by Tami Hoag
“That’s not a reason,” Dixie said irritably. So much for her moment of romantic fantasy. She had obviously just been the handy recipient of a hormonal surge. How flattering. That ranked right up there with being a pal. “Maybe you can go around California just kissing women for no good reason, but that won’t wash around here. You’ll get yourself punched in the nose, or worse.”
Jake scowled. “Jeez, it was just a kiss. Don’t make a big federal case out of it. Did I make a big deal when you pulled that cannon on me?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, I didn’t shoot it,” she snapped. “It doesn’t even have bullets in it. You think I’d go waving a loaded gun around? What kind of a person do you take me for?”
He arched a brow sardonically. “Is that a rhetorical question? Because if it’s not I should probably plead the Fifth.”
“Oh, thank you very much!”
Dixie turned and faced forward, crossing her arms over her chest, a fine red mist swimming before her narrowed eyes. “I suppose you just got all wound up thinking about Devon Stafford and since there wasn’t a blond goddess handy you settled for me,” she grumbled, fighting the hurt and fueling it at the same time.
Jake muttered a few choice words under his breath and shook his head. How on earth had he gotten himself into this mess? He was a calm, coolheaded, orderly person. He lived an orderly, regimented life. Two hours with Dixie had him feeling as if he’d been thrown in a clothes dryer and tumbled on heavy duty. He shook his head in disbelief.
“I’d better go check in,” he said, not moving.
“I guess,” Dixie mumbled, biting her lip. The jerk. The least he could have done was deny her charge.
“Do you know where I can find the manager?”
“Yep.”
“Where?”
She heaved a sigh of enormous proportions. “You’re lookin’ at her.”
Jake blinked and his brows lowered as yet another curveball came sailing his way. “But you’re the tow truck driver.”
“It’s a small town. We tend to double up on jobs. I’m a plumber sometimes, too. You wanna make something of it?”
A little quiver of embarrassment went through her and Dixie silently cursed herself. She didn’t have anything to be embarrassed about. There was nothing wrong with her driving a tow truck or unclogging drains. Those were perfectly honorable professions. It was just that she had the sudden yearning for Jake Gannon to see her as something other than the town handyman. She wanted him to look at her and see something other than a good sport and a pal with grease on her nose. She wanted him to see a woman. And worse yet, she wanted him to see a desirable woman.
What was the matter with her? Hadn’t she left all that behind? Hadn’t she shed the need to be what other people thought of as perfect or desirable? Hadn’t she sworn to just be herself, just plain old Dixie La Fontaine, to let people take her as she was or not at all?
And here she was wanting Jake Gannon to look at her and be dazzled.
Criminy. She’d known the instant she’d spotted him he’d be trouble. She just hadn’t suspected how much.
“So,” he said, breaking the tense silence that had filled the cab. “Have you got a vacancy for a guy with no reservation?”
“I’ve got a vacancy in my head,” she grumbled under her breath. The last thing she needed was Adonis hanging around making her think about stupid things like clothes and makeup and counting calories. She should have called the auto club and sent him on to Myrtle Beach where he would have found an abundance of svelte nymphs in bikinis to drool over.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I said I’ve got one cottage left.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Great.” She shoved open the truck door and slid to the ground. “Just great.”
They were halfway to the steps of the big house when a pack of dogs came bounding around the corner, baying, tails wagging. Dixie promptly dropped the suitcase she was lugging and braced herself for the onslaught. Three of the four animals jumped her at once—a Labrador with three legs, a mutt that looked like a cross between a golden retriever and a cocker spaniel, and a Welsh corgi. The two bigger dogs lunged at her face enthusiastically with unerring tongues. The corgi’s short legs didn’t lift him as far; he settled for licking her kneecap. The fourth dog, a German shepherd as big as a pony, made a beeline for Jake.
“Look out!” Dixie yelled.
