Hold on Tight (2 page)

Things went smoothly for the next forty-five minutes as one item after another passed under her gavel. She was authoritative without being rude, and people respected her opinions.

Dinah sat with her head down, making a note on the pad by her right hand. As she listened to Fred discuss the Founder’s Day Dinner Dance, she stifled a yawn and raised her head to idly study the audience.

The unexpected newcomer sat in the front row barely three feet away, looking back at her—no, staring back at her. Dinah glanced down, blinked several times as if to test the accuracy of her vision, then looked back up. Tall—he was over six feet tall. She could estimate that, even though he was sitting down, one booted foot propped on the opposite denimed knee.

He nodded to her slightly, his head tilted to one side, his expression very intense, and his eyes riveted to her face. Dinah caught her breath then nodded back to him. All very polite, she thought. If only her pulse would slow to a polite gallop. She looked down, frowned in serious concentration, and drew some doodles on her note pad. She glanced back up casually, her demeanor
very formal, very Katharine Hepburn, she thought, patting her hair.

He caught her attention again with one devilishly lifted eyebrow, a simple gesture, really, but appealing and funny. Dinah looked back down at her pad. Fred was still talking, and she pretended to make a note.

“Overconfident, oversexed,” she wrote, then scratched it out so that no one would think she meant Fred. The stranger seemed unusually sure of himself, and that intrigued her as much as it unsettled her. Most men weren’t confident, not around a former Miss Georgia who happened to have a high IQ and a forthright attitude.

Dinah looked up frowning and stared straight at him. He gazed back so intensely that she couldn’t look away. Few other men would have been so attractive in jeans, a nondescript houndstooth jacket, and a shirt with wide plaid stripes. Those jeans, oh, dear. If a man wore loose, new jeans with ornamental stitching on the outside, he was fairly tame, probably a little shy, and mostly dependable. But if a man wore snug, faded jeans, he was asking the world to notice that all the ornaments were on the inside, and womankind had best beware. This stranger wore those kind of jeans.

She swept an admiring gaze over his thick auburn hair and mustache. He had a terrific face, she decided, a well-lived-in face with a lot of kindness tucked into the laugh lines. His mouth curved into a vague smile in response to her attention. He looked as stunned as she felt, Dinah realized suddenly. Then he winked, and she knew that her scrutiny was being analyzed, appreciated, and returned. He knew she was leering.

“… and so, Madam Mayor, I propose that we charge seven-fifty a head for the dance,” Fred concluded. “Your opinion?”

Dinah jerked her eyes away from the provocative auburn-haired stranger and stared at Fred. Fred stared back. “Well?” he asked patiently. “What do you think?”

“I … think …” Dinah had no idea what he’d just said. Self-rebuke shot through her. She was a serious woman, a serious mayor. It wasn’t like her to be so air
brained. “I … think …” She turned to Glory, a bespectacled grandmother who owned the local bakery. “What do you think?” Dinah asked her.

Glory eyed her askance for a moment, then took up the slack and began talking. Dinah cautiously let her gaze drift back to the disturbing stranger. He was grinning, nearly laughing, his green eyes crinkled deeply at the corners. He knew exactly what he’d done to her concentration. Dinah bit her lip and glared at him. He tugged his mouth downward and looked absurdly chastised.

An awful thing happened to her. Her mouth tingled with a rebellious urge to smile. Amazed, Dinah let her lips part in temptation. Underneath all the teasing in his eyes was something corny and sweet, something that made her think of country mornings, church bells on Sunday, dancing by firelight with the kids in bed upstairs and the dog asleep on the couch.…

Something was crawling up his back. Dinah barely contained her gasp as a small pink paw reached over his shoulder and grasped the lapel of his sport coat. Her hand jumped in shock, upsetting an empty coffee cup next to her notepad. The cup rolled over and she fumbled with it, her eyes never leaving the paw. The stranger’s eyebrows shot up as he felt something pulling on his jacket, but his movements were calm as he turned his head. Dinah noticed suddenly that everyone behind him was in quiet hysterics, their faces red with restrained laughter.

A small possum climbed sluggishly atop the stranger’s broad shoulder, then sat there sniffing the air. Dinah felt all the blood leave her face as she noticed that it wore a slender black collar and leash. This assertive possum had not wandered in by himself, then.

