The Girl Most Likely To... Page 10

  “Mr. V and I have had our chat, and I’m happy right here,” Cal said.

  The flat sheet refused to settle where it should. Dana bit back a frustrated hiss as she tried to untangle it. Making a bed had never been this hard. Couldn’t he just leave?

  “I never thought of bed-making as a spectator sport,” she muttered over her shoulder.

  “Maybe you should expand your horizons.” He took the sheet and settled two corners on Dana’s side.

  “My horizons are plenty wide, thanks,” she replied as she tucked the bottom in.

  “Maybe. Then again, I can’t be sure. I haven’t spent enough time with you to make that sort of judgment.”

  Was he flirting with her? Did the man have no clue that she was a pro? She was the flirt, he was the stone cold, serious cop. Except, when she was with Cal, everything got messed up.

  “So what are you suggesting?” she asked as she tossed him a pillow to put in its case.

  “Soft,” he said. He smiled. “Lots of potential.”

  He was definitely flirting, and was almost as relaxed as he’d been that night at the Almont. The rest of the world began to slip away, which Dana knew was a dangerous thing.

  “It’s a down pillow and the pillowcase is Egyptian cotton,” she retorted, as though she’d been hired to work at a department store white sale. She needed to keep grounded, remember all the reasons why falling into this moment would be dangerous.

  Dana kept her eyes on her pillow. After she’d fluffed it and tucked it in place, she turned back.

  He was close.

  Too close.

  He framed the side of her face with one broad hand. He was going to kiss her. And she wanted him to.

  “Dana?” he asked, giving her a chance to protect herself from the hurt that was sure to follow, once they’d gotten past the kissing and back to the arguing.

  “Yes,” she whispered. His mouth neared hers. She felt as insubstantial as the feather pillow she’d just put on the bed.

  Their lips met and her eyes slipped shut. Oh, how she’d missed this. The kiss started slowly, but soon became the hot and demanding meeting that still stayed with her in every waking—and sleeping—moment. His taste was as sexy and dangerous as she’d remembered, and his hands as sure and knowing as they stroked her waist and traced the outer curves of her sensitive breasts. She leaned into him, and shivered at the awareness of a need already spiraling out of control. Before she’d had a chance to savor fully the pleasure, the attic steps began to squeak.

  “Hey, what are you guys doing up there?”

  Cal stepped back, and Dana drew in a startled breath as she tried to find balance on her own.

  “Nothing, Mr. Vandervoort,” she called.

  “Then I’d suggest you get your butts down here. I stuck that spaghetti in the water like you told me to, and now it’s boiling all over the place.”

  Dana sighed. “Switch off the burner and we’ll be right down.”

  She doubted it was going to be anywhere near as easy to turn down the heat simmering between her and Cal.

  8

  TWO WEEKS TO THE DAY after he’d helped Dana move to the attic, Cal sprawled on the enormous brown suede couch in front of his fireplace and watched the flames dance. He’d finally made it to his lodge, that Nirvana where all his woes were supposed to fade away. With money he’d made from some pretty shrewd stock investments, he’d built the place for just that purpose.

  What had once been an abandoned barn next to a burned-down farmhouse was now fit for the cover of a magazine: windowed walls with sweeping panoramas of the field and woods beyond, heated slate floors, stone fireplace, pool table, hot tub big enough for two. And he’d been known to put it to good use, back in the good old days before anyone other than he and the woman in question cared about his sex life.

  Even then, though, he’d been discreet. On those rare occasions when he had the family farmhouse to himself, he’d never taken a woman there. To Cal, the farm was tradition, practically hallowed ground. It had been in the family over one hundred years, and he hoped Brewer generations long after his would live there.

  This lodge, on the other hand, was a grown man’s funhouse. But Cal wasn’t having fun. He stood and walked to the glass-doored beverage refrigerator under the bar counter. Frowning, he looked at the contents. Everything he liked, but nothing he wanted.

