1 In For A Penny (6 page)

Mama wasn’t put off by my hasty retreat. Her clarion tones, though intended for my ears only, rang out like the Liberty Bell. “You need to get laid, Cleopatra Jones. And if you don’t do it soon, I’m going to move out. I can’t stand your bitchiness much longer.”

I ignored the elderly gentlemen puttering around their cars, hoping against hope they didn’t have their hearing aids turned on. Heat steamed from my face.

Ever since my divorce, I’ve felt out of step with everyone else. Not that I’d ever marched to the same beat as the world, but at least I’d been on a parallel course. Lately I had come to realize that I was running blind through life without a map.

Fumbling in the dark wasn’t my style. I needed some semblance of order to my world and the only way I could accomplish that was through organization.

I stood next to the Gray Beast, holding my car keys as I reviewed my plans for the day. I had a stack of Homeowners Association audits to complete which is why I couldn’t be spared for routine chores like grocery shopping for our houseguests.

I mentally ticked off my list of things to do. I needed to phone Jonette this morning to finesse the info she’d been withholding. We’d both feel better afterwards. Besides, our being on the outs with each other would only get worse if Bitsy arrived before we resolved our differences.

After I finished with Jonette, I needed to write out instructions for Charla and Lexy to put fresh linens on the beds. Then, if my work day went smoothly, all I would have left to do this evening would be to throw dinner together.

“Cleo?”

That sexy rumble needed no introduction. My hormones danced a little jig and I struggled to maintain my composure. Mama might be right about sex deprivation. Now that I was aware of Rafe, I couldn’t stop wondering how it would be between us. “Hello, Rafe. Big turnout today.”

I couldn’t help but notice the way his big brown eyes smiled at me. Had he heard Mama hollering across the parking lot about my lack of a sex life?

From the corner of my mind came a reminder of my resolve to trust no one, to assume that everyone I came in contact with could be Dudley’s murderer. I had to view Rafe in the same light, even if I was physically attracted to him.

“Today’s our Senior Invitational,” Rafe said. “Mild temperatures always increase our turnout.”

I fanned myself. My core temperature soared with long and lean Rafe standing next to me. His intent gaze made me feel as if I were the most compelling female in the universe.

Heady stuff indeed, now that I recognized my need for a male to pleasure me. A smile percolated up through my protective shield before I could stop it.

Rafe’s bedroom eyes warmed perceptibly. “I wanted to encourage you and Jonette Moore to finish your round for the Ladies League anytime this week. Just let one of us in the pro shop know what time is convenient for you.”

His eyes seemed to be singing a siren song. Something along the lines of “Come to me, you beautiful woman, and I will show you the secrets of the universe.” My body recognized the tune.

I was primed for him to touch me again, greedy for his touch. I’d never felt quite like this before and it didn’t seem to fit the guidelines I’d established for exercising caution. I craved the sensual release that only he could give. And all it would take was a mere touch.

My brain computed the various ways I could inadvertently touch him. It could be something as blatant as an “accidental” stumble or as innocent as pretending to shoo a bug away from his fair head. The possibilities were endless, especially for someone living in the rich fantasy land I currently inhabited.

Common sense was slow to return, but when it did it was something of a shock to realize I didn’t have a hibiscus flower in my hair or a grass skirt swishing around my private parts. Instead, I had on a very practical taupe jacket dress and boring sling-back pumps.

Definitely not sex goddess clothing. Definitely not someone a golf pro would be interested in. Most definitely not someone who was exercising caution. “Uh. Sure. I’ll check with Jonette and we’ll come out soon.”

My keys felt very warm in my hand. I should get in the Gray Beast and leave, but I just stood there wishing for some way to prolong our conversation. What could I talk to a golf pro about? What?

A coherent thought intruded on my fantasies. Lessons. I needed golf lessons. Caution flew out of my head altogether. “I wanted to ask you about your lesson program.”

“You’d like to take lessons from me?”

His incredulous tone caught me by surprise. Had I missed something about the quality of my game? Did he think I was already good enough to go on the Pro Tour?

Maybe the man needed glasses. I’d been halfway decent before my divorce. Now my game was in the category of exceptionally terrible. I swung too hard, but golfing was so therapeutic I didn’t really care about my score.

What I cared about was spending time alone with Rafe Golden. I envisioned melting into his hands as he adjusted my grip, monitored my hip rotation, and measured my swing plane.

At this point in my sexless life, I didn’t have the slightest problem with paying a man to be attentive to me, even if it was under the guise of golf instruction. “Unless you think I don’t need lessons,” I added demurely.