The stranger gauged her puzzled reaction then raised one hand and showed her that he held the end of the possum’s leash. He gave her a jaunty guess-who look, and she felt her eyes widening in startled recognition. Only one man would have reason to deliberately bring a possum into her council meeting. Rucker McClure.

No. Oh, no. What had she wrought with her stern
letter and possum ploy? She hadn’t terrified Rucker McClure at all, she’d provoked him. She’d provoked a nationally syndicated columnist known for down-home humor and scalding truth. If he had come here to search out the truth about her, she’d be ruined.

Dinah rapped her gavel, her hand shaking. Glory stopped talking. “Excuse me, Mrs. Akens,” Dinah said firmly, “but we seem to have a disturbance in the audience.” She pointed the gavel at Rucker McClure. “Do you have business here tonight, sir?”

He straightened and uncrossed his legs. The possum was unsettled by the movement and nearly toppled over. Rucker reached up with one big hand and caught it gently. It squeaked, then climbed with amazing speed to the top of his head, where it perched happily. People gasped. After a breathless moment of silence the fire chief, Frank Raffer, spoke in a strained voice.

“If my wife sees that hat, she’ll want one just like it.” Frank went into a convulsive hee-hee-hee-hee. Order collapsed. Anna Jenkins, a pert little old lady, nearly fell out of her chair laughing. Ten-year-old Clyde Daniels giggled so hard that he dropped his Ninja star. The city attorney, Mac Windham, guffawed and held his stomach. Dinah propped her chin on one hand and squinted at Rucker McClure as if she’d like to choke him.

“Madam Mayor, I apologize,” he said, giving her a surprisingly earnest look. After the hysterics died to a reasonable level, he stood up, pulled the possum off his head, and cradled it in one hand. “In case anybody here hasn’t figured it out yet, I’m Rucker McClure, that redneck sonuvagun who makes more money than he’s worth writin’ for
The Birmingham Herald/Examiner
. Your mayor has taken exception to a little column I wrote about a week ago.”

His voice was incredibly deep and smooth, like warm cognac, Dinah thought. It was very persuasive and it overflowed with a melodic southern accent. “I suppose I owe you a rebuttal, Mr. McClure,” she allowed stiffly. “You have five minutes.”

He bowed, a southern gentleman in a badly coordinated
shirt and jacket, Rhett Butler with no fashion sense—yet totally intriguing. “I’ve come to admit my fault and say I never meant any harm by pickin’ on y’all a little,” he soothed. He turned to face the audience better. The man’s a natural orator, Dinah recalled someone saying. She could believe it. His charm had captured the council, the audience, and her imagination.

“I’m reminded of a story,” he began happily. People perched on the edges of their chairs, wiping laughter from their eyes and listening. “When I was a little ol’ boy growin’ up in Multree, Texas, where the women aren’t nearly as pretty as they are here”—he glanced coyly back at Dinah—“why, in high school, Veda Jane Veegle, my first true love, was voted Most Likely to Become a Marine. But back to my story …”

Seated on the yellow vinyl of a booth at the Lucky Duck Diner sipping coffee, Dinah kept a pleasant expression on her face and listened with forced politeness as the other council members bombarded Rucker McClure with questions about his writing and the celebrities he’d met. She’d decided to be nice to him and hustle him out of town in a congenial mood.

Rucker answered distractedly, his scrambled emotions hidden under the usual good-old-boy routine. The cool beauty across the table was the living picture of his best daydreams. She was regal, tall, and sturdy—no frail flower of southern womanhood, that was for sure—and he wanted to keep looking at her forever. Some of her features were classic—a wide, perfect smile between slender lips, a small, tilted nose, a clear, silk-smooth complexion—but others were decidedly unusual by beauty queen standards.

Her jaw was strong and her eyes, whew, her eyes were stunning. A light china blue, surrounded by dark brunette lashes that matched her hair, they stood out like twin beacons. Intelligence and confidence radiated from those serious eyes, and the combination was extremely sexy, whether she intended it to be or not. Every time he looked away from her he knew that she studied him with unwavering intensity. The air between
them seemed warm, and not from the steam off their coffee.

“Well, I gotta go,” Glory Akens said, yawning. “It’s ten-thirty. Thanks for the coffee and pie, Mr. McClure—I mean, Rucker. That’s apology enough for me.”

“Me too,” echoed Jasper Mac, running a hand over his hairless head. “It was good meetin’ you.”

