Somebody to Love

by Unknown

  “And that’s it?”

  “Well,” she said. “There is the fact if we get permission to excavate Triangle Mount, it will be a feather in your cap and earn brownie points for you with Dr. Sinton.”

  “Don’t stick your neck out for me.”

  “But isn’t that what best friends are for?”

  Jericho looked at her with such hot longing, that Zoey had to wonder if they even were best friends anymore. With that kiss, had they crossed an invisible line from which there was no going back?

  ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, almost a week since Jericho had kissed her, Zoey was on her way to the August McCleary Foundation’s semiannual board meeting. She was leaving nothing to chance. She smiled at her pun. Honestly, she’d leave everything to chance—Jericho Chance, that is—if she could, but Jericho was in a precarious position as a brand-new instructor for the field school and on probation to boot. He couldn’t go around rocking boats, but she sure could. It was one of the things she did best.

  Then again, he’d done some hellacious boat rocking in Junie Mae’s backyard last week. She sighed dreamily and touched her lips. Too bad. Too darn bad that they had to put this thing between them in cold storage for a few more weeks. Then again, if she could keep him at arm’s length while they worked side by side, it would be clear proof she could control her impulses. Right?

  Ah, but can you?

  There was the rub.

  What did she want more? Jericho or her trust fund?

  Hold out for a few weeks and you don’t have to choose.

  Her distant cousin and chairman of the foundation board, Marcus Winz-Smith, was also CEO of a boutique pharmaceutical company headquartered in Austin. While Cousin Walker had taken the helm of the string of Trans-Pecos pharmacies started by Great-Great-Uncle August before they’d been bought out by a big corporation in the 1980s—except for the flagship store in Cupid that Cousin Walker still ran—Marcus’s side of the family had inherited the original formula that August used to heal those stricken with the Spanish flu in 1918.

  Marcus made some alterations and adjustments and invented Flugon, a medication administered to patients at the first signs of flu symptoms in order to lessen the severity of the virus. Under Winz-Smith’s expert management, Flugon was rapidly becoming a worldwide go-to antiviral of choice.

  The foundation’s offices were on the top floor of a converted old Victorian. The bottom floor housed the Cupid Museum, which was filled with dusty old history that had never much interested Zoey before, in spite of the fact that eighty percent of the history in it was related to her family on one side or the other.

  A cowbell clanked when she walked through the door and the old floorboards creaked beneath her feet. The board meeting was scheduled for two and it was ten minutes until the hour. She hoped to intercept Winz-Smith before he ducked upstairs.

  The thin woman behind the welcome counter, Tabitha Crispin, was a sometimes member of the Letters to Cupid volunteers. She sported a gray poodle-perm and bright red rectangular reading glasses perched on the end of her sharp, long nose. When Zoey was a kid, she thought Tabitha was a witch, what with the name and the nose and her tendency to dress in black. Someone must have told Tabitha to brighten up for the tourists, because today she wore gray and she was busy dipping strawberries into a bowl of sugar, holding them by the green stem and nibbling on them like a rabbit.

  Tabitha greeted her with a hearty hello that belied her generally dour appearance.

  “Morning.” Zoey nodded.

  “Didja come to see August’s formulary we just put on display?” Tabitha waved toward a glass case in the middle of the musty-smelling room. “Granted it’s dull as dirt, but with Walker’s biography about your great-great-uncle August hitting the New York Times bestseller list and that Universal Studios deal in the offing, there’s been a lot of interest in seeing the formulary. Amazing how all this time Cupid has been sitting on this bit of history just waiting for your cousin Walker to write about it.”

  “Uh-huh.” Zoey wandered over to the case where the leather-bound journal was displayed on a stand and opened in the middle to the empirical formula that was the genesis of Flugon.

  The entry was dated June 6, 1914, in a spidery scrawl, four years before the catastrophic Spanish flu seized the world in a death grip. Zoey squinted. The chemical formula was all mathy and complicated, a diagram of atoms and the molecules that made up the compound.

