Paradise County (27 page)

He’d hit paydirt with the first bedroom he’d entered. A quick flash of the pen-sized flashlight he routinely carried, and he’d realized that he was looking down at a slender young blonde. She was fast asleep, the covers drawn up over her shoulders, her face turned to one side, her skin all white and creamy. Then, because he simply couldn’t resist the urge, he’d reached out and touched her cheek just to see if her skin felt as soft as it looked. It did, but touching her was a mistake, because she stirred. He’d turned the flashlight off, and not a moment too soon. She’d awakened—he’d known by the change in her breathing—and then she lay there in the dark for a moment, wondering why, he imagined.

He’d been tempted, really tempted, just to zap her there and then and take her down to join Cassandra, but he had resisted. He didn’t know who she was, but he figured that she had to be somehow related to the Haywoods, and to be related to the Haywoods meant that she was probably rich and well connected. To steal a girl from her bed was to invite a search of the premises; to steal a rich and well-connected girl from her bed was to invite a truly massive search of the premises.

Now, he was confident that the entrance to his secret place was well concealed. No one had ever found it in all these years. But to intentionally bring scads of law-enforcement types right into what he liked to think of as the very heart of darkness would be plain stupid. And whatever else he was, he wasn’t stupid.

So he had decided, reluctantly, that he must let the girl be. He’d been standing at the foot of the bed, regretting his decision but on the verge of leaving, when she had sat up abruptly and tried to turn on the light.

Click.
He’d heard it clearly.
Click. Click.

Good thing for her the light hadn’t worked. If it had, if she had seen him, he would have had no choice but to take her.

In a way, he almost regretted that the electricity had been out. If she had seen him, he would have taken it as a sign that she was meant to be his.

As it was, he had left the room, quickly, and, he’d thought, silently. But she had followed him. Such courage! Such stupidity! She had followed him, and almost caught him, too, as he had pressed himself against the wall of the hall, expecting her to pass on by.

But she had tripped, stumbling into him and grabbing at his shirt to save herself, and in that split second he had hit her over the head with one of the bronze statues that graced the hall. If he’d had his wits about him he would have used his taser, but everything happened so fast, and it was in his back pants pocket, buttoned in. The statue, though clumsy, had been at hand. He’d seen it on the wall scores of times, and had almost knocked it off himself when he’d taken refuge beside it.

Then he had fled the house, promising himself that, if she was still there in a couple of days, he would call again.

Not to touch, this time. And not to take. Just to look.

He liked to look. Looking was almost, though not quite, as fun as taking. The sights he had seen over the years—well, if he ever chose to write a book, it would be a humdinger. He could call it
What the Bad Man Saw,
or something like that.

Now here she was, served up to him again. He had recognized her as soon as he had learned who, exactly, was checking in.

Taking her was not an option. The disappearance of Charles Haywood’s daughter so close on the heels of his unfortunate death would bring the kind of attention to the area that he could do without.

He would have to content himself with watching her.

But watching was fun, too. He always liked to watch. Of course, his
view of the proceedings was rather restricted, given the exigencies of the situation, but still they’d put on quite a show, she and her sister, once they were in their nice, safe, private motel room.

Each one of them had stripped naked, and showered, and dried herself very, very thoroughly, before putting on pretty nighties and getting into bed.

By the time they’d turned out the lights, ending his viewing pleasure, he’d been so aroused that he had decided to visit Cassandra again.

Twenty-three

A
knock on the door of the motel room surprised Alex the next morning. It was not quite nine o’clock, and she’d been up for just long enough to take a shower and get dressed. This morning she’d washed her hair—very carefully—although the doctor who’d put in the stitches had advised her to wait three days. But to someone who was in the habit of washing her hair daily, three days was an eternity, and Alex simply hadn’t been able to wait any longer.

She was, consequently, blowing her hair dry when the knock came. Neely was still in the shower, so she had no choice but to put down the hair dryer and brush and answer the door herself.

Frowning, tossing her still slightly damp hair back from her face and expecting the maid, she pulled the door open.

There on the threshold stood Joe, his hand raised to knock again.

For a moment they simply stared at each other. He was frowning slightly, and the morning sun was behind him flooding the landscape with light, so that his face was in shadow. In that instant she took in all kinds of details about him: His height, which, since she hadn’t put her shoes on yet, put the top of her head about on a level with his chin; the breadth of his shoulders and the easy grace of the rest of his hard athlete’s
physique in a red flannel shirt and jeans; the utter blackness of his hair; and his hard, handsome face. He was looking at her too, his gaze running down her body in a single, comprehensive glance. Alex knew what he saw: a slim body in a snug navy turtleneck and gray slacks; long blond hair falling loose and straight around her shoulders; a fine-featured, high-cheekboned face, with blue eyes made more intense by the color of her sweater.

In that instant, that same instant in which she was registering all those details, she was so glad to see him that her heart gave a little leap.

Then she remembered why she wasn’t glad to see him, and she, too, frowned.

Their gazes met. Alex saw a quick, fierce flare of heat in his eyes, and she was alarmed to discover that that was all it took to spark an answering flame deep inside her body. It was a purely physical reaction to the memory of what they had done together in bed, and it annoyed her so much that her frown deepened into a scowl. But by then he was glancing beyond her into the small, musty room, at the pair of twin beds with their ancient mattresses and the white and gold, fifties-era fake French Provincial furniture. The heat was gone and his frown had changed into a slight, mocking smile by the time he looked at her again.

“Enjoy the accommodations, Princess?”

“Did you want something?” Alex asked coldly.

“Nah. I just happened to be in the neighborhood… .”

“Fine,” Alex snapped, and started to close the door in his face.

