The Stranger: The Heroes of Heyday (Harlequin Superromance No. 1266) (5 page)

And no one could tell him to leave. He'd single-handedly built the Gilly Wagon with the proceeds from his crazy idea for fake fingernails made of candy.

“You've got that much money
on
you?”

He chuckled. “Well, you know. In case I have to flee the country unexpectedly, that kind of thing. Come on over.”

“I guess I could,” she'd said. Wally could close up. “But, are you alone?”

“No. But I am amazingly discreet. Never fear, Mallory dear. The hand is quicker than the eye.”

And so here she was, parking the car at the country club and heading into the Gilly Wagon, which at this hour would, she hoped, be mostly empty.

It was. Other than a foursome in the corner arguing about how many strokes it had taken one of them at the ninth hole, Roddy and Kieran were the only ones there.

She said hi to the bartender, who doubled as the waiter and was hurrying over to seat her. She waved him off, pointing toward Roddy. The man nodded gratefully and went back behind the bar to finish washing the glasses for the coming rush.

“Hi, guys,” she said as she approached the table. Kieran, that handsome, golden-haired sweetie, half rose immediately and gave her a kiss.

She hugged him briefly. “Where's Claire?”

Kieran chuckled. “She said she'd rather stick bamboo shoots under her fingernails than be a part of this little adventure of Roddy's. But I assume she's not actually doing that. She's probably rolling Stephanie around the park, trying to get her to go to sleep.”

“Roddy's little adventure?” Mallory turned to Roddy with a smile, noticing that he hadn't bothered to rise, leaving the graceful manners to Kieran.

Roddy Hartland was nowhere nearly as classically handsome as the McClintocks, with his freckles and his unruly brown curls, but he was pretty darn sexy, once you saw the intelligent laughter in his eyes and the easy tolerance in his smile. And he had a wonderful, strong body.

Mallory and Roddy dated each other more often than either of them dated anyone else, but they both understood it would never come to anything. Though no words had ever been spoken on the subject, she knew that he'd always been half in love with Mindy. Sadly, the ten-year age difference had proved fatal. Roddy wasn't willing to declare himself and risk rejection. Mindy, young and self-absorbed, had never even guessed.

“What trouble are you trying to stir up today?”

Roddy blinked innocently. “Trouble? Gosh, you say that like I do it all the time.”

“That's because you do,” Kieran put in, his mouth full of ice. He held out his empty drink. The bartender nodded and turned to retrieve the bottle of imported
single malt Scotch whiskey they kept on hand solely for the McClintocks, who might not be the only ones in Heyday who could appreciate it, but were just about the only ones who could afford it.

Kieran turned his gorgeous blue eyes toward Mallory. “Don't tell Claire I was drinking. But this is one stunt I just can't pull sober.”

“You're not pulling it, you coward.” Roddy shook his head. “I am.”

Mallory growled. “Will someone please tell me what's going on?”

Kieran waved the question to Roddy, who grinned happily and sucked down some ginger ale, clearly just to prolong the suspense.

“Roddy Hartland…”

“Okay, okay. So you know Doug Metzler, right?”

Mallory frowned. “Yeah. Of course.”

“And you know he's an unmitigated stuffed shirt, right?”

Mallory smiled. “Um…he holds three loans of mine, Roddy, so I'm not sure I want to call him that out loud.”

“I do. He's a pompous zebra's ass, and I've decided to give him the apoplectic fit he so richly deserves.”

Kieran began to chuckle. “He
will
have a fit.” He drank some of his new Scotch. “Really. When he sees you, he'll have a fit and turn purple.”

Mallory still didn't understand a thing. She glowered at Roddy, who was trying so hard to hold back his laughter that he was getting a little color in his own cheeks.

“Okay, look. Here's the deal. Metzler is the current president of the country club. And frankly, the man's got a stick up his—” Roddy wrinkled his nose guiltily. “I mean, he's so uptight nobody can stand him. Yesterday he had the nerve to issue a
dress code
for the club. No sandals. No T-shirts. According to Doug-God-complex-Metzler's official memo, you won't be served if you aren't wearing closed shoes and a shirt with a collar. “

Mallory shrugged. “Well, you
are
wearing a shirt with a collar.”

Kieran, who had just swallowed, choked on his expensive liquor. “Yeah, but that's not all he's wearing.”

