“You said two men died.”
“My father.” The wind gusted off the water, blowing Tucker’s dark hair around his rugged face. He reminded her of Heathcliff, romantic and tragic all at once. “There was a note in the box from him. He told my mom that his conscience was eating him, and he had to go confront someone. Someone with a ‘chief’ in his pocket.”
“Wait.” She pressed her fingers against her temples. “You think your father was involved?”
“I don’t know. If I had to speculate, I’d say it was more a matter of him being aware that his father engaged in some shady business practices. Only this time, a man was killed.”
“So he… what, was going to threaten your grandfather? Encourage him to turn himself in?”
“Or maybe just wash his hands of him. The note also said that if the confrontation didn’t go well, he and my mom would pack up for New York.”
But he hadn’t gone with them. Tucker and his mother had run away, alone.
“He had an accident.”
Tucker shoved his hands into his pockets. “He was driving like a bat out of hell. I’m guessing things didn’t go well.”
She didn’t know what to say. Her father had had his demons. But Tucker’s grandfather was very likely a criminal. And indirectly responsible for his own son’s death. “You should talk to Will.”
“And tell him what, exactly? What I’ve managed to piece together is mostly hearsay and speculation, backed up by some old newspaper clippings and a note. But I’ve thought about it, believe me. Especially after I figured out that dear old gramps had a hand in installing Linville next door to you. In my house.”
His anger was palpable, as electric as the brewing storm. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”
“Can’t I?”
“Look, it’s getting dark. Let’s go back before this weather hits, and we’ll talk the whole thing through. I think, if you explain things to Will, show him that letter, that… what?”
Tucker gripped her arm. “In the trees over there. I saw a light.”
“What?” She whirled around. “This is no time to joke about the ghost stuff, Tucker.”
“It’s no ghost.” Tucker pushed her behind him. “There’s somebody over there with a flashlight.”
He took off, a blur of denim and pumping muscles disappearing into the woods, leaving Sarah gaping at his back. Was the man insane? It was teenagers, almost certainly teenagers, who were known to frequent this spot. Either that or a poor, unsuspecting tourist, come to check out the infamous haunted ruin, and about to get the scare of a lifetime.
“Tucker!” she called out, because really, she wasn’t inclined to go running after him and make this even more ridiculous.
The wind whipped at her hair, raising goosebumps on her skin as her call was met with only a wicked rumble of thunder. She thought of how Tucker had described the sky – big and just a little mean – and certainly agreed that Mother Nature seemed angry. Rubbing her arms, Sarah scanned the rapidly darkening woods, but saw no sign of her rash – and possibly insane – lover.
With a sigh, she started walking toward where he’d parked the truck. No point getting rained on if she could avoid it.
“Sarah!”
She turned toward the sound of her name, saw Tucker emerge from the tree line, limping.
“What happened?” She hurried over, focusing on the leg he favored.
He scowled. “I tripped over a damn tree root. And don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s plain enough on your face.”
“Did you scare away the ghost?”
“It wasn’t a ghost.” His scowl turned even blacker. For the first time, she noticed that he held something in his hand. “He dropped this when I chased him off.”
Sarah stared at what lay on his open palm, not quite comprehending. “It’s… a coffee sleeve.”
“From The Dust Jacket.”
“Tucker. Anyone could have one of these. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’d be inclined to agree with you if it weren’t for this.” He turned it over, and Sarah recognized Tucker’s handwriting. The number he’d written down weeks ago.
“Sarah.” He tipped her chin up, and in his eyes was cold fury. “He didn’t drop this by accident. The bastard wanted you to know that he’s been in your house.”
ALLIE shook water out of her hair as she dashed through the front door of the Playhouse. Not that that would help with the fact that she was currently channeling a drowned rodent.
And – oh great – Allie looked down. Her dress might not be white, but it was certainly thin cotton. And if this were a wet T-shirt contest, between the two of them, Mason’s chest was way more impressive.
