Mr. Write (Sweetwater)

by O'Neill, Lisa Clark

  His entire aspect went blank. “My mother died.”

  Awash with sympathy, she laid her hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

  Thunder boomed over the music, a rude interruption.

  “Sounds like it’s going to storm.”

  Realizing that another conversational door had been shut, Sarah merely nodded. “Welcome to summertime in South Carolina. This one’s coming in a little earlier than predicted.” And poor Allie was hosting her first ghost walk. Sarah hoped she’d get through it before the rain began. “I should probably start back home.”

  “You never got your drink.”

  Sarah looked to see that Noah had been waylaid again, this time by breasts instead of baseball. A very well-endowed young woman was hanging onto his arm.

  “No big deal.”

  “I have drinks at my place. And when it rains? The metal roof is really nice.”

  His eyes were darker than she’d thought. Almost like charcoal. Hot.

  They studied her face, slid down to linger on her cleavage, which, because she’d stupidly crammed everything into her little black dress, was rather abundantly on display.

  Sarah’s stomach did a little loop-de-loop as the heat spread all over.

  “Are you hitting on me?”

  “You have to ask?”

  No. No, she didn’t. “I –”

  “Well, well. If it isn’t Sweetwater’s newest resident. And our own sweet little Sarah, keeping him all to herself.”

  If the thunder had been rude, this interruption was downright obnoxious.

  “Victoria.” Sarah kept her tone neutral as she turned to acknowledge Harlan’s ex-wife. The blonde was stunning. Flawlessly coiffed, curvy, petite.

  And a stone bitch.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  “I wasn’t aware there were any men in Sweetwater whom you didn’t know, in the biblical sense.”

  Tucker made a noise beside her, and Torie laughed, as if Sarah hadn’t been completely serious. “Isn’t she just a cut-up?” she said to Tucker, and extended a slender, red-tipped hand. “I’m Victoria Hawbaker.”

  Sarah watched the last name throw him as he stood. “Tucker Pettigrew.” He earned points for manners, and even more for not saying anything regarding pleasure.

  Torie tilted her perfect head to the side. “You look familiar.”

  Probably because she viewed every man as either a checkbook or a penis, depending on which was bigger. Carolann might be a shallow, mercenary opportunist. But Victoria was a vulture.

  “Maybe you’ve been into my little shop,” she cooed. “Southern Comfort?”

  Torie’s little shop was a high end interior design firm and retail showroom that ran toward expensive antiques and heirloom quality reproductions. The kind of things she’d enjoyed as Harlan Hawbaker’s wife, before she’d picked him clean.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You should come in sometime. That big ole place you’re fixing up is surely going to need stuff to fill it. I have a number of things I’d be delighted to show you.”

  “I’ll bet,” Sarah muttered, and Torie merely smiled her way.

  “How’s your father?”

  Everything inside Sarah tightened. “My father is fine.”

  “Next time you’re down in Jacksonville, you give him my regards. I swear, my engine just hasn’t run the same since he isn’t around to fiddle with it.”

  Even though Sarah knew Torie was talking about her sailboat, the innuendo – and that was most certainly an innuendo – made her ill.

  Her father had made a lot of mistakes before he’d turned things around, but he was remarried now. Productive and content. And he’d worked too hard to get to that point to let someone like Victoria mess that up.

  “Isn’t that your brother over there?” She sent an arch look toward Noah. “I’ll have to speak with him. I hear he’s very… capable in that area.”

  “Do and die.”

  Torie smiled again. “Aren’t you the protective big sister? Bless your heart.”

  “Another A student,” Tucker said to Sarah.

  “Try C minus, at best. That was both verbal, and redundant.”

  “Heartland.” Torie snapped her fingers, otherwise ignoring the byplay.

  “What are you talking about?” Sarah said, but Tucker stared at Victoria.

  “You read it?”

