Manhunting in Mississippi (14 page)

and little-used gadgets like shish-kebab skewers, melon scoopers and corn-on-the-cob holders, remembering exactly which drawers they had occupied in her grandmother’s wonderful-smel ing kitchen.

When she uncovered a stack of aprons, Piper squealed with delight. Since most of the garments were handmade from old cotton feedsack bags, they were faded and limp

from countless washings. Al of them she’d recal ed her grandmother wearing on various occasions. She buried her face in the fabric and inhaled the sweet, clean smel of lemon-scented detergent and line-drying.

In the second box were canned goods and half-used but perfectly good containers of nonperishables. She opened her already crowded cabinets and rearranged packages to

make room for pasta, flour, cornstarch, baking soda, rice, oats and a wide assortment of once-popular cooking ingredients she’d probably never use. Such as the dry malted-milk mix, she thought, shaking her head rueful y. Piper wedged the box between a package of dried beans and a bag of miniature sugar cubes, then stopped.

Malted milk. Lights exploded in her head as ideas tumbled into her mind faster than she could process them. A malted-milk chocolate cake with some wonderful y decadent

icing—no, a sauce, a goopy frothy sauce reminiscent of old-time malted shakes. No—two sauces, one a rich, thick dark chocolate sauce to add just a tang of bittersweet. In her mind, she could see the sauces dripping over the edge of the cake, pooling in the bottom of a bowl-like dish, swirling together like…a mud puddle.

Barely able to contain her excitement, she rummaged for a sheet of paper and something to write with. In a junk drawer she found a napkin and a brown felt-tip marker and

wrote
Mississippi Malted Mud Puddle.

Then she opened a scrapbook of recipes she’d stolen, begged and borrowed over the years. She could picture the recipe card she was searching for, she simply couldn’t

remember when she’d last seen it or used it. After two trips through the scrapbook, front to back, at last she found the yel owed card: Granny Falkner’s No-Fail Chocolate Cake. Piper ran her finger down the list of ingredients, changing the quantity of dry components to al ow for the malt, and altering the wet ingredients to accommodate one of her own favorite touches: coffee to enhance the flavor of the chocolate.

For luck, she donned one of her granny’s aprons, then preheated the oven. Soon, she was splattered and dusted with wet and dry ingredients. Since her rash had final y disappeared, Piper tasted sparingly, trusting her nose to guide her in finding the best combination of flavorings. When the oven beeped, she pondered what kind of pan to use.

Squatting on the floor in front of her crowded cabinet of miscel aneous bakeware, she spied another one of her grandmother’s castoffs: a giant muffin pan. Piper prepared the pan and spooned in the thick batter. At the last minute, she hol owed out a depression in the top of each muffin, then slid the pan inside the oven. Careful y, she closed the door and wiped her hands on her apron.

“Prepare to be wowed, Mr. Bentley.”

“JUST TELL HER
I cal ed,” Ian said. “Again.” He returned the phone to its cradle and sighed. He’d tried to get in touch with Meredith every day. Her assistant assured him she was simply swamped with meetings and traveling, but he was beginning to become concerned.

Yet he had to admit to himself that he needed to hear Meredith’s voice for his own selfish reasons—to remind him of al the good times they’d had. And to clear his head of the confusing images of Piper Shepherd that left him lying awake at night on sweat-soaked sheets.

While changing into casual clothes, the wayward prong on his ring snagged his dress shirt and ripped a hole in the sleeve. He cursed and stomped to the bathroom, determined to remove the band. He squirted shampoo around it and tugged until it popped over his knuckle. The ring bounced into the sink and headed for the drain, sending his heart to his throat. “No!” he shouted, and covered the drain just as the ring fel safely onto the back of his hand.

Weak with relief, he dried the ring and shoved it back onto his finger. Tight and troublesome was better than lost. Besides, he told himself sternly, he might have to get used to wearing it.

Quickly he pul ed on jeans, T-shirt and tennis shoes, then headed toward the lake he’d discovered earlier in the week. Four hours and several hundred dol ars’ worth of equipment later, he’d caught nine catfish and released them al since he didn’t have the means to prepare them. He’d been tempted to string them and take them to Piper, but even
he
recognized the idea as a thinly disguised ploy to see her again.

