Treasure Me (11 page)

“Why would you think my name is Greyhart?”

Shrugging off the question, the old woman planted her pipe between her weathered lips.

Birdie returned the wallet to her hip. “You can’t smoke in here. It’s against the law.”

“And I’ll bet you follow the law to the letter, now, don’t you?” The crone struck a match that seemed dull compared to the pugnacity sparking in her gaze. “You can’t stop me from smoking. Whenever and wherever I please.”

“I guess not. At least not while you’re armed.”

“Now you’re talking.” On a cackle, she blew a puff of smoke. Then she nodded toward the picture of Justice. “I noticed you taking an interest in one of this town’s founding mothers. You like the portrait?”

“It’s beautiful.
She’s
beautiful.”

“I do agree. You know, the portrait was lost in the storeroom. That fool, Ethel Lynn, packed it away the same year John Travolta wore those crazy white pants. Didn’t matter how much I threatened to skin her hide; she couldn’t recall where she’d put it. Finney dug out the portrait last summer.”

It was no wonder that Birdie’s mother hadn’t found the portrait—and the slip of parchment hidden inside. She’d visited nearly every town named Liberty in the United States. She probably checked this town, too, but came up empty because a dotty old bag packed the portrait away and promptly forget exactly where.

“Her name was Justice Postell,” Theodora said, drawing her from her thoughts. “Quite a lady, if I don’t mind saying. She opened this restaurant right as The Civil War was coming to an end. First black, man or woman, to own a business in northern Ohio. When she retired, her son took over this establishment.”

Justice did have a child
. This tidbit of information was enough to replace the worry in Birdie’s veins with heady anticipation. She was still leery of Theodora—the old bag
was
armed—but the desire to learn more about the freedwoman won out.

“I heard someone in here talking about Justice,” she lied. Theodora arched a brow and she quickly added, “They said Justice was pregnant when she moved here. She was an unwed mother. Right?”

“Not exactly. Justice got hitched to the colored preacher’s son after she arrived in Liberty.”

Her heart sank. Maybe the story wasn’t true. If Justice didn’t have a child with Lucas, Birdie wasn’t related to the freedwoman’s descendants after all.

But her spirits immediately rose when Theodora added, “It was a kind of mercy, their marriage. Justice came to Ohio in a bad way. Nearly seven months pregnant. She left the baby’s father down in the Carolinas.”

In South Carolina
. A feverish excitement stole through her. It was foolish to think she’d earned a reward by learning she might be related to Justice. She wanted to be. She needed to know someone in her family hadn’t done time in the state pen or died in a barroom brawl. She yearned for a legacy that didn’t involve duping some mark out of his hard-earned cash.

Her excitement must have been palpable because Theodora smiled. Leaning forward, she said, “Child, I don’t know why, but you look as happy as a flea at a dog show. Would you like to hear the whole story?”

* * *

Returning from the library, Hugh found Birdie lounging on the sofa in a disconcerting state of bliss.

She was leafing through a scrapbook, and something in the pages delighted her. Her gaze danced across the page, her lips pursed with pouty interest. In deep concentration, she possessed a sweetly studious air. She looked beautiful, in fact, too much so. Her attire didn’t help matters—she’d once again laid claim to some of his clothing. The striped boxers clung to her sumptuous thighs and the threadbare jersey gave more of a view of her breasts than was safe.

“Good reading?” He tossed his keys on the coffee table, startling her.

She snapped the scrapbook shut. “I wasn’t expecting you this early,” she said, as if they’d merged into the predictable schedule of a married couple.

The irritating thought put an edge to his voice. “Next time I’ll call ahead. I wouldn’t want to return to my apartment too early.”

“Our
apartment.”

“For the record, I’m paying the lion’s share of rent.” When she huffed out a sigh, he added, “I’m through researching for the day, all right? I’m beat. I came back for a nap.”

“Believe me, you need one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re testy.” She bobbed her head in the direction of the hallway. “Night, night, Parsnip. Try not to snore. You sound like something escaping from the bowels of hell when you’re overtired.”

