“Put her on the phone, for me, would you, please?” Savannah said.
“I don’t think you want to talk to her right now,” Gran whispered. “She’s not in the best of moods. She and Butch had another go-around this afternoon. That’s why her and the young’uns are all over here instead of home. I think they might be spending the night. She’s just steamed enough at him not to go home for days.”
Savannah shook her head. That was just what her eighty-plus grandmother needed. Several days of Vi and the terrible twosomes.
“Let me talk to her, Gran. I’ll take my chances,” Savannah said.
A sleepy and grumpy-sounding Vidalia answered with a lackluster “Yeah?”
“Hi, honey,” Savannah said, putting on her most cheerful, if somewhat disingenuous, big-sister voice. “How are you doing?”
She knew better than to ask, of course. But…what could you do?
“My ankles are lapping over my loafers, and my maternity clothes are all too tight. I thought this would be easier, just having one, but I swear I’m ever’ bit as big as I was when I had the twins. And I’m getting worse stretch marks than ever before, even on my butt and boobs, because they’re getting so big so fast that my skin can’t keep up and….”
Savannah closed her eyes as the litany continued and told herself, Think happy thoughts. Go to a happy place. Happy thoughts. Happy place. Happy face.
But all she could visualize was the firing range and herself blowing enormous holes in Happy Face targets with her Beretta.
Finally, Vidalia began to wind down. “And on top of it all, I’ve got pimples all over my chin. Like I don’t have enough going on to make me ugly right now. I’m not worth shootin’, I tell you, Van. Not worth the price of the bullet it would take to put me out of my misery.”
To put us al-l-l out of your misery, Savannah thought.
“I just feel uglier than sin, and I don’t think my body’s ever gonna spring back from this one. This was the one that finally just ruint everything for good. I’m just going to be a saggy, baggy, scarred-up mess after this. I’m never puttin’ on a swimsuit again!”
“Vi, Vi, Vi,” Savannah said with a weary sigh. “What the heck are you talking about, girl? So what if you’ve got a few bags or sags here and there? You are a beautiful woman and—”
“Am not.”
“Am, too.”
“Am not.”
“Hush up and listen to me. I don’t like hearing you badmouth your body like you’re always doing. It just ain’t right. That body you’re in is an amazing, wondrous thing, and you shouldn’t go around telling it that it’s not.”
“But it’s all sore and achy and swollen.”
“And healthy and working and beautiful.”
“It ain’t beautiful! It ain’t even passable pretty!”
“Vidalia, do you still have that thick black hair, the hair that’s just like Gran’s was when she was your age?”
“Well, yes, but…”
“And are your eyes that gorgeous shade of blue that we got from Grampa Reid?”
“I don’t know what that’s got to do with—”
“And don’t you still have that soft, smooth skin that every one of us girls got from all those buttermilk soaks that Gran made us take?”
“I guess.”
Savannah could hear her sister starting to melt just a little. In fact, she was pretty sure she had heard a sniff or two. And not the self-pitying kind. The self-appreciating type.
“Your ankles may be puffy, Vi,” she continued, “but your legs and feet work. They get you where you want to go. Your hands work. So do your eyes and ears. And if you don’t think those are all miraculous and wonderful gifts, go down to the old folks’ home there in town and look around.”
Yes, there was definitely some serious sniffing going on at the other end. Vidalia was listening to her older sister. It was a rare, red-letter day.
Savannah took advantage of the opportunity. Heaven only knew when it would happen again.
“Who cares,” she added, “if your body doesn’t look like one of those models on a magazine cover? So what if they’re svelte and you aren’t? Your body is making a baby, Vi. It’s creating another life, a sweet little munchkin with ten fingers and ten toes and your nose and Butch’s chin…right there inside it! If that isn’t beautiful, girl, then I don’t know what beauty is.”
Before Vidalia had time to reply with anything other than more sniffles, a knock sounded on Savannah’s bedroom door.
“Listen, sweetie,” she said, “I’ve gotta go. Somebody’s at my door. But you feel better, okay?”
“I will.” Sniffle, snort. “I do already…a little.”
“Good. Take the kids and go home to Butch. Ask him to rub your feet and ankles for you. I’ll just bet he’ll do it, if you ask nice.”
“Okay.”
Savannah said her good-byes, tucked the cell phone into her sweater pocket, and hurried to the door.
It’s probably Dirk, she thought, eager to tell me the latest dirt he’s dug up on Lance.
But when she opened the door, she was pleasantly shocked to see Lance himself standing there with a shy grin on his face.
“Oh, hi,” she said.
“Hi yourself.” He glanced right, then left, then down at his shoes. “I…uh…I was wondering if…well…I hear you won the contest this morning. Before Brandy got hurt, that is.”
“I guess so. I had won the first match, but obviously, we didn’t get to finish.”
“But you were ahead, so that means you win the prize. If you want it, that is.” Again, he studied the toes of his sneakers.
“You mean, the…round tower?”
“Yeah. The night in the round tower. With me. If you want to, that is. Only if you really want to.”
Want to?
