Holding it on the palm on his hand, he laughed softly. “Ah-hah!”
It was old and well-worn, with heel and toe marks clearly impressed in the sole. Ghosts didn’t wear Birkenstock sandals. Here was irrefutable proof the woman existed.
But not proof enough that the woman was—or was not—Lissa Wilkins.
He had a mystery on his hands. A mystery and a challenge, neither of which he could resist. Who owned that sandal and why had she been in the attic directly over his bed?
In the meanwhile, he was looking forward to spending more time with Lissa, and learning more about her, and what she was up to.
When Lissa returned to take him to his new room, he was taken aback by the impact of her big brown eyes on him.
She gestured for him to precede her into the adjoining bedroom and he sauntered through the door, duffel over one shoulder, suitcase in the other hand, feeling her gaze on his back.
The room was larger than the one he’d just left. The bed—a genuine, antique sleigh bed, or his mother hadn’t taught him one damned thing—appeared to have no sag in the middle.
“Ahhh …” he said, sitting on the edge of it, then flopping backwards. Good! The bed was antique, but the mattress was not, and was as firm as it looked. He smiled up at Lissa Wilkins, who stood with her hands behind her back, her eyes flickering below her thick lashes and a faint flush rising up her cheeks. “Too bad I wasn’t assigned to this room in the first place. Then I wouldn’t have such a mystery to solve.”
“Oh?” Lissa said trying to sound nonchalant. She knew exactly what mystery he was talking about, and she didn’t want him trying to solve it. She wanted him disturbed and uneasy and unable to find anything positive to say about the Madrona Inn. Even more, she wanted him gone.
“Who knows what lurks in the dark, dusty attic rooms of the Madrona Inn?” he intoned. “Who knows what manner of creature dwells in the shadows? Who knows when the pods will hatch and the aliens come crashing through the ceilings? Will they make their way from floor to floor, devouring everyone in their path, gaining strength with each new victim they consume? Will they—”
Lissa laughed. “Now I know that trunk hit you on the head! Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Jackson?” He lay sprawled across the bed, his head propped on a pillow. “I don’t know.” Idly, he patted the mattress as if in silent invitation. “What do you think?”
Lissa stared at the empty area of the bed. She would fit nicely beside him, next to his outspread arm. He’d have only to curl his arm and she’d roll up against his side and—Lissa bit back a gasp. “Think?” she echoed.
“About what else you could do for me.”
Nothing like this had ever happened to her—not in her teenage years working as a chambermaid, nor in the two years she’d been back at the inn. Suddenly she realized she was ill prepared to deal with a man like Steve Jackson. Especially while he lay on his bed, with a provocative smile on his face, as if he knew exactly how his teasing was affecting her. If he was teasing.
She turned to leave. “I think there’s not a thing I could do for you, Mr. Jackson.”
“How about a nightcap?” he asked. He rolled toward her and sat up.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her hand on the doorknob. “The bar is closed.”
“What a shame.” He stood up, reached over and snagged her elbow. “Then how about another bedtime story?”
She laughed. “Another what?”
“Well, the one about the ghost surely wasn’t designed to lull me to sleep. Maybe you should try again.”
She shook her head. “What I told you was no bedtime story, Mr. Jackson. I wouldn’t know one of those if it bit me on the … ankle.”
His hand slid from her elbow to her wrist, and suddenly his fingers were linked with hers. “Then how about I tell you one?” he said. “Or how about we act it out?”
He gently turned her around and, without knowing quite how she’d gotten there, she found herself seated in a chair. Still holding her hand, he crouched before her. With his free hand, he dragged his duffel bag closer, reached into it and pulled out Rosa’s Birkenstock.
Lissa tried not to show her dismay. Damn! She’d been counting on that sandal still being safely in the attic, but here it was in Steve Jackson’s big hand. He grasped her left ankle, trying to lift her foot from the floor. Lissa’s breath caught in her throat.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said, keeping her foot firmly planted on the floor, resisting his efforts to lift it.
His grin flashed again, “I have this glass slipper—well, okay, leather sandal—and I aim to find my secret princess, the one whose foot will fit.”
