Читать книгу The Heart of Christmas - Бренда Новак - Страница 11

3

“How’d you find me?”

When she heard the accusation in his voice, Eve realized her mouth was hanging open and closed it. She was so used to being associated with Little Mary’s it took her aback that he thought she was the one out of place. “What?”

“I said, how did you find me? Did you follow me?”

Judging by the impatience on his face, he wasn’t happy about that idea. Perhaps he’d connected with other women who hadn’t understood the meaning of “I’m not interested.”

“Of course not! I would never force my attentions on you or any man.”

His gaze shifted to the tray she was carrying. “Then how come you’re here, bringing me breakfast?”

“I own this place! I serve a lot of people breakfast,” she said. “I had no idea you were one of my guests, Mr. Taylor. If you’ll remember, you told me your name was Jared.” She met most of the people who stayed at Little Mary’s. She bumped into them as they wandered around the property, enjoying the garden, walking to or from the private hot tub, sitting in the alcoves where they could watch the sunset or having breakfast or tea in the dining room. But the only place she’d ever seen Mr. Taylor was at the bar once she’d left work. She’d assumed he was at A Room with a View if he was in town. “When did you check in?”

“Last night around seven.”

That explained it. He’d come when Cecelia was on duty. “Meeting up again like this is...is merely an unfortunate coincidence,” she said. “But there’s a second B and B in Whiskey Creek, so you have another option. It’s called A Room with a View and it’s just down the street. You might want to move there.” She handed him his tray. “Come downstairs when you’re done and I’ll get you checked out.”

When his eyes widened, she could tell she’d managed to surprise him, but she didn’t care. She meant what she’d said. She wanted him gone. Losing his business would cost her a few bucks, but at least she’d be able to avoid him.

“Wait, are you kicking me out?” he called after her.

She’d started for the stairs, but she turned and lowered her voice so their exchange wouldn’t be heard by any guests who might be in nearby rooms. Staying at Little Mary’s was all about peace and beauty and tranquility. For most people, anyway. The rumor that the place was haunted brought others. But she sold an experience, and she was determined to make that experience one her clientele could rely on.

“I wouldn’t state it quite that strongly,” she whispered, tossing a worried glance at the closest door. Hopefully, the couple staying in Room 3 was at breakfast. That was where they should be, since they’d signed up for the nine-thirty sitting. “I’m just suggesting you find other accommodations.”

“Because...”

“I wouldn’t want to ruin your stay by fawning over you the way you obviously assume I will.” She manufactured an exaggerated wink. “This is your chance to escape another man-hungry woman.”

He raised his eyebrows, but she didn’t stick around to witness any more of his reaction. She wanted to get away as quickly as possible. She had things to do. And the faster he ate and packed, the faster she could put last night behind her and go on with life as usual. She didn’t need a love interest. She’d find other worthwhile things to fill her life. Things like—

“Eve...”

He was standing at the top of the stairs when she turned back.

“I’ll be waiting whenever you’re ready,” she responded. Then she was too far away for him to say more.

But when he appeared a half hour later, he wasn’t carrying any luggage—not even a duffel bag. And he didn’t approach her to check out. He cut through the dining room, nodding to Deb when she wished him a good morning and strode out the front door.

What the heck?

Eve started after him. She’d been serious when she suggested he go elsewhere. But he was walking so fast, she’d have to run to catch up with him—and she wasn’t prepared to go that far. The last thing she wanted was to cause a scene.

Maybe he had plans. Maybe he’d move later.

Cheyenne came up beside her as she hesitated at the front desk, wondering whether he would or wouldn’t check out—and what she could do to make her life feel more complete.

“I’m going to start cleaning the downstairs rooms,” she said. “Deb’s tackling the upstairs.”

“Sounds good.”

“Did you meet the people in Room 1? Do you think we’ll be able to get in there soon to make the bed and straighten up?”

She could’ve explained to Cheyenne that the bed hadn’t been slept in, that there was only one occupant and it was the stranger she’d taken home last night. But she didn’t. Since she preferred to let it all fade away, she figured she might as well let that process begin now.

“Eve? Did you hear me?” Cheyenne asked.

She’d been too preoccupied to answer. “Room 1 is empty,” she said.

“Okay. I’ll have Deb do that room while she’s up there.”

“That’d be great,” Eve mumbled. But then she called Cheyenne back. “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it.” If Mr. Taylor wasn’t going to leave, as she’d requested, she’d start her new lease on life by satisfying what she could of her curiosity.

* * *

“You’re going to go crazy here.”

Rex looked up from the picnic table where he was signing the payroll checks for All About Security, Inc. “Why?”

