“They’ll give you cash back?”
She had no idea. The Beamer was the first car she’d ever owned. But Cissy was looking at her expectantly, and Rory hated to disappoint her. “I’m sure we’ll find someone willing to deal. Maybe we can even swing two trucks and some cash. We’ll have to think about what’s best.”
She’d be stranded in this trailer if she didn’t have transportation of her own. Trapped. Her breath caught in her throat with that panicky thought, but she shoved the panic aside. Family first. She’d find her way out again.
“Daddy will know someone with an old truck they want to sell,” Cissy said with a shrug. “You shouldn’t have to sell your car. What do you think of that guy he brought out yesterday?”
Unable to sprawl across the high bed with her damaged hip, Cissy merely leaned against it. She was only three years older than Rory, but she’d stepped into their mother’s role with natural talent.
Panic momentarily checked, Rory accepted the part of younger sister that they both needed right now. They’d spent many an evening sprawled across this bed after Mandy had gone to sleep, talking of beaus and life and love.
“Scary,” Rory answered without thought. At Cissy’s raised eyebrows, she regretted the admission. “McCloud has some weird California notion that we need to preserve the whole island.” She might admire his idealism if she didn’t think it was selfishness behind his offer to help.
“I don’t think that’s what I asked,” Cissy said dryly. “He doesn’t talk much. How did you get that out of him?”
“He talks, when he’s so inclined. He saw a turtle nest yesterday and was suitably impressed. You did good.” Unable to sit still, Rory roamed the room, tucking away cosmetics and combs and hairpins.
“He’s from California. He rides a bike. He hangs out at the Monkey. He’s a little too much like Daddy, don’t you think?”
“Probably.” Rory picked up her budget file and flipped it open. She had too many things to do to discuss men, especially ones whose macho attitude concealed a dangerous level of intelligence. “But he knows computers and has a millionaire brother, so he could be useful.”
“A millionaire brother?” Cissy waited for more.
“Something about his brother being a comic artist. I didn’t ask questions. I wanted to pick you up before Pops talked you into riding home with him.”
“You know better than that.” Crossing her arms, Cissy watched her walk around the room. “I’ve heard about a guy on the other side of the swamp who draws comic strips. He married the owner of the hardware store. Didn’t know he was a millionaire. I don’t think they have anything fancy over there.”
Small town gossip never changed. The grapevine was useful, but Rory didn’t know how much she wanted to get involved. She just wanted to talk with the zoning commission and be done. “McCloud is living in a shack down by the beach behind the old Newsome house. If his brother owns the Newsome place, then they’ve fixed it up some.”
“His kind doesn’t hang around long,” Cissy warned. “He’ll play at helping for a while, then lose a battle and disappear on that hog of his.”
Rory knew her sister was speaking from experience. Mandy’s father had been a college student who’d worked on the yachts in the harbor one summer. He hadn’t been from around here and hadn’t been seen since. Outsiders stayed and played for a while, but they seldom lingered. There wasn’t anything here for them.
“I won’t count on McCloud,” Rory promised. “I just need him to hide the names of the Bingham heirs until I get some zoning changes.”
“Ain’t gonna happen.” Standing, Cissy limped toward the bedroom door. “Money talks, and you’ll be in the way.”
Her sister sounded just like Clay. When had Cissy grown so cynical?
Going back to her budget file, Rory studied the contents, planning some way of presenting her case that would make sense to zoning commissioners with dollar signs in their eyes.
If she’d thought of gas stations and minimarts, there were others out there dreaming even bigger dreams. Best to nip those big dreams before someone started acting on them.
o0o
Emerging from Cleo’s Hardware bright and early Monday morning, carrying a new wrench to replace one of Jake’s he’d broken, Clay halted in the shade of a magnolia at the sight of a familiar head of sun-red hair in the street down the block. Seeing people standing in the middle of the road around here wasn’t unusual. Aurora’s rigid stance struck him as curious, though. She was wearing one of her business suits again, with her hair all prim and proper, but the image of gauzy skirts and braids was indelibly imprinted on his mind. He’d spent the weekend fighting the urge to see what she was up to since she hadn’t called.
