Christmas Confidential (9 page)

“The bright metropolis of Sunshine, Mississippi.”

“No, really, where are we?”

“Really, Sunshine. See?” He pointed to a faded yellow sign listing to the sun-setting position above the entrance to a convenience store. “Population, fifty or so, I’d guess, plus a pack of mangy cats.” They were gathered at the Dumpster beside the store.

“Why are we stopping?”

“One, we need gas. Two, I’m hungry. And three, I really need to take a—” He broke off when she scowled at him. “Look, there’s the bright spot in this town. Fat Boy’s Fried Chicken Hut. If that’s not a name that draws you in, I don’t know what is.”

She gazed from him to the restaurant, not the most encouraging sight she’d ever seen. Small, drab, definitely not a five-star place, but the Shell parking lot was filled with vehicles, most with Mississippi plates. The locals seemed to like it, and if a fat Southern boy didn’t know his fried chicken, who did?

They parked with a half dozen other cars on a patch of yellowed grass, and Dean climbed out, stretching his arms high over his head, enough to give her a glimpse of his flat, ridged stomach before he tugged his sweater back down. It had been so long since she’d seen the sexy parts of any man, much less touched, and damn it, she was still a sucker for rock-hard abs.

Maybe still a bit of a sucker for him.

He bent to see through the door. “You coming?”

“Yeah. Sure.” But after opening her own door, she hesitated. Since recovering Boo from the storage locker, he hadn’t been more than a foot from her, and she hated to let this be the first time. What if someone stole Dean’s car while they were inside?

The chilly breeze tousling his hair, he grinned. “When Cathy didn’t give up her security blanket by the time she started school, my mother cut off a little square so she could stick it in her pocket. Want me to cut off his arm or an ear for you?”

Her scowl was only half-pretend. “What about yours? Did your mom cut off a piece of it, too?”

“She did. I’ll show it to you sometime. Bring it if you want, or you can stick it in the trunk. Just decide. I’m cold and hungry and I still need to take a—” He broke off with a shrug and shoved his hands into his gloves.

It was hard, but she placed Boo carefully on the backseat, then covered him with plastic shopping bags. She slid out of the car and into her jacket, then hustled to follow Dean into the restaurant.

The heat inside fogged the windows, painted with manger scenes and majestic gold stars, and the aroma when they’d taken three steps was enough to make her mouth water. She hadn’t had really good fried chicken since her mother had been well enough to fry it herself, with mashed potatoes and cream gravy, biscuits, stewed greens and fried okra, and pecan pie for dessert.
So
long ago, before the state had taken the other kids.
Too much trouble for just two,
she’d said after that, but Miri had known the truth. Too many memories, too much sorrow.

They found a table in the middle of the room and ordered the lunch special—no greens, but otherwise the same menu she remembered—with sweetened mint tea that was sensory overload all by itself. After a sip that made her sigh with appreciation, she said, “So your names are Adele, Bette, Cathy and Dean. I guess your father was willing to take as many girls as he had to, to get a boy? No need for an Elizabeth, Ellen or Esther after you?”

“Nah. They agreed on four from the start, though my dad always said they had me so the girls wouldn’t pester them.” His grin made it clear who pestered whom. “What are your names? Miriam and who else?”

It wouldn’t hurt to answer. It would take more work to connect Miriam Duncan to Sophia Marchand, Oliver Baxter and Chloe Carson than Dean would ever want to do. Besides, first he would have to connect Miriam Jane Duncan to Alicia Miriam Smith, and the odds of that were slim to nothing. So she told him.

“Old-fashioned names.”

“Old-fashioned mother.”

“And your father?”

Selfish. Disinterested. Coldhearted. SOB.
“Ran out on us when Chloe was three. Never came back.” Her attempt at a careless smile was a miserable failure, just like her father had been.

“You haven’t seen him since?”

She shrugged. She’d seen the man, but he wasn’t her father anymore. Now that she had the money he’d owed them, he was nothing to her. Not even worth hating.

“Want me to find him so you can tell him what you think of him?”

This time her smile was more genuine. “No, thanks. He doesn’t care, and finally, neither do I.”

