Falling Hard and Fast (14 page)

He stirred the spaghetti sauce with a long-handled wood
en spoon he'd found in one of her drawers. “Only pasta, and only in your kitchen.”

“And why is that?”

“Because pasta is good for the soul, and it's impossible for you not to invite me to dinner when I'm making it.”

She should have demanded an explanation. She should have been outraged that he'd entered her house without her permission. But when he'd turned around for that brief moment, there had been a look in his eyes that had given her pause. And beneath his bantering words was a tone she hadn't heard from him before, one she couldn't identify. The debate about his high-handed actions could wait while she took time to discover what was bothering Cage.

“I'd think breaking and entering would hinder the digestion.”

“Now that's a mighty harsh way to describe an unexpected guest, Zoey.” He managed a hurt tone as he opened the oven door and checked on the French bread. “Especially when he's intent on feeding you. How do you feel about dinner?”

She pushed away from the doorway and followed Oxy into the kitchen, bending to unfasten his leash. “Interested enough to consider letting you stay.”

He sent her a quick grin. If she hadn't been watching so closely, she might not have noticed that the usual charm of it was slightly off the mark. There was something missing, a part of him that wasn't quite focused on her. Without a thought, she went to the cupboard and took out two wineglasses.

It wasn't her nature to pry; she was a woman who valued her own privacy too much to feel comfortable intruding on another's. But she recognized the air of someone troubled by more than he would say. Her recognition of it, however, didn't explain this unnatural urge she had to soothe.

Taking a wine bottle from the refrigerator, she filled both glasses and handed him one. She pulled a chair out from
the table and sat down, sipping and watching him over the rim of her glass.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He stiffened, then turned slowly and leaned against the counter, taking a reflective drink.

He didn't evade or pretend to misunderstand her. His gaze met hers across the kitchen. “It's the case. And it's not something I can talk about. I don't even have it straight in my own mind yet.”

“All right.”

And it was just that easy. He marveled at the matter-of-fact way she accepted it. Other women might have wheedled, some would have pouted. But Zoey better than anyone would allow a person a little space. He didn't know why that trait of hers should feel so welcome right now.

He sat next to her, cradling the wineglass in his hand. “Did I ever tell you my Great-great-uncle Lamar was a celebrated chef?”

She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and forced back an unconscious sense of disappointment. Not even to herself was she willing to admit just how much she'd wanted to hear what was weighing on him. That would take a level of trust she didn't even want to consider. Certainly it was one she was never going to return. Shaking her head, she said, “I don't believe you did.”

“Well, he was. He had himself the best possible place to show off his talents, too, in the kitchens of the Blue Rose, the finest brothel in St. Augustine parish.”

“Really?” Recognizing the beginning of the story for the distraction it was, she settled back to enjoy the tale. “I wouldn't think that the…ladies of the evening would have had especially hearty appetites.”

He gave her a wicked wink. “Oh, their appetites were everything you'd expect for women in their positions, but like I said, this was a real high-class place. Gentlemen callers would come for companionship, as well as for less hon
orable reasons, and there would be singing and dancing before everyone sat down to an elegant dinner.”

“Much like the one you're preparing tonight?”

He waved a hand toward the stove carelessly. “Heck, spaghetti can't hold a candle to the dinners Lamar could serve. The way I heard the story, he was torn between two loves—one for cooking and the other for Sarah May, the most beautiful and talented of the Blue Rose's occupants.”

She wondered if it was her imagination that made him seem a little less tense, as if the act of storytelling could accomplish what she couldn't. “Something tells me that his two loves led to his downfall.”

“There are folks who would agree with you. On the night in question, Lamar was aiming to serve his famous roast duck. The governor was passing through, you see, and it was to be a very special night at the Blue Rose. But Sarah May slipped into the kitchen while Lamar was preparing the meal. Seems she was partial to his lemon-cream tart, not to mention a few other specialties best not mentioned in polite company. Well, one thing led to another. Old Uncle Lamar didn't have his mind on watching the duck, and by the time his attention was diverted from Sarah May, most of the kitchen was in flames. Way I heard it, the fire never did get far out into the dining room, but the governor is said to have panicked. Ran out of there, vowing never to return and the owner, Rose herself, saw the reputation of her place go out the door with him. Luckily Lamar figured he wouldn't be too welcome around there much longer, and had already slipped away before Rose charged into his room with a Smith & Wesson in her hand and murder in her eye.” He paused to enjoy the sight of Zoey looking at him, her lips turned up, eyes alight with interest and humor.

“And what happened to him?”

“Well, being swift of foot, he'd gotten clean away and taken Sarah May with him. They knew they'd best get out of the area, so I'm told they headed for New Orleans, where
Lamar opened a little café and settled down with Sarah to raise a family.”

“Is that a true story?” Zoey demanded.

He loved the way she looked, her mouth twitching between laughter and disbelief. The sight lightened something inside him. “As the saying around here goes, if it's not, it oughta be. I do know my daddy could hold his own in the kitchen when my mama would let him try, and he's the one who taught me a thing or two about cooking.”

She watched while he set his glass down and went to the stove, stirring the sauce and poking at the spaghetti with a long-handled fork. There was something restful about watching a man moving about her kitchen, preparing a meal for her. Something definitely odd, but homey too. She tried to imagine Alan showing up at her apartment in Chicago and cooking for her and the thought proved too elusive to contemplate.

Finally, at some good-natured grousing from him, she roused herself enough to set two places at the table, and helped him find some serving dishes for the bread and the sauce. When they settled down again to eat, each with a plate mounded with spaghetti and with Oxy parked hopefully at their feet, the atmosphere took on a cozier feel.

