by Debra Webb
Mia smiled. Tina Marie had been hooked on Wuthering Heights since her freshman year of high school.
Mia watched the man wander around the parlor as if he hadn’t seen it twice already. He was handsome in a brooding sort of way. Tall, with dark shaggy hair, a beard-shadowed jaw. The jeans and black shirt he wore fit like they were designed just for him. Nothing like the off-the-shelf jeans guys around here wore, but then there were no fancy stores in Blossom. Even the slight limp and the scar marring his jaw were attractive in a forbidden sort of way.
He turned toward her as if he felt her staring at him. Tina Marie gasped and rushed over to actually do her job at the souvenir counter. Mia held the stranger’s stare. If he wanted something, now was as good a time as any to find out what. No need for him to pay the ten bucks for a third tour.
She stepped down from the ladder, swiped her hands on her apron and walked right up to him. “Is there something I can help you with, sir?”
His eyes were blue. Deep, dark blue. She couldn’t help noticing, since he continued blatantly staring so intently at her. That old scar trailed up from the corner of his mouth to just beneath his eye on the right cheek. Mia suppressed a wince at how close he’d obviously come to losing that eye and forced her attention back to his gaze. He still watched her.
“Mia Grant?”
She blinked, surprised, not that he knew her name but at the deep, gravelly sound of his voice. It provoked a tiny shiver. Strange. “That’s right.” She extended her hand. “And you are…?”
His stare dropped to her outstretched hand. “Reece.” He lifted those fierce blues back to hers. “Lincoln Reece.”
He folded his hand over hers and squeezed firmly before letting go. His hand was wide, strong, long fingered. An unexpected shock rippled through her, and she pushed away the silly reaction. “How can I help you, Mr. Reece?”
“The house on Magnolia.”
Mia nodded. “The nineteen-ten folk Victorian. The Reid house.” She knew the one. Once upon a time it had been a grand place. That neglected beauty had been empty for nearly two years.
“Yeah, right. That one.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “How much do you know about the house, Miss Grant?”
The man was nervous. Really nervous. Quite odd. “It’s a lovely old home.” She lifted a shoulder in a vague shrug. The house was for sale. Maybe he was interested. “Needs some TLC. But it wouldn’t be that difficult to bring her back.”
“I was told you do restorative work.” He glanced at the ladder a few feet away.
That explained why he’d been watching her. “Some. I specialize in restoring plasterwork.” As foolish as it sounded she was a little let down that he was interested in her work and not her. She shouldn’t be surprised, though. There hadn’t been so much as a movie invitation in the last year. She would have to work hard to recall her last real date. That was the trouble with small-town life. Everyone knew everyone else. Labels were stamped quickly. No one would dare risk hurting poor Mia’s feelings…or crossing her powerful uncle.
The hands came out of Mr. Reece’s pockets and he seemed to relax. “I’m considering buying the place and I wanted an estimate on the restoration work.” His gaze traveled down to her sneakered feet and noticeably slowed moving up her jeans-clad legs and over her apron and T-shirt. That he lingered on her breasts prompted another shiver.
Flustered, Mia hesitated. The first hint of uneasiness slithered down her spine. “I’ll have to check my calendar. This time of year folks are focused on taking care of things around the house.” That wasn’t exactly true, beyond exterior maintenance and upgrades—none of which were her specialty—but this man was a stranger. A girl couldn’t be too careful.
“Chandra Green suggested I speak to you.”
Had he read her mind and provided a reference? In any case she relaxed a little. Mia would be calling Chandra. It wasn’t unusual for real estate agents to recommend local contractors. Not that she was a real contractor. More a handywoman who’d marketed the only skills she possessed. “Chandra knows my work.”
Mr. Reece pulled a business card from his shirt pocket and offered it to her. “I’ll be in town for a few days. If possible, I’d like to make a decision on the house before I leave.”
Mia studied the card. Only his name and number were printed there, not one other detail. “I’ll call you this afternoon.” No point making the man wait too long. If Chandra gave him a thumbs-up, Mia would jump on the job. She could use the work. There weren’t that many historic homes left in town in need of her particular restoration speciality.