  All he wanted was Dana Devine, and having her would be the most stupid thing he could do. If he was to be seen with a woman, she needed to be a conservative, mommy type—a preschool teacher, maybe—but definitely not Dana, who was a walking celebration of all things sensual.

  On moving day, when he’d kissed her, he’d wanted to do much more. He’d burned to peel her clothes from her, stretch her across those sheets sleeker than sin, and lose himself in her.

  He never thought he’d be thankful for Len Vandervoort’s presence, but he was. Cal had been working very hard to stay angry with Dana for what had happened in Chicago. The more he saw her and witnessed the vulnerability behind her flash and sizzle, the more that carefully nurtured anger faded. If Len the Gatekeeper hadn’t been on duty that night, Cal would have given in to the inevitable. And that would have been a huge mistake.

  As long as Cal was unwillingly and unhappily celibate, Dick MacNee was left with only the world’s smallest crime wave to raise as a banner of Cal’s failings. Yep, having Len watching over Dana was good, Cal thought as he flopped back on the couch and prepared to spend another lonely night.

  God bless Len Vandervoort. And God help Cal Brewer.

  AS APRIL BEGAN, Dana’s life took on a new rhythm. The beat was spicier than it had been in a very long time. She was awake to the taste of her food, alive to the scent of the fresh flowers she always kept in the salon, and most of all, attuned to Cal Brewer.

  For two people who should be trying to avoid each other, their paths crossed with amazing frequency. Picking up a latte from the Corner Café, walking down the street to drop in on Hallie at her gallery, she’d see Cal. It was as though they were connected on some subconscious level.

  Both of them kept their greetings cordial and impersonal, but it was as though their words had taken on secret meanings.

  “Having a good day?” translated to “I need to touch you again.”

  “Beautiful sunset we had last night” meant “Keep me warm tonight.”

  Early this morning, Dana had come to a decision. Her relationship with Cal had changed somehow. It would be a stretch to call them buddies, but she couldn’t put her finger on a more accurate word. Given this change in their status, she felt it was okay to invite him to have sex again. Good buddy sex. Affectionate sex.

  Before Cal, asking had never been an issue. Events always took a prescribed order—the guy asked, and she either agreed or didn’t. None of this putting herself on the line. It was odd, though. Somehow the emotional danger added to the excitement—and the insanity. If it weren’t for the fact that he could say no, she’d kind of like this.

  Dana opened the reception desk drawer containing the appointment cards, and pulled one out. They were pretty cool, considering she’d designed them on her now deceased computer. Each card was the size of a small invitation and had an ivy leaf border that almost matched the paint job Hallie had done on the salon entry. At the bottom of the card, just inside the border, was the salon name and phone number.

  Generally, Dana just jotted the client’s appointment time and date. This time, she wrote: Montavier Inn, Garden Cottage, Saturday 8:00 p.m. The location she’d chosen was about forty miles north of Sandy Bend. She hoped it was far enough away that no one in town would know that she’d succumbed to Cal Brewer, though heaven knew she wasn’t the first. Still, it was the kind of news she wanted to keep quiet.

  She didn’t have anything as fancy as an envelope sitting around, so she folded the note into a sheet of plain paper to be sure no one but Cal could read it. Before she lost her nerve, she called to Trish that she was leaving for a minute
, grabbed her jacket, and then hurried down the street to the police station.

  Mitch was sitting at one of the two desks.

  “Hey, Dana. Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

  “Um, no.”

  His smile was the mirror image of his older brother’s—killer dimples and all. “Good. You’re looking sort of funny.”

  She laughed. “You Brewer men do know how to hand out the compliments, don’t you?”

  “We’re regular prodigies.”

  She shifted uncomfortably, aware that she had to get down to business. “I have a note for Cal. Should I leave it on his desk?”

  “Sure, just stick it in the In box.”

  Dana looked at the black tray in question. Buddy sex, she reminded herself. Just some happy, friendly buddy sex.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  She let go of the note as if it burned her hand. It slid across the sheer plastic and lodged in the upper right corner of the box. There, she’d done it. Dana released the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

  “Never been better,” she said to Mitch. “Have a great day.”

