Imperfect Rebel (4 page)

Like, she really needed that turkey cluttering up her life.

But better than being sued for everything she owned, or both she and Gene going to jail.

Cursing over impossible choices, she shoved open the clinic door. A blast of air-conditioning smacked her in the face. The nearest hospital was over an hour away, so the town furnished this hole in the wall with a few beds, a nurse, and some paramedics as a stopgap. The place was scrupulously clean, but small. The instant she walked in, she could hear voices rising from the back.

"I tell you, a
snake
! The monster could have swallowed Texas, and it was crawling up my leg! And then, feathers—
splash
—everywhere! After the witch and the skeleton, I swear to you..."

Uh-oh. Sounds as if the yuppie moron was recovering. They didn't need her. She'd just mosey along out of here—

"Hallucinating," a stage whisper carried over the descriptive yelling. "We'd better send him on to Charleston."

"Well, we've had reports of other pranks out there. If he ain't been drinking, might orter look into it. His car was pretty much totaled."

The sheriff. Shit. Shoot. Double-d bad word as Maya always said. She didn't need the sheriff snooping around. There was no telling what kind of ordinances or laws or who knows what she'd broken, and if he found out how Gene and his sister were living... She wouldn't let that happen, upon penalty of death. Those kids did not deserve the fate the sheriff would unthinkingly assign them.

Straightening her shoulders beneath the checked flannel shirt, fighting an unreasonable panic bubbling up from the murky depths of her past, Cleo shoved her half glasses up her nose and tried to look respectable as she invaded the back room.

She didn't know why all southern sheriffs seemed to be massive men with big bellies, but the town's man with a badge didn't disappoint. He sported a bristly straight mustache to make up for his receding hairline, and turned an unfriendly gaze to Cleo. But then, she'd never seen a law official with a friendly gaze.

The dark-haired, dark-eyed man lying in the bed with a bandage taped to his high brow was still shouting about witches and skeletons and feathers, but the instant he spotted her, his long-lashed eyes narrowed. "There she is. Tell him I'm not crazy," he demanded.

He was even cuter in one of those horrid blue hospital gowns. Cleo had a weakness for the lean, hungry Cassius types, although this one didn't look as if he'd starved anytime in the near past. His shoulders bulged interestingly as he lifted his nearly six-foot frame up on one elbow. She didn't want to do this. She really didn't. Her only hope was that he'd take one look at the run-down shack and flee in the opposite direction. She'd concentrate on the power of positive thinking.

She quit looking at sin and turned to the nurse instead. Recognizing the petite redhead as a customer, Cleo marginally relaxed and pulled the business card from her pocket.

"He is crazy," she said with all solemnity, "but that's his natural disposition and not a result of the accident. He's considering renting my beach house, which proves my point. If he's all right, I can take him there." Maybe that would keep The Jerk from getting ideas about lawsuits.

The patient in the bed cast her a disbelieving glance. Well, at least she'd shut him up.

The nurse passed the card on to the sheriff. "There's some possibility of concussion, and he's been raving since he woke. I don't know..."

"I'm not raving! I tell you, there was a snake three feet long—" he shouted furiously.

"Jared McCloud?" The sheriff read the card aloud. "Cartoonist?" He lifted his balding head and stared. "
The
Jared McCloud? The guy who does
Scapegrace
?"

The man in the bed waved his hand impatiently and glared at Cleo. "Tell him. Tell him there was a witch and a skeleton. Then maybe he'll believe the snake."

"A witch, a skeleton, three clowns, and a Prince Charming," she agreed soberly. "It was a very grand affair."

Scapegrace
? This jerk wrote the comic strip about the teenage nerd? She couldn't believe he'd ever been a nerd in his life. She crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows at his glower.

"Hell, I'd be honored to take you wherever you like, Mr. McCloud." The sheriff intruded on their staring match. "My kids fight to see who gets to your strip first. He ready to travel, Dixie?"

Cleo cursed a mental blue streak. Now look what the rat had done. He'd have the sheriff out there inspecting her premises, and she sure as hell didn't need that. She'd just sacrificed her privacy to spring him out of here—for nothing.

Eyes widening as if he'd read her mind,
The
Jared McCloud suddenly grinned like a devil about to claim a soul. His eyes practically danced as he inspected her as if she were some kind of alien from outer space. She ought to walk out of here and burn the beach house before he got anywhere near it. Any man in his right senses would be so mad at her right now, he could spit.

Boy, she was going to make Gene pay for this.

The Jerk wrapped the bed sheet around him and swung his legs over the side of the cot. His thick sable hair fell forward over the bandage, and his bare toes stuck out from beneath the sheet. He had strong, slender feet and toes, adorned with a dusting of silky hair.

Cleo couldn't believe she was staring at his feet. Had it been that long since she'd seen a man's feet? She jerked her head up again.

"I need to check out of my hotel, Sheriff. Miss Alyssum and I haven't had time to make the final arrangements on the house, so maybe I'd best go with her."

Cleo tried not to exhale too sharply or look too closely to see how the law officer took that. Experience had taught her to keep a large canyon between herself and the authorities.

"Well, if I can be of any assistance while you're here, son, you just call on me. Maybe you can come out to the school sometime, talk to the kids. They'd get a real kick out of that." The sheriff turned and nodded politely to Cleo. "Miss Alyssum, it's a pleasure to see you. Take good care of the boy."

