"I listened to the news for a report about the earthquake today," she said, trying to find safe conversational ground, "but I didn't hear a thing."
Even in the semidarkness, she sensed his unease. "I guess the damage was confined to a small area," he offered.
"Were your losses substantial?"
"Quite a bit of glassware and a few clocks, but I'll survive."
"Good." She chanced a glance at his dark profile. "I'd hate to lose one of my most reliable resources."
He swung his gaze toward her. "If 'reliable' is all I can get, I guess I'll take it."
She laughed lightly, then realized they had come to a complete stop at an intersection and the light glowed green.
"Where do you live?" he asked, his tone sheepish.
Jasmine laughed harder. "Near the expressway, on Candlelight Court."
He whistled. "Nice area."
"I like it," she said, making a split-second comparison between her upscale condo and the hovel she'd lived in as a child.
"Do you have nice neighbors?"
Jasmine frowned into the darkness. Actually, she had no idea. "It's not a very social community—everyone's so busy, I suppose."
"I've been tempted to move a few times," Ladden said, "but every time I think of the possibility of getting stuck with bad neighbors, I stay put and count my blessings." He smiled at her across the seat. "Mr. and Mrs. Matthews keep their yard looking nice, and the Hanovers are always inviting me over to cook out with them."
"Sounds homey," she agreed, thinking a murder could be committed in the unit next to hers and she'd never know it. "So, have you decided on a price for the rug?"
He probed his cheek with his tongue. "I still haven't decided whether to sell it."
"Just promise me I'll get first crack at it."
"If I decide to sell the rug, you'll get first crack at it."
"I'm making headway," she said triumphantly.
Inclining his head toward the bag she clung to, he said, "By the way, the check you gave me for that copper lamp was way too much. I can't accept it."
"Just put it on my account," she said quickly, thinking that, after the quake, he could probably use a little cash flow. "Will you be open for business tomorrow?"
"Only for you." He smiled, sending little tremors to her midsection. "Otherwise, I'll be closed to finish the cleanup and complete my inventory."
She suddenly wished she hadn't accepted his generosity. What would Trey say if he knew she accepted a ride home from another man? Her heart tripped double time, and she glanced into the side mirror. What if a photographer were following them at this very minute? She could just imagine the scandal in the papers.
"I'll be needing that table in a few days," she said in a shaky voice. "Pencil in the delivery to the governor's mansion whenever it's convenient."
"You've been working on the governor's place for a long time—what, eight months now?"
"Seven," she corrected. "I hadn't planned on being asked to overhaul the private quarters once I finished the public touring areas."
"What a lucky break," he said lightly.
She glanced at him sideways. "Yes."
"I saw you on the news the other night at a fundraiser. You looked nice."
Jasmine shifted restlessly, wondering why she felt compelled to defend herself. "I do what I can to help Trey's reelection campaign."
"Do you think he'll win?"
"I certainly hope so. And not just for his sake. I truly believe he's the best man for the job."
"He made a lot of enemies when he went head-to-head with the logging industry."
"That took a lot of guts."
Ladden made a thoughtful noise. "And his campaign costs are mounting—I read close to three million?"
"Trey thinks it's worth it," she murmured. She herself found it difficult to imagine the dollars people at Trey's level bandied about as if it were milk money.
They hit a pothole, bounced up, and landed with enough force to jar her teeth. She laughed and he apologized.
"You might want to mention that little bump in the road the next time you see the governor," he teased. "I've called my councilman twice and got nowhere."
"Take a right at the next light," she said. "Then turn into the gate."
He slowed the truck at the gated entrance and rolled down the window. Jasmine leaned forward and waved to the guard. The man glanced at the truck with a puzzled look but waved them on through.
"Seems like a safe place," Ladden remarked.
"Mine is the third unit on the left," she said, then unbuckled her belt, poised to make her getaway.
He pointed to her condo for clarification, and she nodded.
"Thanks for the ride," she said cheerfully. She lifted the door handle, but it refused to budge.
