Donovan’s Angel (23 page)

Her tongue flicked over her lips before she
answered. “Yes.”

He remembered so well the feel of that
tongue. “Don’t do that,” he wanted to shout. Instead he signaled to
the waitress. “Two hot chocolates with marshmallows.” Turning to
Amanda, he asked, “Anything else?”

“Solitude.”

“We don’t always get what we want, Mandy,
love.” He was as startled as she was when the affectionate term
slipped out. For a moment her expression grew soft, then that
familiar cool mask of indifference slipped back across her
face.

“I’m not interested in a trip down memory
lane, Tanner.”

“Neither am I. One time through hell is
enough for me.”

Her eyes sparkled with anger. “It was a hell
of your own making.”

“That’s debatable. There’s not much a man can
do when he’s in another state and his two best friends are playing
footsie behind his back.”

“How could you possibly have noticed? You
never left the football field long enough.”

They glared at each other until Tanner began
to feel conspicuous. More than that, he felt the stirrings of
emotions he wanted to remain buried. He forced himself to lean back
and relax.

“Why don’t we start over?”

“As you said, one time through hell is
enough.”

He felt a small glimmer of satisfaction in
knowing that she’d been hurt, too.

“I’m not talking about the past. I’m talking
about our conversation.” Abruptly he stood up and took her hand. He
felt it tremble as he placed a kiss in her palm. “Miss Amanda
Lassiter, do you mind if I join you? I’m home for the holidays, and
you’re the first friend I’ve seen.” He slid back into the
booth.

“Am I?” Her voice reminded him of
velvet—soft, smooth, and beautiful.

“Are you what?”

“Still your friend?”

He studied her lovely face in silence. That
face had haunted his dreams, teased his imagination, fired his
passion, and kindled his anger for the past eleven years. Were they
still friends? No, he thought. Adversaries, yes. Former lovers,
yes. But friends?

“I don’t think so,” he said quietly.
“However, since we’re both home for the holidays and probably will
be running into each other, I see no reason to make it
unpleasant.”

“I’m not home for the holidays. I live
here.”

His parents hadn’t told him that. “Since
when?”

“Since April. I’ve opened an antique clothing
shop on Washington Street.”

“And Claude?”

“He’s still in Fulton, Missouri, running the
local newspaper. I never should have stayed there as long as I did.
After the divorce it was awkward— for both of us.”

He felt a sudden rush of compassion for
Claude. It would have been more than awkward; it would have been
torture. Losing Amanda after having possessed her was bad enough.
He knew. For Claude, seeing her every day and not being able to
touch her must have been sheer hell. At least Tanner hadn’t had to
go through that. After the wedding he’d gone straight to football
camp and the blessed oblivion of a demanding career in professional
sports.

His compassion for Claude quickly changed to
a cold rage as he thought of the two of them together. It was an
image he’d tried to block out over the years. With Amanda sitting
across the table from him, the image took on a clarity that made
him want to smash his fists into the wall. His gaze swept hungrily
over her, and he decided the only way to block out that vision was
to replace it. He imagined Amanda in his arms . . . sweet yielding
flesh . . . drowning himself in her softness.

His loins tightened almost painfully, and he
thought he must be going mad. The arrival of the hot chocolate
saved his sanity.

They sipped for a while in silence, watching
each other over the rims of their cups.

“Age has improved you, Tanner.”

He grinned. “I like to think it’s practice,
not age.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, you wicked man.
I was talking about your looks. You’re bigger, of course, more
solid. But also more mellow.”

“More broken.”

“I read about your knee. I’m sorry.”

“It cut short my career, but I can’t
complain. Maybe it was for the best. Some men stay in pro ball too
long. Way past their prime.” He watched her eyes darken as he
reached across the table and cupped her chin. “And you, Amanda.”
His fingers caressed her jawline. “Don’t pull away. I’ve been
wanting to touch your skin since I walked into this cafe. Magnolia
blossoms must wilt with envy when you walk by.”

She laughed. “Still glib of tongue.”