  Totally boring, except for an odd little drawing in the top corner of the page that consisted of two side-by-side triangles; the one on the right was slightly taller and there was a small dot just below the peak of that triangle. In between the triangles, at the base level was a narrow oval—almost the shape of an almond—and directly above the oval was arciform that resembled an eyebrow arched over an eye. The whole thing made her think of a deconstructed Eye of Providence. She loved puzzles, and the drawing intrigued her.

  “What’s this doodle above the molecular formula?” she asked Tabitha.

  “Just that. A doodle. August was a big doodler. Book is filled with ’em. I’m surprised you don’t know that. You’re a McCleary, after all. You should know your family history,” Tabitha chided.

  Yeah, yeah, she got that a lot.

  “Have you ever investigated the McCleary family tree? Fascinating stuff, your ancestry. Didja know we have traced it to the first McCleary who ever set foot in the Trans-Pecos back in the eighteenth century?”

  “Nah.” Zoey shrugged. “I’m not much of a history buff.”

  “Those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it,” Tabitha said. “That’s a quote from Edmund Burke.”

  “Whoever that is,” she mumbled.

  Tabitha pulled a book from underneath the counter and flipped it open. “Did you know that Marcus is a popular McCleary name? There have been four since the first McClearys came to Jeff Davis County.”

  Zoey forced herself not to yawn. “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s a beautiful name. If you ever have a son, you might consider using it. There’s something very comforting about tradition. I’m jealous you have such a long pedigree on both sides of your family. You don’t know how lucky you are. My family is very small. My Tommy and I never had any children of our own, although we had a lot of fun trying.” Tabitha winked. “If you get what I mean.”

  Eeew. She did not need the image of Tabitha having sex burned into her brain.

  “Look at all the great family names you have to choose from for your children.” Tabitha started reading off names on a list of long-departed McClearys from the book. “Zachariah, Jeb, Edward, Gerald, and of course the four Marcuses. Or if you have girls you can choose from Claudia, Christina, Clarissa, Charlotte, Catherine.”

  Zoey covered a yawn with her palm.

  “Hmm,” Tabitha mused. “They really had a thing for C names when it came to females. Do you think it was because they liked alliteration? Catherine McCleary has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Although the girls would have lost the alliteration when they married and back then women never kept their maiden names. Makes you wonder why the family didn’t do the C thing with the boys instead. If I would have had a son I always thought I might have named him Chaucer.”

  Looks like Tabitha’s imaginary kid had dodged a daily beating. Wow. Hanging out in the museum by herself all day with nothing to do but dust old books and read yellowed musty tomes about long dead folks must have gone to the old girl’s head.

  Zoey cast an eye toward the door. Tabitha might be curator of the Cupid Museum, but she was also gatekeeper to the foundation offices. There was a chain draped across the stairs that led up to the second floor. She couldn’t really vault over the chain and lay in wait for Winz-Smith. That held no finesse, and besides, Tabitha wouldn’t go for it. She took her duties seriously.

  Best course of action? When in doubt, charm, charm, charm.

  “I can’t believe how spotless you keep this place,” Zoey said. “Must be difficult with tourists traipsing i
n sand and getting fingerprints all over the display cases.”

  Tabitha reached underneath the counter for a bottle of Windex and a polishing rag. “My secret weapon.”

  “You deserve a raise.”

  “We survive on donations,” she said. “Minimum wage works for me. I have a nice Halliburton pension from my Tommy, God rest his soul. I do this mostly to get out of the house.”

  “Listen, Mrs. Crispin—”

  “You’ve known me long enough to call me Tabby.”

  Zoey sauntered over to the counter. Oh this was good, first-name basis. “Tabby.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Is there any way I can speak to Mr. Winz-Smith before the meeting starts?”

  “Oh my, no.” Tabitha pressed a hand to her chest. “He’s on a very tight time schedule. He flies in on his private jet for the meetings and flies right out again. He’s a very important man.”

  Damn! Why hadn’t she thought about ambushing Winz-Smith at the Cupid Airport? Maybe because she had a mental block about the airport since that’s where her parents had flown out of the day they were killed.

  “I wouldn’t take up much of his time. We could walk and talk.”