Sauntering in the direction of what appeared to be a confrontation, he studied the other party involved. Tall, blond, and rich, he diagnosed from the expensive cut of the man’s suit and the way he stood with hand in pocket, suit jacket pulled back at a GQ angle. Also hot and irritated, he gathered, recognizing the way Mr. GQ gestured curtly with his free hand, stepping away from Rory as she spoke.
Clay got a kick out of watching Aurora’s Southern version of dynamite, but this jerk didn’t seem quite as fascinated. “Get real, Rora,” the jerk was saying when Clay came within earshot. “We need a property tax base out there if we’re to make any improvements.”
He didn’t think he should be eavesdropping, but it wasn’t as if Mr. GQ was exactly quiet about his tirade. Standing in the shade on the sidewalk, he waited to see how Aurora replied. Given their discussion of last week, he figured she had already started to cut a swath through the planning commission. Unlike him, she seemed to have no problem getting involved or believing she could stop city hall.
“The cost of overdevelopment will be greater than any revenue from your so-called property tax base,” she answered heatedly. “Read your economics, Jeff. Building a base slowly and with planning for the future will benefit the area far more.”
Clay didn’t like the sound of “building a base” much better. What about the turtles? And the sweetgrass?
“The place is a swamp filled with losers and misfits,” Mr. GQ replied with scorn. “The sooner we’re rid of them and building something constructive, the sooner we can have cash flow. I thought you, of all people, would understand that.”
“Why, no, Jeff,” she answered in mock incredulity, “Ah’m just a loser and misfit, how could Ah possibleah understand what’s goin’ through the minds of brilliant men like yourself? Cash flow! Imagine that. Ah’ll be certain to keep that in mind come election day.”
Clay could hear the fury behind her syrupy drawl and wondered if it was the insult or the danger to her hidden agenda that raised it. She might tickle his hormones, but that didn’t mean she’d fried his brains into forgetting she had something up her sleeve besides turtles.
“You won’t be here come election day,” Jeff shouted in frustration, “and your swamp rats don’t vote. Drop it, Rora, and do everyone a favor. The park will bring in business, and there’s no reason to block progress.”
Thinking the balled-up fist at Aurora’s side probably wasn’t a good sign, although he applauded the emotion behind it, Clay sauntered over to join the fray. He wasn’t much on politics, but he suspected Aurora’s anger didn’t bode well for the turtles if she was already antagonizing the people whose aid they needed.
“I’ll have to tell Jared the locals call him a swamp rat,” he offered as both combatants turned at his approach. “I’m sure he can turn that into a juicy item for his strip. He wields a mean pen.”
“Your brother is a property owner, so he doesn’t qualify as a rat,” Aurora explained in a tight voice. “Jeff’s referring to my father and Grandma Iris and the squatters out there. Homeless people, they call them in the city. Except here they have homes. They just don’t pay for them.”
He really didn’t want to get into that. He’d much rather punch smug Mr. GQ in his square jaw. He couldn’t remember
ever wasting energy in street brawls, but he flexed his muscles menacingly, just to keep GQ in his place. He couldn’t think of anything to add to the conversation, so he just watched the worm wiggle in silence.
Aurora picked up on his vibrations instantly. Clay bit back a snicker at the evil eye she gave him, but she made the introductions without comment. “Jeff, Clay McCloud. Clay is the state’s computer expert for the park. Clay, Jeff Spencer. He’s an officer of the Community Bank and on the zoning commission.”
“The commission is elected?” Clay asked with feigned ignorance.
“Of course not,” they both answered in unison, looking at him as if he were an ignoramus.
Again Aurora caught on quickly. Clay didn’t think she was admiring his unfastened denim vest or bare chest with the look she shot him, but he smirked as if she had. She rolled her eyes and returned to the debate. He was getting a kick out of matching wits with a woman who could see right through him—and who didn’t mind looking.
