Holiday in Your Heart (3 page)

“Sure. Let me see if I can find it on the computer.” He jiggled the mouse, clicked some keys, and asked, “Last name?”

“Scott.”

A moment later, he said, “Got it.” Another click, and a printer hummed to life. He took the page and handed it over. “Look about right?”

She leaned over the invoice and curls tumbled into her face. Her hair, thick and wavy down past her shoulders, was getting unruly. Shoving it back with an impatient “pfft,” she muttered to herself, “I need to call Brooke and make a hair appointment.” She scrutinized the bill and then took a credit card from her wallet. “This looks fine.”

Mo didn't seem to notice the card. He was staring at her face. “Brooke?” His voice croaked. “Brooke, uh, Brannon?”

She nodded. “Do you know her?”

“Do you?” he countered.

Frowning in puzzlement, she said, “She's a good friend as well as being my hairstylist. How do you know her?”

“I, uh . . .” He finally took the credit card she'd been holding out and ran it through Hank's machine, taking more time than the task required. And not answering her question.

Weird.

Mo handed the card and two copies of the receipt to her. “Sign this one, please. So, do you know her son, too? Evan?”

“Sure.” She signed the merchant copy and handed it back. “He manages my money.” When Maribeth's parents had been killed in a bus crash during a holiday in Austria, she'd been shattered, but had found herself quite well off, financially. Still in her teens, she'd inherited not only the family home but also her parents' fair-sized investment portfolio and the proceeds of their life insurance policies. When Evan Kincaid had opened his business in Caribou Crossing a few years back, Maribeth had transferred her portfolio to him, and he'd done exceedingly well for her. “Why are you asking about Brooke and Evan?”

Mo's handsome face was marred by a frown and he didn't answer for a minute or two. Then he said, “I wonder if I could talk to you.”

“I thought we
were
talking.” This guy might be gorgeous and sexy, but he was getting annoying.

“Sorry. I mean about, uh, something private.”

“Something that involves Brooke and Evan?”

He nodded.

“I guess so,” she said slowly. “But this is all very mysterious.”

“I'm sorry. Let me buy you a drink and I'll explain.”

This man, a stranger to town, didn't want to date her, but he wanted to buy her a drink and talk about two of her friends. Well, there was only one way to find out what was going on. “Okay,” she agreed. “Do you want to meet somewhere later?” Though she had no reason to trust the guy, no harm would come to her if they met up at one of the town's bars. She'd be bound to know at least half the people in the room, and they'd watch out for her.

He glanced at his watch. “It's time to close up. Could you give me five minutes, and I'll be ready to go?”

“Why not?” Too warm in her coat, she shrugged out of it and tossed it on one of the guest chairs.

Mo's eyes widened. Her figure—unfashionably curvy, but she was happy with it—tended to have that effect on guys.

She tugged down the hem of the long, emerald sweater-top she wore over thick, black leggings, and sank down in the other chair. Crossing one leg over the other, she swung a booted foot back and forth. “Five minutes,” she reminded the glazed-eyed man.

Chapter Two

Oh, man, that was one sexy woman. Every single thing about her was smoking, from those gleaming red curls to the dainty feet in black leather boots. She knew it, too, the way she flaunted her curvy breasts and hips in those clingy clothes. Not that Mo was complaining. He couldn't remember when last he'd felt such pure pleasure just looking at a woman.

But she'd given him five minutes, and he must've used up one already, drooling. He tore his fascinated gaze away from her and strode back into the shop. Fortunately, Hank's small bathroom included a shower.

As Mo washed his hair and scrubbed his body under steaming water, he thought about Maribeth Scott. It wasn't the first time a woman had let him know she was interested. Actually, it happened a lot—all due to the way his mom's and dad's genes had combined. Superficial shit, but when he'd been young, he'd exploited that lucky coincidence when he could, just as he'd fought back against the occasional racist who found his mere existence offensive. Now the racial slurs were fewer, but the female interest continued. Mostly, he pretended not to notice either one.

Having royally screwed up his marriage to Brooke all those years ago, he'd learned his lesson and had since avoided anything that smacked of being a relationship. It was tough, because he was a healthy guy with a strong libido. Sometimes he gave into the need for a night's hot sex, but even that could lead to complications. A woman might say that all she wanted was a hookup, but too often afterward she tried to mess around in his life and build herself a place there.

Tempting as Maribeth was, those womanly curves and dazzling green eyes could get a guy into trouble quicker than using a grinder without wearing protective goggles. All he should be wanting from the flirtatious redhead was information about his ex and his kid, something that might help him decide how best to approach them.

He dried himself on a questionable-looking towel and made a mental note to buy a couple of cheap towels for the shop. After dressing in the jeans and pullover he'd worn to work, Mo tugged a comb through his hair. For the first time in a long while, he wished for a razor to get rid of his five o'clock shadow.

He made sure the shop doors were locked, turned off the lights, and rejoined Maribeth. She sure did brighten up the messy office.