His middle-aged assistant—a wife and mother of three who reminded him of Melissa McCarthy with her big red hair and the pound of hairspray that shellacked it—smirked as she gazed around. She’d worked for him since he first opened his doors three years ago and always took good care of him. But he’d never appreciated her more than he did now that he’d been flushed out of his comfort zone. Although she had an opinion about everything and generally felt free to voice it, she could also use discretion when necessary. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “So Christmassy, with all the lights on the old-fashioned shops and stuff. But you like the city, and you normally work 24/7. If this hiding-out thing goes on much longer, you won’t know what to do with yourself.”

He gave her a sardonic smile. “Hiding out? Come on. This is my dream vacation. Loads of people would love to get away and enjoy nature as they pan for gold.”

“Dream vacation, my ass,” she muttered.

Her choice of words shocked him a little when she swore, but he found her language kind of funny, too, coming from someone who looked like a 1950s housewife with her floral button-up shirts and ankle pants.

“For you, this is hell,” she added with even more conviction. “You’ve been traveling from one town to the next for more than a week. And it’s been too cold to do much outside.”

“At least I’m still in one piece.” So far, he’d whiled away the hours by working on his laptop. After posting a help-wanted ad on Craigslist, he’d been poring through résumés—pondering each one much longer than usual. He needed to fill the open slot Eric James left when he got stabbed in the shoulder and his wife insisted he find safer work. But it was difficult to do any meaningful evaluation when he couldn’t meet the applicants face-to-face. He had to refer the candidates who had promise to Marilyn. She interviewed them, then called him to report.

He’d also been dealing with his accountant, at long last getting caught up on his books, something he rarely took the time to do when living his normal life. He preferred to be on the phone or answering email queries, booking jobs for himself and the six bodyguards he employed. Business had never been better, which was part of the reason he was dying to get back to it. There were times he felt so much like a regular person, like a regular businessman, he could almost forget the past.

Almost but not quite. There were some incidents he could never forget and people who wouldn’t let him forget others.

“You could take up mountain biking,” she suggested. “My two sons love it.”

“That’s outdoors, too.”

“But you don’t do it standing in a river. And if you ride hard enough, you stay warm. They bike year-round. We live in California, after all.”

He moved the check he’d just signed to the bottom of the stack. “I won’t be vacationing long enough to take up a new sport.”

She looked across the park toward the maple and dogwood trees that lined one side. Those trees blocked the sight of the Victorian where he was staying, but Marilyn had no idea. He wasn’t telling anyone where he slept at night—for their safety as well as his.

Not that he’d actually spent the night at Little Mary’s... And he wouldn’t. Eve had asked him to leave.

“How do you know?” Marilyn asked.

Finished with the payroll, he tapped the edges of the checks on the table to even the stack. “What do you mean?”

“How do you know how long you’ll be here? You weren’t planning to be gone in the first place, just up and left in the middle of the night. Yet we’re both here in this park. Something must be wrong. Are you sure you’ll be able to fix it?”

Maybe not. He’d been fighting the same battle for years; he’d thought things had finally settled down—until he heard otherwise from an old friend. In a different time, a different place, he would’ve closed down his business, sold his house and moved. Anything less was gambling with his life.

But he wasn’t about to sacrifice everything he’d created now that he’d hit his stride. At thirty-six, he was getting too old to be constantly starting over. Not only that, but he was afraid of what another uprooting would do to him. Afraid he’d no longer have the determination or the energy to keep plowing forward.

No way could he allow the gang he’d joined in prison to cost him the ground he’d already gained. He just had to lie low for a while, make sure The Crew never found him. With luck, he’d stay one step ahead, and they’d never get the revenge they were after.

“I’m hoping for the best,” he said.

She sent him a “give me a break” look, what he guessed her adult sons saw when they tried to put one over on her. “I wish that assured me,” she said, but then concern pushed aside the skepticism. “I know you won’t tell me what’s going on, but I’m getting the impression you’re really in a mess this time.”

He’d been in a mess since long before he knew her. It’d started when he’d been a lost and confused teenager and then spiraled out of control. But the men who wanted him dead also had a business to run—several businesses. Prostitution. Gun and drug smuggling. Money laundering. Theft. Whatever would make them a buck. Although killing him would give the banger who did it ultimate bragging rights, chasing him around didn’t net The Crew any money. If he continued to elude them, they’d eventually quit, wouldn’t they?

It was possible. But the opposite was more likely. The longer he lived, the more of a legend he became, and that only increased their desire to put him in a body bag. As far as they were concerned, he and his best friend, Virgil Skinner, had done the unpardonable when they defected and then assisted the authorities—and that demanded retribution. The member who accomplished it would be a hero, at least in their small, sordid world.

“Depends,” he said. “Has anyone come by the office, asking for me? Any strange calls?”