  “You, too,” he called as she escaped.

  Dana hadn’t gone more than ten yards before Mike fell in step with her. Her prospects for a great day escaping, she kicked up her pace.

  “I’ve been calling you,” he said, easily keeping up with her. “Hasn’t that old fart been giving you the messages?”

  “Mr. V’s not an old fart, and yes, he’s been giving me the messages.”

  “So why haven’t you called me back?”

  “Why would I want to? To ask you if you had a good time trashing the salon?”

  He continued as though she hadn’t spoken at all. “I was thinking the other day how I miss those dinners you used to make. You know, the candlelight and music—”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. I’m supposed to call you back so you can ask me for food and sex?” She snorted. “In your dreams.”

  “I know you miss me…just a little.”

  Dana slowed. Six months ago he would have been right. But six months ago she hadn’t been nearly as together as she was today. Though she remained convinced Mike was behind the damage to the salon, she needed to end the warfare and get on with life. Maybe then he’d do the same.

  She drew him by the elbow to the small, gated alcove between Truro’s and a currently shuttered summertime souvenir shop.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  His brow furrowed. “What are you thanking me for?”

  “For forcing my hand so I had to leave you. And believe it or not, I mean it. If you hadn’t made sure I knew you were sleeping with Suzanne, I would have convinced myself that I could have made it work between the two of us. And it never would have, you know.

  “I had a few rough months after we split, but look at all I’ve done since then. Devine Secrets is becoming more than I ever dreamed possible, and all because you left me with a whole lot of empty time.” She grinned. “So, thanks.”

  “How long are you going to keep punishing us because I made one stupid mistake?”

  “Mike, the stupid mistake was made in Vegas. We never should have gotten married. We have this way of egging each other on until one or both of us does something dumb. It’s just not healthy.”

  “I want you to come back to me.”

  She shook her head. “It’s time to move on. Obviously things didn’t work out quite as you planned with Suzanne, but you’ll find someone.”

  “You need me.”

  “Maybe once I did, but it wasn’t a good kind of need, you know what I mean? I was looking to you to fill gaps in me when I needed to do it for myself.”

  “You’ve been reading too many of those self-help books.”

  Dana laughed. “Okay, so I picked up one or two, but they made sense.”

  “I’m not giving up,” he said, reminding her of a stubborn little boy who’d lost his favorite plaything. And that’s what it was about with Mike—ownership. That and losing someone who’d paid his way for parties, trips and fun.

  “It’s time,” she said, then stepped back onto the sidewalk. “Goodbye.”

  Dana had just hung up her coat when Mrs. Hawkins arrived for her weekly tan touch-up and hair appointment. There was something comforting about having the same client at the same time every week. It was kind of like wearing a favorite pair of old shoes with a new dress because you didn’t need too much to think about all at once.

  “Ready for the tanning bed?” she asked her client. Personally, Dana didn’t like tanning beds, but she’d inherited hers—and Mrs. Hawkins with it—when she’d bought the salon. Sooner or later, she planned to get rid of the bed, but until then she just didn’t feel right lecturing a woman with more life experience than she had.

  Dana did a quick bang trim for another client while Mrs. Hawkins toasted. When she returned and was seated in Dana’s chair, she made a shocking announcement.

  “I want something new,” Mrs. Hawkins said as she examined her reflection in the mirror. “Something hot.”

  Mrs. Hawkins’s hairstyle was so dated it nearly had a retro quality. Unfortunately, it also rose far too high for a woman who wasn’t even five feet tall.

  “Hot?” Dana echoed.

  “Hip, with-it, happening,” her client clarified. “And no more curlers.”

  “Good idea.” Dana had been trying to persuade Mrs. Hawkins to consider this, but the grocery store owner had a stubborn streak, so she hadn’t pushed it. “Your hair is beautifully thick. Maybe we could give you a modified bob. Something soft around your face, but still a style you can blow-dry yourself.”

  “What about the color? Do you think I should go back to blond? Half the women my age color their hair.”

