Authors: Rhonda Nelson
Had she left? he wondered. Had she changed her mind about staying for the evening for appearance’s sake?
Given the way she’d been dodging him, it was entirely possible, Jeb thought grimly, a dart of disappointment mushrooming in his chest.
Feeling suddenly ill at ease and twitchy, he walked out into the hall, looked in both directions and, while there were several people huddled in clusters of conversation, she wasn’t among them. He didn’t want to linger outside the bathroom door like some sort of pervert, but at this point he didn’t know what else to do. As luck would have it, Lila emerged from the ladies’ room.
“Evening, Lila,” he said, smiling at her.
She inclined her head, eyes twinkling. “Jeb. I hope that you’re enjoying yourself. I couldn’t help but notice that you were dancing with Sophie earlier,” she said. “Sweet girl, our Sophie. And so pretty, too.”
“Yes, she is,” he agreed, recognizing another sales pitch. He looked pointedly at the restroom door and hesitated awkwardly. “She, uh… You didn’t happen to see her, did you?”
Lila frowned at first, then finally took his meaning. Her eyes rounded. “No, I didn’t, sorry. It’s empty.”
He straightened, smiled, though it felt weird on his face. “Right.”
She’d bolted.
Left him here horny and miserable, in a tux, the lone actor in this two-person play they’d been forced to perform. The idea of going back into that room, alone and pitiable—an odd sound emerged from his own head and he realized it was his teeth grinding against one another—while the rest of the attendees got hammered and paired off made him want to howl. He could cheerfully throttle her, Jeb thought, stunned at how quickly his irritation surfaced and how ineffectual his attempts to tamp it down were.
Ordinarily he didn’t allow himself to get worked up over things he couldn’t control. Emotion was the number one enemy of common sense and could cloud judgment faster than the blink of an eye. When life or death decisions were on the line, one learned to ignore those impulses and soldier on.
Literally.
It was only years of practice that allowed him to nod politely at Lila, take a quick look into the ballroom to confirm Marjorie’s whereabouts, then get about the job he was here to do.
And if he cursed under his breath all the way to her office and kicked a stray ear of Indian corn that had fallen into his path, then by damn, he’d earned it. His cell vibrated again and, with a grim “Not now, Judd,” he plucked it out of his pocket and hurled it into a nearby pond where it landed with a satisfying plunk.
Shit, he thought, eyes widening in shock as he stopped short. That wasn’t his phone. It was Ranger Security’s phone.
In a fit of temper, he’d just destroyed company property.
Him
. Jeb Anderson, decorated soldier, former Army Ranger, West Point graduate. Nicknamed Shades in Jump School because he’d been so cool and enigmatic. Unreadable, he’d been told. The ultimate poker face.
And he’d let
her
do this to him. Wind him up so tightly that all he could do was spin. He felt his expression blacken.
It was intolerable.
Women might be strong, they might be able to endure much more than he’d ever realized, they might be kind and nurturing, fierce and fiery. Hell, they might be everything Foy had said about them.
But they were also trouble.
And only a fool wouldn’t realize
that
.
He rounded the corner, noting the golf cart parked near the fence as he passed, then silently opened the gate into Marjorie’s courtyard. The Forbidden Garden, as Foy liked to call it. Jeb had just put the pick in the lock on one of the French doors leading into the director’s inner sanctum when a flash of light from inside made him still. He lowered himself to the ground, nearer to a gap in the curtains, and peered in. A small pen light hovered over an open filing cabinet, putting off little helpful illumination, but the large aquarium nearest the intruder was much more accommodating.
Jeb blinked, certain his eyes had deceived him. Shock detonated through him.
A shimmer of black chiffon, a wink of turquoise beading…
What in hell was she doing in there? What possible reason could she have for breaking into the director’s office? Could he have pegged her that wrong? Could his instincts be that off?
No, he didn’t think so. But clearly a little reconnaissance was needed.
* * *
S
WEARING
SOFTLY
UNDER
her breath, Sophie carefully slid the filing drawer closed and moved on to the next one. Like its predecessors it, too, revealed nothing out of the ordinary and certainly no easily accessible safe codes. Marjorie’s computer was password protected and, though she’d tried a few possible codes—drill sergeant, task master and boss woman, just for kicks—she knew she wasn’t going to be able to gain access.
In all probability, if the codes were on file in this office, then they were on the hard drive.
