Fugitive Heart

by Bonnie Dee

  “Why do you have the key to my house?” His low, sexy voice purred like some big car engine, a little rough and in need of tuning but oh so powerful.

  “The neighbor, Mrs. Landry, gave it to me ages ago. I was in and out so much, measuring rooms and windows, that she finally just gave me the key so I could let myself in.”

  “So, what, you’re like some interior decorator or a contractor or something hired by the realty company?” His frown deepened, knitting his straight black brows together.

  “No. It was… This house was supposed to be mine. I was buying it. Or, I mean, saving up to buy it. And then Jenny made a deal without talking to me first.” The bitch, she thought.

  “Then you knew the house is occupied?” He glanced down at the Tupperware container in his hands as if trying to decide whether to shove it back at her. “But you came in anyway.”

  Ames knew her cheeks were fire-engine red. She could feel the blood burning in them. “It was stupid. I apologize. I just wanted to…to see the place one more time before you got really moved in. I thought you were gone, so I took the opportunity.”

  He moved toward her—no, sauntered or maybe stalked was the right word. His long legs glided over the floorboards, which creaked beneath his weight. Ames found herself wanting to take a step backward, but she stayed rooted to the spot until he was right in front of her, looking down into her eyes, making her feel like a mouse facing off against a tomcat. A tomcat with a devastating gaze and a scruff of stubble on his jaw that, for just an instant, she imagined rubbing roughly against her own cheek.

  “I’m sorry I took your house.” One corner of his mouth slightly quirked upward.

  “I’m sorry I broke into yours.” She smiled back and an odd moment of connection flashed between them.

  He dipped his head, acknowledging her guilt. “Well, anyway, thanks for the chicken. It smells good.”

  The deep-fried scent rose between them, a small barrier of crispy crackly goodness.

  “It is good. Gopher’s secret recipe. Been in his family for generations or so he claims, but I have my doubts. He’s the cook at the Back Porch. Where I work. Oh, I already told you that. I’m Ames, by the way.” Why was she babbling? At first she’d barely been able to squeeze out two words, and now she couldn’t seem to stop talking.

  “Sam Allen.” He freed one of his hands from the Tupperware and stuck it out.

  She took it. His palm was still warm from holding the container of chicken. Or maybe it was always that temperature. Either way, his warmth roused an answering heat in her.

  She wanted to rub her hand on her jeans to dispel the sensation, but that might look rude and she’d done enough of that lately. “Okay, then. Sorry to invade your house like I did, and welcome to Arnesdale. It’s a real friendly place.”

  “Yeah, I got that. A lot of food involved.”

  She smiled. “If you’re a bachelor, you may never have to cook for yourself again.”

  Oh great, now she sounded like Missy, sniffing around to see if he was married or not. She hadn’t meant it like that. Or maybe she had. A little.

  “Hm.” He stared down at the container. “You could do me a huge favor by spreading the word among the townsfolk that I really prefer to be left alone. I don’t want them to think I’m unappreciative, but I like my privacy. Could you do that for me?”

  “Um, sure. I understand. You like your privacy. This place is like a retreat for you.” She wondered what he was retreating from. Looking past his hotness, she noticed his mouth was tight at the corners. He didn’t seem like a man at ease. In fact, she’d go so far as to say his eyes appeared haunted or at least worried. She knew that expression well. She’d seen it in the mirror often enough over the past couple of years.

  “A retreat? Sure. Something like that.” His tone was telling her she’d outstayed her welcome, and he led the way to the front door, leaving her no choice but to follow.

  “I’ve always thought of this place as a haven. It’s been abandoned for years, as you can probably tell from its dilapidated state. But the house has so much potential. I had big plans for renovations. Not that I could afford them all at once, but I figured over the years I’d restore it to the beauty it must have been at the turn of the century. I can just see a big, sprawling family living here back then, the rooms filled with kids and pets and laughter. I’m a huge fan of Victorian houses, and I imagined painting the outside lilac with dark purple, green and yellow trim, which I know sounds weird, but that’s the kind of colors they’d use back then. They called the houses ‘painted ladies’.”