“What?” Mallory narrowed her eyes. Roddy leaned back, looking insufferably smug, delighted with his own ingenuity.

And then she finally caught on. What else was he wearing? Scooting her chair back, she ducked her head under the tablecloth and took a peek.

Oh, my God.

A skirt.

An honest-to-God, bonafide skirt, the kind the Heyday cheerleaders wore. The navy-blue pleats folded gracefully around Roddy's tanned, athletic thighs. His muscular calves were bare and a little hairy above his sneakers.

She started to laugh as she lifted her head, and in her helpless mirth she banged it noisily on the underside of the table. Still, she had to thank him. He had not only agreed to loan her a fortune, he had made her
laugh on a day when she hadn't thought that was possible.

“Oh, Roddy,” she said. “You goof.”

Roddy was back to looking innocent. “What? I read the official memo word for word. It didn't say anything about skirts.” He reached out and gave her hand a tap. “But actually, sweetie, you might want to scram before Doug gets here. Things are likely to get ugly.”

“Hell, yeah, they will,” Kieran said to Mallory earnestly. “I've seen him standing up in that skirt. The man's so bowlegged it's tragic.”

Still smiling, Mallory gave Roddy a hesitant glance. “But—” She tried to think of a subtle way to remind him why she was here.

“Go,” he said firmly, and squeezed her hand. “I'm sure you have at least
two thousand
more important things to do than messing with Doug Metzler's mind.”

The grip was unusually firm. He was trying to tell her something. She glanced down at her purse, which, she saw, now had a bright white envelope sticking out of it.

The money was already there. How had he done that? When had he done it? Perhaps when she and Kieran had been kissing each other hello? Roddy really was a magician. And she could use a magician right about now. If he could make a treasure appear out of nothing, maybe he could make Mindy's past
disappear…

She smiled at him, hoping he could see her heart in her eyes. She wished she could tell him this was for
Mindy. But he had no idea that Mindy had been involved in the Heyday Eight, and she'd never disillusion him about the girl he silently adored.

“All right,” she said. “If you dorks really are going to start a brawl in here, I guess I
would
rather be someplace else.”

She reached over and gave him a kiss. Usually they pecked on the cheek, but this seemed to call for something more heartfelt. She pressed her lips to his, and as she straightened up she whispered, “Thanks.”

He winked and grinned. “No problem, sweetie. But look. Here comes our resident stranger. I hear he's your new landlord.”

She turned quickly. It was true. Tyler Balfour had entered the Wagon. She hadn't expected him, and, unprepared, she caught her breath, struck anew with his good looks. How had she not realized he was a McClintock the last time he was in town? Only the McClintock genes produced men this dangerously virile.

“Oh, yeah.” Kieran was nodding, motioning Tyler over. “He's here to see me. We've got business to do.”

Maybe that was true, but as Tyler approached his gaze seemed locked on Mallory. He was probably a great poker player, she thought. His handsome face was as blank as a mannequin's. Clearly he had been trained to observe, and not to care.

Well, fine, she didn't care, either. She had been humiliatingly gullible the last time he was in Heyday. Emotionally tangled in a failing marriage, she'd been
so grateful for the calm sympathy he had projected. Over the weeks, she'd even begun to dream about him, about his comfort turning to something warmer…

He'd kissed her once. Only once. She was still married, on paper anyhow. And the next day his story had come out.

As he drew nearer, she gave him a deliberately fake smile. He must know she wasn't pleased to see him. She'd managed to avoid him for a full week now, even though sometimes she was piercingly aware that they were just inches away from each other, with only a piece of drywall between them.

Sometimes at night she could hear him on the phone in his apartment, though she could never quite make out the words. She filed that information away, though. If she could hear him, he could hear her.

“Hi, Tyler,” Kieran said, smiling and rising. “Thanks for coming over. I'll be ready to leave soon, but I promised Roddy I'd wait a few more minutes. He's going to put on a fireworks show for us.”

Kieran seemed to remember suddenly that Tyler was a relative stranger to Heyday. “Oh, sorry. Have you had the chance to meet Roddy Hartland?”

“I don't think so.” Tyler held out his hand. “Our paths didn't cross when I was here before.”

Which was a polite, secret-code way of saying Roddy hadn't been listed as a client of the Heyday Eight. Mallory felt a flush of indignation. As if Roddy, with his muscles and his millions, would ever need to buy sex from anyone! She put her hand on his arm, in
stinctively protective, though he obviously had no need of protection from Tyler or any man.

