Baby, Don't Go (3 page)

4

T
he battery in the battery-operated fan died one hour into the drive to Sweetness. The radio in Bo’s pickup truck picked up nothing but howling country music stations. And when Alicia had to stand on the brake to allow a furry brown creature to cross a two-lane road, everything underneath the seat came rolling out at her feet, including a half-empty can of hot beer that soaked her sandals, and a pair of zebra-striped panties monogrammed with
Pam
.

Since, to her knowledge, her mother didn’t go by the nickname Pam, it seemed safe to assume that Bo was spending his days laying more than sod.

Alicia sighed for her mother. If Southern men were more sexually assertive than men in cooler climates, it would follow that they were less likely to confine their attention to one woman.

Which brought her back to the matter at hand, she thought as she slowed to turn from a state road onto a more narrow paved one so new it wasn’t reflected on the map she’d bought. But from the sign posted, it would allegedly take her to Sweetness.

These people were so far off the beaten path they could be operating the world’s largest brothel and no one would know.

The truck had been climbing for a while now, but the landscape suddenly grew considerably steeper. Violet-colored mountain peaks towered all around, studded with evergreen trees and sheared red rocks. Candace had told her about the orangey clay that passed as soil in most of Georgia. It made for majestic contrast in the landscape, a photojournalist’s dream.

Alicia had hoped the temperature would be cooler at this elevation, but instead it felt as if she was getting closer to the sun. She was absolutely miserable. Her makeup had melted off long ago, as had her deodorant. Her clothes were soaked through with perspiration, and her feet and legs were sticky and dirty from the spilled beer. She could smell herself.

She’d planned to arrive a little dressed down from her normal appearance, but this was ridiculous. If her appearance offended people, there’d be little chance of anyone talking to her. Undercover was one thing—repellent was something else altogether. Besides, she was supposed to be looking for a man, not sending them running in the opposite direction.

A sign on the right announced, Sweetness, Georgia, 3 miles. She slowed to take in the landscape on either side of the recently paved road. The expanse of green underbrush had been cut back…someone was taking care to ensure visitors got a good first impression. To the left ran a postcard-pretty creek— Timber Creek, according to the flip map. The water looked clear and gentle, especially since her throat ached with thirst.

She spotted a metal bridge that spanned the creek. A sign next to it read Sweetness Recycling Plant, although no structure was visible, just unending trees and a prolific vine that she assumed was the “kudzu” she’d read about.

In her research, she’d also stumbled onto a factoid that raised the hair on her arms—apparently, the North Georgia mountains were host to numerous rattlesnakes and scorpions.

Scorpions
, for God’s sake.

Because the relentless heat, humidity and remoteness of this place wasn’t off-putting enough.

Ahead in a bend she saw a red covered wooden bridge, obviously the landmark her mother had read about in the newspaper. From the website she recalled the original bridge had been destroyed by the tornado that had devastated the rest of the town.

The structure was magnificent, she conceded, and so perfectly situated in its surroundings, it looked as if it had been there a hundred years. It tugged at her.

She slowed to pull onto the side of the road to get a better look and to stretch her legs. Even though the sun was high overhead in a cloudless sky, it was a relief to escape the stifling cab of the truck. But when she climbed down, the full impact of her grubby condition hit her. Her clothes were plastered to her wet, gritty skin, and her feet were nearly black. She cursed her mother’s boyfriend, wishing she’d thought to bring moist wipes or something. She did have a couple of washcloths in her toiletry bag, if only she had some water—

Alicia stopped and glanced down at the creek flowing by, the water crystal clear and inviting. If she could make it to the water’s edge, she could wash her feet, she mused, laughing to herself. But when she spied a path down to the water and didn’t see anyone around, she started thinking it wasn’t a half-bad idea. It certainly beat showing up at a hotel looking like a vagrant, or asking for a key to use a gas station bathroom.

From her suitcase she retrieved her toiletry kit and a clean T-shirt, then on impulse grabbed a bra, too, reasoning she could change underneath the shirt. At least she’d look presentable and smell respectable when she rolled into town.

