Attracted to Fire (44 page)

Paige's nerve endings registered alert. “Won't that be wonderful for you?” She took another passing glance at the vehicle. “I wonder who's driving that fancy car? Too early for courthouse business.”

“Somebody with money.” Mr. Shafer lifted the plastic lid off the freshly baked pie and inhaled deeply. “Can't wait till lunch.”

“Mercy, old man, you're already rounder than my dear-departed mama's potbelly stove.” Eleanor's blue hair sparkled in the sunlight as though she'd added glitter to her hairspray.

“You're just jealous. If you weren't a diabetic, you'd be stealing my pie. Paige here knows how to keep a man happy.”

One block down, a man carrying a camera emerged from between one of Mr. Shafer's many antique competitors and the barbershop. He lifted it as if to snap a picture of the barbershop. Paige swung her attention back to her friends.
He could be the real thing.
She hoped so and forced down any precursors of fear.

“What's he taking pictures of?” Eleanor paused. “I'm going to ask.” Determination etched her wrinkled face. She squared her shoulders and marched toward the stranger as though she represented the whole town.

Good, Eleanor. I'll head back and let you do the recon work.

Eleanor and the stranger stood too far away for Paige to read their lips, but at least while the two talked, the man couldn't take pictures. A few moments later, the stranger laughed much too loud. Eleanor reached out and shook his hand, then walked back.

Paige focused on Mr. Shafer. She picked up a watering can leaning precariously against a rotted-bottom chair. “Is this a new addition?”

“Nah. It was inside. I just brought it out yesterday.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw the stranger stare at them. Medium height. Narrow shoulders. Italian-cut clothes. Couldn't see the type of camera. The stranger walked their way, shoulders arched and rigid. Unless he was a pro, she'd have him sized up in thirty seconds, and then she'd go about her day—relieved.

Mr. Shafer lifted his gaze toward Eleanor. “Who's your friend?”

“Jason Stevens, a photographer looking for some homespun pictures about small towns in Oklahoma.”

The way he's dressed?
Paige's heart pounded. She replaced the watering can. “Did he say for what magazine?”

“Didn't ask. Why don't you? He wants to take a few shots of us standing in front of our businesses.” Eleanor beckoned to Stevens. “Come on over and meet my friends. Paige here wonders what magazine you work for.”

The man continued to smile—perfect teeth, perfect smile. “It's for a newspaper, the
Oklahoman
.” He stuck out his hand. “Mornin', folks. I bet you'd like your picture in the magazine insert.” His camera rested in the crook of his right hand, a new Nikon with fast lenses, perhaps a D90 or D200. No dents or sign of use. Who was this guy? He wasn't any more a photographer than Eleanor or Mr. Shafer.

Have you used that piece of equipment before today?

“Welcome to Split Creek,” Paige said. “I'll pass on the picture, though. I'm not photogenic, but you have a beautiful day to photograph our town.” She turned and started across the street to the library.

“Of course you're photogenic,” Eleanor called. “No one wants to see a couple of old fuddy-duddies like us, but you'd make front-page news.”

“You two are the center of attention. I'm the dull librarian.” Paige continued to move rapidly across the street.

“Wait a minute,” Stevens said.

“Sorry. I need to open the library.”

“Come on back, sweet girl. There's no one waiting to get in,” Mr. Shafer said.

She lifted her hand and waved backward. Guilt nipped at her heels for leaving them with Stevens, but she had more at stake than they did. “See you two later. Nice meeting you, Mr. Stevens.”

She unlocked the old building that had once been a bank but now served as the town library. It oozed with character—beige and black marble floors, rich oaken walls, tall ceilings with intricately carved stone, and a huge crystal chandelier the size of a wagon wheel. The areas where tellers once met with customers now served as cozy reading nooks, and a huge, round, brass-trimmed vault—minus the door—held children's books. The windows still even had a few iron bars. If only the town had high-speed Internet access. They'd been promised that modernization for months.

For a precious moment, she relaxed and breathed in the sights and smells. Bless dear Andrew Carnegie for his vision to establish public libraries. Because of his philanthropy, Paige had a sanctuary. From the creaking sounds of antiquity to the timeworn smell of books and yellowed magazines, she had quiet companions that took her to the edge of experience but not the horror of reality.

In a small converted kitchen behind a vaulted door in the rear corner, Paige placed a peanut butter, bacon, and mayo sandwich in the fridge. Reaching down farther into her tote, she wrapped her fingers around a package of Reese's Pieces. Those she'd stash in her desk drawer. The rest of the peach pie sat on the backseat of her car. She'd retrieve it once Stevens moved down the street, preferably out of town.

