The Care and Feeding of Unmarried Men (3 page)

Over her shoulder, he could see Eve's fingers white-knuckle the towel she'd been shifting. “She has a stalker?”

“I don't know if Ricky Becker is up to his old obsession or not. I only know he's not at home in the Valley sitting in front of his mother's boob tube like he's supposed to be. Did you get a glimpse of the driver of the car?”

Her ponytail waggled as she shook her head. “It was almost dark, and the headlights were on bright. I couldn't see anything but that the car was steering for us.”

Nash sighed. “I was hoping you'd tell me it was some little old lady from Pasadena or an aging golf duffer who'd briefly mistaken the gas pedal for the brakes.”

“Jemima's stalker has threatened her?” Eve's voice sounded more breathy than usual, and she was still clutching at that towel.

“The mental health people claim he isn't a danger to himself or others. But you never know, do you?”

“Yes.” And now there was an odd catch in her voice. “You never do.”

Nash, though sworn off his former role of white knight, still heard the husky sound as an unignorable note of female vulnerability. Taking a half step forward, he put his hand on her shoulder.

She flinched, then wrenched her body away from him.

“Hell,” he muttered, yanking his hand back. It was A-OK for Eve Caruso to initiate a flirtatious touch—to his upper thigh, of all places—but devil forbid she let a man touch
her.
Just further evidence she was a siren he should steer his big, manly boat away from.

Frustrated with himself, with the situation regarding Jemima and Ricky Becker, with wondering whether he should apologize for merely trying to be goddamn kind, he swore again. “Hell,” he said again, slamming his right fist into the palm of his left hand. The punch landed with a gratifying, fleshy
pop
.

That made Eve Caruso leap for the ceiling.

He reared back as she now whirled, and his shoulders hit the door an instant before she was grasping the knob with both hands. It turned, and he stumbled back as it swung open. She flew forward, leaping over his size 15s on her way to fresh air.

Her face was pale, her forehead glistened with sudden sweat.

Staring after her as she bolted from the fitness center, he felt a tingle of worry trickle down his spine. Damn.

Something was up.

And though he didn't want to know what had Eve Caruso's panties in a twist, it was obvious that he couldn't leave Jemima here with this volatile situation and with these volatile people anytime soon.

O
utside the doors of the fitness center, Eve gulped in breaths of cool air.
Calm down. Slow down. You're safe now,
she thought, pulling every emotion back inside, like a turtle taking to the protective cover of its shell
.

She'd almost lost it. Confined spaces, or pitch darkness, or, heaven forbid, both together could do that to her. But she'd escaped, so there was no sense in attracting undue attention with a mad dash.

Her pace slowed to a sedate stroll. She couldn't outrun certain of her demons, she knew that, but with her checking account, her savings account, her stock portfolio, and her IRA as dry as the desert should be, her pride was one of the few things she had left. She was going to hang onto it with both hands, both feet, and even her teeth, if necessary.

No one would ever know she was terrified of enclosed spaces, big men, and being flat-broke.

Not her family, and not the imposing, annoying Nash Cargill.

She supposed he thought she was nuts for rushing out of the closet like that, but what the hey? He disapproved of her already anyway. There'd been a little moment, just a flicker of an eyelash, during which she'd thought she'd had him where she wanted—wanting her. But then his jaw had hardened and he'd turned all handsome and domineering big brother again.

Jemima Cargill might have a stalker. God.

Eve pushed the thought out of her mind, rubbing her hands against her upper arms to smooth out the sudden case of goose bumps.

It was the dismal, intermittent rain that was spooking her, she told herself, not a sense of precognition. And it certainly was the dismal rain and the chilly temperatures that had driven most of the spa patrons away from the lush grounds and into the massage rooms, facial chairs, or the pricey, private bungalows.

The Kona Kai had been a Palm Springs landmark since the 1950s, a favorite haunt of the Hollywood set and other wealthy clientele because the residential area was separated from the public facilities by thick walls, guarded fences, and tight security. The guestbook was kept strictly confidential, and because of that, during the high season from October to May there was never a shortage of grateful residents recuperating from plastic surgery, a messy scandal, or simply a bad starring vehicle.

