Love Songs (31 page)

2

For a fleeting moment Serena was back in that Los Angeles County courtroom, with Thomas Harrison Reynolds standing boldly among the throng of press personnel covering the trial. He had been sixteen years younger then and his appearance had reflected it, from the shaggy fall of hair across his brow to the faded corduroys and worn loafers above which a blazer, patched at the elbows, seemed a begrudging concession to courtroom convention.

Now the corduroys had been replaced by gray wool slacks, the loafers by polished cordovans. Today’s blazer was navy, immaculately cut, well-fitted. Sixteen years had handsomely matured his skin and dashed the silver wisps she’d noticed earlier through his hair. But his eyes and the depth of his expression hadn’t changed a bit. On their power she was hauled forward over the years.

Tom stood at the door, Serena behind the waist-high counter. Twenty feet separated them, twenty feet charged with waves of electricity. Caught in the middle was Monica, looking from one face to the other, instantly sensing something unusual astir.

Serena would never know why the shop had suddenly grown quiet. Where had the customers who had been milling around moments before disappeared to?

As though to further the developing nightmare Monica, seventeen and infinitely perceptive, slipped softly past her. “I’ll unload those late deliveries, Serena,” she said, then was gone.

For the first time in recent memory Serena didn’t know what to do. One part of her felt like that frightened thirteen-year-old back in Los Angeles; the other part was a poised and successful twenty-nine-year-old businesswoman. Somewhere in the middle of the two she waffled. Why was he here? What did he want now?

Paralysis seized her; she was helpless to function. In the span of what seemed hours, yet could have been no more than a minute or two, she felt raked over the coals for a crime in which she’d had no part. Tom’s gaze grilled her with the persistence of an inquisitor. Beneath its force the knot in her stomach spread slowly through her system.

Then, as though in partial answer to the prayer she hadn’t had the presence to offer, the door opened and another customer entered the shop. Tom moved easily to the side, stopping to lean casually against the wall by the door.

A flicker of annoyance passed through Serena that he should post himself so confidently on her terrain. The thought was enough to stiffen her backbone. If it was a demonstration he wanted, a demonstration he’d get. This
was
her turf. Satisfying customers
was
her specialty. That Thomas Reynolds should presume to intimidate her in her own shop galled her.

Only he could see the fire in her eyes as she left the safe haven of her counter to approach the newcomer. In her determination to ignore him Serena missed the hint of a smile that both curved his lips slightly and sparkled in his eyes.

As much in defiance as in deference to the customer, she put a purposeful smile on her face. “May I help you?” she asked the middle-aged woman who, from the moment she’d entered the shop, had been entranced so by the cheery array of goodies around her that Serena’s approach startled her.

“Oh! Uh, yes!” She looked up quickly, then was drawn helplessly back to a dainty, hand-sewn pocketbook, child-sized and filled with individually wrapped suckers. “This is adorable. I want to pick up something for my granddaughter. This might be just the thing. Today’s her birthday.”

“How old is she?” Serena asked, noting out of the corner of her eye that Tom had straightened and begun to look around the shop himself.

The older woman grinned. “Just seven, God bless her!”

Tom moved slowly in their direction, idling nonchalantly before various items, but moving onward nonetheless. Serena grasped at the escape hatch opened by her customer. “Seven. How wonderful! May I make a suggestion?”

“By all means.”

“I could fill
that
bag,” she pointed to the small pocketbook that had charmed the woman, “with Jelly Bean Hash.” Without waiting for approval she retreated toward the rear of the shop, as far as possible from where Tom had paused to pick up and study an oriental lacquered box, to the crystal cookie jar set prominently on a corner of her work counter. It was filled to the brim with Jelly Bean Hash.

“Jelly Bean Hash?” the woman echoed Serena, her question echoed in its turn by Tom’s dark brows, which rose as he looked Serena’s way in wry amusement.

