Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2) (4 page)

She gave him that
sometimes-men-are-really-dense look again. “Goldstone is a small
town, you know. Everybody knows everybody. She’s a sweetheart. And
she’s smart. She’s really made that website of hers grow.”

Holy hell. Maggie knew about that, too. But
did she know Carl might be a customer? “I heard all about the
website. You ever read one of her stories?”

“No. I’d be embarrassed sharing my
fantasies.”

Brax would be embarrassed hearing them so he
didn’t press. Her answer did confirm one thing: Carl hadn’t shared
whatever was in that email Simone had sent him. Brax’s last hope
died a fiery death.

Wouldn’t that be just perfect? If the whole
situation didn’t involve his sister, he’d say it had the makings of
a TV tabloid episode. The kind of thing that ended in an all-out
bitch fight. Or murder.

* * * * *

In the end, he didn’t make it to The Chicken
Coop right away. Patrolling Goldstone’s gravel streets—and there
weren’t many of them—he’d recognized Simone’s blond curls in a
white pickup as she passed in front of him heading out to the
highway. Seeing her was no coincidence. It was divine
intervention.

Or so he told himself as he followed her
north out of town towards Bullhead, mentally rehashing every word
his sister had said about the woman.

Animated for the first time since he’d
arrived, Maggie had reseated herself at the kitchen table, the
sunlight making her glow, and told him the when, where, why and how
of Simone Chandler’s life history. The salient point being that
Simone didn’t have a special man in her life, and it was high time
she found one. Great. His sister was matchmaking. Brax was sure
Simone wouldn’t like him knowing all her secrets. Or her failures.
Still, he’d listened dutifully. Simone had been a tech writer with
her own Silicon Valley business that had taken a nosedive when the
bottom fell out of the telecommunications industry. Maybe the ad
she’d fallen across, for a trailer
with a real foundation
,
had been
her
divine intervention when she was down and out.
She’d arrived in Goldstone beaten to a bloody pulp by life, but
she’d thrived in the high desert air and made Goldstone her home.
That was Maggie’s version of the story, and she was sticking to
it.

Brax didn’t ask how anyone could thrive in
Goldstone. The burg had fallen to its knees in the flood and taken
its last gasping breath in the fire. Now, it was nothing more than
a ghost town. Its citizens were taking a hell of a long time to
figure that out.

For thirty miles, the desert whipped by the
windows of his SUV, with nothing but road signs breaking the
monotony. That and the vision of blond hair through the rear window
of the truck ahead of him. If she was off to meet Carl at some
out-of-the-way place, Brax would catch them in the act and put a
brotherly end to the affair.

Instead, she slowed at the Bullhead city
limit, then pulled into a grocery store parking lot, finding a
space near the front while Brax had to cruise the aisles looking
for another. Monday morning at The Stockyard Grocery was apparently
a popular time. She’d already disappeared through the automatic
doors when a car backed out of the spot straight across from
hers.

More divine intervention. Brax parked,
climbed out, then rested against the back of his SUV to wait. He
was a patient man. A cop had to be. Besides, he indulged himself
with the image of her platform sandals, tanned legs and short
shorts—not that he’d been ogling, merely observing. He preferred
voluptuous to emaciated any day of the week, and Simone Chandler
was definitely of the voluptuous variety. Even her voice held a
sultry, sumptuous note guaranteed to elevate the temperature and
raise a few other things, as well. Boredom was nowhere in sight
when she returned some thirty minutes later, wheeling a cart full
to the brim with paper sacks.

He crossed the narrow aisle. “Let me get that
for you.” He helped her load the bags into the bed of her
truck.

“Did you follow me, Brax?”

“You could say I followed your rear end.”

She arched a darkened eyebrow into her
bangs.

He stepped back and pointed to the tailgate
of her truck and the excess of bumper stickers plastered to the
chrome. “Too small to read when I’m adhering to the required
distance of one car length per ten miles an hour rate of speed. I
had to follow you in here so I could take a good, long gander at
your stickers.”

She put a hand on her hip. “Should I take it
you’re done perusing my backside?”

