Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  Determined to prove to herself that she had not become as obsessed with the Scalper as Griff implied she had, Nic went into the kitchen, opened the freezer, and removed a pint of Toffee Crunch ice cream. After finding one of her long beverage spoons, she carried the ice cream and spoon into the living room and turned on the television to the History Channel.

  See, I am eating and I’m watching TV.

  The ice cream was rich and creamy. Totally decadent and delicious. And the television program about the underground world in Paris was actually rather interesting. Every time a thought about the Scalper or about poor Amber Kirby crossed Nic’s mind, she forced it away. When she finished off the whole pint of ice cream, she lay down on the sofa and concentrated fully on the next program, this one a documentary about Winston Churchill.

  Nic yawned as her eyelids drooped. Maybe she’d take a short nap.

  How long she had slept, she didn’t know. Apparently, more than an hour because it was already getting dark outside. She roused from the sofa, intending to close the blinds, but paused when she heard the doorbell ring.

  Who on earth?

  She went to the front door, peered through the peephole, and groaned. What was he doing here? She did not want to see him, didn’t want to talk to him face-to-face. Over the phone, she could handle him, but not up close and personal.

  He rang the bell again.

  You know he won’t go away, so you might as well let him in.

  She opened the door, planted her hands on her hips, and glared at Griffin Powell.

  Chapter 10

  “What are you doing here?” Nic asked.

  “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I was in the neighborhood.”

  She glowered at him, but had to admit—reluctantly—that she was actually glad to see him. For the first time in the five years she had known him, she didn’t think of him as the competition, as an enemy combatant she had to defeat. But he was not her friend. She needed to remember that fact. And she couldn’t let down her guard, not even for a minute. If she did, she might fall under his spell, that hypnotic blend of macho good looks and Southern charm.

  “Well, where are my manners,” she said, faking a smile. “Please, come in. How nice to see you. So glad you could drop by.”

  He grinned. “Why don’t you change clothes and run a comb through your hair, then we’ll go out for a late supper.”

  “What’s wrong with the way I look?” She stepped back, spread out her arms and posed for him. She probably looked like warmed-over mush in her loose-fitting cotton pants and baggy T-shirt. Add to that no makeup and her hair in a ponytail.

  Griff surveyed her from head to toe. “If you don’t want to go out, we could order in.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she told him. She nodded to the empty carton sitting on the coffee table. “I just finished off a pint of Häagen Dazs.”

  Griff stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. Suddenly he was much too close, his six four, muscular body less than a foot away, so near she could smell the barely discernable scent of his aftershave. Whatever the cologne was, it probably cost more per ounce than she made in a week.

  “When’s the last time you had a decent meal?” Griff asked.

  “Ice cream is dairy, which is one of the major food groups.”

  Griff looked around in Nic’s living room, noting the place was clean but untidy. File folders and loose papers were scattered on the sofa, the coffee table, and the floor. An empty glass rested on a coaster on the coffee table alongside the empty ice-cream carton sitting on a folded paper towel. The furniture was a mixture of old and new and the one common denominator in the room was the color scheme. Neutrals. Earth tones. The only real splash of color was the vibrant oil painting over the sofa. Griff made his way closer to the painting, wanting to inspect it up close.

  Ah, just as he suspected—it was an original. The artist’s signature in the corner was a sprawl of letters, his or her handwriting as free and fluid as the painting. C. D. Bellamy. Hmm … Nic’s younger brother.

  Over a year ago, Griff had asked Sanders to run a check on Nicole Baxter and find out what he could about her personal life. He had accidentally found out she had been married once, something he hadn’t known about her. During that investigation, Sanders had put together basic facts that included: 1) Nic’s father was dead, her mother alive and remarried; 2) She had a younger brother who was an artist and lived in California; and 3) Nic had been married for three years to DEA agent Gregory Baxter. Seven years ago, her husband had put a 9mm in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  If there was one thing Griff knew about human nature, it was that we all tend to blame ourselves for our loved one’s shortcomings and failures. No doubt Nic blamed herself for her husband’s suicide, whether or not she had any reason to feel guilty.