I could see him struggling not to smile. Then he gave up and laughed out loud. “Lady, I can shave ten strokes off your game in one lesson, guaranteed. I thought you’d never ask. I’ve had my eye on that flat swing of yours for months.”

My hopes plummeted. He’d been eyeing my flat swing? Not my luscious supple body? I groaned aloud. “That bad, is it?”

He inclined his head towards the pro shop. “Let’s go inside and check my schedule for an opening. I’d love to teach you what I know about the golf swing.”

Hmmm.

I quickly weighed the possibilities. Spend a few minutes with Rafe or drive to work?

My hormones made the decision for me. “All right.” I’d never been in the pro shop in a dress and heels but there was always a first time for everything.

A few moments later I was regretting my decision. Amidst the gray-headed seniors in their colorful golf attire I faded into the woodwork in my dull, taupe-colored suit. I couldn’t have been more uncomfortable if I’d worn an evening gown to the swimsuit competition of a beauty pageant.

Just when I was ready to bolt out the door, Rafe put his hand on the small of my back and guided me towards the counter and his assistant, Jasper Kingsland. The sudden electrical stimulus radiating from his touch brought an abrupt cessation of brainwaves as a hundred and twenty volts of pleasure short-circuited my system.

Needless to say, I kept moving forward and thought I was being extremely discreet about not jumping up and down and screaming “Yes! Yes! Yes!” But the golf ball I stepped on pitched me off balance to the right and into a display of state-of-the-art titanium drivers. I’d been wanting to take some of these demos out and hit them.

I was hitting them all right. First with my head and then with my shoulder and then with my hip. Golf balls that had been resting atop the display flew across the room like freshly popped corn. Two seniors went down as one overhead fluorescent light shattered with a loud pop.

The entire Titleist floor display tipped and fell on top of me and the seniors. I envisioned the headline for tomorrow’s newspaper: “Seniors Crushed, Sex Crazed Divorcee Trashes Golf Shop.”

Chapter 8

Rafe knelt next to me. “Cleo, are you all right?”

I blinked back tears. What a disaster. I was too embarrassed to move, too humiliated to find out what parts of me still worked. Obviously my brain was fried.

Glancing around the pro shop, I saw that the two felled seniors were scoping out my undies. I shot them my death glare as I assumed a more modest position. Only, my legs weren’t cooperating.

I just wanted to ooze into the tight weave of the bright green industrial grade carpet. I suppose someone had picked this cheery green color because it looked like grass, but frankly it wasn’t doing a thing for me. It wouldn’t suck me down for love or money.

“Cleo? Is anything broken?” Rafe asked.

Only my pride, my self-respect, and maybe the heel of my shoe. “I’m okay.”

I abandoned all attempts to right myself and stared into the very concerned eyes of the hunk hovering over me. The dark brown of his eyes reminded me of thick chocolate melted over perfect vine-ripened strawberries.

I imagined myself feeding him those very strawberries as he lounged beside me in a secluded glade wearing only a smile. In my mind’s eye, he sensuously licked the chocolate off of my fingers, one at a time.

Back in the real world, I tried my best “come hither” smile and willed my arms to reach for this edible chunk of man candy. He must have been receiving me on the same level because he scooped me up in his arms.

“Jasper, check the seniors and see if they need medical attention,” Rafe said. “I’m taking Mrs. Jones back to my office.”

Hot damn. Privacy.

And a man that could turn me on with just a touch. He had one arm around my waist and another around my legs. My blood sang the Hallelujah Chorus and my heart pounded double time. Virtual fireworks exploded in my head as he threaded his way past rows of golf bags and large buckets of mustard-colored range balls.

I envisioned him kissing me senseless as he settled me on his lap, then we’d have sex on his desk or maybe the floor. Only that green carpet didn’t extend back here.

In this less customer-friendly area of the shop, the floor was bare concrete with a drain in the center of the room. I shivered at the image of being naked on that cold, stained cement. Okay, so the floor was out.

Chair sex suited me just fine.

I rubbed my fingers in a light caress of that downy hair at the base of his neckline and he jumped, dropping me on his desk. Fortunately it was clear of staplers and cups of pens and lamps and things that would hurt to sit on.

As soon as contact between us was broken, my brain activity increased to the fifty percent level, just above survival functioning but still locked in terminal stupidity. “What’d you do that for?” I asked.

He barred his arms across his chest. “I didn’t mean to drop you. Sorry.”

I ignored the strong urgency I felt to leap off his desk and back into his arms again. A few more brain cells came back online and I realized I owed the man an apology for ruining his store.