Lissa bit her lip.
“What do you think?” he asked. “There’s a prize for the winner.”
“How thrilling.”
“You don’t like prizes?”
“Depends on what they are.”
“You’ll have to try the sandal on for me if you want to find out.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “The prize wouldn’t happen to be just over six feet tall and have blue eyes, would it?”
He puffed out his chest; struck a pose and—she fought the urge to laugh—batted his eyelashes. They were long and thick and definitely worth batting.
“Oh-ho! The lady thinks I’m a prize!”
Her laughter escaped. “A prize idiot, maybe. You’d make a better Court Jester than a Prince Charming.”
“Oh, you wound me!” he said.
“Too bad. If you’re completely finished with this foolishness, I’d appreciate regaining custody of my foot. I was never very fond of the Cinderella story.”
His fingers maintained a loose hold on her ankle. “No? What story do you like, Lissa?”
“Have you ever read The Paper Bag Princess, by Robert Munsch?”
He laughed. “No,” he said. “I don’t think I have.”
“If you ever get a chance, I recommend it.”
“Tell me the story yourself,” he said, letting her go slowly, reluctantly, she thought, his fingers trailing down her ankle and the top of her foot until stopped by her shoe.
“Nope. You want a bedtime story, go ask your mommy.”
“No maternal instincts, huh?”
She rose. “Not a single one.”
“Maybe they just haven’t developed yet,” he said, and to her shock, tucked her arm behind his waist, drawing her into the loose circle of his arms. Automatically, her hand went to his shoulder. “So I guess I’ll have to settle for a good-night kiss.”
She could have prevented it. She was certain she could have. She could have escaped with no trouble, except she wasn’t sure her knees would support her weight unless she hung on.
His left hand rested on her waist, while his right pulled lightly on her braid, tilting her face up so she was looking into his eyes. What she saw there behind the laughter disturbed her, frightened her … and excited her, too.
When he dropped his head and brushed his lips over hers, a shudder rippled through her and she jumped back quickly. “No!”
He let her go easily, grinning. “Aw, darn. How come real life is never like fiction?”
“Maybe,” she suggested, “because you read the wrong kind of fiction.”
She slammed the door on her way out, and stomped down the hall. Damn him! Could he sense how easily he’d gotten inside her defenses?
Oh, of course he could! A man who looked like him? He knew exactly how to play a woman, just as well as most of the inn’s other guests knew how to play a fish. And, she acknowledged as she marched down the stairs as quietly as she could, given her mood and her high, wedge-heeled sandals, his flirtatiousness had one purpose, and one purpose only: he wanted to get a look at her bottom, to check for a tattoo.
Well, did she have news for him! Nobody, but nobody, got a look at her butt. Not anymore.
It was thanks to a man just like Steve Jackson, with sky-blue eyes, wide shoulders and muscular legs, that she had that p
articular “identifying characteristic” in the first place. She was an entire decade, and then some, past the stupid age of twenty when it had seemed a real hoot to get that tattoo—no thanks to Joe’s persuasive powers and her having drunk too many Stingers. Getting the tattoo had hurt, but not as much as Joe had later hurt her.
If only she’d learned from her experience with Joe, but uh-uh, not her. It had taken Casey to reinforce the lesson, and Tony to make it stick. But now she knew: a smart woman steered clear of any great-looking guy with more dangerous charm than a caravan of gypsies. Like Joe, Steve Jackson would undoubtedly have romantic duplicity on his mind.
From now on, she planned to stick to men who were over forty, balding, paunchy, and grateful simply to be noticed. That kind of man might not be exciting, but he’d be safe. And so would her heart.
Since her brainstorm of getting him to leave appeared doomed to failure, she’d just have to steer clear of Steve Jackson. According to the plan, it was up to Ginny to keep him entertained when he wasn’t fishing.
There hadn’t been a man created who could resist Ginny McKay if Ginny made up her mind not to be resisted. She’d been married once, disastrously, and swore she’d never try that again. Instead, she played the field, enjoying men’s company, but refusing to take any of them seriously. Lissa had never known a happier, more self-confident woman than Ginny, and Steve Jackson didn’t stand a chance.
