Authors: Cait London
“Sure. I suppose I’m still under suspicion.”
“Only Dufus’s. He did that background check and knows who you are, but he’ll shut up. We had a little chat. If someone else wants to check you out, I can’t stop them.”
Mitchell nodded, his stare locking with Lonny’s. “You want to play this real quiet, don’t you? You’re keeping the town from panicking, right?”
Lonny spat that arc into a bed of fuchsia impatiens. “Just let me know if you pick up anything. I’m just praying Dufus Boy doesn’t muck up this investigation. His prints are probably all over the car by now. Hadn’t you better be running along? If you can?”
“Lay off.” Mitchell knew what panic could do—guns, people shooting too quickly at suspected prowlers, and innocent people hurt.
To save the shreds of his pride, he forced himself to jog back to the house, where he had found the irritating, fragrant, soft, womanly problem of his sleepless nights. It had been easier to take a shower than to face her.
But Uma was still waiting for him when he came out of the bathroom. Roman was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed in front of his chest, wrapped in the look that said he wasn’t going to let anything happen to Uma.
Mitchell knew that Roman had a protective streak when it came to women—but when it came to Uma, Mitchell wasn’t exactly certain what he did feel, other than wanting to dive into her. He didn’t like feeling like a boy, chasing a girl he wasn’t likely to have, and Roman understood too well, moving in to buffer Mitchell’s mood. “She didn’t get her daily fortune cookie. Her computer has crashed and checking the online I-Ching and her horoscrope is the way she starts her work day.”
“And you’ve embarrassed me in front of the whole town,” Uma said, clearly launching her attack. She crossed her arms in front of her, as Roman had. “What were you thinking?”
Since he was wearing only his boxer shorts, Mitchell had the advantage. Uma was trying to focus on his face, determined not to be embarrassed. Now, that was sweet, and he almost felt sorry for her—but not quite. “I’m thinking that it’s a real good morning,” he returned pleasantly.
Always the lady in control, Uma said quite properly, “You’ve done a nice job with the house. I haven’t looked at the garden yet. Nice furniture in the living room.”
Mitchell glanced at the big screen television and the two huge leather recliners that had been a necessity for Roman and himself. Between them, a rickety metal TV stand served to hold their dinners, beer, and popcorn. “Thanks. Are we done here? This little conference?”
The banging on the front door and Uma’s father’s bellows said the morning was just revving up. “You Warrens. Come out. I know you’re in there.”
“This wonderful, peaceful morning isn’t over yet,” Mitchell said quietly as Uma walked quickly to the door. Beyond her was Clarence Lawrence in his undershorts, his hair standing out in peaks and his expression furious.
“Dad! What’s wrong?”
“Someone just shot out every one of our windows. BBs all over the floor. These hooligans—” He motioned to the brothers as they came out onto the porch. He thrust out his hand, BBs rolling in the palm. “Here’s the evidence. They need to be arrested, and—”
“It was probably little Nicky, Dad. I’ll talk with his father.”
“It’s
them
. Those Warrens. They used to go around shooting up old buildings with the BB guns, and Fred didn’t make them stop. Now they’re men and they haven’t changed their habits. They have to pay for the windows. Don’t you dare de
fend those rapscallions. You know what they did when they were boys, and now it’s worse.”
Mitchell pressed a warning shoulder into Roman, who had just moved forward at the accusation. “We didn’t break your windows, and we’re a little old for BBs.”
“See there? They even admit what they used,” Clarence snapped to Uma. “I forbid you to come here.”
Uma straightened and smiled pleasantly, but those gray eyes were as dark as smoke and packed a sizzle; the temper was there, the independence. “We’ll talk about this later, Dad. Let’s go home.”
When Mitchell returned to the kitchen, Roman tossed him a bottle of water. Mitchell mulled clashing with Uma when all he wanted was to lay her down and—
The stack of decorating magazines mocked him. He had no idea how to make the house look like a home. He had no idea about handling Uma, which he wanted to do in a very up-close and personal way. One more disenchanting fact about his life popped in front of him—he wasn’t good at developing relationships of the friendly and persuasive kind, and that’s what it would take to treat Uma right. It was very important that Uma be treated well, that he give her everything she would want.
