Carolina Blues (9 page)

Meg raised her eyebrows.
She
didn’t make excuses. After she’d been fired from her Fortune 500 job, Meg had formed her own very successful boutique PR agency. Her drive and determination made Lauren feel even worse about her own floundering panic. “And how are you feeling?”

Think positive.
“Good.”

Meg didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She’d been in that hotel room.

Lauren sighed. “Better,” she amended.

“So . . .”
What’s the matter?
The words hung silently in the air like a thought balloon in a comic strip.

What’s the matter with you?

“I think . . . I need to do more,” Lauren said.

Meg frowned. “Lauren, when I came down to Saint Louis, you were exhausted.” And that exhaustion had brought on a full-scale panic attack. “The whole point of you coming here was to give you a break. To give you a minute out of the spotlight so you could concentrate on your writing.”

“I know. And I’m grateful.” She was, too. Meg had
saved
her. “But . . .”

“You just need a chance to relax. Until things get back to normal.”

Lauren’s hands tightened on her glass. She set it down carefully. There was no “normal” anymore. Not one she recognized. Her old life was gone.

At least when she was on tour, she’d had a role to play. She could be, for hours at a time, the person that her audience expected. Hostage Girl, clear-thinking and brave.

But away from the SWAT teams and television cameras, who was she?

Only with Jack she had felt briefly, intensely, herself. Present.
Alive
.

“I need to do more with my
life
,” she explained.

“Like work at the bakery?” Meg asked dryly.

Lauren winced. “You heard about that.”

“Sweetie, you’re on an island now. The two main occupations are fishing and gossip. And since my nephew’s girlfriend also happens to work at the bakery . . .”

“Your nephew’s dating Thalia?” Lauren asked, diverted.

Meg’s eyes narrowed at the change of subject. Lauren smiled ruefully. No one could ever accuse
Meg
of being unfocused.

“Not that my nephew’s love life isn’t my top priority,” Meg said. “But let’s stick with you for the moment. Why are you working for Jane?”

“It’s only for a couple hours a day,” Lauren said defensively. “And Jane’s short staffed.”

“But what do you get out of it? Besides free pastries.”

“It’s something I can do. Something I’m good at,” Lauren said with growing assurance. “I need to help.”

“That’s why you quit school after your father died,” Meg said.

Lauren’s heart jolted.

“It’s not a secret,” Meg said. “It’s in your book. Which I read. You’re my client. You left college because your mother wasn’t holding it together and your brother, Noah, needed you.”

“He needed counseling,” Lauren said.

“Which you made sure he got,” Meg said. “And then when you did go back to school, you chose psychology as your major.”

Lauren hadn’t realized she had revealed so much of herself, her old self, on the page. Or maybe Meg, with her Harvard education and tight-knit family, was very good at reading between the lines. “Noah went through a really tough time after Dad died. The counselor made a huge difference in his life. It made me realize that that’s what I wanted to do.”

“That’s great. But, Lauren.” Meg met her gaze. “You can’t save everybody.”

“I know that.” She sure hadn’t saved Ben, despite her promises to him that everything would be all right. She hadn’t saved his family, even if she did still send them money every month. Somehow she had to learn to live with the guilt and move on. “It makes me feel better to try,” she said. “To give back, even if it’s just a cup of coffee.”

“Where does Jack Rossi fit into all this?”

Lauren hesitated. This wasn’t the kind of thing you discussed with your publicist. Only with your therapist. Or maybe a friend.

She was so very tired of being isolated in hotel rooms. Of presenting a front to strangers. Of hiding her hurt from the people who knew her best.

But she wasn’t sure enough of her relationship with Meg to know what to say. She wasn’t sure of
herself
.

Are you moving forward?
Jack had challenged her.
Or running away?

Lauren took a deep breath. She’d come this far. She wasn’t going to back down now. “He makes me feel better, too.”

“Really.” Meg sounded disbelieving.

“You don’t think he’s hot?”

Meg shot her a droll look. “I’m engaged, not dead. Of course I find him hot. I’m just surprised you do.”