Suddenly, Savannah’s head was spinning. She felt like a kid on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the county fair.
Spend the night with Lance Roman—Raff the Pirate of Wolf Cove, Tony the New York fireman in Flickering Tongues of Flaming Passion, Thunder Cloud of Apache Lightning Strikes the Heart.
Yes, she could practically see the carnival lights whirling past her, smell the cotton candy in the air, hear the screams from the roller coaster, feel her hot dog threatening to come back up in her throat.
“I don’t spend the night with men I hardly know,” she heard a voice saying, as though from far away, a woman’s voice that sounded a heck of a lot like hers. “But I’d be happy to spend the evening with you…and see how quickly we can get to know each other.”
Chapter
17
“I’m going to spend the evening alone with Lance,” Savannah told Tammy as they walked from the keep toward the corner of the compound, “and for all I know, the guy could be a murderer.”
“That’s why you’re playing it smart and telling somebody about it before you do,” Tammy replied. For once, she was the one having to hurry to keep up with Savannah.
“For all the good that’s going to do me,” Savannah said. “I guess if he croaks me, at least you’ll know who done it.”
Tammy reached out and grabbed her arm, causing her to stop in the middle of the courtyard. “Are you really afraid of him? If you are, then don’t go.”
“I want to go.” The words tumbled out before she even had time to think. “I’m not seriously scared of him or I wouldn’t do it.”
“If you’re not afraid of him, you must not think he’s our killer.”
“Oh, he could be. Never say ‘Never’ about any of your suspects until a case is closed. I’m not afraid because I’ve got this.” She patted the thick, velvet skirt of her gown.
“Your Beretta strapped to your thigh?”
“That’s right.”
Tammy grinned and started walking again. “What if you and he get frisky and he finds it on you?”
“Frisky? Tammy Sue, what do you think I am?”
“I know what you are, and I know that he’s gorgeous; that�
�s why I brought up the subject. And why do you always call me that? My middle name isn’t Sue.”
“I call you that because, where I come from, every girl’s middle name is either Sue, Ann, Lynn, or Jo.”
“What’s yours?”
“None of your business.”
They had reached the base of the tower and found a small, closed door with an arched top. Savannah paused, her hand on the iron handle.
“Are you going to be okay?” Tammy asked.
“Sure. No sweat.”
“I’ll hang around out here if you want me to. You know…listen for sounds of a struggle.”
“Thanks, hon. But you go on back to Ryan and John. Tell them what’s up, but don’t let them interrupt us.” She smoothed her hair and licked her lips. “How do I look?”
Tammy studied her by the flickering light of the courtyard lanterns, a sweet look on her face, but said nothing.
“Well?”
“You look beautiful, like one of those women on the front of those books.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Exactly like that.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No problem. Just don’t get ravished, pillaged, or plundered, and your bodice ripped.”
“Or impaled on Sir Lance’s sword?”
“Oh, m’gawd! Especially not that!”
When Savannah walked through the door and into the round tower, the first thing she saw—the only thing she saw—was a circular staircase in the center of the room. It reminded her of a lighthouse she had once explored years ago. Only it was darker inside the tower.
In fact, the few flickering torch lights that lit the way up the stairs might have provided atmosphere, but they gave no illumination to speak of. She had to be careful not to trip over her own feet or the hem of the full gown as she climbed the steep steps.
The stairs ended abruptly at what appeared to be a ceiling. But when she reached the top, she could see that the ceiling had a trap door in it, as well as a fancy bell pull hanging down from the crack in the door.
She gave it a hearty yank, and the sound of a bell echoed higher up in the tower.
“Open sesame,” she said. And almost as soon as she had spoken the words, she heard a creak, and one end of the door above her head began to lift upward.
“Lady Savannah!” Lance said, extending his hand down to her and helping her climb the last few steps. “I was afraid you’d decided not to come after all.”
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” she said as she stepped through the ceiling door and found that the ceiling was the floor of a small but charming room.
Unlike the rest of Blackmoor Castle, this room actually resembled what she thought a medieval castle might have looked like. At least, a deliciously luxurious one.
A large bed dominated the center of the room, and it was spread with a tapestry throw and animal skins: zebra, leopard, and tiger. And while she was sure they were faux fur, they were better than most, and looked inviting.
To her left a small fireplace blazed and on the floor in front of it were spread more fur throws and lush pillows of every jewel tone. She didn’t need to even touch one to know they were covered in silk.
Near the fireplace a low table held a pair of ornate pewter goblets and a wooden bowl brimming with fresh fruit. On a plate beside it was an assortment of breads and cheeses.
The room had two large windows. One looked down on the courtyard below, and the other revealed a stunning view of the surrounding hills that were deep purple in the silver moonlight.
But as seductive as the room and its view were, it didn’t compare to her host.
Lance had dressed the part, too, wearing a white cavalier’s shirt, black leggings and knee-high boots. His hair was pulled back and tied with a thin strip of leather.
“I’m glad you’re dressed up,” he said. “I would have felt pretty stupid in this garb, if you’d been wearing jeans and a T-shirt.”
“Same here,” she said, turning from the window to face him. “I decided to take a chance and hope.”
