Читать книгу The Rule-Breaker - Rhonda Nelson - Страница 9

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“HE’S HERE,” MAVIS Meriweather announced breathlessly from her position at the storefront window. “Merciful heavens, I’d recognize that especially fine ass anywhere,” she said, humming appreciatively under her breath. “It’s hot today. You think I should take him a bottle of water?”

Shelby Monroe ignored the kamikaze butterflies swarming in her belly at this news and glanced indulgently at her assistant. “He just got here, Mavis,” she drawled. “He’s hardly had time to work up a sweat.”

The “he” in question was Eli Weston, of course. Just the thought of him conjured more feeling—most of it conflicted—in her rapidly beating heart than could possibly be good for her.

Nothing new there, damn him. She should have known...

Mavis pretended to swoon and braced a bejeweled hand against the wall. “Sweat,” she murmured, blinking slowly. She shook herself and sent Shelby a scolding look, her perfectly drawn on brows furrowed with chagrin. “You ought to know better than to say things like that when I’m in this condition.”

“This condition” being hornier than a teenage boy with his first skin magazine. Mavis’s hormone replacement therapy had gone horribly awry. Either she was especially sensitive to the medication or she was on the wrong dosage. Regardless of the reason, the drugs were having a hyper reaction in Shelby’s older friend and, as such, had resurrected her flatlined libido with disturbing results. A former Vegas showgirl who’d dated A-list celebrities and famous politicians, Mavis had never married—had said she considered it an invasion of her privacy—and had always been a charismatic force of nature. But a desperate-to-get-laid Mavis had the makings of a natural disaster.

“Have you talked to Doc Anderson?”

Mavis turned away from the window and fanned herself. She’d recently gone from blond to red, a shade that suited her. “I have an appointment next week.”

It wasn’t soon enough if you asked Shelby, but she supposed it would have to do. “Maybe he can get you sorted out.” One could hope, at any rate.

She harrumphed under her breath. “The only thing that’s going to get me sorted out is an obliging man, preferably one with an especially large penis and more stamina than intelligence.”

Startled, Shelby’s needle missed the buttonhole and pricked her finger. She winced and inspected the damage, thankful when she didn’t see blood. She’d hate to bleed on this fine piece of vintage chenille. She was putting the finishing touches on a custom romper for Lilly Wilken’s little girl. It was excellent work, if she did say so herself.

And she did, because she was a first-rate seamstress. She’d learned at her grandmother’s knee and had taken to the craft like a fish to water. While other little girls had been playing with dolls and Easy-Bake ovens, Shelby had been learning how to sew. She’d gotten her own machine at ten and had started making her own clothes shortly thereafter.

Never one to follow the trends, Shelby had been happier with her own designs than anything she could buy off the rack. She’d always had a firm sense of self, knew what looked best on her own body and could tailor-make anything that struck her fancy. Thankfully, it wasn’t long until other girls were knocking on her door asking her to help them find their own personal style, as well. She’d gone to college on a partial home economics scholarship and was able to pay for the rest with the modest inheritance her grandmother had left her.

Armed with a business degree—with a minor in fashion merchandising—she’d returned to Willow Haven, bought the old dry goods store on the town square and converted it into her own shop, which she’d named In Stitches. The front room showcased her own custom designs, the back housed the working area, where she kept three full-time seamstresses employed, and she’d converted the upstairs space into an apartment, which was presently part of Mavis’s employment package.

But whereas business might be good, her personal life was in the toilet.

Between Micah’s death and the guilt she felt over breaking off their engagement—not to mention the guilt she carried over what had happened between her and Eli the night of Carl and Sally’s anniversary party—and the threatening letters she’d been getting for months, the last damned thing in the world she needed to complicate things more was Eli Weston, here in the flesh. She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight.

He blamed her—or at least considered her a contributing factor—she knew. How could he not? After what had happened? Though the official line from the military had cited an accidental death, Shelby knew that hadn’t been the case.

She knew...because Micah had written her prior to his death and told her so.

She hadn’t received the letter until several days after Micah’s passing, but even then she’d suspected. Though she’d broken their engagement six months before his death, they’d still kept in touch. Hell, they’d been friends since grade school. Just because the romantic relationship was over hadn’t meant that she’d stopped caring about him, that she hadn’t wanted the best for him. And he’d been struggling, she knew.