“Jeff is running for town council. I asked him to support our petition against rezoning the island until an environmental study can be done.”
He didn’t know they had a petition, but he was sure they’d have one the minute they got out of this street. “Fair enough. I’ll get Cleo on it. C’mon, we’ll go talk to her. She knows all the swamp rats and every other rodent up and down the coast. Great meeting you, Jeffy!”
Not giving the puffed-up banker a chance to retaliate, Clay grasped Aurora’s elbow and all but dragged her out of the middle of the road to the shaded sidewalk. Keeping the momentum, he marched her back up the road to the hardware store. He figured she was too steamed to speak, and he’d like to keep it that way as long as possible.
Actually, he kind of liked holding her elbow and having her match him stride for stride. Upon occasion he’d absentmindedly outwalked frilly women who minced about in high heels.
He was much too conscious of Aurora’s in-your-face presence to forget her. Her floral fragrance wafted around him, and he sneaked a peek at the way her thigh-high skirt slid up her leg. He was damned glad she didn’t wear jeans like every other woman in the universe. Pity it wasn’t a little leather number instead of another of her business suits. If he kept his thoughts purely on sex, he wouldn’t have to wonder what in hell he thought he was doing.
“This had better be good, McCloud,” she muttered as he shoved open the old-fashioned wooden door of Cleo’s store.
Ignoring her threat, Clay shouted for his sister-in-law while steering Aurora through the maze of paint cans and lawn tools to the counter in the back of the store.
A head shorter than both of them, her short copper curls tousled from her habit of running her hand through them, Cleo eyed their approach with the same skeptical expression Clay normally wore. Seeing it, Aurora laughed out loud and pulled away from his hold.
“Hi, I’m Rory Jenkins, and I bet you’re Clay’s ever-suffering sister-in-law. I’ll haul him right back out of here, if you like.”
The normally stoic Cleo almost broke a smile at that. Lifting rounded eyebrows in Clay’s direction, she held out her hand to shake Aurora’s. “Deal. Keep him away from the Monkey, throw him in the harbor occasionally, and I’ll do whatever it is you want.”
“A petition. We can keep a page here on the counter. I want the zoning commission to hold off on any rezoning on the island until an environmental study has been completed.”
“You got it.”
Clay glared at Cleo’s smug expression as she cleared a stack of advertising brochures from the cluttered counter, but he didn’t have to care what anyone thought. He just wanted...
What the hell did he want? Certainly not another MBA with a hidden agenda, although he was beginning to suspect Aurora didn’t hide much. He just wanted to save the swamp.
No wonder Aurora had rolled her eyes at him earlier. Even he didn’t believe that. He shoved his hands in his back pockets and held his tongue.
“I appreciate that.” Rory produced a file from the bag slung over her back, removed several sheets of paper from it, and set it on the cleared space. “Anywhere else you’d suggest leaving one?”
“The Monkey, Kate’s restaurant, and the bookstore. Why don’t you give me a few of those? Jared can run them by the schools and the yacht club, and get some of the hunters and fishermen into this.”
“You are a saint!”
Clay watched in amazement as she produced still another stack of papers from the bottomless bag. Maybe this wasn’t an intelligent idea after all. Cleo and Aurora in one room could ignite explosions.
On second thought, he’d always liked fireworks.
“Bring me back a hamburger. I’ll be making a few phone calls.” Cleo tucked a petition into a pocket of her tool belt and turned an expression brimming with mischief on Clay. “I leave you in good hands.”
He wasn’t at all certain who was in whose hands, but he felt a need to assert himself a little more forcefully than usual as Aurora started toward the door without him.
Catching up with her, he took her elbow again, opened the door, and pushed her out. “I think that went well, don’t you?” he asked dryly.
“I think I’m going to like working with you, McCloud,” she replied, taking off down the street, heedless of his hold on her. “You’re so damned predictable.”
Predictable? He was a friggin’ genius. Geniuses weren’t predictable, were they? His ex had called him an uncommunicative sphinx in one of her better tirades. Other women had cooed and called him mysterious and enigmatic—or the ones with a vocabulary had, anyway.