“There are always strange calls,” she said. “You own a personal security firm. Some of our clients are delusional as well as paranoid.”

“So nothing out of the ordinary.”

She studied him for several seconds. “It would help if I understood what you were dealing with. Maybe then I could figure out what to look for.”

“You know I can’t tell you. Some people are after me. That’s all.”

“There’ve been no red flags on my end.”

He took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds and let it go. He’d stay away from his usual haunts for another week, see if there was any sign of his former “brothers.” If all remained quiet, he’d head home. Mona Livingston, the friend who’d warned him that several members of The Crew claimed to have new information on his whereabouts, was still using drugs, so he wasn’t sure her information was all that reliable. She could’ve imagined what she’d heard. Or maybe it was nothing but a bunch of street soldiers trying to impress everyone else by vowing they were going to bring him down. There was always that chance, since putting a bullet in him or Virgil, who now lived on the east coast with his wife and kids, would make them the envy of all they admired.

“So how’d it go with Frick?” he asked.

“That’s Jason, right? For the job? Physically, he’s perfect. He’s an absolute Goliath! But mentally?” She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “He seems a little trigger-happy to me. I’d worry about him shooting someone without a legitimate reason.”

Rex had sensed that same reckless element when they’d chatted briefly on the phone, but he’d wanted to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. It wasn’t easy to come by someone who was six-six and built like a Mack truck. “What about the others? Anyone else a good fit?”

“Peter Viselli seems like he has the right temperament.”

He grimaced. “Peter’s what...five-eleven?”

“Yes, but that’s just a couple of inches shorter than you. You also weigh less than every other man in our company—and yet no one’s better at security than you are.”

Size wasn’t a man’s only weapon. Rex found speed, agility, experience and intelligence to be more important. But appearance counted, too. Size gave All About Security, Inc., the intimidation factor, and enough of an intimidation factor could head off problems before they started. Being surrounded by a couple of muscle-bound giants also helped foster client confidence.

Still...

“I don’t want any loose cannons on my team.” Besides the moral implications of having someone use a firearm without sufficient provocation, there were liability issues. Rex preferred to avoid both. “Set up a second interview with Peter for when I get back next week—say, Friday?”

“You think you might be back that soon?”

“Yes. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

Lips pursed, she slipped the checks he’d signed into a file and put them in her oversize bag. “We definitely need you. You’re what makes us successful.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“The question is...will you be safe?”

He nodded to placate her, but he hadn’t been safe in years.

* * *

Brent Taylor didn’t have much luggage. A leather satchel lay open on the bed. From what Eve could tell without digging through it, he’d packed jeans, T-shirts and at least one sweatshirt.

The bed was made, as she’d known it would be. The shower was damp. She also found wet towels in the bathroom, where she could smell his deodorant and the shampoo she provided for her guests.

Now that she was here, she felt silly taking careful note of such mundane things—the same things she saw when she cleaned other clients’ rooms. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to learn or why any of it would matter. If he hadn’t been so secretive and standoffish, she probably wouldn’t have bothered.

There was nothing that revealed a great deal about him, but a few clues gave her more information than she’d had. The type of pan used for prospecting sat on his nightstand. That told her what he was likely doing in Gold Country. On the small desk by the window overlooking the backyard was a laptop, and on the Little Mary’s writing pad by the phone, he’d jotted down some names and numbers.

He wrote like a typical guy, she decided. He printed, but it wasn’t particularly legible. The name Jason Frick topped the short list. His area code suggested he was from the Bay Area, which was just a couple of hours away. She recognized it because so many of her patrons came from there.

Was Frick a friend of Mr. Taylor’s, or a business associate? The other names were male, too, also from the Bay Area. Peter Viselli and Dom Chandler—although Dom’s name was crossed out.

Eve “accidentally” ran her finger over the mouse section of the laptop while dusting, hoping his screensaver would dissolve into whatever he’d been working on, but it didn’t. The demand for a password popped up instead.

She didn’t protect her own computers with a password, even the one she worked on here at the B and B. But there was hardly any crime in Whiskey Creek, and she had nothing to hide.

So who was this Mr. Taylor?

Obviously someone who lived in the city.

Knowing she didn’t have long before Cheyenne or Deb came to find her—or Brent Taylor returned—she replaced his towels and minicontainers of soap, shampoo and conditioner and threw away the ones he’d used. Then she ran a vacuum over the carpet.

When she was finished, she could hear Deb speaking to some guests in the hall. The usual morning sounds made her feel a bit embarrassed for poking around Mr. Taylor’s room. Had she crossed the line? Was she acting like a stalker?

She really needed to get a life, she told herself, and, for the first time ever, considered hiring someone to run the inn for a few months so she could try something else before settling down for good and letting her life harden like cement.

