by Julie Kenner
“It’s adulation you want, huh, Brigham? The love of your fellow man?”
“I don’t want anyone to love me. I’ve scraped by without it for this long, haven’t I?” She said it lightly and rushed on before he could identify the emotion that came and went in her eyes. “I’d be happy if they’d just stop with the death threats.”
Jack started to laugh, but it died in his throat when he looked into her eyes. There had been no lightness in her tone this time, no laughter in her eyes. She wasn’t kidding.
“You’ve been getting death threats?”
“Just the one, actually. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you? Quaint little love note on my bathroom mirror, written in what the police department tells me is blood. Human blood, I learned this morning. Cute, huh?”
It wasn’t his imagination. She shuddered when she said it, though the way she gritted her teeth made it obvious she was trying real hard not to show the slightest hint of upset. Hell, her face had gone a full shade whiter. It was as he was studying the pallor of her skin that Jack noticed his own new position. Now, just when the hell had he come out of his chair and around to her side of the table? She rose as he stared down at her, as if she didn’t like having to look up at him. Or maybe it was that she didn’t want him to see her teetering.
Too late for that, though.
“When did this happen?”
She shrugged, avoiding his eyes. “I was soaking in the tub last night. I got up and went into the bedroom for my robe, and when I came back it was there on the bathroom mirror. For all I know they could have been right on the other side of the shower curtain from me at some point.” Her lower lip quivered, but she bit it hard and quick, then gave her head a shake. “Bastard’s lucky I didn’t see him.”
“This isn’t funny, Kiley. Jesus, have you got the police on this?”
She nodded. “Look, don’t trouble yourself over it. I didn’t come here for sympathy.”
He wanted the animosity back. He wanted to fight with her, wanted her back to insulting his moral fiber instead of making him feel sick on her behalf. “No, you just dropped in to chat, ruin my business and accuse me of threatening your life. I love these little visits of yours.” As an attempt to rekindle the banter, it was sadly lacking. But it worked all the same.
“Drop dead, McCain,” she said.
Ah, that was more like it. “Same to you, Brigham.”
Her head came up fast, green eyes meeting his, wider than he’d ever seen them. “You mean that?”
He felt as if she’d punched him in the gut. But she just stood there, waiting for an answer, probing his eyes with hers and looking madder than hell, capable of murder and as vulnerable as a wet kitten all at the same time. His hands came up to grasp her shoulders, never bothering to ask his permission on the way. “I didn’t leave you any death threat, Brigham. Whenever I get the urge to tell you to drop dead—which is often—I say it right to your pretty little face. And if I’d been lurking on the other side of the curtain while you were soaking in the tub, the worst thing I’d have done is cop a peek. And I think you know it.”
She blinked, swallowed audibly and nodded. “I didn’t really figure a message in blood was your style.”
“Because I’m such a swell guy?”
She smirked, a little of the old mischief backlighting the fear in her eyes. “Because you know me well enough to know I’d kick your ass if I ever found out.”
“Any time you wanna try, Brigham.”
No comeback. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d sparred with her and she’d run out of back talk. It made him uncomfortable to know just how upset she must be to let it affect her acid tongue. And he had to change the subject, right now, before he started getting some stupid urge to help her out or something.
He cleared his throat, realized his hands were still on her shoulders, and lowered them to his sides while searching his brain for a safer topic. “So, uh, how did you manage to get in? I would have thought Chris would have noticed you lurking outside the curtain.”
“You mean the scrawny kid with the quartz earring and the bright yellow dust mop on his head?”
“That’s his hair.”
“No shit?” She shrugged. “Anyway, he was busy humming along with whatever flaky music you have playing out there. What is that, some new Gaelic tranquilizer or what?”
“You know, if you could manage to stop being so damned pleasant all the time, you might attract more friendly fans.” He felt his lips thin as he tried to find a way to give her some free advice without imparting the impression that he actually gave a damn. “And you might try being a little less controversial, while you’re at it.”
“And how would you suggest I do that, McCain? You want me to put in for a personality transplant?”
“Maybe you should try toning down your columns for a while? Find a new subject for a few weeks, give this a chance to blow over?”
Sighing, she dug a pack from the bottom of the denim backpack she carried and shook a cigarette loose, catching it between her lips. Normally, Jack would have forbidden her to light up inside the shop. It was against state law, anyway. In fact, he opened his mouth to do just that. But then he noticed the way her fingers trembled as she fumbled with her lighter, and for some reason he couldn’t get the words out. Instead, he grabbed a candle from the nearest shelf and held it up to her.
She sent him a quick, surprised look. Then she bent her head to the flame and the flickering amber glow painted her eyes with mysterious light. It made her raven hair gleam. And when she straightened, her full, moist lips parted, puckered…and blew a stream of smoke in his face.
Jack stepped out of the carcinogenic cloud and replaced the candle. “On second thought, maybe the personality transplant wouldn’t be a bad idea after all.”
“Not possible,” she said. “No more than backing off from my work is possible. That would be letting the bastard win.” She hauled her backpack onto her shoulder. “I gotta go.”