"The boy" winked at her behind the sheriff's back, then returned to the immediate subject. "What about my car, Sheriff?"

"Looks like it's a goner, son. When you get your billfold from your hotel room, stop by the office so I can file a report for your insurance. Shame, a car like that."

An antique Jag. Cleo shuddered. The thing probably cost seven fortunes. And Gene had destroyed it, nearly taking its owner out with it. She supposed she owed The Jerk, but she didn't have to like it. Gene was in for a lot of window washing.

The
Jared McCloud grimaced, then looked at the nurse expectantly. "May I have my clothes, please? It looks as if I'll be relying on Miss Alyssum's hospitality a great deal more than I expected."

Like, her car, her house, her life... Cleo understood blackmail when she heard it. Not deigning to acknowledge his implied threat, she backed toward the door. "Sheriff, why don't you take him to the hotel while I check in at the store. Drop him off there when you're done with him." The very best defense was a strong offense her daddy had told her long ago.

And she could be amazingly offensive when the notion took her.

Chapter 3

Jared glanced at the stone-faced example of the fairer sex in the driver's seat. Every once in a while, when he was exceptionally lucky, he ran across a truly clever, creative female mind like this one, a puzzle meant for solving, and his anticipation soared.

His new landlady's small, pointed chin practically strained over her clamped teeth. He didn't know what she was angry about, but she'd get over it. In his business, it never paid to take life seriously, and the wrath of women was a fleeting thing, he'd learned.

It wasn't as if he considered himself exceedingly clever or handsome or any of those things he assumed women wanted. His two brothers had pointed out often enough that he was the runt of the litter, the shallow ne'er-do-well with no driving ambition to improve the world. They'd left him with few illusions of ego. But even his brothers admitted that women liked him. Even as the class freak, he'd escorted the valedictorian to the prom, because he was persistent, and he listened to her.

That's
all
he'd ever done was listen, because he had been, after all, a skinny freak who drew cartoon characters for amusement. Besides, Regina had been a stuck-up bit of rudeness most of the time. He'd just liked the way her mind worked, and they'd agreed that going to the prom together made sense. He must have shined up pretty good because he'd ended up taking both Regina and the football captain's date home that night, and what Regina hadn't offered, the cheerleader had.

Not that any of that had any relevance to the fascinating creature sitting next to him, doing her best to pretend he didn't exist. He'd put on his cowboy boots for her, and she didn't even notice when he propped them on the dashboard. But she was aware of him all right, and she was madder than a wet cat about it. Hell of a reaction to the electricity bouncing around in here.

"I never got a chance to look at the place. Is it in good repair?" he asked, trying to divert her attention from her mad-on. He loved Spanish moss, and admired the way it drooped over the crushed shell highway they roared down. He trusted the truck had four-wheel drive or they'd be headed for a skid shortly. He wasn't too eager for a repeat of the day's earlier catastrophe. Broken hands or head would not bode well for his currently flagging career.

Good thing he'd sent in that last batch of strips before setting out on this adventure. One more black mark against his name and his agent was likely to can him. A cartoonist without a career was a pretty sad affair.

"It needs a new roof," she answered curtly. "No one lives there, so I don't pay much attention to what shape it's in."

"Why haven't you sold it then? Beachfront property has to be worth a mint."

"This isn't California, and I like my privacy. Keep that in mind, and we'll get along fine."

Jared hummed a country song he'd heard on the drive down and tried to imagine why a creative woman like this would be hiding in the outback of a swamp, but his mind wouldn't settle on any one reason. Maybe she was an inventor afraid of someone stealing her ideas before she patented them. If she wasn't, she ought to be. That cackling witch sweeping across the road on her broom was enough to cause heart failure. He particularly liked the witch's stringy hair and red shoes.

"Fine with me," he agreed easily. "I was feeling burned out and needed to get away from distraction to finish this project."
Finish
, his foot and eye. All he'd written so far was cow manure. He had to raise it to bullshit, at the very least. He'd manage. He always had.

Except for that last project. He hid his grimace at the unfamiliar sensation of the ground cracking under him. "Failure" wasn't in the McCloud family credo.

He'd rather think about the current object of his interest. "I've always found the pounding of surf relaxing."

"Swell for you," she mocked. "It's hurricane season. Maybe you'll hear some
real
surf."

"I live in Miami. I know hurricanes," he said comfortably, not about to be scared off, if that was her intention.

"Surf is about all you'll hear out there. I don't think the place is wired for much more than a light and a stove and the well pump."

"Mind if I upgrade the wiring if I need it? Computers are finicky about electricity." He hadn't counted on rewiring, but if there was electricity, it shouldn't take much to run in a line or two for his stuff.

She shrugged. "Your money."

She didn't even ask him how long he would stay. Entertaining.

In the interest of seeing just how far she could ignore him, he hunted for a more telling question. That didn't take much thought. "Why'd you change your mind?"

For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer, she stared out the windshield so fiercely.

"I like my privacy," she repeated.

"That doesn't answer the question." Jared tried not to smile as she struggled to find an answer that wasn't an answer. His older brother, Tim, had once warned him that he would someday run into a nutcase who would blow him away for his annoying persistence, but Jared figured he'd take his chances. Risk nothing, gain nothing, was his motto.