Her mind made up, she locked the truck and made her way gingerly down the rocky path. She wasn’t much of an outdoorswoman, but Pilates had given her good coordination and balance. She nervously eyed the weeds and rocks along the path, certain they were riddled with snakes and scorpions. When she reached the edge of the water, she was relieved to find herself unscathed, and to see she was hidden from the road. The opposite bank was equally as tall and rocky, so she felt safe to remove her sandals. After scrutinizing the clear depths for water snakes, she waded in up to her ankles.

Alicia sighed in pure pleasure at the rush of cool liquid over her feet. Instantly her body temperature started to fall. She enjoyed the sensation for several minutes before crouching to wash her feet with one of the cloths. When she finished, she wiggled her clean toes, then felt compelled to dip her hands in the running water and splash her face—heavenly. She laughed ruefully, thinking if only her boss Nina could see her now, bathing like a hedonist. She wrung out the cloths and held them against her neck, groaning in relief.

She was crouched on a smooth rock, obscured by an outcropping. She glanced all around and, feeling confident she was alone, lifted her T-shirt over her head, then hurriedly ran the wet cloth over her exposed skin. The sun was so hot, the water evaporated almost instantly. Feeling braver now, Alicia looked right, then left, then reached around to unhook her bra.

Marcus almost dropped his fishing pole. When the dark-haired woman had first appeared on the opposite creek bank, he’d been irritated. He hadn’t expected to catch anything at this shallow spot in Timber Creek—the scorching sun had driven the fish to deeper, cooler waters. But he’d expected to be alone with his thoughts for ten damn minutes.

He was sure she would spot him, but from the way she’d panned the area with no reaction, he guessed he blended into the foliage where he sat a little ways downstream holding his pole. He’d assumed she was another tourist stopping to take pictures of the bridge. If he was the neighborly type, he might’ve waved…but no one had ever accused him of being neighborly.

When she’d slipped off her shoes and waded into the creek, he’d been amused by the look of sheer pleasure on her face. When she’d crouched to splash her face, he’d presumed she was travel-weary. But when she’d pulled her T-shirt over her head to reveal a lacy pink bra, he’d gotten nervous.

He should’ve divulged his presence, but at that point he was afraid he’d embarrass her. So he’d tried to look away while she dabbed a wet cloth over her skin.

Tried to. It was no big deal, he’d told himself. She wasn’t revealing more of her long, lithe body than she would in a bathing suit…maybe less. She was, after all, still wearing a skirt.

But when the bra had come off, he knew he was in trouble.

He sat there, frozen. Well…most of him. His lower half reacted rather fiercely. He felt like a schoolboy, thrilled by his first sight of female breasts.

It wasn’t his first sight, but it had been a long…long…
long
time. And hers were spectacular.

Sitting high and full, her breasts were perfectly tilted upward, like an offering. Judging from the pale hue of her skin, she didn’t make a habit of undressing in the wild. But the tattoo he couldn’t make out at this distance suggested she wasn’t modest.

She was a vision, kneeling on the rock, splashing water on her bare chest. Her nipples tightened to a point, coinciding with his own body tightening in places he’d disciplined himself to forget about. He knew he should try to disappear before she realized he’d seen her, but he was afraid he’d only attract her attention and make matters worse.

And besides, he was mesmerized. He found himself hoping she’d slip off her skirt and the matching pink panties she was probably wearing to skinny-dip for a while. He held his breath when she stood—her body was silhouetted in the golden sun, her hands at her narrow waist as if she were contemplating exactly what he was thinking. But then she leaned over to fish another bra from the pile she’d made on a dry rock, and quickly put it on, followed by a different T-shirt.

Marcus exhaled slowly, still afraid to move. He watched her while she put on her shoes and made her way back up the rocky footpath until she disappeared onto the bank. The loud rumble of an engine turning over reverberated down to him—the lady needed a muffler. He waited until the vehicle pulled away before he dared to stir. He didn’t realize how tense he’d been until he stood and his muscles protested.