  “It was wonderful. The longer hair and the facial stubble threw me off. Not that the look isn’t attractive.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” This time she directed the question toward Tucker.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Torie’s eyes widened with surprise, but beneath the surprise was delight. “You do run a bookstore, don’t you?”

  She didn’t just run it, she owned it. At least part of it, anyway. She turned her gaze on Tucker.

  “Those other things I mentioned that I do to earn a living?” he finally said when she raised a brow. “One of them is writing novels.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MASON loitered in the dimly lit courtyard outside The Tavern Lounge, sipping a lemon shandy.

  Not his beverage of choice – the Englishman in him stood off to the side, horrified over the notion of diluting a perfectly good ale with lemon and sugar. But Mason had learned long ago that when in Rome. And the pretty little barmaid had insisted that he just had to try one. So he’d tried one.

  Or four.

  And really, by the time the third one had settled on his tongue, it no longer seemed such an abomination. And the citrus factor actually added the nice benefit of lemony fresh breath.

  Always a plus when one was staging a seduction.

  Not that Mason had actually staged many seductions. Usually he just walked into the room.

  Hearing the chatter of voices coming down the sidewalk, Mason melted further into the shadows so he could listen. The local band was set up in the main room tonight, due to the threat of inclement weather, so most of the bar’s patrons – including Tucker, whom Mason had abandoned forthwith when he’d seen Sarah come in the door – were gathered inside.

  All the better for him to pick out pieces of conversation on the sidewalk.

  It could be a pack of university students headed this way. But something about the hushed tones of the voices suggested this might be the group for whom he’d been waiting.

  And sure enough, there was that dark little head, shining above the flickering light of her lantern. Nearly dwarfed by the small huddle of wide-eyed tourists surrounding her.

  He couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, but he watched her point to the building catty-corner from the bar. She had such delicate hands.

  Allison, sweet Allison, who was going to be his tonight.

  He was a cad. Tucker had been absolutely correct about that.

  He’d learned – because he had made it his business to learn – that the bloke who’d so upset her with his presence on her porch last week was her ex-fiancé.

  Which, to Mason’s way of thinking, made him a bloody fool.

  Mason certainly could have pulled any number of women in this town. There was his face, after all. And he’d been the recipient of enough subtle hints – and blatant propositions – to keep him busy until it was time to leave.

  But Mason realized – and this was a shocker – that he wasn’t interested any more in easy and meaningless one night stands.

  He was looking for something… different.

  “What’s up with that tree with all the blue bottles on it?” Mason heard a youngish male ask as the group shuffled closer.

  “Ah,” Allison chimed, and Mason faded behind a post so she wouldn’t see him until he was ready. “I was waiting for someone to notice that. Anyone here familiar with a wooly booger?”

  “Like, a booger covered with hair?”

  “Funny. A wooly booger,” she instructed the group, like the nursery school teacher from a G-rated movie. God, she was cute. “Is an evil sp
irit. In Gullah culture these haints – or even the particularly nasty plat eye, which is the spirit of someone improperly buried – are said to come out at dusk. Beckoned inside by the slanting light refracting through the shiny blue bottles,” she gestured to the dizzying array of them strung from the tree “the spirits become trapped. If you listen closely, you can even hear them moaning when the wind blows. Sort of like right now.”

  Sure enough, a gust of sticky air blew down the street, followed by a rumble of thunder. The moss dripping from the twisted limbs danced like shroud-covered wraiths, which added spectacularly to the atmosphere Allison’s story had created. And when the din of thunder faded away, the dying breath of the wind echoing through the bottles, even Mason had to admit it sounded eerie.

  A pretty teen girl – no doubt the bogey-boy’s date for the evening – scooted closer to his side.

  Well done, he wanted to say as the delighted chap threw his arm around her. Frightening the pants off the girl was always a solid move, seduction-wise.

  Mason might have attempted it himself, if he’d been required to do something aside from stand there.

  Like a prop. In an endless string of one-act plays.