Ian left the lake and retraced the path to the wonderful old house he’d told Benjamin about. The real-estate agent had faxed his partner photos, along with a plat showing

surrounding farmland. Benjamin had made an offer right away, but the owner hadn’t responded.

If anything, Ian’s admiration expanded as he drove up the curving driveway. The house stood as a grande dame, dressed in white limestone with black shutters, overlooking a

val ey of crisscrossing fields that resembled an Americana portrait. Ian himself was completely taken with the place, and the thought scurried across his mind that it would be a wonderful place to raise children. Finding an opening, his mind wandered farther out of bounds than he’d ever permitted. He tried to picture Meredith puttering in the flower beds with toddlers at her knees…He scoffed at his ridiculous musings—Meredith, dirt and children? Never.

Without warning, Piper’s face emerged to replace Meredith’s, except this time he didn’t laugh. Instead, a warm, syrupy feeling descended over him. For some odd reason, he

could easily picture Piper as mistress of this house.

He pul ed to a stop by an ivy-covered mailbox and climbed out slowly, stretching his legs. It wasn’t until he’d closed the car door and taken two steps toward the walk that he realized a slim, elderly woman had risen from her rocking chair, craning her neck to get a good look at him. He was in luck, he decided. Maybe the owner would give him a tour. “Hel o,”

he cal ed.

“Hel o,” she said, offering him a tentative smile. Something about her expression struck a memory chord, but he decided the woman reminded him of his own grandmother.

“Nice day,” he offered as he drew closer. The woman held a needlepoint canvas she’d apparently been working on.

“Yes, it is. Can I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am. My name is Ian Bentley—I’m from Chicago. A col eague of mine in Boston by the name of Benjamin Warner has made an offer on your house, and I wondered if I

might see the inside for myself.”

The woman angled her head at him. “Bentley, did you say?”

“Yes, ma’am. Ian Bentley.”

She smiled an invitation. “Come right in, Mr. Bentley. Would you like a cold glass of lemonade?”

“MERCY.”
Henry whistled low as he stepped inside Piper’s door, studying the contours of her short, black dress as if he wanted to personal y undo each of the center buttons that held it together from col ar to hem. The thought entered her head that she wished she was wearing the dress for Ian, but she sent the notion on its way.

Henry leaned jauntily against the door frame, flexed his exposed biceps and gave her a leering smile. “You know, Piper, we could always get a pizza delivered.” He jerked his head toward the monster four-wheel-drive truck he’d driven into her tiny yard, stopping inches from her petunias. “I brought a couple of good flicks with me.” He lowered his chin and his voice. “And one of them I ain’t even al owed to rent, if you know what I mean.”

She smiled tightly and fastened the button just above her cleavage. “I can guess…But maybe next time, Henry. Tonight I kind of had my heart set on dinner.”

He made a regretful noise with his dimpled cheek, then shrugged. “Then let’s get going.”

She managed to fasten two more buttons while she grabbed her purse, leaving only the topmost button undone. Outside, Piper eyed the high-rise truck he’d driven, wondering

how on earth she could climb up wearing this dress. And her ankle felt weak because she’d removed the bandage for the occasion. She unbuttoned the last few buttons near her hem, hoping to prevent a seam blowout. Abruptly, Henry scooped her into his arms and dumped her unceremoniously into the seat, then slammed the door.

Righting herself as much as possible, Piper watched her date saunter around to the driver’s side. He gave her a devilish grin as he swung himself up into his seat, and she

recal ed Janet’s warnings about Henry’s reputation as a lady-kil er. She had to admit, though, he was handsome in a very two-hundred-fifty-watt kind of way. He positively glowed, and she had a disturbing image of him oiling down his tanned skin prior to their date. Sure enough, the steering wheel bore shiny fingerprints. It suddenly occurred to her that Henry’s video store sat next to a tanning salon and the chances he’d gotten that golden glow doing yard work were slim to none.

“I thought we’d go to the steak house,” he said. “They have a buffet tonight. Al you can eat for seven ninety-five.”

“Fine,” she said, trying to look enthusiastic, then chastised herself. It certainly wasn’t Henry’s fault there were so few nice places to eat in the area. In fact, the steak house, which lay a few miles down the interstate outside of Mudvil e, was actual y one of the nicest. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t had a good steak in a long time,” she added, determined to put a good spin on the situation.

