Yup, there were things Reese wasn’t about to own up to. Things Casey didn’t need to know. Like her parents’ accident—Reese didn’t need pity— and her being a witness to a murder, and her brother being in jail for inadvertently working for said murderer.
Reese held her breath, hoping the truth she’d offered passed Casey’s lie detector test. Then she pushed the past where it needed to go, in her mental compost heap. Letting out a bit of air, she didn’t look away from Casey’s intense scrutiny.
“I hate broken heart stories,” the woman said, and her gaze appeared lured back to the man in the booth. “Unfortunately, out-of-towners don’t get my customers. And my customers don’t get out-of-towners.”
The woman had no more glanced back at her, when in the corner of Reese’s eye, she saw the older man lower his paper and give Casey a once-over.
Remembering her objective, Reese focused back on the diner’s owner. “I get your customers. I know what they want. Food. Service. A good time. Hot coffee. I . . . I make people smile, and your clientele will have a good time. They’ll enjoy your cooking even more. You’ll have happy customers.”
“You can make people smile?” the woman asked and frowned.
“Yup. I’m just likable. It’s the Texas charm.” That might be some Lone Star bullshit, but her desperation called for it.
“You seem awful sure of yourself,” Casey said.
“I am. Give me a job and I’ll prove it.”
“No, you prove it then I’ll give you a job.” She crossed her arms over her ample chest and her gaze shifted again back to the gentleman behind the paper. Her expression softened and saddened. Then she refocused on Reese and continued, “But if you fail to prove yourself, you’ll eat my blueberry pancakes, take a little compensation for your work, and be on your way. Fair?”
“Fair enough. How do I prove it?” Casey asked.
“Take your Texas charm over there and make Frank smile.”
“Who?”
“Frank. The man in booth one, reading the paper. He lost his wife a year ago. He comes in here every day wearing that same sad face. The only thing he says is ‘give me the special.’”
Casey heard the challenge in the older woman’s voice, but she heard something else, too. The woman cared about Frank—and not just because he was a local.
“You make that grumpy, grief-stricken man smile, and you’ve got a job.”
A challenge. Reese looked back at the long lost puppy face Frank wore. Not just a challenge, but a tough one. But she’d faced worse in the last two months. She’d faced watching a man get shot. She’d faced watching her brother get arrested. She’d faced Trey Freedman. . . or she should say, Turner Calder, and all his lies. Surely, she could make one sourpuss of an old man smile.
Chapter Two
Turner pulled up in the drive on Oxford Street and tried to call Reese again. It went to voicemail. He gritted his teeth and hung up without leaving a message this time. His mind kept flashing to one of the last images he had of her. All five foot three of sweet fury, . . . looking at him with a boatload of hurt in her big, blue eyes and spouting off something about popsicles and hell.
Obviously, Reese wasn’t taking his calls. He’d gone to her apartment and she hadn’t been there. And neither was her purple Volkswagen bug.
That left him one option. Not one he liked, either. But he’d come here.
He got out of his car and moved to the porch of the small, white wood framed home and knocked. No one answered. Then he heard a car. He looked over his shoulder.
He studied the pink Cadillac rolling down the street. The only part of Abigail Cannon he could spot was a puff of gray hair over the wheel.
He’d faced murderers high on crack who scared him less than this seventy-year-old woman. A black belt in some kind of karate, she could crack a block with her hand. He knew because she’d shoved her phone in his face and made sure he watched her YouTube video. And she’d told him if she ever laid eyes on him again, she’d use the same move on his balls.
A better cop would have arrested her for threatening an officer, but fear and the knowledge he might deserve her contempt, had him walking away while he still could. Not, however, without a hand over his crotch.
He stood frozen on the porch while she sat in her idling car for several long minutes, giving him what his mom would call the ‘stink eye.’ Finally, she cut off the engine.