  Right. Speaking of Victorian times, apparently her tongue was like a runaway horse. She couldn’t bring it back under control.

  “Yeah?” he said, and that was enough to set her off again.

  “My brother and I used to come here. The house was abandoned when I was about ten, and we wanted to check it out. We didn’t figure it mattered if we broke in and made it our clubhouse. It was great when we were kids. Our own private place. But about middle school Elliot got too cool to hang out with me. He brought his friends here to get high, and they trashed the place. Then a local cop on patrol saw a light flickering in here at night, caught the boys and kicked them out before they could burn it down. We both stopped going here after that. Then someone cleaned it up, moved in for a while as a tenant.”

  “You and…Elliot?” Allen said.

  “My brother.” She paused by the front door, a hand resting on the knob. “God, you must think I’m crazy babbling on like this. I guess I just wanted you to know this place is special. I hope you come to care for it as much as I have. Just thinking about all the history here is—” She cut herself off with a laugh. “I’m doing it again. Sorry. I’ve got no business telling you what you should feel about your new house.”

  “Not at all. I’d like to hear more about the house. You’ve already made me appreciate it more than I did. Honestly, looking around the place, I was beginning to think moving here was a big mistake.” He looked at the plastic container still clutched in his hand. “Hey, if you’re not in any hurry, why don’t you stay and share this chicken with me and tell me more about Arnesdale?”

  She looked from him to the sunny day outside. Part of her wanted desperately to run away and hide until she recovered from the humiliation of being caught poking around a stranger’s house, but the rest of her was clamoring that chicken with Mr. Sam “Hotness” Allen was an excellent way to spend what would otherwise be a boring afternoon off.

  She weighed her options: laundry and housecleaning or lunch with a handsome, mysterious stranger. “Sure. I’m always up for some of Gopher’s fried chicken. Secret family recipe or box mix, it’s good.”

  Ames followed the New York stranger toward the kitchen of the house—from now on she’d have to stop calling it her house—and marveled at the unexpected turn this run-of-the-mill day had taken. Mysterious handsome strangers didn’t land in Arnesdale, ever. What was Sam Allen all about and what had brought him to this quiet backwater?

  Chapter Three

  Elliot. It wasn’t an extremely common name and this was a small town. How many Elliots could there possibly be, especially ones who had used this house as a getaway when he was a kid?

  Ames sure talked a lot, and so had Elliot. If she was his sister, the house they grew up in must have been a noisy place. She was more entertaining than her brother, though.

  “Why are you grinning?” she asked.

  “Private joke. So what’s your last name? I forgot.”

  “Jensen.”

  Bingo. She’d confirmed what he already knew to be true. He now had a direct link to Elliot, which might help him uncover his old pal’s secret hiding place.

  She tilted her head. “Do you hate the name or something?”

  Since when did his face give away his thoughts? Answer: it didn’t. Usually. “Not at all. Just thought of something else.”

  “Another private joke?” Her smile showed dimples. Curly hair, dimple
s—why did Ames look familiar? She didn’t remind him of Elliot, although her last name confirmed the relationship.

  Of course—that girl in the movie he’d watched at four a.m. in some crappy motel, the night after his world turned to shit. “Hey, anyone ever tell you that you look like Shirley T—”

  “No. No one has ever told me I look like Shirley Temple,” she said dryly, the smile vanishing. “I do not look like a simpering five-year-old. I am not cute.”

  Okay, he’d hit a sore spot. “Good, because you don’t. Nothing like her.”

  She grinned again.

  “Except maybe a bit when you smile.”

  She put a hand over her mouth. “That settles it. I’m never smiling again.”

  Jesus, was Nick actually flirting with Elliot’s sister? For a few seconds, he’d enjoyed talking with the attractive woman and forgotten what had brought him here. Back to business. Time to coax more details from her. He’d have to step carefully to get what he needed without alerting her and the rest of the attentive ladies of Arnesville—Arnesdale. Whatever.

