Her Passionate Plan B (9 page)

If that kiss had anything to do with his dad, Daisy didn't want to know about it, she really didn't. Taking another deep breath, she reached for something cool and intelligent to say—something that would put everything in perspective. “I'm sick of fried chicken, but the freezer was full of it and it's all got to go. Bags and bags of it—Harvey liked chicken. Help yourself if you're hungry. Day after tomorrow I'll finish the last of it for the box supper, then I can unplug the freezer.”

Well, that ought to cool his ardor, she thought, amused in spite of the fact that she was still aroused.

“Anything I can do to help?” He stacked his copies and ruffled the edges, looking awkward and all the more appealing for it. She wondered fleetingly if that was a part of his seduction technique.

If so, it was working. From wanting to kick him out she'd gone to wanting to—

At this point she didn't know what she wanted, she only knew that irresistible or not, some short-term treats had long-term consequences. Any woman who'd ever tried to lose weight knew that much.

“I suppose now that you've found what you were
looking for, you'll be leaving.” Turning away, she began packing fried chicken into a container to take to an ex-patient who lived alone.

“I'm planning to stay a couple more days, but I can move to a motel if you're uncomfortable having me around.”

She was tempted to take him up on it, but that would be as good as admitting she didn't trust herself around him. She didn't, but he didn't need to know it. Besides, staying in the house where his father had once lived obviously meant more to him than it was ever likely to mean to anyone else. She had a feeling Harvey would have approved. “Stay if you'd like to,” she told him. “Faylene and I plan to wind up things here by the end of the week, so we'll both be busy.”

If he was relieved, he hid it well. “Right. I've got a couple of appointments tomorrow, then I'd like to drive around, check out a few places I'm pretty sure my dad mentioned. A lot's probably changed since then, but some things are bound to be the same. I picked up a map showing the Dismal Swamp and the Outer Banks.”

He left her feeling a mixture of dismay and relief. At least he wouldn't be underfoot much longer, Daisy rationalized, tempting her to throw away all her plans for a brief, wild fling.

The best medicine wasn't always easy to swallow.

 

On Monday evening Daisy looked for something to read from Harvey's collection to help her fall asleep. Nothing appealed to her, but at least the books were clean now. Today she'd done the linen closet, packing away scores of yellowed sheets and monogrammed pil
low slips, leaving only a pretty spread for each bed. It wouldn't be long before she was ready to move out.

As to where she would move, that was another matter. Her apartment still wasn't ready—something about a mold problem now. If she didn't know better she might think the owner was stalling.

She hadn't seen or heard from Kell all day. Tired and oddly discouraged, she ended up driving into town. As flaky as they sometimes were, her friends never failed to cheer her up.

“How's the studly gentleman?” Marty asked after Daisy had picked out half a dozen romantic suspense titles and set them aside.

“How's who?”

“That's what people are calling him around here. It didn't take long for word to spread. You should've heard Gracie—she moved here from Edenton this past August to take over Miss Hattie's job at the courthouse? Well, to hear her tell it, he looks like that guy from Norfolk—the reality show bachelor, Evan Marriott? Only Kell's taller, broader in the shoulder and narrower in the hips, not to mention—”

“Marty,” Daisy wailed. “Don't! Whatever you were going to say, just don't, okay? Granted, he's sort of nice-looking, but—”

“Sort of nice-looking. Right. And Bill Gates is sort of solvent.”

“Anyway, he'll be leaving in a day or so.”

“Too bad. I was thinking about inviting him to the box supper. Not that I'm interested in anything long term, but I wouldn't mind a little light entertainment.”

Daisy thumbed through a Sandra Brown large print,
wondering if she'd read it before. “You'll be too busy stage-managing Faylene's and Gus's opening act. That should be entertainment enough.” She glanced up, a spark of amusement lighting her tired face. “She knows we're up to something. How could she not, after all you two have done to her—”

“For her, you mean.”