He and Glory got up from the booth. Walter and Fred, seated in chairs at the end, stood also and said their good nights. Dinah started to get up, too, but Rucker casually put a hand across the table and touched her arm. “Let’s you and me talk awhile, Mayor. I’ll give you a ride back to city hall.”

Dinah looked into his eyes and saw serious invitation. Her heart rate would never be normal again after tonight, she was certain. This man didn’t even attempt to act subtle. Worse yet, before she’d learned who he was, she hadn’t concealed her interest. She was trapped.

“I rode with Jasper Mac,” she said. “It’s not polite—”

“Oh, shoot, Dinah, you know I don’t mind,” Jasper Mac interjected.

Dinah sighed. Trapped. Well, she’d spent years on the beauty pageant circuit, and she was an expert at derailing onrushing men. She could certainly sidetrack this celebrity Romeo. “All right,” she answered.

She trailed a wistful gaze after her friends and allies as they went out into the cool night. Now it was just her, Rucker, and Alfred “Duck” Mason, the Lucky Duck’s owner and chief cook. He sat behind the soda fountain, his feet propped up,
Monday Night Football
flickering on a small television set he held on his aproned lap. Alfred would be no help.

“Now, let’s get down to business, little lady,” Rucker said abruptly. “You gonna threaten me anymore?”

With elegant ease, Dinah swiveled a cold look to him.
Little lady
, eh? “Doubtlessly not. I’d rather keep my council chamber possum free. I’d rather keep my peace of mind. I accept your apology. Just please don’t pick on us anymore. I care about this town.”

“I can see that,” he said. “I like Mount Pleasant. I like
you. So let’s talk about you.” He looked comically smug. “I’m sure you know all about me.”

“Oh, yes. I’d say you’re exceedingly simple to understand.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and rumbling. “I’m not simpleminded, if that’s what you mean. And I’m really sorry for disruptin’ everything tonight. And I’m really glad to meet you.” He held out a hand. “Pals?”

Dinah squinted at his hand, trying to figure out his motives. Was he looking for the story that had never been revealed six years ago? By the way, Mayor, why did you run out on the Miss America shindig? Why does somebody like you give up glamour and fame for life in Quietville, USA? She took his hand slowly, exhaling as the calloused, hard grip closed around her fingers and sank gently into her palm.

“Don’t let go,” he whispered. Dinah’s gaze shot to his face. He leaned forward, his grip tightening, his expression serious. “Don’t pull away. It’s hot, but it won’t burn.”

She swallowed with great difficulty and glanced over to make certain Alfred wasn’t watching this bizarre scene. “I know something was going on between us in the meeting,” she told Rucker frankly. “It gets lonely here, but I want you to understand that I’m not easily—”

“Tell me about yourself,” he ordered in a low, cajoling voice. “I’m just gonna sit here and hold your hand, and you tell me whatever you think I ought to know.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Because I want to see what kind of woman lurks behind those smart blue eyes. A woman with a man friend somewhere in town?”

“No.” His fingertips were drawing blunt lines of fire inside her palm. She tested his determination by gently trying to pull back. His forefinger pressed sensuously into the soft center of her hand, urging her to be still, to relax. Dinah swallowed hard and shifted uncomfortably on the old vinyl seat, her whole body warm. All right, I’ll just … just humor him, she decided.

“Someone special anywhere?” he asked.

“No. You?”

“No man friends,” he said drolly. “I ain’t that kind of boy.”

“You know what I—”

“Ex-wife. Found her in New York, left her in New York. Divorced four years ago. Back then I wrote the obits. I got work in Birmingham, took up writin’ a column, and I got famous for reasons I can’t begin to understand. Along with the fame I got a lot more than a normal share of female attention.”

“Still getting it?” she asked, then realized how the question sounded. Pure amusement lit his eyes as she shook her head wearily. “Mr. McClure, I retract that—”

“I don’t like singles bars, I’m not a cradle robber, and I turn up my nose at aggressive, independent women, so that leaves me sittin’ at home alone a lot. Call me Rucker.”

“Call you a saint, if one is to believe that sweet little story about your love life. By the way, ‘aggressive’ and ‘independent’ describe me … Rucker.”

“Nah, you’ve got potential,” he informed her. “Now look, I’m not gonna play games here. You and me, we were communicatin’ like live wires for a while there tonight. I’m lookin’ into your eyes and thinkin’ about old-fashioned romance—”