She’d driven in the direction of town, he mused, wondering what her business was. Probably just a tourist…or maybe an acquaintance of someone else living here…maybe the girlfriend of one of the men.

The idea that she could be visiting one of his workers bothered him, although he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t even know the woman, but didn’t the fact that she was so transient that she’d stopped for an impromptu bath in the creek tell him all he needed to know about her character and background?

He gave himself a mental shake to loosen the half-naked image of her from his mind. If he had time for a woman in his life, it would be someone who had her act together, not a high-maintenance nightmare.

But he didn’t have time for a woman—he had a town to build.

A few months before his father had passed away, he’d invited a teenage Marcus to go fishing, just the two of them, which was unusual since his younger brothers almost always tagged along. Marcus had known his father had something on his mind. Later, when their baited lines were dropped into a deep pool of water, and they were each chewing on a blade of sourgrass, Alton Armstrong in his quiet, wise way claimed that Sweetness was more special than anyone realized. He’d said it was a golden place that molded people instead of the other way around, and that life in the mountains, despite its challenges, was a way of life worth passing on to the next generation. He must’ve had a premonition about his own death because that day he’d extracted a promise from Marcus to keep the Armstrong family planted in Sweetness, no matter what.

That promise was the reason Marcus had gathered his brothers together after they’d all left respective branches of the military to rebuild this town, why Marcus had practically blackmailed Amy Bradshaw to tell Kendall about his son once Marcus discovered his existence—the boy was an Armstrong, and the family had to stay together…in Sweetness. Which meant Sweetness had to prosper.

Nothing was going to distract him from his promise or his goal. He felt the mantle of responsibility of this town’s future every morning when he opened his eyes and every night before he closed them. If they stayed on track, at year end they would meet the requirements of the federal program and the land that made up the city limits of Sweetness would be turned over to the chartered resident shareholders, including him and his brothers.

But he was afraid if he took his eye off the ball for a minute, was distracted by anything personal, something would happen to derail the entire plan he’d worked so diligently to orchestrate. And he would let his father down.

He couldn’t allow that to happen.

Marcus glanced at his watch, realizing it was almost time to meet Rachel Hutchins at the diner to discuss the events she was organizing for Homecoming weekend. While he was there, he might as well talk to Colonel Molly about her managerial style.

He leaned over to lift his fishing pole and reel in his line. At the sight of his empty hook, he frowned—while he was distracted by the topless water nymph, some lucky fish had gotten away with a fat mealworm…which seemed fitting considering his previous line of thinking.

When he reached for his tackle box, something bobbing in the water caught his eye. He squinted, then waded in to scoop it up. It was a bracelet—braided leather and wire, with a dangling charm. Nice. And since the leather wasn’t yet saturated, he realized it probably belonged to the topless woman.

Marcus scratched his head—assuming he ran into her, how would he return the bracelet without revealing he’d been privy to the little show she’d put on? He considered the trinket for a moment, then dropped it into his shirt pocket and decided not to worry about it.

He’d probably never see her again.

5

“G
uess where I am,” Alicia said into the phone.

“Rocky Top?” Nina asked.

“Right. Just checking my phone reception.”

“What’s the place like?”

Alicia squinted up at the white water tower that loomed over her approach. Welcome to Sweetness, the tank proclaimed. But spray-painted over the black lettering was
I
Nikki
in red and
I
Amy
in blue.

“It’s…quaint.” A car coming toward her honked, then the driver waved as they went by.

“What was that?” Nina asked.

“Everyone down here honks and waves,” Alicia said. “I’m driving a pickup truck.”

“Get out.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Wow, when you go undercover, you go deep. What’s your plan?”

Alicia slowed as what she presumed was the downtown area came into sight. “I’m going to find a place to talk to people without raising any red flags.” The sidewalks were surprisingly crowded. Everyone turned to look at her vehicle. “I have a feeling that everyone here can spot a stranger.”

