Falling Hard and Fast (2 page)

“You won't find any here, either. I'm starving and I'd like to start my dinner. Alone.”

Damned if that snooty tone of hers didn't tickle him. She sounded for all the world like she ought to be wearing a jeweled crown and carrying a scepter. He feigned hurt. “And after I came over here to do you a favor.”

“If you want to do me a favor, disappear.”

“How about a little advice instead?” He leaned forward to cross his arms on the top of the chair before him, and lowered his voice confidingly. “Next time you come to Jonesy's you might want to take a closer look at the curbs. The sheriff is an affable sort, but he can't be expected to overlook flagrant parking violations.”

“My car isn't in a no parking area.” She was almost sure of it.

His tone was rueful. “Yes, ma'am, I'm afraid it is. Parked smack-dab in the middle of Jonesy's loading zone.”

She turned her attention to her salad with an air of dismissal even he couldn't ignore. “I'll take my chances with the sheriff. If I do see him, I'll also ask about his policy on pest control.”

The tone was regal, even when she was insulting him. It matched the haughty look on her face, the determined set of her lush lips. He wondered if it was only his imagination that detected a hint of uncertainty softening them.

“You do that, ma'am.” Amusement laced his words. “I know for a fact that he never misses an opportunity to discuss parish ordinances with a pretty woman.”

 

She'd made the right decision in coming to Charity. Zoey leaned back in her desk chair and contemplated the willows weeping in the backyard. The churning in her stomach had reappeared only once since her arrival, and a couple of antacids followed by a record-setting eight uninterrupted hours of sleep had alleviated it. The vicious headaches had abated, and she suspected that if she cut her caffeine intake by half, those, too, would disappear. The thought had her reaching for her cup of coffee. It couldn't be healthy to make too many changes in her life at once.

A school of rainbow-hued fish floated across her computer monitor as the screen saver automatically switched on. She didn't notice. She was too busy examining the feeling that had crept up on her unawares—contentment.

She marveled at the emotion; but as foreign as it was, there was no mistaking it. The proof was in the ten pages she'd just finished—the first writing she'd done in nine months that wouldn't have to be trashed. There was more evidence in the normal sleep she'd gotten, and the return of her appetite. Zoey L. Prescott had regained control of her life, and it was sweet, indeed.

She leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms out in front of her, limbering her fingers absently. There were few things, she'd learned, more essential than control. Control was what had gotten her through the grieving when her father had died when she was nine. Her mother had depended on Zoey's strength to cope with raising three children alone. And when her mother had lost her fight with cancer right after Zoey's high-school graduation, it was that same control that had empowered her to set aside her dreams for attending college hundreds of miles away. Carolyn and Patrick had been counting on her to keep the family together.

So she'd changed her plans to include a local college nearby and become mother, father and sister to her younger siblings. At a time when her peers had been pledging to sororities and juggling dates and textbooks, she'd been learning how to be a parent. The fact that her aunt and uncle had been watching closely, expecting her to fail,
wanting
her to, had merely strengthened her resolve.

She'd proved to her relatives and to the courts that she could handle the responsibility of her siblings. She'd proved to the publishing world that the success of her first novel, written when she was twenty, wasn't a fluke, by following it with four others. She'd seen Carolyn through college, Patrick through high school and into the marines. And just when she'd been convinced that she could handle anything life threw at her, Alan had swept in and devastated her world.

Her fingertips drummed lightly on the keyboard. With a sense of wonder she noted that for the first time, thoughts of the man failed to bring that fire to her belly, that sense of helpless rage that had haunted her for so many months. He'd been first her accountant, then her lover. But while she'd been fantasizing about white lace and happily-ever-afters, he'd been draining her investment accounts and preparing to leave the country on a permanent vacation.