Determined to ignore it, Zoey focused intently on her meal. Surely it was only her imagination that the air seemed to get thicker by the second, wrapping them in a cocoon of intimacy. Cage didn't appear to notice it.

She shot him a glance from beneath her lashes. He was eating with obvious enjoyment, sipping occasionally from his wineglass. To look at the man, one would believe he was dining with a favorite elderly aunt. The thought rankled. She tried to remember that only minutes ago her goal had been to offer him comfort. Now it was taking a masterful effort on her part to resist an equally strong urge to kick him. Hard.

Driven to move, she got up and retrieved the wine bottle from the counter and filled his glass, before tipping more
wine into her own. As she slipped back into her chair, he lifted his glass in a half salute.

He watched as she reached for her glass, his eyebrows climbing when she drained half of it. Something had her nerves tightening and he wondered whether she sensed the chemistry sparking and humming between them. It pleased him to think that she did. It gave him even greater pleasure to believe it was the cause of her sudden unease. He found the thought infinitely more enjoyable to focus on than the niggling fear that had been troubling him since his conversation with Fisher.

To distract them both, he reached for her hand and sent his thumb skating across her knuckles. “I've been wondering about something. How come you use your initials on your books?”

“It was my agent's idea.” She made a face, giving a discreet tug to free her hand. It was held fast. “He thought my first books would sell better if people didn't know they were written by a woman. Sexism,” she added dryly, “is alive and well in the publishing world.”

“I've been giving the thought some consideration,” he said seriously. “I believe I can guess what your middle initial stands for.”

“Somehow I doubt it.” She was unable to keep the smirk from her voice.

“I'm thinking something imaginative. Not the usual ‘Linda' or ‘Lisa' for you.” He pretended to mull it over for a moment before guessing, “‘Lillabelle.'”

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Not even close.” She'd never been crazy about her middle name. For the first time she reflected that it quite possibly could have been worse.

“‘Lolita.'”

She gave a shake of her head.

“‘Louisa.'”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You cheated.”

Amused, he tightened his fingers around hers, holding them as she tried to pull away. “How could I cheat?”

“I know for a fact you did some checking up on me when I first came here.” She didn't bother to keep the annoyance from her tone. The idea still irritated. “You probably found out then.”

“Nope. That would have violated my impeccable sense of fair play. It fits, you know. It's almost as if your parents knew you'd be a writer.”

Since she was having no success in freeing her hand from his, she let it lie limply in his grasp. “Somehow I have difficulty picturing you as a literary type.”

“You're surprised I recognize Louisa May Alcott? I'll have you know that when I was fourteen I couldn't wait to get my hands on a copy of
Little Women.
”

“Don't tell me. You thought the book would be about an acrobatic troupe of circus midgets.”

Her wry comment was close enough to the truth to have him grinning. “Not exactly. I might have imagined a book of memoirs written by pygmy members of the world's oldest profession.” Though she made a rude sound, he went on, “But despite my overwhelming disappointment, I finished the book.”

She was amused despite herself. “Was that your last foray into literature?”

“Not at all. I've even read a novel or two by Z. L. Prescott.” He enjoyed surprising her. “I have to admit to getting a chill or two from your description, although your research on the investigation of murder scenes needs work.”

The quick bloom of pleasure caused by his first words was doused by the rest of his statement. She was certain her contact in the Chicago police homicide division would feel as offended as she did. “That's a bit strange, coming from someone who did his damnedest to make sure I did
no
research concerning the murder in his parish.”

“I had my reasons,” he said equably. “Good ones. And the talk has quieted down, due to the measures my office
has taken. It's easier to run an investigation when the phone lines and officers aren't tied up with people jumping at shadows or seeing bogeymen behind every corner. It's also better for the town when folks can sleep at night.”

She refused to see the simple logic of his words. “Is that what brought you here today? An urge to make sure I wasn't wreaking some kind of havoc in your parish by getting it ‘stirred up' again?”

He smiled at that, with a rueful curve of his lips, but his eyes were alight with an emotion she was afraid to identify. “Honey, you've been stirring things up since you got here.”

Tearing her gaze away from his, she strove to focus on his words. The expression in his eyes, on his face, was enough to terrify her. “Well, despite your lack of cooperation, my novel is shaping up just fine.” It was, in fact, developing into what she thought would be her finest work. The murder had ignited some dormant spark in her creativity, but it was Charity itself that was breathing life into the story. The small Southern town she'd created was purely fictional, but there was no denying that it owed its origin to the homespun atmosphere she'd found here. Like the murderer responsible for Janice Reilly's death, her own villain hadn't identified himself to her yet. A chill crept over her arms despite the late-afternoon heat. Just as life imitated art, there were many possibilities.

He reached down to give the pup an absent pat, his gaze never faltering. She could feel it, hot and intense, compelling her to look at him. It was a compulsion she was determined to ignore.

“Well,” she said with forced brightness, “since you fixed dinner I guess I can do the cleaning up.” It would give her an excuse to escape that warm grip, that equally warm gaze. It would also give her an opportunity to get her suddenly jittery nerves calmed again.

But her plan was waylaid by Cage's insistence on helping. It was impossible to keep her guard up while the man regaled her with imitations of just about every citizen of
Charity while he dried the dishes. He was a wicked mimic, and had each individual's mannerisms and speech patterns perfected to a
T.

His nonsense soothed her earlier edginess, and when he declared it time to retire outside for the long-honored tradition of porch sitting, she could only follow bemusedly.

And so it was that she found herself sitting on the porch glider next to him with his arm stretched out behind her. The glider's slow, rhythmic movements were a perfect metronome for the music of Cage's drawl. His long languid tales of Charity's history and his own childhood could make her smile in appreciation or listen with barely suspended disbelief—but always, always, with rapt attention.