“I’ll walk you out.” He walked her through the shop to the front door.
She looked around his shop, those piercing eyes of hers searching for secrets, tricks. She wouldn’t find any. Jack’s tricks were all in the minds of his customers. This crap was real to them.
Brigham stopped at the front door, turning to face him. For a very brief moment he had the feeling she didn’t want to leave any more than he wanted her to. Damn. He must be overworked or something. They couldn’t stand each other. They detested each other. If someone had asked Jack to name his number one enemy, he’d have named her without batting an eye. And he had no doubt she would name him if asked the same question. She knew damned well he had about as much clairvoyance as her ancient, smoke-belching boat of a Buick. She knew it, and he knew she knew it. He reveled in rubbing her nose in it, and that drove her nuts!
It was strange, the relationship they’d developed over the past few years. She, always trying to trip him up. He, always struggling to stay a half step ahead of her. It was an ongoing contest with no clear winner in sight. He’d gotten kind of used to it…maybe was even beginning to enjoy her irritating persistence?
Nah.
He looked down at her and then he flinched at the size of the knot that formed in his stomach. For a second, he’d seen it in her face, just as plain as day: cold, dark fear. She hid it quickly, covering it up with the stubborn determination he was used to seeing there. But not fast enough. Not before he’d spotted it peering out of those sparkling emerald eyes of hers. It wasn’t an emotion he’d ever seen there before. She was probably the gutsiest loudmouth he’d ever known.
She cleared her throat, reached for the door handle. “Well…”
“Yeah.”
She nodded once, stepped outside into the normal world again. And he winced inwardly, because he had the feeling someone was about to drop a piano on her.
He caught the door before it could swing closed. “Brigham?”
“What?�
�
Jack licked his lips. “Watch your back, okay?”
“You bet your amethysts, I will. And I pity the son of a bitch who left me that message, once I find him.” She sent him a wink and strode away as if she wasn’t terrified of being alone.
CHAPTER THREE
JACK MCCAIN MIGHT BE the lowest form of pond slime, Kiley thought as she sat at her desk back in her office at the Burnt Hills Gazette, staring at her empty computer screen. But he wasn’t the kind who would leave messages in human blood on a bathroom mirror.
She’d known that before she’d asked him, but hadn’t been able to resist asking all the same. Just to gauge his reaction.
There was a tap on her office door before it opened, and her boss, the most gorgeous woman in town if Kiley was any judge, stepped inside. “Did you get anything on McCain?”
Sighing, Kiley shook her head. “He knew it was a setup. Smelled it like a rat smells cheese.”
Barbara Benedict laughed softly, raking a hand through her pixie-cut ash-blond hair. “You ever wonder about that, Kiley?”
“About what? Whether he’s part rat?”
“Whether he…maybe really has something. Some kind of…you know.”
Kiley pursed her lips. “God, it would be one warped universe if it handed out gifts like that to guys like him.”
“Yeah, he’s already got the looks, the charm—you’re right, it would be unfair.”
Kiley hadn’t been referring to his looks or his charm, but she didn’t bother to correct her employer.
“So did you ask him about the, uh—the incident?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And?”
“Oh, hell, you should have seen it. It was the performance of a lifetime, Barb. The hint of worry in his eyes. The concerned knit in his brow. The hand on my shoulder. It was perfect. He almost had me believing he was worried about me.”
“You…you don’t really think he did it?”
Kiley lowered her head. “No, it’s not his style.”
“Then why—”
“Because Jack McCain doesn’t worry about anybody or anything, other than himself and his financial well-being. If he’s concerned at all, it’s that I’ll try to pin this on him and disrupt his livelihood in the process. No, Jack is a con man. I’ve dealt with men like him before. I know ’em when I see ’em.”
Barbara tipped her head to one side. “You talking about your ex now?”
“They’re so much alike it’s tough not to compare.”
“What did that guy do to you, anyway? You haven’t talked about it since you moved out here, and you have to know I’m dying of curiosity.”
Kiley pushed her hair behind one ear, rising from her chair and grabbing her shoulder bag from the desk. “I gotta go find a subject for this week’s column. I’ve got a bear for a boss and she’ll skin me alive if I don’t.” She sent Barbara a wink, then moved past her and out of the office.
Kiley walked out through the parking lot, trying to let the slanting October sunshine lift her spirits. She inhaled the scent of dying leaves, tasted late autumn on the breeze, told herself the alarm system would be all installed by the time she went to bed tonight, and that all was right with the world. But it wasn’t easy to shake off the chill that had settled into her bones last night.
At her car, she ran a hand over the warm fender. “You up for a ride, Lana?”
The car sat there, silent, ready. Her trusty steed. It was way better than the Porsche she used to drive. Lana had character. She unlocked the driver’s door, checked the back seat and got in. Then she drove into town to have her lunch in the park, as she did every day, weather permitting. People knew where to find her. Up to now, she’d always considered that a good thing.
Now, though, maybe she should reconsider.
