by Tami Hoag
Jake ignored her impatience and smiled squarely at Leo. “I’ll have a light beer and the turkey sandwich, hold the bread, hold the mayo, thanks.”
“It ain’t much of a sandwich then, is it?” Leo said. He sauntered off toward the kitchen, shaking his head.
Dixie sniffed, feeling extra peeved at Jake’s fussiness. She hated that particular trait and it galled her no end that she would be wildly attracted to a man who exhibited it. “I swear, you’re worse than my Great-aunt Suki, and she had some kind of convoluted gallbladder problem, so she at least had an excuse.”
“White bread happens to be loaded with chemical preservatives,” Jake informed her. “The human body is a temple, you know.”
And you worship at yours every day. Dixie bit her tongue to keep the remark from spilling out. However, she couldn’t keep herself from thinking that she wouldn’t mind doing a little worshiping at Jake’s temple, either. She cursed herself for being both ornery and randy. The two didn’t seem like a good combination.
It was Jake Gannon’s fault her feelings were getting all stirred around. Since she had returned to Mare’s Nest she’d been a perfectly pleasant person—once her depression and grief had subsided. Then along he’d come with his blue eyes and his blue Porsche, making her remember she was a woman and bringing reminders of a way of life that had made her miserable.
Leo returned and set a plate in front of each of them. Side by side the meals looked like a do and don’t guide for good health. Jake’s meal consisted of sliced turkey on a bed of lettuce and tomato. Dixie’s sandwich towered alongside it—salty Virginia ham layered with bright orange cheddar cheese, all stacked between two slices of thick white bread that resembled slabs of foam rubber.
Jake frowned. “Are you really going to eat that?”
“No,” she said peevishly. “I’m gonna put it in a time capsule and bury it for posterity.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, it’s your body.”
“That’s right, and I’ll do with it whatever I darn well please.”
“Fine, fine,” he muttered, cutting his meat. “Jeez, you don’t have to pull your gun on me again.”
Dixie scowled at him and pushed her plate away. There was nothing like a nutritionally conscientious person to take all the fun out of eating. She chalked up another strike against Jake.
“So, Jake, what happened to the car?” Bubby Bristol asked, turning toward a new source of entertainment. On the TV screen the credits for Wheel of Fortune rolled over the image of Pat and Vanna waving good-bye.
“Overheated. Might be a hose,” Jake said, trying to sound as if he knew something about it.
“Or the water pump,” Bubby added, nodding. Bubby looked around thirty. He was built like a lumberjack and had dark eyes and dark hair so thick it looked as if a beaver pelt rested on his head.
Jake sipped his beer and nodded along in macho camaraderie. “The radiator was bone dry.”
A horrified look crossed Bubby’s square face. “Man, let’s hope you didn’t blow the engine.”
“Yeah.” Jake tried to force a chuckle, but it sounded more like he was choking. He stared morosely at his plate, his appetite gone.
Dixie tried to take vengeful enjoyment in the fact that Jake had gone as pale as the bread housing her killer sandwich, but she couldn’t. Poor guy. He looked like a kid whose biggest, best, shiniest Christmas present had just gotten sat on by his fat aunt. She reached over and patted his hand consolingly. Little currents of magnetism buzzed up her fingers.
“I know a fella had that happen once,” Joe Dell said, shoving his mug toward Leo for a refill. He adjusted the bill of a dirty red baseball cap with “Whippets” stitched across the front in gray. His mouth turned down in a frown that elongated his lean face. “Cracked the engine block, if you can believe that. The whole works just plum froze up—the drivetrain and everything. Had to sell that car for scrap.”
Jake whimpered.
Dixie scowled. “Joe Dell, really! Can’t you see the poor guy is upset enough as it is? We’re talking about a brand new Porsche here, for pity’s sake!”
The men moaned in unison, gazes falling glumly into their beer once more. In the silence the theme music from Entertainment Tonight gurgled merrily in the background. As the host introduced the lead story, Dixie reached for the remote control that lay on the bar. Jake beat her to it, his hand darting with the speed of a striking snake.
