Undercover Love (The Women of Manatee Bay, Book 2) (14 page)

“It’s how Scott and I met.”

Maggie straightened. Was that pain flickering across her face? “I didn’t know that.”

“Scott didn’t tell you during your tryst?” Rachel bit her lip, regretting her bitter voice. It was years ago. Why couldn’t she let it go?

“Have fun on your date.” Maggie carefully swept the bangs from her eyes and left the bedroom, closing the door behind her as if Rachel’s comment had sapped her strength.

Rachel cringed. Great. They’d been getting along fine until she mentioned Scott. He was a burden on her conscience, a load that grew heavier with the passage of time.

She flopped against her pillow, relishing the soft fabric against her cheek.
Lord, I’m having trouble forgetting what Scott and Maggie did to me. To top
things off, Grant is not my idea of love material

Maybe you’re not his idea of love material, either.
The thought hit her in the chest, made her breathless the same way her fall from a tree in fourth grade had done. A woman who couldn’t forgive, who judged people on every bad thing they’d ever done, didn’t make a great prospect for a relationship.

A tear stung the corner of her eyes. Using her forefinger, she rubbed it away. Who was she trying to fool? She should cancel the date. Introspection wasn’t her strong point but now that she’d gone and looked at herself, she didn’t like what she saw.

She could hear Maggie moving around in the kitchen, banging pots and pans, thumping. Hopefully putting them away and not trying to cook. Maggie could set an icebox on fire.

A flutter of air and Miss Priss curled up against Rachel’s legs, her body warm and rumbling with content. Rachel blinked. This was the first time Miss Priss had shown any type of affection, instead of behaving like a cat from the netherworld.

She sucked in a breath, then smiled. She would do this. She was Rachel McCormick, bold PI who never let anything stand in her way.

Certainly never fear or self-recrimination. Not her style. Rachel popped up and ruffled Miss Priss’s fur before jumping out of bed to get dressed. Maybe Grant was perfect for her, maybe not.

She’d find out.

He showed up at seven. Maggie had disappeared into her room and Rachel had been twiddling her thumbs in the living room, wondering whether she should call Katrina and get advice. The doorbell decided for her.

She smoothed her skirt then forced herself to walk slowly to the door and open it. Grant leaned against the doorway, his smile slow and appraising.

“You look incredible.” The blue in his eyes seemed to deepen and for a moment Rachel couldn’t hear anything, could only feel a rushing in her ears and a weakness in her limbs. She widened the door, and when she could find her voice, she gestured him in.

“I’ve never seen you in slacks.” She shut the door behind him, then turned. The dark gray pants added elegance to his frame and the powder blue shirt emphasized his broad shoulders. His jaw for once wasn’t covered with shadow. It looked strong, the line of it firm and clean. She wet her lips. “I just need to put on my heels, then we can go.”

“No problem.”

She rushed to her bedroom. Hands shaking, she held onto the wall while she slipped into her shoes. Nerves thrummed. Her palms were sweating. She’d never felt this nervous, not even prom night when they called her name as the new queen. No, this was new. Everything was new.

She breathed deep, inhaling the fragrance of her perfume mingling with the remembered scent of his cologne.

This would be an important night. The knowledge reverberated through her being. And God had orchestrated it. She knew that like she knew Maggie would never wake up before nine in the morning.

Okay, Lord.
She squared her shoulders.
Bring it on
.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Grant studied his menu but couldn’t seem to focus on the list of items blurring in front of him. His senses were alive to Rachel. To the rustle of her blouse when she moved, the motion of her slender fingers as they flipped through the menu.

He was glad he’d brought her here instead of The Melting Pot. This restaurant was more intimate than he expected, but perhaps her presence changed his perception of the atmosphere.

Ceiling lights surrendered their glory to candelabras that flickered dancing shadows across the tables. He and Rachel had been seated to face the stage where a band of four played. Not jazz, but some dark, smoldering harmony that caught Rachel’s attention. He saw the way her eyes fluttered, the half-smile on her lips. And he wanted, suddenly, to be the reason for it.

The sax flared and he relaxed into his seat, content to absorb the mood of this place. He’d have to thank Alec later for recommending it.

The band finished their number and dispersed. Rachel’s eyes, bright like polished emeralds, shimmered his way.

“You like the saxophone?” Grant asked.

“Yes. This place is beautiful. Lovely.” She smiled at him, the slope of her lips natural and at peace.

He realized he hadn’t seen her this way before. With Katrina and Alec she’d always been stiff and formal. Cold, he’d assumed. But he knew better now. This was a Rachel who intrigued him more than his current case. More than any case or any lady in his past.

He raised his glass for a toast, unable to will his eyes from her enraptured face. She’d done something to her hair, something that caused it to flow around the curve of her jaw in sleek folds. The smoky candlelight stroked her face with long shadows. His chest tightened.