It would soothe her ego if she could claim that she'd started looking more closely at her finances because she'd suspected what Alan was up to. But Zoey was brutally honest
with everyone, and she'd never spared herself. When it came to trust, she'd been a sap. She'd only begun to examine her assets in order to determine how much to spend on the wedding Alan had started hinting about.

Blowing out a breath, she scowled at the computer screen. It would be a long time before that experience would lose its sting. And even longer before she lowered her defenses again. But there was satisfaction in knowing that she'd made sure Alan Hecox would have plenty of time to contemplate his crimes. Although she'd frequently fantasized about him spending the rest of his life at Attica with an affectionate cell mate, she was content with his sentence of eight years in a country-club prison.

His conviction, however, failed to ease her disgust at the way she'd lowered her guard enough to allow him close to her. She'd begun to depend on him, to—a wince formed at the thought—trust him. Her biggest error had been forgetting for even a short time that she could depend only on herself.

She'd be the first to admit that there had been a hole left in her life by her siblings' leaving home, which a deeper relationship with Alan had seemed to fill. But she would have sneered at the idea that she'd felt lonely, been outraged by the suggestion that she'd been vulnerable. Zoey L. Prescott refused to contemplate vulnerability. She was the strong one, the responsible one. If a return to her customary control meant keeping her emotions tightly wrapped, well, she didn't consider that a disadvantage. Emotions got trampled. Trust got abused. Strength and independence did not.

She watched two squirrels chase each other over the lush back lawn. It occurred to her for the first time that someone would actually need to cut that lawn, probably on a regular basis. She hadn't discussed it with the real-estate agent, hadn't even thought of it. Zoey had been a city dweller all her life, had always lived in a high-rise apartment building. Squirrels and lawns had never been a concern before. The fact that they were now the biggest worries she had brought a smile to her lips.

She pressed the Save command and got up from the desk she'd brought from Chicago. She walked through the compact kitchen and onto the small screened-in porch. She'd been tempted to put her computer out here. With the large trees and hedges bordering the property, there was a sense of isolation about the yard. Unfortunately, there would be nothing there to protect her computer from nature's tantrums. Rather than risk exposing her computer to the elements when the next storm blew in, she'd settled for placing her desk beneath the big window in the kitchen, in the spot most would probably reserve for the table.

There was something almost hypnotizing about that endless spread of grass, she observed idly, leaning against the wall to better contemplate it. She hadn't seen this much uninterrupted lawn outside of city parks for almost a year. She drank in the pleasure of the sight, and savored the first genuinely stress-free afternoon she'd had in months.

The peal of the doorbell was unexpected, but Zoey wasn't startled. The one thing she'd noticed since she'd moved was the friendliness of the citizens of Charity. And though some of them had displayed a curiosity about her that was just short of nosy, they'd been willing to reciprocate with answers to the many questions
she'd
had. She figured it had been an even exchange.

Fully expecting to see one of the ladies she'd spoken with at the grocery store yesterday afternoon, she walked to the front of the house and pulled the door open.

It was the uniform that caught her eye first. With a tiny stab of guilt she wondered if someone had reported to the law that the newest resident in town ignored yellow curbs at will.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the sleek gold-and-white car with the official seal on its door parked in the driveway. “Good afternoon…Sheriff.” This was added after a quick glance at the badge pinned to his shirt. “Can I help you?”

“As a matter of fact, ma'am, I think you can.”

She didn't need the man to remove his sunglasses for recognition to overtake disbelief. There was no mistaking the slow liquid drawl, the voice that carried just the barest hint of amusement.

“You!”

Cage raked his fingers through his dark blond hair and nodded, his gray eyes reflecting the smile he managed to keep from his lips. “Yes, ma'am. Cage Gauthier, sheriff of St. Augustine parish. And you're Zoey Prescott, or so the twins told me. And since they manage to know just about everything that goes on around here, I consider them a pretty good source.”

The twins. She flipped through her mental files. “You can only mean Lulu and Francine Potter. Something tells me they're the root of a very reliable grapevine in Charity.”