The only other possibility was a locked drawer in the bottom of her desk. Sophie had crawled up under it and tried to access the locking mechanism from the back, but with no success. Other than a questionable bottle of nail polish—blood red, which was hardly Marjorie’s style—and a pop-on clown nose under her credenza, she hadn’t found anything of note at all in the director’s office.
Unsurprisingly, she kept good records, notating every last detail about each resident. Trips to the doctor’s office, which prescriptions they were on, any allergies, family relations, religious and political affiliations, even their likes and dislikes. At the bottom of Lila’s file she’d written “Loves salt water taffy.”
Residents who’d passed away were put into a separate drawer, their folders marked with a pretty sky blue heart. Sophie had gotten a little choked up when she’d come across her grandmother’s file and had run her finger across the beloved name.
Theodosia Grace O’Brien. Friends and family called her Dozie. She’d been a wonderful woman, her grandmother. The kindest person she’d ever known, with a heart for people and animals alike. She never passed a person in need without offering to help and she never noticed a stray without taking it in. Her lips quirked sadly.
Like her. She’d been the ultimate stray.
Marjorie had marked “estranged” next to her father’s name on her grandmother’s file, along with “Needs a pet,” and “Excellent gardener.” Both were very astute observations.
In addition to the files on the residents, Marjorie also kept files on all the employees. Hank, who manned the barber shop, each of the beauticians at the salon, even the onsite postal worker. Sophie learned that Hank was a medium who hosted ghost tours in downtown Atlanta on the side, that one of the grounds crew was a recovering alcoholic, and that Ethel had “coulrophobia.” She made a mental note to look that up.
Naturally, she’d taken a minute to review her own file as well. Marjorie had denoted all the primary stuff—name, age, date of birth, business on site, the relation to her grandmother. “Works well, universally liked, poor taste in clothes and men.” Honestly, she’d pegged her with the poor taste in men comment, but was beginning to get a bit of a complex about her scrubs. Didn’t people understand the concept behind her work wear? She didn’t select them for their style, dammit. They were comfortable.
Her cheeks puffed as she exhaled and, with one last look around to confirm that she hadn’t left any evidence of her visit behind, Sophie stood, blew a kiss to Marjorie’s beloved Kissing Fish, Emma and Mr. Knightley—Lizzie and Mr. Darcy had tragically gone to the big aquarium in the sky last year—and made her way quickly back outside.
The codes had been a long shot, but they’d at least given her a starting point. Now she wasn’t certain what she’d need to do next. Find a way to get Marjorie’s computer code? Break into Marjorie’s house and search for the jewelry?
Eek. She was a soap-making goat farmer who moonlighted as a masseuse—she wasn’t a cat burglar. Before she committed any additional crimes, she needed to talk to Pearl and Nanette. She needed to know exactly how their jewelry was stolen and, more importantly, where it was stolen from. If—and this was a big if—their items had been removed from their safes as well, then she’d be left with no other choice than to take a closer look at Marjorie.
But if that meant she might be able to recover Lila’s necklace and Rose-Marie’s brooch and whatever else had been taken, then so be it.
Sophie had no idea how long she’d been gone, but knew that it had been longer than the traditional bathroom visit. With any luck, Jeb would have been too occupied by everyone else to notice anything remarkable about her absence.
Anticipation spiked as she drove the golf cart back across the grounds, off the lighted paths, of course. A flash of white caught the corner of her eye as she rounded the big elm tree nearest the pond, but a closer look revealed it was only a swan. Her face chilled from the speedy drive, she pulled the cart right back into position near the door—silently thanking Cora for leaving the keys in the ignition—and snuck back into the recreation center.
Foy, Clayton Plank and several other of the men were on the dance floor reenacting Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance—hilariously well, actually—and Hortensia Forsythe was more than halfway through her table dance. She was down to her slip and heels, and Martin Howard was standing in front of her, wolf-whistling and shouting “Take it off, Teensy!”
Cora and a group of her friends were huddled together in the corner of the room, giggling like school girls, a suspicious cloud of aromatic smoke drifting up above their heads. No doubt they’d have the munchies soon, Sophie thought, with a chuckle.
Looking exhausted and past caring, Marjorie was slouched in a chair near the band, drinking champagne directly from the bottle.
Clearly she’d been away much longer than she’d realized, Sophie thought, scanning the crowd for a head and shoulders which would stand well above the others. Her own shoulders drooped dejectedly when her search proved futile.
He’d left.
It was just as well, she told herself. Really. There was no reason for her to be upset, for her to even care that he’d given up on her and made his exit. It wasn’t like they’d made a real date. It had only been for the benefit of everyone else, right? Isn’t that what he’d said?