Lauren smiled wryly. “To use your expression, I’m messed up. I’m not dead.”

Meg turned pink. “I wasn’t going to say messed up. Fragile maybe. And Jack is kind of a bad ass. A cop. An ex-sniper. Are you really sure he’s the best person for you to be with right now?”

A
sniper
. The word conjured visions of black-jacketed, goggled figures swarming through smoke like demons from the mouth of hell. Of Ben’s uncle, George, one blind eye staring up at the ceiling, lying in his blood on the nubby bank carpet.

“Jack was a sniper? In Philadelphia?”

“In the Marines. In Afghanistan. Luke told me.”

Lauren’s heart beat faster. “Don’t they screen them? To be, like, super emotionally stable or something?”

Meg shrugged. “Maybe when they go in. God knows what happens when they come out. My point is, I just don’t see Jack as the nurturing type.”

Nurturing? No. Blunt and honest and uncompromising. A man of principle, Lauren thought, remembering how he’d tried to warn her off.
I’m just telling you how it is.

But he’d given her water. Driven her home. Cared for her. She remembered those dark, assessing eyes on her face.
No bad effects?

“He’s been nice to me,” she said.

“Good for him. I still wouldn’t have pegged him as your type.”

He could be her type. Well, once he got over his unfortunate tendency to walk away after kissing her brains out. But Lauren could work with that.

“He’s a fixer-upper,” she said.

“A what?”

“That’s my type,” she explained. “I sort of collect them. Musicians, tattoo artists, fellow grad students. Guys who need a place to crash after their parents or their girlfriends kick them out. Nice guys, but not long-term relationship material. So they stay with me until I can fix them.”

Meg narrowed her eyes. “You fix them.”

“Mm
.
” She helped them find their feet or their mojo, gave them haircuts or research help, got them into rehab or out of debt. “And then, when they don’t need me anymore, they move on.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“I was.” Lauren blinked.
Past tense
. Why wasn’t she now? Was it Jack who was different?

Or was the change in new Lauren? Not only the result of trauma, not simply a matter of survival, but a choice.

Meg was frowning, staring into her glass, swirling the contents gently. “You know,” she said slowly. “Jack isn’t some twenty-something couch dweller you can launch after he learns to tie his own shoes. He’s older than me. Older than Matt, even. He’s not going to change for you.”

“I know. I’m his rebound girl,” Lauren said.

“Excuse me?”

“He hasn’t been with anyone since his divorce. He isn’t ready for a committed relationship.”

Meg raised her brows. “And that’s enough for you?”

Lauren looked at Meg, with her New York haircut and three-carat rock, blissfully engaged to the hunky contractor she’d crushed on in high school. So sure of herself, so confident about her life and Sam’s place in it.

It must be nice.

“It has to be,” Lauren said. “My life is a hot mess right now. I have no idea where I’ll be or what I’ll be doing in two months. I’m not looking for true love. I’m just hoping to get laid.”

Meg was silent.

“You don’t approve.”

“Not for the reasons you think. Lauren . . . Before I was with Sam, I wasted six years of my life on a guy who was more interested in what I could do for his career than in who I was or what I wanted. So I have to ask, what do you get out of this?”

Jack
, Lauren thought with a stab of pure longing.

She got Jack. All that tough strength, all that tempered control, all that sublimated passion, to wrap herself in like a down comforter, his hard hands and broad shoulders and smoldering dark eyes.

Rescue me.

“Maybe just the chance to feel connected again.” She looked up. Smiled. “It’s been so long since I’ve had sex, I’m practically a virgin.”

Meg laughed and leaned forward to refill her wineglass. “Okay. I think it’s great that you’re rejoining the living. Everybody deserves a summer fling. As long as you know going in that that’s what it is.”

“That’s all it is,” Lauren said.

She was pretty sure she was okay with that.

“H
EARD YOU DITCHED
my daughter for some gal with a nose ring,” Hank said two days later.

Jack’s jaw clamped. He’d kissed Jane one time at Matt Fletcher’s wedding four months ago. Maybe he’d thought about doing more, but the chemistry had never been there. On either side, he admitted.

