The Lottery Winner (4 page)

“In case you haven't noticed, we've been too busy for me to mind anybody's business except my own. You should do the same,” Sue delivered then sailed out the front door.

He lifted the lid of the box. Key lime pie. One of his favorites. But eating it would have to wait. Jessie's trainee and the other waitress had left before Sue. That meant Jessie and Logan were the only ones left in the public area of the building. He had to act fast if he wanted to get what he needed from Jessie before his aunt interfered again.

He grabbed the envelope and headed for the outside dining area, where Jessie was boxing the last of the condiments to bring inside for the night.

She glanced up when he pushed the door open and stilled. Brown eyes tracked his progress across the planks with something akin to dread.

He held out the manila envelope and a pen. “You haven't filled out your paperwork. You can't be employed here without filling out an I-9 and a W-4.”

She ignored the offered items. Her breasts rose and fell on three breaths. Something he shouldn't be noticing. “That's between Miri and me.”

“I'm her accountant. I'm required by law to have this information on all employees. I need it for payroll.”

She blinked thick lashes. Slowly. As if buying time. “I'm not on her payroll.”

That knocked him back a step. “What does that mean?”

“I work for tips.”

“You're busting your tail for eight hours a night with no expectation of a paycheck? What are you after? Cash under the table?”

His sarcasm turned down the corners of her mouth. It wasn't until she pressed her lips together that he realized how full they were. “No. Just tips.”

“That's ridiculous. It's not even close to minimum wage.”

“I'm a friend helping a friend. Is that so hard to believe?”

His suspicion multiplied tenfold. “Why?”

“Why help Miri?”

He nodded. And waited. And waited.

“She's a very nice person. And she's hard to say no to.”

Good answer, but she'd taken too long to come up with it for it to be genuine—a clue he'd been too dense to notice when his wife had started hiding things from him. “What are you getting out of it?”

“I told you.”

“Tips are taxable income. I still need your information.”

“My accountant will deal with it in April.”

She had to be another one of Miri's projects. He dropped the pen and papers on a nearby table and caught her wrists. Ignoring her gasp, he rolled her hands thumbs out to examine her inner forearms. No ugly track marks marred the ivory skin that clearly showed undamaged blue veins beneath the surface.

And then her warmth leached into his palms and up his arms. It spread across his shoulders then sank through his chest and gathered into a ball of heat in his gut. Desire? No way. Then he noticed her calluses. Not heavy ones, but Jessie definitely used her hands on a daily basis.

She yanked free and wiped her palms on her hips as if he'd dirtied her. “What are you doing?”

With effort, he hacked through the haze that had befuddled his brain. “Looking for signs that you use.”

“Use?” Her brow pleated. A beat of silence passed. “Drugs?”

Her wide eyes and shocked tone didn't fool him. “It wouldn't be the first time Miri helped someone get clean. They usually stay at her house, and it usually backfires. I end up having to help her evict them.”

“I'm not staying with her. And I don't and never have used drugs.”

“Then why are you avoiding the drug test and paperwork? What are you hiding?”

Her cheeks flushed. She averted her face, but he didn't believe for one moment she was that fascinated by the dark waterfront. “I told you. I'm just a friend with time on my hands.”

“I don't believe you.”

Worried eyes focused on him. “If Miri hires known drug users, then why are you so insistent on me taking the test? Wouldn't it be a moot point?”

He bit back a curse. She was a wily one. Then the piped-in music went silent, a signal that the kitchen had been cleaned to his aunt's exacting expectations and it was time to lock up. He gritted his teeth. He'd learned nothing about Jessie's motives or agenda. Sure enough, the kitchen door swung open and Miri walked out. She scanned the empty dining room, spotted them outside and headed in their direction with the kind of scowl he knew boded ill—for him. She plowed open the back door with a flat palm.

“Sue was supposed to send you home,” she told him.

“I'm waiting for you to lock up.”

“Since when do you hang around until I close?” Her gaze fell on the envelope, and her expression grew even fiercer. Miri had been a great substitute mom. He'd rarely seen her lose her temper, but when she did, it was a sight to behold. From a distance.