“Whatever. Just don't be surprised if she comes after us with a meat cleaver when she finds out who you've picked out for her.”

“Well, jeez, she doesn't have to marry him, all she has to do is show up and eat supper with him. So…what does Egbert think about him?”

“Think about who, Gus Mathias?”

“No, silly, your cowboy.”

“Does it really matter? Kell's not interested in the estate. All he wants is to find out something about his father. He's done that, so he'll probably be headed West again tomorrow—that's if he hasn't already gone.”

He hadn't. She'd peeked into his room to see. His bomber jacket was hanging on the chair, his open bag on the bed. The room smelled like whatever soap and shaving lotion he used. She'd been tempted to check out the brands, but then she might have done something extremely foolish, like buy a bar or a bottle or a tube of whatever it was just so she could sniff it and remember him.

As if she could forget.

Marty went on stripping covers from new paperbacks to return to the publisher for credit in case she ever opened another bookstore. Glancing up, she said, “I'll
bet Egbert wasn't too happy when he came nosing around. Poor sweetie, I knew Egbert in high school. Even then he was a stickler.”

“Egbert? I'd hardly call him a stickler,” Daisy hedged. “Although in his profession, it's probably required.”

“So tell me more about him.”

“You've known him longer than I have.” Daisy had gone to school in Elizabeth City, which was two counties away.

“Not him, the hottie. We know he drives a Porsche, he has black hair, blue eyes and a truly bodacious bod. Sasha wanted to bet me you'd have him in your bed by now. How about it, do I owe her a seafood platter?”

“Oh, hush up! If that's all you can talk about, I'm taking my books and going home.”

“Don't blame you one bit, sugar. If I had what you've got waiting at home for me, I'd be in a hurry, too.”

Daisy had to laugh. “And you're the one who claims she's sworn off men?”

“Hey, I can swear on again, can't I? Has Faylene said anything about Wednesday?”

“The box supper? No, but like I said, I'm pretty sure she suspects something. I saw her smirking after we talked on the phone yesterday.”

“She'll have a ball, you wait and see. You wanna stick around and help me strip books?”

“No thanks. I'd better go—and wipe that smirk off your face. I'm going to make a peanut butter sandwich, pour myself a glass of milk and go to bed. To
read,
” she stressed.

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” her friend jeered. “When's your apartment going to be ready?”

“Who knows? Now they're talking about mold, and you know what that means.”

“I heard he had a buyer on the hook wanting the property. Those old apartments don't bring in all that much revenue with land values going up so fast. Taxes and maintenance probably eat up any profits.”

Well, that made sense, Daisy thought morosely. “The good news just keeps on pouring in, doesn't it?”

“Hey, you're not alone. My wiring's acting up and I can't get an electrician to even look at it, much less give me an estimate. The last one—oh, by the way, he's single and not bad-looking, so I've already added him to the list. Anyway, he said he wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole, not even with insulators.”

“Tough. Did y'all decide who's going to tip Gus off as to which box to bid on tomorrow night?” With one hand on the doorknob, Daisy juggled her stack of books.

“Sasha said she'd do it. Show me the man who can refuse her anything. The joys of being a redhead.”

“Or the joys of having an hourglass figure,” Daisy said dryly.

“I keep telling her if she doesn't change a few habits she'll be all butt and boobs by the time she's forty.”

Daisy laughed, feeling some of her earlier depression lift. Friends were invaluable, and she had the best. “Thanks for the books. I'll return them as soon as I'm finished.”

“Hey, used is used. Just don't drool on the pages if you-know-who happens to pass by on his way to the shower.”

S
ome two hours later when Daisy pulled into the driveway, the house looked dark and unwelcoming. It hadn't occurred to her to leave a light on, as she hadn't expected to be gone this long. While she was out she'd taken time to drive by a few rentals in case she had to move. Actually, a house would suit her better than an apartment, anyway. With a yard of her own, she might even get a cat or a dog for company.

