Her Man Upstairs (13 page)

 

They must have slept, because the next thing he knew the phone was ringing. It was still in Marty's old bedroom, waiting for a phone jack to be installed in the room where they now slept.

Cole rolled over onto his back when he felt her leave. He squinted at the wristwatch that was all he was wearing at the moment.

A little after half-past four—a.m. or p.m.? Must be p.m., judging from the light outside. Still gray, but not completely dark.

He considered getting up, but lacked the energy. Without intentionally eavesdropping he heard her say, “Oh, he's great. Mmm-hmm, twice already today.”

Twice, hell. That near miss downstairs didn't count.

“Well, you don't have to do that—really, I enjoyed it.”

Yeah, me, too,
he thought, satisfaction oozing from his pores.

He must have dozed. Hearing her opening a dresser drawer, he forced himself to sit up. “Problem?” he asked.

“What? Oh, no—nothing like that.” She took out a set of underwear and then shook out a sweater, frowned at it and exchanged it for another one.

He continued to watch her in the mirror. “You want to come back to bed?”

Without looking at him, she shook her head. How come,
he wondered, women considered bed-head a bad thing? On her it looked great. Soft and sexy and a little wild.

“You want to go downstairs and roll those bookshelves into the living room?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said.

She was wrapped in a quilt that had been on the foot of the bed. Sooner or later she was going to have to look at him. The sex had been too good to ignore.

But Marty was…well, she was Marty. He had a feeling she'd been through almost as long a dry spell as he had. She would come to terms with it in her own sweet time. Meanwhile, he could afford to wait. She still hadn't told him who'd called…not that it was any of his business.

 

It snowed for about twenty minutes just after dark. They stood at the window and watched it swirl around the streetlight. Cole's arm was around her shoulders as if it had every right to be there.

Marty wanted to believe it did, but she was too much a realist. Regardless of what the constitution said, not all men were created equal. At least, not where sex was concerned. Sex with Alan had been…well, not exactly boring, but limited, to say the least. With Beau, it had been exciting at first, but afterward she'd always felt as if the bus had come and gone, and she'd missed it. She'd never complained, knowing there'd be another bus a few days later, but she'd missed most of those, too.

With Cole…

She sighed. “I forgot about supper.”

“Anything in the freezer? I doubt that anything's open tonight. There's no traffic.”

Half an hour later they had shared freezer pizza with
dabs of this and that from the refrigerator. She had drawn the line at horseradish on her half. After a call from Faylene, reminding her of Bob Ed's birthday party tomorrow night, they had moved a few more of the bookcases into the living room.

Now Marty was torn between standing in the doorway looking at them and telling herself it really was going to happen, and grabbing Cole and dragging him upstairs to bed. Upstairs wasn't even a priority. Anywhere would do. The table…the living room rug…

Cole offered to bring down her boxes of books, but she explained that before she could even think about stocking her shelves she needed to paint the walls and do a final cleaning. “Sasha has this crazy idea—”

“Red walls, right?”

“Three shades of red. I'm probably going to compromise and do all four walls in the palest shade of peach. That's warm enough for a northern exposure, don't you think?”

He stood there looking both sexy and thoughtful in his jeans and navy flannel shirt with only a hint of sawdust around the collar. He had showered and now he smelled of her soap, but he hadn't taken time to shave. She was tempted to stroke his bristly jaw, but she knew better than to touch him again. This was one case where the hair of the dog didn't count.

“The Hallets are back,” she said. “That's who called, so no more dog-walking.”

“I thought you had another week.”

“Everybody got sick, so they cut the cruise short. Big disappointment.” She was grinning. “So…how about if I help you hang the cabinet doors?”

“How about if you help me cut down the last two bookshelves?” he countered.

“Deal,” she said, and held up a hand, palm outward.

He slapped it with his, and his fingers threatened to interweave with hers, but he dropped his hand. “Deal,” he said softly.

Evidently, she wasn't the only one who knew better than to tempt fate.