She rose, picked up her coat, held it out to him, and turned her back.

He had to grin. The woman had expectations, and no thought that he wouldn't meet them. He stepped closer, opening the coat so she could slide her arms into the sleeves. Even in those heeled boots, she was several inches shorter than his five feet eleven. Such a feminine package. He tugged the coat up around her neck and shoulders and couldn't resist breathing her in, a scent with a hint of spice like an exotic flower. He wanted to bury his face in her hair so that its softness tickled his nose and brushed his cheeks. To immerse himself in her sensual femininity.

Instead, he forced himself to step back as she buttoned her coat and took red gloves from a big purse patterned with black and white flowers.

He did up his own well-worn jacket, opened the door for her, and clicked off the office light as she stepped outside. He followed her into the darkness of a November late afternoon, locking the door and checking that it fastened securely. It blew him away that Hank Hennessey had trusted him to hold down the fort and to lock up, especially on his first day of work. It was probably a testament to what Mo's old boss in Regina had said when Hank phoned him that morning.

“Where should we go?” Mo asked Maribeth. “Is there a place, uh . . .” He searched for the right words to suggest an out-of-the-way coffee shop or bar. He doubted there'd be many people in Caribou Crossing who would recognize him after all this time, but still he didn't want word of his arrival reaching Brooke or Evan before he'd decided how to approach them. While he was deliberating, a dog emerged from the dark lot where several vehicles were parked. It approached them, but stopped several feet away.

“You again,” Mo said. It was Caruso.

“That dog was here when I came,” Maribeth said. “Is it yours?”

“No, he's from the animal shelter. Apparently he keeps escaping.”

“Poor guy.” Maribeth squatted down and held out her gloved hand. “Hey there, buddy. You're just looking for a good home, aren't you?”

The dog studied her, but maintained his distance.

“His name's Caruso,” Mo said. “He sings, or some such thing.”

Maribeth tilted her head up to him. “He what?”

Mo shrugged. “That's what the girl from the shelter said.” He took a couple of slow steps toward the animal. “If I can catch him, I'll take him back there. It's too cold for him to be spending the night outside.”

The dog plunked down on his ass, lifted his head, and let out a warbling kind of howl.

“He's singing to you,” Maribeth said, sounding charmed. “Why don't you adopt him?”

“Last thing I need's a dog.” Mo held out his bare hand toward Caruso, who eyed it warily. “Why don't you take him, Maribeth?”

“I work long hours. I own my own business, a thrift shop.”

“If it's your business, you could take him to work with you.” For some reason, Mo wanted to find this dog a good home.

“Too many people have allergies. It's not a good idea to have an animal in the shop.”

“Maybe he's hypoallergenic. Some dogs are, aren't they?”

“Yes. Poodles, for one. But even if he is, it's not the right time for me to be getting a dog. I have other priorities.”

The dog sniffed Mo's hand. Mo stroked his head and Caruso accepted the gesture with what looked like tolerance more than enjoyment. Casually, Mo gripped the dog's collar. “Where's the animal shelter?” he asked Maribeth.

“On the other side of town. You'll have to drive him.”

“I don't have a car.”

“Really? Okay, we'll take him in mine. Can you get him into it?” She walked toward her Mini Cooper, taking her key ring from her purse.

“We'll see.” He tugged gently on the collar. “Come on, Caruso. Bet you could use some dinner.”

The dog balked for a long moment and then made the decision to go along.

Maribeth had the back door open and Mo urged the dog to jump into the small backseat. He and Maribeth were both cautious with the doors when they climbed into the front, but for the moment the dog didn't seem inclined to escape. Mo had the sense the creature was giving them a chance to prove something to him, though Mo wasn't sure what that might be.

“Here,” Maribeth said, handing Mo her purse. “I don't want to put it in the back with Caruso. He might chew on it.”

Not about to sit there with a big, flower-patterned purse on his lap, Mo put it on the floor by his feet.

The car was tiny, making him totally aware of Maribeth. Even bundled up as she was, doing something as prosaic as putting a key in the ignition and starting the car, there was no denying the powerful impact of her sheer femininity. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt such a compulsion to touch a woman, to smell her, to even just be close to her. Arousal stirred under his fly and he was tempted to test out how serious she'd been about that flirtation. But she knew Brooke and Evan, and he had to remember his mission.

He was curious about Maribeth, though. “You own a thrift store?” he asked as she backed her car out of the parking lot—doing it the girlie way, craning over her shoulder rather than using the mirrors. “From the way you dress, I'd have guessed you ran a fancy boutique.”

“My parents taught me the value of money. Why waste it on new clothes when you can get nice ones secondhand? I like recycling clothes so they go from people who don't need them anymore to folks who like to dress well on a tight budget. Including me.”

“Huh.” There was more to this woman than met the eye. “Guess that makes sense. Does your business do okay?”

“Well enough.”