Defending himself to Hank, though, would only make him sound like a jerk.
Never mix sex and the job
.

“Lauren Patterson.” Luke looked up from typing a list of items stolen from Lois Howell’s clothesline. “And if you ask me, Jack’s the one with the ring in his nose.”

Hank snorted. “If a woman’s leading him around, it’s not by the nose.”

A police department was like a locker room, the same smell of sweat and pine cleaner, the same playground hierarchy. Ribbing was good, a sign of acceptance, evidence that they were playing as a team. But he was the coach. Time to get everybody’s head back in the game.

“How’s Jane?” he asked.

Hank scowled. “She doesn’t talk to me. I figured you’d know. You’re the one at the bakery all the time.”

“The bakery was closed until this morning,” he reminded Hank. “I went out yesterday to take a look at the new security system.”

He’d met up with the crime scene tech from the sheriff’s department. He’d seen Jane and the repairman fixing the air conditioner unit. He’d looked for Lauren.

But she wasn’t there.

Of course. She had work to do. And so did he.

His disappointment at her absence was strong enough to make him uneasy. He wanted her. He didn’t deny it. A good detective didn’t ignore the facts to suit his own theories. Or in this case, his life.

But he didn’t want to need her. So after leaving the bakery, he hadn’t gone to the inn to see her. He held back, just to prove to himself that he could, like a smoker going a whole day without a cigarette.

Her dark gaze met his, her perception lightened with humor.
If I invite you in for a drink, would that violate your professional or personal boundaries?

He almost shuddered. You couldn’t put yourself out there like that. You couldn’t let people in. Because if you did, they would mess you up.

But somehow she did it. Invited him in, left herself all raw and naked and open and vulnerable.

She was incredibly brave.

And dangerous.

“What about that piece of shit Tillett?” Hank asked.

Jack dragged his mind off Lauren. “Is that what you called him when he was your son-in-law?”

“Worse than that. Not that Jane ever listened,” Hank said. “You find him?”

Reluctantly, Jack shook his head. Beneath Hank’s gruff manner, he was obviously concerned. “Not yet.”

“He could’ve left the island,” Luke said.

Maybe. The locals looked out for their own. No one remembered seeing Tillett in the last two days. But at the height of the tourist season, one scruffy, long-haired guy could easily blend in with the fishermen, surfers, and campers on vacation. Without a warrant, there was no way to track the guy’s movements, especially if he drove across the bridge instead of taking the ferry.

“I’ll take his photo around again when we’re done here. Grab the other side of this desk,” Jack said to Luke. “I want to move it by the entrance.”

Luke pushed back his chair to comply.

“Why do we need another desk?” Hank said. “We’re crowded enough already.”

Jack wedged the desk beside a bank of file cabinets. “Town council finally approved the new budget. We’ve got ourselves a dispatcher, someone to take over the permits and filing and handle calls.”

Luke whistled. “What did you do, twist their arms?”

“More like knocked their heads together.” Hank eyed Jack with rare approval. “When does she start?”

“I have a candidate coming at ten today. That’s why I asked you to come in on a Wednesday. I wanted you both to meet her.”

“What’s her name?” Luke asked.

“Marta Lopez.”

“Sounds Mexican,” Hank said.

Jack shot him a hard look. Working in law enforcement, your world became divided into Cops and Everybody Else.
Us versus Them
. The distinction became easier and uglier when prejudice crept in, when “They” had darker skin or different last names or spoke another language. It used to make him sick sometimes back in Philly, the way some cops talked about the people they were sworn to protect. The words they used. The attitude.

He wouldn’t tolerate it. Not in his office, not in the field. And if Hank thought otherwise, he was out of here.

“She’s Hispanic, yes,” he said evenly. “We could use somebody who speaks Spanish in this department.”

“My nephew Josh is friends with a Miguel Lopez,” Luke said easily. “His mom works at the realty office.”

Jack nodded, keeping his eyes on Hank. “That’s the one. According to Sam Grady, she’s been with them twenty-five years. Worked her way up from the cleaning crew to the office. He says she’s smart, organized, and used to handling calls and pressure.”