He smiled. “Take a chance and hope. That’s the name of the game.”
She looked around. “At least we don’t have Leonard in our faces with his camera.”
“And Pete up our noses with that fuzzy microphone.”
“And, most importantly, no Alex screaming at us.”
They both laughed. Then there was a long, awkward silence.
Savannah finally broke it. “So, without a director, how do we figure out what to do next?”
He thought for a moment, then said, “Why don’t you come over here?” He led her toward the fireplace. “And sit down…about…there.”
After seating her on a large, emerald-green cushion, he grabbed a couple of pillows, fluffed them and arranged them behind her back and at her sides. Finally, he covered her lap with a leopard-print throw and tucked the edges around her.
“And now,” he said, “I’ll make us some mulled wine. How does that sound?”
“Mulled wine sounds fantastic,” she replied. “But only about half as good as a man who can actually make mulled wine.”
“Well, don’t be too impressed,” he said as he took a hook from among some fireplace utensils, and used it to swing out a pot that had been hanging over the fire. “That’s all I know how to make…other than roast hot dogs and cook hamburgers on a grill. The mulled wine is my sister-in-law’s recipe.”
“Your sister-in-law?”
“Yes, I was discussing the details of this gig…er, job…with my brother and his wife, and she suggested I learn how to make it, thought it might come in handy to know that sort of thing in a castle.”
“Thoughtful lady.”
“Very. My brother married above himself. But then, all guys do, huh?”
She laughed. “I think I’ve heard it said before.”
He threw a small spice bag made of cheesecloth into the pot and swung it back over the fire. In only moments, the smells of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg filled the room.
“Have you ever been married, Lance?” she asked.
“No. I’ve never been lucky enough to find the right lady at the right time. How about you?”
“Nope.”
“I’m surprised. You’re pretty, a very nice woman. And you seem…oh…like the domestic type.”
“Oh, I’m highly domesticated. I just do all that cooking, cleaning, and gardening stuff for myself and my friends.”
“When you aren’t chasing down the bad guys with your cop buddy, that detective.”
“Definitely. I like catching bad boys even more than I like cooking and eating, and that’s saying something.”
As the wine heated over the fire, he sat down on a cushion beside her and looked into her eyes. “Thank you for coming, Savannah. I’m really glad you’re here.”
“Why?” Savannah said. She knew that blatant suspicion wasn’t exactly the sort of sugar you caught flies with, but on the other hand, she had never been one to hold back. Questions, opinions, suggestions, and demands—they all came spilling out of her mouth at any time of the night or day.
He looked confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, why did you invite me here tonight?”
“You won the sword fight.”
“The sword fight was cancelled due to Brandy’s accident. There wasn’t really a winner.”
“Well, you were ahead at the time, and that’s close enough for me.”
He moved closer to her, reached out, and let a strand of her hair slip through his fingers. “I like you, Savannah. I like you a lot.”
“I like you, too,” she admitted as he wound yet another curl around his finger.
“And I enjoyed the time we spent there in the garden.”
She could feel her cheeks getting hot, and it wasn’t from the ambient heat of the fireplace. “I enjoyed being in the garden with you, too. It was truly a lovely experience.”
His fingertips left her hair and trailed down the
side of her neck, sending a delicious shiver through her whole body.
“You have very soft skin,” he said, his voice husky. “And it’s a nice, ivory and pink sort of color. What do they call that? Peaches and cream?”
“More like peaches and mashed potatoes.”
“What?”
“If you are what you eat, I’m mostly peaches and mashed potatoes. That’s pretty much what we ate there in Georgia when I was growing up. There was plenty of both around.”
He laughed and shook his head. “I’ve never met anybody quite like you, Savannah.”
“And you’re not likely to again,” she said. “So you’d better treat me right.”
His fingertips moved on down her throat, then brushed lightly across the top of her breasts just above the edge of her bodice.
The simple gesture went through her, like a wave of hot liquid Fourth of July sunshine.
He leaned over and kissed a spot on her neck just below her ear. “I would treat you better than right,” he breathed against her skin, “if you’d let me.”
Be careful, Savannah girl, a voice said deep inside. Be careful with this one. He’s much too good to be true.
She knew the voice was her own common sense, but it sounded a lot like Granny Reid.
She reached down and caught his hand in hers. Lacing her fingers through his, she said, “I like you a lot, Lance. As I said before, I enjoyed…no, way more than enjoyed…the time we spent together in the garden the other morning. And I’m not going to pretend that, after a few of those heart-stopping kisses of yours, I wasn’t ready to drop my sails in total surrender.”
He smiled. “Now, that’s a nice thought.”
“It certainly is. And if we hadn’t gotten interrupted, we probably would have made a very pleasant rocking-chair memory. Pleasant, but possibly a mistake, nevertheless.”
“How do you know it would have been a mistake?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “and that’s the point. I don’t know because I don’t know you. And as I said earlier, I don’t sleep with men I don’t know. Not even one who has a body to die for, the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life, and who knows how to mull his own wine.”
Murder à la Mode Page 21