  There hadn’t been a damn thing he could have done to have prevented his mother’s death, and yet, he felt guilty. If things had been different … If he had been smarter, less cocky, less trusting … If he had returned to the U.S. a few years sooner …

  Griff studied the broad, enthusiastic strokes of the artist’s brush that had created such boldness. Perhaps the trait was hereditary. It was plain to see that Charles David Bellamy expressed his strength, stubbornness, and tenaciousness in his paintings the way Nic did with her job at the bureau.

  Had she always been so dedicated, so thoroughly focused on her career to the exclusion of everything else? Apparently there had been a time when she had wanted more, needed more, than to work 24/7. Had her husband’s suicide taken away her hopes and dreams? Or was he assuming incorrectly simply because Nic was female? No, that wasn’t it. Most people, male and female, wanted more out of life than to simply succeed at their chosen profession. They needed family.

  Griff thought of Sanders as his brother and their dear friend Yvette Meng as a sister. But deep inside him, Griff had come to the point in his life where he wanted more. More than he had a right to want or ever expect.

  Did Nic feel the same way? Was she as much a prisoner of her past as he was?

  Dru Tanner lathered her body with sun lotion, SPF 15, just enough to give her a minimum of protection. She was lucky that along with her auburn hair and brown eyes, she had inherited her olive complexion from her mother. In the summer months, she kept her tan alive by sunbathing by the pool and in winter months, she made use of the tanning beds at the physical fitness center she managed. Her mother, who owned Great Bods, was semiretired even though she was only fifty-five. Dru was lucky, too, that after giving birth to her daughter, now three, she’d been able to get her body back in shape quickly and the pregnancy had barely changed her figure.

  Dru knew she wasn’t pretty, that her eyes and nose were too big and her mouth too small, so she prized her greatest asset, her body. Big boobs, long legs, slim hips. Of course, Brian was always telling her she was beautiful. God love him. Her husband adored her. Her brainy, bookish, nerdy husband. In their case, it was true—opposites do attract. The smartest thing she’d ever done was marry Brian and the best thing she’d ever done was have his baby. She’d worried that she was too self-centered to be a good mother and maybe she’d never be the typical mom, but she would die for Brianna. Nothing was more important to her than her child.

  “Watch me, Mommy,” Brianna called to her from the pool where Brian stayed at her side while she swam from side to side in the shallow end.

  Dru clapped wildly. “Great job, sweet pea. Yea, Brianna!”

  Brian lifted their daughter from the pool and set her on the patio. She rushed to Dru, who held open an enormous beach towel. She wrapped Brianna in the towel, then lifted her off her feet and onto the chaise lounge where she sat. Brianna giggled happily while Dru dried her off, from her curly auburn hair to her tiny pink toes.

  Brian came up from the water and stepped out of the pool. He was short, slender, and tan. He came to the fitness center three times a week, but only to please her. She knew he preferred
reading and working crossword puzzles and playing games on his computer to working out.

  “I hate to see the summer end,” Dru said. “I wish our pool was heated so we could use it year-round.”

  Brian leaned over, kissed her on the tip of her nose, and then sat down in the chaise beside hers. “Maybe you can talk your mother into adding an indoor pool to the fitness center.”

  Brianna crawled out of Dru’s lap and into Brian’s. She cuddled against his hairless chest, resting her cheek directly in the center.

  “I mentioned it to her back in March and she said she’d think about it. But you know my mom. She hates change worse than anything.”

  “Maybe you should get Jerry to talk to her. He seems to have more influence with her these days than you or Ali or Deb.”

