Head Over Heels

by Susan Andersen

  A shadow seemed to scud across his eyes, but it passed so quickly Veronica was left wondering if she’d seen it at all. “She’s at our condo in Maui.”

  “And you’re here alone while the wife’s away? My. You must be slowing down.”

  “Jesus, Veronica, I was an eighteen-year-old football star then—which is pretty much synonymous with young, arrogant, and stupid. People change, you know?” He studied her a moment. “Besides, if Crystal never had a problem with our arrangement, why the hell does it bug you so much?”

  She shrugged. “I actually believe loyalty is important. But hey, that’s just me, and you’re absolutely right,” she agreed coolly. “Crystal didn’t have a problem, so I guess it’s none of my business. Wasn’t then, isn’t now. What can I get you to drink?”

  “I’ve got it,” Coop said, and he clunked a drink down on the bar in front of Troy with enough force to slop a little over the edge. “That’ll be four twenty-five, pal.”

  Veronica looked up to see the protective man of a short while ago no longer in evidence. In his place stood a scowling giant, and his displeasure seemed to be directed straight at her.

  Swell. What was his problem? Before she could decide whether to demand an explanation or shrug it off, however, Darlene Starkey came up and slid onto the vacant barstool next to her. Tonight just kept on getting better and better.

  “Hello, dear,” Darlene said.

  Ronnie gave the woman a brief nod. “Mrs. Starkey.”

  “Darlene, please. Mrs. Starkey makes me want to look around for my mother-in-law.”

  Veronica smiled tightly but didn’t reply. Instead, she gave Coop her order and cleared her tray of empties.

  As soon as she finished, Darlene touched her on the arm to reclaim her attention. “I was dismayed to hear about Crystal, dear. I’m so sorry.”

  I’ll just bet. Other Tonk patrons had told Veronica virtually the same thing, and she’d taken comfort from their condolences. Yet the words from Darlene made her teeth clench. The older woman’s eyes were too avaricious, and Veronica had a feeling that what Starkey really meant was, Do spill all the juicy details.

  “Thank you,” she said coolly. “You’re too kind.”

  Darlene studied her a moment with a small smile on her face. She took a sip of her drink, then set the glass down on the bar in front of her and slid a cigarette out of her purse. Placing it between her lips, she struck a match and inhaled deeply. She shook out the match, exhaled a stream of smoke, then looked past Veronica to where Troy Jacobson sat two stools down. “People rarely change as much as you claim,” she remarked as soon as she’d caught his eye. “Rumor has it you were seeing someone on the side again a few months back.”

  Troy’s knuckles turned white where his hand tightened around his glass. “Yeah, my wife heard that same rumor,” he agreed. “Which is why she’s in Hawaii and I’m home.” Tossing back his drink, he climbed to his feet. He pulled a roll of cash from his pocket, peeled off a bill, and dropped it on the bar. Then he drilled Darlene with the full measure of his displeasure before giving Veronica a sober look. “Rumor has it wrong,” he said flatly. He turned on his heel and strode for the door.

  Coop picked up Troy’s glass and set it in the sink. Wiping down the bar, he looked at Darlene. “Try not to drive away any more of my customers, will you?”

  She shrugged and took a drag off her cigarette.

  “Just out of curiosity,” he continued, “are you implying that Mr. Scotch-and-Water there”—he indicated Troy with a jerk of his chin as the man exited the bar—“picked up where he’d left off his high school fling with Ronnie’s sister?”

  “I’m not implying a thing.” Darlene snubbed out her cigarette. “I simply said a story’s going around that Troy’s stepping out on his pretty little wife.”

  “Darlene deals in rumor and innuendo,” Veronica informed Coop. “It’s her job.”

  “No, dear. It’s my hobby.” Sipping her drink, she slowly twirled around on her barstool to face Veronica. “And my, aren’t you the dark horse. For instance, rumor had it you couldn’t wait to shake the dust of this town from your heels. Yet here you are, right back where you started.”

  Veronica flinched. That was one of her darkest fears—that she’d end her days at the Tonk, playing waitress to a bunch of drunks.

