Carolina Man (29 page)

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Carolina Blues

 

Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

L
AUREN
P
ATTERSON OCCUPIED
the corner table of Jane’s Sweet Tea House, barricaded behind her laptop, a latte, and a Glorious Morning muffin.

Facing a blank computer screen wasn’t nearly as terrifying as confronting three masked men with guns, she told herself firmly. She hadn’t frozen then. There was absolutely no excuse for her to be paralyzed now.

The July sun pooled like syrup on her little table. Beyond the window, the waters of Pamlico Sound gleamed. Vacationers packed the bright bakery, seeking an air-conditioned respite from the North Carolina heat. A young couple, broiled pink by the sun, held hands at the next table. A father lifted his little daughter onto his shoulders in line. All of them happy. Together.

Lauren’s muffin stuck in her throat.

Behind the counter, a pretty teenager in geek-girl glasses struggled to meet the stream of orders for iced espresso drinks. Before Lauren’s fifteen minutes of fame, she’d worked as a barista to make ends meet. Her graduate student stipend had barely covered her tuition. It definitely hadn’t stretched for luxuries like cable. Or even food.

Lauren tore little strips from her napkin. She would be happy to show the teenager working the Cimbali machine how to pull a proper shot. Or jump up and bus tables. Anything, really, to avoid the cursor blinking on her screen.

The cheerful silver bells on the door chimed, announcing the arrival of another customer.

She looked up, seeking a more positive direction for her thoughts. Or maybe, she admitted, she was simply searching for a distraction.

A man stood silhouetted against the bright glass door, dark against the light. Thick, close-cut hair. Lean, muscled body. Dark mirrored sunglasses.

Her heart beat faster. A cop.

Save me
, she thought.

She took a deep breath and looked away. The sudden sight of the law was never good news. A uniform at the door, blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror . . . Anybody could get sweaty palms and a dry mouth. There was nothing unusual about her response.

He entered the shop, moving with a quiet, contained authority more menacing than a swagger. Among the soft, pink, underdressed tourists, he stuck out like an assassin in a ballroom.

He promised safety. He promised danger. An irresistible combination.

She rolled the shreds of her napkin into tiny balls and dropped them on her plate.

He nodded to the young woman behind the register; she had a fat blond braid and the dreamy gray eyes of a princess in a fairy tale. The blonde nodded back, never losing her rhythm or her sweet, rather vague smile.

Lauren didn’t understand why the girl wasn’t melting into a puddle at his feet. Okay, so he wasn’t Prince Charming. Not the kind of guy you wanted to meet at midnight, unless you intended to lose a lot more than your shoes.

But hot. Very hot. Smoldering, in fact.

Given the slightest encouragement, Lauren would have followed him home, like one of the island cats that seemed to hang around the bakery’s back porch, lean and hungry and hoping for handouts.
Pet me. Rescue me.

She shook the thought away. She was
not
a police groupie. Before that horrible day almost a year ago, she’d always gone for the bad boys, tortured, sensitive souls with lousy home lives and pierced tongues and nipples. She didn’t
do
authority figures.

“This isn’t peppermint schnapps,” complained a thin woman at the head of the line.

“No, it’s Irish cream syrup and whipped cream,” the blonde said.

“But I ordered Irish coffee. There should be peppermint schnapps.”

Not in Irish coffee, Lauren thought.

The blonde blinked. “I’m afraid we’re not licensed to serve alcohol,” she said with doll-like calm. “But I can add a touch of mint syrup if you’d like.”

“I don’t want any damn syrup,” the customer said loudly. “I want my drink. I want to speak with your manager.”

The people behind her in line shifted away. Lauren had seen that kind of body language before. They didn’t want to get involved. They didn’t want the drama.

Lauren, on the other hand, had already proved she was a total sucker for other people’s problems. Not just where her family was concerned. She had a master’s degree in psychology—practically a license to meddle. And even though she knew better now, her muscles tensed in instinctive sympathy.

“I’m Jane. The owner,” the blonde was saying. “If you’d like me to make you another drink—”

“What I’d like is a real Irish coffee,” the angry woman said. “It’s false advertising, that’s what it is.”

The blonde flushed scarlet.

Lauren couldn’t stand it. She stood to bus her empty mug, breaking the tension with action.

Hot Cop spoke. “This is a bakery, not a bar.” His deep voice raised all the little hairs along Lauren’s arms. “You want a drink at ten in the morning, you’ll have to take your business elsewhere.”

Okay, so his by-the-book attitude wasn’t going to win the bakery any patrons, Lauren acknowledged. But at least he was stepping in, defending the princess against attack.

The unhappy customer folded thin, tanned arms across her skinny bosom and turned to give the interloper a piece of her mind. But faced with Hot Cop’s cool air of authority, she faltered. “But I’m on vacation,” she said almost plaintively.

He regarded her impassively from behind mirrored sunglasses. “Yes, ma’am. Have a nice stay.”

“Carolina sea salt caramel latte to go,” the owner, Jane, said, setting a drink with a clear domed lid on the counter. “On the house.”

The customer pursed her lips. “Skim?”

It was important in negotiations, Lauren had learned, to give the hostage taker an opportunity to save face.

Jane nodded. “And whipped cream.”

The thin woman took the cup without thanks or payment. The door bells rattled in her wake.

Hot Cop looked at Jane. “You really want to start rewarding customers for bad behavior?”

Jane’s flush deepened.

Lauren dumped her dirty mug into the bus tray. “I’m pretty sure she just wanted to get her out of here before she made more of a scene.”

The sunglasses turned in her direction. “You don’t stop bullies by appeasing them.”