Serena concentrated on the sale. Lifting the lid of the cookie jar, she removed one of the cookie-shaped candies with the scoop left nearby for the purpose. “Assorted jelly beans dropped into a white chocolate ‘batter.’ Kids adore them. The purse will hold perhaps half a dozen. I could wrap them in colored plastic wrap to match the fabric of the bag, if you like.”

Beaming, the woman nodded. “I would like that. Thank you. It sounds perfect.”

To Serena’s temporary relief Tom had gone back to his studies. She set to work wrapping the hash in deep red plastic to match the bag her customer had chosen, then tied a vibrant yellow bow around the whole. “There!” She held up the finished product for inspection before sinking it in a bag. “How’s that?”

As the woman expressed her pleasure and paid for her purchase Tom silently nodded his approval, too. Even this peripheral participation in the exchange rattled Serena, who seemed to spend longer fumbling for the correct change of the twenty-dollar bill the woman offered than she’d spent recommending and wrapping the item.

With each step the woman took toward the front door Tom moved closer to Serena, who grew increasingly uneasy. She had never felt so awkward. Could she treat this man as simply another customer? Could she pretend, after the intensity of their exchanged glances that she had never seen him before?

The shop was quiet, with only the intermittent rustle of Monica working in the back room to break the silence. Despite the absurdity of the situation Serena couldn’t quite find any words with which to break the ice. As she lifted her eyes from her clenched hands, her own fear and resentment clashed in silent battle with the curiosity and confusion in his gaze.
Why didn’t he say something? What was he up to?
If only Monica were out here with her to serve as a buffer. But that was the cowardly approach, she chided herself. Then, once more, she was saved by the bell.

“Serena!” A tall bundle of knee-length rabbit fur and shimmering red-gold tresses surged through the front door, crossing the room before the jangle of the bell had died. “I need Red Hots! You’ve got some, haven’t you? Oh, excuse me—” Cynthia Wayne came to an abrupt stop beside Tom, her striking blue eyes wide. “I can wait, if you’re busy.” Her gaze didn’t budge.

“No, no, that’s fine,” said Serena, enthusiastically recovering the use of her tongue. “It’s good to see you, Cynthia.”
She would never know how good!
For the first time in the four years that she and Cynthia had been weekly racquetball partners Serena actually welcomed Cynthia’s very blatant sensuality. Anything to sidetrack Thomas Harrison Reynolds from his enigmatic quest. “You sound desperate,” she teased her friend. “Any problem?”

Cynthia faced her and grinned mischievously. “Nothing a pound of your spicy little Cinnamon Red Hots can’t solve.” Narrowing her gaze at the assortment of Chinese-style takeout containers on a shelf behind the counter, she pointed to one. “I think that blue-and-white-checked job over there should blend just beautifully with his office.”

Though Serena was uncomfortably aware of Tom following the conversation closely, she couldn’t resist a soft-spoken jab at her friend’s humor. “Now, now, Cynthia. Who is it you’re trying to burn?” Behind Cynthia, Tom smirked.

“My boss, as it happens.” She tilted her chin up in revolt “He’s been really short with all of us today. I’d like to see him take a handful of these and stuff them in his mouth with his usual greed.
Then
he’ll have something to bark at!”

“He’ll be breathing fire,” Serena warned her lightly.

“He deserves it,” the other woman shot back. Full lips curved into a seductive pout, Cynthia tossed a sidelong glance at Tom. His eyes, however, were firmly trained on Serena.

If Monica had been perceptive beyond her years, Cynthia’s insight was a product of hers. Had she not been in a rush to get back to the office she might have been tempted to stay and chat with her friend. Had this man, whom Serena had notably failed to introduce to her, not been standing by waiting patiently for an unknown something from Serena, Cynthia would have lingered even in spite of her boss’s decree. She was a born flirt; but she also knew when a man was irrevocably indifferent to her charm. And this man
was.
Her provocative appearance hadn’t sparked him in the least. With a sigh she took her purchase from Serena’s outstretched hand.

