Manhunting in Mississippi (7 page)

“And simple to store and serve,” he said. “I don’t want something too complicated to prepare in volume.”

On firm business footing at last, she nodded. “Agreed. I foresee Blythe providing the base element, prepackaged in bulk, with the last-minute toppings—sauces, whipped

cream, etcetera—being added at the coffeehouses.”

“So far, so good.”

Piper reached down to scratch her ankle through the bandage with the end of her pen. “What retail price point are you looking for?”

“To serve two?”

“A serving for two to three.”

“Probably no more than five ninety-five, which means I need the prepackaged product and toppings for less than three.”

Ms. Shepherd chewed on her lip, and Ian watched careful y. He was amazed he’d been able to concentrate on anything she’d said to this point, even though she had exhibited

remarkable insight into what he was seeking. Gone was the opinion that this woman was ditzy—clumsy, intriguing and engaging, perhaps, but not ditzy.

Earlier this morning he couldn’t wait to escape her company. Then he’d fretted about her ever since he’d left. He’d been so fidgety and distracted that Edmund and Ms.

Shepherd’s assistant probably thought he suffered from attention deficit disorder.

He’d simply been concerned for her wel -being, he’d told himself. But he had to admit, he’d been more preoccupied with the way she looked in those loose-fitting jeans when

she removed her jacket in the lab than with the bandage around her ankle or the scraped skin beneath her wispy dark bangs.

Ian sniffed danger. No matter how much he told himself he did not need the entanglement of a brief affair—and certainly not with a valuable vendor connection—he couldn’t

keep himself from eyeing every flat surface in the lab and gauging its sex-worthiness.

“We can do it,” Ms. Shepherd announced.

He inhaled sharply into his cup, sucking hot coffee down his windpipe. Lapsing into a coughing seizure, he barked like a hoarse seal. Ms. Shepherd half rose from her chair,

but he waved her down as reality sank in. While his mind had wandered off into Lustvil e, she was actual y trying to resolve business issues. Ian cleared his throat and careful y swal owed another mouthful of coffee. “I’m sure you can do it,” he croaked. “I’m sure Blythe can do it, I mean.”

“Of course our production manager wil have to have the final say,” she said in a cautious tone, “but at least now that I know what cost range you’re shooting for, I can begin working on the recipe specs. Mr. Blythe informed me we’re not the only plant in the running for your business. If you don’t mind me asking, what am I up against?”

Absurdly, Meredith flashed in his mind. Then he fast-forwarded through the delicacies he’d sampled at the Peoria plant. “Right now, a white chocolate mousse is the dessert to beat.”

Her lips curved into a sly smile. “We’l see about that.” She squinted and looked at the ceiling. “If al goes wel , I should have a few samples by tomorrow.”

Panic rose in his throat. “Tomorrow?” He’d counted on at least a week before going back to Chicago, back to Meredith—and
two
weeks sounded better al the time.

She steepled her smal hands and looked adorably apologetic. “Sorry. Typical y I’d work much faster, but I’m afraid my little accident is going to slow me down. I’m sure you’re anxious to get back home, so I’l do the best I can.”

“Take your time!” When she drew back in surprise at his vehemence, he added, “I wouldn’t want you to push yourself, and I could use a few days of rest and relaxation anyway.”

She laughed, a rich, sweet-sounding noise. “You certainly came to the right place for R and R, Mr. Bentley. You won’t have any trouble finding absolutely nothing to do in Mudvil e.”

She took his breath away. It scared and thril ed him at the same time. “Ian.”

Her smile wavered. “Pardon me?”

“Cal me Ian.”

Her gaze darted away, then back. “Okay…Ian. C-cal me Piper.” She swung her foot to the ground and rose awkwardly, then extended her hand. “I’l meet you back here tomorrow afternoon…Ian. We’l have more to discuss at that time.”

A clear dismissal…exactly what he needed. But the disappointment he felt shook him. The ring on his left hand scraped against the table as he pushed himself to his feet,

squeezing his finger painful y. With his good hand, he reached across and shook hers, resisting the urge to pul her toward him. “Don’t put in any overtime on my account, Piper.”

Her pointed chin came up. For a second, he thought he’d hit a nerve, then she smiled. “Blythe wants your business, sir, and so do I.”