  Tabitha narrowed her eyes to slits, and in the light slanting through the blinds, she looked exactly like a storybook witch. “I have strict instructions to keep people away from him. You know how some folks are about drug company executives. Think they’re all evil because they make money off sick people.”

  “But he’s my cousin.”

  “Very distantly. Have you ever spoken to him?”

  “No, but I saw him once at a family reunion when I was a kid. I think it was him anyway.”

  “Might as well be a stranger. You want to speak to him, you have to request a meeting through the proper channels just like anybody else.”

  Male voices spoke from behind the house. Was it Winz-Smith coming in through the rear entrance?

  “Don’t even think about it,” Tabby warned.

  Zoey assessed the older woman. She could outrun her, no doubt about it, and at least get in a handshake and a quick plea to Winz-Smith before Tabby booted her out of the museum.

  “I keep a Taser under the counter,” Tabby threatened. “Wanna see it?”

  Zoey raised both palms. “I’m good.”

  Two men came into the museum through the back door. One was close to six-foot-five and built like a shipping pod. He had on a suit that bulged at the seams and he still wore dark sunglasses indoors. He might as well walk around with a red neon sign above his head that flashed “Bodyguard.”

  The second man was fortysomething and the prettiest guy she’d ever seen. He was Rob Lowe and Pierce Brosnan rolled into one—lush dark hair, piercing blue eyes, perfectly symmetrical features. His suit was tailored to fit his sleek, toned body. His nails were manicured, his hair freshly clipped, and his clean-shaven face was as smooth as the proverbial baby’s behind. He was the sort of man who’d make the majority of women swoon and drool. Once upon a time, Zoey would have been one of those women, but now all she could do was compare him to Jericho and he came up seriously lacking—why go for soft and pretty when you could have ruggedly masculine?

  Just thinking about Jericho sent a sweet shiver through her.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Crispin,” the pretty man said.

  Tabby blushed like a schoolgirl. “Hello, Mr. Winz-Smith. I have a fresh pot of coffee brewed. Your favorite dark French roast.”

  Marcus Winz-Smith cast a glance at the big fellow, who nodded and walked off, ostensibly to fetch a cup of coffee for his boss. From the pocket of Winz-Smith’s suit jacket protruded a rolled up copy of the American Journal of Botany. The very same issue her cousin Lace’s article had appeared in. Talk about serendipity. What a great way to introduce herself to Cousin Marcus.

  Tabby caught Zoey’s eye and was jerking her head toward the front door, but Zoey ignored her and instead blurted to Winz-Smith, “Have you read the article on the Golden Flame agave?”

  Both of Winz-Smith’s eyebrows went up and he pulled the magazine from his pocket. “You read the American Journal of Botany?”

  “Only because my cousin Lace wrote the article,” she admitted. “Usually, I’m more of a Cosmo girl.”

  He laughed. “Fascinating article. Your cousin has a brilliant mind and she seems thoroughly convinced that the Golden Flame agave is not only real, but has not gone extinct.”

  Zoey knew more about hanging drywall than she did botany, but she wasn’t about to waste a great opportunity. She stuck out her hand, moved toward Winz-Smith, and prayed Tabby wouldn’t make good—or bad, depending on how you looked at it—on her innuendo that she’d use the stun gun if Zoey approached Winz-Smith. Hey, impulsivity sometimes paid off. You never knew until you tried.

  “Hi,” she said brightly. “I’m Zoey McCleary and we’re cousins too. Something like first cousins four times removed, I think, or maybe it’s second cousins three times removed. I don’t really understand how all that cousin stuff works.”

  “Ah,” he said, taking her hand and holding it a little too long, while his gaze captured hers. “We meet at last.”

  “You’ve heard of me?” That came out a little too high and breathy. She cleared her throat.

  “The irrepressible beneficiary of Raymond McCleary’s trust that our cousin Walker administers?” He chuckled. “Walker speaks of you often.”

  “I bet he didn’t use the word ‘irrepressible.’ ”

  “No, indeed.” Winz-Smith stroked his chin. “I believe Walker’s exact words were ‘wild child.’ ”

  Et tu, Walker? Yeah, well, she was on the road to fixing that. “Not all that wild,” she denied.