So why was she suddenly so depressed? Why did she feel like she’d been shown a present only to have it snatched out of her grasp when she reached for it? Why, for the love of all that was holy, was she on the verge of tears?
She knew why.
Because, at one point, while they’d been dancing, she could have sworn she saw the same raw and ragged desire that had been tearing her up for days, clawing at him as well. The tension in his touch, that brooding inscrutable gaze…
Hope, that easily kindled insidious builder of expectation, had sprouted.
Clearly she’d been mistaken. Once again.
Sophie swallowed tightly, laughed as Foy and his crew reached the “zombie shuffle” portion of the iconic dance, then smiled her goodbyes at everyone and pushed back through the double doors out into the night. The music and laughter faded and the silence closed in around her, making her even more keenly aware of being alone.
A weak, resigned chuckle bubbled up her throat and she shook her head.
That’s
what Marjorie should have written at the bottom of her file, Sophie thought.
“Will die alone.”
7
H
IDDEN
BEHIND
A
massive magnolia, Jeb watched as Sophie left the party. She’d barely stayed five minutes upon her return and, though he hadn’t been able to clearly see her face, everything about her body language suggested that she was unhappy. Her shoulders were rounded, her step slow. He heard her chuckle, but there was no humor in the sound. It rang hollow, almost defeated. Then she’d shaken her head, tightened the wrap around her shoulders and, rather than take the cart again, began walking toward Cora’s.
Cold and confused—an admittedly unfamiliar state for him—and plagued with the irrational urge to comfort her, to right her wrongs, Jeb frowned into the darkness, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Was she disappointed that she’d missed him? he wondered. That he’d left? Was that the reason for the sudden onset of unhappiness?
But if she’d wanted to spend the evening with him, then why in the hell had she snuck away? Why had she left? Better still, what had she hoped to find in Marjorie’s office? What had she been looking for? The jewelry? Was it possible that she knew there was a thief among them? Yes, he thought, his stomach clenching. Who knew this group better than Sophie? Who interacted with all of them? It was entirely possible that she was aware that something was going on.
But if that was the case, then why look in Marjorie’s office? There certainly wasn’t any high-end jewelry in there, Jeb thought. The director wasn’t the type and a quick look into her financials had revealed a frugal spender and faithful saver. Big purchases were planned, not impulsive. In fact, other than the cost of those exotic fish he’d spotted in her office and the garden attached to it, Marjorie didn’t splurge for anything.
He glanced at Sophie again, watched the lovely swing of those heavily rounded hips and felt another stab of desire land below his belt. Moonlight gleamed off her dark hair and a gentle breeze teased at the ends, lifting them away from her creamy neck. He swallowed thickly, his mouth parching as he appreciated the sheer feminine perfection of her body, the achingly sweet slope of her cheek, the ripe fullness of her mouth. How in the hell had he ever thought her ordinary? he wondered, his chest suddenly tight, when she was clearly the most beautiful woman he’d ever clapped eyes on.
Though he didn’t know when he’d made the conscious decision to continue following her, Jeb found himself doing that all the same. Careful to stay hidden behind various trees and shrubbery along the way, he stayed close enough to reach her quickly if needed, but far enough away to prevent detection. Against all reason and better judgment, irritation had given way to curiosity and the insatiable need to figure her out. To find out why she’d abandoned him to break into Marjorie’s office.
As soon as she’d climbed into her vehicle, he’d dashed a block over to Foy’s, slid behind the wheel of his Jeep and, staying a few car lengths away, fell in at a comfortable distance behind her truck. Fifteen minutes into the drive, traffic thinned and streetlights vanished. Withering Kudzu creeped along the embankments and he narrowly missed a deer.
Finally, she made a right turn onto Shady Springs road, drove along another mile, then stopped at a gated entrance to a long graveled driveway. With the beam of her headlights, he saw the gate swing open—remote access?—then he purposely drove past the entrance to her farm. Still puzzling over the gate, he waited until he was certain she’d had time to go inside, then backtracked and killed his headlights. He pulled past her entrance once more and parked in the driveway of an old barn.
Though it was pitch black without his headlights, his eyes soon adjusted to the darkness and he made his way toward her farm. The gate was ground level, easily ten-feet high, with slats too narrow to wiggle through and the surrounding fence proved just as impenetrable. Just as high as the gate, it was clearly custom designed, a cinderblock wall which had been covered in stained and textured concrete stamped to look like an old rock wall. He whistled low.
