Love Songs (32 page)

In a move she might later question she thrust the single condemning sheet of newsprint to the side for safekeeping and completed the chore. Though her fingers fumbled busily, her mind couldn’t escape the absurdity of the situation. Did he recognize her or not? In either case, what did he want?

“Are you buying a gift for someone?” She tried again, looking at him over the counter. He had come to stand flush against it, his forearm resting on its raised rim. His hand was long, strong, relaxed, clean—much as its owner who, for the first time, seemed to grow impatient.

“Of course not. I’m here to see
you.
”

“About what?” she came back too quickly, apprehensive once more.

Her fear puzzled him nearly as much as his motive alarmed her. Before either of them could say another word the jangle of the bell offered a respite. With a meaningful nod in the direction of the oncoming customer Tom stood to the side as Serena moved forward. Five minutes later, having sold one wire chick filled with oversized coconut jelly beans, she was back at ringside. Tom picked up where they had left off.

“What about? I was hoping
you
could tell me that. It’s not every day that a woman in a restaurant eyes me the way you did today.”

“Oh?” What else could she say without tipping her hand. If he truly didn’t remember her
she
had the upper hand. While one half of her ached to cry out its bitterness toward him, the other half exerted good sense and stifled the words.

“I still can’t figure it out.” He continued to scrutinize her closely.

“What?”

“Those very pointed daggers you threw at me during lunch.”

Had she been more obvious than she’d thought? Or had she simply been unaware of the strength of her mysterious resentment? “Daggers? I … you … you just looked … familiar.…”

“Hmm.” He offered a crooked smile that lacked any humor. “You must have some enemy!”

How right he was, she mused sadly. If only he’d never moved to Minneapolis! If only she’d never had cause to remember him and the past he had helped to warp!

“How did you find me?” she asked softly.

Tom was pleased by her curiosity, a definite improvement on curtness. The warmth of his gaze was suddenly contagious, spreading over his features, threatening to extend to her own. She fought it by looking away.

“After you left I asked the hostess about you. She suggested I try
Sweet Serenity.
She also said”—there was humor in his tone—“that I’d have to wait in line.”

Serena laughed innocently. “That might be true just before Christmas, Valentine’s Day or Mother’s Day. But, as you can see, on normal days we keep things moving.”

“I don’t think that was quite what she meant.” One dark brow arched chidingly.

“Oh?” It took her a minute to catch on.

“Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

His invitation was so guileless that it made the situation that much worse. “
What?
How can you even suggest such a thing?”

He shrugged. “It’s really not so unusual. Men and women do it all the time. I seem to recall that you had a very attentive luncheon partner.”

“So did you,” she lashed back, then blushed.

“Ah, you noticed. You see,” he grinned playfully, “it is fairly common. How about it?”

Serena shook her head in amazement. How had she found herself in this situation? “This is ridiculous,” she whispered, half to herself.

But he was fast to call her on it. “How so?”

Slowly she tipped her head back to face him. He was very attractive and, in all probability, very interesting. Had things been different she might have been tempted. As things stood, however, it was out of the question. She could never betray her father’s memory by socializing with Tom Reynolds.

“You don’t even know me,” she hedged.

“That can be remedied,” he countered.

“I could be married.”

“To your lunch date?”

“He’s my investment counselor.”

“Ahh,” he sighed softly. “But you did go to lunch with him. Why not dinner with me?”

“I had a good reason to have lunch with André. I don’t have
any
reason to have dinner with you.”

When he grinned the echo of his smile tingled strangely through her. “You just might enjoy yourself.”

“I just might
not!
”

He frowned, perplexed. “Do you have a reason
not
to have dinner with me?”

“Yes.”

“You
are
attached?”

“No.…”

“Then why not dinner?” he persisted.

Serena enjoyed a momentary feeling of power. “You look surprised, Mr. Reynolds. What’s wrong—not used to being turned down?”

Tom grew alert. Straightening his shoulders, he took control once more. “You
know
me.” His gaze narrowed with the flat statement. “I had that impression. How is that?”

“I … I read about you in the newspaper.”

Her stammer fell victim to his slow headshake. “No good. The papers carried no photographs. I’ve been insistent about that.”

“Insistent?” She was temporarily sidetracked by curiosity.

“Anonymity is something I prize,” he stated simply.

“Hah! This must be a recent twist!” she scoffed in spontaneous sarcasm. Sixteen years ago Tom Reynolds had come brashly forward to denounce her father, first in print, then in court. She could almost hear the bang of the judge’s gavel, then she realized it was the birth of a headache.

Every bit the investigator, Tom prodded further, which did nothing to discourage her headache. “You didn’t learn my identity from the paper, Serena,” he called her by name.
Thank you, Cynthia
, she mused wryly, then trembled. It was only a matter of time before he knew the truth. “You’ve known me in the past. Why don’t I know you?” His features formed a deeper frown.

Her patience began to wane. “Could be that you’ve known so many women in your life you can’t keep them straight. A dime a dozen?” She had sputtered at him in pure anger, heedless that her words were inappropriate. She was quickly sorry.

