand clutched the robe above her racing heart.

  “Looks good to me.”

  When he leaned closer as if to share a secret, she caught and held her breath. “You have something on your face.” His fingers touched her cheek and came away holding a piece of tissue. “Got it.”

  The tissue floated to the wooden floor.

  “I apologize for dropping by so late. I just wanted to put in a plug for business.”

  He was so close, the crisp citrus scent of his cologne stroked her senses. With shocking awareness, she watched his nostrils flare. She took a step backward, regaining her space. Beneath the thin robe, goose bumps danced on her body. The phenomenon had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with this unwelcome visitor standing on her porch.

  She put her hand on the screen door and began to pull it open.

  “I'll bring Tiffany by for her yearly shots. Maybe in six months or so.”

  “You don't have to wait that long.” His lashes kissed his cheekbone in a lazy wink. “Come down any time. I'll give you a tour.” He ran his hand down Tiffany's back and as Grace watched, she felt her own body quiver just like the dog's.

  “I have to go.” The door squeaked on its hinges as Grace backed into the open doorway.

  The slight upward curve to her visitor's lips and the gleam in his eyes told her everything. He knew what she was feeling. She was an idiot. Earlier tonight another man had spurned her. So much for new beginnings. She was what she was.

  She opened the door and snapped her fingers. “Come, Tiff.”

  Tiffany whacked her tail against the porch floor.

  Tyler lifted his shoulders in a shrug toward his not-so-innocent smile and nudged the dog with his foot.

  Tiffany lumbered to her feet and walked into the house.

  “See you around.” He nodded in farewell.

  “Good night.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said. A teasing grin lifted his lips and traveled up his face, igniting his unusually deep green eyes. He winked, pivoted, and strode off toward the woods.

  Grace stared through the screen until the darkness and trees swallowed his outline, then she closed and locked the door.

  “Traitor. I suppose you still expect me to feed you.”

  Tiffany whined, her eyes remorseful.

  “You like him, huh?”

  A tail waved in response.

  “Did you notice his eyes? I've never seen eyes that color before. Probably fake. I suppose he wears contacts.”

  Grace dipped the plastic dish in the dog food bag. “Doesn't matter if the color's real or not, he's still hot.”

  Tiffany whuffed softly.

  Grace placed the bowl on the floor and headed for the shower. She spied the glass of wine she'd poured earlier and dumped it down the sink. She'd lost the urge to drink away her pain. Her new neighbor might be an outrageous flirt, but he'd been a soothing balm to her bruised ego.

  After her shower, she slipped into a silk and lace nightgown, one of her vices, and snuggled beneath the cool sheets. Tiffany stretched across the foot of the bed.

  Grace closed her eyes. Soon her new neighbor's face formed into a sensual dream-like vision. She knew instinctively there'd be no holding back with a man like him. Everything would be spontaneous, exciting, and passionate. She lost herself in the fantasy, in a heated kiss that seared her soul. She gazed into deep emerald fire that sparked like the gem.

  Suddenly the image began to shift and the green eyes turned to steely gray hiding behind plastic lenses. The heat of passion turned to fetid flames of viscous evil. Fingers dug into her shoulders. Connor's voice rasped, “The media would have a hey-day if they learned my future wife used to be a prostitute.
” His polished attorney smile, all white dazzling teeth, flashed behind her eyes. The scene in the restaurant kept repeating over and over, like a movie in perpetual play.

  Grace rolled over and punched the pillow. She hadn't been a prostitute.

  Well, not exactly.

  ****

  Tyler climbed the back stairs of the clinic, which led to his apartment above. He flicked on the lights and took off his jacket and shoulder holster. The gun clunked against the heavy wooden kitchen table. He reached for his cell phone and dialed his boss.

  “I made contact tonight,” Tyler informed Jake when he answered.

  “Good. Before you tell me, listen up. We've been following a lead in South America. If it pans out, I'll have a picture for you in a few days.”

  “What about Ted Powell?”

  “Nada.”

  “So maybe Max isn't here at all. I've been scouting the area every day, but so far, everything seems normal.”

  “Tell me about your contact with Grace Wilkins.”

  What could he tell him? That she had curves reminiscent of the starlets of the 50's, nicely rounded hips that a man's hands could grip, or that her million dollar legs should be insured? Or should he confess that looking into her deep blue eyes he glimpsed a vulnerability hidden behind her tough façade? Her picture hadn't fully prepared him for the flesh and blood woman.

  “Not much to tell,” he finally said. “I caught her at a bad time, introduced myself and that's about it.” Except that he had always been a sucker for tears. Some women couldn't hide the evidence. Grace was one of them. She had the light complexion and freckles that led him to believe her red riotous curls didn't come from a bottle.

  “An introduction is a start, I guess,” Jake conceded. “Just do your best to keep an eye on her. I've no doubt Max will surface, and I don't want him to strike when we're not looking and get away. She's our best lead right now. We'll keep looking for Ted Powell. If anything comes up, I'll call you.”

  Tyler ran a hand through his hair. “All right. I'm going to maintain my cover as long as possible.”