“So why’s she leaving them?” Hank asked.

“She says now that her boys are older, she’s looking for more of a challenge.” Jack wondered how she’d deal with Hank and his redneck attitude.

“Sounds like you already made up your mind,” Hank said.

“She’s qualified,” Jack said carefully. “Not experienced, but most dispatchers train on the job.”

Hank grunted. “Let’s hope she can make coffee.”

“I can make coffee.” A woman’s voice, assured. Amused. “As long as you don’t expect me to serve it to you.”

Hank turned to the doorway, shoulders bunching like a bulldog’s at the sight of a cat.

Marta Lopez stood in the door to the office. Early fifties and confident in her skin, with generous curves and thick, dark hair and a handsome face. What Jack’s dad would call a nice handful. And then Ma would dig him in the ribs with her elbow.

Jack bit back a smile. “Marta, this is Hank Clark. Our reserve officer.”

She pursed bright coral lips. “I know who he is. I’ve seen him driving around in his car. You used to be with the sheriff’s department.”

Hank nodded, apparently strangled by his collar.

“And Patrol Officer Luke Fletcher.” Jack continued the introductions.

Marta cocked her head. “Josh’s uncle? You’re Tess Fletcher’s son.”

Luke, over six feet of Marine Corps muscle, grinned at her like the Boy Scout he’d undoubtedly been. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re just back from Afghanistan, then. Welcome home.” She smiled with genuine warmth, offered her hand. Bright nails, no rings. “Thank you for your service.”

The phone rang.

Before Luke could pick it up, Marta looked at Jack, raising dark, elegant brows. “You want me to get that?”

In a few sentences, she’d established her island pedigree and her ability to hold her own. Good for her, Jack thought. And good for him. If she handled calls as easily as she’d handled introductions, she was in.

He gestured toward the desk. “Please.”

She took off one big gold earring and laid it on the desk before tucking the receiver to her ear. “Dare Island Police Department, how can I . . . Oh, hi, Dora. It’s Marta Lopez. What’s up?” A series of sympathetic hums, and then, “When did you notice? Hold on. I’ll check.” She punched the hold button. “Dora Abrams on Teach Street. Something’s caught in the trap under her house. Since this morning, she thinks, but it could have been last night. When can someone go out there?”

“I’ll go,” Luke said.

“I’ve got it. You stay and get acquainted,” Jack said.

In emergency situations, communication was key. Hank might have reservations about their new dispatcher, but they all had to work together. If there was going to be a problem, Jack needed to know now. And if Marta couldn’t change Hank’s attitude, Jack would.

“If you don’t mind me leaving you with these two for a while,” he said to Marta.

“Whatever you say, Chief.” She hit the button again. “Dora, it’s your lucky day. The chief is on his way.”

“Great,” Jack said when she ended the call. “We’ll talk when I get back. In the meantime, Luke here can give you the tour, take you next door to meet our friendly firefighters.”

“Luke’s a rookie.” Hank’s voice scraped like barnacles over rock. He cleared his throat, his dark eyes fixing on Marta. “I’ll show you around.”

They all regarded him with varying degrees of surprise.

Marta’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I did say I wanted more of a challenge,” she murmured.

Red crept into Hank’s craggy face. His jaw hardened.

Jack narrowed his eyes, picking up some vibe in the room. Trouble? Flirtation?

He shook his head, dislodging the thought.
Don’t overreact
. Hank was simply pulling rank on Luke. Or he was making amends for that remark about the coffee.

They would be fine. Everything was under control.

“Don’t worry, Dad.” Luke’s blue eyes gleamed with laughter. “I’ll referee ’til you get home.”

Hank snorted. “More like I’ll be babysitting.”

And after that, what choice did he have but to trust them and go?

Moving forward? Or running away?

His fist curled on the handle of the door, the metal pressing into his palm. Damned if he knew anymore.

*   *   *

H
E DIDN’T CALL.

Probably just as well, Lauren told herself as she trailed up the stairs of the Pirates’ Rest, her stomach churning with disappointment. The evening sun slanted through the windows, throwing rose-colored bars across the wooden treads and faded floral carpet.