Once the weather cleared and he was out on the water every day, and busy chasing Ginny at the bar in the evenings, he’d be sleeping like an exhausted child each night.
Except at around one-thirty, two-fourteen, and three-forty-eight.
Which reminded her—she was going to have get someone to reposition the equipment in the attic so it was right over his new room. There was no way she was going up there again. Once was more than enough, regardless of the stakes involved. There was any number of others on the committee who could do it. Larry, for one. He owned and operated the machine shop and marine ways, but there was no rule saying only an employee of the inn could plant the ghostly recordings. Larry was an active member of the committee and like both Lissa and Ginny, knew the inn inside and out, having played hide-and-seek with them during their childhood.
If he couldn’t do it, then there was Merv, the marina manager. Merv had as much at stake as any of the rest of them. A new owner might just as easily replace him as keep him on and he was nearing fifty. He wouldn’t find it easy to get another job.
She’d put the problem to the committee at their Sunday morning meeting. Someone would do what was needed.
Anyway, the seeds had been planted now. Even if Steve Jackson didn’t believe in ghosts now, he soon would …
This was one hot piano player for a small town, Steve thought. He was sitting backward on a bar stool in Chuckles the following evening, watching the Saturday-night entertainment. The guy almost made love to his keyboard, lying half-across it as he played. The woman with the fiddle wasn’t bad, either, and the tall, mostly bald guy with his remaining hair tied back in a ponytail got more emotion out of a sax than anyone he’d ever heard. The singer, Ginny, was back, and just like the night before, he could have sworn she was singing each torchy word directly to him.
Larry Cranshaw, the man on the next barstool, noticed, too. “Cute, huh?” he said, giving Steve a poke with his elbow.
Steve grinned at him. “Sure is.”
He’d met Larry over the pool table a couple of days ago and the two had hit it off immediately. A First Nations man who claimed direct descent from the great chief Maquinna, and whose chiseled face bespoke his Nootka ancestry, Larry had lived in Madrona Cove all his life. He knew everyone.
“I think she’s got the hots for you,” he said. “Her name’s Ginny McKay. She’s divorced and lonely. Want an introduction?”
“Nah.” Steve shook his head. Petite, redheaded and bosomy, Ginny was cute, all right. “We’ve met, actually. I’m staying at the inn.” Ginny was also the hostess in the Madrona Inn’s dining room.
“And?” Larry’s face and tone expressed amazement. “You don’t like her?”
“Sure. She’s okay.”
“Huh. Lots of guys think Ginny’s more than okay. She’s elusive. Friendly as all get-out, but simply won’t be caught. People make book on when she’ll finally succumb. They say it’ll take a man in a million to capture her.”
“Really,” Steve said. It sounded to him as if Larry was almost daring him to take up the challenge.
“Yup. If I wasn’t married, I might even give it a try myself.” He hesitated. “You married?”
Steve shook his head. Larry arched one eyebrow. “So? Why not buy her a drink during her break? Get to know her a little better.”
“I don’t think so. Nothing against the lady,” Steve added. “She’s just not my type.”
“Oh, yeah?” Larry looked interested. “What is?”
Steve shrugged. “Leggy. I like them leggy.” He nodded toward one woman on the dance floor. “Like that.” She had long, blond hair that swirled when her partner spun her around, and a short, full skirt that flared out. From his position on his bar stool, he thought her legs might be the pair he was seeking, but it was hard to be sure.
Larry laughed. “I don’t recommend it. Her boyfriend’s the meanest logger in town.”
“Oh, yeah?” The leggy blonde’s partner didn’t look particularly mean. Or dangerous.
“Now there’s another leggy one,” Larry said, giving Steve another nudge with his elbow. “How about her?”
Steve followed the direction of Larry’s gaze and saw Lissa standing with a group seated at a table. Before he could slip off his stool and amble on over toward her, one of the men, an taller version of Jeopardy host Alex Trebek, slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her down onto his lap. She draped an arm around his shoulders and kissed his cheek, looking perfectly at home.