Her glib dismissal raised his cackles. Which was ridiculous since he needed to get away from her. The kiss they’d shared earlier in the week had left Hugh feeling like he was backed up against something perilous. When he looked over his shoulder to assess the danger he was staring straight down into an abyss. Of course, any red-blooded man was at risk of losing his balance when an attractive woman began stealing his clothes. Imagining Birdie stepping her long legs into his boxers, salivating over the fantasy of how she shimmied the waistband over her hips—she was tormenting him and she damn well knew it. If she was intent on scavenging his stuff she should have the decency to dig out his condoms and let him use them with her.

Frustrated, he started for the bedroom. From the corner of his eye he caught the flutter of tapered fingers slipping the scrapbook back off the table. Curiosity swung him around.

He snatched the book away. “What is this?” She yelped in protest and he stepped out of reach.

“Give it back! I promised Theodora I’d be careful with it.”

“Theodora Hendricks lent this to you?”

Birdie leapt off the couch. “It’s stuff on Liberty history, photocopies of old newspaper articles about The Second Chance Grill and some of the people who lived here. And yes, she lent it to me.”

“You’re reading
history
? I didn’t think you read anything besides ‘how to’ books on breaking and entering.”

“Kiss my ass.”

He would, gladly, but that wasn’t the point. “If you’re so enthralled with history, I’ll get you a book on Watergate from the library. You can move up from restaurants, start breaking into the headquarters of major political parties.”

“I’m a pacifist,” she snapped.

Hugh arched a brow. “I think you mean you’re an Independent.”

“Whatever.”

“I used to lean toward the Democratic Party. But rooming with you, I’m heading Republican. I need a gun to protect my stuff.”

She yanked the scrapbook free. Hurt swam in the depths of her violet eyes and he reeled at the possibility that he’d insulted her.

Birdie had more armor than the Marines, or so he liked to think. That she might be motivated by anything other than avarice was disconcerting. They were both jaded, twin cynics. Keeping his emotional distance was easier when he viewed her as a common criminal. Seeing her like this—open, feminine, stung by his comments—put him in peril. Their sexual attraction was enough of a complication. He needed to keep his emotions the hell out of it.

She cradled the book like a babe in her arms. “What’s the big deal if I enjoy reading about the town? Theodora has been telling me stories about Liberty, about people who’ve lived here. The stories are pretty cool.”

A superficial explanation if ever there was one. “What people?” He was sure she was hiding something.

“None of your business.”

“What’s in it for you?” When the question put a hard light in her eyes, he added, “There’s always something in it for you, right? Theodora plays show and tell with Liberty’s history but you’re playing her. For what, I’d like to know.”

Getting the unvarnished truth from a thief wasn’t possible. So why was he irritated by the way she clamped her lips together and flung herself back on the couch? He chastised himself for his stupidity. The intimacy they’d shared with one short necking session had done more than infuse their relationship with sexual tension. Now he felt compelled to break down her barriers and find out what kind of woman she was underneath. The desire wasn’t logical. But that wouldn’t stop him from trying.

They spent the next days in an uneasy standoff. He tried for civility but failed miserably. Birdie’s unique scent, something akin to ripening peaches, hung in the air of the apartment. She sang in the shower whenever she thought he’d gone out. Her low, throaty voice set his pulse racing. Apparently puzzled by his surly retorts and glaring silences, she doled out rude comments then followed them up with the most disconcerting peace offerings: his freshly laundered clothes appeared in neat stacks on his bed and splotches of pizza sauce vanished from his keyboard. If she cooked, she left Chicken Parmesan or stir-fry in the fridge with a note urging him to dig in. His wallet got lighter by the day, but she hung out fresh towels in the bathroom and left a vase full of daisies, undoubtedly pilfered from the restaurant, on his nightstand.

She tried to get along while they were stuck together. She made the best of an awkward situation while he was powerless to stop his attention from galloping after her whenever she passed him in the hallway or the kitchen. If she sensed the sexual conundrum he’d put himself into, she hid the knowledge behind a demure smile or a brash comment, depending on her mood.

None of which was particularly upsetting. What did torment him was the suspicion that she was merely counting down the days until he’d wrap up his stay in Liberty and return to Akron. He wasn’t used to being so casually rebuffed, and certainly not after the woman in question had laid a kiss on him that haunted what little rest he got. She was a drifter. She’d invest only as much emotional coin in their relationship as required, while he grew increasingly drawn to her.