Maybe last night was a sign that she needed to broaden her horizons, embrace change, try new things.

Maybe if she didn’t, she’d regret it later. Cheyenne would be having her baby soon. It wasn’t as if they’d get to work together after that, anyway. Or at least not for a while—

“Hey.”

Eve jumped and turned to see the very person she’d been thinking about standing at the door. “What are you doing up here?” she asked. “You’re not supposed to be climbing the stairs.”

“Who said? The exercise is good for me, as long as I don’t fall.”

“Falling’s what I’m worried about.” After trying for two years to get this baby, and resorting to what she’d resorted to, Cheyenne would be devastated if she lost it.

“I’m being careful. I just wanted to let you know...” She winced as if what she had to say wouldn’t be welcome news.

“What?” Eve prompted.

“Your parents are back.”

Eve’s hand flew to her mouth and she spoke through her fingers. “No!”

“Yes. They’re waiting downstairs in the small parlor. They feel terrible that they didn’t make it in time for your birthday, so they had the part for the RV flown in, which cost them a lot more, and now they’re anxious to give you their present.”

Her parents were too good. They had to be the best, most supportive people in the world, which was partly why Eve felt so embarrassed about her recent behavior.

“You don’t think they’ll hear about last night....”

“No! Of course not! Who’d tell them?” Cheyenne plastered a reassuring smile on her face, but Eve could see right through it.

“You do think they’ll hear.”

She let her smile wilt. “I’m afraid they might. We are talking about Noelle. When Kyle dropped by to give her his spousal maintenance, she had that other waitress over—Casey? He said they were talking and laughing about...the situation.”

Casey hadn’t even been working on Thursday night.

Eve closed her eyes as she pinched the bridge of her nose. She had to get out of this town. She felt trapped, stifled. As much as she loved Little Mary’s and Whiskey Creek and all the people she’d grown up with, she needed something new. But it seemed odd that this realization had burst upon her so suddenly. Did other people question where they were in life at only thirty-five? Was she having a midlife crisis before she ever hit midlife?

Maybe she should take whatever money she’d saved and travel across Europe....

“I’ll finish up,” Cheyenne said. “What’s left?”

“Nothing.” As Eve wound up the vacuum cord, she thought once more about telling Cheyenne that Brent Taylor was the man she’d slept with, but changed her mind. She didn’t want Cheyenne to find out that he’d lied to her about his name. And even if he didn’t check out today, he wouldn’t be in Whiskey Creek for long.

“Want me to go down with you?” Cheyenne asked. “Would that help you face them?”

“No. I’ve got to put the vacuum away first—and I’m not going to let you carry it down those stairs so don’t even offer. Just tell them I’m coming.”

Cheyenne gave her a quick hug. “You’re in your thirties. If they do hear about last night, they probably won’t say anything.”

Of course they wouldn’t. They weren’t intrusive. It was what they’d think that troubled Eve.

Again, she felt a desperate need for more space, a change of scenery, a chance to figure out if the person she’d become was the person she wanted to be. Maybe she’d been treading water, hoping for the kind of love some of her friends had found, but it didn’t look as though that was going to happen for her. At least not here... Maybe it took her thirty-fifth birthday to make her realize she had to go in a different direction.

She listened to Cheyenne’s footsteps recede. Then she lifted up the vacuum. But before she could collect her cleaning bucket, she noticed the luggage tag on Brent Taylor’s suitcase and set the vacuum down.

There was his personal information. She should make a note of it in case there was some reason he didn’t want to give it out. Say...if the FBI happened to be looking for him. If she was going to be stupid enough to sleep with a stranger, a possible fugitive from the law, she should do what she could to point the police in the right direction if they came knocking at her door.

But the tag didn’t say the suitcase belonged to a Brent Taylor, or even a Jared. Taylor Jackson was written in the same handwriting as the names on the pad. There was no address. Just a number, which she keyed into the notes section of her phone.

Had he borrowed someone else’s luggage?

It was possible. But the fact that he’d used two names already gave her the feeling it was more significant than that.

What was going on with this guy? Last night he’d been the perfect lover. Attentive and responsive. The more she remembered about being with him, the more convinced she became that he’d provided the best sex she’d ever had. He’d seemed to enjoy himself, too. Yet this morning, after everything they’d done, he would scarcely give her the time of day, had acted particularly odd when she asked for his full name and, even though he’d said he was Jared, he’d checked in as Brent Taylor and his bag indicated it belonged to a Taylor Jackson.

Knowing she had to go and greet her parents, she grabbed her cleaning stuff and hurried out, closing the door behind her. But as she descended the stairs, she figured she was probably lucky that Jared or Brent or Taylor—whoever he was—didn’t want anything more to do with her.