  Brian was right. Her mother’s new boyfriend could talk her into anything. She liked Jerry well enough, even if he was ten years younger than her mom, which made him only ten years older than her sister Deb. People had been gossiping about how Deb had dated Jerry first and that’s how he’d met their mom. She supposed folks had a right to question his sincerity, and Lord knew Deb and Ali despised him. But Jerry made her mom happy, happier than she’d been since their dad had died, five years ago. As long as her mom was happy, Dru figured that was really all that mattered.

  “He asked her to marry him,” Dru said.

  “What!”

  “She called me this morning while we were getting ready for church. Last night, he proposed to her. He gave her a diamond, got down on one knee, even sang to her.”

  Brian chuckled. “You got to give the guy credit—he knows how to romance a lady. He sure waltzed into your mom’s life and swept her off her feet.”

  “Do you think he loves her? I mean really loves her?”

  Brian shrugged. “Who knows? He acts like he’s crazy about her.”

  “Do you think it’s just an act?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “They’re both signing prenups.”

  Brian’s gray eyes widened in surprise. “Are they really?”

  “They’re talking about an October wedding,” Dru said. “Maybe going over to Gatlinburg and getting married in one of those little wedding chapels. She asked if we’d go with them, me be her matron of honor and you Jerry’s best man.” Dru reached over and caressed a sleeping Brianna’s soft, pink cheek. “She wants sweet pea to be the flower girl.”

  “What about your sisters and their families?”

  “Mom hasn’t told Ali and Deb. She said she knows they’ll both throw a fit and refuse to even come to the wedding.”

  Brian reached out and grasped Dru’s hand. “I’ll do whatever you want me to do. If you want me to be Jerry’s best man, I will be.”

  She squeezed Brian’s hand. “How did I ever get so lucky to find a man like you?”

  Brian beamed with pride. “I’m the lucky one.”

  The meal had been delicious. Nothing fancy. Just the absolutely best lasagna and Italian salad she’d ever eaten. Nic had pigged out on the crusty toasted bread slices that had tasted twice as yummy dipped in the cheesy pesto sauce. The wine, which no doubt had cost a small fortune, had also been superb. And as much as she hated to admit it, Griff had impressed her with the impromptu supper.

  “Are you sure you don’t want some of this Italian Cream Cake?” Griff asked, then slid a huge bite into his mouth.

  Groaning, Nic rubbed her stomach. “I’m so full, I’m about to pop. I probably gained five pounds tonight.”

  “Good. I hope you did.”

  Nic laughed. “Are you saying you’d like to see me fat as a butterball?”

  “Nope. I’m saying you didn’t need to lose weight, that you were a perfect size.”

  Nic froze, her body and her mind momentarily numb. But her emotions rioted. Had he really said that she was a perfect size? Not too tall, too Amazonian, too hippy, too busty, but perfect?

  “Oh, Mr. Powell, you are good. No wonder you have women swooning at your feet. You certainly know all the right lies to tell a woman.”

  Griff chuckled. “Why can’t you just take the compliment for what it was—an honest statement.”

  Now he was making her feel uncomfortable and she was sure that had not been his intention. All through dinner, he had been a charming companion. They had talked about everything from the weather to politics, from good movies to good wine. She had discovered that she and Griff agreed on more things than they disagreed on. Strange. She would have thought they had nothing in common.

  Griff downed a couple more bites of the rich Italian Cream Cake, then shoved his plate aside and stood. “I’ll clean this up later. Why don’t we take our wine into the living room and relax?”

  “It’s getting late,” Nic said. “I’ll bet it’s nearly eleven, isn’t it?”

  He glanced at his wristwatch. “Ten forty-eight.”

  “Maybe you should go. I assume you’re staying over tonight and flying home tomorrow.”

  “My plans aren’t definite.”

  “If you’re staying in the area because you think you’re going to play my knight in shining armor, then don’t.” Nic picked up her wine, took a final sip, and set the glass back on the table; then she slid back her chair and stood. “I don’t need you or any other man to come to my rescue. I can take care of myself. I always have and I always will.”