This wasn’t a fence devised to keep things in—it was erected to keep things
out
.
He frowned, staring at it, and wondered who or what had frightened her to the point that she felt like she needed it. Who or what was she afraid of? Because one didn’t go to the trouble and expense to build something like this without good reason. He’d come here looking for answers and so far he only had more questions. A cursory glance revealed that any trees or limbs close to the fence had been cut away, obviously to prevent someone from finding a way over. The only thing that stood in his favor was his training, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to clear it without a ladder.
Thirty feet inside he encountered another fence—barbed-wired—which he’d completely missed in the darkness. He toppled end over ass, felt the metal bite into his skin and tear his clothes and landed flat on his back with an undignified grunt. Stunned, he laid there for a minute, in what he gloomily suspected was goat shit, and felt a laugh swell in his chest. Unbelievable, he thought, wheezing quietly as his shoulder shook. Could he possibly Barney Fyfe this anymore?
He feared the answer to that question.
With a small grunt, still in his tux, he stood and dusted himself off, then dropped into a crouch and made his way into the low valley below her house, which sat on a small knob overlooking a pond. He could hear the occasional bleat of a goat, the rustle of feathers. Lights burned from the front porch and several windows downstairs, casting a decent glow across the front yard.
Lots of flowers bloomed from various planters around the yard, and whimsical whirly-things made out of multicolored metals dangled from the bare tree branches and swirled in the breeze. Obviously a fan of metal artwork, a red pig with a pink snout and blue wings stood next to her front door. He smiled and shook his head. Before he could move any closer, an unexpected noise registered and he immediately froze.
Oh, hell.
Jeb didn’t need extensive Army training to recognize the tell-tale, dreaded sound that emerged roughly ten feet behind him. He was Southern, after all, and any born-and-bred Georgia boy worth his salt would recognize the distinct metallic click and slide of the cock of a twelve gauge shotgun. And given the decided assuredness and rapidity of the action, he knew whoever had him in their sights was familiar with the gun and knew how to use it.
“On your feet and hands where I can see them,” she ordered. He had to hand it to her. Sophie O’Brien was cool as a cucumber. Her voice was smooth and steady, not betraying the slightest bit of fear. Which, irrationally, irritated him. He was a strange man trespassing on her property—she ought to be afraid, dammit. Granted, he didn’t wish her any harm, but how was she to know that? Why hadn’t she stayed in the house and called 911 like a normal woman would have done?
Oh, right, he thought sarcastically. Because she wasn’t a
normal
woman. When compared to other women he’d met, anyway. She was kind and confident, fiendishly clever and sexy as hell. Mother Earth and Rosie the Riveter all wrapped up in a lushly curved ’50s pin-up era body.
He wanted her.
And the hell of it? Aside from the conflict of interest and tiny matter of her name at the top of his suspect list?
She didn’t like him. Or didn’t
want
to like him. All arrogance aside, that was novel. And galling.
“Move,” she said again, her voice firmer. “I’d rather not shoot you—my ice cream is melting—but I will if you don’t do as I say.”
Beautiful, Jeb thought, feeling extraordinarily stupid. He’d been an Army Ranger, one of the fiercest soldiers among Uncle Sam’s finest…and he’d been bested by a goat farmer with an Annie Oakley complex. One that, to add insult to injury, was more concerned with her melting ice cream than finding a man lurking in the bushes outside her house.
With a sigh dredged from the depths of his soul, he did as she asked and flashed a grin at her. “Evening, Sophie. Your shrubs need mulching.”
She gasped, betraying the first bit of surprise. It was ridiculous how much that pleased him. “You?” she breathed, her eyes wide. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
He pasted a reassuring look on his face and gestured to the gun still aimed at his chest. “Would you mind lowering your weapon? It’s a bit unnerving.”
She did as he asked, bringing the barrel down until it was aimed directly at his groin. “There,” she said, a smirk in her voice. “Feel better?”
“Not particularly, no.” She was still in her evening wear, but had obviously taken off her shoes because a pair of purple and black muck boots had replaced her strappy pumps. Between the shotgun, the dress and the boots, she looked like a beauty queen gone rogue. The thought startled a chuckle out of him.
“You think it’s funny that I’ve got a loaded gun pointed at you?” she asked.
“No, I don’t think it’s funny at all—I used to get shot at for a living.” He shrugged, his gaze tangling with hers. “But when you’ve been a target for as long as I have it loses the power to scare you.”