“This is my favorite show,” he said, flashing her a smile as he punched the volume button.
On the screen the image of Devon Stafford loomed larger than life, a sultry smile lifting the corners of her famous lips, her silver-blond mane spilling all around her in sexy disarray. Then the scene cut to an exterior shot of Stafford’s palatial home in the Hollywood hills. While a gardener ran around on the lawn chasing trespassers with a bamboo rake, a serious-looking Entertainment Tonight correspondent standing on the curb reported that on the one-year anniversary of her vanishing act, Ms. Stafford still had not been located. Reports of her working at a topless doughnut shop in Wyoming had not been substantiated. The search continued.
“Imagine that,” Jake mused, lowering the volume on the set. “A beautiful, talented woman like that just flies the coop without a word to anyone. Crazy.”
No one in the Magnolia Bar said a word for a long moment. Cora May Trulove had fallen asleep in her chair and was snoring softly. The refrigerator unit kicked in and hummed. Bubby cracked a peanut and dropped the shells on the floor.
“It’s a cryin’ shame,” Bubby said, shaking his head as if the star’s disappearance were a tragedy worthy of having the flag flown at half-mast.
“We’re all in mourning,” Joe Dell said. “Her television show was everybody’s favorite here. Half the town used to come in Thursday nights to watch Wylde Time. Leastwise, most of the men did. Shoot, seeing Devon Stafford chase criminals was enough to raise a man from the dead.”
“I know what you mean,” Jake said with a grin. “I wouldn’t mind getting shipwrecked on an island with her.”
“Yeah, you and every other red-blooded man in the free world!”
“Those lips.”
“That hair.”
“Those big br—”
“Excuse me,” Dixie snapped, her brows pulling into a V over stormy eyes. “I hate to rain on this testosterone festival, but I do not believe we all care to hear y’all go on and on about Devon Stafford’s assets. She’s just an actress, for cryin’ out loud. She didn’t find a cure for cancer or end world hunger or figure out a way to fold fitted sheets. Y’all make out like she’s the goddess of the world. Well, I personally do not miss her all that much.”
The men stared at her as if she’d said something blasphemous, except Leo, who gave her long, even look. “Now, Dixie,” he drawled softly. “No need for you to get all riled up. It’s only natural for the fellas to go on about Devon Stafford. She’s a famous movie star, after all.”
“Just a movie star,” Dixie grumbled. “Big deal.”
“We’re talking about the perfect woman here,” Jake said.
“Hair down to her butt and a D-cup bra. Those are your ingredients for a perfect woman?” Dixie asked. Her temper was sizzling and she knew she was in danger of losing control, but she couldn’t help herself. If there was one subject that drove her right over the edge, it was perfection. It didn’t help matters that the one proclaiming Devon Stafford to be the perfect woman was the first man Dixie had been attracted to in ages. If Jake thought that platinum-maned princess of the silver screen was perfect, then he was a long way from throwing himself at the feet of Dixie La Fontaine.
“And a real tiny waist,” Bubby added to the list of desirable female attributes.
“And pouty lips,” Joe Dell said, nodding gravely. All the male heads bobbed up and down in agreement.
“Well, if that just don’t fry my taters!” Dixie hissed. She slid down off her bar stool for the express purpose of stamping her foot, then zippe
d her jacket with a jerk of her wrist. “Not one word about intelligence or compassion or strength of character. This perfect woman you’re describing could just as well be one of those inflatable dolls perverts order out of the back of porno magazines! Y’all should be ashamed.”
“What did they do now. Dixie?” Miss Divine asked, her voice loud enough to wake the dead in the next county. It did not, however, rouse her sister from slumber.
Dixie scowled at Bubby and Joe Dell, who looked like the big lummoxes they undoubtedly were. There was speculation in Jake’s eyes, and Leo looked at her from under his lashes as he dried a beer mug with a white towel.
Dixie sniffed. “They have just demonstrated that men do in fact think with a little tiny part of their anatomy that isn’t even hooked up to their brains.”