Mason chuckled as he entered the musty lobby behind her. Hoping that it wasn’t a commentary on her appearance, Allie turned around. “Something wrong?”
“No.” He shook his head, gave her an odd little smile. “Not at all. This is simply… unexpected.” He studied the faded Victorian opulence. It stood in sharp contrast to the nineteen-sixty’s-what-were-they-thinking that the building’s architecture broadcast from the outside.
“It’s really beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. I wasn’t even aware this was a theater, let alone that it belonged to your family.”
“The marquee was damaged in a storm a couple of years ago. Since the River Players disbanded when my brother moved away, there wasn’t really any reason to put up another one.”
And it was a shame, she thought, as she looked around the sadly neglected lobby, with its antique popcorn cart and vintage theater posters. She’d spent many an evening here, helping out with costumes, props, even with lighting. Though she’d never had the talent – or the desire – to take center stage, she’d enjoyed being a part of the production.
“It was modeled after Ford’s Theater in Washington D.C. Where Abraham Lincoln was assassinated? One of my Hawbaker ancestors never quite got over the fact that we lost the war.”
“This would be the Civil War?” Water dripped off his hair, and he pushed it back from his face, highlighting his cheekbones. Allie’d never actually lusted after a man’s cheekbones before.
“The War,” she corrected, with a hint of a smile, “of Northern Aggression.”
“Ah. Do carry on.”
Allie walked past the coat check, over to a janitorial closet. Miraculously, it was still stocked with paper towels. “Here.” She pulled out a roll and tossed it to him. “For the, um, drip factor.” She ripped several sheets off for herself. “Sorry. I don’t have anything bigger.”
“Darling, I’m English. I assure you, I’ve been rained on before.”
Right. “Well anyway, Great-great-great Uncle Rayford built this theater as a sort of monument to the confederacy. And then in the sixties, Buckley Hawbaker –”
“I’m sorry, but is there some rule in your family that the males have to possess utterly ridiculous names?”
“I know.” She laughed and dabbed the paper towel at her chest. Which was really stupid, because it drew his attention. And yes, those were her nipples. Standing up like volunteers for the Confederate troops.
She quickly turned away, fumbling with the contents of the closet. Maybe she could find a really deep hole to crawl into. Or perhaps a portal to another dimension.
“So Uncle Buckley…”
“What?” She turned, and nearly bumped into Mason.
He skimmed one slow glance over her before stepping to the side. “The nineteen sixties?” he prompted, as he moved to study one of the posters.
“Right.” Her heart knocked against her ribs like a bass drum. “Buckley – and actually, he was a cousin – discovered peace, love and rock and roll, not to mention a little notion called equality. Or maybe he was just really high, it’s hard to know. So in his embarrassment over what he saw as a monument to southern evil, Buckley hired someone to build that hideous façade arou
nd the original structure. But mercifully, he was run over by a Volkswagen bus before he could desecrate the interior.”
Mason blinked, and then laughed out loud. “You’re making that up.”
“The part about the bus or…”
“All of it.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not. Unfortunate because, while I appreciate the sentiment, did you see the exterior? Anyway, the front of the house – that’s the lobby area, here – survived his wrath completely intact, and we only had to do some minor surgery on the auditorium and the stage. The whole place needs a complete restoration, but…”
Her mother had always drummed it into her that it was gauche to talk about money. Of course, that was when they’d actually had some. “To be honest, we just don’t have the funds. I was thinking about doing a kind of auction, because there are some really cool old props and stuff left in the shops – the storage areas – and… listen to me going on and on again, like this is actually interesting.”
“I believe I mentioned that I enjoy listening to you,” he murmured. “Very much.”
“Oh. Well. I tend to babble when I’m nervous. Either that, or I just clam up. Like the one time my brother bullied me into playing Tiny Tim for the Christmas production, and… I’m going to try that clamming up thing now.”
