Do Not Disturb (3 page)

Perhaps that underlying anxiety was to blame for the way his hackles had risen when he was near the black-hatted female who'd been beside him at the church and then again on the bluff.
Something
told him she was trouble.

He scrutinized the subdued crowd on the patio again, relieved when there was no further sign of her. She'd made herself scarce after he'd hauled her from the edge of the cliff, and with luck she was gone for
good. Damn, but he hoped he wouldn't regret rescuing her.

“Uncle Cooper.”

At the sound of Katie's voice he swung around. She wore the blank mask she'd rarely let slip since being told of her father's death. More disquiet slicing through him, he reached out and pulled her against his chest.

“How are you doing, honey?” he asked, holding her tight. “I wasn't much older than you when my father died. I remember how hard it is.” And in the last year, the memories had only sharpened.

Katie leaned into him for a moment, her shoulders sagging in a soft sigh, but then she moved back again, her expression carefully empty.

Cooper scrubbed a hand over his face. The only occasion she'd shown any natural animation in the past week was outside the church today, when she'd spoken with that woman—a fact that had his hackles rising all over again. He made another quick scan of the patio. “Did you need me for something, sweetheart?”

“Mom wants Aunt Beth. I thought she might be here.”

“I think I saw her head inside.” Cooper looked back down at his niece and chucked her on the chin. “Go tell your mom I'll round up Beth. Then why don't you get us both a Perrier and stake out the perfect spot for sunset-viewing.” During the past year, he'd been learning to count a day a success if he was there at its end to share the sunset with his niece.

As Katie turned to obey, he headed for the hotel's
back door. He pulled it open, then strode down the hall, glancing into doorways right and left. Three down, in a small room that also contained a desk and two pay phones, he found Beth sitting on a couch, crying in the arms of the black-hatted woman.

“Please don't,” the woman was saying to his sister, her voice laced with panic. “Please don't cry.”

Suspicion once again leaping along with the hairs on the back of his neck, Cooper vaulted into the room. “Beth! Are you all right?”

His sister's face stayed hidden behind handfuls of tissues, but the other woman started, then jumped to her feet.

The movement looked guilty as sin. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded.

“Am I glad to see you!” the woman declared.

Yeah, right. After their brief conversation in the church, she'd given him the distinct impression they shared a mutual wariness. Crossing his arms over his chest, he lifted an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“I don't know what happened.” She glanced down at Beth and patted her shoulder, the gesture awkward-looking, perhaps due to the mammoth snowball of Kleenex in her grip. “I found her like this when I came in to use the phone—I can't get a signal on my cell.”

Damn
. Apparently Beth had finally fallen off that emotional edge she'd been balancing on all week. He'd seen her struggling to keep calm, and he supposed she'd been hiding her sadness from Lainey, who as Stephen's widow was entitled to the majority of the tears. But now Beth needed Cooper's comfort.

Which he'd supply—right after confronting the black-hatted woman.

Maybe she read the intention on his face, because she suddenly went into action. A shuffle, a sidestep, a murmured “I'll be going now,” and she'd ducked around his bigger body to give herself a clear shot at the door.

“Wait just a minute,” he said, grabbing for her. He wasn't going to lose sight of her again, not until he'd satisfied his niggling uneasiness by finding out exactly who she was and why she was here. His hand latched on to her shoulder.

Beneath his palm, her bare shoulder stiffened. But that didn't register nearly as much as the satiny feel of her pale skin. It seemed to warm in response to him, and because he hadn't touched female flesh in such a long, long while, his fingers instinctively flexed.

She made a little sound of distress, then twirled on her high heels to face him. “What?” she demanded.

Though his hand still gripped her shoulder, he was too tall, or she was too short, for him to get a good view of her features beneath that wide black brim. Fair skin, rosy lips, some sort of nose. He didn't have a clue about her hair; it was either very short or tucked under that overlarge hat.

His gaze wandered down to the sleeveless black dress she was wearing. It modestly skimmed over breasts and waist, hinting rather than revealing, but ended at a point that barely cleared her midthighs. A knee-skimming filmy overskirt-thing was probably intended to make the hemline appear modest too, but it only served to draw Cooper's attention to her pale, naked legs.

Stockingless, you idiot
.
Not naked
.

But all the same, the “naked” notion started a surge of half-forgotten pleasure in his blood. His heart made an odd
ka-thud
against his breastbone.

And just like that, fear poked its icy fingers against the back of his neck.

Yet somehow he ignored them, his focus concentrated on the sensation of his skin touching hers. The curve of her shoulder molded his hand into a cup, and it was so reminscent of cupping a breast that he automatically caressed the crown of the curve with the heart of his palm. He thought she shivered.

