Keeping Victoria's Secret (9 page)

They all watched curiously.

Jack sat back and crossed his arms on his
chest. “Okay, one more time. Who are you and what do you want? At
the moment I’m a little short of patience.”

The old man’s pale blue eyes twinkled. “Why,
I’m Rip Van Winkle.”

They all stared, incredulous at the old man
who munched on his brownies with small sounds of appreciation.

After a minute or so Jack spoke up again.
“Not funny. Another day maybe I’d play along with you, but not
today. Who are you really?”

“You’re Jack Conner, Charley Conner’s
nephew?”

Jack nodded. “My uncle passed away
recently.”

“Yes I know. Turning to Fred, the man said,
“You must be Joe Douglas’s boy.”

“That was my father’s name, yes,” said Fred
slowly.

The old man’s gaze settled finally on
Vicky.

“And who are you, young lady?”

“My name is Victoria,” she answered,
unwilling to give this stranger any information.

He studied her face for a long moment before
speaking, a note of sadness creeping into his voice. “Yes, yes I
see. Well then. My name is Willet, and if I’m not mistaken, this is
my farm.”

Rain beat down steadily on the canvas above
her as Gwendolyn sat shivering alone in the pirate’s lair. Great
gusts of wind pounded the tent at intervals, hurling torrents of
water, threatening to bring it down upon her head. Cold, tired and
hungry she was surrounded by chests and crates, apparently stored
there with the rest of the pirate’s booty.

Awakened in the dark of night, carried
swooning from the security of her bed in the powerful arms of the
swarthy pirate captain, she’d been spirited onto his ship and sent
far from her home and all she held dear. Every familiar thing was
taken from her; even her gown, chemise, and kid boots had been
stripped away. Wrapped only in a gauzy piece of silk to insure her
captivity, her future was far from certain. Despairing, she could
only wait, hoping and praying that help would come from some
unknown quarter.

From “Caribbean Fire” by Tori Baxter

Listening to the rain pelting down outside,
Vicky brooded over her situation, well aware that her blue mood
found its way into her writing. It didn’t matter. The important
thing was to keep moving the story along. When dealing with Nanna’s
advancing illness, escaping into her stories had helped her to
cope. Her own anxieties transferred to her heroine, giving a keener
edge to the adventures. She paused, leaned back in her chair, and
stretched.

Well past dawn, the world outside had made it
only as far as a dull gray. She’d planned to venture into the
little hamlet of Pippen’s Grove today, but considering the weather,
tomorrow might be the better option. Sighing, she drained the last
of her cold coffee.

Wandering back into the kitchen, she felt the
coffee pot to see if there was any warmth left. The dregs looked so
yucky that she put a fresh pot on to brew. The old photos of her
grandmother with friends and family were where she’d left them on
the table the night before. Not having the heart to look at them
again or put them away, she'd just slid them safely aside.

Her head popped up when she heard heavy
splashing steps coming from the back of the house accompanying the
steady drumbeat of rain. It was Jack running across the yard
through the mud and onto the porch. Damn! I just cleaned the mud
off that porch yesterday.

She dashed back to the corner office room.
Saving her file, she dropped the lid of the laptop, hiding
Caribbean Fire from prying eyes. If Jack ever read the manuscript,
he’d recognize himself as the dark handsome pirate Captain. She’d
placed him in the role of the pirate villain, or perhaps hero? She
hadn’t yet decided which.

“Come on in,” Vicky called in response to his
impatient banging. She heard the protesting squeak of the screen
door, a slam, and Jack muttering about the wet. He removed his
muddy boots and came into the kitchen in his socks; water dripping
from his dark hair.

Memories of a naked Jack fresh from the
shower flooded back. She drew in her breath when she saw how his
damp T-shirt clung to his chest muscles. The urge to touch the dark
curls spread over the V-neck was so strong that she almost reached
out.

They stared at one another.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

She nodded. “Coffee?”

He went to the counter, found a mug, and
helped himself before the pot had finished. “Let’s sit.” He
motioned towards the table.

