The Fall of Shane MacKade (8 page)

If she dressed them up with big copper-and-brass earrings, it was for her own benefit. She'd begun to enjoy the ritual of decorating her body over the past few months.

She left a note for Cassie on her door, then walked out of the inn to wait for Shane.

Hints of the coming fall brought a tang on the air. The day had been hot and still, but now the air was cool. The darkness was soft and complete, as it was meant to be in the country.

Occasionally a car would rumble by on the road below the steep lane. Then silence would fall again, beautifully.

She'd been sure she would miss the noise of the city, the comforting grumble of life, the periodic and cheerful rudeness of it. In New York, she'd finally taught herself to join in that life, to spend time in the stores and museums, to brush up against people instead of shying away from them. It was a kind of therapy she'd prescribed for herself, and it had worked.

She'd stopped walking with her eyes on her own feet, stopped hurrying back to her own apartment, where she could be safe and alone with her books.

But she didn't miss it. She liked the quiet here, the slower pace, and the opportunity to get to know people. Now she was going to have a drink with a very attractive man.

All in all, it wasn't a bad end to a productive day.

She watched the headlights come and veer toward the lane. Shifting her shoulder bag, she headed toward the truck.

“That's what I like to see, a woman waiting for me.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” She hiked herself up and into the cab of the truck. “I wanted to enjoy the incredible weather. It's starting to smell like fall.”

“You look pretty.” Reaching over, he flicked a finger over her earring and sent it dancing.

“So do you.” It was absolutely true—the stubby ponytail, the faded work shirt, the easy grin. “Where are we going?”

“Just down to Duff's.” Shane slung an arm over the back of the seat and set the truck in reverse. “It's not much, but it's home.”

It certainly wasn't much, Rebecca decided at first study. The tavern was badly lit, with glaring fluorescent lights over the pool table that were only softened by the clouds of smoke from cigarettes. A jukebox that blared out whiny country music. The decorations ran to scattered peanut shells, posters for beer, and an oddly charming print of dogs playing poker. The air smelled stale, and a little dangerous.

She liked it.

On their way to the bar, a scarred affair guarded by a scrawny man with an irritable look on his face, Shane introduced her to half a dozen people.

She got the look outsiders are greeted by in a close-knit community—a combination of curiosity, distrust and interest. Someone called out for Shane to pick up a cue, but he shook his head and held up two fingers to the man behind the bar.

“How's it going, Duff?”

The skinny bartender grunted as he popped the tops of two bottles. “Usual.”

“This is Rebecca, a friend of Regan's from New York.”

“New York City's a hellhole.”

“You've been there?” Rebecca asked politely.

“Couldn't pay me to set foot in it.” He slid the bottles over the bar and went back to scowling at his customers.

“Duff's a real chatterbox,” Shane commented as he led the way to a table. “And the happiest man in town.”

“I could tell right off.” She took her seat. “After all, I'm a professional.”

Grinning, Shane tapped his bottle to hers. “To Miranda Catherine MacKade.”

In concert, Rebecca lifted the bottle and sipped. “So, tell me all about it.”

“Well, the couple of times I got in to see her, Savannah was a little cranky. She said MacKade men should be locked up—among other things that had to do with specific parts of the anatomy.”

“Sounds fair, coming from a woman in labor.”

“Yeah, well, Regan and Cassie weren't quite so nasty. Then again, Savannah's a little more out there. Anyway, she spit nails for a while. Then, after it was over, she was cooing rose petals.”

“And Jared?”

“Went from sweating bullets to grinning like a demented fool. That's the way it goes every time we have a baby.”

“We?”

“It's a family affair. You could have come.”

“It sounds like Savannah had enough company.” She tilted her head. “So, does it give you any ideas?”

“Huh? Oh.” He leaned back, grinning. “It gives me the idea that my brothers are doing a fine job making families. No need for me to horn in. What about you? You thinking about settling down and hatching a brood?”

“Hatching a brood?” She had to laugh. “No.”