She realized she actually meant it. The money wouldn’t make up for his abandonment, for leaving his young children in the care of an emotionally unstable mother without so much as a dime of support. It wouldn’t erase the fact that because of him, their mom had lost the kids and, eventually, her parental rights to the younger three, and it wouldn’t make those eight years of Miri’s life when she’d been the mom to the parent go away.

But the money had mattered to
him,
more than his wife and kids ever had, and that knowledge satisfied her.

Beyond that, John W. Smith was dead to her. She’d done her sentence in prison, and she was ready to start a new life. Maybe she would go back to being Ali again. Maybe she would trust a few people. Maybe even love one or two.

But not Dean. Lord, please not him. He’d already let her down once. She didn’t know if she could survive it again.

* * *

When they left Fat Boy’s, Dean was so full of good ole country cooking that all he wanted to do was stretch out somewhere quiet and warm and be lazy for three or four hours. But his car wasn’t built for stretching out, and he didn’t think Miri would be quiet if he made her sit in the front seat while he lazed.

They drove over the pavement on to the roadway, went a couple hundred yards and turned into the gas station. “You need anything while we’re here?”

She shook her head, but when he got out of the car, so did she. At his glance, she gestured across the parking lot to a faint trail in the pine forest that led to a barely visible house on the other side. “I’m just going to walk a bit.”

He studied her a moment, and she looked back evenly. He figured she’d long since accepted the fact that she was stuck with him for another day, and he
knew
she’d be back, because her bear was still in the backseat.

Ugly, ratty bear must have some damn good memories attached.

When he didn’t say anything, she turned and started toward the trail with long strides. He didn’t blame her for wanting exercise, even as cold as it was. He was a little antsy from spending so much time in the car himself. He didn’t blame her for wanting fresh air, either, with no high fences, walls and guards around to watch her. Prison must have been tough.

Just not as tough as she was, he admitted with a smile.

The tank full, he was replacing the gas nozzle when tires squealed on the road. He glanced at the car, an old beat-up Chevy, then looked back down, twisting the gas cap tightly. He hadn’t wanted the smell of fuel on his gloves, but the nozzle and the wind had damn near frozen his fingers.

He was opening the door to the store when shots rang out: one, a pause, another, a pause, one more, followed by the roar of a powerful engine and the screech of tires.
Miri!

“Was that gun—”

Letting the door close on the clerk’s question, Dean ran across the lot. He was dimly aware of voices behind him, of other footsteps, but he focused on the woods and the patch of blue crumpled on the ground next to a tree. His heart thudded in his chest and echoed in his ears, his lungs too tight to supply adequate oxygen, but as he neared, he managed enough to shout her name. “Miriam!”

A flash of pink appeared as she moved her arms from over her head, then her face, pale, brown eyes wide and stark. Before she had a chance to move any farther, he skidded to a stop beside her and grabbed her shoulders. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Her hands clenched fistfuls of his sweater. “N-no, I’m o-okay.”

He lifted her to her feet, then wrapped his arms around her, holding her so tightly he could feel the adrenaline buzzing through her, the trembling of the fear. “Oh, my God, I thought—” He wouldn’t give voice to it. He couldn’t.

“Everything all right here, son?” The deep voice came from behind him, and he looked up to see a handful of men, one of them wearing a badge pinned to his jacket. Having the local cop in the convenience store at the time of a shooting... Talk about luck.

Then, as Miri’s shivers subsided, he knew the luck was that she hadn’t been hurt. Or maybe it was more than luck. This close to Christmas, who knew?

“Look at that,” the clerk said, rubbing the damaged bark of the tree. “Couldn’t have missed her by more than a couple inches.”

“Liquor improves his aim. If the moron had been sober, he would’ve been off by a mile,” a third man added.

Dean looked sharply at them. “You know who it was?”

The sheriff grimaced. “The car looked like T-Bone’s. He’s not a bad ole boy. Just loses what little sense he has when he’s been drinking.”

T-Bone. A local moron. Not one of Mr. Smith’s hired morons.

“He wasn’t shootin’ at you, ma’am,” the clerk said, as if that made a difference. “Him and his buddies just get a little too much ’shine in ’em and does somethin’ stupid.”

