A Crazy Kind of Love (6 page)

Outside the cozy kitchen, wind screamed in off the ocean and slapped at the house as if trying to find a way to sneak inside. Under the table, Bear snorted, grumbled, then shifted until his heavy bulk was stretched out across the toes of Mike’s boots. She sighed and got used to the pain because Bear was just too damn old to be nudged off. Besides, she had bigger things on her mind at the moment.

“You know something.” Mike narrowed her gaze.

“Spill it.” Jo folded her arms on the table and waited.

“It’s just something Emma said on the Fourth of July.”

“Two months ago?”
Amazed, and just a little offended that Sam had kept the news to herself, Mike stared at her sister. She never would have believed a Marconi could be quiet for so long.

Sam winced a little. “Hey, I wasn’t sure. Still not. But anyway, Emma went home with Papa after the carnival and apparently they went to Grace’s. Where they watched movies and played games until Emma fell asleep.”

“Well,” Mike said dryly, not sure if she was disappointed or relieved at the innocuous disclosure. “Hire a minister and buy me a dress. I’m convinced.”

Sam withered her with a quick look. “That’s not the best part. Emma said that after she fell asleep ‘Grace and Papa played games all night and that Grace said Papa knows
lots
of fun games.’ ”

“Oh God.” Jo dropped the file folder and didn’t even cringe when several of the papers inside slithered loose. A sure sign that she was upset. “Games? What kind of games?”

“Don’t ask,” Sam said.

Mike knew just how she felt. “You know, there are just
some
images of her father a daughter shouldn’t have in her mind.”

“I’m with you on that one.” Jo cleared her throat, gathered up the scattered papers, and carefully aligned each one of them with the other. “That’s . . . interesting. But it’s still not proof.”

“Proof?” Mike laughed at her. “Who’re you? The
prosecuting attorney? Who said we have to have proof?”

“Atta girl,” Jo said with a slow shake of her head. “Grab the rumor first, look for facts after.”

“Both of you cut it out,” Sam said shortly. “It’s none of our business if Papa has a girlfriend.”

“Oh, jeez . . .” Mike practically moaned. “Could you not call her that?”

Sam smiled, clearly enjoying this. “
And
, if the two of them want to go to San Francisco and ‘play games,’ that’s up to them. God knows they’re old enough.”

“Stop,” Jo said tightly, covering her ears with both hands. “Too much information. Disk full.”

“Fine,” Sam said. “I was a little freaked out, too. But I’ve had a couple months to get used to the idea and now I think it’s kind of cute. Besides, I like Grace.”

“Me, too,” Mike said, and slid a glance at Jo, just uncovering her ears. “But what if he marries her or something? We could be redoing that damn house of hers for the next thirty years.”

Jo slapped her hands back into place and started humming.

Mike grinned.

Sam slapped her arm. “Just for saying that, you can go to church and light a candle.”

“Just one?” Jo muttered.

Then as her sisters settled down to tackle the business end of Marconi Construction, Mike’s brain wandered. Something was going on with Jo, Papa was out getting
laid
— God help her—and Lucas Gallagher was ensconced in
her
dream house.

Yep.

No doubt about it.

Change sucked.

Change was a good thing, Lucas told himself as he stepped out onto the front porch to watch a storm blow in off the ocean. A line of tall pine trees stood at the edge of his yard, waving frantically in the rush of wind sweeping in from the Pacific, more than a mile away. Overhead, the sky was being blanketed by clouds racing in from the horizon and the deep-throated rumble of thunder grumbled in the air.

Only a few months ago, he’d been tucked away in a sterile lab outside San Jose. His days had been filled with equations, experiments, and too many disappointments to count. He went to work before sunrise and left long after sunset. The only time he ever got outside was walking from his condo to his car.

Not much time for a social life, which was fine by him. The few dates he had were generally with coworkers. Women who understood what he was trying to do and appreciated the fact that sometimes he just didn’t have
time
to call.

Four years ago, he’d dived into his work and submerged himself. Cutting himself off from memories that tore at him, he’d forced himself to stop looking back. To look only at the future that would, if he and a few other dedicated scientists could pull this off, be changed forever.