  He flipped off the top to the container of chicken and put it on the counter. “Want a piece?”

  “Thanks. Um, are there plates?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay.” She fished out a leg, examined the dusty floor, then sank to sit cross-legged, the chicken in one hand. The farm girl wasn’t afraid of dirt—the first stereotype to prove true since he’d arrived here.

  He put down the container, grabbed another leg and joined her, sitting on the worn linoleum. “So you and your brother spent a lot of time here? Kind of a special place, huh?”

  “For me, definitely. Him? Not so much. He shook the dust of Arnesdale from his feet as soon as he could.”

  Now was his chance to push his Elliot agenda, but instead Nick asked, “Why did you stick around?”

  She stopped eating and gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I was thinking about leaving, but then my mom died and my dad got sick, and he needed me to take care of him.”

  If he could meet the old man, maybe he’d know more about Elliot’s business. “Sorry to hear it. How’s your father doing?”

  “Dead.” She looked down at her chicken leg as if it fascinated her.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Another shrug. “Do you have any napkins?”

  “Nope.”

  She got up and went down the hall, returning a moment later with a roll of paper towels. He remembered seeing them in the bathroom cupboard.

  “Those are yours? I wondered where all the cleaning things had come from. I thought maybe the real estate company had left them behind.”

  She carefully wiped her fingers and wrapped the chicken leg up in her towel before putting it in the trash bag. A fastidious type after all.

  “You can keep the cleaning supplies. Consider it a welcome-to-Arnesdale gift.” She sounded brisk, as if she was about to head out the door.

  “Naw. Listen, sit down. Have another piece of chicken.”

  She shook her head, but then sat again. “Maybe I could tell you about the area. You must have questions, right?”

  Perfect. He’d go at it sideways. “What was it like growing up here?”

  “I thought you’d want to know where to buy groceries.” She laughed uncertainly. “It was good, actually. Fine. It’s kind of dull now, but I still like it here, even if everyone knows my business.”

  A town of busybodies. He’d clear out as soon as he found what Elliot had hidden here and returned it to Bert Esposito as promised.

  “So it was just you and your brother?”

  “Yes. And my mother and father and a dog named Fatty and a school of goldfish. I’m a good shot with the ping-pong ball, and I would win about five a year at the county fair fish toss.”

  “Fish toss?”

  “Get the ball into the fishbowl and you win a fish. I bet it’s part of every county fair in the world.”

  He didn’t have a clue about county fairs, but he nodded, which must have been enough encouragement. She’d lost the diffidence that had come over her as she spoke of the deaths in her family.

  “You know how goldfish aren’t supposed to have long lives? Ours never went belly up. In fact, some of those carp still live in the pond out back of our old house. They’re tame. Seriously, they all swim over and say hi to anyone who comes near the edge of the pond. They just hang out in the shallow water, flapping their fins and pooching their mouths, waiting for you to toss them bread.”

  He let her chatter wash over him, enjoying her sweet enthusiasm. Goldfish. Who got carried away by the topic of goldfish? Her version of life in Arnesdale sounded almost too idyllic, but she was obviously a sentimental type. Nothing like Elliot. She’d settled down after that first torrent of words, but she still talked easily.

  With a little prompting, she told of long summer days spent splashing around in the pond and some creek, and short winter days sledding down hills or skating on the pond out back, the one with the sleeping goldfish down deep. He could practically taste the cocoa she described.

  He eventually nudged her back on topic. “Sounds nice. I wonder why your brother left.”

  “Life around here gets boring once you get to high school. A lot of people take off.”

  “If someone like your brother left, where would he go when he came back? I mean, is it this place or your old house?”