Eve waved at the young attendant who manned the wrought-iron gate leading to the spacious cottages and one-bedroom suites. Without a key card or an
invitation, no one would make it past him, and she was pleased by the physical reminder that as long as she kept to the Kona Kai and kept her cell phone turned off, she could ignore the little two-word order on that morning's business card from the SEC investigator.
“Call me.”

She wouldn't.

Her bungalow wasn't far, along a cobbled path made almost mazelike by shoulder-high trimmed hedges of yellow hibiscus and glossy-leaved gardenias. Intersections were marked by huge clay tubs spilling over with multicolored flowering annuals. The flora looked somewhat wilted by all the rain, and you couldn't see the usually stunning, rocky ripples of the surrounding mountains through the heavy layer of clouds weighing down on the valley, but Eve clung to an Annie-like hope that the sun would come out tomorrow.

The creature on her front doorstep reinforced the feeling. At the sound of her footsteps, the dog-sized, ragged tomcat lifted his head from something he was investigating on the mat. As usual, his fierce expression seemed to soften.

“Hello, cat,” Eve murmured as he trotted toward her. Her sisters called him Adam—hah hah—because of his odd affection for Eve. He'd shown up as a stray a few weeks ago and adopted her. “We orphans have to stick together,” she said, bending to rub the crown of his orange head between one ear and the half of the other that still remained. He pushed against her ankle with his chin, almost knocking her over.

She staggered to keep her balance and found herself staring down at the—what was it?—thing the cat had been nosing by her front door.

Goose bumps prickled her arms again and then
tumbled down her spine. The stiff and still thing was the corpse of a yellow canary.

“He brought you a gift.”

Eve swung around at the familiar voice. Bianca Sabatino Caruso, Téa and Joey's mother, and the person who had taken in her husband's offspring by another woman twenty-five years ago. Eve. When his mistress had died, Salvatore Caruso had brought home his three-year-old blonde daughter, just four months younger than his oldest, to be raised by his wife.

Now nearing fifty, Bianca was petite and slender, an elegant woman who looked more French than Italian. More Brie than Parmigiana Reggiano. Next to her dark beauty, at times growing up Eve had felt all arms, legs, and washed-out hair. Looking at Bianca and then at her dark-haired and dark-eyed half sisters, Eve had always wondered what had happened to the evidence of her own Italian descent, figuring it must have been buried beneath the genetic heft of stolid Swedish or Norwegian DNA.

She'd felt apart, even though Bianca had never, ever treated her that way.

“He brought you a gift,” the older woman said again.

Eve blinked. “Who?”

Bianca gestured to the purr-er at Eve's feet. “Adam. Cats will do that.”

“Oh.” Eve glanced down at the tom winding around her ankles, making like a throaty motorboat. He'd never done such a thing before, and it seemed out of character. What she liked best about the cat was that he didn't try to curry her favor like most males who hovered in her vicinity. Gifts didn't seem his style. He appeared to believe his presence in her life was present
enough. “I suppose the bird didn't just fly here and knock itself out on my front door.”

Another nervous shiver rolled down Eve's back, and Bianca—though not maternal-
looking
she still possessed fully functioning maternal antennae—drew closer and put her hand over Eve's forehead. “Are you all right,
cara
?”

“Of course.” That
“Call me”
threat from the SEC notwithstanding. Eve didn't know what more they could want from her. When the investigator had contacted her last month, she'd been forced to explain herself. One of her former gentlemen friends, Vince Standish, respected, upstanding CEO, had whispered a juicy little stock tip in her ear during a charity lunch. A hush-hush merger. A sure thing if she moved fast, because the news was being released the very next day. Only the very next day Vince Standish had turned out to be not a generous ex-lover with a surefire financial tip but a vindictive weasel who'd paid her back—for ending their relationship—in the lowest way possible.

By using her own greed to do it.

Bianca frowned.
“Cara?”

So maybe Eve
was
sick, because it made her ill to think about how she'd run with the tip—liquidating what assets she could and taking out short-term, high-interest loans against what she couldn't—to risk every nickel she had and then some. When the real details of the hush-hush merger had been made public, she'd discovered that the company she'd invested in had been on the losing side of the deal. It was now worth nothing. After having sold her condo and her car and anything else she could think of to cover the loans, she was worth nothing as well.