“Change is good,” he muttered and sat down on the top step. Leaning back on his elbows, he stretched his long, jean-clad legs out in front of him and crossed his
feet at the ankles. The wind battered him, fast and cold, tugging at his hair, pushing at him, as if trying to get him to go back inside.

But as clouds rushed toward him and the last rosy streaks of color faded into black, Lucas stayed where he was. Thinking. Always thinking.

Three months ago, he’d been a solitary man with a mission.

Now, he still had the mission, but he was far from solitary. Mike Marconi had pushed her way into his world and then left her boot prints stamped all over the damn place.

Hell, he even had brass parrots in his kitchen because he’d looked into her sky-blue eyes and seen hurt there. Hurt he’d caused by laughing at her stupid parrots. Scowling into the wind, he told himself that it didn’t mean anything. That of course he wouldn’t want to deliberately hurt her.

He didn’t want to deliberately hurt anyone.

Except for Justin. He wouldn’t mind planting his fist in his twin’s face—although for that to happen, he’d have to actually
see
Justin again and Lucas wasn’t interested in that happening anytime soon.

But he didn’t want to think about his twin at the moment. Hell, even thinking about Mike was preferable. And she was making him insane.

He hated like hell to admit that the plain truth was, the only person he’d have taken brass parrots from was Mike.

And for the first time in his scientifically inclined life, he didn’t much care for the truth.

There was just nothing better than a whole Saturday off. Sure, they didn’t work on Sundays but that didn’t really count.

Not that Mike went to mass on Sundays, but she was still Catholic enough to feel guilt about choosing sleeping in over a sermon—and that sort of ruined the feel of a day off.

Today, though, was a gift. A gorgeous Saturday—deep blue sky, lots of white clouds muting the heat of the sun, and a great sea breeze whipping in off the ocean. A perfect September day, just warm enough to remind you of summer, but cool enough to convince you that fall was headed right at you.

By rights, the Marconis should have been working, or at least getting started, over at Cash Hunter’s place. But yesterday at the family meeting, Jo had brushed right over the suggestion of getting a jump on things over there. In fact, she hadn’t wanted to talk about Cash at all. No big surprise there, since the man had a talent for pushing every one of Jo’s buttons. And God knew, she had plenty of ’em.

“Seriously,” Mike muttered as she parked her truck
at the end of Main Street and unlatched her seat belt. “Jo so needs a man.” A second later, though, she was whispering, “But there’s a lot of that going on.”

She herself hadn’t had a date in so long that Frank Pezzini was starting to look good to her. Which just went to show that a lack of sex killed brain cells. Because Fabulous Frank, as Carla Candellano Wyatt liked to call him, was forty, with a comb-over he’d been perfecting for the last ten years, a potbelly, and a propensity for shiny white shoes.

She shuddered, shook her head, and climbed out of the truck. A freshening wind rushed at her, lifting her long blond hair, freed from its usual braid, until the thick, wavy mass danced around her head. Smiling to herself, she slung her black purse over her shoulder, slammed the truck door, and hit the sidewalk.

Up and down Main Street, shop doors were propped open in silent invitation. Old-fashioned globe street-lights stood in splendor, with wildly blooming chrysanthemums planted at their feet in bright splotches of color. Tourists wandered, neighbors stopped to chat, and traffic crawled from stoplight to stoplight while drivers looked for parking spaces.

And under it all, the constant murmur of the sea rose and fell as if it were the heartbeat of Chandler itself.

Still smiling, Mike headed down the sidewalk, passing Jackson Wyatt’s law office on the corner, the candle shop, Wicks and Wax, and, God help her, Terrino’s pizzeria. But it was too early for pizza, despite how good that sauce smelled as the scent of it poured through the open door in tantalizing waves.

She hurried past, listening to the soft click of her
heels against the pavement. It felt good to be out of her work clothes. God knew, she loved being a plumber—and she was good at it—but she also loved being a girl. And wearing soft blue linen slacks with a pale cream silk blouse and strappy, bone-colored sandals made her feel . . . like shopping.

Mike glanced in the window of the Spirit Shop as she passed and almost paused to drool over a new set of Celtic-design tarot cards. Inside the shop, Trish Donovan was busily waiting on a stream of tourists. But Trish would keep her talking for an hour. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but “first things first.”