Jake barely had time to wrap his arms more tightly around his box of files before the dog barreled into him. It was like getting hit by a three-hundred-pound tackle. The blow sent him staggering across the yard. He clutched the box for all he was worth, envisioning its contents spewing across the yard, pictures of Devon Stafford floating everywhere, Dixie digging through her handbag for her gun and loose ammunition.
The dog apparently decided this was a kind of a game and began racing in circles around Jake’s legs, leaping and twisting in joy, issuing deafening barks. The pair of them went dancing across the yard toward the house and Jake lunged onto the steps, heaving the box up ahead of him.
“Bad dog!” Dixie scolded, but the perpetrator had already turned tail and was bounding off toward the beach with his cohorts.
“That was a dog?” Jake asked, incredulous. He sat on the steps looking shell-shocked. “I thought Secretariat had come back from the dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Dixie said, biting her lip. She reached out and tried to brush dog hair off Jake’s trouser leg. “That’s Bob Dog. He’s just a puppy. He gets a little excited. You would have stood a better chance if you’d have let go of that box. What’s in there anyway? Heirloom china?” she asked, plucking at one of the flaps and trying to peer inside.
Jake yanked the box away from her curious fingers and stood up. “My manuscript. I’d rather you didn’t look at it. Writers are very superstitious about people seeing their work before it’s sold, you know.”
“Fine.” She shrugged and started up the stairs. “I always try to honor other people’s superstitions.”
“So where do the hounds of the Baskervilles live?” he asked. “Some place around here?”
“Yeah. Right here. They’re mine.”
“All of them?”
“Yep.” She pulled open the door to the porch and cats leaped out, scattering in all directions like trick snakes springing out of a can.
Jake followed her into the front room, prepared for the worst. Actually, it wasn’t nearly as bad as the front of the Bronco. Though the room was crowded with antique furniture, there was a clear path to walk on across the bleached wood floor. Still, the clutter was mind-boggling.
Collections of all sorts were everywhere.
A long mahogany table was the showcase for a collection of seashells. A curio cabinet was crowded with a collection of small china figurines. A coffee table was weighed down with a collection of old Life magazines and three albums of baseball cards. The walls were covered with memorabilia. Old tin advertising signs. Stuffed wild animals—further evidence of Clem’s taxidermy, no doubt. Old hand tools, out-dated sporting equipment. He felt as if he had walked into the storage room of a second-rate museum that had run out of space.
“Amazing” was all Jake could mutter.
Dixie rolled her eyes. “Don’t get a rash, Gannon. You don’t have to stay in here.”
Jake narrowed his eyes. “Did I say anything bad?”
“A grimace is worth a thousand words of criticism,” Dixie answered.
“Look, I wasn’t expecting House Beautiful,” Jake said in his own defense. “But you have to admit this is a little overwhelming at first glance.”
Dixie’s gaze fell on a table fashioned from elk horns and topped with a clear glass ginger jar lamp that contained a stuffed ferret. She decided to give the man a break. The house was a little odd.
“I guess you’ve got a point,” she conceded grudgingly. “This here all belongs to Levander Wakefield. He owns the place, but I’m running things on account of he decided to spend a couple of yea
rs traveling around the world.”
“You get a lot of guests here?” Jake asked as he watched Dixie dig through the rubble on an old rolltop desk.
“We get our regulars. Two, to be precise.” She sifted through the junk for a key. “Sylvie Lieberman. She’s a widow. Her husband was a big literary agent up in New York. Maybe you’ve heard of Sid Lieberman? Anyway, it’s just Sylvie, who lives here year-round, and Fabiano. He’s got the two cottages on the far north side because he’s an artist and he doesn’t want any neighbors. Having people too close disrupts his artistic flow.”
Somewhere above them a loud thump sounded and echoed through the big house. Dixie’s eyes went round. Jake glanced up at the ceiling, then looked at her with a perfect golden brow arched in question.
“Cats,” she said. “Darn things are always getting up into the attic.”
Another thump sounded, accompanied by the faint strains of pop music.
“Doing their kitty aerobics?” Jake queried dryly.
“Why don’t I walk you down to your cottage?” Dixie said, striding purposefully toward the door.