  Winz-Smith smiled big, showing a row of stark white teeth.

  Dude, seriously, you gotta cool it with the whitening strips. Nobody needs a mouthful of Chiclets.

  His gaze strolled over her, sliding from her neck to her boobs right on down to her hips, making her wish she had on an overcoat. Oh, ick! They were related. Normally, she had no compunctions about using her sex appeal to wrap men around her little finger, but he was making her uncomfortable.

  She took a deep breath and launched into her spiel about why excavating Triangle Mount was a good idea.

  Tabby’s head came up and her spine stiffened. “Oh no, you don’t, missy.” She charged over, arms flapping as if Zoey was a pesky crow diving into a cornfield, one hand wrapped around the Taser.

  Winz-Smith slapped the older woman with one of his stunning smiles, stopping her dead in her tracks. “It’s fine, Tabby. I find my dear cousin quite entertaining and I can’t believe I’m just now making her acquaintance.”

  Mr. Bodyguard returned with the cup of coffee and now there were other board members coming through the back entrance. Walker was on the board too and she wanted to get this out before he showed up, just in case he decided to put the brakes on the project.

  “It’s because you don’t live around here,” Zoey said.

  “More’s the pity.” He looked at her in a decidedly uncousinly manner.

  She gulped. “So about excavating Triangle Mount …”

  “How does this benefit me?” he asked.

  “Think of it like this.” She forced herself to shoot him a beguiling smile and immediately felt the urge for a scalding shower. “If you give us permission to excavate the place, it will be a hedge against those trespassers—”

  “How’s that?”

  “They’re not going to come around with people up there. We’ll have everything roped off around the site, and once we prove that Triangle Mount isn’t a pyramid, that will lay the whole issue to rest and the looky-loos will be onto a new mystery.”

  “But what if you find out it is a pyramid?”

  “Then you can turn it into a whole thing and charge admission.”

  “The lands are a nature preserve. The idea is to keep it pristine. Hence the preserve part.”

  “We’re only interested in Triangle Moun
t. Nothing else on the foundation’s vast acreage,” she said. “We promise not to disturb anything else.”

  “Hmm.” Winz-Smith looked pensive.

  “Anyway, that’s my pitch. I hope you’ll give it serious consideration.” She nibbled her bottom lip and shifted from foot to foot.

  For the longest time, he said nothing.

  “Well?” She caught her breath, held it.

  “You can relax, Zoey,” Winz-Smith said. “Dr. Chance has already made your case. Although it takes a majority vote of the board members to make it official, I’m in your corner.”

  “Jericho talked to you?”

  “Indeed,” he said. “He met my plane at the airport.”

  “And you just let me blab?”

  “Just wanted to see if you were as invested in the project as Dr. Chance is.”

  “Oh, I am, I am.”

  “Then if you’ll allow us to get down to business …” He waved at the staircase.

  “Oh yes, right.” Zoey grinned, thanked Mr. Winz-Smith for his time and Tabby for not Tasering her, and left the museum feeling pleased as Punchinello.

  Well, well, well, so Jericho could be just a little bit impulsive himself. If she could rub off on him, surely a bit of his cautiousness would rub off on her. Unfortunately, that thought caused her mind to hop to a wholly different kind of rubbing.

  Chapter 7

  Excavation: Digging up artifacts and features from an archaeological site in order to analyze and predict past human behavior.

  WITH Winz-Smith’s backing, the board readily approved their request to allow the field school access to August McCleary’s nature refuge and to fund the dig. Zoey learned later the only dissenting vote had been Walker’s. But Winz-Smith had one nonnegotiable condition. Excavation was restricted exclusively to Triangle Mount. If they violated that rule, not only would they face immediate eviction, but also the Center for Big Bend Studies would have to pay back the money the foundation spent on the dig. A contract to that effect had been drawn up and signed.

  Zoey broke the news to the love letter volunteers that she wasn’t going to be able to answer letters for the committee for the next month and that Tabitha Crispin had agreed to fill in for her. She could tell they were skeptical she’d last the entire month, even with Walker’s stipulation. Let ’em scoff. She’d prove herself.