It was damn near embarrassing to be afraid of an old lady who could hardly see over the wheel of her Cadillac. But embarrassing or not, when her car door swung open, his boys—tucked in his Levis—wanted to hide, and shriveled up to the size of walnuts.
“Ma’am,” he said as she climbed out of the car.
“Don’t you ‘ma’am’ me, you lowlife piece of weasel dung. The world would be a better place if your mama had just eaten ya when you popped out.” Like a little Rambo dressed in her karate outfit with a black belt clenched around her waist, she stormed up the porch.
He took a step back and fought the urge to cover his crotch. But, damn it to hell and back, if right then he didn’t realize that the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree. At first, when Reese learned he was an undercover agent, all she did was look at him with hurt. The next time, however, when he’d asked her to let him explain, she’d rather colorfully told him to go to hell.
The old woman stopped, stared, then pointed her index finger at him. “Ricky’s lawyer told me what you did, talked the DA into charging my grandson for a lesser crime. And if it wasn’t for you hurting my precious Reese, I might have been grateful. She already had her heart chewed up and spit out once. Damn idiot goes and dies of a brain hemorrhage the day before her wedding. Who does shit like that?” She shook her head. “Reese didn’t need the likes of you hurting her again.”
“I didn’t mean. . .” He raked a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. I have to talk to her. She’s not home and—”
“I already told your guys, she’s on a road trip. She was in Hung, Georgia last night, and I don’t know how long she’s planning on staying there, but you’ll just have to wait and talk to her when she gets back. She’s not gonna miss the trial, she wants to see that lowlife scumbag behind bars, too.”
Out of town. Relief washed over him and then he reheard her words. I already told your guys. “What guys? Who was asking about Reese?”
“The two who showed up this morning.”
“Cops?” he asked, his chest feeling heavy.
“You think I’d tell just anyone where she was?”
“Were they in uniform?” he asked.
Her brow creased in worry. “Well, no, but they had a badge.”
Turner’s gut knotted. Fake shields were a dime a dozen. Or was Cox lying to him? Had he had someone check up on Reese?
His phone rang. He yanked it out, praying it was her.
Not Reese. But Luke Hunter, his PI friend, ex-FBI—the person he’d asked to connect him with Ricky’s warden. A bad feeling knotted in his gut.
“I gotta take this,” he told Reese’s grandmother. “Yeah,” he answered his phone and turned to the side.
“Hey,” Luke said and his tone in that one word had the knot in Turner’s gut doubling in size. “You were a little late.”
“Friggin’ hell!” Turner seethed. “How bad is it?”
* * *
“It can’t be that bad,” Reese said as she refilled Frank’s cup, feeling Casey’s brown eyes watching her every move. Did the woman want her to succeed or fail? Reese had a feeling even Casey wasn’t too sure.
“Excuse me?” Frank glanced up from his morning paper.
“You look . . . unhappy.”
His gray brow tightened. “I’m fine.”
“More cream?” she asked and offered him her Texas-sized smile.
He looked back at his paper, without smiling. “I’m fine,” he repeated and picked up his coffee and took a slow sip.
Think! Think! Think! “You m
ust be fine.”
His eyes shifted back up and a crease wrinkled his brow.
“She’s all worried about you and that could only mean one thing. That she thinks you’re fine.”
“Who’s worried?” he asked.
“Casey. She’s got the hots for ya’.”
He sat his cup down rather loudly. His light blue eyes widened. Was that a good wide or an ‘oh-shit’ wide?
“She told you this?” he asked, looking unsure.
“Not outright, but she’s had you on her radar since you walked in and frankly. . .” Might as well go for it. “I kind of noticed you had her on yours.”
He frowned. Totally not what she was going for. “When did I have her on my radar?”
Crappers! Had she been mistaken? “Just now, I saw you eyeballing us.”
He sat frozen, stared directly in front of him for a beat of silence, then his gaze shot up to her. “How do you know it wasn’t you I had on my radar?”