  “And not only serving drinks again,” Darlene murmured, “but cozy as can be, to boot, with your sister’s murderer’s lawyer.”

  “My what?” Wondering if she looked as clueless as she felt, Veronica stared blankly at the town gossip. She didn’t have the first idea what the woman was talking about.

  Darlene looked content as a cat with fresh kill. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. How delicious.” She lit another cigarette. “The knight in shining Armani who snatched the young knave’s hand from your snatch? He’s none other than Neil Peavy.”

  “Yes, I know. Cooper told me.”

  “Ah, yes, the enigmatic Cooper. Yet another dark horse—only this one’s a stallion.” She coolly inspected him before turning her attention back to Veronica. “Though I doubt I have to tell you that.” As heat scalded Veronica’s cheeks, Darlene said, “Did Cooper also tell you that the inestimable Mr. Peavy is Eddie Chapman’s attorney of record?”

  Shock was a fist in Veronica’s gut. No, that was a small detail he’d kept to himself. And how the hell did he know him, anyway?

  But she maintained a composed expression as she met the older woman’s gaze. “I’m pretty sure you know the answer to that already. This certainly appears to be your lucky day, Mrs. Starkey. You should be able to dine out on my motley little drama for a month.”

  Darlene exhaled a stream of smoke. “At the very least.”

  For the rest of the night Veronica adopted a serene, I-am-the-queen attitude that effectively kept the curious off of her back. But anger percolated beneath the surface, and the minute Sandy left at the end of their shift, Ronnie smacked her tray and cash box onto the shelf below the bar and turned to Coop.

  “You didn’t think I might want to know?”

  He didn’t pretend confusion over her reference to a comment made two and a half hours ago. “When was I supposed to tell you? While the attention of the entire bar was on you? Before you thanked Peavy for defusing the situation with your young mauler? Or, hey, I know: maybe when you were having that old-home-week-reunion moment with Mr. Scotch-and-Water.”

  “His name is Troy Jacobson, and don’t change the subject. I’d like to know—”

  “Troy.” Coop shook his head in disgust. “Christ. That figures.”

  Momentarily distracted, she tilted her head way back to stare up at him, and never even thought it odd to find they stood mere centimeters apart. “What figures?”

  “Ol’ Troy’s name. I should have known—he had that smooth, I’m-just-an-ol’-country-club-boy look. He’s one of the Bluff honchos, I take it.”

  “His family owns one of the region’s largest packing plants,” she agreed, then shrugged impatiently. “But getting back to—”

  “So, tell me, Princess, why were you so bent out of shape that ol’ Troy was doing the down-and-dirty with your sister back in high school? Did you want him for yourself or something?”

  “What?”

  “Watching you with ol’ Troy, I couldn’t quite figure out which bothered you the most—that your sis slept with him, or that the cheerleader married him.”

  Veronica smacked both hands onto Cooper’s chest and shoved him back a step, then followed right along in his wake, stretching to her fullest height to thrust her nose up under his. “You want to know what bothered me the most? It wasn’t that Troy Jacobson was screwing the girl from Baker Street while keeping the Bluff princess pristine, although I did think that stunk. It was the fact that my sister let him get away with it! She willingly played the cheap bimbo from the wrong side of the tracks, and didn’t even give a damn that she was a freaking cliché!” Suddenly aware of the heat of him beneath her fingers, Vero
nica dropped her hands to her sides and stepped back. “‘Want him for myself,’ my butt. Try not to be more of a jackass than you can help, Blackstock. The day I pine for a guy with the morals of an alleycat is the day I give you permission to just shoot me.”

  “Okay, so maybe I was a little off the mar—”

  “Here.” She tugged her apron free and tossed it at him. It had been a long night and she was in no mood. “Finish closing up yourself. I’m outta here.” She grabbed her coat from under the counter, dodged beneath the pass-through, and headed for the exit, pulling on her jacket as she crossed the floor.

  “Hey, get back here,” Coop growled. “We’re not through.”

  Veronica paused with the door half open to look back at him. Faint color stained his high cheekbones and his dark eyes burned with emotions she could only guess at as he glared at her. Her own face felt hot and her heart beat so fast and laboriously, she was surprised it didn’t drown out the sound of Patsy Cline lamenting to the empty room about her sweet dreams.