Shane took a peanut from the plastic bowl on the table, cracked it. “So, what do you do when you're not shrinking heads or chasing ghosts or giving lectures?”

“I live in a hellhole, remember? There's always plenty to do. Muggings, murders, orgies. My life's very full.”

He skimmed a hand over hers. “Anyone in particular helping fill it out?”

“No. No one in particular.” She smiled sweetly, leaned forward. “How's Darla?”

He cleared his throat and bought himself a little time by sipping his beer. “She's fine. Dandy.”

It wasn't worth mentioning that he'd nudged good old Darla along, despite her invitation to fix his supper—and anything else he might like. “Any progress on the hunt?”

“That's not a very subtle avoidance of the topic.”

“I wasn't trying to be subtle.” He laid his hand over hers again, snagging her fingers before she could draw them away. “Find any good ghosts lately?”

“Actually, I did.” She had the pleasure of seeing the smile fade from his eyes.

“That's bull.”

“No, indeed. I have some very nice documentation of
an event. Registered a forty-two-degree temperature drop in less than two minutes.”

He took another drink. “Your fancy equipment needs to be overhauled.”

His reaction amused her, intrigued her. “You're very resistant. Do you feel threatened?”

“Why would I feel threatened by something that doesn't exist?”

One brow cocked up under her fringe of bangs. “Why would you?”

“Because I—” He caught himself, narrowed his eyes. She was smiling blandly and, he noted, very much in control. “Is that how you analyze your patients?”

“Do you feel like a patient?”

“Cut it out.”

“Sorry.” She threw her head back and laughed. “It was irresistible. I don't really do individual therapy, but you'd make a terrific subject. Want to try word-association?”

“No.”

She arched both brows this time. “You're not afraid, are you? It's very simple. I say a word, you respond with the first thing that comes to mind.”

“I'm not afraid of some silly parlor game.” But he was irritated, just enough to jerk his shoulders. “Fine. Shoot.”

“Home.”

“Family.”

It made her smile. “Bird.”

“Feather.”

“Car.”

“Truck.”

“City.”

“Noise.”

“Country.”

“Land.”

“Sex.”

“Women.” Then he brought their joined hands to his lips, nipped lightly at her fingers. “Rebecca.”

She ignored the jingling spurt of her pulse. “It's the first thing that comes to your mind that counts. All in all, I'd say you're a very elemental man, set in your ways and happy with them. Consider that a thumbnail analysis.”

“Why don't I try it with you?”

“As soon as you get your degree, farm boy.” She waited a beat. “If you're hungry, why don't you try the peanuts?”

“I like your hand better.” To prove it, he continued to nibble, all the way around to her palm. “It's long and a little bony. Like the rest of you.”

In a casual move, she scooted her chair closer, leaned her head toward his. “Do you really think I'd let you seduce me over a couple of beers at the local tavern?”

“It's worth a shot.” He brushed his lips over her wrist. “Your pulse is racing, Dr. Knight.”

“A basic chemical reaction to stimulus. Nothing personal.”

“We could make it personal.” He glanced over his shoulder, saw that the pool table was free. “You up for a bet?”

“Depends on the type of bet.”

“How about a game of pool, a friendly wager?”

“Pool?” Her brows drew together. “I don't know the rules.”

Even better, he thought. “I'll explain them. You're supposed to be a quick study. Anybody smart enough to have a bunch of initials after their name should be able to learn a simple game.”

“All right. What's the bet?”

“I win, we go out to my truck and neck. I'm really hankering for a taste of you.”

She took a slow breath, made sure her eyes stayed cool. “And if I win?”

“What's your pleasure?”

She considered, then smiled. “When I move my equipment over to the farm, you'll help me with my project, on a purely professional level.”

“Sure.” With the confidence of a veteran hustler, he rose and led her over to the table. “Since you're a beginner, I'll spot you two balls.”

“That's generous,” she said, without having a clue whether it was or not.