“That’s not possible,” Reese said, suddenly feeling confident.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“I have a dirty old geezer alarm that goes off when one’s within a hundred feet of me.” She looked down and motioned to the space separating them now. “And we’re what? Two feet from each other now and it hasn’t even chirped.”
“Hmm,” he said.
“Casey also offered me a job if I could get you to smile. She really doesn’t want to hire me, so I figured it must be pretty important for her to see you smile.”
“So if I smile you get the job?”
“That’s it,” Reese said. He didn’t look all that joyful, so Reese sweetened the deal. Hey, she was desperate. “I’ll pay you twenty bucks.”
His expression lightened. “So you were lying about Casey having . . .”
“The hots for you?” Reese finished for him. “Nope.”
He pursed his lips and seemed to ponder. About what, she didn’t know. “Twenty bucks, huh?”
“Yup. It’ll have to be an IOU, I don’t have cash on me, but I’m good for it.”
He stared in his cup as if the coffee contained the answer. After a long few seconds, he glanced up. “Consider yourself employed . . . and in debt, young lady.” His lips slowly turned up, and it even reached his blue eyes. They were nice eyes, Reese decided, and smiled back.
But she had a feeling he hadn’t smiled in a while. Truth be known, she hadn’t smiled all that much lately, either. Maybe it was time to fix that. Stop fixating on a certain undercover cop and find a bit of happiness.
When Frank leaned forward, lifted his cup in a mock toast, and smiled at Casey, Reese did a mental victory dance.
Still smiling herself, she pranced over to Casey. The woman sat there, wearing a befuddled expression.
“When do I start?” Reese asked.
“What did you say to him?” the woman seethed.
Reese hesitated then decided what the hell? “That you had the hots for him.”
Casey’s brown eyes grew round. “Bite my ass!” she muttered. “I should’ve never trusted an out-of-towner.”
“Oh, and I offered to pay him twenty bucks,” Reese added.
“So he did it for the money?” Casey asked.
“No, he did it because he’s got the hots for you, too.”
“He never said any such thing,” Casey fumed.
Reese leaned in. “He didn’t have to. You see, the good Lord blessed me with three things, too. Teaching, making people smile, and reading people.” With an exception to undercover cops with wide shoulders and sexy smiles. But I’m not thinking about him.
“Make that four things,” Reese continued. “I can wait tables. Unfortunately, I missed out on the boobs, but what I got, still has bounce.” She glanced down at her full-size B cups and then up. “When do I start work?”
Casey stood, her frown seemed to spread all the way down to her toes, but Reese somehow knew she wouldn’t go back on her word. “Bounce your tits back in here at four in the morning, young lady.”
Four? She almost asked, but decided not to chance it. “You won’t be sorry,” Reese said.
“Like hell I won’t. I already am,” Casey muttered.
* * *
Reese walked out onto Main Street, savored the sunshine and the smell of the beach, and headed for her car. For the first time in two months, she almost felt happy.
Slipping into her bug, she decided to head to her motel, check out, and find a place on Hung Island. With the summer heat making her little car almost intolerable, she started the engine and turned the air on high—waiting for it to get cool. When a breath of chilled air hit her face, she reached back in her pocket to see who was responsible for making her butt vibrate.
Truth be told, her butt hadn’t seen that much action in . . . well, since over two years. Not true. A little guilty voice whispered in her head.
She recalled that certain night with a certain undercover cop—whom she hadn’t known was an undercover cop. But sex was like horseshoes, close didn’t count. For all intents and purposes, Trey Freedman—or the guy she’d thought was Trey—could pull a Clinton and stand up in court and swear, ‘I did not have sex with that woman.’ And when the trial came to be, he probably would say that.
She wouldn’t say differently. Being a fool was one thing, admitting it to a jury of twelve was another.
The fact that she’d crossed the finish line didn’t count. His Tab B hadn’t entered her Slot A. But he had amazing fingers. And kisses. And body. And . . . Don’t go there!