If he worked for Daniel Keary, her life was about to change—and not for the better. She shook off the chills racing up her arms.
I can handle whatever it is.
Snatching up her tote bag, she closed the kitchen door behind her. With the election nearly three months away, Stevens could be one of Keary's men sent to make sure she still understood her boundaries. Regret took a stab at her heart, but there was nothing she could do about Keary's popularity. She'd tried and failed against a force too powerful for her at the time. But her prayers for truth continued.

Her sensible shoes clicked against the floor en route to the front window. Standing to the side, she peered out through the blinds to the sun-laden street for a glimpse of Stevens. He continued to take pictures. Mr. Shafer would most likely give him a tour of the town, beginning with his store and the history of every item strewn across it. The so-called photographer from the
Oklahoman
entered the antique shop.

That'll bore him to tears and chase him out of town.

Paige went through the morning ritual of checking the drop box for returned books, of which there were six. She changed the dates on the date-due stamps and stacked the books to be shelved in her arms. The seasoned citizens of Split Creek representing the local book club would arrive any minute, as regular as their morning's constitutional. For an hour and a half they'd discuss the merits of their current novel, everything from the characters to the plot. Today they couldn't storm the shores of the library too soon for Paige.

As if on cue, Miss Alma bustled through the door—her purse slung loosely from her shoulder, her foil-wrapped banana nut bread in one hand and two books in the other.

“Good morning, Miss Alma,” Paige said. “Do you need some help?”

“No thanks. If I loosen my hold on one thing, everything else will fall.”

A picture of PoliGrip hit Paige's mind. “Well, you're the first today.”

Miss Betty sashayed in, a true Southern belle dressed in her Sunday best, complete with a pillbox hat. “Miss Paige, may I brew a pot of decaf coffee?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am. It's waiting for you.” Oh, how she loved these precious people.

Within moments the rest of Split Creek's Senior Book Club arrived. Paige waved at Reverend Bateson, and as usual, Miss Eleanor and Mr. Shafer were bickering about something.

“At least we agree that Daniel Keary should be our next governor,” Miss Eleanor said.

At the mention of that name, Paige thought she'd be physically ill. Keary was running on an Independent ticket, and she didn't care if a Democrat or a Republican pulled in the votes. Anyone but Keary.

“I have banana bread,” Miss Alma said. “But don't be picking up a book with crumbs on your fingers.”

“We know,” several echoed.

Paige appreciated the comic relief. The rest of the members placed chairs in a circle beneath the massive chandelier while Paige checked in their books.

The library door opened again, and Jason Stevens walked in with his camera. The sight of him erased the pleasantries she'd been enjoying with the book club members. He made his way to the circulation desk and stood at the swinging door, trapping her inside.

Hadn't she just swept the bugs off the steps of the library?

“Since you won't let me take your picture outside, I thought I'd snap a few in here. Wow—” his gaze took in the expanse of the building—“this
was
a bank.” His brilliant whites would have melted most women's resolve.

Paige approached the swinging door. “No pictures, please. They always turn out looking really bad.”

“How about lunch?”

“Are you coming on to me?” Disgust curdled her insides.

He waved his free hand in front of his face. The man knew just when to utilize a dimple on his left cheek. “I'm simply looking for a story to go along with my photos. This library is charming, fascinating, and so are you.”

Revulsion for the dimple-faced city boy had now moved into the fast lane. “Miss Alma, I'll help you arrange the chairs.”

“Nonsense.” Miss Alma shook her blue-gray head. “You help this young man. Those old people can do something besides stand around and complain about their gout and bursitis.”

Any other time, Paige would have laughed at the remark. But not today.

“Looks like they have everything under control.” The low, seductive tone of Stevens's voice invited a slap in the face.

“I suggest you visit with a few other business owners for your newspaper's needs,” she said.

“I'm very disappointed.”

“You'll get over it.”

“Can't we talk?” He leaned over the swinging door.

“You can leave, or I can call the sheriff. Your choice.” She picked up the phone on her desk and met his gaze with a stare down.

“So much for sweet, small-town girls.” He tossed her his best dejected look. Obviously he wasn't accustomed to the word
no
.

Her reflexes remained catlike thanks to tai chi workouts still done at home behind drawn curtains. With minimal effort, she could dislocate a shoulder or crash the kneecap of an opponent twice her weight. Such skills were not a part of the job description for most small-town USA librarians, but then again most of them didn't have a working knowledge of Korean, Angolan Portuguese, Swahili, and Russian. The ability to decipher codes, a mastery of disguise, and a knack for using a paper clip to open locks . . . not to mention a past that needed to stay buried. She had to resist the urge to toss Stevens out on his ear.
Calm down.

“I'm sorry we don't have the book you wanted. I'm sure one of the branches in Oklahoma City can help you.”

A silent challenge crested in his gray eyes, and she met it with her own defiance.

Stevens walked to the door and turned, carrying his camera the way patrons carried books. “Know what? This town would be a great place to hide out a CIA operative.”