“Logan, butt out of my business.”

“I'm covering you—legally.”

“We're not breaking any laws. But you're tempting me to take my iron skillet to your head. Now go home before I ban you from my restaurant.” Her scowl could curdle milk. “You ready, Jessie?”

“Yes. I'll, um...I'll set these in the cooler on my way out.” Jessie ducked her head, grabbed the box of condiments and swept past him, her long dark braid swinging like a pendulum above her hips. Nice hips. Curved, but not round.

He shouldn't be noticing.

Miri shot him one last warning glare then followed her. When Jessie returned from the kitchen, Miri rested a hand on her shoulder and leaned closer. “Let me get rid of him and I'll walk you out,” Logan heard Miri whisper conspiratorially.

Yeah, they definitely had something going on that needed monitoring.

“Thanks, Miri, but there's no need. I parked closer tonight,” Jessie replied with a quick glance in his direction. He averted his gaze and pretended he hadn't been eavesdropping. Then she hustled out the front door. He held it for Miri then waited while she locked it.

“I'm not kidding, Logan. You're overstepping your bounds.”

“I hear you, but—”

“There is no but. Go home.”

He wasn't going to talk sense into her tonight. He kissed Miri's cheek. “See you tomorrow.”

He pivoted toward his car.

Follow Jessie home.

The idea stopped him midstep. He palmed his keys and rolled the thought around in his head. He was already paying I as much as he could afford to track Elizabeth and Trent. If he wanted info on Jessie, he'd have to get it himself.

He stared into the gloom of the streetlights and spotted Jessie heading toward Margaret Street. Traffic was light but not so light that he couldn't blend in. Miri got into Jack's old truck and drove away in the opposite direction.

He hustled to his car and waited until Jessie was a block down before starting the engine. A vehicle passed him, then a second. He pulled out behind them, going slowly as if searching for a parking space but keeping Jessie in sight. She slid into a small sedan. Hanging back, he let another car pull out and get between them, then he followed Jessie's vehicle onto Highway 1.

“This is nuts,” he muttered after she passed several mile markers. “I'm acting like a stalker.”

But Miri's safety depended on him protecting her from further harm—financial or otherwise—and there was something about the new waitress that didn't add up. A furtiveness that worried him since he'd seen, ignored and been burned by a similar situation.

The car between them peeled off. Finally, Jessie signaled and turned left. That posed a problem. There would be less traffic off the highway, making it harder to remain undetected. But at least he was familiar with the area since he often explored the Keys. She kept her speed slow. The street was long and straight. She'd be onto him if he stayed behind her. The first road to his left was horseshoe shaped. If he took it, he'd come out farther down the main road. He might lose her, but it was a risk he had to take. He turned and hit the gas. She passed in front of him just before he reached the stop sign. He braked and watched her taillights. Her indicator flashed by a driveway near the end of the road. He waited until she disappeared through the fence before rolling forward.

An electronic gate slid closed, blocking her driveway. Making note of the house number, he drove past and circled back, pulled off the road and killed his headlights. Each of the houses on that stretch was surrounded by tall fences of either stone or block. That worked in his favor by concealing him. He checked both directions to see if anyone was watching. It was all clear, but he felt like a criminal. With his heart racing, he exited the car and ambled up to the iron gates to look through the white bars. Nice house. But not movie-star expensive. Still, an acre of waterfront property wasn't cheap. Jessie's car was the only one parked beneath the house. She climbed the stairs to the front door and tapped in a code, then disappeared inside. Lights came on.

To the left of the house, he spotted a hot tub beneath a thatched roof with a pool beyond it. A lamp-lit pier stretched out into the water.

He scanned his surroundings again and spotted the discreet real estate agent's sign. A rental, but still an expensive place, and not something a waitress could afford unless she had a rich husband or a sugar daddy. He'd noticed she wasn't wearing a ring.