The small reaction made his blood pump faster, and his gaze roamed along her bare legs as he imagined his palms sliding up her inner thighs to open them for his eyes, his touch, his body. His heart lost its rhythm again, only to play catch-up with another ominous
ka-thud,
redoubling the alarm gathering at his nape. When his heart skipped again, it tumbled down his spine in an icy rush.

And still he couldn't make himself let her go.

That's what finally scared the shit out of him.

His release was so abrupt that she stumbled back. He shoved the offending hand in his pocket. It was his left hand, and he squeezed his fingers into a fist, making sure it hadn't gone numb.

“Are you all right?” she asked, taking another step back.

He wanted to laugh, but it wouldn't have been a pleasant sound. “I'm dandy, just dandy,” he muttered. “Now go.”

He probably imagined her slight hesitation. Because in half a breath she was out the door, leaving only a lingering note of her perfume. He sniffed, surprised that after more than a year away from the city he still recognized a city girl's sophisticated scent—Joy.

Dragging his attention from the woman gone to the woman at hand, he turned toward his sister. “Beth,” he said, dropping to the couch beside her. “What's the matter? What can I do for you?”

She shook her head. She wasn't crying any longer, but she shuddered with each indrawn breath.

“Something.” Despite all the opportunities life had thrown at him lately, he still had miles to go toward accepting any kind of helplessness. “I must be able to do something, say something.”

“I'm sorry, I know this isn't helping.” Her head lifted and she swiped at her cheeks. “I keep wondering, thinking, replaying everything.”

Replaying the accident that killed Stephen, Cooper guessed. Lainey had talked to him about it too, wondering aloud if Stephen had felt any pain. Well, yeah, Cooper figured it probably hurt like hell to be hit by a truck going fifty-five miles an hour. And he was entirely certain that in Stephen's last moments it only gave him more pain to realize he was leaving behind ones who loved him. But there was no point in telling either of his sisters that.

“We've just gotta give it time,” he said, for want of anything better. He let a beat go by, then spoke again. “Lainey's been looking for you.”

“Lainey.” She swiped at her cheeks some more, even
as fresh tears filled her eyes. “Oh God, Lainey. I…I'm not doing right by her again.”

A man paused in the doorway, catching Cooper's eye. “Judd,” he said with relief. If anyone could soothe his sister, he could.

Without a sound, Judd approached Beth, flowing to her in a smooth motion that looked like one of those tai chi movements he practiced. They all had poetic names like Cloud Hand or Wind Rolls the Lotus Leaves, and as Judd knelt at Beth's feet and linked his fingers with hers, Cooper titled this one Tiger Finding Flower.

Something unspoken yet palpable passed between them. Judd would probably say it was their
chi
—the life energy that moves through all living things. He'd earned the right to call it whatever he wanted, Cooper thought, because with just that simple touch, Beth relaxed. Her tears dried, her color evened out, the next breath she took was long and deep. Oh yeah, Judd's yin was definitely balancing Beth's yang.

Feeling unnecessary—and grateful—Cooper rose off the couch.

“I'll be all right,” Beth said softly. “Thanks.”

He didn't bother determining if she was talking to him or to Judd, instead leaving the room to them. There was that date he had with Katie and a Perrier. Even on a day like today, surely the sunset would bring him some measure of peace.

But when he threw open the door to the terrace, he knew there wasn't going to be any sunset to enjoy after all. The fog had moved in, and the wet mist was swirling around the tables like the cold, gray breath of ghosts. Several gas patio heaters had been lit against
the dampness, and knots of people were gathered beneath each one.

His gaze wandered, then skidded to a halt.

The black-hatted woman. Again. Still. She was standing to the right, chatting with Brother Charles. That odd uneasiness she awakened in him set off another clanging round of warning bells.

So, no sunset tonight, and no peace either. At least not yet. Not until he discovered who she was and exactly how to get rid of her.

With a measured stride, he headed toward that big black hat. He'd been a pretty canny attorney not long ago, so he began concocting a strategy, outlining his cross-examination on a mental legal notepad. But the pages blew from his mind as he watched her lift her hands and remove her hat.

His feet stuttered as she shook out her hair, using one hand to fluff out miles of the stuff that had been confined all afternoon. Under the comb of her fingers, the miles descended, then sprang back up into a shoulder-blade-length mass of blond spirals.

“Jesus,” he heard himself say loudly, as he regained the use of his legs and started moving again. “Who—
what
the hell are you?”

