Читать книгу Rogue's Reform - Marilyn Pappano - Страница 7

It was a slow night at the Pirate’s Cay. Some joker in the corner had spent the last two hours playing every Jimmy Buffett tune on the jukebox, and two of the worst pool players on Key West were playing a game of eight ball that was never going to end the way they were going at it. The few regulars who had wandered in had wandered back out before long, leaving Ethan James with no one interesting to watch but the redhead alone at a table for two.

He had a weakness for redheads—had ever since he was sixteen and had hitched a ride across Texas with a redhead five years his senior. She’d shown him the sights at damn near every stop, and he’d developed a fine appreciation for flaming hair and fiery passion along the way.

The redhead at Pirate’s Cay was looking at him as if she could show him a few things, too. On a slow night, with nothing else, he was sure he would enjoy the ride.

As he finished wiping down the bar, the owner of the Cay came out of her office, took a look around, then joined him. “Life in wild, wonderful Key West. I don’t know how we survive it.” She tossed two envelopes onto the bar between them. “Here. Happy payday.”

“What’s the other?”

“Letter came for you today. I put it with your check so I wouldn’t forget, and then I forgot.” She glanced up at the clock on the wall, then swiveled her stool around. “Last call, folks. We close in ten minutes.”

No one showed any interest in more drinks. The redhead waited until he was watching her, then stood up, smiled and sauntered to the door. If he were a betting man, he’d give himself better than even odds that she’d be waiting in the parking lot when he walked outside.

Actually, he was a betting man, though it was one of many vices he’d been working at giving up. He’d achieved a higher degree of success with some than others. He’d stopped stealing and drinking, and was honest more often than not. Staying away from the gambling was harder, but he told himself when he slid that at least it was better than earning his money by conning innocent dupes out of theirs. He’d cut back on indiscriminate sex, but he couldn’t give it up completely. Hell, he had to have something to make life worth living. He damn sure didn’t have anything else…except a drop or two of self-respect. He doubted anyone else would be proud of the changes he’d made, but he was, and that was almost enough.

Setting the envelopes aside, he began closing up. By the time he finished, it was only two minutes past closing time and everyone but him and the boss was gone. She didn’t have far to go—through the storeroom door and up a flight of stairs to her apartment on the second floor. His own apartment was a few miles farther in a neighborhood significantly shabbier. He had five hundred square feet over a two-car garage that took too much of his paycheck, but he had nothing else to spend the money on. No family who wanted anything to do with him. No girlfriend. No future besides trying to stay out of trouble.

He waited for the boss to walk him to the door so she could lock up behind him. “See you tomorrow, darlin’,” she murmured as he left.

He responded with a nod and a wave, then glanced at the letter as he started for the parking lot. The postmark was illegible, the handwriting familiar, the return address even more so. His sister-in-law Olivia was the only member of the family who kept tabs on him—whether out of affection or self-protection, he didn’t know. He suspected the latter.

She’d gotten the Cay’s address from the birthday card he’d sent his brother Guthrie last December, and in return, she’d signed Guthrie’s name to a Christmas card, along with an invitation to spend the holidays with them. He’d ignored the invitation, knowing he was about as welcome in Heartbreak as a prairie fire in a drought, but he’d kept the card, and the two she’d sent him since.

As he turned the corner into the parking lot, he saw the redhead draped over the hood of a sharp little ragtop before turning his attention back to Olivia’s letter. He tore a jagged strip from one end and slid two fingers inside to pull out a photograph with a yellow sticky note covering its subject. In Olivia’s elegant hand was a short message: I thought you should know. Know what? he wondered as he peeled the note off.

The answer stopped him in his tracks.

The snapshot had been taken in a parking lot on the main street of Heartbreak. The day had been sunny, the sky barely blue, but he would know it was cold even if the woman hadn’t been wearing a coat, scarf and gloves, even if her breath hadn’t crystallized in the air the instant the photo was taken.

Just as he’d known her instantly, without the long, wild curls, the sexy, tight clothes or the husky, seductive voice.

Just as he’d known that night seven months ago that rowdy bars weren’t her usual hangouts, that no-good con artists weren’t her usual companions.

He steadied his hand to stare at the photo. She wore no makeup, and her thick brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was turned slightly away from the camera to avoid a direct shot. Instead of drawing attention to her face, the stance drew the viewer’s eye lower. To what Olivia wanted him to know. To a not-so-small detail the too-big and unstylish clothes she wore couldn’t disguise.

She was pregnant. About seven months so.

After a long, stunned moment, he returned the photograph to the envelope, then carefully folded it to fit in his pocket. As he walked past the convertible and the beautiful, sexy redhead, he knew there was only one thing for him to do.

He had to go home.