  “Maybe you aren’t, buddy,” she said, “but I sure as hell am.”

  13

  THE MAN LOCKED THE MAHOGANY DOUBLE DOORS behind him and tossed his keys on the entryway table, then listened to the echo of his footsteps as he crossed the slate-floored foyer. His home had that hollow feel that only an empty house can produce, and he walked into the den, clicked on the brass-trimmed banker’s light on his desk, and stared down for a moment at the framed photograph that sat on the polished cherrywood. Then he reached for the decanter and splashed a couple fingers of scotch into a cut-crystal tumbler. Collapsing with his drink onto his big leather chair, he picked up the remote control and keyed up a jazz music station. Very carefully, he replaced the remote where he’d found it.

  Which was pretty damn restrained of him, if he did say so himself—considering what he’d really like to do was wing it through the huge window overlooking the few lights still on down in the flats. Damn that Starkey bitch.

  The woman was a troublemaker. She always had been, but he would not tolerate her stirring up interest in the Crystal Davis affair.

  One side of his mouth curled up as he gazed down into the amber swirl of single malt in the bottom of his glass. Interesting word choice; one that undoubtedly qualified as a bona fide Freudian slip. His affair with Crystal was something he’d gone to great lengths to cover up, and there was no way in hell he’d allow some bigmouthed gossip to churn up waters he’d managed to smooth over with such masterful originality.

  Not that she’d said anything of real import. But he hadn’t become smarter than the average bear by leaving things to chance. No, siree. The moment he perceived a problem, he jumped into action. He studied everything that could possibly go wrong and strategized ways to minimize the potential risk.

  He saw no reason to treat the Davis matter any differently. It was a dead issue—no pun intended—and he intended to see it remained that way. The entire town believed Eddie Chapman had killed her. They were happy with that conclusion, and the last thing anyone needed was a bored rumormonger reviving interest in whom Crystal may or may not have been sleeping with. That kind of gossip did no one any good, so Darlene Starkey had better watch her mouth.

  Because if she persisted in shaking the tree just to see what she could get to drop out at her feet, he might be forced to do something about it. And she wouldn’t like the result.

  By the time Coop completed his final military leg lift and rolled to his feet, sweat was pouring freely off his torso. He’d done a hundred push-ups, another hundred crunches, and an equal number of lifts, but the aggravation that pulsed through his veins hadn’t abated one damn bit, and after taking an impatient swipe at his chest with a towel, he picked up a barbell, hoisted it up on his shoulders, and plunged into a set of squats.

  The woman was driving him nuts.

  “Maybe you’re not through,” he mimicked in a falsetto as he sank into yet another crouch, “but I sure as hell am.” He uttered a succinct opinion of her parting shot.

  He’d been trying to apologize, hadn’t he? He admitted he’d jumped to a hasty conclusion about Mr. Scotch-and-Water, but had she even waited around to hear him say he was sorry? Hell, no. If he was willing to extend an apology, the least she could do was stick around long enough to listen to it.

  On the other hand, maybe it was just as well she hadn’t, because what would he have said if she’d demanded an explanation? Coop’s face burned, and he didn’t attempt to convince himself it was strictly from exertion.

  He could hardly credit it, but he’d been jealous. Jealous, for crissake! He’d like to deny it, but the truth was he’d taken one look at the strong reaction Ronnie’d had to ol’ Troy, and the man’s clear desire for her good opinion, and that old green-eyed monster had twisted through his guts like a python at feeding time.

  He finished his first set of reps and stood breathing heavily. The barbell shifted on his shoulders and he automatically adjusted his stance, moving his feet a little farther apart and sliding his grip nearer the weights at the end of the bar. Man, what was it about her, anyway, that invariably threw him so out of whack? Maybe he couldn’t cop to an impressive array of relationships with women, but having relations with a willing female had always come fairly easily to him. Generally he was reasonably suave with the fairer sex.