But then, when she married Egbert, her plans might change. Something temporary, then…

There was no sign of Kell's car. Could he have come back, packed his few things and left without even saying goodbye? One part of her, the sensible part, hoped he had.

Another part—the one that lacked even a single grain of common sense, felt like crying. But at least, she ra
tionalized, she wouldn't be able to make comparisons later on.

She refrained from looking to see if his things were still in his room. She had enough to worry about without wasting time on any adolescent daydreams.

She ended up having half a glass of buttermilk and a few stale saltines for supper. By the time she heard Kell come in, she had read the same page at least three times. Before she could switch off her light and pretend to be asleep, he rapped on her door.

“Daisy?” he called softly. “I'm in for the night. I locked the front and checked the back. All secure.”

If the door had been transparent she couldn't have been any more aware of him just on the other side. He lingered, and finally she blurted, “I thought maybe you'd gone back home.”

“Nope, not without saying goodbye. I drove down the Outer Banks. I thought as long as I was this close I might as well see where Dad used to fish.”

She waited to see if he would leave. When he didn't, she said, “It's probably changed all out of recognition since he was there.”

“Probably.” Long pause, and then he said, “There's a bag of chicken in the refrigerator. Want me to do something with it?”

“That's the last of it. It's thawing for the box supper. Thanks, though.”

“No problem.” Even strained through a paneled mahogany door, his voice resonated on every nerve in her body.

Hours later when she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of Kell wearing western boots, a Stetson and nothing in
between. He was standing in a kitchen she only half recognized with a cooking fork in his hand, and then he was galloping off on a big white stallion with her sprawled across his lap.

No more reading historical romances in bed—at least, not until the covers had been stripped. While she bore no resemblance to a heroine, Kell was the epitome of every romance hero in the history of the genre.

He was gone when she woke up the next morning. Daisy told herself she was perfectly within her rights to open his door, to see if this time he was gone for good. If so, she could strip his bed and wash his linens along with her own.

And this time she wouldn't inhale.

His leather coat was gone, but there was a shirt on the back of a chair and his soft-sided bag was open on the foot of the bed. The three photo albums were stacked neatly on the dresser. She tried not to wonder where he'd gone this time. He was obviously as eager to avoid her as she was him. Good thing one of them still possessed a working brain.

With Faylene's help the house was almost ready to close up, the freezer was finally empty and unplugged, the pantry shelves all but bare. Stripping down for a quick shower, Daisy ignored the bath gel and went for the plain, unscented soap. The last thing she needed was to get her hormones in an uproar again.

She was drying her hair when someone rapped on the bathroom door. She shut off her hair dryer to hear a familiar creamy baritone drawl. “Daisy, you in there?”

“What do you need?” She'd scarcely seen him since
Monday evening when he'd come home all full of himself for having found his dad's old high school annual.

“I'm headed down to the place that sells subs and barbecue. Want me to bring you anything?”

And that was another thing. He knew she was trying to use up all the food on hand, yet he didn't take it for granted that he was invited to meals. He'd bought a pound of freshly ground Colombian coffee, a box of doughnuts and cereal. Neither of them would be there long enough to use all the coffee. Faylene could have the cereal.

“Daisy? Did you slip down the drain?”

“No, look—there's this box supper thing at the church out on Water Street. Maple Grove? White frame, with a parking lot in front and a picnic area off to one side? You can try your luck there if you don't want to drive all the way to Barco.”

“Box supper, hmm? The only box supper I've ever seen is the one in that Broadway show,
Oklahoma!
I'm not much of a dancer and I can't sing a lick. Does that make me ineligible?”

Laying aside her hair dryer, she reached for her comb and started unsnarling her hair. He was still out there, she could feel him just on the other side of the door. “Of course not.” Long pause. He was still there. She said, “I didn't know you liked Broadway musicals.”