She followed her nose toward the Leaf and Bean, two doors down.

In Chandler, the one place to get an outstanding cup of coffee was the Leaf and Bean. Stevie Ryan Candellano was a wizard with an espresso machine, and even if you didn’t like coffee—and Mike didn’t want to know someone who couldn’t appreciate liquid caffeine—the biscotti and other pastries Stevie made fresh every day were well worth the stop.

Mike pushed the door open and took a deep breath, enjoying the rush through her system as nerves danced and blood pumped in anticipation. Cinnamon hung heavy on the still air and the low growl of dozens of conversations sounded like the hum of a white-noise machine.

The cream-colored walls and ceiling were accented by thick, dark wood beams and the polished wood floor gleamed in the sunlight streaming in through the front window overlooking Main Street. Copper planters and
baskets, filled with ivy, ferns, and all kinds of flowers that always seemed to bloom for Stevie, no matter the season, hung from heavy silver chains. A long glass case on the far wall displayed the amazing baked goods made fresh every day, and the rich scent of coffee pulled customers in the moment the door was opened.

Mike paused on the threshold and looked around, spotting familiar faces in among the tourists. Summer season was almost over, but the autumn crowd was just beginning to trickle into town.

In another week or two, the Autumn Festival would set up shop in the meadow just outside town, giving the local artisans a chance to showcase their stuff. Then, when that was over, the day-trippers would start filtering in, coming for a look at the fall foliage. In December, there’d be the Victorian Christmas Festival, with wandering carolers and street stalls selling everything from hot apple cider to roasted chestnuts. By the time winter was over, everyone looked forward to the Flower Fantasy in April, when the farmers sold cut flowers, bulbs, and seeds. And then summer was back and the whole cycle started over again.

Mike grinned at the thought. People in the city thought small-town life was boring. Nope. There was always something new going on and a dozen people who could tell you all about it.

“Hey, Mike,” someone called out, “need you to stop by the house sometime this week. The pipes in the house are groaning like an old woman in heat.”

Mike laughed. “Right, Mr. Santos. I’ll call and set up a time.”

“Old woman in heat.” The woman sitting beside the
older man swatted his arm. “What would you know about that?”

Mike left the Santoses to their bickering and walked across the room, nodding absently to everyone she passed. By the time she made it to the counter, she was more than ready for her coffee. Leaning both arms on the cool, shining glass, she smiled and said, “Latte, Stevie. Fast.”

Stevie Candellano laughed and turned toward the espresso machine, a silver pitcher already filled with fresh milk. Slipping it under the steamer, she glanced over her shoulder while the machine hissed and did its magic. “Haven’t seen you in a couple of days. You trying to kick the coffee habit?”

Appalled, Mike shook her head. “Hell no. That’d be like trying to quit breathing.”

“Glad to hear it.” Stevie turned and grabbed a cardboard cup. Turning off the steamer, she wiped down the twin blades, then poured the hot milk into the cup before spooning on a light layer of foam, just the way Mike liked it. Slipping the lid on the cup, she handed it over. “So, you find any money in your mailbox yet?”

Mike laughed, took the cup and swallowed a careful sip of her drink. “Nope. And I’ve been checking.” She glanced around behind her at the crowd, then met Stevie’s cool blue gaze again. “Anybody else find some?”

“Oh yeah.” Stevie leaned forward and tilted her head in the direction of the back of the store. “Mr. Bozeman over there? His TV broke a few days ago.”

“Not surprising.” The old man was Sam’s neighbor and to hear her tell it Mr. Bozeman had the damn thing running twenty-four hours a day.

“What’s interesting, though,” Stevie pointed out, “is that the very next day, he found five hundred bucks in his mailbox.”

“No shit?” Mike turned to look at the older man, who was so deaf he had to get nose to nose with his friends just to hear what they were saying.

“Yep. So naturally, he went right out and bought himself a better,
bigger
TV.”

“Oh,” Mike said, laughing, “Sam’ll be happy to hear that.”

“My guess is she already has. He got surround sound this time.”

“Good God.” She took another sip and shifted a look across the pastries behind the glass. Considering blowing her diet all to hell, she thought about it while she asked, “No one’s got a clue about who the good fairy is yet?”