Roan (28 page)

The guest was Harrell Melanka.

R
oan was preoccupied. He'd been short enough with the mayor that the man had stalked off in a snit. Now he allowed a mild baseball argument to flow back and forth around him without notice. He was off duty today and responsible for no one's welfare. It was a welcome change, or would have been if he could avoid thoughts of Donna and what she was doing, who was with her and what they were saying.

God, but she stayed with him. He couldn't make a decision worth carrying out, couldn't sleep or eat for thinking of her. The hot love they'd made in the barn haunted him; the need to go to her, to have her, to hold her against him in the night was so strong he shook with the effort to suppress it.

He couldn't give in. She was his prisoner, a woman under his protection. He'd been guilty of forgetting that once, and must not do it again. It went against everything he believed about the cool, unemotional exercise of his duty as a law officer. It condemned him in his own eyes as a man who took advantage of his position to enjoy the favors of a woman who had little defense against it. It made him the kind of dishonorable lowlife that he most despised.

And yet, the memory of Donna's surrender was as warm and delicious as the cobbler she'd made, and as tempting. They blended together so closely in his mind until the mere thought of blackberries could make him ache with need for her. He couldn't take the taste of them anymore; he'd learned that much today. They could be off his list for good.

The sound of a commotion brought his head up. It came from near the front door, where he'd last seen Donna. He'd put Kane in temporary charge, but his cousin had other concerns just now with Regina so near her due date. Roan started toward the noise.

Donna stood near the doorway in frozen immobility while Cousin Betsy introduced a newcomer. The man with her was well-dressed and urbanely self-assured, with the vapid good looks of a male model. He glanced around and saw Donna, and his mouth dropped open in a parody of shock.

“Tory!” he exclaimed, starting forward with his arms outstretched. “God, but what are you doing here?”

Triumph shafted through Roan. At last he was going to find out the real identity of his Donna Doe. Hard on the heels of that realization came something close to dismay as he saw all too well that it meant an end to having her at Dog Trot.

He transferred his gaze to Donna. Her face was as white as the sleeveless blouse she wore, and her eyes appeared wide and empty. It was plain she knew the smooth dandy, but she stepped away from his embrace, putting up a hand to ward off his approach.

Roan moved forward, barely noticing the friends and relatives who whispered among themselves even as they gave way for him. Infusing his voice with every ounce of authority he possessed, he asked, “What's going on here? Is there a problem?”

“Roan, thank goodness,” Betsy exclaimed. “I didn't mean to upset anybody, or cause a to-do. But when Mr. Melanka said he'd never seen a country homecoming, of course I invited him along. I mean, it just seemed neighborly.”

“Melanka?”

“Harrell Melanka, staying at the motel. He's from Florida, with the—”

“Gaming consortium,” Roan finished for her, his voice grim.

“That's right,” Melanka said with a lift of his chin. “And you might be?”

Betsy gave a loud laugh, a sign of her discomfort. “Oh, Harrell, this is our host I've been telling you about, Sheriff Roan Benedict.”

To offer his hand was an engrained response for Roan. It was also a test. A man with the kind of quiet self-confidence that mattered had a firm, brief grip. He didn't feel the need to impose his strength on others or to make a contest of a simple greeting. Roan made a mental bet that Melanka wasn't that kind of man, and he was right. His handshake was too hardy and too hard. He was trying to prove something, but Roan wasn't impressed.

As he stepped back again, he said, “You know my prisoner?”

“Prisoner?” The other man's frown drew his brows together over his cosmetically straight nose.

“The lady you called…Tory.” It was amazing how hard it was to make himself say the name.

“If she's your prisoner, there's some mistake,” Melanka replied, his voice hardening as he took an aggressive step closer. “She's Victoria Molina-Vandergraff, stepdaughter of industrialist Paul Vandergraff, and the hereditary Princess de Trentalara of Italy. She's also my fiancée.”

