The Lottery Winner (19 page)

She stopped at the curve in the sidewalk. Their elbows brushed. A tingle shot up her arm. He was close—too close—in the moonlit garden. She looked up at him and felt the tug of attraction. Her mouth dried and her pulse accelerated.

“You can go ahead. I'd, um...like a minute to look at the house. I want to paint a picture of it for Miri.”

“She'd like that.”

“Do you think she'd mind if I came back in the daylight?”

“Not at all. But if you'd rather surprise her, I have some pictures on my computer of the house before the ramp was built. I can find them and get them to you.”

His thoughtfulness chipped at her resistance. “A surprise would be great.”

He glanced away, then back at her. “I apologize for the ambush in there. But nobody needs to be alone on Christmas. I've done a few holidays solo and it sucks.”

Another chip fell away. “After your wife left?”

A muscle in his jaw knotted. “Yeah, and a few times when I was out of town on business and didn't make it home.”

“That must've been tough. We always have the whole clan present. It's noisy and chaotic.”

“But you love it.”

“Yes.” A gust of wind blew her hair across her face. Before she could brush it back, Logan's warm fingertip scraped across her cheek and tucked the lock behind her ear. He kept his fingers just below her ear. If he moved them forward an inch he'd feel her pulse racing.

Then he used his thumb to lift her chin. “If your eyes are naturally blue, then what's the real color of your hair? I know it's politically incorrect to ask, but I've been trying to guess. Blue-eyed blonde or blue-eyed brunette? I'd bet the first. You don't have the skin tone for the second. And I can't see you as a redhead.”

Her mouth dried. She should have realized he was smart enough to put the puzzle together. “You guessed correctly.”

He scanned her face then nodded. “You're beautiful, Jessie. I can only imagine your natural coloring is even prettier. Why?”

She'd shared too much already. Forcing a shrug and a comical face, she said, “I just wanted a change. You know. People are never satisfied with what they have.”

She had been, she realized. Before the lottery she'd been very content with her life, her family, her job, her friends. She hadn't wanted anything to change. But now...

She dropped her gaze as the uncomfortable insight slithered through her. She'd been denying her art, something that now filled her with pride, pleasure and a sense of accomplishment. She'd been happy with a mediocre fiancé whose only thought after her win was what he could buy for himself with her money. And she'd surrounded herself with so-called friends who'd turned on her—or away from her—with envy. She still remembered her shock when her best friend had suggested Jessie pay for a cruise for five teachers in their little group and how she'd thrown an irrational tantrum when Jessie refused. And then there was her family... She'd allowed them to make all of her important decisions.

How had she not seen that she'd made a mess of her life before now? How could she ever go back to that state of being?

“Jessie?”

She blinked, trying to dispel her disquiet. His touch burned along her jaw. She backed away to dislodge his hand, then glanced toward the house. The investigator stood watching from the window.

Panic surged. She gulped it down. “It's late. I need to go.”

She hustled toward her car, running from Logan and her painful realizations. The moonlight was shining on more than Miri's roof. It was beaming on the very bad choices Jessie had made. And she didn't like what she saw.

Logan blocked the door with his hand before she could open it. His proximity reminded her of the night he'd kissed her. A few inches and she could be in his arms. Her body's electric reaction told her she wanted that. But she couldn't have it.

“You all right? Do I need to follow you home?”

She swallowed the knot in her throat. “I'm good.”

“You went somewhere very dark back there. Jessie, whoever hurt you, I'm not him.”

She gave him points for being perceptive. “I know. You seem like a really nice guy, Logan. But I'm not in the market for a guy right now. Nice or otherwise. This...thing between us...can't happen. Not now. We both have...stuff to work out.”

His eyes were in shadow. She couldn't read them, but she could feel his probing gaze. And she could feel her resistance crumbling.

She jerked the door from him, ducked into her vehicle and backed out of the driveway. When she risked a glance in the rearview mirror, Logan was where she'd left him, staring after her.

She meant what she'd said about bad timing. She had to find the willpower to stick by her decision.

* * *

“A
NICE
GUY
,”
Logan groused as he drove home. Jessie didn't know him very well.

How many times had Elizabeth called him the opposite of nice? Driven. Ruthless. Power hungry. Single-minded. Willing to sacrifice anything in pursuit of a new client.