"The handle sticks," Ladden said with a little smile. "I'll have to get it from the outside."
He opened the door and jumped down. Jasmine sat in the dark and tried to squash the absurd feelings echoing in her chest. She had to distance herself from this man who, by some collision of hormones and timing, had caught her completely off guard.
He opened the complaining passenger door and raised his arms to help her down. Jasmine opened her mouth to decline, but with one look at his sincere, gentle smile, her will dissolved. She settled one hand on his shoulder. His big hands practically spanned her waist, his thumbs pressing on either side of her navel as he swung her to the ground.
For a few seconds, her hand seemed glued to his shoulder, his hands bound to her waist. Thankfully, he moved first, clearing his throat. "I'll walk you to your door."
"There's no need," she said quickly.
His mouth curved into an innocent smile. "My aunt would never forgive me if I displayed such a lapse in manners."
She relented and walked toward the well-lit entrance of her townhouse. As she dug for her keys, Jasmine decided she couldn't blame her knocking knees on Ladden—she was more afraid of herself. What if he tried to kiss her good night? Would she let him? Would she like it?
He walked a half-step behind her, his boots scraping against the sidewalk. At her door she turned around and offered him a broad smile. "Thanks for seeing me home," she said, a bit too loudly.
"No problem," he said, then leaned forward and, before she had time to react, grazed his warm cheek against hers—just his cheek. "Good night," he murmured.
Jasmine had the feeling that if he'd been wearing a hat, he would have doffed it to her, but instead he simply nodded, turned on his heel, and strode back to his big, ugly truck, whistling.
After fumbling with her keys, she unlocked the door and disabled the security alarm. But she couldn't do anything to silence the warning alarms going off in her head. She leaned against the door, willing herself not to watch him pull away from the curb, but she couldn't resist. Jasmine tiptoed into the dark living room and fingered aside the curtain, smiling as he backed up the truck, its bulky shape nearly outlined with tiny safety lights. After some tight maneuvering, he managed to turn the truck around on the narrow street and pull away, the aged vehicle coughing and sputtering.
She bit her lower lip and told herself the events of the last few hours meant nothing. When she realized she was holding the copper lamp with a white-knuckled grip, she scoffed at herself and unwrapped her new treasure. She set the lamp beneath a spotlight on the mantel, admiring its lustrous finish. On impulse, she lifted the tiny lid, then stepped back in amazement as butterflies burst through the opening and fluttered toward the ceiling. Somehow, the insects from Ladden's store must have been trapped inside.
Incredulous, Jasmine gaped as they spread throughout her living room, then she laughed through her fingers. When Ladden's easy smile appeared in her mind, confusion, excitement, and wonder crowded her chest. She dropped onto her leather couch in the dark and hugged a cushion under her chin as she watched the butterflies gravitate to the spotlight over the mantel.
* * *
Ladden waited until h
e guided his big, rickety truck through the gates of the posh community before he allowed himself an ear-to-ear grin. He pounded the steering wheel and whooped as he pulled onto the expressway. But after a few minutes of driving, he pictured the groomed landscaping in front of Jasmine's expensive townhouse, looked around the smelly cab of his old truck, and plummeted back to earth.
Jasmine dated the governor, and even if McDonald didn't win reelection, he would still be a powerful man. And she was a successful woman in her own right, with a thriving business and a nice home in the most plush area of town. She'd have no use for a man whose social circle rarely extended past family and neighbors. In a word, she was... untouchable—to him, at least.
A radio ad to vote for Trey McDonald sounded over the aged dashboard speakers. Ladden switched the station and sighed. "I wish Jasmine could see how crazy I am about her," he muttered. "Before it's too late."
Chapter Five
DESPITE THE MIXED FEELINGS raging through his head and heart the night before, Ladden woke with a smile on his face. A full-body stretch still left room to spare in his knotty pine sleigh bed. He grabbed a pillow and rolled to his side, imagining Jasmine lying next to him, her dark hair splayed over the white pillowcase. Then he forced himself to forget his musings. A casual ride home did not a relationship make.