“Do I make you nervous, Allison?”
As a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers. “No. No, of course not.” The space he’d put between them a moment ago was pretty much gone. He was actually standing really close now, and…
“Because I find it rather charming.”
He did? “You do?”
“Mmm.” He moved in even closer. “Shall I put these back in the cupboard?” he whispered, all but in her ear. Allie could actually feel the heat coming off his body. A little closer, and her clothes would dry.
“What?”
Or maybe they’d just sort of… evaporate, like her brain cells.
“The kitchen towels,” he explained, gazing at her mouth. At least, she thought that was where he was gazing. Of course, her lipstick was probably smeared. “Would you like me to…”
Allie wasn’t sure which one of them moved. Had he bent down, or had she…
But it didn’t matter. Because suddenly Mason’s lips were touching hers.
And it was amazing. Soft. Tender. The perfect first kiss. Almost like it had been scripted.
His hand not holding the roll of towels pressed warmly against her back, and Allie swayed forward with the gentle pressure. She gasped her pleasure, and Mason made a similar noise of satisfaction in return, licking into her mouth with just the tip of his tongue.
But then he pulled back, murmuring “I’m sorry.”
As if she’d somehow been offended by his kiss.
And Allie surprised herself by whispering “I’m not.”
Then she lifted a hesitant hand to the front of his shirt. It was damp beneath her fingers, the chest beneath it hard. His eyes – whiskey potent – stayed on hers as she rose up onto her toes.
But then his hand was in her hair, long fingers cradling the back of her head. She touched her tongue to his, feeling the heat flare deep inside. He stroked her neck, setting off pinpricks of sensation. When she gently sucked on his bottom lip, he dropped the towels with a soft thud.
Suddenly his other hand was on her hip, the strong pressure pulling her close, and Allie felt him, the hard length of him, against her.
She went dizzy, digging her fingers into his shoulders.
“God. Allison.” He yanked her even closer, this time without finesse. His mouth plundered hers in a long, hungry kiss that had her heart flopping helplessly in her chest. Tentative no longer, he boosted her up, until she had little choice but to wrap herself around him. Her legs encircled his hips as he nibbled along her jaw. “You’ve been making me crazy for weeks.”
“I… really?”
“Really.” He pinned her to the door. “Those bluebonnet eyes.” He kissed their lids. “The sweet smile.” Then her lips. “And that little dress with the dots. It’s a flaming miracle I’ve been able to keep my hands off you.”
Stunned, Allie’s mouth curved up in delight. “There.” He touched the tip of his finger to the corner. “Just like that.”
Then he set his pace to ravage.
Lust exploded in her blood even as shock rattled her brain. When he gripped her thighs and pressed, center to center, the pressure building inside her threatened to erupt.
Then Mason said “shite,” and suddenly they were in the closet.
Paper towels rained down on their heads.
“Bloody hell.” Mason wrapped himself around her, protecting her from the textile deluge. The packages bounced off them with muffled thumps to roll across the floor. When it was over, he gently sat her back on her feet. Then pulled them both free of the mess.
“Are you all right?” He panted, holding her at arm’s length to look her over.
“I’m fine.” Just embarrassed as hell.
“Well.” He let out a laugh, but it sounded shaky. “That wasn’t very well done of me, was it?” He ran his hands over his face. “I, um, didn’t intend…”
He trailed off, seemingly at a loss over his own behavior.
“It’s fine.” And now it was awkward. He hadn’t intended to… what. To kiss her? Jeez, maybe she had jumped him.
“Allison, I –”
“Well, well, well,” came a booming voice, trained from years and years of theater productions. “What do we have here?”
She caught a brief expression of frustration before Mason’s face became a polite mask. And he turned to face the lobby. “Your brother, I presume?”