“It was named for my state, so I figured it was my patriotic duty to see it as long as I was in New York for the play-offs, anyway.”

Snatching her robe off the hook, Daisy rammed her arms in the sleeves and tied the sash around her waist.

“You ever see any Broadway shows?” he called through the door.

She wasn't about to tell him she'd been too busy baby-sitting, pet-walking, dish-washing and going to classes to take time off for anything more frivolous—not to mention more expensive—than an occasional movie. When she didn't respond, he said, “Well then, I, uh—I guess I'll see you later. That is, unless you want me to move out now?”

She did and she didn't. The weakest part of her didn't. “Tomorrow will be soon enough,” she called through the door, trying to sound matter-of-fact but sounding breathless instead. If he left in the morning, she could do the last load of laundry and be gone by tomorrow evening.

“Right. Well, thanks.” Still he didn't leave. She could picture him just on the other side of the paneled door, those cobalt-blue eyes half closed, one booted ankle crossed over the other one, arms crossed over his chest. He might appear tame, but if ever a man had
free-range
stamped all over him, it was Kell Magee.

Finally, he said, “So…I guess I'll see you later, then. Have fun at your box supper.”

Daisy's shoulders drooped as she stared at herself in the steamy mirror. She could think of several interesting ways of spending his last night here, and not one of them involved box suppers.

 

Holding a hand mirror, Faylene studied her backside in the full-length mirror on her bathroom door. Truth was, she was disappointed at the way her hair had turned out. She didn't like it near as much as she liked that buffet-style like Dolly Parton's, which is what she'd been aiming for, only all them bleaches
made her ends break off, so even when she got the color right she didn't have enough hair left to do nothing with.

But hair would grow out, and Miss Sasha said the wrench would wash right out if she changed her mind about the color. Leastwise, her roots didn't show up so much now.

The pants Miss Marty had bought her fit real good, though, even without her support hose. She didn't need them to sit at a picnic table eating Miss Daisy's fried chicken and corn fritters with a new gentleman friend. That might make a certain Mister Somebody set up and take notice, she thought smugly. Oh, she knew what they were up to, these friends of hers. She let them get away with it on account of it suited her just fine.

Bob Ed would hear about tonight. Yessir, there'd be plenty to tell him that if he wanted to lay claim to Faylene Beasley he'd better hurry up and get in line.

Zipping on her bronze leather ankle boots, she went over in her mind the list of possible candidates. Once they set their minds to matchmaking, they did it so slick you'd swear they hadn't had a hand in it. Good thing they hadn't put Bob Ed on their list. He might not know it yet, but he was already spoken for. That prissy little man down at the bank was single again, too, the one Miss Daisy looked at like she was measuring him for curtains or something. Poor soul, if them three went after him his goose was already stewed.

The parking lot was nearly full by the time Faylene squeezed in between a long-bed pickup and a muddy SUV. Miss Daisy was parked over in the corner, and there was Miss Sasha's fancy red convertible, parked
right next to the preacher's minivan. Her and Miss Marty must've come together.

Bob Ed drove a truck he'd built himself practically from scratch. That man could do most anything he set his mind to, she just wished he'd set his mind to marrying himself a wife.

Several people greeted her as she strode up the front walk and around to the side where the picnic tables were set up. This weren't her regular church, but she knew most everybody in town by face if not by name. Smiling, she tried not to appear self-conscious in her new outfit, with her hair right out of one of them ladies' magazines. Pausing at an empty table, she looked around to see who she could spot.

There was Miss Marty. Faylene waved, and then caught sight of her other two ladies up at the front talking to the auctioneer. The table was stacked full of baskets and boxes, all done up to look pretty. She spotted the one with the purple bow right off, the one that was supposed to be hers. Pinching the creases in her new slacks, she sat down and glanced around just as someone turned the volume down on the boom box that had been blaring out gospel music.