“That’s perfect. Thank you.” He stared at her another moment, then turned and walked away.
Very strange, Mia thought. She tucked the card into her apron pocket and walked to the window to watch Lincoln Reece stroll down the sidewalk toward the town square. Where was he from? He possessed no discernible accent. There was nothing to glean from the way he dressed. And certainly not from his card.
As if he’d once again sensed her thoughts, he stopped and turned back. Mia eased to one side of the window to prevent being spotted. He studied the Dowe house for at least half a minute before resuming his trek toward the center of town.
As she watched him blend into the pedestrians strolling on the tree-lined walk, she winced at her reflection in the glass. She looked a mess. Wisps of hair had fallen loose from her ponytail. She had plaster smeared on her T-shirt and jeans, despite the apron. Not exactly a professional presentation.
“So? Who is he?” Tina Marie demanded as she peeked over Mia’s shoulder.
Mia jumped. “His name is Lincoln. He’s looking at the Reid house. Chandra suggested he check with me about the plaster repairs.”
Tina Marie chattered on, but Mia didn’t get a word she said. The funny shock she’d experienced when she and the stranger had shaken hands still puzzled her. Spending so much time in these old homes, she met lots of strangers, tourists mostly. She’d never had one do that to her with a bear hug, much less a brief brushing of palms. And Reece was by no means the only handsome or enigmatic man she’d encountered, on or off the job.
“I’m taking a break,” Mia said, interrupting her friend’s lengthy supposition about the stranger. “I’ll be back in fifteen.”
Mia skirted the dozen or so tourists oohing and ahhing over the dining room and cut through the kitchen to reach the back gardens. She moved away from the house to avoid interruptions by those wandering the blooming paths of the gardens, slid her cell phone from her pocket and called Chandra.
According to Chandra, Reece was a serious potential buyer.
“So this guy is legit?” Mia asked.
“Definitely,” Chandra assured her. “He’s ready to buy and he doesn’t need financing. The man absolutely insisted I show him all three of the historic homes in town that are for sale. On Sunday no less.”
Another surprise. He hadn’t looked like the type with that kind of money or that sort of determination. “He picked the Reid house over the others?” It was by far in the worst condition.
“He preferred a fixer-upper,” Chandra explained. “Wants to get his hands dirty.”
Actually he wanted to get Mia’s hands dirty. “I guess I could call him.”
“Be sure you do, Mia,” Chandra urged. “You know how slow the housing market has been. I could really use the sale.”
Things were tough all over town. “You can count on me.” That was what folks did here in Blossom. They helped each other out.
After Chandra finished her drawn-out monologue about how handsome and mysterious Reece was, Mia grabbed the opportunity to end the call. Mr. Reece had better watch himself. Chandra had been divorced for three years. She had bemoaned the slim pickings hereabouts for that same time. Reece fit the Realtor’s image of the perfect man—hot and loaded.
Mia would call Reece. But not for a couple of hours. She could use the work but she didn’t want to appear desperate. Fair pay wasn’t too much to ask, even in this
economy. If he pegged her as desperate he’d start trying to negotiate her prices in the wrong direction.
She propped her hands on her hips. This could be a godsend. Maybe she’d get that new stained-glass window for her bathroom after all. Not to mention a little cushion in her bank account.
Her uncle had offered to replace the window ten times. But Mia was a grown woman. She could support herself. Her uncle had done far too much for her already.
The journey had been long and arduous but Mia Grant was fully capable of standing on her own two feet. She smiled. That had not been the case just a few years ago. Funny how a person’s darkest hours could seem so far away and not so bad after all when looking from well on the other side of tragedy.
Mia liked this view a whole lot better.
Chapter Three
1:00 p.m.
It was her.
Linc braced his hands on the bathroom wall and peered into the mirror. It was Lori.
Her face was different, the nose mainly, like Mort had said. But Linc had watched her move. Every move. The way her hands stroked the plaster. The way she arched her back. It was her.
