by Beth Ciotta
Keystone shook his finger at Travis, who was perched on the top rung of the ladder, painting the trim of McGraw’s storefront. “I’m warning you, Travis. One more swipe and—”
“You’re not the boss of me, Keystone.” He didn’t look down. He didn’t stop painting.
Kylie refrained from sticking her tongue out at the barber, but couldn’t hold back the “Ha.”
“That’s mature,” said J.J.
“Listen, you…” She trailed off as the crowd parted and Jack showed up on the scene. Darn. She met his bluer-than-blue gaze and ignored the flutter in her heart. Just friends, she told herself, then focused back on her dilemma.
All business, Jack looked to the crotchety trio. “What’s the problem, gentlemen?”
“No problem,” Kylie said.
“Big problem,” said J.J.
“Huge problem,” said Max. “She’s ruining the integrity of the landscape.”
“Sissifying our block,” Keystone groused.
“Since when is jazzing up and adding color sissifying?” Kylie shouted. “If you’d get your heads out of your—”
“Play nice,” Jack warned.
J.J. tsked. “She used to be polite.”
“You mean passive.” Not that she didn’t appreciate the benefits of meditation, but she was sick of squashing her restlessness.
“She’s bored,” said Max.
“Aren’t you?” Kylie asked, blood burning. Of course he was. A career fireman forcibly retired due to his age. She knew he’d rather be at the firehouse, but he’d made a pest of himself and they’d restricted his visits. Now he hung out at Boone’s, Kerri’s and Keystone’s.
“If you’re bored,” said J.J., “get a hobby. Don’t mess with history.”
“She tried to get me to drop my trousers,” Max told the ten or so bystanders.
They snickered and whistled.
Kylie flushed head to toe. “No, I didn’t! I just…I…”
“Deputy,” said Jack.
“Sir?”
“Move the spectators along.”
“Will do,” he said, and he did.
That’s when she noticed the dog. A midsize pooch with big sad eyes—sort of like Travis’s. Instead of leaving with the gawkers, the dog leaned into Jack. “Who’s that?” she asked.
“Shy,” he said.
“Yours?”
“No.” He gestured to Travis. “Who’s that?”
“Travis Martin.” She knew he didn’t know Travis. The Martins had moved to Eden long after Jack had moved to New York. But she didn’t offer further information. Actually, aside from the fact that Travis worked at Hank’s Hardware, was a widower and wore a ten-and-a-half shoe, she didn’t have much information to offer.
“Mr. Martin,” he called. “Stop what you’re doing and join us.”
Travis abandoned his post, set aside his brush and wiped his hands on a rag.
“I’m Jack Reynolds.”
“The new chief of police.” Travis nodded. “Welcome to Eden.”
“Jack’s a native,” Ray said.
“I used to make him chocolate Cokes when he was a kid,” J.J. said.
Travis just nodded.
Kylie shifted as the two men studied each other. She sensed some tension, which was weird. They’d never met before today. “I’m doing some renovations,” Kylie said, wanting Jack to vamoose. “I’m allowed.”
“No, she isn’t,” J.J. said.
“My family owns this business.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Keystone. “It’s part of a historical block.”
“You’re allowed to maintain the look of your storefront,” J.J said. “But you can’t alter it. Not drastically. You have to get a permit for that.”
“You’re kidding.” She’d never heard of that. Then again, her family had never tried painting the storefront anything other than what it had been before. Tradition.
Jack folded his arms over his chest, studied the storefronts. “Deputy?”
“Anything to do with the building’s exterior is governed by the Historic Preservation Society,” Ziffel said. “She needs approval from them and the town zoning board.”
“Told you,” said J.J.
Kylie narrowed her eyes. “That’s mature.”
“Kylie,” Jack said.
“Yes?”
“Get a permit.”
J.J. and Keystone chuckled.
Max, the contrary cuss, said, “Ha.”
Kylie wanted to smack them all. She envisioned knocking Jack off his black utility boots with a side kick. But if she’d learned anything from her two years of jujitsu, it was self-discipline. She clenched her fists at her side and took a cleansing breath. It didn’t help.