He nodded. “I find that one particularly
intriguing.” He pointed to a black decal with white letters warning
the unwary:
Don’t make me bring out the flying monkeys
.

“It’s the Wicked Witch of the West sending
out the monkeys to steal Dorothy away,” Simone explained.

“I get the image very clearly.” She’d win
lovers’ quarrels with that one, by getting said lover to laugh
himself to death. Or bring him to his knees for an entirely
different reason. Damn, he did have it bad when a bumper sticker
made him hot. He pointed once more to her truck’s rear. “The skulls
are a nice touch.”

They ringed her license plate, and following
her, he’d noticed the eyes lit up when she stepped on the
brake.

She bounced on her platforms, felled him with
a heart-stopping smile, and clapped her hands to her cheeks.
“Aren’t they absolutely perfect? Whitey found them for me in one of
his Harley magazines.” Her hands flipped, flapped and waved all
over the place as she talked. “You remember Whitey, don’t you? He
was at Flood’s End last night.”

“Beard down to here.” Brax hit the edge of
his hand mid-chest. “And a voice like he’s chewing gravel?”

“That’s him. I think Mr. Doodle and I are
probably the only ones who understand him. Not that anyone can
completely understand Whitey.” She tapped her temple. “He’s a
little out there, and my mother would drop dead of a brain
implosion if she saw him stick tobacco in his mouth, but he’s the
biggest sweetie who ever walked the earth.” Simone put the last bag
in the bed and leaned her hip against the side of the truck. “So,
who are you like?”

She dizzied him with her lightning-fast
speech, hand movements, and subject changes.

Both her eyebrows flashed up this time.
“
The Wizard of Oz
. Which character do you identify
with?”

“Ahhh.” The sound wheezed out of him. “I’ve
never thought about it.” He wasn’t sure anyone
but
Simone
Chandler had.

She saved him from answering by launching
into her own preference. “Personally, I’m intrigued by the Wicked
Witch of the West. You know, life must have been really tough being
a wicked witch.” She punctuated with a hand flap and a hair flip.
“She’s got all that green-tinged skin and that long nose and raspy
voice. I think she had bad teeth, too. And her younger sister, the
Good Witch, is so much prettier and nicer and everybody loves her
and she gets to wear the pretty white dress, while the Wicked Witch
has to wear all that ugly black stuff—”

“The Good Witch wasn’t her sister.”

She gasped, as if he’d blasphemed. “Sure
Glinda was her sister.”

He shook his head, playing her game, wanting
to. Almost compelled to. She had that effect on a man, making him
want to do things not in his nature. “The Wicked Witch of the East,
who got clobbered by Dorothy’s house, is the Wicked Witch’s
sister.”

She gaped. “They’re
all
sisters, the
north, the south, the east, and the west. It’s just that two of
them are wicked and two of them are good.”

He quirked one side of his mouth in what he’d
been told was a know-it-all smile. Damn. He
liked
arguing
with her. “Nope. You better watch the movie again.”

“I’m sure I’m right. The two wicked witches
lived in the shadows of their happy, pretty sisters.”

Again, the happier, prettier sister thing. He
wondered briefly about her family, then threw her a curveball. “So
who were their parents?”

She stopped, looked at him. Damn, she was
cute. Laughter danced in her eyes as she pretended to ponder the
question. To no avail. “I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know they were all
sisters?”

She kept up the play, narrowing her eyes at
him. “You’re trying to trick me.”

He shined his fingernails on his shirt, which
said it all.

She flapped a hand at him. “All right, all
right, forget the witches. Who are
you
like?”

Caught. The banter hadn’t sidetracked her for
long. “As I said, I’ve never thought about it.”

“Think about it now.”

He puffed out a breath. “The tin man, I
guess.”

“Aha.” She pointed at him. “The man without a
heart.”

“Actually I was thinking tin star. Because
I’m a sheriff.”

She snorted. “Lame.”

It was. He spread his hands. She might be
right. The man without a heart was not a flattering description. It
reminded him once more of his ex-wife and their doomed marriage.
Maybe if he’d been a better listener.

He brushed the thoughts aside. “It’s the best
I could come up with on short notice.”

“Maybe
you
need to watch the movie
again.”