Jake smiled and followed her out. She wasn’t subtle, but she was determined…and damned cute.
Night had fallen completely now and a cool wind swept in off the ocean, rustling the long stringy grass that grew beside the path. Dixie led the way, followed by a trio of cats.
They climbed the steps to the open porch of a cottage and Dixie flipped on the light by the door. They were greeted there by the three-legged Labrador and yet another cat. This one looked as if it had once been run over and left for dead. It was black, missing an eye and big patches of fur. Its tail bent sideways at a right angle and when it meowed it sounded like a broken oboe.
Jake made a face as it rubbed up against his legs. “That’s the ugliest cat I’ve ever seen in my life. Why would you want to keep a thing like that around?”
Dixie looked up at him as she opened the cottage door. “Because nobody else would,” she said simply.
“These are all strays?” He motioned to the group of animals that had gathered at the foot of the steps to wait for their mistress.
“Strays and rejects.” She leaned down and patted the Labrador’s head. “Abby here lost her leg in a trap and her owner was going to put her to sleep because she wasn’t good for hunting anymore. Bob Dog’s people thought he was a cute puppy, but they hadn’t figured on him growing up to be so big. Honey was an accident and her owners didn’t want any of her litter because they weren’t purebreds. Hobbit, the corgi, chewed things up. Nobody wanted any of them because they’re not perfect.”
“And you took them in,” Jake said quietly.
“I told you.” She hefted up his suitcase and swung it inside. “I’m a soft touch.”
Jake glanced down at the motley crew of animals and gave them a rueful smile, feeling properly humbled. Dixie was a soft touch for rejects and runaways, things in need of shelter and care, things other people cast aside because of flaws. She was a nurturer, a shepherd. He wondered if she had any idea that she had just let a wolf into her flock.
The cottage was a pleasant surprise after the clutter of the big house. It was neat and spare, comprised of a kitchen and a combination living and dining area along with a separate small bedroom and bath. The furniture was an eclectic mix of yard sale bargains, but everything was clean and neat. A braided rug in shades of blue covered the wood floor in front of the tiny fireplace. Plump patchwork pillows nestled in the corners of the sofa. It was the kind of place Jake had always pictured as a writer’s retreat—cozy, light, with a desk, bookshelves, and the sight of the ocean in the distance. It was the kind of place a man could hole up in and forget about the rest of the world.
Dixie led him on a whirlwind tour, pointing out essentials like the thermostat and how to flush the toilet without having it run on. She showed him the linen closet and how to open the damper on the fireplace, all with the prim, efficient tone of a real estate agent.
She was pulling back from him a little more each minute. Jake recognized the wisdom of letting her do it. He hadn’t come here to get involved. His focus was on his objective. He didn’t want anyone thinking he had tried to seduce his way to a story. He didn’t want to lead Dixie on. And yet…
“…The phone’s hooked up, so you can call Eldon Monday morning and check on your baby,” she said, pausing at the screen door. “If you need anything, you know where to find me. I’ll help out if I can. You know, me being such a good sport and all,” she added sarcastically.
Swearing under his breath, Jake closed the distance to the door in three strides. He shoved the screen door back and leaned out over the porch.
“Dixie…”
She turned at the top of the stairs with the one-eyed cat in her arms. The porch light cast a pale silver halo over her hair that made his breath catch for an instant.
“Thanks for taking in another stray,” he said, offering her a tentative, apologetic smile.
Dixie almost laughed. Jake Gannon was no stray. Sleek and handsome, he was a purebred from the word go. It was just an insane twist of fate that he had ended up on her doorstep at this particular time of her life, after she had vowed not to pander to men who never looked beneath the surface. She gave him a halfhearted smile and turned again toward the steps.
“Dixie…” he said. “I kissed you because I wanted to.”
Her heart stopped for one bittersweet, painful beat. He had kissed her because he wanted to. Kissed her, Dixie, a plain, little nobody from Mare’s Nest, South Carolina, because he, beautiful, perfect Jake Gannon, had wanted to.