Retribution took the form not of anger but of smooth seduction. Tom’s gaze fell from her eyes to the soft and vulnerable curve of her lips, lingering long enough to send a new and unwelcome tremor through her. “I’ve never dated you,” he said huskily as his eyes made a slow exploration of her pale cheeks, the lazy auburn curls that fell there, the path of faded freckles across her nose. “I’d certainly remember you if I had. You’re different.…”

Once more Serena was stunned into momentary sympathy by the innocence that surmounted even seduction. His inner struggle was obvious as he tried in vain to place her, much as she had wrestled with her own memory for the bulk of the afternoon. After all, she scowled grudgingly, what cause would he have to remember each of the stories he had covered, the subjects he had made or broken with the casual power of his pen? What cause would he have to consider the hapless families which his journalistic fervor had destroyed? Different, he had called her.

“I should hope so,” she said with fiery indignation.

“Then, where…?” His head jerked toward the door in irritation when the front bell rang again. Lips thinned into a grimace, he stepped aside more reluctantly now.

Serena, however, was grateful for the interruption. With an outward calm belying both the jitters in her stomach and the ache behind her forehead she dished up a pound-and-a-half order of Ice Cordials, wrapped them, bagged them, received payment for them—all the while drawing out each step as though she were headed for the gallows when she was through. By the time her customer left the ache had developed into a dull throb and she felt as pale and iced as the candies she’d just sold. Distressed, she cast a glance toward Tom, whose impatience was obvious, but under control.

“As I was asking”—he straightened and stalked her—“before we were so rudely interrupt—”

“Serena?”
Monica’s loud call from the back room, followed by her ruffled appearance, was as reassuring to Serena as it was irksome to Tom. The fire in his gaze seemed ready to escape its confines; Serena escaped first.

“Yes, Monica?” She turned to her young employee.

“I’m sorry to bother you.” Monica looked timidly toward Tom, then lowered her voice for Serena’s ears, “but I’ve got a problem with the new shipment of trail mix. It looks weird.” She crinkled her nose. “There’s pink stuff sprinkled in it!”

“Here, let me see.” Without a word to Tom, Serena disappeared into the back room. She recognized the problem instantly and returned to the front of the store to phone the distributor and report a spill of strawberry confetti chips.

“All set?” Tom asked when she finally replaced the receiver in its cradle. Like an old friend, he leaned casually against the counter.

“Yes. We’ll get a new shipment tomorrow.”

“What is this … trail mix, anyway?”

She smiled wanly. “It’s a mixture of nuts and dried fruits—cashews, walnuts, raisins, dried apricots, pineapple, banana. We sell a lot of it for—”

“—the trail?” The glint of humor in his eyes brought a helpless grin to her lips.

“For the trail. I only hope we won’t have many trail-goers in for it between now and tomorrow afternoon.”

“Does this kind of thing happen often?”

Serena grimaced. “Not very, thank goodness. I mean, there are always small problems here and there,”—she rubbed her temple absently—“but it’s unusual when an entire shipment is bad.” Her head shot up. “This isn’t an investigation, is it? Are you looking for corruption in the candy business?” What had started as a quip developed into an indictment. “You aren’t hoping to find someone worthy of assassination
here
, are you?”

His eyes flared, but he remained calm. “No, Serena. I don’t do investigative reporting any more. And even if I did, this would be an unlikely spot for me to start searching.”

“You’d be surprised.” Her eyes narrowed angrily. “It’s the most unlikely spots that often get hit!” Her thoughts were of her father, who had always been an upstanding member of the community. Why had Tom gone after him?

Tom sensed her anguish. “Look, is there somewhere we can talk uninterrupted?”

“I’m a working woman. My day isn’t over until well after six.”

“But you’ve refused to have dinner with me—”

“Then I guess you’re out of luck.” She put her fingers to her temples to still the thudding that had settled there. “Besides, there’s nothing to talk about. You looked familiar to me today in the restaurant. I stared at you. That’s all.
Fini.
”

“Not quite. You still haven’t told me how you know me. And you haven’t given me a good reason why you won’t go out with me.”

Serena wanted to scream, but she internalized the urge along with the need to pound something. The gremlins within her head were doing that on their own. “Let’s just say I don’t like you,” she mumbled.

“I know that. But I’d like to know why. What have I ever done to you? What have I ever done to deserve your disdain?”

“You really don’t remember.” Her statement reflected her disgust that what had meant so much to her family had meant nothing to him.

“No, I really don’t remember. Why don’t you make things easy for me?”

“Are you kidding? You’d like
me
to make things easy for
you?
” Furious, she went on. “Since when do
you
need help? Aren’t you the all-powerful? All you have to do is to put your pen to paper and”—she snapped her fingers—“you’ve got what you want.”

“Now, just a minute—”

“No. I think you should leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I find out what you have against me!”

“Then I’ll just call the police. You’re trespassing … and causing a … disturbance.…”

They stood facing one another with only the counter between them. Tom’s body was taut with anger; Serena trembled with the same. Both of their voices had been low, with the force of fire held in check. Now he spoke with the conviction she recalled so well.

“You won’t call the police, Serena, because you really don’t want to dredge up the past … whatever it is.…” His words trailed off lethally, leaving her a fragile mass of agony.

“You wouldn’t.…” Her eyes widened; her head throbbed.

“I would.”

Serena looked away, then swallowed hard. She believed him. He would have no qualms about destroying her life to find out what he wanted to know. Her whitened fingers curved around the edge of the counter as she slumped against a stool. Tom’s voice jolted her, yet she couldn’t look up.

“Monica!” he called toward the back. “Monica? Could you come out here, please?”

Within seconds Monica answered his summons. But it wasn’t to Tom that her attention turned; rather, she stared at Serena’s face, downcast and deathly pale.