He might need a lot of things, one of them
being more time in Simone’s company. Except that she could be
having an affair with Carl. Christ, the thought made him wince.
“I’m pretty sure the Good Witch’s name isn’t Glinda either.”

“We could watch it together and find out
who’s right.”

She looked at him, all fresh faced, innocent,
and hopeful. His heart flipped over—see, he did have one. He wanted
to say yes. His duty to Maggie stopped him. Watching
The Wizard
of Oz
with Simone was a bad idea all around. If, repeat
if
, she was diddling Carl, she was no friend to his sister.
He couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Yet he couldn’t forget the
eagerness with which she’d asked Carl if he’d gotten her email, or
the blush that seemed to cover Carl from head to toe.

He ignored her implied question in favor of
saying, “I don’t think I’ve ever had the...pleasure of meeting
anyone quite like you. You are...” He paused, scanning her
beautiful, lively face. Charming, funny, witty, a little bit kooky.
Hell, a lot kooky, but dazzling. Yeah, completely dazzling.
“Unique,” he finally said aloud.

On second thought, maybe what he’d said
wasn’t any better than accepting her invitation. Damn.

She laughed. “I’m pretty sure
unique
wasn’t the word you were searching for.” She nodded her head
knowingly, as if she presumed he’d been thinking something
derogatory. “My mother says I’m like a jet engine. Get in my flight
path, and I’ll suck you in one side and spit your little pieces out
the other.”

“That’s a very nice compliment.” He was sure
it wasn’t a compliment at all. He was also fairly certain he
wouldn’t like her mother.

She laughed, the sweet sound burrowing into
his belly. “Thank you for lying so gallantly,” she said.

Damn, he’d wanted to lie for her. He pointed
to the truck bed, needing to end the little tête-à-tête before he
got himself into serious trouble. “I hope you haven’t got ice cream
in there that’s in danger of melting.”

“No ice cream. Just milk.”

They couldn’t stand there all damn day, as
much as part of him wanted to. He pulled his shades from his shirt
pocket and hid behind the dark lenses. No two ways about it, he had
to get the freaking question over with and out of the way. For
Maggie’s sake. “Are you having an affair with my sister’s
husband?”

Her smile died. His insides twisted with the
loss, but he ignored any possible meaning to that.

She gave him a simple “No.”

Just as when he interrogated a seemingly
bereaved wife who may or may not have had something to do with her
spouse’s demise, he didn’t apologize for asking. He did, however,
wince inwardly. “Then what was in that email you mentioned last
night?”

She thought about it for long moments before
answering. “You’ll have to ask Carl about that.” She bit down on
the inside of her cheek. “But I wouldn’t have an affair with a
friend’s husband.” She pursed her lips. “Not that I’d have an
affair with anyone’s husband. But especially not a friend’s.” She
heaved a sigh. “What I mean is—”

Her flustered explanation made him feel like
shit. He held up a hand. “I think I get it. Thanks. Gotta run.”

After enjoying her enchanting banter, then
insulting her nine ways to Sunday, he couldn’t get out of there
fast enough. Guilty conscience, pure and simple. He turned on his
heel, crossed to his truck, and left her standing alone in The
Stockyard parking lot.

His problem, however, still remained. He’d
asked. She’d denied. But could he believe her?

* * * * *

“Strange guy,” Simone muttered as she watched
Brax pull out onto the highway and head for Goldstone.

She could have told him the email was a
fantasy Carl had wanted her to write for Maggie. Something to
rekindle the fire they’d lost. She never should have mentioned the
email in front of Brax. A person didn’t tell another’s secrets, not
even in defense of their own character.

She groaned aloud. Okay, so she’d voraciously
listened to Maggie reveal all Brax’s secrets, right down to the
fact that his marriage had gone bust because he’d worked too many
long, hard hours, and that he hadn’t dated much since the divorce.
There was also that little thing about the wife having gotten
hitched to him on the rebound from a love affair gone bad. She
really
shouldn’t have listened quite so carefully to that
part. But listening to secrets wasn’t the same as revealing them.
Was it?

She tabled that thought for later in favor of
musing on the man himself.