  “That concludes our tour this evening,” Allison spoke up, just as the god of thunder once again rattled his chains. “And not a moment too soon. Remember, if any of you have any comments or suggestions or, even better, any photographs from tonight, please visit our website. There are instructions there for uploading them to our guestbook. And the books I mentioned are available for purchase online, as well, although we’d love to have y’all stop by the store again if you get a chance. Um, bring your receipt from tonight before the end of the month, and it’s good for a free cup of coffee. Now unless we want to add another gruesome story about a crispy-fried group of tourists to future tours, I think we all better seek shelter. Good night everyone, and thanks for joining me.”

  Mason waited until all but one of the group had left before tossing back the rest of his drink. He set the glass on the low brick wall surrounding the courtyard, then peeked around the corner to see that an elderly woman had stayed behind. She pointed to something in a book that she carried, and Allison gestured down the street. Drat. Now she seemed to be drawing Allison along with her. Away from Mason. Like a fairy godmother, in reverse.

  But no fear. Just time for a little improvisation.

  Placing a hand on the bricks, Mason vaulted the wall, skirting behind the adjoining shrubbery. And stuffing his hands into his pockets, managed to casually stroll on a path directly perpendicular to Allison’s.

  Until he nearly bumped into her. Or rather, she nearly bumped into him.

  “Oh! Mason?”

  The wind picked up pieces of her inky hair and she pushed it out of her eyes. Wide and blue, they shone like those ghostly bottles in the dancing light of her lantern.

  “I’m terribly sorry.” He placed a steadying hand on her arm, and took the blame. Because truly, he had orchestrated the entire thing. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “Oh, no. It’s my fault entirely. I wasn’t watching and… what are you doing here? Not that you don’t have every right,” she quickly backpedaled, ever gracious. “To be doing. Whatever it is that you were… doing. Here.”

  She was so clearly, adorably flustered, that he wanted to hug her. And then hug her again, horizontally.

  “I just came to listen to some music.” He pointed behind him, toward the bar. “But when the thunder began to drown out the band, I figured I better make my way back to Tucker’s.”

  “Oh.” Dismay marred her lovely princess-in-a-tower features. “But, you’re heading the wrong direction.”

  “Am I?” He pulled a silly-me expression. “I guess I just got a bit turned around.”

  “Um, Mrs. Jenkins niece was a bit late picking her up, so I was just walking her back to her bed and breakfast, but I could –”

  Whatever she was about to say was drowned out by an enormous crack of thunder, and even Mason didn’t have to feign a jump. “Perhaps we should all seek more immediate shelter,” he suggested. “May I escort you ladies into the lounge?”

  “Oh! There’s my niece now,” the un-godmother trilled, finally getting back into the fairy-tale spirit. “Thank you, darlings, but I’ll just be running along. You two should go on, though. This storm looks to be a doozy!”

  As her coach pulled up – well, okay, it was a Volvo – and she disappeared in a sparkle of fairy dust and exhaust fumes, Mason turned to smile down at Allison.

  “Your first walking tour seems to have been a success.”

  “It was… I was going to say nerve-wracking, but while that’s true, the fact is I had such a good time.”

  “What do you say I buy you a drink to celebrate?” Then to prove that he’d paid attention, added: “Non-alcoholic, of course.”

  “Um,” Allison peered across the street, looking at the bar like it was the apple in Eden. Or perhaps the snake, he couldn’t tell. “I… oh my goodness, what happened to your lip?”

  “My lip?” He touched it rather absently, then winced. “Oh. Right. Minor accident involving Tucker’s elbow. Is it bleeding again?”

  He bent down, leaned closer. Nearly close enough to kiss.

  “It…” Her eyes widened, then went a bit blurry. “Just a little,” she whispered. “It looks like it could use some ice.”

  Thunder rolled again, and she jumped back.

  “Maybe we could take a – ha – rain check,” he said. “Best to be home when this storm breaks. May I walk you to your car first?”

  “My car’s still at the store,” she said. “So unless you’re going back into the bar, it looks like we’re both heading the same way.”