“Here’s to passion.” He lifted his soda.

Her eyes widened and her lips firmed into something serious, something less than vulnerable. But she lifted her glass and in a room humming with low voices and seductive whispers, the glasses clinked a toast.

“To Jesus,” she said, and set her glass on the table without drinking anything.

“To the One who created passion,” he countered. He didn’t like the familiar look on her face. The ice look. The bored disinterest she’d displayed at almost every dinner he’d been to with her. So this was her façade. Passion scared her? Or him toasting it?

He set his own glass on the table. She disapproved of his past exploits. Understandable. But he’d worked hard to get this date and he wouldn’t let her erect those glass walls where he could see but couldn’t touch.

“Since we’re talking about Jesus, how did you meet Him?” he asked.

Rachel’s eyes rounded. Maybe she thought his conversion was an act. Her fingernails, painted a soft rose color, traced circles on the tablecloth.

“In college. I met a guy and followed him to church, trying to flirt.” She grimaced. “I wasn’t the reverential type.”

“You still aren’t.” He kept his tone light and was relieved when she grinned.

“No, I’m not. But eventually I lost my crush on him and one sermon, one night, hooked me into a longing.”

“To know the truth.” That had been his hook.

She nodded. “The truth had always been so unreachable. Intangible and invisible. Growing up, lies were our armor. We covered ourselves in them.”

Her eyes shadowed. From the look on her face it was obvious her childhood had been far from ideal. A difficult realization to swallow. In school, she and Maggie had been popular. They dressed cool, they looked cool, they talked cool. Apparently they’d duped a school, including him.

Now, as a police officer, he’d seen enough to know that reality was often cloaked with dainty lies. His career seemed to support what he’d known as a child. No one could be trusted. No one cared.

She seemed to shake herself and he let the questions on his lips die. Instead, he opened his menu. “So, you became a Christian?”

“Yep. Truth sought is truth found.” She picked up her menu and when the waitress came, they ordered their meals. The waitress took their menus and left.

“You just now started going to church.” Rachel slid her hair behind her neck. “Why?”

She stared at him, and in the depths of that lovely gaze he saw the things that haunted him. Curiosity, and a soul-deep hunger for knowledge.

“It’s hard to explain without going into my past.”

“We have all night.”

“Not if we want to make it to Miles Davis.”

“We’ll make the concert. Spill it.”

“I knew too many hypocrites.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s the story of my life.”

“When Alec came back to town I thought for sure he’d get even with Katrina.”

Rachel’s features changed. Softened. “Me too.”

“He forgave her.” Grant shook his head, still in awe of what he’d witnessed. “His love changed his anger, or so I thought.” He picked up his soda, uncomfortable with talking about his conversion. It felt too personal to discuss out loud. “Then he told me one night that his love had nothing to do with it. God changed him. Took the bitterness away and put forgiveness there instead. He said that without Jesus, he would’ve barged in there, bought her store and ruined any future chance of reconciliation.”

Rachel glanced down. “I thought he wanted to do that, too.”

“And then he forgave the kid who killed his son. Basically, he showed me that there are people out there for whom God is more than some far-off deity. He’s real and He cares. And His love for us is passionate.” Grant wanted to say more, to tell Rachel that his love for her was passionate too.

The unbidden thought jumped his sanity. He grabbed his glass and chugged, embracing the burn of Coca-Cola down his throat. Love? It was a little early for that kind of thinking. She’d barely agreed to going to dinner. He practically slammed his glass down, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“That was an incredible way to describe Christianity.” Her eyes shone luminous in the candlelight. “Whatever our differences, I want you to know that I’m so thankful you became a Christian.” She smiled at him, then shifted to the stage where the band reassembled.

He took the opportunity to gather himself together.

What he felt for her had to be controlled. Discovering God’s love was all well and good, but there were rules to be followed. He’d romance her the right way.

A shadow against the wall caught his attention. Rachel sat rapt, her attention solely on the musicians. He squinted and the shadow sharpened, molding into human form.

What was
he
doing here?

***

The music flowed through Rachel. It soothed away the stress she felt over Maggie, over Grant and his hypnotic smile.

A voice broke her reverie. Grainy and tough, she knew immediately who it was. She swiveled in her seat, forcing her features into a bland mask.

Mayor Owens shook Grant’s hand, then turned his reptilian smile her way.

“Miss McCormick.” He inclined his head. Lips frozen, she refused to smile.

The slime ball! He knew her name. Not a good thing. Candlelight bounced off his round face, the boy next door face that had gotten him elected. Her fingers curled into fists. There was more to him than met the eye. She’d prove it.

Out of the corner of her gaze she saw Grant staring at her, waiting for her to respond, but she refused to acknowledge the mayor’s greeting. She gave him her back, and tried to focus on the musicians. No such luck. Her ears were trained in their direction, waiting.