“Yeah,” Steve said, irritated beyond all reason. “How about her?”
Before Larry could point out any other possibilities to him, a woman slipped up to Larry’s side and snuggled her arm through his. “You going to sit here all night, or are you planning to dance?”
“Dance, I guess,” Larry said with a grin. Then, to Steve, as if he owed him some kind of explanation, he added, “She’s my sister-in-law.” He led the woman onto the floor. Steve glanced at Lissa, who was now seated at the table, sharing a heaping plate of fish and chips with her companion. Steve turned away, but something kept drawing his eyes back to her. When he saw her pick up a slice of lemon from the plate and suck on it, his mouth puckered, but that wasn’t his only response.
Annoyed, he sauntered toward the stage occupied by the musicians. Ginny McKay smiled at him so seductively that he couldn’t help smiling back. But he didn’t want to encourage her, so he took a chair at the last empty table near the edge of the dance floor. From that position, he was completely unable to watch Lissa Wilkins making up to the older guy.
The long-legged blonde swirled by with her partner and obviously noticing his attention, gave him a flirtatious wink and a tantalizing glimpse of her thighs. But her skirt didn’t go high enough for him to see if she had a tattoo. He slumped down as low as he could on his chair without sliding off or becoming too conspicuous, or both.
No good.
He needed to see more of her if he was to be sure. Briefly, he considered pretending to fall off his chair so he could look up her skirt, but that seemed unwise, especially for a guy who didn’t want to be conspicuous.
When Lissa came dancing by in the arms of the gray-haired man, he nearly rose, whether to leave or to cut in, he couldn’t have said, but in doing so, he accidentally tripped the blonde, who fell into his lap as he collapsed back into his chair.
He wrapped his hands around her waist and held her steady. “Whoa there! You all right?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lissa circling to the far side of the dance floor, talking to her partner, a serious expression in her face. The man patte
d her cheek and kissed her nose.
“Sure, I’m okay,” the blonde said, wriggling a little on his lap. “Just a bit dizzy. I guess I tripped over my brother’s feet. He’s never been much of a dancer.” She giggled. Her eyes were such a glassy green he knew she’d had more than a little to drink. “Thanks for catching me.”
“My pleasure,” he said, setting her upright while managing to slide one hand down over her hip and thigh, checking her size and shape. He concluded she was a tad too rounded, too padded.
Suddenly, a guy as big as a mountain loomed up. “Hands off, bub.” His lantern jaw jutted out aggressively as he set two mugs of beer on the table with a single, ominous thump. Uh-oh. The “meanest logger in town.”
“Oh, Jase-honey, don’t be like that,” the woman said, patting his cheek. “The nice man was just trying to help after Ronnie tripped me. Right, Ron?” But Ron was standing at an adjacent table, drawing a pretty, pregnant woman to her feet.
“Just trying to help himself,” the logger said through clenched teeth. “I saw him cop a feel.”
The last thing Steve wanted was a brawl over a woman, especially with Lissa Wilkins in the bar. “Hey, no offense,” he said quickly. “Let me buy you a drink. Both of you. Name’s Steve Jackson.” He offered his hand to the huge man. After a narrow-eyed, suspicious moment, Jase took the hand and pulled one of those I-can-crush-you-like-an-eggshell grips on Steve, who smiled all the way through it.
He joined them and the other couple at their table. From there it was easy to see Lissa. When her date went to play darts, leaving her sitting with two other women, he rose, strolled in her direction and asked her to dance.
Chapter Three
“OH!” LISSA ACCEPTED WITH trepidation. Steve’s hand was large and warm as he wrapped it around hers and led her toward the dance area. Luckily, the music was lively, and they could dance without touching—except that his gaze touched her. Even when she turned from him, spinning in time to the throbbing rock beat, she knew he was watching her, looking at her legs, encased tonight in tight jeans. She wished she’d refused his invitation to dance, and when the band segued into a slow, sensuous tune, she wished she was at the bottom of the sea.
Cinderella Search Page 3
