Seventeen

Anarchy insisted I get some sleep (like that could ever happen).

I insisted I couldn’t possibly sleep (no way, no how).

Max yawned.

“Too much has happened,” I explained. “My brain won’t turn off.” Plus, he was in my house. Again.

“Just try.” He coupled his request with a look that could melt steel.

As any woman would, I melted.

I melted, handed over blankets and pillows for the couch, and climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I’d rest my head on a pillow for a few minutes and prove him wrong.

My eyes opened shortly after eight. The light sneaking past the curtains had a gray, translucent quality and the patter of rain was loud enough to breech the window’s glass.

It was a day made for staying in bed. On any other Sunday, I would have done just that—lingered beneath my blankets with the paper or a book (not Michener—not in the morning) and a cup of coffee.

I swung my feet to the floor and stumbled into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, I was showered, dressed, and presentable (if one overlooked the dark circles beneath my eyes). I daubed on some concealer, brushed my lashes with mascara, and hurried downstairs for my morning rendezvous with Mr. Coffee.

Anarchy was already in the kitchen. “Did you sleep?”

“I did.”

He smirked. Funny. Up until that moment, I’d found smirking unattractive. Not anymore. I clutched the counter with one hand and accepted the cup of coffee he was offering with the other.

“We’re supposed to pick up Grace at nine,” he said.

I blinked.

“And I called a locksmith. He’ll be here at ten.”

I blinked again. And sipped my coffee. Words would kick in after the first cup. Hopefully.

“Do you want eggs?” he asked. “I’m making you breakfast.”

Anarchy Jones was the perfect man.

I gulped my coffee. “I can cook.”

He ignored my suggestion. “Scrambled?”

“I can make them.”

“Just sit down, Ellison.” He took the cup from my hands and refilled it.

I sat.

Anarchy took the egg carton from the fridge and cracked eggs into a bowl.

With one hand.

Show off.

I couldn’t crack eggs into the bowl with two hands. Whenever I tried, half the white slithered down the outside of the bowl and made a sticky mess on the counter.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a whisk.

Ding dong.

“I’ll get that.”

His lips thinned.

“It’s broad daylight and Max will come with me, won’t you Max?”

Max yawned.

Anarchy rested the whisk against the edge of the bowl.

“Seriously, it will be fine.”

Max and I walked down the hallway to the front door. I pretended I couldn’t feel Anarchy’s gaze fixed on my back.

Rather than opening the door, I peeked out the side panel.

My father waited on the stoop and he looked awful. Fifteen years older than before Mother left. Gaunt. There was stubble on his chin. Stubble. Mother leaving had hit him hard. Much as I was dying to know about my mysterious half-sister, now didn’t look like the best time to ask. Besides, I had more immediate problems.

I yanked open the door. “Come in.”

Daddy stepped into the front hall.

I reached up on my tip-toes, kissed his cheek, and, ignoring his wet rain coat, wrapped my arms around his neck. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Daddy’s arms wrapped around me. For half a second I was nine, with a father who could fix anything, and all was right with the world.

There were things not even Daddy could fix. I pulled away. “Let me take your coat.”

I took Daddy’s dripping trench and hung it over the newel post. “Are you hungry?”

“Is Aggie here?” There was note in his voice that said, quite clearly, he was hungry but didn’t want breakfast if I was cooking.

“Aggie is away. Anarchy’s making eggs.”

“The detective? What’s he doing here?”

“He spent the night on the couch.”

Daddy’s eyebrows rose.

“He didn’t want me to be here alone after a man was murdered in the front yard.”

Daddy couldn’t argue with that sentiment—Mother could have. “Where’s Grace?”

“She spent the night with a friend.”

“What happened here last night?” He sounded more like himself, a man accustomed to running things, fixing things.

“Come on back to the kitchen, I’ll get you some coffee and tell you everything.”

I poured Daddy a cup while he and Anarchy exchanged tight nods.

“I understand you looked after my daughter last night.” Daddy accepted his coffee. “Thank you.” He was talking to Anarchy not me.

“My pleasure, Mr. Walford.”

“Harrington.”

Oh. Wow. Harrington.

“Harrington,” said Anarchy.

Ding dong.

“I’ll get that.”

Both men looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.

With Anarchy, Daddy, and Max trailing behind me, I returned to the front door and pulled it open.

Bruce Petteway thrust a bouquet of flowers at me. “I wanted to apologize for last night. My niece is a florist and she says these are apology flowers.” He’d dragged his niece out of bed on a Sunday morning to create a bouquet? He should be apologizing to her.

The bouquet was lovely—blue hyacinths, white roses, and pink carnations.

The hyacinths smelled like they’d been picked from a garden in heaven. I smiled—but I did not forgive. Bruce had ruined a perfectly good Mercedes. “They’re lovely. Thank you.”

Bruce noticed Anarchy and Daddy. I didn’t realize you had guests—” he glanced around my warm, dry foyer and wiped a raindrop from the tip of his nose “—may I come in?”

Behind me, I could sense Anarchy and Daddy exchanging looks.

“I’m really quite busy.”

“It will only take a moment. Please.”

A gust of wind blew water through the doorway.