  “Those women aren’t lucky enough to have your gorgeous shade of silver. Don’t change it.”

  “Fine, then. Do your magic,” Mrs. Hawkins ordered.

  It seemed that Olivia Hawkins grew happier with every snip of the scissors. “I can’t believe I waited this long,” she said. “What was I thinking?”

  When she finished, Dana was impressed with the transformation, too. Still, she had to admit that her client’s new look had more to do with the added sparkle in her blue eyes and the pride with which she carried herself.

  “Now it’s time for a shopping spree,” Mrs. Hawkins said while patting Dana on the cheek.

  Dana helped her with her coat and saw her off. After she was gone, Dana sat in her styling chair and spun a happy loop. Spring fever was in the air. Between Mrs. Hawkins and herself, Sandy Bend had no idea what was about to hit it.

  BACK FROM HIS brief and useless vacation, Cal sifted through the contents of his In box. A stack of phone messages, the five accident reports Mitch had finally buckled down and finished, and…

  He picked up piece of paper folded into an envelope. The word Cal was written in a clear script that could only have come from a woman’s hand. He turned it over, then glanced up at his brother, “Any idea where this came from?”

  Mitch looked up from the fat book he was paging through. “Yup.”

  Cal unfolded the paper and read the simple ivy-bordered card. A date, a place and a time. Though it wasn’t signed, the “Devine Secrets” written at the bottom made the sender no mystery. He could guess her intent, too.

  Could she possibly make things any harder on him? Seeing her nearly every day had already decimated his self-control, not that Dana was to blame. He’d made a point of seeking her out.

  Where was Len Vandervoort, keeper of the gate, when he was really needed?

  Get tough, Cal told himself. He knew what was good for his future, and what wasn’t. He dragged in a deep breath and dropped the card into the wastebasket next to his desk. Somehow he managed to ignore Mitch’s blunt comment of “idiot.” The nuclear blast of his conscience—and cravings—was a little tougher to disregard.

  Cal began to return phone calls. As he dealt with Mrs. Murcheson, who lived out on
the lake and insisted that her neighbors were spying on her—snowbirds happily ensconced in Florida until late April, actually—he willed himself not to look at the ivy-bordered card or to think about its sender.

  While Enid Talbert, the mayor’s wife and self-appointed town queen, quizzed him on the added degree of security he thought appropriate for an upcoming high school basketball play-off game, he stopped himself from reaching down and dredging out the note. It looked pathetic among the junk mail and candy wrappers.

  Turning his back on the trash can, he dialed Richard MacNee.

  “So, you’re finally in the office,” MacNee said in the way of greeting.

  Cal refused to spell out his schedule, so all he said was, “What did you call about?

  “I’m asking the mayor to schedule a town meeting for next week. The people of Sandy Bend should know the crime epidemic they face. Now it’s just someone like Dana Devine, but who knows where the trouble will end? The citizens need to be prepared.”

  Cal finally snapped. “First, I’d like you to spell out for me what you mean by that ‘just someone like Dana’ comment. See, I think you’re implying that Ms. Devine is beneath the law.”

  “No parent who had a child with her in high school has forgotten what she was like. Even today, she’s a threat to moral decency,” Dick blustered.

  Cal snorted. “Except to say that there must be a toasty spot in hell reserved for you, I’m not going to touch that pile of dung. Let’s get down to this epidemic that’s got you all bothered. Over the past six months we’ve had three bar brawls, a dozen deer versus car accidents, a couple of domestic disputes and the incident at Devine Secrets. Even added up, that doesn’t constitute an outbreak, let alone an epidemic.

  “I’ve put up with you twisting the town council’s collective tail into a knot because it suits you, but I’m not going to tolerate you whipping up fear among the people I serve. In fact, if you try it, I’m going to show you up for the idiot you are. Got it?”

  Cal slammed down the phone before he knew whether Dick “got it” or not. Mitch stood and began to applaud slowly, but Cal wasn’t quite done. He reached down and retrieved Dana’s invitation from the trash.