Regarding her over the rim of his coffee mug,
Jack saw that her shiny hair was loose and curls tumbled around her
shoulders. It was amazing the way the little top she was wearing
molded her round breasts and slid down to her waste. Her heavy
glasses were off, lying on the table beside her so he could look
directly into those big, hazel eyes. Today she was lovely, but
what? The eyes were so very pretty, but forlorn.

Forcing himself to look away, he sipped his
coffee, peered out at the weather, and said, “Rain’s a good thing.
I got another couple acres of sweet corn in the ground yesterday.
Little rain, little warm sunshine, and we have corn in August.
Knee-high by the fourth of July is what the old farmers say. It’s
always a gamble though. If it turns cold and stays damp the seed
just rots in the ground.”

“Jack, what does it matter whether the corn
comes up or rots in the ground? By August, we’ll both probably be
kicked out by Jonathan Van Winkle, if not that screwball old guy
who claims to be a Willet relative. I don’t think I’ll bother
unpacking anything. I couldn’t stand having to pack it all up
again.”

She looked so sad he wanted to hold her and
press those lush breasts against his chest. Then kiss her on her
neck just under her ear, before traveling up to her mouth to taste
those pouting....

“Do you think he was for real?” she
asked.

He started. “What?”

“Do you think he was for real?” she
repeated.

“You mean the old guy? Rip Van Winkle?” He
shifted in his chair. “I really don’t know. Maybe he’s some Willet
cousin, or maybe he’s just a crazy old man that knows about the
family and the farm.”

“What about Jonathan Van Winkle?” she
asked.

“Fred thinks Jonathan might have a legal
right to the property. Maybe he does, and then maybe he doesn’t.
There’s just too much we don’t know. I’ll say this though. I’m
going to fight this thing every inch of the way. While I’m
fighting, I’m going to continue doing what I’ve started. I’ll plant
what I intended to plant and count on doing the harvesting as well.
Fred, Doc, and Elvira will do everything they can to help. I want
your help too, Victoria. I need you to back me up. How about
it?”

“I just don’t know what I can do, Jack. That
was so weird yesterday. The strange old man showing up, claiming he
was the rightful owner of the farm, right after what Jonathan said
to me yesterday is too much coincidence. Then he wolfs down a half
dozen brownies, walks out the door, and disappears to where…?” Her
voice trailed off as she looked into the dining room where the
moving men had stacked her boxes. “Oh I forgot. Jimmy gave me your
mail yesterday. I think it’s on the table on top of those boxes.
I’ll get it for you.”

“Don’t bother, I’ll get it.” In the dining
room, he saw a bundle of envelopes and junk mail rubber banded
together sitting on a box addressed to Victoria from The Taylor
Literary Agency, NYC. Why would a literary agency be mailing a box
to Victoria?

Returning to the kitchen, he quickly glanced
through his mail, before he set it down, exchanging it for his
coffee. He took a long pull, grateful for the warmth. “I don’t
believe in giving up without a fight, at least with something as
important as this. We’re both on the same side now Victoria. Maybe
that wasn’t the case a week ago, but it is now. You have to keep a
positive attitude.”

She gave him a little smile. “Okay Jack, I’ll
try.” She looked out at the threatening skies. “There are several
things I need, so I might drive into town later today. Don’t know
about the weather though.”

“There’s nothing I can do here with the
fields so wet. I’ll drive you into town if you want. Show you
around Pippen’s Grove. It’s not much. If you blink while driving
by, you’ll miss it.”

She hesitated.

I wonder what she's thinking. What's behind
those eyes, so pretty once the glasses are off? And what's with the
literary agency? What does she do for a living? There must be
something. He gave her his most engaging smile. “Victoria, I’m
curious. Did you work before you moved here?”

She rose, taking her coffee cup to the pot,
and replied vaguely, “Yes, I do a little freelance work.”

“What do you freelance? What exactly is it
you do?”

“Well, I write things. Nothing you’d have any
interest in, I’m sure.” She changed the subject. “Conner is an
Irish name? You don’t look Irish. You’re so dark, as though you
were Mediterranean.”

He smiled at her. “My people are Black Irish.
You know about the Spanish Armada?”

“A little,” she said. He could have no way of
knowing that Vicky did actually know a good deal about the Spanish
Armada, as she’d written a bestselling historical romance set in
England during that era.