Roan felt as if he'd taken a hard right to the stomach. For a long second, he couldn't breathe for the clutching pain in his chest. He'd known that the woman he'd called Donna must have another life somewhere else, but he'd never dreamed of that kind of background. It was transparently clear that nothing and no one in Turn-Coupe could ever hold her now, least of all him.

“Ex-fiancée,” she said.

That cold correction was made by his prisoner. It didn't exactly make Roan's heart bleed, though he had no intention of asking himself why. It was enough that he could drag air into his lungs again.

Then she turned her head in his direction. He met her soft hazel gaze, so defensive yet aware, and knew at once that he'd been right all along, that there had never been a moment when she hadn't known exactly who she was and what she was doing.

“Victoria.” He tried the name in his mind, and was surprised to discover that he'd spoken aloud.

“Tory,” she said. “The people I know best call me Tory.”

“Good Lord, Tory,” Melanka said. “Don't tell me you've been hiding out under another name? I don't know what kind of game you've been playing with these good people, but it's over. Let's go home.”

She gave him only a fraction of her attention. “I'm not going anywhere. I'm certainly not going anywhere with you.”

“I know you were a little upset with me, darling, but I promise that's all behind us.”

“Not for me, it isn't.”

It was time, Roan thought, to introduce the new arrival to the reality of the situation. “Excuse me,” he said in
neutral politeness. “But the lady is still in my custody. I'll say where she goes, and when.”

“Is that right?” Melanka asked on a short laugh. “When I let Paul Vandergraff know his daughter is being held in some Podunk town instead of sunning herself on the Riviera like he thinks, he'll have so many lawyers slapping you with writs and injunctions you'll feel like a punching bag.”

“That's his privilege, but I should warn you that it may only ensure that formal charges are pushed forward so she's put under lock and key.”

“No formal charges?” Melanka said, picking up on the one point Roan would just as soon he'd have missed. “What are you trying to pull? Seems Mrs. North mentioned some tale about you and your prisoner, a woman you'd shot, even if I didn't know it was Tory at the time. If it's true, damn you, I'll not only get Tory away from you, but I'll see you stripped of your badge and run out of office.”

Roan gave a short laugh. “You're welcome to try. But let me get this straight. You're so concerned about your so-called fiancée's welfare that you're threatening court action, but she's been missing for weeks and you're just now discovering she was gone?”

“You don't know Tory. She does things like this, running off without a word to anyone. Then it blows over and we're back to square one.”

“That's not true!” Tory exclaimed. “At least…I may take off now and then, but I know my own mind.”

Was that what she'd been doing with the petty thieves who'd hit Betsy's store, Roan wondered, running away with them as a way of getting back at her fiancé? Roan didn't like to think so, but it seemed to fit. At the same time, he had nothing but contempt for a man who would
publicly brand someone he was supposed to care about as that spoiled and irresponsible.

“She claims she was kidnapped,” he said deliberately. “I don't suppose you can shed any light on that?”

“Does it seem likely?” Melanka asked with a pained expression.

“You're saying it's not possible then?”

“I'm saying I don't know a thing about it!”

“Or about the robbery committed while she was with the men who are supposed to have abducted her?”

“Give me a break. Why in hell would she want to rob some penny-ante store when she has an annual income in the high six figures from her mother's estate? Does that make sense?”

“Penny-ante?” Betsy cried, even as he spoke. Behind her, somebody whistled, an admiring salute to such a hefty income.

“So no one has reported her disappearance, you or this Vandergraff?”

“Obviously,” Melanka drawled.

That explained why he'd found no description on the police network, at least. “And that doesn't strike you as strange?”

“You have to know her.”

Melanka was using condescension to try to make Roan look and feel like a fool. That only worked, Roan knew, if he allowed it, and he wasn't in the mood. “On the other hand, it could be that you didn't know because the lady's right, you're no longer in the picture.”

Melanka seemed to consider, then gave a judicious nod. “I'm sure it may look that way. But the fact is, Sheriff, that you and I both know how this is going to turn out. Save yourself a lot of grief and just turn her over to me.
I'll take her home and her stepdad can handle it from there.”

