Higher Than Eagles (Donovans of the Delta) (20 page)

under. She'd always guarded her privacy as much as she'd guarded her time. And yet here she was, telling this strange man things she'd never even told Rob.

"The name suits you." He nodded, adding his stamp of approval, then kissed her hand in the courtly manner of a long-ago era. "I'm pleased to meet you, Annie Debeau."

Annie. Something stirred inside her, as soft as the brush of angel wings. Nobody had ever called her Annie, and yet the name felt as familiar to her as if she awakened every day to the sound of it on her lover's lips.

"I might reciprocate except that you stole my clock right out from under my nose."

"This sassy little thing?" The clock's tail never missed a beat as Colt set it on the counter.

"You were eavesdropping."

"No. I was right behind you, thinking the same thing myself. Only not about the clock."

With any other man she would have taken offense, but Colt had a warm, easy manner that allowed him to pass off outrageous remarks as refreshing honesty.

"You probably say that to all the girls."

"Probably," he agreed, laughing to himself.

Later she would mull over the encounter bit by bit, as she always did, and be mortified at her own behavior, but the heat and the banana split, combined with Colt Butler's natural charm, put her in a mellow mood. He could suggest they swim naked in the moonlight, and she doubted she'd blink twice.

"So you're at Windchime House?" he added.

"How did you know?"

"The name. Your grandmother's house is a familiar landmark around here. Beautiful and strangely haunting in a way I can't describe."

"Exactly." She was amazed that he'd seen beyond the beauty.

"Do you ever swim naked in the bay?"

She nearly dropped her spoon. "In the moonlight?"

"Yes." It was his turn to be flustered.

"Do you read minds?" she asked.

"No. I barely have time to read newspapers." Under the guise of savoring his cherries and whipped cream, he studied her. "You were thinking the same thing?"

"I don't want you to get the wrong idea."

"Neither do I. I've been called a rake and a Southern-fried Romeo, but I've never been called a cad." He lifted her hand and twisted the ring on her finger. "The first thing you told me was that you'd made a pledge, and I respect that." His grin was wicked. "I don't like it, but I respect it."

Why was it, the simplest little thing he said could make her hot all over? What she needed was a good dose of Rob. His practical manner was the perfect counterbalance for her unconventional, unpredictable nature, the perfect antidote for the outrageous man sitting beside her.

"Thanks for the ice cream, Colt. I have to run. I have a million things to do."

"You didn't finish."

She gazed with longing at her dish. Laughing, Colt scooped up the whipped cream and cherries, and held the spoon to her mouth. How could she resist?

"You always save the best for last," he said.

"How did you know?" He offered another bite, and she took it.

"I do too." He scraped the last bite from her bowl, then cupped her chin while she ate.

She closed her eyes in sheer appreciation of the moment—the ice cream, the ceiling fans stirring the balmy air, the tender touch of a man's hand on her skin.

"Hmmm . . . the last bite is always the best"

Suddenly she felt another touch, on her lips this time, whisper-soft, gentle as dew falling on roses. Colt's lips on hers.

It was a brief kiss, so brief that when she opened her eyes she thought she might have dreamed it. Except for the gleam in his eyes.

"So it is," he murmured.

She jumped off the stool. "I have to be going."

"I know. You have a million things to do."

His smile caught her hard up under her rib cage, and for a moment she thought she might faint. Unable to take her eyes off him, she angled sideways toward the door muttering, "Pardon me," more times than she could count as she bumped into hapless bystanders and stepped on toes.

She was as confused as Alice in Wonderland. Swinging open the door, she gulped deep breaths of fresh air.

"You forgot something."

His voice was all too familiar. Familiar, too, was the floating sensation she felt from something as simple as the sound of his voice.

"You forgot this."

There was the clock in all its forties splendor, tail merrily wagging, eyes rolling as if Felix the Cat knew things nobody else knew.

"But I didn't forget it. It's yours. You got to it first"

"No. You were there first." He pressed the clock into her hands. "I want to buy it for you."

"Here." She reached into her purse. "How much—?"

He stilled her with a firm grip over her hand. "My gift to you, Annie Debeau. To mark the time until we meet again."

Before she could protest he strolled over to the cashier, turning only long enough for a wink and a smile.

 o0o

Felix the Cat sat on the mantel, looking as out of place in Windchime House as a thorn on a morning glory.

"Rob?" Curled into a ball on the Victorian love seat, Ann cradled the receiver close.

"Honey?" The static on the line made him sound as if he were on another planet. And that's exactly how Ann felt, as if Rob were on Jupiter and she'd been abandoned somewhere between the moon and Venus. "What's wrong?"

"Does something have to be wrong for me to call you?"

"No. But we usually call each other in the evening, so the question stands."

"Nothing." Certainly nothing she could tell him.

"Is there something on your mind, Ann?"

Where was that rush of relief she'd expected to feel when she called him? Where was the lifting of the spirits, the music in the heart?

It had been too long since she'd seen him: That was all.

"Rob, did I ever tell you I was born the day my grandmother died?"

"No."

"You don't sound very interested."

"Now, Ann, don't get your dander up. I know it's been rough down there these last few weeks, but, honey, it's the middle of the afternoon."

Why was it that everything he said irritated her?

"Well, don't let me keep you from your clients."

"I am on a tight schedule today—contracts to get out, Charlie Battingham breathing down my neck, getting ready for court tomorrow, plus the usual mountain of paper on my desk. It's hell around here."

"It's pretty hot down here too."

 Rob didn't even chuckle. "I'll call you tonight, honey, after you're all tucked in bed."

"Okay. Fine."

She held on to the receiver, waiting for him to say something more. Maybe she was expecting too much. Maybe dealing with her aunt's death had made her

want more from life. But shouldn't there be words of comfort and tenderness and longing? Shouldn't there be soft sighs and heavy breathing? Shouldn't there be a mention of love?

"Is there something else, Ann?"

"No. Nothing. 'Bye, Rob."

"Good-bye, Ann. Talk to you later."

She hugged her legs and pressed her cheek on her knees, taking comfort from the sweaty feel of her own skin and the smell of the lotion she'd found in Aunt Gilly's bathroom. Rose. A favorite scent of the Debeau women. It was everywhere—in the potpourri on the marble-topped tables, in the drying petals of the huge bouquets friends had sent for the memorial services. The sweet scent even clung to the velvet drapes, as if cascades of rose petals had been crushed against the heavy fabric.

Suddenly Ann couldn't breathe. Barefoot, she padded onto the front porch. It was more properly called a veranda, spanning the entire front of the white three- story house that overlooked the water and wrapping halfway around the sides. The sun streaked the western sky with magenta and purple, and ceiling fans stirred the humid air, setting the wind chimes a’sway. First her grandmother and then her aunt had collected them from all over the world, tuned chimes whose tinkling music carried across the wide sweep of lawn and down to the dock where a sailboat lay at anchor.

Nostalgic, she touched the chimes she’d sent Aunt Gilly at Christmas, then leaned on the front porch railing and looked out across the water. The bay was spectacular in the setting sun, a scene that was balm to an artist's soul.

She could work here. For the hundredth time in the last few days she wondered what she was going to do about Windchime House. It had belonged to her grandmother, then her aunt Gilly, and now it was hers.

But her life was in New York. Wasn't it?

The sea lapped against the shore, its music as compelling as a siren's song. Ann looked out over the water and thought about swimming naked in the moonlight.

 o0o

Elvis and the Tropical Double Trouble, Excerpt

Peggy Webb

(Fourth Southern Cousins Mystery)

Elvis’ Opinion # 1 on the Valentines, Manicures, and Mooreville’s Royalty

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.