The route she drove took them down the main street of Caribou Crossing. It was after six and most of the businesses were closed now, the storefronts dark. Bare-branched trees were strung with sparkly white lights, and welcoming golden light came from the windows of a few restaurants and bars. The Gold Nugget Saloon was still there, but it had been modernized and didn't bear much resemblance to the tacky dive where he and Brooke had spent many the drunken night—and afternoon.

Brooke Kincaid, married to the police commander. He shook his head in wonderment. Seemed like Mo wasn't the only one who'd stopped being an asshole and got their life sorted out. Interesting that his ex had taken another chance on love and marriage. It was also odd that she'd stayed in Caribou Crossing after all the times she'd bitched about the place being Hicksville. It must have grown on her over the years.

In the backseat, the dog moved around restlessly, obviously having second thoughts about his decision to enter the car.

“Almost there, Caruso,” Maribeth murmured soothingly. “Soon you'll be nice and warm and have a good meal.”

The dog would also be in a prison cell, albeit a more pleasant one than Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison. Mo could relate to Caruso's dislike of confinement. Still, November was no time for an animal to be fending for itself at night.

Maribeth pulled into the driveway of a rancher-style building that bore the sign H
APPY
P
AWS
A
NIMAL
S
HELTER
.

“How about you go in,” Mo suggested, “and find someone who has a leash?”

“Good idea.” She slid out of the car and hurried to the door.

A couple of minutes later, she was back with a youngish man wearing low-slung jeans and a gray hoodie with the hood pulled up over a baseball cap. A leash dangled from the guy's hand.

Mo climbed out of the car and, as the young man reached for the back door handle, said, “Be careful. The dog may try—”

Too late.

The moment the door opened a few inches, Caruso was out like a shot.

“Shit,” the kid said ruefully.

The dog raced across the street—thankfully, there was no traffic—aiming for a sturdy, bare-branched tree on the boulevard. The lowest branches were about four feet off the ground, and with a leap, the dog launched himself from the ground. He landed in a crook of the tree. A quick scramble and he had climbed up a few more branches, to perch like a cat and peer down at them. In the muted light from streetlights, the dog's eyes glowed an eerie green.

Mo, Maribeth, and the kid all gaped back at the dog. That was one pretty amazing animal.

“Caruso climbed that tree.” Maribeth sounded dumbfounded. “I've never seen a dog do anything like that.”

“You'd think he was half cat,” the staffer muttered. “He's, like, boneless. He can squeeze through cracks that you'd swear a rat couldn't get through.”

That had to be an exaggeration, but it did get the point across and also make Mo wonder why the boy hadn't been more careful when opening the car door. “What are we going to do about him?” Mo asked.

The kid shrugged. “I'll put some food at the bottom of the tree. He won't starve.”

“But he'll be cold,” Maribeth said. “He should be inside. We should try to get him out of the tree.”

“Know what?” the boy said. “If he's cold, he can get back inside the same way he got out. Or go to the door and bark. It's his choice.”

“I guess,” Maribeth said, sounding uncertain.

“Lady, you can't help an animal unless it wants your help.”

Just like people. Mo nodded at the truth of that statement. “He's right,” he said to Maribeth. “Seems to me that dog knows what he wants. He's healthy and he's survived up until now, so he must know what he's doing. Come on and I'll buy you that drink.” He took her elbow. It was an automatic gesture, but suddenly his bare palm tingled as if he'd touched the heat of her skin rather than the thick wool of her coat. Static electricity? Had to be. Still, he felt disconcerted as he urged her back to her car.

When they'd both climbed in again and she started the engine, he said, “Here's the thing. Would you mind if we didn't go to a coffee shop or bar? I'd invite you back to my apartment, but I just moved in and the cupboards are bare. Any chance we could go to your place?”

As she turned to stare at him, he held up both hands. “I know it sounds weird. Honest, I'm not trying to pull anything. It's just that I, uh, don't exactly want to publicize my presence in town. Not until . . . Well, that's what I want to talk to you about.”

She hadn't backed down the driveway. Instead, with the engine still running, she took her gloved hands off the steering wheel and crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, it sounds weird. What's going on, Mo with no last name, who's only just come to town? Why should I trust you?”

“To start with, my last name's Kincaid.”

* * *

Maribeth gaped at the damp-haired, strikingly handsome man who sat in the passenger seat of her little car. Kincaid?

“That's Evan's surname,” she said slowly. “It was Brooke's before she married Jake.” Earlier, she'd seen how Mo reacted when she mentioned Brooke, and she'd seen the give-nothing-away expression he'd put on when he asked about Brooke and her son. “Are you related to them?”

“I was.” He swallowed, and it looked painful. “I'm Evan's father.”

Her mouth fell open. When she and Brooke had gotten to be friends, Brooke had confessed that she'd been a terrible mother. Maribeth knew that Evan had left town right after high school and hadn't talked to his mom until he returned a few years ago and they reunited. All Maribeth knew about Evan's father was that he'd run out on his wife and son when Evan was still in elementary school. This man, Mo Kincaid, was the deadbeat dad?