Still, she needed a tip, and this was her best shot at landing one. She walked to the corner hot dog stand. “Hey, Bernie. Gimme the usual.”
Smiling, the compact, muscular, utterly bald vendor began putting her foot-long-with-the-works together. “Heard you had a break-in last night,” he said as he heaped on the sauerkraut.
Her brows rose. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Around.”
Bernie’s son was on the town’s police force. But she wouldn’t rat him out for spreading gossip. It was a small town. Everyone knew everyone’s business.
“So you okay?”
“Yeah. Got a whole new security system being installed tonight.”
“Smart.” He put her dog in a cardboard boat, set it aside and fished an icy diet cola from his cooler. “Three ninety-five, same as always.”
She slid a five dollar bill across the top of his shiny stand. “Keep the change, same as always.” She took her dog and drink and started to turn away.
“So you sure it was someone that broke in, not someone who was already there?”
She turned back to face the hot dog vendor again. “What do you mean, Bernie? There was no one there but me.”
“Well, yeah, but you know the stories about that place. It’s got a history.”
She blinked three times. “What kind of history?”
His face changed; he looked suddenly…different. Worried, and maybe regretting his words. “I, uh—I figured you knew. Then again, it’s old stuff. You’ve only been in town a year.”
“Two years,” she corrected him. “And I’ve only been in the house for a few days, Bernie. So if there’s something I should know, then I’d appreciate you telling me.”
He grinned at her suddenly and waved a hand. “I’m just picking on you, kid. You know this town, it’s full of ghost stories.”
“My house has ghost stories attached to it?”
“I told you, I was kidding. Go on, get outta here.”
She wasn’t going to get anything out of Bernie. Not that a ghost had anything to do with what had happened in her house last night. Even if her stomach did tighten up at the word, and even if it was the same theory her imagination kept posing. But if there were things she hadn’t known about the place, things the real estate folks had failed to disclose, they were liable to find themselves the next topic of one of her columns.
She walked to her favorite bench, the one near the fountain, sat down and proceeded to share scraps of hot dog bun with the pigeons while she opened a notebook and dashed a note to herself to do some research on her house.
Someone sat down, right beside her. And she knew just by the way her skin prickled who it was. Without looking up, she said, “Hello, McCain. What, you didn’t get enough of me this morning?”
“Don’t be nasty, Brigham. I come bearing gifts.”
She finally looked up at him. He had a foot-long hot dog with the works, and a diet cola. She said, “You’re going to give me your lunch?”
“You telling me you could eat two of these pups?”
“I could eat three. And still have room for dessert.”
He smiled. “I like a woman with an appetite.”
“You like a woman with a pulse.”
“Well, yeah. A pulse is good, too.” He leaned back on the bench and took a big bite of the hot dog, giving her the perfect opportunity to do the same. God, she loved them. Probably unhealthy as all hell, but damn, so worth it.
He washed his bite down with a gulp of the cola. “I felt sorry for getting the best of you yet again this morning.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“Hated leaving you without a column this week.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She kept eating, pretending to be only barely listening, but in truth, she was rapt. Was her arch rival going to give her a tip? It sure seemed to be what he was getting around to.
“Anyway, I’m no more fond of frauds who cause more harm than good than you are.”
“So how do you sleep at night?”
“Hell, Brigham, you wanna shut up and listen, or should I take my information and go home?”
She faced him, a serene smile on her lips, batting her eyes in mock innoc
ence.
He rolled his in response, then brought his napkin to the corner of her mouth to dab something away. Ketchup or relish, she guessed. “There’s a new player in town. He’s rented out that little brick box on Main and Oak that’s been vacant for so long.”
“The one that used to be the barber shop?”
He nodded.
“So what’s his game?”
“Oh, he starts out small. Tells people he had a dream about them, specifically, and that he has information for them. Then he gives them some cock-and-bull story about staying out of traffic on a certain day, and asks them to make an appointment for a more in-depth session. That first bit is free, but when they come back he starts really soaking them.”
“How badly?”
“Fifty bucks for the first session. Then there end up being all these charms and talismans they have to buy in order to avoid disaster, and those start at a hundred and go up from there. He’s calling these people at home, claiming to have urgent messages that they have to hear, convincing them to come back for another fifty-dollar session. It’s all older folks. One of my regulars said her mother had laid out more than a thousand dollars in the past month. The guy’s ruthless.”
“The guy’s a bastard.” She nodded. “Okay, I’ll get on it. Thanks for the tip.”
He smiled. “Can’t have people like him giving us legitimate psychic counselors a bad name.”
“You’re as legitimate as this hot dog is health food, McCain.”
“Hey, if I were a fake, you’d have had me by now. You’re too good not to.”
“Yeah, and flattery will win me right over.”
He shrugged. “Have it your way.” He got to his feet, popped the last bite of his hot dog into his mouth.
“McCain?”
Still chewing, he looked at her.
“You know anything about my house?” Her brows bent together.
He swallowed, swiped his mouth with the napkin. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. I heard it had…a history.”
His brows rose. “What kind of history?”