She panned side to side, taking in the odd-looking buildings that appeared to have been constructed with a motley collection of materials—recycled materials, she realized. Her gaze landed on a sign that read Hair Salon, and she smiled into the phone. “Gotta run—I just found a place where people talk.”

After disconnecting the call, she followed signs for parking to a large grassy lot. The town was obviously preparing for the arrival of many cars, probably the Homecoming event she’d read about. She parked Bo’s smelly truck and climbed out, then made her way back to the town’s main street. On the way to the hair salon, she took stock of the businesses she’d read about on the website—the General Store, bank, the clinic and other buildings, including one that simply read Diner. It looked like a movie set for a small town…this place was surreal.

Or
un
real?

The sidewalks, she noted, were more extensively networked than the buildings, hinting at more construction to come. And they were uncommonly beautiful. The light-colored concrete contained bits of colored glass—more use of recycled materials, she realized.

The people looked laid-back, dressed for the sweltering weather and moving slowly. By the matching T-shirts and hats a clump of kids wore, she assumed some sort of team sports game was about to be played. The presence of children was a little jarring—for their sake she hoped nothing illicit was going on in this town.

The hair salon, she noted wryly, featured a striped barber’s pole next to its sign. She opened the door and was immediately struck by how busy the place was—and how…segregated.

Women sat on one side of the salon, apparently waiting for one of the three female stylists working there. Men sat on the other side, waiting for one of the two barbers attending old-fashioned barber’s chairs. There was literally a wall down the center of the establishment.

Alicia’s back stiffened. Privacy was one thing, but even the waiting areas were separate?

The other thing that caught her eye was the sign that said all haircuts were five dollars.

She was in the Twilight Zone.

She walked into her gender-appropriate area and smiled at a rounded, dark-haired woman sitting there, waiting her turn. The woman looked her up and down, but offered a smile. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Alicia said. “Do you know if they take walk-ins?”

“Oh, sure,” the woman said, “but you might have to wait a while. I’m Susan Sosa.”

The introduction took her by surprise—no one in Manhattan offered their name unless they were applying for a job. “Alicia,” she responded, her mind racing for an alias last name. “Alicia Waters.”

“Nice to know you,” the woman said, then nodded at Alicia’s bag. “Beautiful purse.”

Alicia realized her Chanel bag didn’t exactly go with the rest of her outfit. “It’s a knockoff,” she lied, “but thanks.”

“Have a seat,” Susan said, gesturing to the empty chair next to her. “When did you move here?”

“I just arrived,” Alicia said, taking the proffered seat. “Actually, I was wondering what you could tell me about the town.”

Susan smiled. “It’s nice. I moved here about a year ago.”

“From where?”

“Michigan. Believe it or not, I answered an ad.”

What a stroke of luck to find one of the original women who’d come to the town looking for a man. “A newspaper ad?”

The woman nodded. “Sweetness was just being built and they needed women. I was single, laid off from my job, and I needed a fresh start, so here I am.”

Alicia offered a girlfriend smile to the pretty woman. “And how is it working out?”

“I like it here, it’s simple.” She grinned. “And there are lots of men.”

“I’ve heard that men run this town…is that true?”

“I guess so. The Armstrong brothers sort of run everything.”

“What are they like?”

Susan shrugged. “The younger brothers are nice enough—they both have sweethearts.”

“What about the older brother?”

“Marcus? He doesn’t like women.”

“He’s gay?”

Susan laughed. “No. He just keeps to himself. He has a temper, so people tiptoe around him.”

Alicia mulled the information, then gestured to the two waiting areas. “Do the men and women do everything separately?”

“Pretty much,” the woman said with a nod. “We live separately and sleep separately.”

Alicia tried to hide her surprise. “You do?”

“Like I said—simple.”

“Even the married couples?”

“There aren’t any married couples. The women and children live in the boardinghouse, and the men live in barracks.”

Alicia blinked.