Snipers were hardly known for their warm, nurturing personalities. If she wanted to salve her ego or recharge her energies, she could certainly find a less demanding hookup than the recently divorced, chip-on-his-shoulder, stick-up-his-butt chief of police.

What could Jack Rossi give her that she truly needed?

Jack, behind her, his hands at her waist, his lips at her throat, his body a solid wall at her back . . .

Well, except for that. She fumbled for her room key. Anyway, she didn’t expect him to call. Guys never did. But she’d thought—okay, maybe she had really
hoped
—that Jack would be different. All that confidence and control, the hot, disciplined body, the cool, assessing eyes. A man who knew what he wanted, she’d thought.

Two days ago, with him pressing hard and urgent against her, she had thought he wanted her.

My mistake.

She opened the door to her room. The stale air wrapped around her, smelling faintly of guest soap and bathroom cleaning products. The scent of a hundred hotels, reminding her how far she was from home. For a moment she couldn’t breathe.

She crossed to the window and dragged up the sash. The evening air flowed in, humid and alive with the scent of salt and a chorus of tree frogs.

Jack hadn’t said he would call. In fact, she’d gotten the impression that he was carefully avoiding saying much of anything at all.

She was the one who was trying to make that flare of attraction—that instant of connection, that moment when she’d felt vibrantly, achingly alive—into something more, projecting her own yearnings onto him.
See you. See
you. She wanted that so desperately, to be seen. Not through a television screen or the halo of celebrity, but seen for herself.

But he hadn’t even dropped by the bakery this afternoon, when he knew she would be there.

Fine
. She didn’t need Jack kissing her. She didn’t want him judging her. She didn’t need a guy to make her feel inadequate. She felt bad enough all by herself.

She pressed her forehead to the screen, the metal mesh biting into her skin.

She’d been stuck on this book for months, unable to let her words or feelings out, afraid of revealing what a hot mess she was inside. Editing her emotions, fudging the truth, until all her words were empty.
Hostage Girl: My Life After Crisis
was a joke. Hostage Girl was a fraud.

She wasn’t anyone special. How could she expect to help or inspire anybody when she couldn’t help herself?

She took a shaky breath. Held it.

Okay, that had just used up her entire quota of negative self-judgment for the day. She needed to grow a thicker skin. Or a spine. Positive thoughts, she reminded herself.

Outside her window, over the tops of the trees, the sea shimmered like a promise out of reach. The sun lay down a trail of fire across the water. Lauren blinked hard and climbed to her feet, looking around for her laptop.

It wasn’t there.

Crap
. She looked again, on the bed, under the bed, by the dresser. She’d had it with her this morning at the bakery. And then . . . Had she put it under the counter while she worked? Or left it charging on the corner table? She couldn’t remember. And now she’d forgotten it.

Unless
 . . . The thought bloomed inside her, the tight bands easing around her chest.
Unless someone stole it
.

The relief was shameful.

No more laptop. No more pressure to find the words to put her soul on paper. Nothing she could do about it.

Anyway, her laptop was there, at the bakery. It had to be there, in one place or another. And even if she lost her computer, her work was backed up on the cloud.
Like some giant black thundercloud looming on the horizon. Threatening. Inescapable.

She shook the image away. She wasn’t trying to escape. She wasn’t running from her responsibilities or her deadline or anything else.

However much she might want to.

She glanced again out the window to where the sky was turning pink and gold.
Red sky at night, sailor’s delight
. Plenty of time to walk to the bakery and back before dark. Of course, Jane’s would be closed by now. But Lauren had a key.
Just in case
, Jane had said, pressing it into her hand a week ago, and even though Lauren couldn’t see why she would need one—she was never there alone—it felt so good to be trusted that she’d taken the key anyway.
Just in case
.

At least retrieving her laptop would be doing something. Not sitting alone in her room or hanging around the guest parlor, intruding on the vacationing couples, hoping Meg or somebody—
not Jack, screw Jack
—would notice and take pity on her.