She sighed, hating that she was wavering. "It's not a bother. Not exactly. Where are you?"
"The hospital. I wrenched my ankle. I slipped while I was playing basketball. The thing is, I can't drive for two days. Not until the swelling goes down."
He'd hurt himself. Nurturing instinct battled with righteous indignation. It wasn't much of a contest. "I'll be right there," she said, and hung up the phone. Twenty minutes later she walked into the emergency room of Whitehorn Memorial Hospital. The woman at the reception desk directed her to treatment room number three. Darcy stepped inside and saw Mark sitting on a hospital bed. His ankle was taped and elevated. There was also a huge bruise on the side of his face.
Her heart did a little fox-trot, her temper flared. It was an interesting combination, but then she'd always been torn where he was concerned.
Mark looked up and saw her. "Hi," he said, sounding sheepish. "I'm sorry to bother you."
"We're neighbors. I didn't mind helping." She moved closer to the bed and pointed at the swelling on his face. "You hit your head?"
"On the way down. I didn't lose consciousness and I don't have a concussion. It looks a lot worse than it is."
Darcy had the sudden desire to make it worse. Just as a payback. But she'd never been the violent type and wouldn't have a clue as to where to start.
He waved a piece of paper. "I have my instructions. Rest for twenty-four hours. Keep the ankle elevated, use ice. So I'm ready to go."
"All right. I'll go pull my car up to the entrance."
He pushed the call button for a nurse. "We'll meet you there."
Maneuvering Mark into her small car wasn't easy. His injured ankle banged against the door once and she was almost sorry for him. As they drove back to the duplex, she had a silent but heated conversation with herself during which she told him exactly what she thought of him. She was acerbic, pithy and completely cool. Unfortunately, she wasn't likely to be any of those things if she started talking out loud.
When they reached his place, he opened the door but waited before getting out.
"Thanks for taking the time to come get me," he said.
She nodded.
"I know you're busy with your holiday baking."
She nodded again.
He glared at her. "Aren't you going to talk to me?"
She turned to face him. "What do you want me to say? I came to get you because we're supposed to be friends and that's what friends do for each other. Although some people seem to define friendship by acting weird and then disappearing off the face of the planet."
He gave her a tentative smile. "Would you feel any better if I had actually been off the planet?"
She didn't respond to the twinkle of amusement in his gaze. "Were you off the planet? Did you involve yourself with space travel this week?"
His smile faded. "No."
"I thought not."
She got out of the car and came around to the passenger side. He swung himself around until he was facing the open car door, then pulled himself to his feet without putting any weight on the injured ankle. She had to reach around him to grab the crutches he'd been given.
As she did so, her arm brushed against his side. Heat jumped between them, making her nervous as well as crabby. She hated that he could get to her without doing anything but standing in the snow, looking pathetic.
She pulled out the crutches. "I'll need your key to open the door."
He dug it out of his sweatpants and handed it to her. She was careful to make sure they didn't touch again.
His progress to his front door was slow, hampered by five or six inches of fresh snow on the ground. More was promised midweek. Darcy tried to admire the beauty of the white world around them, the way the snow clung to the trees and decorated the duplex like so much icing, rather than feeling badly for Mark as he made slow and awkward progress.
Finally they were inside. Darcy got him settled on the sofa, which apart from a television sitting on a nightstand, was the only piece of furniture in the room. She set the crutches on the floor, then asked him where he kept his spare blankets.
"I don't have any. There's one on the bed."
"Figures."
She headed for the small hallway. His apartment was the mirror image of hers. At least the layout was. Nothing about the interior was the same. The walls looked as if they hadn't been painted in years. There weren't any pictures on the walls, and when she reached the bedroom, she saw he filled the room with a king-size bed, one nightstand and a tall dresser. Nothing else. Nothing personal.