She spun to face him. It was as if she'd fluttered out of one of his brother-in-law's more fanciful paintings. Outside of his customary depictions of hearth and home, Stephen had occasionally painted fairies sleeping in the stamens of flowers, elves hiding among the leaves of a tree, pixies peeking from beneath four-leaf clovers. There was something about her appearance that reminded him of magic creatures like those.

He knew he was staring at her, but the woman's looks were nothing short of arresting. Her small size and wealth of blond hair was paired with a heart-shaped—heart-shaped!—face and eyes of a pure, blameless baby blue.

He swallowed. “You…you're…”

Those remarkable eyes rolled and she released a resigned sigh. “I'm twenty-seven years old.”

He wanted to laugh. Apparently the world usually took all that blond fragility for youth. But as a damn good criminal attorney, he'd honed his ability to size up people quickly, and he sensed that beneath all the marshmallow fluff was something much more substantial. No wonder his instincts had been tipped off. This woman looked lethal.

Yes indeed, her sinless appearance couldn't fool him.

So he stepped up to her, the warmth of the patio heater washing over his head and shoulders but doing nothing to dispel his cool sense of purpose. “Who are you?” he asked again.

Lifting her chin, she matched him stare for assessing stare. “I'm Angel. Angel Buchanan.”

Shit. A magical creature, all right. An
angel
.

For a weird instant he wondered if he'd actually died this time. But then he sucked in a breath of air, inhaling a heady shot of her perfume with it. The sophisticated fragrance sparked the memory of her skin beneath his hand—his palm actually tingled—and he decided it was a safe bet that his first thought in heaven wouldn't be about stripping naked one of its winged residents.

Then she smiled at him, and it was so sweet that he
thought
angel
again until he caught the amused glitter in her eyes.

“And,” she added, all moonbeams and sugary whipped cream innocence, “I'm also the woman who's going to be living with you for the next few weeks.”

Angel thought Cooper Jones was about to have a heart attack. For a moment he stood stock-still, the wind blowing his hair and clothes around him. But then he blinked—without his sunglasses she could see his eyes were greenish brown—and he seemed to recover from his surprise. “You're staying…?” he began.

“At your inn,” Angel finished for him. Brother Charles was an easy man to pump for data, and it had taken her all of three seconds to find out that the Jones siblings had grown up in the area and that Cooper ran the place where she'd be staying. It hadn't been a good omen, but Angel refused to let omens, or any men, for that matter, get in the way of her plans.

“My inn,” Cooper said slowly.

“Yeah,” she said. “Tranquility House.”

A pretty corny name if you asked her, but it didn't burst her happy daydreams of salt scrub pedicures and
herbal oil massages unless—Oh, God. Unless Cooper Jones gave them, that is.

At the thought, she instinctively scooted a more cautious distance away. When he'd touched her shoulder before, she'd nearly jumped out of her skin.

“So you're staying at Tranquility,” he repeated. The wind shifted, blowing his hair back from his face. “Exactly why is that?”

Without the disguise of sunglasses or disordered hair, Angel saw that his face was lean like the rest of him. With his slashing dark brows, high cheekbones, and patrician nose, he looked like an Italian nobleman. An arrogant, suspicious, and…somehow familiar nobleman.

“Angel?”

Why, she remembered. He wanted to know why she was staying. Distracted by that odd feeling of recognition, Angel fumbled for a good answer, couldn't quite think of one, had to stall. She gave him one of her best smiles. “Why, uh, why not?”

His eyes narrowed, turning even more watchful.

Oh, sheesh. Her smiles didn't work on him, she had to remember that. So then how was she supposed to play this guy? Men never distrusted her. Usually her hair, a sweet smile, certainly a combination of the two did the job. Her baby face and mop top seemed to make men feel studly, or at the very least it rendered them unsuspecting.

But not this one.

Angel glanced toward Brother Charles, hoping for rescue, but the man of the robe had inconveniently wandered off. Her attention was forced back to Cooper, who was still eyeing her expectantly.

“Look,” she said, frustrated. She hadn't planned on getting into this here and now, but she was fresh out of tricks. “I'm a writer, okay? For a magazine.”

“A reporter?” His voiced lowered. “No wonder you give me the heebie-jeebies,” she thought she heard him mutter.

The heebie-jeebies? Well, that wasn't a good sign either. In general, people were fascinated by the press—unless they had something to hide, of course. But what would an inn manager want to conceal?

Then a likely answer struck. “Oh, hey, don't worry,” she said, waving away any concerns he might have. “I'm not with
Vacation
or
Getaway
or any other travel publication.”

He blinked. “What? What are you talking about?”

“I'm not here to review Tranquility House,” she assured him.