Henry seemed satisfied, and roared toward the interstate. Piper shakily belted herself in. The short ride was pleasant enough. She didn’t have to worry about making smal talk because apparently Henry’s dad’s sister had been a bluegrass-music singer in the sixties and Henry was convinced he had inherited her gift. Piper had her doubts, and was glad when they pul ed into the restaurant parking lot until she remembered she’d have to somehow get down.

Henry was one step ahead of her, though. As he lifted her down, sliding her against his body until her sandaled feet touched the ground, she wondered if he drove the monster truck simply for the privilege of loading and unloading his female passengers. She nervously smiled her thanks and stepped back out of his muscle-bound arms.

Word of the steak house’s al -you-can-eat buffet must have gotten around, Piper decided, because the place was crowded for a weeknight. Country music blared over speakers and Henry hummed along as they were shown to a table. He winked at the young waitress before she flitted away, and Piper frowned into her menu.

Henry sat with his arms crossed on the table, and glanced around the restaurant, as if looking for someone more interesting than Piper. “Do you already know what you want?”

she asked.

He glanced back to her and started bobbing his neck like a rooster in time to the song coming over the speakers. “Yep. A bloody steak and the buffet.”

She watched him, suddenly wishing she’d gone along with the pizza idea. God only knew who they might run into—her boss, her grandmother’s friends—

“Ms. Shepherd, what a nice surprise.”

Piper’s stomach somersaulted as she spotted Ian striding toward them. She looked around frantical y for a table to dive under, then realized with a sinking heart that she had no choice but to suffer through an introduction.

“Mr. Bentley,” she acknowledged him cool y. He looked devastating in jeans and a cream-colored short-sleeve shirt. And he seemed happier than any time since she’d met

him.

“You know this guy?” Henry asked her, narrowing his eyes at Ian.

“Piper and I work together,” Ian said smoothly, extending his big hand toward the blond man. “Ian Bentley.”

“Henry Walden.”

“Oh, yes,
Henry,
” Ian said. “Piper told me al about you.”

Piper set her jaw and Henry’s pale eyebrows arrowed up. “She did?”

Ian nodded enthusiastical y.

Piper wrapped her hand around the steak knife in front of her, and gauged the distance between her hand and Ian’s chest.

A corner of Henry’s mouth went up and she could see his confidence flooding back as he glanced her way with a smirk, then back to Ian. “And just what did Piper tel you?”

“Mr. Bentley,” she cut in none too gently. “If you don’t mind, Henry and I would real y like to be alone.” Piper ignored Henry’s look of surprise.

Ian looked contrite. “Where are my manners? Mr. Walden, perhaps I’l see you another time and we can discuss the fascinating business you’re in.”

“Sure,” Henry said, sitting back and puffing out his chest. “In fact—” he reached into the pocket of his sleeveless shirt and withdrew a slip of bright orange paper “—here you go.”

Mortification washed over Piper as Ian scanned the paper.

Ian looked enormously pleased as he shook Henry’s hand. “Gee, thanks, Mr. Walden—a free rental.”

Piper poked her tongue into her cheek and glanced up at Ian with loathing.

“See you soon, Piper.” He saluted, then retired to a table a few feet away, just behind Henry’s right shoulder, never taking his eyes off her. He grinned broadly as he held up the rental coupon, then gave her a thumbs-up.

“Seems like a nice guy,” Henry observed.

“Looks are deceiving,” Piper said, seething.

He grinned. “So you were talking about me, eh?”

She didn’t know what to say, so she gave him a noncommittal smile and took a sip of water.

The waitress skipped back to the table with water and tea, and a sly smile for Henry. Piper ordered a smal steak, medium-wel , even though her appetite had vanished. She

scooted her chair around until Henry’s arms blocked her view of Ian. When Henry left to visit the buffet, Ian seemed to be enjoying his meal, smiling up at the young waitress who had earlier flirted with Henry. Piper watched him under her lashes, pretending to read the fact-fil ed paper place mat.

When Henry returned with a laden plate, she made painful, strained smal talk until their orders arrived. He ate like a wolf and talked with his mouth ful . Piper could only manage to choke down a couple of bites of the meat. She couldn’t wait to get home—alone. At last he had eaten his fil , and they were ready to leave. Coincidental y, Ian was walking out at the same time.