F
eeling absurdly self-conscious for a woman of thirty-seven—a woman who had been married twice—Marty pulled on her third outfit, a pink wool turtleneck and maroon slacks. She checked her image in the dresser mirror and decided it would have to do. Her bed was piled with outfits she had tried on and discarded, which was just as well, because now she could look at her bed and think of what she needed to do instead of what she'd already done.

Yesterday. And again last night. Twice!

Cole had woken early and driven back to the marina to check on his boat and collect a few clean clothes. She'd woken up when she'd heard his truck drive off and had sat there for several minutes reliving every kiss, every embrace, every tingling, bone-melting climax.

That was it? she'd thought, stunned. He was leaving? At six-oh-whatever in the morning? Her eyes wouldn't
focus well enough to tell the exact time, but thinking she might never see him again, she'd been devastated. She had forced herself to get up, shower and dress. Life went on. If she hadn't learned that lesson after Alan and Beau, she'd darn well better learn it now…after Cole.

She'd just been touching her lashes with mascara when she'd heard him drive up again. Mascara! At seven-twenty in the morning!

You have flat out lost it, lady,
she'd told herself.

As it turned out, he had stopped by the grocery store on the way back, bringing enough provisions to last an entire platoon a week.

“Are you
that
hungry?” she'd demanded. Relief came out sounding like irritation…which was probably just as well.

Without answering, he waggled his eyebrows and grinned.

Not a word about last night. Not a word about stealing her heart, her body, and anything else she had of value.

Together, they had worked all day, taking time out only to make sandwiches. At five she had come upstairs to shower and start getting ready for the birthday party, while he'd continued to rearrange shelves, leaving space to work around them to repaint her walls.

Once he'd heard the shower cut off, he had joined her upstairs. “Casual?” he'd asked, poking his head into the bedroom.

“Definitely.”

“Good. Otherwise, I'd have had to rush up to Virginia Beach and get my tux out of storage.”

He had whistled while he showered, shaved and dressed, taking half the time it had taken her just to decide on what to wear to Bob Ed's party. While she'd stood in front of
the mirror trying to do something with her hair, he had leaned in the doorway, again offering advice. She'd finally run him downstairs, but her heart had done cartwheels. If he'd so much as touched her, they'd have ended up back in bed.

All day long, while they'd whacked off and nailed on end boards in the garage and moved shelves into the house, she'd felt as self-conscious as a fourteen-year-old on her first date. That unsure of herself—which was absurd in a woman of her age. An experienced adult who'd had two husbands. You'd think they'd done something bizarre and a little kinky instead of just making love—

Not making love. Having sex. Big, big difference, she reminded herself sternly as she fastened a pair of gold hoops on her ears.

“Do we need to take anything? Beer? Wine? Food?” Cole called upstairs just as she started down.

“Lord, no. He'd be highly insulted. One of his clients has a brewery and another one has a barbecue catering service. That'll give you an idea of what the menu will be tonight.” She joined him in the hall, glancing at her watch. Being a Virgo, she was always punctual, but that was before time had stopped three times during the night.

“I thought it was stewed Canada goose with all the trimmings,” he murmured, leaning over to inhale the scent of shampoo, soap and jasmine-scented body lotion.

He even claimed to be addicted to her coconut-flavored lip balm.

“That's only the beginning,” she said breathlessly as she slid her arms into the sleeves of her warmest coat. She was about to tell him he looked good—and oh, my mercy, he did!—when he beat her to the punch.

“You look beautiful, Marty. I like what you've done to your hair.”

She had twisted it into a knot, anchored it with a fancy craft-show comb, and pulled out a few tendrils to curl at the sides. Ordinarily, she settled for a scrunchy. She could feel her face reddening.

Making a big deal out of checking her purse for necessary items, she thanked him.

Yesterday's sleety rain was now only a damp memory. Streaks of gold and lavender brightened the western sky. To the east, the Hamburger Shanty's neon sign cast a cheerful glow against the fast-disappearing storm clouds. Faylene swore that in all the years she'd known Bob Ed, it had never rained on one of his parties.