Why hadn't his ex understood that he'd been doing what Jack had taught him—trying to show her he loved her by working his ass off so she could have the big house, nice car, designer clothes and luxurious trips that seemed to make her happy? And the jewelry? He'd spent more than most of his current clients made in a year on Elizabeth's bling alone.

But had he ever said the
L
word? Not that he could recall. Not even when he'd proposed. He'd told her how beautiful she was, what a great team they made, how much he enjoyed her company. Even though he'd loved her with every fiber of his being, he'd never declared it.

Miri had been satisfied with Jack's brand of love, and Logan had never doubted his uncle loved him. How could Elizabeth not have known how Logan felt? He'd shown her in every way he knew.

He wiped a hand across his face. Maybe Elizabeth was one of those women like Jessie who needed both words and deeds. If so, then he'd failed at the first. Did that excuse her thievery and deceit? No. But it helped him understand how a relationship that had once burned hot with passion had turned into cold ashes.

What he felt for Jessie was anything but cold. He couldn't keep his eyes—or his hands—off her. His fingertips still tingled with the memory of her soft skin. And the only thing that had kept Logan from kissing her tonight was I watching from the window.

As a financial adviser, Logan had been at the top of his game and able to charm clients into investing not just more, but more often. His fancy dinners at sought-after restaurants, his special gifts at Christmas had made his clients feel important and valued. But when it came to matters of the heart, he'd kept his mouth shut and let his deeds do the talking.

Given his history and his nature, he was incapable of giving Jessie what she needed. But he still wanted her.

She'd claimed their attraction couldn't go further. But he would convince her otherwise. He had to.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

J
ESSIE
SAT
ON
the dock Tuesday morning contemplating the colors of the sunrise. A sketch pad lay neglected on her lap. She couldn't seem to focus on anything.

Her cell phone rang, startling her. Her mother's new number filled the screen. Answering meant risking her mother guessing Jessie had a bad case of homesickness. But not answering would cause an even bigger problem. And she did need to give her a heads-up. “Hi, Mom.”

“Good morning, love. What are you up to today?”

“Sitting on the dock contemplating what I'll paint next. I'm glad you called. I wanted to warn you to be on the lookout for packages on Friday. I've shipped all the Christmas gifts to your house so you'll have them to open with all the others.”

“Oh.” Silence filled her ear. “That's sweet, dear. We didn't expect you to do that.”

“I may not be there to celebrate with you, but I have been thinking about you all.”

“What will you do with yourself on Christmas Day?”

She bit her lip, mentally editing her reply. “I'm going to cook our favorites and eat till my stomach hurts.”

Her mother chuckled. “Sounds familiar. So you'll be staying home?”

It wasn't home. “Food, Christmas music, sappy TV shows...what more could a girl need?”

“Have you put up a tree?”

“Not yet.”

“You should. I hate that you'll be there all alone, but it might make you feel a little better.”

“I might.” She wouldn't.

“Jessamine...” Jessie braced herself when she heard her mother's tone. “When you get home, we need to discuss your house. Your father, Brandon and I have been talking. There continue to be random people knocking on your door at all hours of the day despite the No Trespassing signs. We have them all on security video. We've looked into property in a gated community, and we feel you would be safer if you moved there.”

The idea repulsed her on many levels, the first of which was having her house on continued video surveillance. The second was leaving the little cottage she'd loved simply because someone else insisted. Funny, a month ago she would have blindly followed their suggestion. “That's a month away. No need to worry about it now.”

“You need to think about it.”

“I will. So what else is new?”

“You received a letter from the school board yesterday.” Jessie's stomach muscles clenched. “Would you like me to open it and read it to you?”

“Please,” she croaked.

She heard the tearing and crackling of paper. “‘Dear Ms. Martin, upon further review of your excellent teaching record, we would like you to return to work at the beginning of the spring semester.' Well, isn't that nice?”

Elation filled her like a helium balloon. She rose and danced on the dock. She could return to work in two weeks. Then reality hit and her feet stilled. “Brandon wouldn't like me coming home early or returning to work.”

“No. Probably not. But I'm sure he'll relent if you move to a more secure place.”

Move to a place he and her parents had chosen without regard to her tastes or opinion? Even if her brother agreed, could she go back to work knowing she didn't need the money and she'd be taking the job from someone who did? Would her fellow teachers resent her and give her the cold shoulder the way they had after the win? But what about her students? She missed them, missed their eagerness to learn and create and watching them discover hidden talents.