Deputy Ziffel cautioned the men about disturbing the peace and herded them back to their respective stores. The mutt stayed put.
Jack glanced at the paint cans lined alongside the building, then focused on Travis. “Got any white paint?”
“I could get some.”
“Cover up your handy work until Kylie gets a permit.”
Travis didn’t say anything. He just left. To get some white paint, she presumed.
Dang.
“How do you know that guy?” Jack asked.
How do you know that dog? “He works at the hardware store.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Working for me.”
Jack squinted at the trim. “Pink?”
“Moroccan spice.”
“Looks pink.”
Kylie just smiled. Actually, it was a muted tone compared to what she’d first had in mind.
Jack met her gaze. He didn’t smile back. “You want to piss off your brother? Get a permit.”
“You said that already.” Kylie couldn’t say what set her off, specifically. She was miffed about a lot of things. Not knowing about the permit, for one. Travis, for two. She’d felt some sort of bond with the man. He’d taken vacation time for her, committed to her cause. Then, at the first sign of trouble, he’d thrown in the brush. Okay, so Jack was the law and Travis was a law-abiding citizen. Still, she felt deserted and disappointed. Much as she had with Faye.
“I will act out of the ordinary in order to attract and promote change. Change is exciting. Change is good.”
She turned on her rubber heels and commandeered Travis’s brush. She eyeballed the stern-faced chief and, ignoring the skip in her pulse, dipped her weapon in Moroccan Spice.
“Don’t do it,” Jack warned.
“Don’t worry,” Ziffel said as he returned to the scene of the almost crime. “Kylie’s a sensible girl.”
It was the exact wrong thing to say. She climbed the ladder, gripping the rungs with one hand, holding the paint-slathered brush with the other.
“Used to be modest, too,” she heard Ziffel say. “Although her undies ain’t what I’d call sexy.”
Kylie froze two rungs from the top. “Are you looking up my skirt, Ed Ziffel?” She glared down. “You are!” And so was Jack.
He grinned. “Boxers?”
“They were the only clean shorts I had!” Any further explanation was silenced when she misstepped. She grabbed the ladder with both hands, bobbled the brush. Her heart pounded in her ears, muffling Ziffel’s curse.
She glanced down and saw the slash and dribbles of pink—er, Moroccan Spice—on the deputy’s dark blue uniform. The brush had bounced off his shoulder and landed on the sidewalk. “Sorry,” she squeaked as the paint-splattered cement zoomed up to her face in some weird 3-D movie illusion, then slammed back down to earth.
“You shook things up,” said Jack, sounding half amused, half pissed. “Happy now?”
“Not really.”
“Climb down.”
She would if she could, but her legs wouldn’t move.
“Now.”
She broke out in a sweat, her vision blurred. She cursed the cosmos—the liquor kind—and her hangover. Hugging the ladder tight, she focused straight ahead. Which
put her at eye-level to the sign with her family’s motto: Practical shoes for practical people.
“Not for long,” she whispered through clenched teeth.
“I won’t ask twice,” Jack said.
“New crowd gathering,” Ziffel muttered, then switched to an authoritative tone. “Move along, people. Nothing to see.”
She tensed when the ladder creaked under more weight. She felt a couple of soft bounces, then a hard body climbing up behind her. Every nerve in her body pulsed. She told herself it was because she’d had a fright. Not because Jack’s front was plastered to her back.
Pursuing an intimate relationship would only end in heartache.
“When did you get so damned stubborn?” Jack said close to her ear.
No way was she going to admit to a hangover-induced dizzy spell. Aside from all the nerve pulsing, she felt slightly better. Probably because she was focused on the feel and smell of Jack and not the long drop down. She relaxed against him, and next thing she knew she’d been plucked from the ladder. Her knees buckled when her boots hit the sidewalk, but she didn’t crumple due to Jack’s hold on her waist.
“You can go, Ziffel,” he said. “Drop your shirt at the cleaners and be sure to send Miss McGraw the bill.”
“Hey,” she complained. But Ziffel was already stalking off and Jack was hauling her inside McGraw’s. She pried at his hands. “Stop manhandling me.”