Marty had a feeling it could be raining buffaloes and she wouldn't notice. “Your car, mine, or both?” she asked. Code for
Will you be coming back here tonight, or are you moving back aboard your boat now that the weather's let up?

“Mine—if that's all right with you?”

A semi-self-conscious silence prevailed the rest of the way to the marina. Halfway there, Cole put on a CD. This time instead of Chopin, it was classical guitar. It could have been Spike Jones and his City Slickers and it wouldn't have made a speck of difference. Any music shared was romantic music.

The parking area was jam-packed with vehicles of all descriptions. Sasha's red convertible was parked close to the wharf. She had evidently come early to help with the preparations, although she knew better than to offer Bob Ed any decorating advice. Faylene still laughed about the time Sasha had made him a centerpiece using port and starboard running lights, a small anchor and three fat candles.

Cole found a place down near the end of the wharf, near his own boat. “Man, I had no idea it was this big a deal,” he murmured as he helped her from the truck, taking her arm and leading her toward the big, unpainted building that served the guide as both home and office.

Marty hugged his arm to her side. “It might not look like it, but Bob Ed's place is famous all up and down the coast. His clients like to believe it's their own private discovery—this little hole-in-the-wall marina just off the beaten track.” They dodged a puddle, necessitating a bumping of hips and shoulders. He smiled down at her, causing her heart to skip a beat, and she quickly looked away. Tonight was going to be tricky. One look and Sasha would know exactly what had happened. The woman had the internal radar of a bat.

Every window was lighted, guests spilled out along the wharf on both sides, and from the sound—and the smells—the party was well underway. They had just sidled between two pickup trucks, both bristling with rod holders, when she happened to catch sight of a familiar car. She stopped dead in her tracks and stared.

“Is that what I think it is?”

It was a gray Mercedes, far from new, but in excellent condition. Among all the SUVs and pickups, it stuck out like a sore thumb.

“Yep. Coincidence?” Cole murmured. “I don't think so.” He moved around to check the license plate. “This should be interesting.”

It was all the excuse she needed to hang on to his arm, tucking her hand against his side to feel his comforting warmth. “Look, I probably made too big a deal of the whole thing,” she said. “Otherwise, whoever it is wouldn't be right out here where anyone could spot him.”

“He was right out in plain sight when he was following you. He didn't mind being seen when he parked in your neighbor's driveway.”

“So he's a gutsy stalker.” She attempted a carefree laugh, but it wasn't very convincing. “Or maybe he's new at it. Maybe he's just got a learner's permit.”

And then someone said, “Excuse me,” and they stepped back to allow one of the locals to pass. He was carrying a washtub filled with ice.

“Well, hey there, Miss Marty. My wife says when you going to get your bookstore open again?”

Her wariness faded. “Oh, hi, James. Tell her soon, I hope.” Looking back at Cole, she murmured, “It occurred to me that I'll need to advertise. Mail out cards or buy radio time. Maybe even a trailer on the local weather station.”

By then they'd reached the door, which was propped open. They were immediately enveloped in a noisy, good-natured crowd, and Marty forgot about both advertising and her wacky stalker. Snatches of string music could be heard over the sound of laughter and dozens of voices all trying to be heard. The mingled scent of hickory barbecue and something gamier mingled with Brut, Old Spice and Eau de Whatever.

Someone yelled, “Marty, you're the expert. Tell this here dumbhead that Clive Cussler's been diving around these parts for years.”

“Expert on popular fiction, maybe, but not on diving. But yes, actually, I think he has.”

A strident voice yelled, “The potatoes is done!”

Someone else said, “We got enough Texas Pete?”

“Oh, lawsy, I lost an earring in the stew pot!”

As a dozen conversations swirled around her, Sasha sidled
over and whispered in her ear, “Oh, honey, do I have a hot prospect for Lily! He's right over there, talking to the sheriff.” On social occasions, local law enforcement overlooked minor infractions of certain laws. Tonight was obviously one of those occasions, as the man in question was holding a glass of clear liquid. Chances were, it wasn't vodka.