He was a no-good, lying, hot-looking scumbag. The first one in two years that had her pulse dancing to the tune of romance. The first one in two years that made her let go of Jacob, her first and only love in her life. The guy who she was supposed to marry and live happily-ever-after with. She and Jacob had dated since tenth grade. They had planned their lives out. College. Get married. Buy a house. Have two kids. And there had been only one little hiccup.
He died.
Leaving her as empty, lonely and heartbroken as when the universe had taken her parents.
How was that fair? It wasn’t.
But the universe wasn’t finished toying with her. The one and only guy who had her thinking maybe she wouldn’t wind up an old spinster school teacher ended up to be a complete lie.
But as much as she held Trey…AKA, Turner, accountable for the lies and deception, she couldn’t blame him or the universe for that one night. She’d gone to him—tiptoed into his bedroom, uninvited. Oh, they’d flirted, almost kissed, but then he told her he’d been hurt before. She knew all about being hurt, and she thought maybe they could help heal each other.
With a brazenness she didn’t think she’d possessed, she went to him that night, pulled her nightshirt off and slipped under his covers wearing nothing but a pair of lacy pink panties.
Shaking her head to get her mind off her stupid mistake, she studied her phone. The screen showed she had four missed calls and three voicemail messages from . . . Anonymous.
She hit a few buttons to listen to the messages.
“Reese . . .”
It was his voice. Saying her name. She tossed her phone in the passenger seat and let out a little “eek” as she tried to convince herself she’d simply imagined it. That maybe thinking of his fingers, and body, and sexy smile, had simply had her mind playing tricks on her.
She snatched up her pink-covered cell, put it to her ear, and heard the same dad-blasted sexy voice. His words, didn’t matter. She only heard the voice.
“No,” she moaned and let the phone fall to her lap.
When she could still hear his deep tenor, she yanked the phone up and hit delete. And she kept poking at the word over and over, to make sure she got them all. Only when she didn’t have any new calls left did she stop finger-jabbing her cell.
What the hell did he want with her? What part of, ‘The tooth fairy will be serving cherry popsicles in hell before I give you the time of day again,’ did he not unders
tand? Had she not been clear?
Feeling a little better now that she’d gotten all traces of him off her phone, she switched the cell off. It would remain off until she needed to make a call. And since she’d checked in with Granny last night, she wouldn’t have to turn it on until tomorrow.
* * *
Turner drove all night and was beginning to feel it. He tried to get a flight. But taking the first plane out of Houston would have put Turner in the closest town to Hung at eight a.m. on Sunday morning. Driving, he arrived at Hung’s police department at six a.m.. They were closed. A sign said they opened at nine. In case of emergency call 9-1-1.
Exhausted, he almost dialed it, too. But knowing this wouldn’t qualify, he decided to drive around town looking for a purple Volkswagen until he could have a chat with the local authorities.
Not a purple bug in sight.
Still thirty minutes before he could show up at the police department and ask for assistance, he pulled over and parked at the beach. Six different groups of people were out there with metal detectors. One group was dressed like . . . pirates. He blinked, thinking he’d imagined it, and gripping the wheel, he pulled himself forward to get a better look.
Nope. Pirates—outfitted like Black Beard with swords and old-fashioned guns strapped to their sides.
He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and almost dozed off when his mind flashed an image of her face again. Blue eyes. A wide smile. Then he saw her standing at the foot of the bed, pulling her white nightshirt over her head—completely naked except for a pair of lacy panties. All that perfect skin, dips and curves, bathed in the moonlight that spilled in through the window. He couldn’t remember ever wanting a woman so much.
And he’d almost let himself go there. He’d lied, and said that they didn’t have protection to put a stop to it. Then she’d moaned and told him how much she wanted him. So he’d slipped his hands in those silky panties and made her come with his hand.
Three Southern Beaches: A Summer Beach Read Box Set Page 12