IAN STOPPED
by Edmund’s office to thank him for the tour, then exited the building and exhaled noisily. What a morning…and what a woman. He felt strangely drained and exhilarated at the same time—he couldn’t remember a similar experience. It must be the altitude or the humidity or something environmental, he decided. Indeed, the rain had moved on, taking the clouds, but leaving a blanket of the most cloying humidity Ian had ever endured—and it was barely midmorning.

He loosened his tie, snagging the expensive silk with the increasingly irritating ring. Biting back a curse, he yanked the tie out of his shirt col ar and stuffed it in a pocket, then slung his jacket over his shoulder. He fingered the heavy gold band and removed fuzz and fibers from the prongs of the setting, which had accumulated from getting caught on every fabric surface he came in contact with.

Frustrated anew at the way it weighed down his hand, he tried to twist the ring into a more comfortable position, but he could barely move it. Damn, it was tight! How on earth did one get used to wearing such an encumbrance? A frown pul ed at his mouth. Of course, getting used to the ring was undoubtedly a negligible exercise compared to getting used to having a woman around permanently. Day in, and day out. Night after night, year after year, decade after decade…

Ian shivered in the Southern heat and shook off the disturbing line of thought. He had the rest of the day free, and intended to relax. Chicago, Meredith and his decision to accept or reject her proposal were far, far away.

Retracing his steps through the parking lot, he chuckled, remembering the morning’s events. Piper Shepherd had turned out to be the most entertaining person he’d met in a

long time, although he felt relatively sure she wouldn’t take that as a compliment. Thoughts of her gamin good looks and slim figure taunted him, but this had happened to him once before. Ten years ago a woman he’d been dating had suddenly pressed him for a commitment. In his immaturity, he’d panicked and picked up the next attractive woman who had

crossed his path, effectively ruining a perfectly good relationship. No, this time he was determined to make up his mind about his future without the distraction of a comely stranger.

He climbed into his rental sports car and headed toward the little motel where he’d registered last night. Funny how one’s attitude affected their perception of day-to-day events.

Last week, being cooped up in a tiny room without cable news or an extra phone jack for his laptop computer would have driven him nuts, but now…now he hadn’t the slightest urge to retrieve messages which had undoubtedly piled up in his absence.

But old habits were hard to break, and he was waiting for word from a fel ow restaurateur, Benjamin Warner. Together they were purchasing an antebel um house in Savannah,

Georgia, and turning it into a Southern diner. Their offer had been accepted, and Ian had overnighted his friend the signed papers for the closing. He cal ed his message service and sat poised by the phone with a pad of paper, dialing his way through two dozen messages.

The next to last message was from his partner, Ben, explaining the Savannah deal had fal en through because of site-restoration restrictions—they’d have to wait another

eighteen months before appearing before the preservation board. Extremely disappointed, Ian phoned Ben and told him they’d keep their eyes open for another opportunity. He also checked in with his assistant, dictated a quick memo and returned three e-mail messages.

His stomach rumbling, Ian swapped his suit slacks for pressed chinos and rol ed up the sleeves of his dress shirt, making a mental note to purchase some casual clothing.

Then he pointed his car in the direction of downtown Mudvil e, hoping the daylight would reveal something more appealing than he’d seen last night on his late drive into town. He circled the downtown area, aware that his unfamiliar car turned heads. To his gratification, the light of day unveiled a quaint little town, unbelievably busy with bustling pedestrians and older cars.

Oh, sure, the aged buildings could use a coat of paint, but he found the flower boxes and ornamental concrete curlicues charming in a Mark Twain kind of way. He pushed down

the thought that becoming familiar with the town would give him insight into the paradoxical resident, Ms. Piper Shepherd.

When he drove by the city municipal building, he stopped on a whim and procured a map of the area. Lunch forgotten, Ian spent the rest of the afternoon driving around the

outskirts of the city limits, in and out of pseudo-subdivisions and family neighborhoods. The houses were neat and attractive, and the lawns generous. And the clotheslines—he loved seeing clotheslines ful of sheets and jeans and baby clothes, a novelty to a man who had lived in high-rise apartment buildings for the last fifteen years.