Miss Divine nodded and smiled pleasantly. “Boys will be boys.”
“Until the day they die of old age,” Dixie said with a snort. She gave Jake a flaming look and said, “Let’s go, Gannon.”
Jake took a last long sip of his beer, watching her intently, then he bade his new acquaintances good night with a nod of his head and followed her out.
FOUR
“I TAKE IT you’re not a big Devon Stafford fan,” Jake said evenly as Dixie slammed the Bronco into drive and hit the gas. He watched her carefully for even the slightest reaction as he braced himself with one hand on the dash. When they made a hard right, debris slid along the length of the dashboard and drifted to the floor like snow. There was the briefest show of something like pain and uncertainty in her eyes, then it was gone, forced out by annoyance.
“I don’t have anything against Devon Stafford.”
“Except that she’s the perfect woman.”
“Perfection is in the eye of the beholder,” she said. The Bronco pitched and bucked over the rough narrow road. “Personally, I don’t believe in perfectionism. It’s unrealistic.”
“Not in Devon Stafford’s case,” Jake argued.
Dixie sniffed and shook her head. “A lot you know.”
Before Jake could comment, she took the offensive and slanted him a look. “Why are you so interested in her anyway? You planning on writing about her or something?”
“Just a fan,” he said. “Like most of America, I’m curious about her disappearance. Why would a big star just run off like that? Was it over money? A sex scandal? A drug problem?”
Dixie turned into the driveway of a big blue-gray beach house and pulled in front of an old garage that was full of junk. She turned off the engine and stared out the windshield.
“Maybe she just wants to be left alone,” she said quietly. “Has anybody thought of that? Maybe she just wants some peace. Maybe she don’t want all and sundry chasin’ after her like a pack of coon hounds on huntin’ night.”
Jake watched the play of shadows across her face. He could sense that she was fighting to keep a shield up, maybe fighting to keep from saying too much. Her reaction certainly wasn’t that of someone who was completely detached from the subject. Dixie La Fontaine knew something and he wanted to coax it out of her. More than that, he wanted her to confide in him. But he had the feeling that getting the story wasn’t his only reason.
He may have come here with the intention of unlocking Devon Stafford’s secrets, but he found some of that curiosity directing itself in Dixie’s direction. She seemed upset and he wanted to understand why. He wanted to comfort her, not question her, but he tried to push the feeling aside.
“Do you know something the rest of us don’t?” he asked, his tone soft and silky as he leaned a little closer on the excuse of gauging her response.
“No!” Dixie snapped, a little too quickly. She took a deep breath and sighed, leveling a scowl at him. “It just galls me, is all. Whose business is it why she left Hollywood? Why did people hound Greta Garbo? Why won’t anyone just let Elvis be dead? Just because they’re celebrities folks think they have some right to know every little thing about them. Stars are just people under all that glamour. They should be able to have secrets and private lives just like everyone else.”
Jake leaned even closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume. The corners of his mouth turned up in a quizzical little smile and he lifted a finger to trace the slope of Dixie’s nose. “Know a lot of stars, do you, Dixie?”
Dixie had to tilt her head back to look at him. He was too near. She could feel the power of his male aura pressing in on her, but, heaven help her, she didn’t want to escape. Sexual electricity hummed around them like an overloaded power line.
“No,” she whispered, just barely resisting the urge to reach up and brush back the tumble of golden hair that had spilled over his forehead. She almost forgot to breathe, he was so handsome, the look in his eyes so intense. “I know a lot of people. Just people.”
Maybe he should have asked her if she knew Devon Stafford. Jake knew he could press the issue now and probably get an answer. She was off balance, rattled. But he couldn’t do it. Something in her eyes touched him, something that silently begged him not to push her. He felt like a cad and a half already for deceiving her about his purpose here. It went against his code of honor to lie about anything, but he hadn’t seen any way around it. Now her sermon on celebrities’ rights compounded the feeling. He wanted to defend himself, but of course that was out of the question.