“No!” Tory stepped to where he stood, and put her hand on his arm. “Please, Roan.”

“You heard her. She doesn't want to go with you. That's the end of it, as far as I'm concerned. Now, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

Melanka turned to the woman beside Roan. “Tory, honey, this has gone far enough, don't you think? I know we had our differences, but come on, now. Let me take you home where you belong. You don't even have to talk to me if you don't want. Once we're back in Florida, everything will be fine. You'll see.”

“No,” Tory said again, her voice tight.

“That's it,” Roan said, moving toward the other man.

Abruptly, Melanka leaped to grab Tory's left wrist and jerk her toward the door. She cried out and clutched her injured shoulder.

Something snapped inside Roan. He sprang at the ex-fiancé, fastened hard fingers on his arm so he released Tory. Then Roan landed a hard right to the man's too handsome chin.

Melanka staggered back out through the front doorway, stumbled, regained his feet. Rage twisted his face. He lunged forward again. Roan met him, blocked his wild punch, and then connected with another smashing right. The other man grunted as he spun around with the force of the blow. He went down with a thud that rattled the porch floor and lay stunned.

Roan moved to stand over him. Melanka heaved to one elbow, as if expecting another blow. When it didn't come, he swiped a hand under his nose, then turned greenish as he saw blood. His laugh was harsh, breathless. “So much for Southern hospitality.”

“Exactly,” Roan agreed. “You have two minutes to clear out, or you'll discover what happens when a Southerner really gets a bellyful of uninvited company.”

“You'll arrest me, that it? I doubt your fine mayor will appreciate the gesture, or the treatment, I've had from you.”

“The mayor isn't the law here.”

“You won't be, either, not for long. Once this place is dependent on gaming money, I'll see to it that there's a new sheriff.”

“Fine.” Roan reached down and picked up the man by his shirtfront, then shoved him toward the steps. “But do it far away from Dog Trot.”

Harrell Melanka almost fell again, then caught his footing. He straightened his clothes with a jerk, while sending a look of pure spite, the refuge of the ineffectual man, toward all the Benedicts who had crowded out to watch the show. He swung around and marched down to his rental car. Slamming the door behind him, he sprayed gravel as he tore away down the drive.

“Gee, I'm sorry,” Betsy said at Roan's elbow. “I didn't know who he was, honest, and sure didn't mean to stir up such a hornet's nest.”

“Never mind,” he answered, sighing as he ran his fingers through his hair. Turning back inside the house, he sent a quick glance toward Donna—no, Tory—where she stood in the hall.

April was beside her. “I'll see to her,” Luke's wife told him. “You take care of your guests.”

It wasn't what Roan wanted. He'd have much preferred to send his guests to the devil while he took Tory in his arms and held her until her pain went away. That would help no one, least of all a woman who apparently hailed
from the rarefied parts of the world where people had gazillions and titles to go with the cash.

“Right,” he said under his breath. Then he dragged air into his lungs and looked around at his relatives. “All right, folks, let's get back to the serious fun.”

They didn't, of course. There was too much gossip and speculation going on. Those who weren't interested in talking had more consideration than to linger where everything was in such turmoil. People began to gather their dishes and their kids, to say their polite goodbyes and climb into their cars and trucks. In less than a half hour, the house was empty. Even Jake and Pop left, taking Clay's invitation for a fast spin in his airboat out to his place in the swamp. He'd promised them the high treat of watching the comic turns of a baby blue crane he'd rescued from a watery death and named Banty because the bird was convinced he was a bantam chicken.

Roan straightened the worst of the ravages left by the departing guests, mopped a couple of sticky puddles in the kitchen and hauled out the trash. When he could put it off no longer, he climbed the stairs to Donna's—Tory's room. He thought he might find her asleep, since April had reported giving her a couple of aspirin. Instead, she was sitting up in bed with a paperback novel resting on her knees while she stared at the darkened window.