“When the English defeated the Spanish in the
channel, most of the remaining fleet was blown north by a storm.
They tried sailing around the British Isles to get back to Spain,
but most didn’t make it. Several ships wrecked on the west coast of
Ireland and survivors were absorbed into the population. So folks
from that part of Ireland, a bit on the dark side, are often
referred to as Black Irish. What about you Victoria? I saw your
name on that box in the dining room and couldn’t pronounce it. Is
it French?”

Shifting in her chair, she leaned over
frowning at the box that had arrived yesterday on the dining room
table as she answered, “Italian actually. My dad was Italian. His
grandparents came from somewhere near Naples I think. Nanna’s
people were from up here, mostly Dutch, English.”

His eyes were drawn to her chest as she
stretched to look into the dining room. Her breasts were thrust out
towards him practically begging for his attention as she leaned
over. He forced himself to look away.

By noon, the downpour had diminished to an
occasional drizzle. The air was cool and damp under leaden skies,
promising more rain later.

Jack and Vicky sat in the cab of his truck,
parked in front of the Henry Hudson Grocery. Several businesses
were clustered at the intersection of the county road and the
town’s main street. On one corner was a Shell gas station and on
another, a barbershop, a hair salon, an antique store and a few
other businesses. The grocery and its parking lot occupied the
corner opposite the Shell.

“Here we are. This is beautiful downtown
Pippen’s Grove,” said Jack.

Vicky looked around the intersection. Wow, a
few days ago, we couldn’t stand each other, and now we’re
discussing mundane things. We’re acting like two people on a blind
date. Hey. What made me think that?

“Okay, let’s see what the Henry Hudson has to
offer,” she said.

He got out and started around to open her
door, but she was too quick for his attempted chivalry. She opened
the door and jumped down on her own, slamming it behind her as she
strode away from him towards the store.

Inside she found a cart and began roaming the
aisles, familiarizing herself with the store’s layout.

Curious, Jacked watched her for a moment. He
followed along, wondering why she made a complete circuit of the
small grocery before putting anything in her cart. Women are
impossible to figure. He shrugged, decided if she didn’t need his
help; he’d get a cart of his own. As long as I’m here, I’ll pick up
some beer and chips. What else am I running low on?

After quickly locating and grabbing the half
dozen items he deemed necessary, Jack parked his cart by the
checkout, smiled at the girl behind the counter, and went to find
Victoria. Following her progress, he caught glimpses of her,
plucking things from shelves, wandering down the aisles, bending
over the meat case. He stopped, unable to take his eyes from her
little round rear as she shuffled through packages of ground beef
and sausage.

Today she’d worn a tight red sweater and even
tighter blue jeans. Her hair though, was back in the old maid bun
and the glasses were in place. It’s as though she’d morphed halfway
from beauty back to the frump. The memory of that sexy little rear
grinding into his lap last night brought an involuntary smile to
his face. I’ll have to be careful. I don’t want to get involved
with this girl.

He casually strolled over and peeked into her
full cart. Women always find so much to buy. I hope she doesn’t get
like those other girls in town that are always baking me pies and
inviting me to dinner. He’d been successful in avoiding a series of
marriage minded females, and didn’t need another one.

Vicky watched him appraising her purchases,
and leaned over to tap a wine bottle with one forefinger. “Is this
stuff any good,” she asked pointing to an apple wine.

He saw that she had three or four bottles of
local wine. “Don’t know. I haven’t tried that one. People say it’s
good, but most folks around here have a stake in the wine business.
The valley is full of wineries and cider mills. I can tell you
though; the apples it’s made from are good. Some come from our
orchards.”

Vicky seemed pleased at this.

At the checkout, Jack helped her empty the
cart. A steady beep-beep came from the scanner as the girl moved
with practiced speed and accuracy while her jaws worked vigorously
on a wad of gum. They both reached for the last item in the cart, a
bag of sugar, and his hand closed over hers. They stood rooted on
either side of the grocery cart hands touching and eyes locked for
a long moment, neither of them apparently willing to break the
contact. He finally thrust the sugar onto the conveyer belt.