Some of the starch left her spine and she swallowed, the delicate muscles in her throat working.
He glanced pointedly at her feet. “I was laughing at your shoes. They don’t exactly match the dress.”
She started, blinked and then a smile bloomed over her lips and she lowered the gun. “They were by the door. I didn’t have time to color coordinate.”
He shoved his bleeding hands into his pockets, looked out across the pond, watched the water ripple in the moonlight. “All right,” he said, because he had to know. “What gave me away?”
Satisfaction clung to her grin and she cocked her head toward the edge of the property. “There are height sensors near the inside of the primary fence. I don’t have anything here taller than I am, so anything above six feet trips an alarm.”
He nodded consideringly. Smart and sophisticated. Given the breadth of the fence he should have anticipated something like that. “Any particular reason you’ve erected a fortress around your house?” he asked lightly. “Or why there’s another fence inside of that one?”
A shadow shifted fleetingly behind her gaze, but she merely lifted an unconcerned shoulder, then turned and walked toward the house. “To keep people out, obviously,” she said, her voice droll. “Come on. I’m looking forward to hearing why you were skulking in my shrubs.”
As an enemy captured behind the lines, as it were, he’d expected an interrogation, but he had a few questions of his own he wanted answered first. “In my line of work we don’t call it skulking, Ms. O’Brien. We call it surveillance.” He mounted the steps. “And I’ll be happy to tell you why I’m monitoring your behavior as soon as you tell me what you were looking for in Marjorie Whitehall’s office tonight.”
* * *
S
OPHIE
FELT
HER
eyes round and bit back a curse. He’d seen her? But how? Why? Surveillance, he’d said. Dread ballooned in her belly. Had she been under surveillance this whole time? Was that why he’d been conveniently popping up everywhere she went? Why she hadn’t been able to make a move without practically running into him? Why he’d been…so attentive? Flirty, even?
Ah…
Her chest squeezed. Of course, it had. And she’d been so blinded by her uncustomary, ridiculously potent attraction to him that she’d missed it.
Right.
And to think she’d been relieved when it had been him she’d caught. For a moment she’d been terrified that one of her so-called family members had gone crazy enough to risk going to jail.
Feeling like she’d been kicked in the gut, Sophie squared her shoulders and pushed through the door. Her kitty, Boo—named for Boo Radley, of course—yowled and wound around her legs. He cast a haughty look at Jeb, his yellow eyes unblinking, then rather than bow up and hiss like he’d done upon meeting Luke, he strolled over to Jeb and sniffed tentatively at his leg.
Traitor, Sophie thought, scowling at her beloved pet.
“Ah,” Jeb said, seemingly delighted. “Who’s this?”
Sophie toed off her boots and returned the gun to the cabinet. “Boo. He’s had diarrhea lately, so I’d be careful if I were you.”
Predictably, Jeb grimaced. “Oh. Bad luck. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“It’s not.” Because it was a lie. Her patience at an end, her nerves frayed to near-breaking, she turned and crossed her arms over her chest. “Listen, this is my house, so we’re going to have this conversation on my terms. Any questions you have for me are optional. The ones I have for you are not. Why the hell have you been following me and what the hell are you doing trespassing on my land?”
He’d scared the hell out of her. She’d always lived by the adage better safe than sorry, so she was prepared for anything, but she’d grown so tired of living, constantly looking over her shoulder, that she’d been trying not to do it anymore. Being afraid had felt too much like a victory for them, a loss for her. She wanted the power back.
But she’d realized tonight that she was much more frightened than she’d ever realized. It was unnerving.
In the process of shrugging out of his coat—clearly he’d meant to stay awhile—Jeb paused and shot her a wary look. She didn’t know how she knew it was wary—naturally, nothing about his expression shifted, but she could feel the difference, almost like an atmospheric change.
Suddenly Heathcliffe cried from the front porch and Jeb’s eyes widened in shock. He jumped as though something had bitten him, and whirled around. “Bloody hell,” he breathed. “What was
that
?”
Sophie was too busy convulsing with laughter to tell him. Watching GI Joe meets James Bond spin Matrix-style around her living room looking for the boogey-man because of a bird was simply…priceless. Eyes streaming, her sides heaved and she couldn’t catch her breath.
Jeb glared at her. To her delight, his cheeks actually turned pink. She’d be willing to bet that didn’t happen often.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure it was funny. You didn’t run for your gun, Annie Oakley,” he drawled. “So I can assume we’re not in any immediate danger.”