He let her go, but backed her up against the wall in between the gumball machine and the cashier counter.
She didn’t like being bullied. She especially didn’t like the erotic thrill she got when he braced his hands on the wall and fenced her in. Or the heat between her thighs when he leaned close. Or the fluttery feeling in her stomach when his gaze slid over her mouth.
“Find a new hiding place for your spare key, Tiger.”
What?
Then she flashed on the night before. Jack driving her home. Lost purse. Locked door.
Oops.
He made eye contact and her stomach flipped. Ice-blue eyes on fire.
Yikes.
“Under the doormat? Why don’t you leave the door open and a plate of cookies on the table for the burglars and rapists?”
His sarcasm grated. “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic, Chief Reynolds?”
“Another thing. Hire someone to install motion-detector lighting and think about an alarm system. You live in the fu—” he glanced away and back “—frickin’ middle of nowhere.”
Kylie scrunched her brow. “Is this a lecture on home security? Is my trailer even in your jurisdiction? I’m pretty sure I’m suppose to call the county police if I need help, which I won’t, since nothing ever happens in the frickin’ middle of nowhere.”
“You left your purse at Boone’s last night.”
Did he just skate over her rant? “So?”
“I assume you keep your drivers license in your wallet.”
Uh-oh.
“It’s unlawful to operate a motor vehicle without proof of license.”
Well, duh. “So lock me up.”
He quirked a humorless smile. “No.”
“Then let me go.”
He didn’t budge. “What’s with the motorcycle?”
“This conversation is giving me whiplash.”
“What’s the projected repair time on your car?”
“A week or so, depending on when the part comes in. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Are you aware of the statistics on motorcycle accidents?”
“What are you? Standing in for my brother?”
“Someone has to look out for you. You’ve gone a little loopy, hon.”
“Loopy?”
Breathe, Kylie, breathe.
No. Don’t breathe. Blow!
“Just because I want to redecorate the store? Just because I own a motorcycle? Or is it my flower-power boots? You lived in New York City. Surely you’ve seen more outrageous shoes than these. Stop trying to squash my spirit, Jack Reynolds!”
Her skin burned with fury…or something…when his gaze dropped to her boots and slowly skimmed up her bare legs, over her funky attire, settling at long last on her mouth. Oh, God. Was he going to kiss her?
Her brain and body sizzled with dread and hope. What if she felt something this time? What if he reignited her crush, full flame? Then she’d be doomed to be alone forever, because no other man would ever measure up!
“I wouldn’t dream of squashing your spirit, Tiger. Long as you don’t break the law.” He pushed off the wall, severing the anticipation, the tension.
Relief and disappointment warred, making Kylie snap. “You’re not the boss of me!”
Doh! Was it any wonder he still thought of her as Spenser’s kid sister?
This time his smile was downright cocky. He tugged at the brim of his EPD cap. “Where the law is concerned, yeah, I sort of am.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the pointy-ear dog that wasn’t Jack’s peek out from under a chair and follow him outside. Had she been in here the entire time?
Travis walked in, carrying gallons of paint and a roll of tarp. Had he been out there the entire time? Listening?
Kylie flushed and smoothed her disheveled hair.
He flashed a sympathetic look. “I’ll start on the interior. You get the permit.”
And just like that, she didn’t feel so alone in her quest for adventure.
CHAPTER NINE
TRAVIS PULLED INTO HIS driveway and cut the engine. He glanced at his luminous watch—12:05 a.m. He rubbed his hands over his weary face. He was exhausted.
Mentally.
Emotionally and physically.
He sat in the dark, not wanting to go inside. Not wanting to go to sleep. When he slept, he dreamed of another life. His old life. It made him melancholy. It made him angry.
At least when Mona had been alive he’d had someone to confide in. She had similar dreams. Sometimes they’d lie in the dark and talk about the past. Friends. Family.
Enemies.
Enemies were the reason they couldn’t be with friends and family.