He swung his feet to the pale wood floor and scrubbed his hands over his face. Wriggling his toes against the smooth, cool planks, he pondered the addition of the antique rug to his bedroom. He glanced around the comfortably cluttered room, thinking the carpet might actually lend some sense of order to his eclectic collection of furnishings. And it might give him some incentive to put up a curtain or two, he thought, frowning at the bare windows. On an inspired Sunday afternoon several months ago, he had hung the old metal rods he'd bought because he liked the primitive fish finials, but he'd never gotten around to hanging curtains. The view into his backyard was too nice to cover up, anyway, he thought as he pulled himself to his feet and walked over to the window in his boxers.
Okay, so maybe the daffodils needed to be thinned—they were looking a bit wild—and maybe the roses could use a trim—they were buckling the wall trellises—but it made for a private little paradise he'd enjoyed creating over the past seven years he'd lived in the Glenhayden house. He saluted his lonely looking hammock and made a silent promise to relax this weekend, once the store was back in order.
The thought of the mysterious earthquake and the damage it had wrought dampened his spirits somewhat. If he hadn't experienced other tremors growing up in Sacramento, he might give credence to other explanations... but he knew an earthquake when he felt one, and he was going to stick by his story, no matter how unbelievable it seemed.
He showered and shaved with less speed than usual, picturing Jasmine's golden skin and black braid vividly enough to cause his body to harden. After some teeth-grinding and cold water, he left the bathroom, pulled on a pair of worn jeans and a T-shirt, then padded into the kitchen to turn on the coffeemaker. While the dark liquid brewed, he toasted a couple of slices of hearty bread and straightened his small kitchen. Betsy would be over during the day to clean for the week, but he hated to leave too much of a mess.
Betsy, his curvy, red-haired housecleaner, had made it clear she wouldn't mind going to dinner with him sometime, but he needed a reliable housecleaner more than he needed a date. He frowned as he carried a small breakfast tray outside to his customary spot on the front porch. Maybe he should give up this ridiculous fantasy about Jasmine Crowne and get serious about finding a woman who wanted to share his life.
He set the tray on a glass-topped, wrought-iron table, then wiped the dew from one of the matching chairs. Barefoot, he loped off the porch and down the short flight of stone steps to the end of the cobblestone sidewalk where the practiced paperboy typically left the Daily News.
"Hello, Ladden," Mrs. Matthews called from next door.
He lifted his hand in a friendly wave, smiling at her brightly colored robe. She scooped up her paper and disappeared inside the house where she and her husband had lived for more than twenty years. Ladden turned and scrutinized the front of his home, critically comparing the worn red brick, jutting dormers, and wide, inviting porch to the sleek lines of Jasmine's pale-colored townhouse. Her tiny yard was professionally landscaped. And although his sprawling lawn was neatly clipped, his homey vegetation was out of control. English ivy practically obscured the white block foundation under the porch and boldly encroached on the wood railing.
A house, he'd always thought, told a lot about the person who lived there. Which only reinforced his observation that he and Jasmine were polar opposites. He was a shabby brick home, full of thoughts as old-fashioned as his furniture, and she was an upscale condominium, safely gated against the likes of him.
He slowly unfolded the newspaper to scan the headlines, then stumbled and stubbed his toe on an uneven stone in the sidewalk. Cursing and hopping, he stared at the headline that covered the entire first page: A wise second wish, Master.
The note the bartender handed him last night at Tabby's flashed before his eyes. Some guy with a turban, Malone had said.
With shaking hands, Ladden climbed the steps and fell into his chair, unable to look at the newspaper. He downed the cup of coffee before he took a deep breath and smoothed open the front page. To his dismay, the headline had not changed. His fingers tingled and he felt light-headed. The rest of the paper looked normal—weather, movie reviews, obituaries, but the front page...
"What the heck is going on?" he mumbled. Ladden lunged off the porch and marched through the grass to the Matthewses' front door.