Caught up in the heady feel of the countryside, he tuned in to a local radio station and caught a couple hours’ worth of Little League scores, livestock reports and elementary-school 4-H speeches. Around four o’clock he stopped at a Mom-and-Pop gas station in the middle of nowhere, bought a homemade ham-and-cheese sandwich and an ice-cold root

beer, and accepted the elderly owner’s invitation to “sit a spel ” on the porch. During the next hour, two cars and three riders on horseback kicked up dust on the narrow road in front of the store as Ian extracted Mudvil e’s history from wrinkly Zeke Samuels.

In addition to Blythe Industries, a paper-box manufacturer and a sewing factory provided the majority of jobs for the area. Surprisingly, next to tobacco, the most lucrative crop seemed to be farm-raised catfish. The fish farms fed several lakes in the area, which pumped lots of tourist dol ars into the town.

Thinking he might indulge in a day of fishing before returning home, Ian asked for directions and set off toward the nearest lake. A germ of an idea took root when he drove up on a crowded parking lot ful of cars with out-of-town license plates. After picking up a brochure, he drove around the area, keeping an eye open for choice lots and empty buildings or houses. He stopped occasional y to get his bearings and to scribble a few notes, the wheels in his head turning.

Just after five o’clock he happened upon a grand limestone house set in a white-fenced clearing, framed with towering evergreens. His heart pounded as he stepped from his

car and it tripped double time when he spied the For Sale sign. There were no cars around, but he walked up on the porch and rang the doorbel several times. When no one answered, he shielded his eyes and peered through a naked window. Antique furniture lined the wal s, carpets stood rol ed on end, packing boxes littered the floor. Tal ceilings, hardwood floors and a massive fireplace—the place was amazing.

Ian jogged back to the car, pul ed his cel ular phone from the glove compartment and punched in a number. “Ben? It’s Ian—you’re not going to believe this house I found…”

“YOU LOOK
like you’re on the injured list, Piper.” Pharmacy clerk Gary Purdue squinted down at her from behind the reading-glasses display. A former high school basketbal star, Gary had warmed the bench in col ege while he failed four years of pharmaceutical studies, then returned to Mudvil e to work in his father’s drugstore and coach peewee basebal . He reminded Piper of a celery stick and he always spoke in sports terms.

“Thanks, Gary.” Her face felt puffy, her tongue tasted thick and she yearned to tear off her clothes and claw at her itchy skin. “I need an antihistamine, pronto.”

He grinned and tucked a chin-length strand of blond hair behind his ear. “Did someone sneak chocolate into a recipe when you weren’t looking?”

“Yeah—me.”

A frown made his face seem longer and thinner. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. I’ve got a customer who likes cocoa, and I aim to please.”

“You’re a real team player, Piper.”

She gave him a tight, itchy smile. “Rah, rah.”

He walked around the front of the counter and chose two packages of pil s from a shelf. “Janet Browning couldn’t help you, huh?”

“The infirmary was already closed.” She grinned sheepishly and hiked up her right jeans leg to reveal her wrapped ankle. “And I probably wore out my welcome there this

morning. Got anything for the pain?”

Gary’s eyes widened in alarm. “Time out!” He propel ed Piper back into one of the “waiting” chairs and knelt in front of her.

“Gary—”

“Relax, Piper, I was almost a doctor.”

She pressed her lips together and permitted him to examine her ankle as if he knew what he was doing.

“Looks like a bad, bad fracture,” he announced.

“It’s a sprain.”

“Or a sprain,” he agreed quickly, nodding. He stood abruptly and disappeared behind the dispensing counter where his father’s eyes and balding head were barely visible. Mr.

Purdue waved, and she waved back.

Piper leaned back into the chair and scratched her forearms furiously, wondering what would happen next. She felt bumpy and raw.

Gary sprang back into the room holding a paper cup of water. He handed her the cup and three pil s. “Dad says take the pink ones for your al ergic reaction, and the other one for your ankle.”

Piper swal owed the pil s in one gulp and pushed herself to her feet. “Thanks.”

“Of course, you’re not supposed to drive after you take the painkil er.”

She stopped and stared at Gary. “Now
you’re
kidding, right?”

“’Fraid not. Have you eaten?”