But returning to work meant leaving before Miri was back on her feet. While she debated her new options, she focused on a boat near the wreck that Logan had shown her. A dive flag flapped in the wind. Before she went home she wanted to do some of the things on her list—things she hadn't done for fear of being recognized.

“Let me think about it, Mom. I might wait to return to work in the fall when things have settled down. That'll give me time to figure out if I want to move.”

Empty air greeted her and filled her with discomfort. A part of her wanted to blurt that she'd do as her mother had suggested. But she bit her tongue. Last night's realizations had been painful—her life was a mess and it was her fault. She needed to come to grips with her mistakes before she made any more.

The wind carried a whoop from the dive boat. She scooped up the binoculars and zeroed in on a diver in the water holding a lobster in his hand.

She would definitely go diving before she left Florida—even if it meant going without her contacts.

“Jessamine, you know we only want what's best for you.”

“I know, Mom. Look, I have to run. I, um...have something in the oven.” She winced at the lie. “I'll talk to you soon. Be on the lookout for those packages. My love to you and everyone else. Bye.”

Then she did something she'd never done to her mother before. She disconnected—for fear she'd let herself get talked into something she didn't want to do. Because she wasn't sure she had the strength to resist a full Martin press.

* * *

“A
REN
'
T
YOU
GOING
to paint one, Grandpa?” Chloe, the ten-year-old with eyes the same green as Ignatius's asked.

Miri looked at the tough former detective almost cowering against the kitchen counter. The poor man was terrified of his own grandchildren. He'd been a nervous wreck since his daughter dropped them off thirty minutes ago.

“Yes, Ignatius, come and sit between Sydney and me and decorate an ornament.” Her saccharine words drew a scowl.

“I'm not much of a painter.”

“Have you ever painted a house or a room?”

The pleat in his brow deepened, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Yeah.”

“This is a little house.” She lifted her ornament then her brush. “And this is a little brush. Same process. Smaller strokes.”

The girls snickered.

“You're a funny girl, Miriam Louise.”

Sydney patted the chair. “Come on, Grandpa. You can do it. We'll help. Then we'll hang it on our tree. Mom says stuff like this makes memories that last forever.”

Miri watched his resistance buckle at the child's words. He inched forward, as wary as a man preparing to wrestle a hungry gator, and wedged his big body into the too-small space. His gargantuan paw shook as he picked up a tiny house from the pile and set it on the craft paper she'd spread across the table.

“What color, Grandpa?” Chloe asked.

“Uh...”

“You should do blue like your uniform in the picture Mom has,” Sydney suggested.

His head whipped toward the girl. “She has a picture of me?”

“In her bedroom. You can do a cop ornament. Blue and gold. Maybe you could paint your badge on it.”

“Yeah. Okay.” His voice sounded choked. Miri searched his face. His eyes were damp. The big goon had teared up over the idea of his daughter having his picture in her room? Suddenly she realized, he wasn't just her jailer—he was a man who genuinely loved his child and wanted to make amends but didn't know how. She could show him.

She handed him a brush and the blue paint. “Use a fat, flat brush for the base coat. Cover the wood well like we're doing. The girls can play in the backyard while this layer dries. Then after lunch we'll do the details with a smaller brush.”

“Right.”

“I want to decorate mine with these,” Chloe said, grabbing a handful of red cabochons then promptly dropping them under the table. She dived for them. Moments later she popped up with her treasure. “Your leg's really hairy, Miss Miri.”

Heat climbed from Miri's neckline to the roots of her hair. Children were brutally honest. She didn't blame the girl. But she wished her poor hygiene hadn't come up in front of Ignatius. It was bad enough that she was stuck wearing the frumpy housedresses Sue had loaned her instead of her usual pants, but pants wouldn't fit over the cast covering her from ankle to upper thigh.

“I know. I can't get in the tub to shave it while I have the cast on.”

“You don't take baths?” Sydney sounded appalled.

“I have a nurse who gives me what they call a bed bath every day. She soaps me up and dries me off, but it's not the same as an honest to goodness soaking. The first thing I'm going to do once I get this cast off is take a very long, very hot shower.”

“I don't blame you,” Sydney said. Then, thankfully, talk turned back to decorations and the cookies they'd bake later.

Miri didn't dare look at Ignatius again until after the girls had gone outside. The empathy in his eyes was hard to stomach.

“Got shot once. I couldn't shower or shave for a while. Miserable feeling.”