The word “intimacy” taunted him and he scowled at the bottle of water.
“Old Man Lawrence needs to get laid,” Roman remarked coolly. “Maybe you, too. Take it easy on Uma. She’s just like everyone else, trying to make a life for herself. Her kind has things all planned out for them, the Life Plan, and hers didn’t work out. Now she’s trying to make the best of it. She’s the kind of woman who should have a houseful of kids by now, seeing them off to school in the fall—and you don’t like that picture, do you? All those little rules and a woman calling the shots? I know I don’t.”
“Lay off.”
Roman swigged his bottled water and said quietly, “Dad used to do that, you know—close up, get sour, go hide. I remembered when you tromped off to the bathroom. He and Mom would argue and he’d go hide out somewhere while she cried. I hated the sound of that.”
“Let’s skip the good old days, okay?” Mitchell said. He didn’t like comparing himself to Fred, but that’s exactly how he had acted. He’d handled tough board meetings, but handling Uma set him on edge. He enjoyed nudging her control too much, picking at it to see the woman she concealed—a fascinating woman.
“Sure.”
When the phone rang, he answered, and Uma’s cultured voice cruised over the lines. “My father extends his apologies. Please come to dinner tonight. Roman, too.”
She’d been at work again, making peace in her perfect world. Her father grumbled darkly in the background, and just to irritate him, Mitchell said, “We’ll be there.”
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea
, Uma decided, as Everett, her father, and Mitchell sat at her dinner table. Roman’s excuse not to attend had been thin, but passable; he probably was enjoying a much-publicized boxing match on television. Each man dressed in a summer short-sleeved shirt and belted slacks. The men were grim; the conversation ran between silent gaps as she foraged for a common topic.
The bouquet of roses that Mitchell had brought had stunned her. Each bloom had not opened fully, yet was not a bud, and the thorns had been removed. The fortune cookies in a china blue bowl had also been a wonderful surprise from him.
After a hard, frustrating day of restoring her computer and retrieving the extra set of backup disks she had in the bank security box, Uma had hurried to cook dinner, an easy pot roast, vegetables, and salad. Everett had brought a freezer
churn of ice cream, his pineapple recipe and her favorite.
While Everett managed an awkward conversation about weather and travel, her father was ominously silent, his disapproval thundering around the dining room, jarring the antique Blue Willow dishes her great-grandmother had bought long ago. The battle with her father still raged, echoing about, “Not in my house. Not a Warren.”
“I want this resolved,” she’d said. “There is no sense in this war continuing years after his father is dead. You embarrassed me this morning and we’re going to make some gesture that we’re not still living back in feuding land rush days.”
“Oil and water don’t mix,” he’d protested. “Neither do Warrens and Lawrences.”
“They will tonight,” she’d stated firmly. “May I remind you of Mother’s impeccable hospitality? I’m only doing what she would have done. If that isn’t what you want, tell me now. Our living arrangements can be changed, because I don’t know any other way of life than to be neighborly.”
“I heard about him running with you this morning. That gossip is all over town.”
“Everett was there, too. I don’t own the streets, Dad. He can run where he wants. Now I issued a dinner invitation. Are you going to be difficult?” she asked, and tried to toss away the image of Mitchell running on one side of her and her ex-husband on the other.
In the end, her father had sulked, but agreed. Uma had worked furiously on her computer—she could function now, but it would take a full week to get everything up and running. She reassured herself that the dinner would flow nicely, and all the tension would settle down. Everett, her father, and she often had dinner together and the conversation flowed easily.
But tonight only Mitchell, the outsider, seemed at ease. Clearly he had been in difficult situations before, managing the ebb and flow of everyday conversation. He commented
on the sweet tea brewed in the sun, the pies at Ruby’s Cafe, and the old gray cat that would wander into the house and sprawl to watch him work.
When her father stiffened, Uma ran her finger around the iced tea glass’s cool rim. For years, her father had been cultivating that old half-wild tomcat, trying to make friends with him with a can of good salmon.
Mitchell took second helpings while the other men deferred. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself. “I see you collect Native American artifacts and pioneer goods, like that old wooden bread bowl,” he said directly to Clarence.
When Clarence ignored the tentative conversation, Uma filled the silence. “My father has always been interested in western Americana. Much of what is in this house is from our family.”