Eli, she imagined, had known it, too.

Shelby had been so consumed with grief and regret that she’d hadn’t even been able to look at him during Micah’s service. She’d been too afraid of what she’d see there. And she blamed herself enough as it was. Not specifically for Micah’s death—the sole purpose of his letter was to keep her from blaming herself—but the pain she’d inflicted on him, the guilt of longing for Eli... She owned that and suspected she always would.

Eli, she imagined, would, as well, which made facing him all the more difficult.

But there would be no avoiding him here and, considering that she needed his help to try and figure out who was sending the letters, she’d better pull herself together.

She released a shaky breath, thankful that her hands were steady even though her nerves were stretched thinner than a razor’s edge.

Thankfully, Sally had insisted that Eli be a part of the building and dedication of the gazebo going up in the center of the town square. A tribute to Micah, their fallen hometown hero. Because she’d always been good with a pencil, Carl had asked her to draw up the design. He’d told her it would mean a lot to the family, to Micah. In light of the breakup, she wasn’t certain it was completely appropriate, but Carl and Sally had been too good to her over the years for her to be anything other than helpful.

To show their appreciation to everyone who was participating with the construction, Micah’s parents were hosting a dinner every evening until the project was complete and Shelby had been told her presence was expected. “Micah loved you,” Sally had told her. “And we love you. It would mean so much to us for you to be there.”

Rather than argue, Shelby had simply nodded. She had no intention of doing anything that was going to cause Micah’s family any further distress. They’d been through hell. That playful light behind Carl’s eyes had dimmed, Sally’s smile had resurfaced a few weeks ago, but it never moved past her lips, and poor Colin—their “little surprise,” Sally liked to say—at thirteen, was caught at that awkward age where he was too young to truly cope and too old to allow himself to cry. He’d grown sullen and remote, a shadow of the happy, energetic boy she’d known. It was so sad.

And she would never, ever reveal the truth. No matter how many letters she received.

Which was why she needed Eli’s help. As Micah’s best friend, he could snoop around with less suspicion than she could. Willow Haven was a small tight-knit community. It wasn’t just likely that she knew the sender—it was a certainty. Any questions she asked on her own behalf were going to throw up a red flag and potentially allow the truth about Micah’s death to become public. She couldn’t let that happen. Any questions Eli asked, as Micah’s best friend and a Willow Haven outsider, wouldn’t be as conspicuous.

It was odd, really. The letters had started the week after Micah’s funeral and she’d received one every week since. Each one just as cryptic as the last, the notes were always short and to the point.

I saw you. I know what you did. I’m going to tell.

It wasn’t the gun that killed him, it was you. I’m going to tell.

How can you live with yourself, knowing what you did? I’m going to tell.

And the latest? The most disturbing?

You deserve to die. It should be you in a coffin beneath that heavy dirt. I’m going to tell.

It chilled her, this last letter. Possibly because it seemed so matter-of-fact, so stark. She’d never given much thought to dying or what exactly it meant to be buried. She’d never considered that the earth above a coffin would be heavy or how wretched that would make her feel. Just thinking about it had made her want to rush down to Rosewood Cemetery, where her parents and grandparents were buried, and claw the earth away from their coffins, then move them into an aboveground crypt, much like the ones she’d seen in New Orleans. Irrational? Costly? Yes, but she couldn’t seem to shake the idea.

Any more than she could shake the memory of Eli’s kiss—the blazing desperation and desire in his pale hazel gaze—from her mind. It stuck there. Haunted her. Mocked her. Shamed her.

Enflamed her.

She should have never followed him outside that night, Shelby had told herself a million times. She’d known if she danced too close to the fire she was going to get burned. And the kicker? The horrible truth? If she had to do over again, she’d probably do the same damned thing. Because getting burned was better than being numb.

And she’d never realized she was numb until Eli touched her.

Had there been a spark of something prior to that? Yes, God help her, as unwelcome as it was undeniable. Shelby had tried pretending that it didn’t exist, then chalked it up to Eli’s mysteriousness, that intense direct stare that occasionally left her feeling as if he’d opened her head and taken a peek inside. She’d tried avoiding him, not avoiding him, looking for faults...everything. Nothing had nudged that niggle of awareness, that lingering longing that stirred in her gut.