Folks stopped talking and turned toward the auctioneer. He was holding up the first basket and just getting started with his gabble-de-gook, sounding like a tobacco auctioneer, when the new coach passed right by her table. Was he the one they'd fixed her up with?

He pretended like he hadn't seen her, but they must've told him which box to bid on. He was new here—he didn't know many folks yet, so when Sara from the bank called out something to him, he set down
with her. Sorry, girl, you're too late, Faylene thought smugly. The coach has already got his marching orders.

Just then Miss Marty got up and hurried across to the far side of the picnic grounds. Faylene had to stand to see where she was headed. She frowned. And then her frosted-cherry lips fell open.

Gus Mathias?

She tried to remember if Marty had mentioned any car trouble she'd been having lately. But when her employer pointed to the end of the table where the boxes were stacked, it sure looked like she was pointing right at the box with the big purple bow.

Gus looked at the tableful of boxes, and then he looked straight at where Faylene was sitting. And then he shook his head. Frowning, Marty waved her other two ladies over and the three of them started jabbering up a storm, looking first at her and then back at Gus.

He kept shaking his head. Then, blamed if he didn't walk off, skinny little arse, spare tire, beer belly and all. After he passed within ten feet without so much as a polite “how do” and headed for the parking lot, Faylene turned to glare at her three ladies. The ones she'd thought were her friends. Gabbling like a flock of guinea hens, they were headed her way.

Rising with all the dignity of an independent, self-supporting woman, she turned up her nose and set off toward the parking lot as fast as she could move. They were still trotting after her, calling for her to wait up, when she slammed her car door shut, cranked up her engine and scratched off, displacing a spray of gravel.

Damn near rammed into Gus's tailgate while he waited for a break in the traffic, too. “Serves you right,”
she muttered. When he honked at her, she stuck her head out the window and yelled, “Take a good look, buster, 'cause this is as close as you're ever gonna get to yours truly!” She couldn't
believe
they thought Gus Mathias was the best she could do! Some friends. Serve 'em all right if she handed in her notice.

 

Kell recognized the car scratching out of the churchyard just as he turned in. It barely missed a pickup truck that was slower to accelerate. He'd intended to pick up some barbecue and then spend his last evening calling around to see if he could get in touch with another of his dad's old classmates. Trouble was, he couldn't seem to concentrate on anything but Daisy—about the way she'd come apart in his arms and then tried to pretend it had never happened. For that matter, so had he. Tried and failed.

And dammit, he knew better, too. He'd always gone for sophisticated women who were out for a good time—women who were no more interested in anything more than a no-fault relationship than he was.

Daisy, with her bare face, her baggy clothes and her easygoing style, had caught him off guard. He should have been satisfied with what he'd found and headed out yesterday.

Instead he'd waited too late. He'd called and made reservations to fly out of Norfolk for tomorrow, which meant he'd have to fly back to get his car once he sorted out the situation back home, with Clarice and Moxie and Chief Taylor.

He had what he'd come for, or as much as he was ever going to get. As for anything else, he'd like to think that
by the time he returned he'd have come to his senses. Or at least gained enough perspective to know if this thing they had going between them was all spark and sizzle, or if there was something solid behind it.

While the very thought of “something solid” scared the hell out of him, he'd never been able to walk away from a challenge. Deliberate or not, Daisy was definitely that.

The shower had still been steamy when he'd heard her drive off earlier, carrying a stack of boxes, the one with a purple bow on top. He'd been invited, he reasoned—so why drive all the way to Barco when there was food available right here in Muddy Landing?

By the time he'd located the church and found himself a parking place, he'd made up his mind. If he had to wipe out his entire money-market account to do it, he was going to buy her damned box and spend his last night here with a certain streaky-haired, gray-eyed blonde who smelled like bacon grease and roses. What happened after that was up to her. If he struck out again, at least he'd go down swinging.