The eyes…Lori’s eyes. Pale brown, almost gold. She wore her shiny brown hair the same. Long, silky. He’d know that mussed ponytail anywhere. While they’d talked he had studied her face. The cheekbones were so much like Lori’s, with only the subtlest changes. The brow area was different, but the lips were exactly the same.
He was certain it was her. But she hadn’t recognized him.
His gut clenched. He’d watched for the faintest flare of recognition in her eyes. Nothing. But when their hands had touched, her pupils had flared. That alone couldn’t be attributed to recognition. He was a stranger. For all he knew this Mia Grant might respond to all strangers, especially males, in that manner. According to one of the guides at the Dowe home where she’d been working, guys were wasting their time setting their sites on Mia. She was untouchable. Of course, the guide was young, twenty-one or twenty-two maybe. Lori—Mia—had turned thirty this year, though she looked closer to twenty and always had. The youthful image had worked to her advantage in undercover work.
Doubt nagged him and Linc pushed it away. It was her.
How was that possible? Everyone on that damned yacht had died except Linc and one of Juan Marcos’s thugs. No one else had survived. They had searched for survivors and bodies for days. Only a few who’d been on board had been found. They had been so deep at sea it was impossible to even hope to find them all.
When the recovery efforts were halted, Linc had lain in the hospital counting the hours and days until he was released. Then, with the help of a private team, he’d searched the water for days more. He’d gone to every hospital and clinic in a hundred-mile radius. Nothing. Not a single other survivor had been treated in the area.
Eventually he’d given up.
Linc stared at his weary reflection. Maybe he’d lost his mind. No. If that were the case, then Mort was crazy, too. Mort was sure this woman was Lori.
But Mia didn’t remember Linc.
Amnesia? Chances were she had sustained a head injury in the accident. If the amnesia had been merely traumatic or only partial, she’d be past that now. Was it possible that all she needed was the right mental nudges? He needed to talk to a specialist. He had no idea what the ramifications of a memory loss so profound and long-lasting could be.
The other screaming question was how she had gotten here.
This was nuts.
Linc wrenched the faucet handles, letting the water flow from the tap. He bent down and washed his face. Think! How can this be?
He grabbed a towel and scrubbed it over his face. If she would take the job he’d offered her, he could buy some time to figure this out. For the past seven years he hadn’t given one damn about material possessions. His paychecks had gone into the bank. He’d lived on bourbon and the occasional sandwich. Buying the Reid house wouldn’t be a hardship. Staying here for as long as necessary wouldn’t be, either.
His cell vibrated. He snagged it by two fingers and slid it from his front pocket. The number on the screen told him it was the boss. “Reece.”
“Have you made contact?” Keaton asked.
Slade Keaton ran a tight ship at the Equalizers. He cared that his investigators were good to go professionally as well as personally. But he never stepped over the line. In recent weeks, though, his personal involvement with his staff had changed considerably. When Linc had first come on board, Keaton had been all but anonymous.
“I spoke to her briefly.” Linc forked the fingers of his free hand through his hair as he moved to the bed and plopped down. “It’s her.” The words echoed over and over in his brain.
“The dental records were faxed to my office. I’m loading them into a PDF. I’ll send them to you shortly.”
“Thanks.” Not that he had a clue how he would accomplish the comparison just yet.
“You’re certain there are no living family members?”
“None. Both her parents passed away when she was in college, and she’s an only child.” Linc wished like hell he could go the DNA route, but there was no comparison sample. Fingerprints would have been the simplest method, but the gas leak explosion at the L.A. Hall of Records a year after the accident that had taken her life—or so he’d thought—had decimated all official files, including the DMV files. The obliterated files hadn’t meant anything at the time, but now he couldn’t help wondering if the two incidents had been related.
“No prints, no DNA.” Keaton made a sound that reflected his own skepticism. “Sounds almost like a well-thought-out plan.”
Anger stirred in Linc. “She wouldn’t have done that.” No way in hell Lori would have set up her own death to get away from her life…from Linc.