Memory tightened Lauren’s chest, constricted her throat.
Lying flat on the bank floor, her face pressed to the cool tiles, the smell of fear rank in her nostrils . . .

She smiled, because that had worked for her in the past, and because Hot Cop so obviously needed to lighten up. “Sometimes you do whatever it takes to survive.”

His dark brows flicked up. “Her survival isn’t in question.”

Lauren shrugged. “It is if a customer decides to trash her bakery online.”

“Thank you,” Jane said.

Hot Cop didn’t budge. “So, in your opinion, she should compromise her principles to avoid a customer lying in a bad review.”

“I wouldn’t say lying. Exactly. Everybody tells their story in a way that makes them the hero.”
Or a victim
. “I think she should go with whatever makes people feel good.”

“Here’s your coffee,” Jane said, setting it on the counter. “Black. No sugar.”

Lauren glanced from the cup to the cop’s hard face. A smile tugged at her mouth. “I guess you don’t worry about stereotypes, huh?”

For a moment she thought that he wouldn’t answer. That he didn’t get it. And then his smile flashed, robbing her of breath. “I didn’t order donuts,” he pointed out.

She tilted her head, challenging, flirting. Enjoying the freedom of her anonymity. “You don’t like sweet things?”

He surveyed her coolly from behind dark mirrored glasses. “I like them fine. I’m watching my weight.”

Was he kidding? Her gaze dropped to his lean waist. He had the flat stomach and disciplined body that came from serious gym time.

Several months ago, Lauren had started working out as a way to deal with the stress, the constant meals on the road, the loneliness. But recently she’d realized that exercise wasn’t fun anymore. The routines she’d adopted to make herself feel better had become another obligation. So she’d quit. She still ran sometimes or did a little yoga, but her compulsive fitness days were over.

“Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem,” she said.

“Occupational hazard,” he agreed, straight-faced.

“Jack is our chief of police,” Jane put in from behind the counter.

Not just a cop. The top cop.

“I’m impressed,” Lauren said.

“Don’t be. We’re a small department. Until last week, it was just me and one part-time officer.” He removed the glasses. His eyes were sharp and dark in a hard-featured face. Stern jaw, strong cheekbones, bold, prominent nose. Her heart beat faster.

“Jack Rossi.” He introduced himself.

Italian. It figured with that face.

“Lauren.”
No last name.
To make up for her omission, she offered her hand.

His hand enveloped hers, sending a shock of warmth up her arm. Lauren swallowed, resisting the urge to tug back her hand. He did not recognize her. No one had. She didn’t look anything like the pictures that had flashed on the news or the girl who had appeared, smiling and made up, on all the talk shows. She’d taken out the little ring in her left eyebrow. Her hair was shorter now and darker, almost black.

“What brings you to Dare Island, Lauren?” he asked.

“Oh, you know,” she said vaguely. “Work.”

His gaze narrowed slightly on her face. “What is it that you do?”

Even after all the media interviews, she hated that question. At thirty, she should be able to answer with certainty,
I’m a cop, I’m a baker, I’m a doctoral candidate in psychology
. Anything other than
, I’m famous for being in the wrong place at the wrong time
.

She couldn’t be sorry that her presence in the bank that day had saved lives. But the whole hostage thing had changed her in ways her family couldn’t see, her friends refused to accept. After her appearance on
Dr. Phil
, her book
Hostage Girl: My Story
had spent forty-eight consecutive weeks on
The New York Times
bestseller list. She was as isolated by her fame as she had been by her captors.

“I’m a writer.”

Who couldn’t write. Her stomach cramped. Her follow-up book,
Hostage Girl: My Life After Crisis
, was supposed to come out in six months. Before—her agent had explained with brutal honesty—no one was interested in her anymore.

That sexy little indent at the corner of his mouth deepened. Even his smiles were cool and controlled, she thought wistfully. Everything in her life felt so out of control. She was jealous.

“Guess you don’t worry about stereotypes, either,” he said.

What?
She followed his gaze toward her table before understanding clicked.
The latte. The laptop
. Her lips eased into an answering smile. “The whole coffee shop scene is kind of cliché,” she admitted.

Jane looked up. “We’re a bakery. We’re not a coffee shop.”

Jack Rossi angled his body, shifting his attention to the woman behind the counter. His smile softened, making his strong features even more attractive. “I don’t come for the coffee, Jane.”

Oh.
Oh
. Lauren glanced from his hard, dark face to Jane. The baker blushed. If he didn’t want donuts . . . and he didn’t come for the coffee . . . He wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Clearly he was after whatever else the pretty blond baker had to offer.

Lauren’s lungs deflated. So did her ego.

Which was stupid. Even before the hostage incident, she didn’t date blue-collar cops with Italian-sounding last names. No, she attracted musicians, losers, and weirdos.

Anyway, she was here to write. She had a deadline. She didn’t have time for a fling or even a flirtation. It was just that her defenses were low, her confidence shaken, her energy depleted. Was it any wonder she wanted to borrow someone else’s for a while?

Don’t overthink it
, her publicist, Meg, had urged.
Everything will be fine. You’ll be fine. Just move on.

It was good advice. Lauren sighed. If only she could figure out how.

 • • • 

I
T WAS A
beautiful day. Too bad his job was to ruin it for somebody.

Jack sat in his cruiser, running the AC and the driver’s license and registration of the seventeen year old who’d just blown through a stop sign on her way to the beach.

The ID checked out. The BMW belonged to her daddy. Jack could have let her off with a warning. He might have, too—he’d been young and dumb once—if so many other kids without cars didn’t walk this road.

And if she hadn’t tried so hard to flirt her way out of a ticket.

The law existed to protect everybody. The sooner Miss Teenage BMW learned the consequences of her actions, the better.