Some of her anger began to fade in the face of his empty life. Why did Mark choose to live like this? Her apartment had been old when she'd moved in, but she'd painted the walls and dressed things up with inexpensive prints and knickknacks she'd brought from Arizona. She'd wanted to make a home for herself. Mark's place had all the charm of a prison. Did he expect to be moving on soon?
She collected the down comforter from the unmade bed, along with two pillows. Back in the living room, she slipped the pillows under his injured leg.
"Should you ice it?" she asked.
"Not for a couple more hours." He took the comforter from her. "Darcy, you don't have to do this. I can take care of myself."
"Sure." She avoided his gaze. "Have you eaten?"
"I'll be fine."
She forced herself to look at him. The bruise on his face looked really painful. "That wasn't the question."
"No. I haven't."
She turned on her heel and headed for the kitchen. It was a dreadful shade of green. There weren't any dishes in sight. On a hunch, she opened a cupboard. Inside were stacks of paper plates and cups. A tug on a drawer below yielded a view of plastic utensils.
"Only the best," she muttered under her breath, then braced herself for the contents of the refrigerator.
Surprisingly, there weren't any packages of decaying meat or moldy takeout. There was, in fact, almost nothing. A few bottles of soda, a bottle of beer, an apple and a small take-out container of coffee creamer.
"So like a man," she said aloud, returning to the living room. "Is this some new kind of diet?"
"I've been busy."
Her anger turned to pain. "Why?" she asked softly. "What did I do that was so horrible that you're not even comfortable coming to the Hip Hop for your meals? Do you think I'm going to punish you for not wanting to be friends anymore? Do you think I'm going to make a scene or talk about you behind your back?"
He lightly touched the bruise on his face. "It's not any of that, Darcy. I've been busy with work."
She glared at him. "Don't lie to me, Mark. I'm not stupid. This isn't about work. So what is it? What is going on between us? If you're tired of me, just say so. I can handle it."
He straightened. "It is about work and believe me, you don't want to know anything else."
"No! I want to know the truth. What's going on here?" She wanted to ask if this had something to do with their sexual encounters, but she didn't have the courage. She didn't want to know that Mark had changed his mind about wanting her in his bed.
He studied her for a long time. Pain filled his green eyes, but she had a bad feeling it wasn't about his twisted ankle.
"You're wrong about me," he said after a couple of minutes of silence. "This is completely work related. Our personal relationship complicates things for me."
"What on earth could I have to do with your work?"
"We're involved, Darcy. I sure can't define our relationship, but we have one. The thing is I don't know if I can trust you. I know you're keeping secrets – you're hiding something about your past and you won't say why you moved to Whitehorn. There's a wad of cash in your living room and the sheriff has had an anonymous tip that someone is using the Hip Hop to launder money."
Chapter Ten
Darcy stared at Mark for so long, he wondered if she'd heard him. Nothing about her expression changed. Then she turned and hurried toward the front door.
"Darcy?" he c
alled.
She didn't bother looking back.
Mark leaned against the sofa and closed his eyes. No doubt he would get an award for jerk of the week, if there was such an honor. Could he have handled that worse than he did? He knew better than to simply blurt out that sort of information. Plus, something in his gut, something that had been there all along, told him she was innocent.
He should go after her, he thought, then realized he couldn't. Not only did his ankle ache, his crutches were on the far side of the room – well out of reach.
There was always crawling. Didn't wo- men like that?
A cold draft blew across his cheek. He opened his eyes and saw that Darcy had left his front door open. The good news was, she was likely to return shortly. Or maybe not. Maybe her real plan was for him to freeze to death.
Apparently not, he thought less than two minutes later when she returned, slamming the door behind her. Fire blazed in her eyes as she thrust a bowl of leftover spaghetti at him. She fished the bottle of pain-killers he'd been given at the hospital out of her jeans front pocket and tossed the container onto his lap. Then she disappeared into the kitchen only to return with a glass of water.
"This is so much more than you deserve," she told him, shaking with emotion. "I can't believe what you've thought of me."