They were roomies now. She was handling it fine. He wasn’t sure if he could.

Ten days and counting after he’d started bunking with a gorgeous thief in boondock Liberty, Hugh stood shivering in the brisk November wind of the Jeffordsville Farm Park.

In the outdoor arena a glare of spotlights rose from beneath the podium. Framed in light, the
Akron Register’s
Bud Kresnick smacked the cameraman on the head.

Although the next U.S. presidential election was two years away, the Farm Park swarmed with activity. Hugh wondered if the Republican contender, Senator Gabe McCutcheon of Vermont, would be on time or would leave the pre-Thanksgiving masses shivering in the cold for another thirty minutes.

Pulling his jacket closed, he suffered a moment’s trepidation. He didn’t know why Bud had summoned him to the park. The City Editor was in a predictably sour mood, his fleshy cheeks going red as he growled at the rookie cameraman, then shoved through the crowd to Hugh.

“Dipshit.” Bud nodded toward the cameraman. “Tell me why I bother hiring them green and right out of college.”

“Because you have a good heart.” The smarmy compliment made Hugh’s teeth ache. Hell, was he reduced to groveling to stay in Bud’s good graces? Unsure, he added, “So, how’s it going? Miss me at the
Register
?”

“Getting needy, Hugh? Should I send a Valentine to show my love?”

“In lieu of courtship, I’ll take a paycheck. I haven’t seen one of those lately.”

“Earned one yet?” Bud fumbled through the pockets of his wool coat and withdrew a sub sandwich. Tearing open the cellophane, he eyed Hugh with what sure as hell looked like misgiving. “You got the goods on Anthony Perini? I haven’t heard a peep out of you since you took off for Liberty.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Work harder.” Bud dug into the sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “Staying away from broads? You know what they do to your concentration.”

Hugh visualized Birdie shrugging out of her army coat to reveal generous curves tucked inside a waitress uniform three sizes too small. “I’ve sworn off women. Like I promised.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you’re a suspicious son of a gun?” The joke fell flat.

Before his ex-boss interrogated him further, Hugh launched into a recitation of the legwork he’d done on the exposé while waiting for Anthony Perini to return from his honeymoon. Guiltily, he wondered why he’d been wasting time scouring the Internet for anything on Birdie. He’d even called Fatman, who was now digging around for the goods on the curvaceous thief. Why was he screwing around when he had an article to produce?

Finishing up, he wondered if Bud had heard a word of what he’d said. The City Editor waved at someone in the crowd.

Turning, Hugh spotted Timothy Ralston strolling past a clutch of adoring women. The warning bells in his skull started clanging.

The prissy scion to a retailing fortune, Ralston kept dental floss in his desk and had most of the power brokers in Ohio on speed dial. He highlighted his brown hair and strutted around in a physique to put Hercules on the defensive. The bastard was rich, stupid and gallingly polite. Hugh felt an allergic reaction coming on—he’d never had much tolerance for the bronzed dullard.

He thrust out his hand, which Ralston claimed in a fearsome grip. “Are you interviewing the senator after his speech?” Hugh asked.

“Already done.” Ralston leaned forward conspiratorially. “McCutcheon plays tennis with my father whenever Dad is in Washington. Mean backhand. I asked for some face time, pre-speech. McCutcheon was happy to comply.”

Hugh produced a Teflon smile. “Nice work. Page one spread?”

“Of course.”

Bud finished his sub and belched. “Our boy here is tired of features. He wants to try his hand at investigative journalism.”

Hugh feigned interest while his guts turned to jelly. “You don’t say.”

Until now, Ralston had carved out a few hours in his social calendar to write articles on counting carbs or making the perfect brioche. Drivel on choosing the right tattoo after the age of forty. Nothing he wrote smacked of hard journalism, yet now he wanted a seat with the big boys? Hugh struggled beneath a premonition of doom. There was only one slot open at the
Register
for an investigative journalist—his job, the job he’d lose permanently if he didn’t produce a drag-them-through-the-mud piece while he camped out in Liberty like a vulture seeking prey.