“Thanks, love,” she murmured in answer to her friend’s feeble excuse for a smile. Both women walked to the front door.

“Go easy on him, Cyn,” Serena quipped when she knew they were out of Tom’s earshot. She was unprepared for her friend’s retort.

“On him? What about you?” Her whisper stopped as she glanced back over her shoulder at Tom. “What’s going on with
him?
”

“Nothing.”

“He’s gorgeous.”

“I really hadn’t noticed.” They stood now at the opened door, Serena with her back purposefully to the inside of the shop.

“Come on, Serena. I know you’re not a wild dater, but he’s not here for gumdrops.” In the face of Serena’s helpless expression, Cynthia knew she would get no information beyond what she had observed herself. There was definitely something going on between her friend and the dark-haired man in her shop. Perhaps Serena would tell her more when they played. “I’ll see you at the club tomorrow night, love.”

“Sure, Cyn.”

“Take care!”

Despite the unmistakably naughty drawl in the redhead’s voice, Serena watched her departure with reluctance. The furred form flew on down the stairs toward the street level of the plaza, then disappeared through a doorway to the outside world.

Serena sighed. Then, with a deep breath and a longer sigh, she turned.

The soft carpet had silenced Tom’s footsteps as he had approached. A gasp of fright escaped her when she found herself face to face with him. Face to face? It was more a case of face to throat! Standing at such close proximity with no buffer between them, Serena was appalled at the discrepancy in their height. The intensity of his expression, laced heavily now with amusement at her discomfort, was intimidating enough without this added leverage he seemed suddenly to have gained.

Lips dry, she bit her tongue to keep from wetting them in a gesture she knew would be misleading. Her heart beat double-time; her legs were momentarily shaky. Clearing her throat, she took a breath to begin—then stopped. Something … something in his expression brought back to mind the bizarre thought that had raced quickly through it earlier in the restaurant. Was there a possibility that he had
not
recognized her? Could some other unfathomable purpose have brought him into
Sweet Serenity?
For an instant she was aghast at the realization of how rude she had been, if that was the case. Then she reminded herself that it was Thomas Harrison Reynolds who stood before her. Straightening, she steeled herself to confront the enemy.

For lack of a better opening she slipped into the role of shopkeeper. “May I help you?” Her tone was as even as she could produce under the circumstances, but it was far from completely self-confident. Chin up, body taut, she was mindful of the thudding in her chest.

Tom drew his brows together, then frowned more deeply. As he peered down his face held a mixture of varied and fleeting emotions. Many were the same she had sensed in him earlier—confusion, curiosity, skepticism, boldness, determination. There was still that noticeable absence of recognition—but there was also the presence of that fire, burning through the flickering hazel of his gaze. And there was something else deep within … working its way to the surface.…

To Serena’s consternation, he put his head back and laughed. Only after he caught his breath did she hear his voice for the first time in sixteen years. It was smooth and steady, not as deep or gruff as she would have imagined, and it carried a gentleness totally at odds with her expectations.

“You
are
a character!” he marveled, confounding her further.

“Wh-what?”

“You’re very unusual.”

“Oh?”

“Uh-huh.”

She paused. Would he declare his purpose? “Well…?”

“Well, what?”

“Is there something I can do for you?” Her voice had risen in pitch along with her body heat.

“I hope so,” he drawled, butter smooth. This was not at all what she had expected.

“Are you looking for something?”

“Could be.”

The conversation was going nowhere. Only her heart tripped recklessly forward, sending blood through her veins at breakneck speed. She sighed. “You’re staring.”
Where was Monica?

“So are you,” he rejoined, undaunted.

So she had been, though not of her own volition. It was as though that fire in his eyes drew her; she had no choice. Mustering the fragments of her self-possession, she tore her gaze from his and walked quickly behind the counter to finish the packing that had been so abruptly interrupted by her discovery of this man’s identity.