"Darcy, you do have a secret life. You won't talk about your past in any reasonable way, then you disappeared for an entire day."
"So the obvious explanation is that I'm a criminal? Is that it? I don't spill my guts about every aspect of my life, so what? I launder money? Or maybe it's bigger than that. Have you thought of having my baked goods tested? Isn't it possible that I'm secretly distributing drugs to all my clients? How clever. Illegal substances in the pumpkin bread. I'm making gingerbread houses right now. Imagine what I could fill them with."
"Darcy—"
She planted her hands on her hips. "Shut up and eat. You have to take a pill and you can't do that on an empty stomach."
"I'm sorry."
Her gaze narrowed. "Eat."
He took a bite of the spaghetti. Even a couple of days old, it was better than anything he'd had all week. He swallowed.
She nodded, as if satisfied he was going to follow instructions, then she headed for the door. "Don't forget your pills," she called over her shoulder and disappeared. The door slammed shut behind her.
Mark forced himself to eat a couple more forkfuls before popping a painkiller. Then he set the food on the coffee table and muttered several curses.
He'd blown it. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that he'd destroyed whatever fragile bond had been established between himself and Darcy. He'd acted like a jerk. He'd hurt her feelings and he didn't have anyone to blame but himself. All because of Sylvia.
He pictured his ex-fiancée. While Darcy was all soft curves and Midwest down-to- earth beauty, Sylvia had been slick, chic and very much in control. Looking back, he wondered what had affected him so. Had it been some kind of chemistry? Had he been so ready to fall for someone? Or had it been her supposed interest in him. She'd smiled as if she'd been waiting for him all her life, and had hung on every word. He hated to think he'd fallen for a great acting job, but he had a bad feeling that's what it all had been.
None of which was Darcy's fault. So why was he taking it out on her? Why was he making her pay for Sylvia's sins? He and Darcy weren't in love. They were friends who happened to be lovers. If anything he should be grateful. She'd reminded him that he was still alive and capable of sexual feeling. Being with her was better than being with anyone – even Sylvia. He'd—
The front door opened. Darcy stormed in, her arms holding a large brown paper bag. She kicked the door shut behind her and stalked to the coffee table where she shoved aside his half-eaten dinner.
Color stained her cheeks. Her curls were wild and there was still pain lurking in her eyes.
"I don't owe you this," she told him. "You've been stupid and insensitive from the start. If you had questions, you should have come to me with them. But no. You had to go your own macho way, assuming the worst. What did I ever do to you to make you think I'm a horrible person? I'm so angry, Mark. I trusted you with my friendship and with my body. You betrayed me."
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't cut it. Sorry is a weasel word. I wish there was a sword in here. I'd make you fall on it."
He was grateful she didn't mention his service revolver. "Darcy, if I don't tell you I'm sorry, what do you want me to say?"
"Nothing. I want you to listen."
She began emptying the paper bag. First she pulled out the music box, followed by a ledger and a folder. She handed him the music box.
"Count it," she said.
"Darcy…"
Her eyes turned to slits. "Count it."
He did as she requested. The bills were mostly fifties, with a few twenties and a one-hundred-dollar bill. "Three thousand one hundred and twenty dollars," he said.
She shoved the ledger at him. "If you remember, oh great detective. I have a side business. I sell baked goods."
A bad feeling swelled in the pit of his stomach. Damn. "But you're not up and running yet. You said you didn't have a contract with the Hip Hop."
"They're not the only place in town. I've catered several kids' parties, a volunteer luncheon and Ernie buys cookies from me to sell at his gas station." She leaned over the coffee table and flipped open the ledger. "This is my receivables list. An accounting of all the invoices I've issued and in this column is a list of the money I've received. Nearly everyone is paying me in cash, which I've noted here."
He followed the columns down to the bottom, where she'd totaled her invoices for the month of August. He turned to the next page and found listings for the next month, all the way through November.