“Your date doesn’t seem too happy, Grant.” The mayor’s voice carried a fake note of jocularity. There was a creak, then a rustle as Grant presumably stood.

She wanted to look. But she wouldn’t. Teeth clenched, she listened for Grant’s reply.

“She likes the music, sir.” Grant cleared his throat. “Have you heard from Gerta?”

“Yesterday. She took a detour to Europe. I’m sure most of my constituents have heard of my pending divorce by now. It’s hitting everyone hard.” A false sorrow invaded his tone. “My wife, I’m afraid, has had a breakdown. I heard you’re going to church now. You might want to say a prayer for my dear wife. The doctors say she’s hallucinating.”

“Who told you that?”

“Our personal physician called. I don’t know what Gerta is doing, traipsing around Europe as if she were a millionaire.”

“I’ll be happy to pray for you and your family.”

“Thank you, son. I’ll leave you and Miss McCormick to your dinner.”

Rachel heard his footsteps move away but couldn’t turn to Grant just yet. She had to get her temper under control. For one thing, she knew the mayor’s wife hadn’t had a breakdown. Annoying as the woman was, she was too shrewd to fall subject to emotional tyranny.

The other thing was that Mrs. Owens hadn’t shown up for their meeting for the flash drive. A drive she’d paid Rachel to get and which now sat with the police. She hadn’t divulged that bit of information to Mrs. Owens yet.

She took a deep breath before facing Grant. Intensity strained his features, as though he anticipated an outburst.

“The mayor calls you by your first name?”

“You don’t like him.”

“And you do? The man’s not trustworthy.”

Grant’s brow arched. He settled back against his chair. “When you don’t like people, are you always so rude?”

Heat flooded through her, but she held back her retort because just then the waitress appeared with their food. She set the plates on the table, offered grated parmesan, and left them alone.

Rachel transferred her attention to Grant, who attacked his food as though he hadn’t eaten in days. In the background, the band played a slow harmony rich with sax, but it did nothing to lower the heat of her blood.

Rude? Of course she dissed the mayor. The man cheated on his wife. Practically forced Maggie into… She reined in her thoughts. The point was, who knew what else he’d done? The way he handled his private and business accounts suggested money laundering, drug trafficking, but how much could she tell Grant? He would want evidence.

Legal evidence.

She didn’t have much of that. What she had in abundance was instinct. Nothing near enough to arrest a man.

“I’m rude to him because I don’t trust him.” She looked down her nose at Grant, daring him to pursue the conversation.

If he was surprised by her bringing the subject back up, he didn’t show it. Calmly he set his fork on the raised ridge of his plate. “Not a good reason. He’s done great things for this town. Increased our tourism revenue, cleaned up the town beach.”

“He cheated on his wife,” she said flatly.

“Oh, so it’s personal.”

“What else would it be? I don’t make a habit of being rude to people for business reasons.”

He had the nerve to smile, a lazy curving to his lips that both frustrated and unnerved her. “You really have it in for adulterers.”

“Of course I do.” She speared an asparagus, swirling it through the creamy hollandaise drizzled across her plate. “They’re the worst type of person. You hand them your heart and they slice it open, then give it back with an apologetic smile.”

The amusement melted from his face. “I’m sorry, Rachel, for whatever was done to you.”

She swallowed tightly, unable to answer. She was sorry, too. Life had a way of pulping  innocence from the soul.

They ate in silence, their forks occasionally clinking against the porcelain plates, their eyes not meeting.

Grant broke the tension. “Man, this steak is incredible.”

“My pasta is wonderful.” Rachel wet her lips, embarrassed by her earlier attitude.

“So,” Grant cleared his throat. “Why were you at the Owens’ house in the middle of the night?”

“Mrs. Owens sent me.” She narrowed her eyes. He’d hopped from one tense subject to another. “Do you really think she’s okay?”

“You haven’t been back since I saw you there?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Just making sure.” He left it at that, swigging a drink of his soda instead of offering an explanation. Curiosity burned through her. He hadn’t answered her question about Mrs. Owens.

Before she could question him, he asked, “What did you do when you were in the mayor’s house?”

She sighed, realizing that trying to dig information out of him would be useless right now. His mind was obviously set on one track. “Remember that little white flash drive? She wanted proof of his infidelity so she could get alimony.”

“So you touched his personal computer.”

Rachel wiggled. “I think it’s hers too.”

“That was a risky thing for you to do.”

“Not really. They aren’t divorced yet so technically it’s still her house. Of course, I assumed it was her computer.”

“A strange assumption when it was his office you were in.” His fingers steepled. “You didn’t have any other motive?”

Rachel leaned back in her chair. Was he interrogating her? He couldn’t possibly know about Maggie. Besides, the mayor hadn’t done anything illegal to her sister. Just ripped her heart out, which deserved justice whether it was prosecutable or not.