Tyler saw the touch. She felt the flick of his eyes like the tip-touch of a whip. Yes, she told him with her own gaze.
I was lonely back then, and you played me for a fool. Yes, I wanted to trust you. I even wanted to kiss you. But he's the one I'm kissing now.

Roddy must have felt the currents of tension, but with his usual composure he took her hand and, holding it, he rose and held out his other hand to Tyler.

“No, we never met,” he said, grinning. “You were in Heyday looking for secrets, and frankly I haven't got any. With me, what you see is what you get.”

Tyler's focus fell slowly to Roddy's ridiculous skirt. It barely skimmed his knees.

“So it would seem,” Tyler said. “If only that were true of everyone, my job would be a whole lot easier.”

He smiled when he spoke the words, but Mallory couldn't help thinking the comment had been directed at her. She hugged her purse to her side and smiled right back.

She wasn't afraid of him. She had the money she needed. She would buy the blackmailer's silence for another couple of weeks.

And during that time, somehow she'd find a way to keep her little sister's name out of this son of a bitch's sleazy book.

T
WO HOURS SPENT
in the company of Kieran and Bryce McClintock only confirmed what Tyler had suspected about his “family.”

They were nuts.

First, Kieran had been sitting at the country club bar with a guy wearing a miniskirt, which apparently they had arranged for the express—and somewhat juvenile—purpose of annoying a balding guy who came in later wearing neon-green pants. If you asked Tyler, it was a toss-up who looked stupider, the guy in drag or Mr. Greenpants, who began sputtering convulsively the minute he caught a glimpse of the skirt.

Now, though the three of them had arrived at the Valley Pride real estate offices and were trying to review an offer Kieran wanted to make on one of Tyler's properties, they kept getting interrupted. Apparently every single tenant insisted on seeing the McClintock brothers personally, about everything from busted sewer pipes to leaky window caulking.

If Tyler had run this ship, he would have fired Elton Fletcher, the prissy pencil pusher at the front desk, who
clearly didn't want to get his hair mussed by tangling with the clients. None of these lunatics should ever have made it past the first pair of double doors.

Especially not this new one, a fifty-something, wild-eyed tenant named Mrs. Milligan, who had entered ranting five minutes ago, and, as far as Tyler could tell, hadn't drawn a breath yet.

She seemed to focus her wrath on Bryce, and was leaning over him, wagging her finger in his face.

“And if you think you can scare me just because you have a reputation for shooting anyone who crosses you, you're quite mistaken, my boy. I've got a Doberman who's been waiting a long time for a nice dish of McClintock stew. He'd have you by the throat before you could get your finger on the trigger.”

Bryce looked over at Kieran with a tilted smile. “Is that really my new reputation? Gunslinger? What happened to the trashy man-slut thing? I think I liked that one better.”

Kieran shrugged. “Now you've got both. Congratulations.”

Bryce sighed and returned his gaze to the wild woman standing over him. “I don't shoot women, Mrs. Milligan. Not unless they're coming right for me. It's just that you've had two and a half years of living rent-free—”

She drew herself erect, in clear offence. “There were extenuating circumstances.”

“Yeah. I know. Your sister was kidnapped, and you had to pay the ransom. Your dog needed extensive
psychiatric help.” Bryce shot a quick look at Kieran, but somehow both of them managed to keep straight faces. “So what is it this month?”

“It's…it's
classified.
” She pursed her lips and lifted her chin haughtily. “If I told you, good men would die.”

Kieran made a strange sound, but he quickly buried his head in a file and wouldn't look at anyone. Bryce sighed again, shut his eyes and put his hand up to massage his forehead.

While both of them were distracted, Mrs. Milligan turned abruptly to Tyler and gave him an unmistakable wink, a theatrical expression so broad it screwed up one entire half of her face.

The old scamp! This was just a game to her. Tyler wondered if the McClintock brothers knew that, or whether they really thought she was insane.

Without thinking, Tyler winked back. And then Bryce opened his eyes. Smiling, Mrs. Milligan returned to staring him down.

“Well?”

“Well,” Bryce said slowly. “I wouldn't want anyone to actually die.”

“That's what I thought.” She picked up her purse. “You have enough blood on your hands already, don't you?”