He blinked again. “I'm not the least bit worried about Tranquility House.” The wind was blowing all that hair of his around again and with an impatient movement, he raked his hand through it to hold it away from his face with his fist. “I'm worried about
you
.”

Angel was hit again with that strong sense of recognition, but she shook it off as his words sank in. He distrusted her, all right. And he was up-front and personal about it.

Sighing, she took a chance on being direct, because God knows her cutie-pie looks weren't bringing down his guard. “Listen, I'm a staff writer for
West Coast
magazine. I'm here to do an in-depth story on Stephen Whitney.”

“
West Coast?
”

If she'd said she was from
Military Times
she didn't think he would look any more surprised. “Yes,” she said tightly.

Sure, men often had a hard time believing she wrote for a prestigious publication, but for some reason
his
disbelief was especially irritating. If Cooper wasn't going to be bowled over by her froufrou femininity, the least he could do was believe she had a brain under all that hair. “Is that really so difficult to imagine?”

A smile twitched the corners of his mouth. “Settle down, settle down. Would showing me your Mensa card make you feel any better?”

Shooting him a cool look, she lifted her chin. “I don't carry it with me.”

For just a second, he grinned. For that same second, she was
certain
she knew him from somewhere. But then he shook his head and turned away to face the ocean.

She followed his gaze. The terrace hung over a narrow fissure that opened to the Pacific, providing an unobstructed view of undeveloped coastline. When clear, you'd be able to see miles of rugged, ragged cliffs—it was a pictorial California landmark nearly as famous as the Golden Gate Bridge. But even now, with the colors and the distant vistas painted out by the fog, it was Ansel Adams–beautiful.

Angel supposed the majestic scenery could provide an artist inspiration. But not an excuse to forget the daughter who had needed him.

Her grip tightened on her hat. “Maybe you could introduce me to your sister. I can run the idea by her, or
even you could, if you'd like. You see, I—
West Coast
wants to explore Stephen Whitney's world and bring it to our readers. If you're familiar with the magazine—”

“I know it.” He turned back to her, then stepped closer. Too close. “And it seems to me it does a better job of
exposing
people rather than exploring them.”

Angel managed to deflect the hit with a friendly smile. “The magazine prints plenty of other types of stories too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She mentally thumbed through her recent tear sheets. “I wrote a story on a philanthropist who promised to put a kindergarten class through college.” No need to mention she'd also reported that the dirty old man had reneged on the promise and spent the dough on his fifth Bunny-turned-bride.

“And last month I did a feature on the national women's curling team.” A completely innocuous, though inspiring piece, if she did say so herself. “The sport, I mean, not hair.”

“I knew what you meant.” But despite that, he reached out and twirled a lock of hers around his index finger.

“Well, then.” She couldn't feel his touch. Hair cells were dead, she reminded herself. Like fingernails or…horses' hooves. Maybe that was why her heartbeat was starting to gallop like a mare trying to elude the domineering stallion.

Oh Lord, she thought with disgust, what was wrong with her? Mares and stallions!
Get a grip on yourself, Angel
.

But Cooper did that, holding tighter as she tried to move away from him. The tug on her scalp didn't hurt, but it did make her reckless.

“Is there some problem with the idea?” she asked baldly. “Why would you object to a story on your brother-in-law?”

“It's not that.” He looked over her head, fingering her hair absently. “It might be good, as a matter of fact. Helpful.”

Helpful? Angel puzzled over that for a moment, but then decided to let it go. “So we're set, then. You'll talk to your sister about me?”

“You?” His gaze shifted back to her. “Oh, that's right, there's you,” he said, as if she were a bad taste in his mouth.

Angel had had enough. She grasped her hair above his hand and yanked. Free of him, she stepped back.

Then, remembering that artless charm had always been her friend, she gentled her voice and smiled up at him again. “Come now, you've certainly heard of freedom of the press. I don't need your permission to write a story about Stephen Whitney.”

His eyebrows rose. “What do you know about the Sur?”

She shrugged, vowing to look through the intern's research as soon as she checked into her room.

“It's a reclusive area,” Cooper said. “Private. Its people are even more so. If we ask our friends and neighbors to shut you out, they will.”

Angel stifled her sigh. While she didn't doubt that she could wheedle her way past a lot of ill will, it was
so much easier when people
wanted
to talk. “I don't understand what you're being so cautious about,” she grumbled beneath her breath.

He heard, though, because he swiped a single fingertip along her cheek and asked, “Don't you?”

The question hung in the air and the oxygen backed up in her lungs. Oh God, had he sensed that momentary flash of attraction she'd felt toward him in the church? The way his palm on her skin had made her quiver?