She slapped the folder on top of the ledger. "These are my receipts for expenses. It just so happens that I total them for each month. If you subtract the expenses from the invoices, you'll find that in the past three months, my profits have been darned close to three thousand dollars."
The sinking feeling got worse. "Why didn't you put the money in the bank?"
"My paycheck gets automatically deposited. With the baking, if I get paid in cash, I keep it cash and use the money for my expenses. And in case you want to accuse me of trying to avoid taxes, I can go get my quarterly returns."
He closed the folder and the ledger, then handed both to her. Darcy knelt on the far side of the coffee table, looking at him as if he were something disgusting she'd found on the side of the road.
"I can't believe you thought I was laundering money," she told him. "For one thing, if I was a criminal, don't you think I'd drive a better car? And why on earth would someone engage in that kind of criminal activity in Whitehorn? Everyone knows everyone else's business. It would be really hard to keep quiet. Plus, I've never been that stupid, or done anything illegal. And how could you make love with me all the while thinking I was a criminal?"
He leaned toward her, but she slid out of reach.
"I've only known about the money laundering for a couple of weeks."
"Which is why you've been avoiding me." The pain in her eyes deepened. "I didn't expect you to be the love of my life, Mark, but I did expect you to treat me like a friend. You couldn't even do that."
He wanted to tell her that he hadn't thought she'd been the one laundering money, but he couldn't lie. She'd been the first person he'd thought of and he'd obsessed about the possibility ever since Rafe had come to see him. Why had he been so quick to judge her. And then he remembered. Sylvia.
Darcy pulled something else out of her bag. It was a large photo album – old, worn and thick with pictures.
"About my secret life," she said slowly. "You're right. I have one. There's a really big thing I didn't tell you." She drew in a deep breath. "The thing is I didn't want to lose you. I knew that when you found out, you'd turn away and disappear just like every other guy has done. So I kept my secret."
Every muscle in his body stiffened. "You're married."
"What?" She stared at him as if he was crazy. "Married? I haven't even been on a date in five years. I'm not married."
Relief filled him. He figured he could handle about anything else. "Then what's the deep, dark secret?"
She shifted into a sitting position. "You interrupted my speech. I had some seriously righteous indignation going and now I forget where I was."
"You were saying that I would disappear when I found out the truth."
She paused, then nodded. "Well, now I want you gone so I'm going to tell you."
Her matter-of-fact words cut through him. While he hadn't expected his relationship with Darcy to lead anywhere, he didn't want it to end like this. "Okay. I'm a captive audience."
He reached for the photo album, but she put her hand on it to stop him. "You have to listen first. I told you that my parents died about five years ago, right?"
He nodded.
"I was telling the truth when I said they left me almost nothing. By the time the bills were paid, I had a little money, but not much. What I didn't tell you is that I have a brother."
Mark stared at her. "Why would you keep that a secret?"
"Because Dirk isn't like other kids. He's funny and handsome and I love him more than anyone in the world. He's also developmentally disabled. His problems put a big strain on my parents' marriage. I didn't get what the big deal was, but back then I rarely thought of anyone but myself. Dirk and I were buddies and I adored him. When my parents died, I knew I had to be responsible for both of us. Like I said, after the estate was settled, we didn't have much, but it was a small nest egg. Enough to get us through until I finished college and got a decent job."
Obviously that hadn't happened, Mark thought, stunned by what Darcy had said. Questions filled his mind, but he held them in, wanting her to tell the story in her own way.
"Everything was going fine," she said, staring at the album rather than him. "Then one of Dirk's teachers decided I was too much of a flake to be responsible for someone with Dirk's special needs. He reported me to social services, they tried to take him away from me and we ended up in court. It took every penny left, but I managed to gain custody of my brother. That's when we left. I didn't want to stay in Chicago anymore."
CHRISTMAS IN WHITEHORN Page 11