“Susan,” called one of the stylists, holding up a cape. “Are you ready?”

“Excuse me,” Susan said. “Nice talking to you.”

Alicia managed a smile, but was digesting the woman’s words. What was going on in this town? She pushed to her feet and headed toward the door—she needed to find a way and a reason to stay here for a few days to find out.

“Earth to Marcus,” Porter hissed.

Marcus started, realizing he’d zoned out on the meeting with Porter, Kendall and Rachel Hutchins about the Homecoming weekend plans. Darn that dark-haired woman and her spontaneous outdoor bath. “Sorry, repeat that?”

Porter gave him a pointed look. “Kendall and I were just telling Rachel how grateful we are that she spearheaded this effort.”

“Er…right,” he said to the pretty blonde who had proved to be an organizational dynamo. “Everything sounds…great.”

When he realized his comment made it seem as if he hadn’t been listening, he added, “I know you’ve put a lot of work into this project.”

Rachel smiled. “So you’ll do it?”

He panicked. “Do what?”

“Hang the banner across Main Street,” she said, her voice irritated now that she knew he hadn’t been listening at all.

“We were saying we’ll need the cherry picker basket on the fire truck ladder to hang the banner,” Kendall said, giving him a quizzical look. “And since the fire department is your area…”

“Oh, right,” Marcus said. “No problem—I’ll take care of it. What else?”

Rachel gave him a little frown. “Here’s a schedule of the weekend events, and everything that’s still left to do in the next month.”

“We’ll provide any men you need,” Marcus said magnanimously.

“Yes, Kendall just said that,” Rachel said, her voice flat.

“Okay…anything else?”

“Just our food,” Rachel said, craning for a server.

“Our waitress seems to have disappeared,” Porter said.

“Molly probably ran her off,” Rachel offered. “That woman is impossible. And that help-wanted sign in the window is useless—word has gotten around. No one wants to work here.”

Marcus glanced around at customers sitting at cluttered tables, antsy and impatient. Others hadn’t yet been waited on. Irritation simmered in his empty stomach at the thorn in his side this place had become.

From the back came a horrific crashing noise, then Molly’s raised voice. “Get out of my kitchen!”

A young waitress came running out in tears, then bolted for the door. Molly emerged, shaking a spatula. “And don’t come back!”

Some of the customers got up and left.

Marcus stood and strode behind the counter, his anger zooming to the surface. “What’s the problem, Molly?”

The boxy woman squared her body to his. “The problem is no one around here has a head on their shoulders!”

“Molly,” Marcus said, banking his ire, “can I have a word with you in private?”

She crossed her arms over her matronly bosom. “No. Whatever you have to say, say it here.”

Marcus set his jaw and decided it was time to stop sugarcoating the situation. “You’ve had a dozen waitresses and they’ve all left. There’s a common denominator here, Molly, and it’s you!”

“I run a tight ship—it’s not my fault these flibberty-gibbet females can’t keep up!”

He pursed his mouth. “The bad service aside, the food still isn’t good enough. We’re expecting another inspection any day now, and a big crowd Homecoming weekend. Something has to change.”

She snorted. “If you think you can do a better job running this place, Mr. Marine MBA, be my guest.”

His mouth quirked. “You know the town charter specifies a woman in key positions, and the manager of the community-owned restaurant is one of those positions.”

She gave him a little smile. “Yes, it does. And believe me, no other woman around here can do this job.”

Exasperation with her and every other woman in town seized him. The fact that this restaurant could jeopardize all his plans made him see red. He’d faced down armed enemies on foreign territory, yet he had to come home and do battle in his own backyard? He lifted a shaking finger and didn’t bother to lower his voice. “I can take the next woman who walks through that door and teach her how to run this place better than you!”

The door opened and they turned to see a dark-haired woman standing there holding the help-wanted sign from the window.

Marcus’s mouth went dry—it was the woman from the creek.

“This will be fun to watch,” Molly said, then untied her camouflage apron and handed it to him. “Good luck.”