Being a fair man, and one who rarely lost at this particular game, he explained the procedure carefully. That also gave him the opportunity to snuggle up behind her, his mouth at her ear as he gave her instructions on how to hold and use the cue.

“You want control,” he told her, sniffing her hair. “But you don't want to force it. Keep the stroke smooth.”

She tried to ignore the fact that her bottom was snug against him and, following his guiding hands, struck the cue ball.

“Nice,” he murmured. “You've got good form. And great ears.” He nipped at one before she straightened. But when she turned, rather than backing away, he set his hands comfortably on her hips. “Why don't we pretend we played and just go neck?”

“A bet's a bet. Back off, farm boy.”

“I can wait,” he said cheerfully. He could already imagine wrapping himself around her and steaming up the windows in the truck. “You want to break?”

“I'll leave that to you.” She stepped away, chalked her cue as he did.

The rules were simple enough, she mused. You were either solid or striped, depending on which type of ball you managed to sink first. Then you just kept sinking them, avoiding the black eight ball. If you hit that in before the rest were dispatched—unless you struck it with another ball first—you lost.

Otherwise, whoever sank all their balls first, then the eight, won.

She watched Shane lean over the table, long legs, long arms, big hands. The look of him distracted her enough that she didn't see how he broke the triangle of balls, but she did see the results. Three balls thumped into pockets, and he called solids.

Lips pursed, she studied his technique, the speed and direction of balls rolling over the green felt. She'd seen the game played, of course. There was a billiard table in the country club where her parents had a membership. But she'd never paid much attention.

It was obviously simple geometry and applied physics, she decided. Quick calculations, a steady hand and a good eye were all that was required.

Shane pocketed another two balls before he glanced at her. Her brow was furrowed, her head cocked. It was interesting to watch her think, he mused. It would be even more interesting to watch her feel. But it wasn't quite fair to run the table on her when she hadn't even had a chance to shoot.

To balance the scales a bit, he attempted a nearly impossible shot. He nearly made it, but his ball kissed the corner of the pocket and rolled clear.

“You're up, Doc.”

He moved around the table to help her with her stance, but she shrugged him away. “I'd rather do it myself.”

“Fine.” He smiled at her with affection, and superiority. “You should go for the one with the yellow stripe. It's a clean shot into the side pocket.”

“I see it.” Muttering to herself, she leaned over the table, took careful aim, squinting a bit to keep the balls in focus, and sent it in.

“Nice.” Genuinely pleased, he walked back to their table to fetch the beer. “You even left your cue ball in good position for the next shot. If you—”

She lifted her head, aimed a bland look in his direction. “Do you mind?”

“Hey.” He lifted a hand, palm out. “Just trying to help. You go on ahead.”

He did cluck his tongue a bit as she set up for a bank shot. Couldn't the woman see her three ball was clear? He lifted his beer to hide his grin. At this rate, he was going to have her exactly where he wanted in five minutes.

Then his mouth dropped open. She banked the ball against the side and sent it at a clean angle into the corner pocket. She didn't so much as smile, never glanced up, but went directly back to work.

A few customers roused themselves to wander over to watch, and to kibitz. They might have been as invisible as her ghosts.

She played systematically, pausing only briefly between shots, with her brows knit and her eyes unfocused, as she circled the table. He forgot the beer that was dangling from his fingers, suffered the elbow nudges and comments from onlookers as she quickly, quietly, and without a hitch, cleaned house.

To add insult to injury, she used one of his own balls, the one he could—and should—have sent home when he was feeling sorry for her, to knock the eight ball into the pocket and trounce him at his own game.

Lips pursed, she straightened, scanned the table. “Is that it?”

There were hoots of laughter. Several men patted her shoulder and offered to buy her a beer. Shane merely propped his cue on the table.

“Is this how you worked your way through college? Hustling pool?”

Flushed with success now that the work was done, she beamed at him. “No, I had numerous scholarships, and
a generous college fund. I've never played pool before in my life.”