How could Jessie afford a house that rented for thousands each week? Her calluses and demeanor led him to believe she wasn't a socialite, and her shoes were the same brand he saw in big-box stores—not designer or high-end. He ought to know—his ex had worn both. Besides, if Jessie were rich, why would she be so damned good at waiting tables?

Tonight's investigation was only leading to more questions. Something about Jessie didn't add up. He had to find out how she was paying for her expensive accommodations—for Miri's sake. If Jessie's money came from swindling others or selling drugs, then he'd have to stop her before she snookered his aunt.

CHAPTER THREE

T
HE
HEAT
OF
the overhead sun penetrated Jessie's floppy straw hat. Rivulets of sweat trickled down her bare back. It might be December, but the Keys were experiencing a heat wave.

A boat motor droned in the distance, but she was too caught up in putting the last strokes on her cormorant to look up. She'd lost count of how many boats had passed since she'd raced out here early this morning trying to get ahead of her unwanted squatters. Nightmares starring the birds had kept her awake, and she hoped getting this painting out of her head would give her peace.

She added one last daub of raw sienna to the beak, then sat back to study her work with as much objectivity as she could muster. Not bad. The bird itself was finished and lifelike enough to be creepy. She checked her watch. Noon. If she stopped now, she could take a swim before showering for work.

She washed out her brush then removed her hat and crossed to the edge of the dock. Arching left then right, she stretched the kinks from her spine. She curled her toes over the edge, anticipating a dip in the cool, clear water, but then she spotted the nurse shark lurking by the crab pot and backtracked. Locals claimed nurse sharks didn't bite, but she wasn't testing that theory. She'd settle for cooling off in the pool.

She gathered her painting supplies. Only then did she notice a boat engine's noise—it was closer than any previous boat had come. Curious, she turned to see a center-console boat with one man on board heading straight for her dock. Her brother's daily warnings echoed in her mind, and alarm skittered through her. Was some guy going to try to kidnap her and demand her lottery winnings for ransom?

Nervously, she mentally measured the distance to the house. The pier was more than a hundred feet long and it was fifty more across the beach to the bottom of the steps. Could she reach the house and lock her doors before the stranger caught her? No. Worse, she'd left her pepper spray inside, and her nails were clipped too short to do much damage. But she refused to become a statistic. She'd have to stand and fight and hope he didn't have a gun. She had nothing except her easel to use as a weapon. Her best bet would be to introduce him to the nurse shark then run.

Praying she was just being paranoid but determined to be the best witness she could be if she wasn't, she studied the vessel's shirtless occupant. He was tallish with short, dark hair, and muscled enough that he'd be hard to fight off. Mirrored lenses covered his eyes, but his attention appeared to be fixed on her.

“Jessie?” he called out.

Logan Nash. Shock made her stomach drop. She should have recognized that square chin.

A different kind of panic set in. She wasn't wearing her colored contacts or much of anything else. Ducking her head, she scrambled for her hat and sunglasses, shoved them on and cursed the fact that she hadn't brought out her cover-up or even a towel. She'd bought the skimpy bikini top and low-slung boy short bottoms soon after arriving. She'd been pretending to be someone else, and she'd decided she wanted to dress like someone else, too—someone who didn't always wear a modest one-piece. Of course, this swimsuit didn't cover enough skin for anyone else to see her in it.

The craft thumped against the dock's rubber edge, jarring her deep inside. He killed the engine then shoved his glasses into his thick hair, revealing blue eyes that skimmed over her then the house. “Your place?”

How had he found her? And why? “For now. What are you doing here, Logan?”

He dropped his glasses back over his eyes. “I was riding by and thought I recognized you.”

He tossed a rope toward her. It landed a yard away. She left it there. Without invitation he stepped onto the platform, rocking the surface beneath her feet, then he looped the rope through one of the metal cleats stationed around the deck and straightened.

She couldn't see his eyes and felt exposed on so many levels as she stared at her reflection in his mirrored lenses. Dropping her gaze, she found herself entranced by the smooth curves of his pectoral muscles, the light dusting of dark curls. She'd only seen him in polo shirts and khaki pants before now, and she wished she could have kept it that way. He had the body of an athlete, from his broad shoulders to his tapered waist and long legs. Lordy, he'd be a joy to paint.