Bryce held his palms up, obviously outmatched. “Yes,” he said. “I mean, no. I mean…forget about the rent, Mrs. Milligan. If the time ever comes that you're in a position to pay, you know where to send the check.”

“Of course I do.” She turned from the doorway. “But don't hold your breath.”

When she was gone, both brothers leaned back in their chairs, shaking their heads and chuckling.

Kieran turned to Tyler. “Sorry about that. I didn't realize she'd be here today. Wouldn't you just know it? After we waited all this time for you to get here, I had hoped—” He dropped the file on the desk. “We certainly can't be making a very good impression on you, can we?”

“This is how it is,” Bryce said dryly. “This is life in Heyday. Tyler might as well know that from the get-go. That way, if he decides to run for his life, he can at least get a head start.”

“Run?” Kieran's face sobered. “Surely you're not leaving right away, are you? We've got a lot to catch up on.”

Tyler took a moment to frame his answer. He was eager to liquidate his inheritance and get out of here. He'd spent the past week visiting his new holdings, working with Elton Fletcher, the front-desk neatnik, and a real estate agent he'd brought in from Richmond.

Things didn't look promising. Though months ago he'd left instructions to sell anything at almost any price, so far he'd been able to dispose of only two properties. Some guy named Slip-something who owned a bar just outside the city limits had wanted to expand, so he'd bought the Black and White Lounge. And now Kieran wanted one of Tyler's empty lots by the river.

At this rate Tyler would be free in about, oh, ten years.

Too bad he didn't have more empty lots. They'd be a lot easier to unload. This town, with its circus fetish, was just too kitschy for words, and the architecture was a nightmare. He had one lovely plot at the edge of town, but the house on it had been designated a historical building. He wasn't allowed to pull down the ridiculous ringmaster statue by the front gate or replace the hideous stained-glass windows depicting leaping zebras.

“Maybe you could give it a little time,” Kieran said. “Believe it or not, Heyday kind of…grows on you.”

God forbid. Tyler shifted his feet, as if he could already feel weeds and vines trying to wrap themselves around him, rooting him to this eccentric little backwater.

Still, Bryce and Kieran seemed to love the place, and there was no need to be callous. They weren't such bad guys, actually. They clearly wanted to reach out to him, which was a little awkward. He'd dodged their phone calls and dinner invitations for a full week, determined to make it clear he wasn't interested in being drawn into the bosom of the family, hailed as the beloved long-lost brother.

But inevitably they'd met in town from time to time. He'd pegged their types right away, a knack he'd developed over the course of about a thousand interviews. Kieran was the solid one, the brother who couldn't bear the thought of hurting anybody, the one
who would be a bad liar and would do the right thing if it killed him. He was probably buying this lot just to be nice.

Bryce was only about half as cynical as he pretended to be, but that was plenty. He prided himself on being a dark, sardonic devil with attitude to spare.

So yeah, Tyler understood them. He even liked them. It wasn't their fault he felt no real sense of connection, no call of blood to blood. How could he? He wasn't a McClintock, whatever the DNA might say. He was a Balfour. And he had no interest in being anything else.

Bryce, who clearly wasn't the patient type, cut through the stretching silence. “So what's the answer, Tyler? Do you intend to cut and run?”

“Not
run,
exactly,” Tyler said with one his most neutral smiles. “I told you about the Heyday Eight book. I've got a lot of interviews to do before I can leave. But I don't have any plans to stay longterm, if that's what you're asking.”

Kieran looked somber, almost disappointed, but Bryce just laughed. He had been casually tossing a small football-shaped paperweight from one hand to the other. Suddenly, without warning, he lobbed it over to Kieran, who caught it as easily as if the whole thing had been scripted.

“No one ever
plans
to stay in Heyday, my friend.” Bryce stood and, loosening his tie, moved toward the door. He paused by Tyler's chair long enough to give him a brotherly pat on the shoulder.

“But somehow, in the end, you just
do.
”

 

W
HEN
M
ALLORY APPROACHED
the ferry at Fell's Point Harbor that stormy Friday morning, dressed in dark jeans, black T-shirt and hooded gray raincoat, she felt strangely excited. Almost happy, in spite of the fact that it was a dreary day, and she'd hadn't slept all night.

She looked at the choppy water, which was the unappealing color of tarnished silver. Little frothy white-caps promised the ferry customers a bumpy ride.

But yes, in spite of all that, she felt
happy.