That’s why she’d ultimately broken it off with Micah. Because until Eli had kissed her, she’d been able to pretend that her affection and long history with Micah were stronger than something as small and insubstantial as the idea of someone else, of Eli. Because until he’d kissed her, that’s all it had been—an idea.

She’d so been wrong. Wrong for ever allowing things with Micah to rekindle, then progress to a proposal. He’d been safe and familiar, and she’d been vulnerable and lonely. He’d picked her up, dusted her off and loved her, as always.

She’d desperately wanted to love him back. And she did, to a point. But never as much as he cared for her. Never with the same sort of intensity. He’d known it, too. Freely admitted it. But he’d never cared, so long as they were together.

She tied off the final stitch, then reached for her scissors and trimmed the thread. It was hard to reconcile a world he was no longer a part of, to know that she’d never see his smile or hear his laugh again. That had been the best thing about Micah, Shelby thought, a pang tightening her chest. His laugh. It had been joyful and uninhibited, infectious. She missed it most of all.

“You look odd, Shelby,” Mavis remarked. “Are you all right?”

Shelby blinked and gave herself a little shake. Despite being extremely self-absorbed, Mavis could be disturbingly observant. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, aren’t you going to walk over there and say hello? He was Micah’s best friend, after all, and he’s using his leave to volunteer. I think it would be rude and inhospitable for you to ignore him.” She shot Shelby a pointed look. “Like you did at the service.”

Shelby stored her tools, then carefully folded the romper. She felt a blush creep up her neck. “I was understandably preoccupied,” she lied. “And so was he.”

“Maybe so, but he kept glancing at you and you never once looked his way. Say what you will, but I know that your actions were deliberate. It would have been less noticeable had you simply acknowledged him.” She frowned. “I’ve never known you to be so unkind. It was so unlike you. I can only conclude that I’m not in possession of all of the facts and that you had your reasons.” She paused. “However wrong they may have been.”

Subtle as always, Shelby thought. But Mavis was right. He was hurting, too, and she’d been a coward. As nerve-wrecking as it would be, this was her chance to make it right. Besides, she needed him.

Shelby stood, set the romper aside and smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress. “If you’ll cover the store, I’ll walk over there right now.”

Mavis beamed approvingly at her. “Of course I will.”

Shelby glanced at her pet and store mascot, then clicked her tongue. “Come on, Dixie,” she said, then watched her eighty-pound pot-bellied pig lumber up from her hot-pink satin-covered bed in the corner. She bent down and clipped the leash to her rhinestone collar, then straightened her custom-made tulle skirt and matching bow.

Mavis merely rolled her eyes. “I swear she’s gained more weight just since yesterday. How much bigger is she going to get?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Shelby told her. “That skirt’s got an elastic waist.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. She’s huge, Shelby. If she gets any bigger, she’s going to need her own zip code.”

Shelby smiled and scratched the top of Dixie’s head. “Nonsense. “

When she’d moved out of the upstairs apartment and bought the house a block from the square so that she could have more room and a yard, Shelby hadn’t counted on being lonely. She’d loved the idea of having more room, of having a little garden to tend, flowers to grow. But she’d barely been in the house a week before she’d decided that a pet—which she’d never had, because her grandmother had been allergic—was in order. A puppy, more specifically. Rather than buy a designer breed, she’d opted to go to the animal shelter.

She’d walked in knowing exactly what she’d wanted—a soft, cuddly, energetic puppy which would grow into a loyal companion. To everyone’s surprise—most especially her own—she’d walked out with Dixie.

The little pig had been abandoned outside the shelter months ago, when the owners had evidently realized that she wasn’t going to stay tiny and cute. It was a common misconception, which had resulted in thousands of the little animals being dumped in shelters all across the country. Knowing that the various dogs and cats would eventually be adopted, and that Dixie’s chances were extremely less likely, Shelby gave in. The thought of leaving her there, trapped in that five-by-five box, was simply more than she could bear.

There’d been a learning curve with the pig—try finding that kind of food on the pet aisle at the Piggly Wiggly—but with the help of her vet and the internet, Shelby had adjusted...and couldn’t be happier. Dixie had personality in spades. She was leash and litter trained, and extremely smart. Shelby grimaced. So smart, in fact, that she’d learned to open the fridge, which was why it was now locked tight with bungee cords. Hardly a permanent solution, but she could only tackle one thing at a time.

And right now, she had to deal with the return of Eli Weston.