“I keep in practice.” He released her and
stuck his hand in his pocket so she wouldn’t see it shaking. “Even
at thirty-three, after all these years, you’re still the most
beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Thank you, Tanner. At thirty-three, you’re
still the smoothest talking man I’ve ever met. No wonder I fell in
love with you when I was eighteen.”

“Seventeen. It was right before your
birthday, remember?”

A peculiar stillness settled over her, but
her eyes never wavered.

“I don’t want to remember, Tanner.”

Silently he applauded her spirit.

“Neither do I.” He finished the last of his
chocolate and picked up the check. “My treat.”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

Their gazes locked. Everything that had been
between them seemed to sizzle in the air—the passion, the betrayal,
the guilt, the hatred. Tanner was the first to break the spell. He
knew that if he didn’t walk away now, he never would.

“And I don’t want anything from you, Amanda.”
He stood up swiftly, taking the check with him. “Consider this
payment on an old debt, an apology for trying to steal you from
Claude at the altar.”

“Done.” She picked up her hat and set it on
her head again at the same jaunty angle. “I suppose I could have
demanded blood. You’re getting off lightly.”

“The next time I’ll send diamonds. So long,
Amanda.” Giving her a smart salute, he turned toward the cash
register.

“There won’t be a next time.”

He heard her but kept walking. He decided it
was better to let her have the last word than to risk turning back.
If he looked into those aqua eyes one minute longer, he’d have her
in his arms right in the middle of Jimmy’s, scandalizing half the
population of the Delta.

He paid for the chocolate and got into his
car without looking back. Grimly he turned the key in the ignition
and set a hell-bent-for-leather course across town. Tanner Donovan
was going home, and nothing was going to spoil his homecoming. Not
even Amanda Lassiter.

o0o

Amanda sat at the booth long after he had
gone. She felt as if her heart had just been ripped out and stomped
on. Pressing her knees together under the table, she forced
herself, to sit still until she could calm down. Dear heaven, she’d
had no idea that seeing Tanner again would affect her like this. It
had been eleven years. Eleven years!

Curious faces began to turn in her direction.
She met their stares with her head up. She wasn’t going to let this
encounter with Tanner Donovan get the best of her. She had to live
in this town. Pasting a bright smile on her face, she stood up and
walked across the room. She even managed to put a smart spring into
her step and to call out a few cheerful greetings.

Her car seemed a million miles away, but she
was finally inside. While the engine was warming up, she turned and
looked down the road. There was no sign of Tanner. Not even a
lingering puff of dust marked his departure.

Putting her car into gear, she headed
home.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” she said aloud,
but even as she spoke, she knew she was lying.

o0o

Peggy Webb

(Fourth Southern Cousins Mystery)

Ever since I used my famous nose to crack the
Memphis Mambo Murder Case, things have gone to the dogs around
here. And I don’t mean to a musical genius in a basset hound suit,
either. (That would be yours truly.)

To hear my human mom tell it (that would be
Callie Valentine Jones, owner of the best little beauty shop this
side of the Mason Dixon Line), life just couldn’t get any better.
She thinks she’s happy since she said “The Last Farewell” to Jack
(my human daddy) up in Memphis, but I know better. When she’s not
giving New York hairdos to Mooreville’s finest and doling out the
dough for her mama’s little gambling escapades – and every other
kind of escapade Ruby Nell Valentine can think of – she’s sitting
on the front porch swing with a faraway look in her eyes that says,
“Stuck on You.”

Listen, I know she believes Jack is finally
going to give her a divorce so she can have her heart’s desire with
somebody who won’t spend more time in the world’s underbelly
avoiding bullets than he does in the gazebo with Callie and her
“Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hounddog” best friend. (I’m not even going to
talk about Hoyt, that ridiculous cocker spaniel pretender to my
throne, and the seven silly cats who took up residence with us when
Callie rescued them and dragged them home.)

Believe me, Jack’s face said it all when
Callie and the rest of our gang headed home from Memphis - “There
Goes My Everything.” A man that smitten is not going to let his
woman go, no matter how noble he thinks the gesture might be.