But she couldn't let Bianca know that. The older
woman had done enough for her. “I'm fine. Good.” Eve stepped back, in case the woman's palm was some sort of parental lie detector. “Do you need any help in the lounge tonight?”

Bianca shook her head. “Are you sure you're all right?”

Ignoring the question, Eve used the toe of her shoe to nudge the dead bird toward the nearby shrubbery. “Here, cat. You can have it back.”

The big tom just looked at her. Like Bianca was still looking at her.

To escape their dual regard, Eve kept her gaze on the dead bird. Suddenly hating the idea of leaving it unprotected against the elements, she knelt. A sharp-edged rock was lying nearby on the damp earth. She picked it up and went to work digging a small grave.

Maybe it was the activity that prompted Bianca's next words. “Eve, we…we haven't talked much about finding your father's remains.”

“What's there to say?” Eve kept her voice casual. “We'd already accepted his death years ago.” Perhaps the others had. The truth was, however, that even though he'd been missing since she was twelve years old, she'd always held out hope that Salvatore had been somewhere in hiding and that someday he'd return. Was that so strange? It wasn't easy to accept being truly alone in the world.

Above her head, she heard Bianca sigh. “I never talked enough about the past with you girls.”

Squelching her squeamishness, Eve used her rock to push the pretty yellow bird into the little hole she'd made. “It doesn't matter.” And she certainly didn't want to talk about it
now
. Her current modus operandi was to ignore or avoid all unpleasant things.
With the exception of Nash Cargill, she'd been doing okay.

What would Bianca have to say about the past anyhow? That it had been a strain on the marriage to raise this other, extraneous daughter? That it hadn't been easy loving the living symbol of her husband's infidelity? Eve had drawn her own conclusions about that while looking at herself in the mirror every morning—deciding that the secret to an unbroken heart was controlling your feelings for a man and thus not letting him control you.

Rock still in hand, she swept the mound of dirt she'd made over the dead bird. Covering it up. “Let's talk about something more pleasant,” she said, even managing to throw a sunny smile over her shoulder. “Do you have another hot date tonight?”

“Eve.”
A flush tinged Bianca's European cheekbones.

It lightened Eve's heart. “Oh, you're as bad as Téa. Always so prickly and secretive when it comes to men. We know you've been seeing that guest who's been staying here for the last few months. What's his name?”

“Well…I…”

Eve took pity and grinned. “So are you seeing ‘Well…I' again tonight, or what?”

Shaking her head in obvious exasperation, Bianca crossed her arms over her chest. “No, as a matter of fact, I'm not. But I did invite an old friend of you girls to have dinner with us, if you can make it.”

With the corpse buried, Eve rose, rock still in her hand. “My calendar's free tonight. Who'd you invite?”

“Sandra Dailey.”

The rock fell to the pavement from Eve's slack fingers. “Sandra.”

“I remember her from your school days at Our Lady of Poverty. She stopped by the front office to say hello.”

“To say hello to you?”

“I suppose she was hoping to run into one of you girls.”

Me. She was hoping to run into me, because I keep ducking her calls
.

“So I invited her to dinner tonight and told her I'd try to get you three together as well. Wasn't she a particular friend of yours?”

“Téa's. She has always been closer to Téa.” When they were seventeen, Sandy Dailey had dropped Eve as a friend after some unpleasant accusations. Eve hadn't particularly missed the friendship, though, busy as she'd been with dating Sandy's former boyfriend.

That was the problem with living in Palm Springs, that was the problem with the whole Coachella Valley, for that matter. The surrounding mountains made it a very, very small world.

“Sandra works for the government,” Bianca said. “One of the acronyms. I forget which now.”

The SEC. Sandy Dailey was the investigator who had explained to Eve, at their meeting, about illegal insider trading and the punishments that could be handed out. Think Martha Stewart. Think Martha Stewart at Camp Cupcake. Behind bars. Incarcerated. Locked up.

Claustrophobia for days on end.

Though Eve had gained nothing—lost everything!—from her single foray into victimless crime, Sandy Dailey had told Eve to keep herself available for further questioning.

And Eve, sticking to her modus operandi, had avoided the woman's phone calls ever since.

But now, oh hell, unless she wanted to ignore Sandy's obvious emotional blackmail and take the chance the other woman wouldn't spill her secrets to Bianca, Téa, and Joey, Eve was now going to have to call
her
.