But before she could determine the answers, he turned abruptly away. “Reporters are…intrusive.”

“Yeah,” she admitted, breathing a little more easily. “
Nosy
might be a better word. But people like to talk about themselves and we writers are good listeners.”

“Too good, sometimes, at asking questions.”

Angel's eyes narrowed. If she wasn't mistaken, there spoke a voice of experience. Interesting. Very interesting. Mr. Inn Manager must have had some former run-in with the press.

Cooper swung around to face her. “How would you like someone probing into your life, your past?”

Without hesitation, Angel shrugged. “My life's an open book.”

“Is that right?”

“Sure.” The gesture of her hand was carefully careless. “Ask me anything you want.”

“All right.” He settled back on his heels and crossed his arms over his chest again. “Where did you go to school?”

“Graduated from Bay High School in San Francisco.” No need to mention the seven elementary schools she'd
attended before she and her mother had escaped to Europe. “I majored in journalism in college. When I graduated I'd already been interning at
West Coast
for two years. The magazine hired me and I've been working there ever since.”

“Family?”

She'd been skating over this forever. “It was just my mom and me for a long time.” Truth. “Now she's remarried and lives in Paris.”

“Do you get along with your stepfather?”

She shrugged. “Sure.” At least he hadn't abandoned her mother like Stephen Whitney. Or hurt her mother like the other bastard she'd hooked up with.

“And you like your work?”

“Love it.” When he didn't say anything for a moment, she pulled out another of her trust-me smiles. “See how easy it is to answer questions? Piece of cake.”

“I'm not through yet.” He let her stew through another beat of silence. “Are you married?”

Funny, how the simplest question stumped her. When it came to this particular subject, she had nothing to cover up or cover over, but suddenly she wasn't sure that telling Cooper Jones the truth was such a good idea.

There was that strange sense of recognition. That sexy little shimmy she felt inside just looking at him. “Uh…no,” she finally confessed.

“Engaged?”

Given that the fourth finger on her left hand was as bare as a baby's behind, she didn't think she could pull that one off either. “No.”

“Dating, then?”

“No,” she said a third time, staring down at her shoes and feeling like an idiot. The closest she'd been to male companionship lately, if you didn't count Tom Jones the cat, was the articles on dating she read in
Glamour, Mademoiselle,
and
Cosmo
.

“Then this definitely isn't going to work,” Cooper muttered.

Angel's head jerked up. “What do you mean?”

“Someone else, maybe. Another reporter. But not you.” He started to move away.

Angel grabbed his arm. He'd taken off his suit jacket and she was diverted for a moment by the warmth of his skin and the fine linen of his shirt. Expensive duds for a guy in the service industry, she mused, tightening her fingers around his hard arm. “Another reporter from
West Coast,
another reporter from any publication, won't tell the story that I will.”

“Angel—”

“An extensive, in-depth exploration of the art and the man. What's the source of his immense popularity? What inspired him? What motivated him? I'll write about his life.”

She hoped her voice didn't sound as desperate as she felt. “And I'll write about what he left behind.” She swallowed. “Who he left behind.”

“No—”

“—way will we turn her down just like that,” a feminine voice finished for him.

Angel whirled. It was Lainey Whitney. The artist's widow gave her a small, tired smile. “I had a call from your editor—I've known Jane for years. She says you'd do a good job on the story.”

 

Trying to ignore the woman trailing him on the path through the woods, Cooper shifted the luggage in his grip and cursed the kindness of his sister. Not only had she practically agreed to cooperate on Angel Buchanan's story, but she'd volunteered
his
services in guiding the woman to Tranquility House. Angel had appeared thrilled with his sister's help on both counts. She'd still been smiling when they'd climbed out of their cars in the Tranquility parking lot, and though he should have known better, it had worked a spell on him. He'd offered to help her with her bag.

She had a bag, all right. Bags. Luggage. He had three bulging totes cross-strapped over his chest and a briefcase in each hand. The weight of them kept his pace along the softly lit path slow and steady. Behind him, she trundled a suitcase the size of a steamer trunk on wheels.

“Wow, she said. “It smells so good here. The trees, right?”

He didn't bother to answer, because over the rich scent of ferns and redwoods, what
he
was smelling was her city-girl perfume. It caused old memories to surface, the sharp sound of ice striking a rocks glass at a cocktail party, the gut-tightening anticipation he'd felt in the crowded elevators that took him to a courtroom and his next case, the casual pleasure of a beautiful woman passing him on a city street, her hurry affording him glimpses of her rounded ass shifting beneath an austere business suit.