“Don’t be childish,” he chided, stopping her from closing the door by laying his big hand flat against the flimsy wooden panel. He was able to hold the door open with ridiculous ease despite her best efforts. When his mocking smile widened into a full-fledged, goat-getting grin, she had to remind herself forcefully that the ultimate in childishness would be to give in to her impulse to kick him as hard as she could in the shin.

“If we’re going to talk about being childish …” Alex began, only to be interrupted by Neely’s voice calling from the bathroom.

“Alex! Do you have a hair dryer?”

Before Alex could answer, Neely walked into the bedroom, fortunately
wrapped in a towel. But it was a skimpy white hotel towel, and it covered her—barely—only from her armpits to the tops of her thighs.

“Oh. Hi, Joe.” Neely stopped short when she saw Joe, but instead of retreating she came toward him, apparently not the least bit concerned about her state of undress. Joe’s gaze flicked over her, Alex saw, and he looked suddenly rather grim.

“Hello, Neely.” His voice wasn’t encouraging.

“Is Eli with you?” Neely asked, clearly not bothered by his tone as she looked past Joe to the parking lot, which, surprisingly, was pretty well filled.

“Eli’s in school.” Joe’s voice implied that Neely should be there, too.

“Oh. Too bad.” Neely made a face, then smiled at Joe again. “Well, I’ll let you and sister talk.” She glanced at Alex. “I’ll be in the bathroom drying my hair. Not that you’ll need me, of course.”

She walked over and picked up the hair dryer from where Alex had left it on the shabby dresser, waved an airy good-bye, and then sauntered toward the bathroom, long slim legs flashing to the point of near indecency as she moved.

“Modesty isn’t your sister’s strong suit, is it?” Joe asked after she was gone. “You really ought to tell her that it’s not a good idea to go swanning around half naked in front of strange men.”

Alex sighed. “Telling Neely not to do something is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. If I did, she’d probably come out without a stitch on the next time.”

Joe looked disapproving. “You don’t have much control over her, do you?”

“No, I don’t. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“You’re right, it’s not. Thank God.” He reached for an envelope, which had been folded and stuck in the pocket of his shirt, and held it out to her. “Federal Express delivered this this morning. It’s for you. I didn’t know if you were coming back by Whistledown before you took off, so I brought it out.”

Alex took it. “Oh. Thank you.” She looked down at the envelope in some surprise, and frowned. “It’s been opened.”

He shrugged. “Sue—the girl who works part-time in the office—said it came with some packages for the farm and she didn’t realize who it was addressed to until it was too late. It’s from your lawyer, by the way. She says that it’s very important that you call her before you head back to Philadelphia.”

“You read it!” Alex looked up at him accusingly.

“Yeah, I did. Actually, Sue read it first. That’s when she realized it was addressed to you.”

“Why would Andrea …” Her voice trailed off. Andrea Scoppolone was a close friend who also happened to be her lawyer. Actually, she was one of the phalanx of lawyers who’d been dealing with the estate, a junior one admittedly, but since Alex had known her for years Andrea was the one Alex preferred to speak to whenever possible. “Oh. The phone’s out.”

“Yep. It was still out when I left, by the way. So if you want to call your lawyer, you’d better do it from here.”

“Yes.” Alex cast a distracted look over her shoulder. If something was urgent enough for Andrea to send her a FedEx message to call, it couldn’t be anything good. “I don’t want Neely to overhear.”

Joe glanced at the closed bathroom door too, then looked down at her again. “Homer—he owns this place—has a phone in his office I’m sure he’ll let you use. Tell your sister we’re going to step down to the restaurant for some breakfast.”

“Okay.” Alex took a deep, steadying breath and let go of the door, crossing to the bathroom and knocking. “Neely, I’m going down to the restaurant with Joe.”

“Have fun.” Neely’s voice came clearly through the thin panel. It was loaded with innuendo, but Alex scarcely noticed.

It was only a few steps from their room to the motel office, which was located inside the restaurant. Joe was greeted by name by two gray-uniformed maids and a burly handyman on the way, and exchanged laughing comments on the weather and other mundane matters.

As they entered the restaurant, warmth and the smell of cooking food greeted them. Sun poured in through the jalousied windows of what had once been a glassed in sunporch. The wooden counter to Alex’s left held
an old-fashioned cash register and a clear plastic bowl of wrapped peppermints. On the front of the counter hung a sign that read
WELCOME TO THE DIXIE INN.
Beside that were smaller stick-on emblems of various credit cards that the restaurant accepted. There was no one behind the counter at the moment, although voices and laughter from the interior rooms indicated that the restaurant had its fair share of patrons.

Joe brought his hand down on a small silver bell on the countertop. The resulting jarring
ding
made Alex wince. However, it had near instantaneous results. A plump, gray-haired woman in a pink uniform appeared.

“Joe!” she said delightedly, hurrying toward them. “Here for breakfast?”

“Maybe in a minute,” Joe said easily. “Right now, I’d appreciate it if this lady could use the phone in Homer’s office. Ours is out.”

“Oh, gosh, still?” The woman looked at Alex expectantly.

“It’s a long-distance call. I’ll put it on my calling card,” Alex said. The woman waved a dismissive hand.

Joe made the introductions. “Alex, meet Mabel Waters. Mabel, Alex Haywood.”

“Oh, a Haywood from Whistledown, right? For a minute there, I thought you had yourself a new girl.” Mabel grinned at Joe, then looked at Alex again. “Sure, honey, you go ahead and use the phone. Joe’ll show you where it is.”

“Thanks, Mabel.” Joe was already ushering Alex behind the counter through a door that opened into a small, wood-paneled office. Alex noticed nothing but the black telephone on the desk. The more she thought about receiving a FedEx message from Andrea, the more nervous she grew.