“That wasn’t an accusation,” Keaton assured him. “Only a statement of fact.”
Linc rubbed his weary eyes. His chest tightened to the point of restricting any possibility of a breath. “Point taken.”
How the hell was he going to do this?
There was no quick and easy method. He needed time and access.
“If you require any other of my available resources—”
“I’ll call.” Linc hesitated. “Look, I don’t know what I’m doing here.” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “This is…crazy.”
“Maybe,” Keaton agreed, “but there’s only one way to find out.”
That was the bottom line. “If I were working this as a case, I’d be looking into any Marcos connections in the area.” Even though Juan Marcos was dead. Like Lori. “If this is my wife, Marcos had something to do with it.” No damned question. Marcos had been the biggest drug lord on the West Coast. Many had tried, but no one had been able to get close to him, much less bring him down, until Linc and Lori infiltrated his organization.
“I’m on it,” Keaton guaranteed. “I have the details you provided as well as headlines I pulled up on the Net. I’ll reach out to my contacts.”
Linc cleared his throat of the emotion clogged there. “Appreciate it.”
He closed his cell and tossed it onto the bed. He’d been here thirty-some-odd hours and he had already hit a brick wall. Every part of him believed this woman was Lori. Yet he had no way to prove it.
He closed his eyes and allowed the memories to invade his mind. Lori had come to the LAPD straight from college. Linc had just made detective. They were married within three months. A year later she was on the narco team with him. They’d been assigned to the Marcos operation because they fit the necessary profile—young and attractive. Marcos surrounded himself with youth and beauty. It was the only way into his exclusive, lethal club.
Just nine weeks later Linc and Lori had moved into the inner sanctum. Many weeks later, a celebration on the Marcos yacht was the prelude to his takedown. All his major players were to be there. But a competitor had seized the opportunity to take out all the real competition in one fell swoop.
It had
worked.
Agony swelled inside Linc. He’d lost her and nothing else had mattered since.
He reached for his phone. Might as well walk around town and see what he could dig up in the way of info on Mia Grant. Hanging around the town’s only hotel, an ancient house that had been converted into a bed-and-breakfast, would have him climbing the walls.
He stuffed his shirt back into his jeans and left. Downstairs the lady who’d registered him as a guest looked up from the paperback book she was reading and smiled. She hadn’t been at her desk when he’d returned half an hour ago.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Reece. Did you have lunch? I can warm you up a plate. Our guests are welcome to all meals prepared.”
“Thanks, but I’m on my way out.” He flashed her a halfhearted smile.
“I hear you’re going to buy the Reid house.”
The small-town grapevine was obviously alive and well. “I’m considering it.” He continued toward the door. Adding to the rumor mill wasn’t on his agenda. Slowing for additional conversation would lead to questions he didn’t want to answer.
“Mia will make that place look like the day it was built.” Her face gleamed with pride. “She’s just amazing.”
Linc changed course and headed for the desk where the chatty lady sat. Either she was guessing or Mia had already discussed taking the job with someone on the gossip loop. “Are her prices reasonable?” Seemed like a safe lead-in.
“Never heard nobody complain.” She pursed her lips and lifted her chin triumphantly.
“Mrs. Crist, you sound like a big fan of Miss Grant’s. I’m not sure you’re objective.” Mrs. Crist, the owner of the bed-and-breakfast, was seventy if she was a day, but her eyes were as keen as a seventeen-year-old’s.
“I’m a fan rightly enough,” she confessed. “But the girl’s got a magic touch with plaster. That’s the God’s truth.”
“Do she and her husband work together?”
Mrs. Crist puckered her face with a combination of humor and confusion. “Where in the world did you hear she had a husband?” Her gaze narrowed. “You been talking to that Teddy Stewart down at the Gas and Go? That young fella is just trying to ward off any suitors. Mia’s not married. She doesn’t even have a boyfriend. She’s too busy for such.” She raised her eyebrows at Linc. “Or so she says.”