She'd met the Potter sisters at Neesom's grocery store. Not only did they share the same physical characteristics, the two octogenarians were blessed with identical talents for eliciting information. They were also, she'd found, local experts on any news that was news in Charity, Louisiana.

“Actually, it was Francine who gave me your name.” This time the smile settled on his well-formed mouth. “Lulu just provided corrections, as needed.”

The visual image his words summoned was vivid. The sisters seemed to have a system of communication worked out. One did the talking while the other contradicted, inserted and provided additional details. The effect was a bit overwhelming for the listener, but definitely enlightening.

Zoey relaxed against the doorjamb and considered him. She was still having difficulty connecting the smooth-talking charmer from Jonesy's with the chief law enforcement for the parish. He presented two pieces to a puzzle that, try as she might, she couldn't seem to make fit. “You didn't mention your job last night.” If he had, she might not have been so eager to get rid of him. Indirectly, the murder of Janice Reilly had lured her to Charity. Cage Gauthier was in a position to know all the details of that murder.

“No, we didn't get around to talking about our jobs.” He regarded her with lazy appreciation. An ornately worked gold locket hung from a thin gold chain and nestled in the hollow at the base of her slender throat. Her shorts today were ragged cutoffs, white at the seams. They did just as fine a job showcasing those long legs as the pair she'd worn last night.

With difficulty, he dragged his gaze from that sleek expanse of bare skin. It wouldn't do to get sidetracked right now. “If we had, maybe we could have had this conversation earlier.”

She watched him warily. There was a difference about the man that owed to more than the uniform. There was “cop” in his eyes, and in his voice, as it hardened just a fraction.

“I understand that you're a writer.”

She had no idea why he would make the statement sound like an accusation. “I'm sure the twins make a habit of getting details like that straight.”

His smile had vanished. “Yes, ma'am, they do. They also told me that you were asking a lot of questions about the murder victim found near here a while back.”

Choosing her words with care, she asked, “Is that a problem?”

His gaze remained steady but shielded. “Actually, Miss Prescott…it is.” He slapped his glasses against his palm in a rhythmic motion. “We've had our share of news crews and reporters sniffing around here the last several days.” She stiffened slightly at his choice of words, but he didn't seem to notice. “There's nothing like a tragedy to bring out media searching for sound bites.”

“I'm not part of the media.”

“I know that.” He gave a languid nod. His every action seemed leisurely, as if some internal mechanism was fixed in slow motion. Or maybe the trait was a natural by-product of living in the South. The heat certainly had a draining effect on her own energy.

Belatedly, she realized he was speaking again. “Pardon me?”

“I said, it doesn't matter that you're not part of the media. You're doing the same thing the reporters did—asking questions, stirring people up.” The glasses were slid inside his shirt pocket. “I don't want my people stirred up.”

Frost coated her words. “People have a right to get
stirred up
over murder, Sheriff.”

“Of course they do. Homicide is always shocking, but probably even more so in St. Augustine parish. The last murder we had here happened before I was born. But folks have a right to peace of mind, too, and I've been working overtime to make sure they get it.” He watched her bare foot cross to her opposite shin, glide down in an absent movement, and he abruptly lost his train of thought. Her skin reminded him of his mother's favorite gardenias—smooth, soft and fragrant. He drew a breath and cleared his throat.

“Maybe peace of mind isn't what the residents of the parish need right now,” she argued. “Maybe you should be spending your time warning them of the very real dangers that exist, regardless of where they live. The fact that murder struck in Charity, Louisiana, a small quiet community with no crime rate to speak of is what made it national news.”

He slipped his hands into his pockets and rocked back a little on his heels. “You're wrong about a couple of things, Miss Prescott, and so were the reporters. See, Janice Reilly wasn't murdered
in
Charity.” That was a fact he was sure Chief of Police Runnels gave nightly thanks for. “The body was found outside city limits, which is my jurisdiction.”