  Griff fell into step alongside her as they walked out of the kitchen. “I learned a valuable lesson a long time ago. There are times when we all need somebody. Sharing the load with someone else isn’t a sign of weakness.”

  Nic paused in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Looking directly at Griff she asked, “Did you learn that lesson during those ten years after you mysteriously vanished?”

  Not missing a beat, not blinking an eye, he replied, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”

  “You don’t talk about those years, do you, not with anyone?”

  “Those years are a part of my past and there is nothing any of us can do to change the past.”

  “You’re right about that.” She couldn’t change the fact that Greg had killed himself.

  Griff walked on into the living room. Nic followed.

  “Mind if I stay long enough to finish my glass of wine?” he asked.

  “Sit. Drink. Stay.” She sat on the sofa and indicated for him to take one of the two chairs.

  He eased down into the hefty brown leather lounger and took a sip of wine. He glanced at Nic, then looked past her to the painting hanging behind the sofa. “That’s a striking painting,” he said. “The artist has real talent.”

  She inclined her head to glance back and up at the riot of brilliant color, the painting Charles David had given her for her thirtieth birthday present, two years ago this past May. “My brother is the artist. And you’re right, he is very talented.”

  “I’d like to see more of his work. If the rest is as good as this one, I would like to buy something similar for my home.”

  “I must admit that I don’t know much about art, modern or otherwise,” Nic said. “But I do know that every time I look at that painting, it makes me feel good.”

  “If his purpose was to create a sense of excitement and happiness, then he achieved his goal with that painting.”

  “I never thought about it, but I suppose I should have realized that a man as wealthy as you are would be an art connoisseur.”

  Griff smiled. “I’m not a connoisseur. I just know what I like.”

  Oh, my, my. This isn’t good. I’m feeling relaxed and comfortable around Griff and I’m actually enjoying his company. I’m seeing him in a different light, a flattering light.

  Nic faked a yawn. “Excuse me. I can’t believe I’m actually sleepy. Not after that nap I took. It must be the wine. I shouldn’t have had that third glass.”

  Before Griff could take the hint and leave, his cell phone rang. He set his glass on the coffee table and eased the phone into his hand. She watched him
frown when he glanced at the caller ID.

  “Powell here.”

  He didn’t say anything else, just listened.

  Nic slid to the edge of the sofa and mouthed, “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  Griff nodded.

  Finally he said, “Yeah, I heard you. What do you want me to do, thank you for the clue?”

  The entire conversation lasted maybe a minute.

  Griff turned to Nic. “He’s chosen his next victim and wanted to call and give me a clue as to who she is.”

  Nic swallowed. “And the clue was?”

  “Fit as a fiddle.”

  “Oh, great. That makes as much sense as rubies and lemon drops.”

  “Not necessarily. We know all the women are in good physical condition, so they’re all—”

  “Fit as a fiddle,” Nic finished the sentence for him.

  “But this clue is supposed to be more specific to this one woman.”

  “I know something should come to mind immediately,” Nic said. “But I’m tired, I’ve had three glasses of wine, and I’ve spent too many hours lately trying to put together pieces of his damn puzzle.”

  Suddenly Nic’s cell phone rang. She could hear it ringing, but she couldn’t remember where she’d put the darn thing. It must be here in the living room; otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to hear it so clearly.

  Griff leaned forward, raked a couple of file folders aside and picked up Nic’s phone from where it had been hidden underneath. He offered her the phone. She grabbed it, flipped it open, and held her breath.

  “Hello, Nicole.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Griffin will be calling you shortly to share his clue with you, so I know you’d like to have one to share with him.”

  She remained silent.

  “If you don’t let me hear that sweet voice of yours, I’m not going to give you a clue,” he said.

  Damn him! He had the advantage in this game and he knew it. “Please, give me the clue.”

  “That’s a good girl. I really shouldn’t give you and Griff any more clues, since you still haven’t held a press conference and told everyone about me. I want the world to know me as ‘the Hunter.’”