Mrs. Matthews answered his slightly frantic knock. "Ladden, how good to see you. Won't you come in and join me for oatmeal?"
"Thanks, Mrs. Matthews," he said, feeling foolish. "But I was wondering if I could see your paper. M-mine was missing the front page."
She disappeared, then came back and extended the paper with a smile. "Harmon isn't up yet, so just drop it off before you leave for work."
With his heart thudding, he opened the paper and glanced over the headline that announced Governor McDonald trailed his opponent in the polls by a growing margin. Ladden inhaled and exhaled slowly, then folded the paper and handed it back to his neighbor. "Th-thanks anyway, Mrs. Matthews. It looks like more of the same old stuff."
"You're right." She sighed and wagged her graying head. "It appears the governor is going to lose the race for sure. Too bad, I think he's a nice young man, don't you?"
Ladden swallowed hard and nodded, offering what he hoped was a convincing smile. "Yeah." He backed away slowly, barely restraining the urge to bolt. "Tell Harmon hello for me, Mrs. Matthews."
He waded through the damp grass, ignoring the wetness oozing between his toes and climbing the legs of his jeans. "There's something weird going on here," he muttered, squashing the panic that ballooned in his chest. His newspaper lay scattered on his porch, strewn by the wind. He gathered up the flimsy, damp sheets, but now the front page really was missing. Ladden scoured the yard, searched the neighbors' bushes, and looked up into trees, to no avail.
He strode inside to his bedroom, yanked the shirt he'd worn last night off the floor and rifled his pockets until he found the note the bartender had given him. He exhaled in relief when he recognized Jasmine's handwriting where she'd written her car tag number. But when he turned over the crumpled note, the other side was blank... completely, absolutely, irrefutably blank.
* * *
By the time he locked up the house and climbed into his delivery truck, Ladden had convinced himself he'd close the store for a few days once he filed the insurance claim and drive down the coast for a short vacation. He'd been working too hard, and he was becoming consumed by a woman he couldn't have. Hell, he might even see if Betsy wanted to tag along—she was a cute girl with a sweet disposition. And she came from a nice family on the outskirts of Glenhayden—hardworking people who wouldn't mind that he wasn'
t rich or influential.
In the daylight, his truck looked even worse than he remembered, and he tingled with embarrassment when he realized that Jasmine was probably laughing at his clumsy efforts to be near her. By the time he pulled into the alley behind the store, he was determined to get out of Sacramento as soon as possible.
He opened the rear door to his storeroom and switched on the light, his gaze immediately drawn to the antique rug. Except it wasn't lying on the table where it had been last night when he'd locked up.
He was standing on it.
The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He inhaled sharply when a handful of remaining butterflies, disturbed by his entry, took wing and fluttered around his head.
Pressing his lips together, Ladden took several calming breaths. There had to be a reasonable explanation. Perhaps another tremor had occurred during the night, flinging the rug across the room?
"Yeah," he muttered, nodding. "That's probably what happened." He stepped to the side on shaky knees, then bent and rolled up the carpet, his fingers stinging from the static electricity crackling across the wool surface. Lifting the tall bundle carefully, he carried it to a corner and stood it next to an armoire.
He backed away, eyeing the carpet warily. Then he opened the door to his showroom and flooded the area with light, expecting to see evidence of another tremor to support his theory. But things were exactly as he'd left them—not tidy, but unchanged.
His mind racing, Ladden walked through the shop slowly, stopping to lean on both hands against the long mahogany counter. He was imagining things: the note, the newspaper, the moving rug. Maybe the tremor had been an explosion of some kind, an explosion that had released fumes and claimed a few brain cells.
A knock on his door brought his head up. Mrs. Pickney stood on the other side of the glass door. He smiled in relief—he needed to have a sane conversation with a sane person. Ladden unlocked the door. "You're here early."
"I wanted to talk to you before I opened, dear," Mrs. Pickney said, squeezing his hand.
Mad About You Page 40