  Which had, of course, been his intention. “At the risk of repeating myself, may I walk with you? Nothing against your local musicians, but to be honest, I’d just really prefer to spend the next few minutes in your company.”

  She visibly softened. And that hadn’t even been a line.

  “I’d like that,” she said, just as another angry breath of wind snuffed her lantern’s candle, the air stinking of sulfur. “Oh!”

  Lightening crackled, and the street lamps flickered.

  “Looks as if we may want to hurry.” Mason took advantage of the sudden dark to join their hands. “Carry on. I’ll trust you to lead the way.”

  SARAH splashed through puddles the size of your average wetland, mentally consigning her leather shoes to the trash heap. They were surely ruined.

  Much like her evening.

  It seemed to be a particular skill of Victoria Hawbaker’s, ruining people’s evenings. And lives. She’d certainly ruined Harlan’s. The woman deserved her own natural disaster rating scale.

  Of course, she couldn’t entirely blame the night’s outcome on Victoria, much as she might like to. After all, she was the one who’d been foolish enough to become, what – enamored with? Attracted to? – a Pettigrew.

  True, the Pettigrew in question didn’t seem to have been cut from quite the same cloth as his grandfather. But he had, apparently, inherited Carlton’s innate skill with deceit.

  She didn’t want to think about this just now. She was soaked to the skin, her heel hurt, and worse, her pride was bruised. All she wanted was a hot shower and her warm bed.

  The light on the porch of her cottage burned through the deluge, a beacon in the darkness. But as Sarah hurried toward it, squishing in her wet shoes, she heard a growl coming from the vicinity of a camellia bush.

  She faltered, then bent down when she spotted a piece of sodden gray fur.

  “Useless?”

  Slitted yellow eyes stared back.

  “What are doing, sitting out here in the rain, you dummy? And just how, pray tell, did you manage to get out?”

  Shaking her head, Sarah reached beneath the bush to retrieve her wayward pet.

  Useless hissed, and swiped at her with his paw.

  “Hey, hey.” Sarah jerked back her hand, f
rowning at the three lines that welled red. “What was that for?” Useless never resorted to claws. He generally couldn’t work up the motivation even to hiss.

  Sarah glanced around, feeling the skin prickle on her neck. Something must have scared him.

  “Was there a dog?” she said, before recalling that she wasn’t actually going to get an answer. She was so used to talking to him that sometimes she forgot he couldn’t talk back. “Well, whatever it was, it’s gone now.” She hoped. “And we’re both getting wet, so –”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  Sarah screamed, falling down on her butt in the mud. Pushing her sopping hair out of her eyes, she glared up at her brother.

  “You scared me!”

  “Sorry.” He looked genuinely contrite. And dry. The jerk was holding an umbrella. “I didn’t realize you’d left. You shouldn’t be walking home alone, Sarah.”

  Sarah started to protest that she was the older sister here, but given Jonas’s little housewarming gift last week, considered that he might have a point. “Well, the only thing in the area currently out to get me appears to be my cat.” She glared at the bush, tempted to leave the fat little bastard to the mercies of the storm.

  Then she sighed. She couldn’t abandon him out here, alone and frightened, contrary though he might be.

  “I’ll get him,” Noah said, handing her the umbrella.

  While Sarah watched, he neatly extracted Useless from the bush, tucking him beneath his arm like a hairy football.

  “Come on,” Noah said, while Sarah and the cat glared at one another. “I’ll walk you home.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IT was early, he was tired, and Tucker wanted a damn cup of coffee.

  A good damn cup of coffee.

  And he didn’t want to have to placate, grovel or otherwise compromise his integrity to get one.

  But if he knew Sarah – and he was starting to – any or all of the above might be on his immediate agenda.

  He ran a hand down his unshaven face before yanking open the Dust Jacket’s front door.

  The smell hit him first. Books, coffee and something involving fat and sugar. The triad of morning bliss.