Allie wondered what he’d been about to say to her. But…
“Yes,” she said instead, frowning toward the lean, suspicious dark-haired man, who stroked a fake mustache as he lounged near a potted palm. Apparently he’d been messing around with the costumes. “Branson Hawbaker. Bran, meet Mason Armitage.”
“A pleas–” Mason started to say, but Bran dropped his hand and his character simultaneously.
No big surprise, since Mason was gorgeous.
“Oh my God.” It was his gushing, fan-boy mode. Which was surprising, until Bran stuck out his hand.
“Mason Armitage,” he all but drooled as they shook. “I just loved you in Billy Elliot!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SARAH jumped as sound exploded behind her like a gunshot.
Pressing her hands over her galloping heart, she whirled to see the sheepish expression on the customer who’d dropped the book.
“Sorry,” the woman said. “I guess I have too many. That top one just slid off the stack.”
“You can never have too many,” she recovered quickly enough to say. But there was no getting around the fact that her nerves were frayed. She felt queasy every time the phone rang, jumped at each creak of a floorboard. If Jonas’s intent had indeed been to put her on edge, Sarah was forced to admit he’d succeeded.
“Why don’t you let me help you with those?” she suggested smoothly, and picked the heavy volume off the floor. “Ah. Janson. Are you studying art history?”
“Sort of.” The brunette blew a short lock of shiny hair out of her eyes. “There’s… this guy. He’s a professor. He asked me to a gallery opening, and I was too embarrassed to admit that I barely know a Renoir from a rutabaga. So I’m cramming. Plus, if I decide to bring him home, I’ll have these to arrange on the coffee table.”
“Maybe the bookshelf,” Sarah suggested. “And rough them up a little, make them look used. You don’t want to be too obvious.”
“Good idea.”
Amused, she steered her toward the counter, happy with both the sale and the distraction. While she was ringing her up, Allie sailed in, later than usual as she’d traded time so that Sarah could take off early the day before. But instead of her usual cheery greeting, she headed straight for the kitchen with something approximating a growl.
“Was that Allison Hawbaker?” the woman said.
“It was,” Sarah agreed easily enough, though she was more cautious now. “You know Allie?”
“Hmm?” The woman looked up from rooting her credit card out of her purse. “Oh. Not really. I used to date her brother. Harlan. Back in college. But that was ages ago. I thought I’d look him up when I moved into the area, but I remembered hearing he’d gotten married.”
“Divorced.”
“Oh? That’s too bad. He was always such a doll. Anyway.” She signed the slip, took the bag. “Thanks for the help.”
Thoughtfully, Sarah watched the woman go. Attractive, Sarah mused. Understated. Seemingly intelligent, even if her knowledge of the art world was a little lacking. And though she was unquestionably planning to deceive the professor, it wasn’t with the same kind of malicious intent that was Victoria’s stock in trade.
A pity Harlan hadn’t married her instead.
Wondering what had gotten into Allie, Sarah started toward the back, but Joey Kieffer came through the door, sporting hollow eyes and baby spit-up on his shoulder. He was clearly desperate for caffeine.
A steady stream trickled in after him. Allie came back out with her brown Dust Jacket apron on, served the customers with a smile on her face, so Sarah decided that whatever’d been eating her must not have been that important.
When their UPS guy dropped off a box of books Sarah had been waiting for, she eagerly ripped it open. She was stocking them on the shelves when she saw Mason come in.
And the air frosted over.
“Can I help you?” Allie said.
“Allison –”
“Food or beverage,” Allie interrupted. “Otherwise, I’m not interested in whatever you have to say.”
Whoa. Sarah pushed a couple paperbacks aside, peering through them toward the café. They faced off across the counter, like two cats ready to spit. Mason – who on his worst day made Adonis look like a homely relation – actually looked a little haggard.
“Fine.” His voice was so clipped that it might have cut glass. “I’ll have tea, a drop or two of milk. And five minutes of your time.”
Mr. Write (Sweetwater) Page 27