It was why they ate jarred sauce and American cheese. Why he drank beer instead of Chianti. Why he spoke with a nasally twang instead of his native Philly accent. Why he dressed in jeans and flannel shirts instead of Armani suits. He hated that he’d attended Mona’s funeral wearing cheap oxfords. She deserved better. But if he’d worn the Ferragamo slip-ons he kept hidden away, she would’ve rolled over in her cheap-ass coffin. God rest her soul.
Travis gripped the steering wheel and endured a fresh wave of grief. Mona’s suffering had started long before the cancer. He’d never forgiven himself. He’d tried to make it right, though. He’d sacrificed everything to make it right.
Today, he’d taken another step in that direction. While painting the walls of Kylie’s store and listening to her lovingly brag and gripe about her family, he couldn’t help thinking about the way Mona would reminisce about her family. Did the Vespas reminisce about her? Had they mourned her death? Had her brother gotten the letter he’d sent? Circumstances prohibited him from contacting them directly. But he’d followed procedure. He’d done the right thing. He realized in the midst of Kylie’s ramblings that he’d been hoping to hear back from someone, anyone from their past. The silence made him wonder. Had his letter gone missing?
Don’t do anything stupid.
He should’ve called WITSEC, but he was still pissed by his new contact’s lack of response to Mona’s death. The U.S. marshal/inspector originally assigned to them had been transferred, which made Travis feel even more isolated. At least he and Burton had a history. He’d never even met his replacement face-to-face. Obviously, Travis Martin was no longer a priority.
Feeding off Kylie McGraw’s determination to buck the system, he’d taken a break and made a quick trip to the library. He’d borrowed a computer terminal, created a bogus account and sent an e-mail. He’d taken more risks in this one day
than every day of the last several years combined. He felt anxious. He felt empowered.
He squinted through the windshield, expecting the new chief of police to appear out of the shadows. He’d been anticipating a visit from the man all night. No dice. Either Reynolds was letting him stew or he hadn’t yet read the file. One thing was certain, he’d riled the cop’s interest. He’d seen it in his eyes.
“This is bad,” he could hear Mona say. But Travis barely cared.
Don’t do anything stupid.
Too late.
If not for today, he probably could’ve avoided contact with the new chief of police for a good long while. Maybe forever. He didn’t know Jack Reynolds, but he knew he wasn’t a rube like Ben Curtis. A former NYPD detective, Reynolds had experience with men like Travis. Or at least the man he used to be. The question was, would he allow Travis to exist as he had for the past seven years? Or would he make waves?
If only he hadn’t offered his services to Kylie. But when she’d shown him those pictures and when he’d expanded on her vision, he’d gotten that old rush. He was born to create, not to corrupt. Certainly not to kill. He was the defective son, the troublesome brother. A disappointment to the family. He’d tried to conform. He had conformed. As had been expected of him, he’d married a nice Italian girl. Instead of going into interior design, he’d become a lawyer, the mouthpiece for the family business. Able to finesse his way around the stickiest legal issues, those in his circle had dubbed him the Artful Dodger. He’d been respected, revered even. But then he’d broken with convention. That one indiscretion had instigated a bloodbath.
The memory of those final days still sickened him. Their reaction. His retaliation. Vengeance went both ways. He had a lot of regrets, but there was no way to mend that bridge. He couldn’t go back. But, dammit, he was sick of Travis Martin.
He reached across the seat and snatched the brown paper bag filled with his late-night booty. Red wine, provolone cheese and pepperoni. Three of the Artful Dodger’s culinary favorites.
CHAPTER TEN
JACK AWOKE AT 3:15 A.M. with a hard-on. He’d been dreaming about Kylie. Kissing Kylie. Stroking Kylie. Rolling in the sheets with Kylie. He’d never had a woman get under his skin so fast. She wasn’t even his type. Not that he hadn’t sampled a variety of women, but he had a definite weakness for fair-haired women in distress. Something he’d discovered when he’d gone to a marriage counselor with Amanda. A fascination rooted in childhood. When he was twelve, he saw Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo and fell in love with Kim Novak, or rather the character she portrayed in the film. He not only lusted after her, he wanted to rescue her. Since then, he’d always gravitated toward curvy, classic beauties. Most of them blond. All of them needy.