To keep myself from reaching for him, I gripped my hands tightly together in my lap. “I’m sorry too. For destroying your display, for possibly endangering the lives of your senior customers, and for falling at your feet, twice.”

He seemed to relax when I stayed put. “What’s with that, anyway?” he asked.

I assumed he was talking about my clumsiness around him. “Don’t know.” No way was I going to try to explain the NASCAR-like spate of hormones even now corrupting my thought processes.

One of the life lessons I had learned about dealing with alpha males like Rafe was that their egos needed absolutely no artificial inflation. If I told him that his touch melted all my bones, he’d think he was hell on wheels. And then he’d run off and try his luck with another female.

Been there. Done that.

“Rafe? Rafe, honey? You back there?”

Case in point. That lilting voice belonged to Christine Strand, the head of our Ladies League. Over the years she’d irritated me by throwing herself at Charlie. And from the way Rafe flinched, I could tell she wasn’t exactly his favorite person either.

“Wait here,” he muttered. “This won’t take but a minute.”

I used the minute to compose myself. I realized my taupe dress was hiked up a little too high on my thighs to be respectable, so I jumped down to jiggle everything into place.

I’d forgotten about my shoe being on the injured reserve list and the heel promptly came off, causing me to clutch at the desk as my ankle twisted with the broken shoe. Pain arrowed up my leg and took my breath away. I cried out in agony.

Between waves of pain I was struck by the bittersweet realization that I had only myself to blame. If I’d been thinking, I would have kept to my busy schedule today. The smart thing to do was to stay away from Rafe until I knew who had murdered Dudley.

The murder had happened here on this golf course. Who had better opportunity to commit a crime here than someone who worked here? I shouldn’t have let myself be swayed by marauding hormones.

The Assistant Pro, whipcord-thin Jasper Kingsland, heard my cry and fixed me up with a bag of ice on my left foot while Rafe took care of Christine and the next foursome of seniors. Jasper cleared off Rafe’s chair and repositioned me to prop my foot on Rafe’s desk.

Did Jasper ever take off that navy-blue Nike swoosh cap? I’d yet to see his hair, but from the fullness of his dark bushy eyebrows, I guessed his hair must be of a similar texture. I pictured a dark unruly mop on top of his acorn-shaped head. The resulting image didn’t look much like a golf pro, more like a monk. No wonder he wore the cap all the time.

The ice brought blessed relief to my throbbing ankle. “I’m having the worst luck lately at this golf course,” I said. “First I stumble over a dead body and then I almost destroy the Pro Shop.”

“The Pro Shop will be fine,” Jasper said, his face tightening into a scowl. “As for Dudley, he only got what he deserved.”

“Oh? Did you have a grievance against Dudley?” My throbbing ankle quickly took second place to my curiosity.

“That man was a crook and I’ll never forgive him for the rest of my life.” Jasper’s spine went steel shaft rigid.

Jasper didn’t like Dudley. It sounded like his dislike ran deep. Was it deep enough to cause him to murder Dudley?

Jasper Kingsland had been the assistant pro here for a few years, moving here after his mother relocated to the area. Because I was an accountant, my thoughts turned to money. His salary couldn’t be much.

Was his beef with Dudley over money? Dudley had been a long-time member of Hogan’s Glen Golf Club. Did he owe the club money? I couldn’t imagine a few outstanding cart fees driving someone to commit murder.

Thing was, I could sit here and guess all day and never come close to the truth about Jasper’s feelings. If I wanted to know Jasper’s issue with Dudley, I had to ask. “Why do you say that?”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized my folly. If Jasper Kingsland had indeed murdered Dudley, and if he suspected I was onto him, I was endangering myself. For all I knew, Jasper had a gun tucked in one of these dusty gray file cabinets back here and he’d murder me on the spot.

I wasn’t ready to die. I had girls to raise, a Mama to take care of, and a dog that had already been traumatized once this week.

Why wasn’t I some feminine bombshell that could infatuate a man by merely blinking my lush eyelashes? If I had Marilyn Monroe’s allure and Kathleen Turner’s deeply sensual voice, Jasper would have trouble remembering his name in my presence. I definitely needed male befuddlement if Jasper was the killer. It wasn’t like I could get up and hightail it out of here.

I was in no position to defend myself with anything other than the small ice bag on my ankle. My only other weapon would be turning him in to the Internal Revenue Service for a tax audit.

I’m sure something questionable could be found in his taxes if the IRS nosed around a bit. Silently I practiced my lines if he came after me.
Stop! Or I’ll sic the IRS on you.

Not exactly blood-tingling suspense but it was the best I could do on short notice. I sat very still and tried to look as nonthreatening as possible.