Shelby opened the door and allowed Dixie to lead her out onto the sidewalk. The late-morning air was sweet with the scent of sugar coming from Lola’s Bakery next door, making her mouth water. The phrase “blessing and a curse” sprung immediately to mind. If she didn’t lay off the donut holes, she was going to have to start putting additional elastic into her skirts, as well, Shelby thought, making a mental note to eat a bowl of oatmeal before leaving for work in the morning. There. She already felt thinner.

Careful to use the crosswalk, she made her way across the street onto the green in the middle of the square, Dixie trotting along happily beside her on her short stumpy legs.

“Morning, Shelby,” Walter Perkins said, tipping his hat at her, a smile on his lined face.

“Morning, Walter.”

Dixie rooted at the ground, but Shelby jingled her leash, distracting her from whatever had caught her fancy. The pig knew better, but that didn’t stop her from trying. There was only one area that Dixie was allowed to dig and burrow in and that was in the fenced-in area in the backyard. It was her own personal mud hole, complete with a kiddie pool filled with water for cooling off.

In the process of mixing concrete, Hank Malloy stopped and looked up at her, a grin leaping to his lips. “I swear, Shelby, every time I see you with that hog I start craving barbeque.”

Used to the jokes, Shelby smiled. “She’s a pet, Hank, not a pulled pork sandwich.”

Hank’s comment had attracted the attention of the rest of the group, but it was Eli’s gaze she felt the most. A skitter of heat tripped along her spine and a sizzle of awareness made the backs of her thighs tingle. Her mouth went dry and her stomach decided this would be the perfect time to launch a career in gymnastics. It did a few backflips and somersaults, making her momentarily queasy.

“Shelby,” Carl called, waving her over, a big smile wreathing his tanned face. “Look who’s here,” he said, happily clapping Eli on the back.

Left with no other choice, she mentally braced herself and looked at him then. Her lungs seized and rush of warmth spread through her body, concentrating in her palms and the arches of her feet. Every hair on her head lifted, then settled, making gooseflesh race down her arms despite the heat, and her insides vibrated so hard it was nothing short of miraculous that her teeth didn’t chatter.

Sweet mercy...

His gaze was familiar—a glorious mixture of bright greens and pale browns—but heart-breakingly guarded and undeniably sad. Day-old golden stubble clung to his face, emphasizing the hollows beneath his high cheekbones, shading the stark line of his jaw. Dressed in work boots, worn jeans and a navy blue t-shirt that showcased the best pair of shoulders ever, he’d apparently arrived ready to work.

His lips—quite possibly the sexiest mouth she’d ever seen—tilted into something just short of a smile. “Shelby,” he said, his voice the same roughened baritone she remembered. “It’s good to see you.” His gaze dropped to Dixie and a disbelieving frown appeared on his face. “And your...pig.”

“That’s right,” Carl said, chuckling softly at his reaction. “You haven’t met Dixie yet, have you?”

He shook his head, then winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

That’s because she’d gotten her pet after Micah died, but rather than use that horrible frame of reference, she quickly changed the subject. “So you’ve just gotten in?”

He nodded. “Just a few minutes ago.”

“Have you had a chance to look at the plans?”

“Not yet,” he told her. “Carl was just about to show them to me.” His gaze tangled with hers. “You drew them?”

She shot a glance at Carl, who’d stepped away to speak with another volunteer. “Carl insisted.”

He followed her gaze, seemingly reluctant to look at her, and winced sympathetically. “He’s good at that,” he murmured.

“It was good of you to come,” she told him, awkwardly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “They appreciate it.”

His gaze found hers once more, lingering for the briefest of seconds. “I know they do.” He jerked his head toward the activity. “I’d better get back to it.”

Equally startled and stung that he had so little to say to her—not that she didn’t deserve it, she knew—Shelby reached out a hand, but stopped just shy of touching him. “Eli—”

He hesitated, his shoulders tight with tension, then turned and arched a dark golden brow.

“Could we catch up at dinner?” she asked. “There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

A shadow passed behind his gaze so quickly that she couldn’t read it and, though his expression never changed, she could tell that he was reluctant to continue their conversation. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll see you at Sally’s.”

And he might, Shelby thought, but getting him to talk to her was a different matter altogether. A lump swelled in her throat and the little kernel of hope she’d clung to withered and died.

She’d been right. He did blame her for Micah’s death.