Faylene joined them. “Gus and Cassie, whaddya think? Her boobs and his beer belly ought to be a fit. Picture it.”

Marty did. She giggled.

Sasha said, “The mind boggles.”

From several feet away, Cole winked at her. He'd been buttonholed by old Miss Katie, a retired schoolteacher who considered anyone under the age of fifty to still have a few things to learn. She was probably right, Marty thought ruefully. About some of us, at least.

The party was in full swing by the time Marty broke away more than an hour later. Several people had stepped outside for a breath of cool air, among them an attractive middle-aged man wearing flannel and tweed and smoking a pipe. Probably a college professor, she thought. He didn't look like a hunter or fisherman—but who ever knew?

She watched idly as he stepped down from the wharf and made his way past two trucks and an SUV. A moment later she saw a light come on as he opened the door of the Mercedes. Without taking time to think, she hopped down and followed. Just as she reached him, he closed the car door and turned away, holding what looked like a tobacco pouch.

“Stop right there,” she commanded.

He stopped. He stared. In the cold green glow of the mercury-vapor security light, she could almost believe his face reddened, but she could have been mistaken.

“Ms. Owens?” he said.

“Have you been following me?” While she waited for a denial, she tried to think of a way to make him confess. How did they do it in books? Threats? Torture? Both out of the question—but he was the one, all right. She knew it.

Proving it was another matter. “Just tell me this—why is it that you turn up everywhere I go? Even here.” All right, so he'd been here when she'd arrived; that was a minor technicality.

He tucked the pouch in the pocket of his tweed jacket and she caught a hint of vanilla-scented pipe tobacco.

“Ms. Owens, do you have any sisters?”

Puzzled, she tilted her head. “Sisters? Look, whoever you are, I'm not answering any questions until you tell me what's going on.”

Only a few feet separated them in the crowded parking area. The man didn't look all that dangerous—she might even be able to take him in a fair fight. But she'd rather not put it to the test. Her knowledge of martial arts had come from reading suspense and watching Jackie Chan.

“I do,” he said, sounding almost resigned.

“You do what?” That's right, she thought—throw me off balance.

“Have a sister. Her name is Marissa Owens and she lives outside Culpepper. Kenyon Farms—at least it used to be a farm. All that's left is the house and one empty stable. You might know the place.”

Oh, my God. She did. Beau had taken her there just once, right after they'd been married. His mother, who had not attended the wedding, had been frigidly polite throughout the brief visit.

“Then you're…”

“Beau's uncle, James Merchison. I'm truly sorry if I've frightened you. That was never my intention, but when my sister heard I was headed down to Hobe Sound, she asked me to lay over here long enough to find out if you still had any of the things Beau took from home. They're family pieces, you know. We'd be more than willing to buy them back.”

“Then why didn't you come right out and ask me?”

“I should have, but I didn't know what to ask. It's embarrassing to be put in the position of accusing someone who was once family of—well, I suppose it could be called receiving stolen goods.”

Marty took a deep breath and expelled it in a sharp huff. He looked so apologetic that she was inclined to forgive him, but not before she told him exactly what a piece of work his nephew was.

“Do you know he even stole my wedding ring? Not that it was all that valuable—it definitely wasn't a family heirloom, because I was with him when we picked it out. He told me he was going to have it checked to be sure none of the stones were loose, and then he claimed the jeweler lost it.” She glanced down at her bare finger. “As for the paintings he claimed his mother gave him because she didn't have room to hang them, they hung on our walls for—oh, maybe five months. He claimed he was going to have them appraised for insurance purposes. I never saw them again.”

They were still comparing notes on the lying, gambling-addicted wretch she'd had the misfortune to marry when Cole found her. His eyes narrowed as he took possession of her arm.

“Is there a problem here?”

Marty introduced the two men. The older man said, “Merchison, Saunders, Vessels and Wilson, Attorneys at Law.”