Jasper kicked the daylights out of the file cabinet in the corner, and it scared me so much I almost fell out of my chair. The man had a very short fuse.

“Do you remember that news story about the teachers’ pension fund that was drained?” Jasper asked and I nodded. “My mother had her life savings in that fund,” he continued. “She worked her entire life and for what? So some crook could skim all the money out of her account.”

I tried to make some sense out of what Jasper said, but in my mind I was already running out of this room. At the same time, I watched him to see if he would suddenly pull a gun from a hiding place, or decide to kick my chair out from under me. If he shot me at this close range, I’d be a goner. “But Dudley worked at the bank. He didn’t have anything to do with the teachers’ pension fund.”

“You’re wrong.” Jasper’s thick eyebrows drew together in one long unibrow. “He was the only one on the Teacher’s Fund Advisory Board that had the insider knowledge to pull off a job like this. The rest of the folks were just ordinary Joes like me.”

Jasper wasn’t making any sense, but he’d finally quit pacing around the office. I thought about his accusation and couldn’t reconcile Dudley the swindler with the Dudley who used to vacation with me. Jasper’s story just didn’t ring true. “I don’t get it. If Dudley was involved, why wasn’t his name mentioned in the paper?”

Jasper picked up a broken golf club shaft and whacked it against his dark brown slacks. I think I wet my undies. I definitely didn’t like being stuck back here in Rafe’s office, but my ankle throbbed too much to stand. Why weren’t there any golf clubs within my reach?

“You’re kidding, right?” Jasper asked. “Dudley had connections. He hushed this up so no one even knew he was involved. I’m thinking he poured all that stolen money into that White Rock boondoggle. Dudley Do-right was definitely Dudley Do-wrong in my book. Every time I saw the man I wanted to whack him with my five wood.”

That was an odd choice. The driver was the largest club in a golfer’s bag. If I was going after someone and wanted to do serious damage to them, I’d whack them with my driver. “Your five wood?” I repeated lamely.

Jasper snorted and tossed down the broken shaft. “Hell yes. He’s not good enough to hit with my driver. I paid four hundred dollars for that club. But my five wood, it’s solid enough, but best of all, I never use it, so I wouldn’t miss it when I broke it on a low-life scumbag like Dudley.”

In my estimation, Jasper didn’t seem to be homicidal, just mad. He was talking about doing something to Dudley, but that was a typical male reaction, talking about violence. And he did appear to be the type to use a golf club instead of a gun, but I really wanted to know if he owned a gun. So I asked him.

He stopped pacing and stared at me. “You’re joking?”

I wasn’t joking and I felt very much like I’d asked the wrong question. Did I have some bizarre death wish? Taunting a potential murderer wasn’t good for longevity.

The air temperature in here seemed to drop twenty degrees. I shivered. How fast could I throw my ice bag at him and limp out of here?

“Where is she? What have you done with her?” Jonette said.

Relief swept through me. I’d never been so glad to hear Jonette’s familiar voice in my life.

“Calm down, Ms. Moore,” I heard Rafe say. “Cleo’s in my office with Jasper. I’ll escort you back there as soon as I’m finished with this customer.”

“Forget that,” Jonette said. “I’m not waiting for anything. I’ve already wasted too much time waiting and I have no patience left. Get out of my way.”

I could just imagine Jonette sailing around the counter and threading her way through the crowded storage area. But what if Rafe and Jasper were in this murdering thing together? Were they tag team murderers? Was Jonette putting herself in harm’s way by joining me in the back office?

“Cleo!” Jonette bellowed. “Where the hell are you?”

“Back here.” I tried not to look at Jasper’s unibrow or his clenched fists. Something was very screwy with that young man. I didn’t want to hang around here and find out exactly which screw was loose. “I had an accident.”

“Me too, and the accident is named Detective Britt Radcliff.” Jonette rounded the corner and saw me. “You’re hurt,” she said.

Jonette’s face was deathly pale and she wore yesterday’s golf clothes. Coffee stains dotted her white polo shirt, deep creases lined her red golf skirt. I cautiously stood up. “I’ll be fine. I need to get to work.” I would have been fine too, except my ankle gave out immediately.

While I demonstrated my proficiency with cuss words, Jonette steadied me and dragged me out of there. “Let’s get you home.”

I wasn’t headed home, but any place was better than this pro shop. I felt like a nursery rhyme character as I limped out, one shoe on and one shoe God knows where. The carnage in the pro shop had been stacked to one side and Christine Strand was nowhere in sight.

As I passed Rafe and his cluster of aged customers, he emoted concern. He could emote all he wanted. I was getting the hell out of there.