I’m trying to teach Jack and Callie to be
thankful for what they’ve got – each other plus a suave, famous
Rock ‘n’ Roll King who is content to live a dog’s life in order to
make his humans happy. Instead, they’re intent on turning
everything upside down to get what they think Callie wants. A
child. Otherwise known as a short, not-too-bright little person who
makes car noises all day long, smears peanut butter on my pink
satin guitar-shaped pillow, pulls my mismatched ears, runs Tonka
trucks up the legs of Callie’s customers, and generally has turned
everything upside down here at Hair.Net.

This particular little person is David. He
was part of the package when his mom, Darlene, (Callie’s new
manicurist) moved in lock, stock, and uppity Lhasa Apso.

That would be William, who claims he’s the
Dalai Lama reincarnate. He’s prancing around here, even as I speak,
acting like he outranks the King. I thought he’d get the message
when I howled “The Great Pretender,” but he just did his silly
Lhasa flop that made Callie say, “Isn’t he the cutest little
dog?”

Cute, my slightly crooked hind leg. “Don’t
Step on my Blue Suede Shoes” is what she ought to be saying. That
silly fuzz ball’s motto is “Rip It Up.”

Mine is “Suspicious Minds.” Listen, you can’t
trust a dog with a bushy tail. What’s the use of a tail that can’t
point rabbits? Or thump the floor like a drum? Or whack your human
mom’s legs to let her know you love her?

Wait till Callie finds out William sneaked
into the beauty shop closet and chewed the toe out of her favorite
Steve Madden moccasins. She loves her designer shoes.

But even with that dumb dog chewing up
everything in sight and trying to steal my spotlight and David
trying to pull my tail, I’ll have to admit business has picked up
around Hair.Net. Ever since Fayrene’s daughter moved back home with
her entourage (which includes a cat named Mal that I’m not even
going to dignify with a comment) and started dispensing Atlanta
nail art, we’ve been booked to the hilt. Everybody who is anybody
comes here to have Darlene paint witches and pumpkins on their
toes. And while they’re at it, they end up getting a new hairdo for
Halloween.

Business is popping over at Gas, Grits and
Guts, too. People have been coming from Mantachie and Saltillo and
even as far off as Red Bay, Alabama, to admire Fayrene and
Jarvetis’ disco ball dance trophy. They hung it over the pickled
pigs’ lips then proceeded to spotlight it so it would send rainbows
over the Vlasic pickles and Lay’s potato chips. My best friend,
Trey (Jarvetis’ redbone hounddog), tells me that Fayrene and
Jarvetis (Mooreville’s answer to royalty), are acting like
lovebirds these days in spite of the fact that work is progressing
on the séance room he said she’d build onto the back of their
convenience store over his dead body.

And speaking of dead bodies…ever since
Charlie Valentine thought Ruby Nell was going to join the body
count during the Memphis Mambo Murders, he’s back to being her best
friend as well as the backbone of the entire Valentine family. As a
matter of fact, he’s planning to take her to the undertaker’s
convention in the Yucatan.

That leaves only one Valentine unaccounted
for – Lovie, Callie’s 190-pound, over-the-top, flamboyant cousin.
Currently she’s in the Yucatan at Rocky’s archeological dig
promoting an agenda that features the love of her life discovering
her “national treasure.” She had that tattooed on her bombshell
hips when we left off trying to catch a killer long enough to have
a little fun up on Beale Street in Memphis. Personally, I think the
“national treasure” ought to be added to the list of world
wonders.

Here comes that five-year-old, pretending
he’s a Peterbilt rig. I’d escape through the doggie door and mosey
on down to see what’s cooking with my cute Frenchie (that would be
Ann Margret) and my five handsome progeny, but somebody has to keep
things straight around here. Ruby Nell will be here any minute. She
called to say she wanted to get spiffied up for her trip, but you
can bet she’s up to something. And I’m just the dog to find out.
These mismatched radar ears miss nothing.

Well, bless’a my soul. The little person is
carrying a cone of vanilla ice cream. That goofy Lhasa just waves
his useless, ostentatious tail, but I know opportunity when it
knocks.

I heft myself off my cushion, hum of a few
bars of “Let Me Be Your Teddy Bear,” then mosey on over to see if
the short person will let me lick ice cream off his elbows.