No, Jessie!
She gulped, trying to dislodge the knot in her throat, and wrapped her arms around her middle.

He abruptly stepped around her to the easel holding her picture. “Did you paint this?”

“Um. Yes,” she forced out, feigning calm she didn't feel.

She didn't like him knowing where she lived. How would she get rid of him? “It's a beautiful day to be on the water, but it's supposed to storm later. Better get your trip in before it hits.”

He glanced her way, a crooked smile on his face. Her stomach swooped. “I can spare a few minutes.”

He was close—too close. And too naked. She could feel the heat emanating from him and smell his suntan lotion. The air turned thick and humid, making it hard to breathe. She shuffled backward, putting space between them, then wished she hadn't when the distance widened her view, making it impossible to miss that he had those little dents disappearing beneath the front waistband of his trunks. Seeing those hollows up close and in person on someone you knew was a lot different than sketching them from a distance in a nude art class. The inclination to trace them came out of nowhere and was totally foreign. Her stubby nails bit into her palms.

Aaron had been a dedicated gym rat, but despite the hours he'd put in, her ex-fiancé hadn't had a body like Logan's.

Logan shoved up his glasses once more. “You're an artist?”

“Oh. No. I'm an art—”
Teacher.
She bit her tongue on the word. “Dabbler.”

“This is really good, Jessie. You must make a lot of money selling your dabbles.”

She blinked in surprise. “Oh, I don't sell them. Painting's...just a hobby.”

A line creased his forehead, and his narrowed gaze focused on her. He jerked a thumb, indicating the canvas. “Do you have more of these?”

“Yes. Why?”

“May I see them?”

She pressed her bare toes against the warm dock. She didn't share her art with anyone except her family, and these days she rarely showed them her efforts.

“Maybe some other time. I need to get dressed for work.”

“The restaurant doesn't open until four today. You can spare five minutes. I'll even help you carry your stuff inside so you can do it in one trip and save time.”

She didn't want him in her house. “That's nice of you, but I don't think—”

“If the rest of your work is as good as this I might have a profitable proposition.”

Intrigued despite her aversion to him, she wrestled with her conscience. In the end, she caved because she didn't know how to politely refuse. “A quick look.”

Carefully grabbing the still-wet cormorant and her paint palette, she turned and made her way to the house. He grabbed the easel and followed. Inside, she propped the canvas against the sunroom wall beside the other pieces, set the palette on the newspaper she'd left on the table and automatically reached to remove her sunglasses. Then she remembered her lack of contacts and left her shades in place. She paused to let her eyes adjust, but even then the lenses were too dark to wear inside. As much as she hated leaving Logan unsupervised in her house, she had to get her contact lenses or risk tripping over something. She ran a mental checklist. There shouldn't be anything left in plain sight that he couldn't see.

“Set that over there and have a seat. I'll be right back.”

She hustled into her bedroom, shut and locked the door, then entered the bathroom and did the same. That had been too close a call. She whipped off the sunglasses and hat and checked the mirror. Familiar blue eyes stared back at her—not the cobalt blue of Logan's. She'd inherited her daddy's pale, silvery-blue irises. She quickly inserted the nonprescription colored contacts, then she shoved the box of dark chocolate-macchiato semipermanent hair coloring beneath the sink. Covering her blond roots would have to wait until Logan was gone. She took a moment to don a cover-up then plopped her hat back on her head and checked her image again. Her brown-eyed disguise was back in place. Even her mother wouldn't recognize her.

She went to find then get rid of Logan. He wasn't in the sunroom. Panic welled within her. Where was he? And what was he doing? She raced into the kitchen. Empty. Through the dining room. No Logan. She found him in the living room. He stood, fist to chin, studying the paintings and drawings she had scattered about.

He didn't acknowledge her arrival, and his lack of response kinked nerves in her belly. Sharing her work—her serious work, not the stuff she doodled with her students—was hard. Really hard. The sensation of nakedness returned full force. She scanned her collection.