  She looked at him with those vibrant blue eyes, and he wondered if she wore contacts.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Okay, he wasn’t so great at this subtle thing. And anyway, what would he do if she said that Elliot was really into the old toolshed in the back garden of their family house? He wasn’t about to start shoveling up someone else’s floor. Skulking around Arnesdale trying to track the elusive Elliot’s elusive stash looked less appealing all the time. No doubt every citizen in Arnesdale owned field glasses and spied on each other just to pass the time.

  He cleared his throat. “I was just wondering what parts of the town you consider, I dunno, your favorite places. You and other people in your family.”

  “Here, I guess. Our family’s house is gone. The new owners knocked it down to build something more modern.”

  He wondered if the new people visited the fish. “You sold your house?”

  “I had to sell fast to pay some bills. Maybe that’s why I’m so attached to this place. It reminds me a lot of our old family home and better times.” She shook her head as if embarrassed she’d revealed so much. “Anyway, no need to look so sad. I have a great place now. A nice apartment in town.”

  He did not look sad. Did he?

  Back on track. “So this abandoned house that’s now my place”—he watched her carefully so saw her tiny wince—“would you consider it your family’s safe place?”

  “Mine, maybe, once upon a time, I mean. It’s yours now—your safe haven.”

  He got up and took another piece of chicken from the container. “Did your brother mind the fact that you had to sell your family’s house?”

  “I’m not even sure he knows. He vanished, and when I tried to get him to come home after Dad got sick, his phone and e-mail didn’t work, and the addresses I tried didn’t work, and no one knew where he’d gone. He’d never told me about his job, so I couldn’t contact him there.”

  “Damn. That must have been hard. He didn’t get back in time to see your father before he passed?” That word passed felt funny in his mouth. He did not shy away from words like “died” or “dead” or even “offed”.

  “He hasn’t been back since Mom’s funeral. I’m still trying to track him down. Hey, last I heard he was in New York City. You’re from New York. Maybe you know him?”

  He laughed. “Huh? There are something like eight million people in New York City. I doubt I know your brother.” Not really a lie, since he’d thought her brother was a friend, not an enemy. He didn’t know what the hell Elliot Jensen really was.

  “The funny thing is, I hired a
detective to try to find him.”

  “Oh? What’s funny about that?”

  “Wait for it, impatient one. The detective only tried for a couple of days, and, according to him, Elliot vanished. Apparently, some friend of Elliot’s got him into serious trouble. The detective thinks some really bad people were involved, but he was very vague about exactly what kind of trouble.”

  “Wow.”

  “And he’s gone. I’m not sure, but here’s the creepy thing, Sam.” She leaned toward him, her forehead furrowed. “I wonder if he’s dead and that’s why he dropped out of sight. The detective said he’d done all he could. He even gave back some of the money I paid him.”

  Did the guy give a refund because he felt guilty about taking money from another source to drop the case, or was it his client’s cute looks? Maybe he’d been warned off, or maybe now he worked for the other side.

  “That’s a strange story. How long ago did you hire him?”

  “Two months.”

  No, the detective hadn’t ratted her out to the Espositos, or they’d be swarming Arnesdale by now. They moved quickly. Nick could breathe again. “Did the detective give you names?”

  “You mean of the friend who got him in trouble? Yeah. Nick Ross.”

  Crap. Okay. “Sam Allen” knew that guy fairly well.

  There’d been a single call from Bert Esposito, the last one Nick had gotten before ditching his name and old cell phone and life. “You and I’ve got some history, so I’m going to give you a chance. Find Elliot Jensen, get back what he took from us, and maybe you can keep your balls and brains.” That call had set Nick running. Well, no, actually the message from the bastard Elliot had come first. Nick had charged over there only to discover the guy ransacking Elliot’s apartment. That confrontation had been the real start to the nightmare.

  If only Nick could get exact figures, find out how much damage Elliot had done, he’d get an idea of how much effort they’d put into eliminating loose threads like Nick and Elliot. It was just business, after all. Personal vengeance, honor—they weren’t going to squander real resources on that kind of nonsense unless the betrayal became public knowledge. That kind of bad PR required a cleanup campaign.