Because the blackmailer didn't know it, but the rules of this game were about to change.

Last night, when she had wrapped up Roddy's money in plain brown paper according to the blackmailer's ridiculous specifications, she had included a little something extra.

She had included a note saying that he'd simply have to ease up, that she wouldn't be able to make payments every two weeks like this. She couldn't afford it. Period.

She had no idea how he'd react. Yesterday, on the phone, it had required very little to antagonize him. But she had to take the chance. Her note was nothing but the simple truth. She could not afford this.

Besides, she had hopes that this might be the last payment she'd ever have to make. Mindy was coming for a weekend visit, and they'd finally have time alone to talk. Somehow, she'd make Mindy see that honesty and courage were their only real protection. They
couldn't rewrite the past. And obviously they weren't going to be able to bury it.

When Tyler had shown up, Mallory had considered telling Mindy to stay away. But then she realized that Tyler's arrival made Mindy's decision that much more urgent. At any moment, the blackmailer might decide Tyler had deeper pockets and was the better customer for this information.

She gripped her package, which was starting to get soggy from the rain, and stepped onto the ferry, her stride much more confident, in spite of the rocking water, than the last time she made this miserable trip.

Funny how strong it made you feel to assert yourself a little.

She'd thought the ferry might be deserted, given the weather. But to her surprise it was crowded with row upon row of gray figures with ducked heads, anonymous bodies hunkered down inside hoods, under umbrellas, beneath the dripping rims of Gore-Tex rain hats.

She went to the front of the ferry and bent down to slide the package under the bench seat, following her instructions to the letter even though the seat was full. No one seemed to notice her. Even the person whose feet her package nearly touched didn't look up.

And that's when she got the idea.

A crazy idea. It made her heartbeat zigzag oddly with excitement, and she inhaled softly, tasting rain.

Maybe, in this kind of weather, she could blend into the crowd herself. Maybe she could pretend to exit the
ferry, as instructed, but turn at the last minute and remain on board. Maybe she could watch the package quietly from the protection of her own hood…and eventually discover the identity of the blackmailer.

It was risky. It might even be downright dangerous. But once the idea presented itself, she couldn't seem to banish it. She wanted to know who was tormenting her like this. She wanted to know who would dare to threaten Mindy's future.

She wasn't sure exactly what she'd do with the information. But, as the blackmailer had so well illustrated, knowledge was power.

So she went through her paces. She moved toward the ramp again, pretending to leave the boat, but at the last minute she took a right turn and went through the outer walkway back toward the rows of benches.

As she wedged herself into a seat three rows back from her little package, but with a clear view of its sodden brown contours, the boat began to pull away from the dock. Too late to change her mind now. Her pulse must have been going about a hundred beats a minute. She tried to swallow, but her throat was bone-dry and wouldn't cooperate.

She glanced at the shining black raincoat of the man next to her and had the sudden, heart-stopping thought that she might have sat down right next to the blackmailer.

How on earth would she ever know?

Oh, God, she hadn't thought this through far enough. All along, for no good reason, she'd been as
suming that the blackmailer must be someone she knew. Someone from Heyday, someone she'd actually recognize when she spotted him.

But what if he wasn't? What if he was a total stranger? Even if she saw him pick up the packet, how would that help her? She wasn't a professional spy. She didn't have a tiny camera in the pull tab of her jacket zipper. She couldn't transmit a grainy photo back to Double-O headquarters, where they'd computer-scan for known perverts and then send the ID to her through a radio hidden in her barrette.

And besides, at some point a lot of these riders were going to get off the ferry. At each destination the crowd would thin, until she would stick out here like a sore thumb. Unless the blackmailer planned to pick up his money very soon, she'd have to get off, too, just to keep from being spotted herself.

Another anonymous, cloaked man walked by. His path seemed headed straight for the money. Mallory held her breath until he turned left and sat down next to a woman who smiled up at him, then leaned her head gratefully against his shoulder.

False alarm. She noticed that her hands were shaking a little, so she slid them under her arms and tucked her chin toward her chest, making sure she could still see the packet of money.

No, she was definitely no James Bond. She was just a foolish bookstore owner who was suffering from sleep deprivation and stress and wasn't making good decisions. The best she could do now was get off at the
very first stop and pray that the blackmailer didn't see her before she could escape.

“Well, my heavens! Mallory? Mallory Rackham?”