Alarm raced through her—more than was warranted for a man she barely knew and didn't particularly like. “You were shot? When?”

“About five years ago.”

His dismissive tone irked her. “Does Bethany know?”

“Nah. Didn't want to worry her. She had two babies and a husband to look after. She couldn't have come to Jersey.”

“Who took care of you?”

He shrugged. “I got by.”

“Where did you get shot?”

“Right shoulder.” He tapped a spot level with his armpit.

“Weren't you wearing a vest?”

“Bullet got me at an angle through the armhole. Known risk. It comes with the job.”

Her breath caught. If it had been on his left side he might not be here today. “Is that why you got out of police work?”

“You're pretty perceptive, Miriam Louise. Yeah. I realized how close I came to never knowing the girls. So I retired and moved south.”

“Then you know how much I hate this.” She gestured to the wheelchair and her leg.

“Yes, I do. I know how much it sucks to have to rely on other people and how bad you want to get back to a job you love. Even the clothes...” He shook his head. “I had to wear wifebeaters under shirts I couldn't button and sweatpants because I couldn't work a zipper. So no matter what you say or do, I understand that it's coming from a place of deep frustration. All I can tell you is to hang in there. It'll pass, Miri.”

Her chest hurt—not just because he'd called her by her real name, but because he got it. He got
her
and this crazy helplessness. She just nodded because she was too choked up to speak.

“Now I need to get cooking. The girls are gonna want their lunch when they get through playing with your cat.”

“I don't have a cat.” She followed his pointing finger and spotted a fluffy butterscotch-colored feline basking in the girls' attention. It was small, three months old at the most.

“Thought it was yours. I've been feeding it.”

Who was this man who considered taking a bullet routine but was petrified of two preteens and fed stray kittens? She didn't know, but she was suddenly more than a little interested in finding out.

* * *

M
IRI
NICKED
HERSELF
again and threw the razor down in disgust. She'd decided to try to shave her leg while Ignatius was taking the girls home. She'd wheeled to the bathroom sink and propped the offending leg on the toilet lid. With her casted leg straight out, she couldn't bend far enough to reach the bottom half of her leg.

“Miri?”

She grimaced. Ignatius was back.

“Where are you?” She heard something rattling as he approached. “Everything okay?”

“Just peachy.”

“You decent?” he called from outside the bathroom.

She yanked down the hem of the ugly dress. “Close enough.”

He stuck his head around the corner and took in her precarious position. “You're bleeding.”

“I'm not as flexible as I used to be, nor as skilled with a razor, apparently.”

He set the bag he carried in her lap. “Where's your first aid kit?”

She pointed to the cabinet. He retrieved it and surveyed the contents, then pointed at the bag. “Open that while I clean up these cuts.”

She looked inside. “An electric razor?”

“Merry Christmas early. My beard itched like a mother—uh, real bad when I couldn't shave. I didn't want you that miserable.”

Touched beyond words, Miri stared at his broad back while he laid out items in a neat line on her counter.

“Gonna sting. Ready?” He daubed antiseptic on the first cut without waiting for her response. It burned like fire. She gasped and jerked. “Sorry.”

She gritted her teeth while he efficiently cleaned each nick. Then he turned to her, took the bag she'd been stupidly holding and hadn't opened, extracted the razor and plugged it in, then lifted her foot and plopped down on the toilet lid.

She stiffened. “What are you doing?”

His warm fingers grasped her instep, then a buzz filled the air. “Shaving the parts you can't reach.”

“I can—” She swallowed her automatic protest. No, she couldn't. It was humbling to have to accept help with such a personal procedure. “I'm sorry. I should have asked the nurse to do it. Thank you.”

“No problem.” Starting at her ankle, he pushed the razor to her knee. His big, warm, slightly callused palm followed, checking for missed hairs. She felt his touch in places that shouldn't be excited about getting her legs shaved. The vibration combined with the caresses was exceedingly erotic. He repeated the action again and again. Each pass made her private parts more sensitive than the last, even though he didn't come anywhere near them. If he didn't hurry and finish, she'd be moaning soon. Thank heaven she'd handled the top half of her leg or she might have had an orgasm.

Good Lord, pull yourself together.

“You have runner's legs.”

“I never run. From anything.”

He chuckled. “I don't doubt that. What I meant was your muscle tone's good. Better than some of the gym rats I see.”