“Is that right? I’d be interested to hear more.”
Then Mitchell smiled at her, a too-pleasant, innocent smile, and a wary tingle went up her nape. Or was he enjoying her discomfort every time those amber eyes locked with hers and the sensual impact sailed to plummet and heat her body?
Was this what she’d been seeking when she’d dressed so carefully in the print summer dress, piling her hair just so on top of her head, smoothing cream on her legs? Why she had smoothed the material over her hips and stood with her back to the mirror, steadying the fit? To get Mitchell’s attention? Why?
What was that raw, tense emotion simmering inside her?
It felt like sex, and more sex, and a woman on the hunt. But that couldn’t be her, not Uma Lawrence Thornton. Those jungle drums that beat when Mitchell looked at her were some—she could only give it one word—“temptation.”
She braced herself and looked down to see Everett’s hand possessively covering her own, his expression impassive as he looked at Mitchell. Everett’s thumb slid over her third finger,
left hand, a stark reminder that she had once worn his ring. From the slight mocking curve of his lips, Mitchell hadn’t missed the possessive move.
Uma withdrew her hand and placed it on her lap; whatever cat-and-mouse game the men were playing, she wasn’t going to be the prize. She belonged to herself now, and she was keeping it that way. Some women were meant to live in Single City—quiet, peaceful, controlled lives—and she was one of them.
“I’ll help you replace those windows, Clarence,” Everett was saying without looking from Mitchell.
“You know, we’re about finished with the house, and I’d be glad to help you, too,” Mitchell offered lightly.
“No,” Clarence snapped, his control breaking. “Not you. I’m leaving on a trip to Arizona tomorrow, to stay with a friend for a month. You are not to come in my house.”
She knew better than to press the situation; her father loved her, but there were limits to his control. “My, it’s a nice night, isn’t it? Too bad Roman had another engagement,” she said instantly to soothe the obvious snub, and smoothed her hair from her neck.
She dropped her hand quickly when she saw that Mitchell’s eyes had narrowed on her and whatever was happening between them pulsed hot and stormy across the table.
She looked away from Everett’s close study to the Blue Willow platter standing upright on the decorative shelf. She was certain that the tension in the room was enough to make it vibrate and jiggle.
Uma wondered whatever possessed her to think she could bring a fraction of neighborly peace between her father and Mitchell. She wondered why suddenly she was caught between two men who seemed to want her for different reasons—Everett, for the long term…and Mitchell, who wanted sex, pure and outright, with no strings attached.
Clyde smoothed his suit’s wide lapels and straightened from his crouching position near the Warren brothers’ house. They weren’t home; Roman was at the old garage and Mitchell was dining with Uma, Everett, and Clarence.
Mitchell
. The background check on him was easy enough with Clyde’s connections. Mitchell had left a high-paying job with a building-and-supply chain, and now he was working as a yard man. Sweating didn’t make sense when someone else could do the work; his only purpose in coming back to Madrid had to be revenge.
From the shadows of a stand of pampas grass, the gray cat hissed, his back arched and his fangs showing white. Half-wild, the cat would be hard to catch and kill, and he’d damaged Clyde’s suit. When Clyde had bent to use his mini-battery-powered saw, the cat had reached out to scratch him, and in flight, ripped across Clyde’s arm, snagging the fabric and digging holes into his arm.
Clyde was angry and could have used killing that old cat to release his frustration. Uma thought the BBs were a child’s prank, and not the threat Clyde had intended. He’d have to make his message—that Uma stay away from the Warrens—much clearer. The mini-battery-powered saw was handy, sliding through the rungs on the ladder easily. He didn’t like physical work, not like those sweating Warrens. Clyde was more of a thinker and a planner, and now he was thinking that the mens’ weight would break the tampered rungs. If one of them fell just right, eliminating him, so much the better.
Uma really shouldn’t be cozying up to the Warrens. She needed a lesson, and so did the cat
.
The evening breeze was sudden and cold, whipping a climbing rose branch against Clyde’s face. The thorn’s scratch was slight, but an eery sensation enveloped Clyde, as if Lauren were protecting her home and those in it. The hairs at his nape lifted, his body chilled suddenly as fear clawed at him.