But he didn’t really know why he’d wanted to. That question was confounding him. She could see that in his eyes, in the furrowed line of his brow, in the defensive set of his athlete’s shoulders. It was a hollow victory, then, nothing to take joy in, no reason to take hope. He wasn’t for her and she’d known that right off. She didn’t have any business hurting now at the reminder.
Without a word she turned and walked away.
Jake bumped his forehead against the door frame as he watched Dixie go up the path toward the big house, her pack of bedraggled pets trailing after her. I kissed you because I wanted to. Why had he said that? Hadn’t he just told himself he didn’t want to lead her on? Hadn’t he told himself ten times that she wasn’t for him? Hadn’t he noticed that adorable wiggle when she walked?
Damn.
He hit his head again. He wasn’t supposed to notice the sassy sway of well-rounded hips. He was supposed to be looking for the woman of every man’s dreams—the delectable Devon Stafford.
Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from Dixie and looked up at the attic that crowned her house, where amber light silhouetted a slim, feminine body against the shade. The body stretched one direction, then the other, moving gracefully, a fall of long hair spilling off to one side.
If that was a cat, he would eat his typewriter.
He let the screen door shut with a squeak and a bang and went across the living room to the desk, where he opened his file box. With a thoughtful frown he lifted out an eight-by-ten glossy of Devon Stafford. A shiny black dress clung to her slim body like wet silk, emphasizing her delicate slenderness. The world-famous mane of platinum hair tumbled all around her like a frozen waterfall. She pouted at the camera, her lips like ripe berries, slick and plump, an erotic contrast to the taut angular planes of her face.
She was what he had come looking for.
She was gorgeous.
She was perfect.
Jake let the photograph fall back into the box as he wondered if Devon Stafford would have taken in a dog with three legs.
Dixie lay on her bed listening to the nonsensical mumbling of the television on the next floor. David Letterman was going through his nightly top ten list. She could tell by the cadence of the voice and the timing of her cousin’s bursts of raucous laughter. She scowled up at the ceiling and the noise. Sometimes she really wished she weren’t such a kindhearted
soul. Tonight she would have liked to have had the house to herself so she could listen to its creaking and moaning. She would have liked to have been completely alone so she could have wallowed in the sense of loneliness that was assaulting her.
She wasn’t one given to fits of self-pity. She firmly believed that life was what a person made of it. For a while, what she had made of hers was a mess, but she had turned that all around. She had been so happy, so content recently. Now all that seemed to have come unraveled like a cheap sweater. The appearance of Jake Gannon in her life had disrupted her sense of calm and had resurrected needs she had conveniently forgotten.
Wild hoots of laughter sounded above her, followed by stamping. Something had evidently struck her cousin’s funny bone in a big way. Unamused herself, Dixie got up off the bed. She grabbed the golf club she kept propped in the corner, climbed up on the bed and hit the ceiling a few times. Almost immediately the noise subsided.
Dixie lay back down on her belly and stared out the window. The light in Jake’s cottage was on.
He was like the handsome stranger in old westerns, she thought. Riding into town unannounced, unknown, upsetting the quiet surface of the people’s placid lives like a stone thrown in a pond. That was undoubtedly part of his attraction, beyond the obvious fact that he was gorgeous and radiated sex appeal like a furnace blasts heat. He was a reminder from her past, from a previous life. A reminder of the seductive allure of pretty, polished things. A reminder she didn’t want.
He wouldn’t be here long. He would stay a few days, until Eldon had his Porsche repaired, and then the handsome stranger would be gone and Dixie’s life would settle back into the quiet routine she loved. Well, almost. She would have to have her cousin vacate the attic before things truly returned to normal, but that would happen, eventually, once Dee had settled a few things for herself.
The point was, Jake Gannon was just passing through. She had to keep her wits about her and make sure he wasn’t toting her heart with him when he left.
FIVE
“I SHOULD LIVE so long to see a man that good looking!” Sylvie Lieberman exclaimed, smacking Dixie on the shoulder.