He hadn’t done a damned thing except take her to Cleo.
Maybe he’d better make a few ground rules clear before they got started—like that she should tell him what in hell kind of petition they were carrying around, and why. If he blindly trusted an MBA, he could be signing away his rights to live and breathe.
Chapter Seven
“Coffee.”
Without asking for her opinion, McCloud steered Rory down the next block, in the direction of the concession stand at the harbor. Unaccustomed to being hustled around in quite that manner, she wasn’t prepared with an effective protest. She had a cup of coffee in her hand and McCloud at a picnic table across from her before she could decide if she even wanted coffee, much less whether she wanted to share it with him.
Staring at Clay’s bronzed, nearly bare chest, she had to admit she didn’t mind sitting here, admiring the view. He didn’t have a spare ounce of fat anywhere she could see. She’d certainly never had opportunities like this at the bank. Men in suits were interchangeable obstacles to overcome, but Clay’s lean abs stirred thoughts she hadn’t had in a long, long time.
Except the family bad luck with the opposite sex had made a large impression on her psyche. She didn’t do casual sex. It was a committed relationship or nothing for her, and she and McCloud had no basis for even basic friendship. The man was not only not her type, but he was obnoxious about proving it.
“You had something you wanted to say?” she taunted, since he said nothing. She was used to men who grabbed the conversation and ran, as if it were their goal to keep the conversational ball in their court. Clay’s silences made an interesting change of pace. She scratched idly at the vendor’s contest ticket that declared she could be an instant winner and uncovered the inevitable Try again.
“I thought you might like to tell me about those petitions.” He sipped his coffee and watched her through narrowed eyes. “I thought you wanted development out there.”
A gull squalled from the sandy playground behind them. The outboard motor of a sailboat chugged sluggishly as it backed out of a docking station. People strolled the boardwalk along the harbor and sat at tables on the restaurant patios above. In this idyllic setting, she had no reason to fear the tall man sitting across from her. She supposed she ought to, since he’d just hauled her down here like a dog on a leash.
Only she’d learned from her father not to judge people b
y their appearances. It would be a lot easier if she could label Clay McCloud a biker or beach bum, sniff, and not give him the time of day. He certainly worked at maintaining the look: sun-bleached, uncut hair, three-day-old beard shading his angular jaw, denim vest, cutoff jeans, and sandals.
But she’d seen his high-tech computer and the programming language and his reluctant fascination with the turtles. She suspected there was more to this man than readily met the eye.
Or she could be fooling herself. She’d done that before.
“I talked to some of the commissioners,” she finally answered when he sat there without saying another word. “They weren’t interested in hearing about environmental planning or limited zoning or anything else unless it’s backed by money. I figured they might listen if we were more than a few voices screaming into a vacuum.”
Clay nodded and sipped his steaming coffee. “From what your friend said, you may get signatures, but you’re not likely to have many voters on that petition.”
“It’s not a legal document. A petition can’t change zoning. It just gives us a little popularity edge.”
“It also gives the bank and other interested parties fair warning that trouble lies ahead.” He sipped his coffee and waited.
Rory winced. She hadn’t thought of that. She studied the problem from all angles, then shook her head. “I can’t see how it will matter unless someone wants to bribe us not to interfere. People on the island would take the money and still sign the petition.”
His mouth quirked upward in one corner. “Okay, I’ll buy that. But a petition won’t convince the commissioners if they’re thinking of condos and property tax bases. Short of locating the town’s missing World War Two cache, you can’t change things.”
She didn’t believe those old bar stories any more than she believed fairy tales. Even if the town had lost some stolen German spy hoard, no one could find it.
Setting the coffee aside, Rory rubbed her forehead. She’d love to see a small grocery store on the island. It was a ten-mile drive just to pick up food and medicine. In bad weather, that was a dangerous mission. Decent housing was desperately needed. And Jeff had been right: She did understand about the property tax base the county needed to improve schools.
Carolina Girl Page 6