Miri shifted to stand beside Dean, so his right arm remained around her shoulders, but she didn’t move away from him. “I understand moonshine does that to a person.” The dryness of her comment was undermined by the unsteadiness of her voice.

“I’ll go and talk to him,” the sheriff went on. “Take his gun away. Maybe let him spend a couple nights in jail. I noticed you have Texas tags. You be able to come back for court?”

“Yes,” Dean said at the same time Miri replied, “No. I won’t be back this way again. Just do what you think best, Sheriff. Put a little fear into him, maybe.”

“We’ll have a come-to-Jesus meeting he won’t forget, ma’am.” The sheriff tipped his head. “If you’ll come inside the store, I’ll get some information from you for the report. And I’m sure Judd here will be more than happy to collect the cost of your gas from T-Bone. It’s the least the boy can do.”

As the men headed back to the store, Dean felt a little wobbly in the knees. If Miri had been hurt... If he’d lost her...

His fingers convulsed until she winced, and he jerkily eased the pressure. “Sorry,” he murmured.

She spared a small smile for him before turning to look at the gash on the tree. “Merry Christmas to me,” she murmured.

Gently he bumped against her. “I’d sure hate to see you get shot on your first full day out of prison.”

“I’d hate to get shot, period, especially by some goober who thinks ’shine and guns go together and answers to the name of T-Bone.” She took a deep breath. “Though I wouldn’t mind a little buzz myself about now.”

“Maybe Judd will throw a six-pack of beer in with the gas.” Dean took his own deep breath, rich with pine, his cologne and the sweet soapy scent still lingering from her morning shower. “Miriam—”

She looked up at him, and the words got caught somewhere in his throat. Instead of searching for them, he bent his head to hers and kissed her.

She didn’t give him much time—just enough for a sweet taste, just enough for every part of his body to turn rock hard—before she pulled away. “Please don’t,” she whispered as she backed off to put space between them. She looked scared and hurt and like she’d wanted more, too. He’d caused both the fear and the hurt, but he could make it up to her if she just gave him a chance.

“Jeez, Miriam, I couldn’t have done anything differently.” He sounded hoarse and practically pleading, even to himself. “Can’t you understand that? You broke the law. If you’d just been willing to give back the money, maybe I could have convinced Mr. Smith not to prosecute, but—”

Stiffly she backed away farther, all those emotions leaving her face as blank and cool as when she’d first recognized him outside the prison. “I told you, I don’t blame you for that. I knew the risk I was taking.”

Don’t blame you for
that
.
She sounded sincere, as if she really meant the words, which just confused the hell out of him. “Then what
are
you pissed about?”

Her head tilted to one side, her eyes narrowing to scrutinize him as if he were a bug under a magnifying glass—a glass she hoped was powerful enough to roast him alive. Then, as if what she saw disappointed her, she shook her head. “You really don’t get it, do you? You lied to me. You used me. You tried to seduce me to get what you wanted. You made me think—” She bit off the words, spun around and headed back along the path to the station.

“Oh, no. Not this time.” His strides easily surpassed hers so he could block her way. When she would have spun off again, he caught her hand. Even through her gloves, he felt tension streaking through her at the contact. “Made you think what?”

Her mouth thinned into the kind of look his mother used to give him when he’d broken all the house rules in one day. The better choice with a look like that was to release her, provided she didn’t make another attempt at escape, so he did.

“I made you think what?” he repeated, using the kind of response-demanding tone his mother used.

Miri folded her arms over her chest and glared at him.

Okay, he was a private detective, so he would detect. She said he’d lied to her. True, but only in the course of his job. That he’d used her—not true—and tried to seduce her. Yeah, okay, not getting her into bed was one of his regrets. That he’d made her think...he wanted her? He cared about her?

He mimicked her position and her glare. “You think it was all part of the job? That the only reason I pursued you was to help with the case? For God’s sake, Miri.” He muttered a curse that wouldn’t win him any points this close to Christmas, then moved closer, until he had to duck his head to continue glaring. “I don’t get involved with women who are part of the job. I had no clue who was stealing Mr. Smith’s money. I saw you in the office that first time, and I wanted to get to know you. I wanted to seduce you, sure, because you’re beautiful and I’m a man, but mostly I just
wanted.
You.