He wanted to tell her that his job was to uncover all the secrets of his subjects, but he didn’t go in for sensationalism. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t do unauthorized biographies, that every word he wrote was approved by the person he was writing about. He wanted her to know he was a man of integrity, a man to be trusted. But he was caught in a trap of his own making. By lying to her about what he was doing here he contradicted what he wanted her to believe.
He leaned back, breaking the sensual spell of her nearness, and looked out at the buildings strewn up and down the beach. Squares of butter-yellow light dotted the sides of two small cottages. The house they were in front of was much larger, its two and a half stories stacked like the layers of a wedding cake. Like the others, it perched on sturdy-looking stilts. The lower level was surrounded by a screened porch, and windows in the attic blazed with light. At the bottom of the steps that led from the ground to the front door, a weathered sign swung in the evening breeze. It read “Cottages for Rent.”
There would be plenty of time to work out the little snarl about his identity and his objective. And he didn’t have to force a confession out of Dixie. If she knew where Devon Stafford was hiding he would be able to get the information eventually. As he listened to the sound of the ocean washing against the shore, the urgency to finish this job drifted away. He didn’t need to storm Dixie’s defenses. He had all the time in the world. After all, Devon Stafford had already been gone a year. What difference would another few days make?
“Thanks for the lift,” he said.
He made the mistake of glancing back at Dixie, for he was hit broadside again by the overwhelming desire to kiss her. She looked so small and sweet, swallowed up by her bomber jacket, her hazel eyes watching him warily. She looked like a woman who needed kissing.
He wasn’t a man given to impulsive behavior, but there was just something about Dixie that wreaked havoc with his self-control. He leaned toward her, a roguish smile tugging at a corner of his mouth. “Thanks for everything, Dixie. You’ve been a real pal.”
The last word hit Dixie like a rock thrown by a taunting juvenile delinquent. A pal! A pal! First she was a good sport, now she was a pal! She reared back, sucking in a deep breath, temper unleashed, ready to tell Jake Gannon exactly where he could stick his labels. Pal indeed.
But before she had a chance to cut him to shreds, his mouth settled firmly over hers and tongue-lashing suddenly took on a whole new connotation. The explosion of sensation was stunning, blocking any idea of resisting or responding. She merely experienced—the taste of him, the firmness of his lips, the sense of male power. It was a surprise attack
on her senses and a darn successful one. She couldn’t remember a kiss affecting her that way before. At the moment, she couldn’t remember her own name.
She let herself lean into him, her hands coming up to grasp the solid muscle of his arms to steady herself. If anything, her senses reeled further off the beam. The man was a rock of masculinity. It was all she could do not to throw herself against him and beg him to have his way with her. It wasn’t how she should have felt, should have conducted herself. Every warning system she had told her Jake Gannon was trouble in a great big handsome package, but the warning sirens couldn’t seem to penetrate the hot haze of sudden desire.
It had been too long since she’d been held this way and too long since she’d been kissed. She couldn’t even remember anyone kissing Dixie La Fontaine. There had been men before, yes, but they had never kissed the real Dixie. They had kissed an ideal of womanhood and left the woman inside alone and lonely. But Jake Gannon wasn’t kissing an ideal. His lips were on hers and it felt so good she never wanted it to end.
Jake pulled back slowly, feeling as stunned as Dixie looked. Just a little kiss. That was all it was supposed to have been. A little kiss to satisfy his curiosity. But he felt a long way from satisfied. He felt charged, primed, hot. There was such a cloud of steam in his brain, for a moment he couldn’t remember what he was even doing here beyond getting wild for a lady tow truck driver. He felt as if he’d been hit in the head with a brick. All because of one simple little kiss with a woman he had told himself he wasn’t really attracted to.
Maybe he’d been wrong.
“You kissed me,” Dixie said accusingly, lifting two fingers to touch her bottom lip.
Jake met her suspicious look with his best poker face. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because.” He wasn’t about to tell her he didn’t know why. A man didn’t admit such things to a woman, particularly one familiar with firearms.