“I, um...like to experiment with different mediums. Acrylics, charcoals, watercolors, pastels...”

“You did all these?” he asked without lifting his gaze from her favorite representation of the deer family.

She took a deep breath. “Yes.”

His gaze drilled hers. “Why don't you sell them?”

“Who would want them?”

“Jessie, your execution is excellent, and these have the local flavor that tourists love to take home to remind them of their trip. Would you be willing to sell them?”

She'd never sold a painting and couldn't believe anyone would want to pay good money for one. “I guess...I might.”

“The same paintings have hung in Miri's restaurant for as long as I can remember. They're dated and faded. We could swap some of her old art with yours and market these to tourists. I'm sure you've seen similar setups in other restaurants with discreet price tags nearby.”

She struggled for words and found none. As a child she'd dreamed of becoming an artist, but once she'd reached college her father had said, “Choose a steady, reliable career that pays the bills and comes with benefits. Artists starve.” She'd compromised and decided to teach art. Teaching gave her an opportunity to instill her passion for creativity in others. Between the hours she taught and those spent preparing for each class, she'd had little time to pursue many personal projects until she'd been banished to the Keys. Now all she had was time.

The interest in her work was shocking, but doubly so from Logan Nash. “Why are you being nice when you've been nothing but confrontational up until now?”

“Because fresh art might bring more business to the Widow.”

“Miri already has more traffic than three waitresses can handle.”

“The staff shortage is a temporary situation.”

Fear battled eagerness. “I wouldn't know how to price them.”

“I do.”

His offer sounded too good to be true. “What's your take?”

“My take? You mean like a commission? Nothing. And I doubt Miri will want one, either. But none of these are signed. Sign this one.” He pointed to her favorite Key deer picture. “Bring it to work tonight.”

Her heart beat double time. She bit her lip, dug her toes into the plush rug and searched his face. He looked sincere, and she
really
wanted to believe his compliments. She was tempted—so very tempted—to test her fledgling artist's wings.

What would her father and Brandon say? She ached to call and ask their advice. But she couldn't. Telling them about this opportunity meant telling them about her job—something they definitely wouldn't approve of.

“Jessie, at least show this one to Miri. If she doesn't agree that your work could be an asset to the Widow, then you've lost nothing.”

Except her pride. Logan had gotten her hopes up. How would she feel if no one wanted it? She had to take the chance or forever regret it. “Okay.”

He nodded. “See you in a few hours.”

She walked him out then caught herself checking out his broad shoulders and strong back as he descended the stairs. She shut the door a little harder than necessary and locked it, then pressed a hand over her pounding heart. She didn't release her pent-up breath until he'd boarded his boat and driven away.

Logan liked her work. Someone outside her family actually liked her work. What's more, he thought that others might, too. Joy and pride bubbled inside her. She danced in place, then sobered.

Putting herself out there meant possible criticism. Could she handle it? Then again, if this venture was a total flop, her family and friends—if she had any left after the lottery debacle—would never have to know. She'd go back to real life and leave her childish dream of becoming an artist behind forever.

* * *

W
HEN
THE
KITCHEN
door swung open, Miri checked the clock. The restaurant didn't open for two hours. But instead of one of the kitchen staff, Logan's investigator walked in. Ignatius was the last person she wanted to see.

“He's not here,” she told him and experienced a twinge of shame at her nasty tone. Being a business owner meant being polite to everyone—even parasites. That was especially true in Key West. As cosmopolitan as the city seemed, it was truly a small community.

“I'm not here to see Logan. I'm here to see you.”

Suspicion trickled through her like water through a cracked levee. “Why?”

He removed his ball cap, revealing a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, and shifted on his feet. The big goofball looked so uncomfortable, her protest that the public wasn't allowed in her kitchen stayed locked behind her clenched teeth.

“Today's my daughter's birthday. She and her girls are meeting me here for dinner tonight. I need it to be...special.”

Not even close to what she'd expected him to say. “I appreciate your business. I'll do my best to resist the urge to poison you.”