  But not with her. For some reason, being around Ronnie made all his usual moves mutate in ways he didn’t expect. She’d rejected him more than once, but had that caused him to shrug and look elsewhere for satisfaction? No, sir. He kept wanting her, and only her.

  Impatiently, Coop shifted his weight. Hell, he thrived on competition, that was all. Attributing anything else to this thing he had for the fair-skinned Ms. Davis was a waste of time. Think about something else, Ice.

  That produced a snort. Like what? How that handle actually used to apply, maybe?

  Swearing steadily beneath his breath, he threw himself into another set of squats.

  Veronica pulled the plug in the old clawfoot tub and climbed to her feet as the water swirled down the drain. The hot bubble bath had felt marvelous, but it certainly hadn’t left her in the relaxed state she’d envisioned. Reaching for a towel, she ruefully acknowledged that the eighty-mile-an-hour spin her mind was engaged in might have something to do with that. A spin caused mostly by Cooper.

  A laugh escaped her. Mostly, my sweet fan-danny. It was caused entirely by Cooper.

  She’d love to blame this restless edginess on the Tonk—God knows it had been a crazy night from start to finish. But although the evening had definitely added to her stress level, it was Coop—or, more specifically, her inappropriate reaction to him—that had her engine all revved up. Physically, she was worn to a nub, but mentally, she was so wired the prospect of sleep felt like a long shot.

  Stepping from the tub, she quickly finished drying off, then rubbed a circle in the mirror above the sink. Maybe if she heated up some milk…

  She grimaced as she draped her towel to dry. Yeah, right—like warm milk would relieve her of anything except the contents of her stomach. The steam began to dissipate in the underheated bathroom about the same time she completed rubbing apricot baby oil into her skin, and teeth chattering, she snatched up a clean set of pajamas and pulled them on. Then she hurriedly washed her face and patted on a little moisturizer. Warm milk was definitely out, but perhaps a glass of wine—

  Eww. Toothpaste and wine—there was a combination she’d just as soon not contemplate. Who was she trying to kid anyway? The only sleep aid she needed was ridding her thoughts of Cooper Blackstock. She couldn’t believe she was so hot and bothered over this guy. Aside from wanting to jump his bones, what did she have in common with him?

  Absolutely nothing, that’s what. And probably the only reason she wanted his body so much anyway was because she’d imposed that edict that said she couldn’t have it. Sort of like her old college roommate, who’d never seemed to want a cigarette as badly as those times when she couldn�
�t locate a match.

  Suspecting that was a load of manure, she decided to lay the blame squarely at Marissa’s door. Yes, sir, that’s whose fault it was. Seeing her friend act like one big pulsating hormone around Kody was putting thoughts into her head.

  Cursing the cold floorboards in the hallway, Veronica made a dash for her bedroom. She barreled through the door and dove for the bed. Damn, it was cold up here!

  It seemed to take forever, but eventually her heart slowed to a steady rhythm and her body heat warmed the bed to the point where she could actually stretch out without immediately jerking back at the shock of encountering an icy patch of sheet. Little by little she began to relax, and when her racing brain also grew calm, she finally dozed off.

  Only to be rudely jerked from sleep moments later by a horrendous crash overhead.

  Veronica jackknifed straight up in bed, her heart pounding as if it were trying to beat its way out of her chest. Throwing back the covers, she raced out into the hallway, where she promptly stubbed her toe against she-didn’t-know-what. Cursing, she half limped, half hopped to the end of the hall and opened the doorway up to the attic. Immediately her ears were assaulted by a barrage of truly inspired cursing. “Are you okay?” she called as she hobbled up the stairs.

  “Only if your definition of okay,” Coop snarled, “is a dumb-ass, clumsy mother-fu—” Sounding as if the necessity of censoring himself were choking him, he cut himself off midobscenity just as she reached the top of the stairs. “Dammit, I can’t believe I let that drop.”

  Oh, God. Veronica stopped dead and stared at Coop. He stood in front of his bed, and it was like the night in the bar when he’d taken his shirt off all over again. Only this time sweat sheened his golden skin from his forehead to the low-slung sweats clinging to his hips. Man, oh, man, the guy had a body—she’d guess in part courtesy of all those weights stacked not far from where he stood.