“Fine.” I stepped aside and allowed him entrance.

“Ellison, give me those flowers.” Daddy took the bouquet from my hands. “Detective Jones, she keeps the vases on the top shelf and I’ve got a touch of vertigo.”

Liar, liar. Daddy was being kind, allowing Bruce a moment alone to say his piece without an audience. Bruce didn’t deserve such kindness.

Daddy, Anarchy, and the hyacinths disappeared down the hallway.

Bruce, Max, and I remained.

Bruce cleared his throat. “About last night—”

“I don’t want to talk about last night.” I didn’t want to think about last night. I longed for a magic wand that would erase the memory of last night.

“So you won’t tell Joyce?” He stood as stiff and straight as a nine iron.

That was what got him up on a Sunday morning, out in wretched weather? He worried I’d tell Joyce I’d caught him grinding gears with Prudence in my Mercedes?

“Telling Joyce would be cruel.”

Bruce’s shoulders relaxed.

“I’m going to tell her lawyer.” Not the nicest thing to say to a man who’d brought me flowers but true.

The color drained from Bruce’s face and his eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. I will.”

He stepped closer to me, invading my space. He smelled of damp and last night’s vodka. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The hair on the Max’s back stood up in a neat little ridge and he growled.

Bruce’s face scrunched into something mean and nasty. “I mean it, Ellison. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t—”

“Elli, should Jones cook the eggs? Are you almost done?” My father stood in the doorway to the kitchen.

Bruce’s gaze traveled from me to my father. “I’m not kidding, Ellison.”

“Are you threatening me?” Unlike Bruce, I spoke loud enough for my father to hear.

Daddy said something over his shoulder and Anarchy joined him in the doorway.

Faced with two scowling men, Bruce said, “No. Of course not. You misunderstood.”

“I thought as much. Thank you for the flowers.” I opened the front door.

With a final threatening glare, Bruce left.

I closed the door firmly. The house shook.

“What was that all about?” asked Daddy.

“You don’t want to know.” I walked back to the kitchen.

“He threatened you. Why?” Compared to Anarchy’s expression, the weather outside was balmy and pleasant.

I might as well tell them. “I caught him having sex with Prudence Davies in my new car.”

Daddy spit coffee across the counter.

Anarchy covered his mouth. Hiding a smile? Hiding a scowl?

“He doesn’t want me to tell his wife, or her lawyer.” I fiddled with the floral arrangement that was perfuming my kitchen. “Don’t worry about Bruce. It’s an empty threat.”

Daddy wiped his sweater with a tea towel. “Ellison is right. All hat, no cattle. Always has been.”

Anarchy, looking only slightly mollified, poured the eggs into a skillet.

Daddy warmed my coffee

I sat.

Ding dong.

Seriously? It was Sunday morning. What was wrong with people?

Anarchy raised his gaze from the skillet of eggs and a look passed between him and my father.

“Come on, Elli. Let’s get the door.”

They’d silently decided I couldn’t open a door by myself? Oh dear Lord.

“Stay. Here.” I stood. “Come on, Max.”

With a sigh (I asked so much of him—there was food in the kitchen), Max trotted down the hallway with me.

I peeked outside.

Wright Halstrom waited on the front stoop. He’d parked an enormous, presumably undefiled, Mercedes in the drive.

I opened the door. “Wright.”

He thrust a bouquet of roses at me.

It was déjà vu all over again.

“Thank you. They’re lovely.”

“I’d like to take you out for brunch.” Wright spoke with the assurance of a man so handsome he’d never had a woman turn him down.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

A shadow passed over his features.

Who was I to disappoint Adonis in human form? “I really am sorry, Wright.” Why did I apologize? I wasn’t sorry. He’d appeared at my house without an invitation and expected me to drop everything and go out with him.

“I won’t take no for an answer.” He coupled this pronouncement with a dazzling smile.

I focused my gaze on something other than his white teeth—on the street where a blue Impala was cruising slowly by. “I’m afraid you’ll have to. I can’t go.”

“But we didn’t get much of a chance to chat last night. Libba tells me your art would be perfect for my new hotel in Chicago. We need pieces for the lobby and the rooftop restaurant. We could discuss an acquisition over Eggs Benedict.”

Without so much as seeing a canvas? “As tempting as that sounds, I must pass.”

“Elli, your eggs are ready.” Daddy’s voice carried down the hallway.

“You have company.”

“My father.”

“I’d love to meet him.” Wright pushed past me and headed for the kitchen.

I stood in the foyer, flabbergasted. Who did that? Who barged into someone’s home?

Wright Halstrom. And he’d disappeared into the kitchen.

I closed the front door and followed. Slowly. The combination of Anarchy, Daddy, and Wright struck me as combustive.

Deep breath. Deep breath. I tarried. I stopped and smelled the roses, but they had no scent. Finally, I stepped into to the kitchen.

Wright was staring at Anarchy as if a gauntlet had been thrown.

Anarchy’s lips were sealed in a thin line and his eyes were as cold, and hard, and flinty as Clint Eastwood’s.

Daddy looked as if he was fighting a grin.

Combustive, with a near overwhelming scent of testosterone. That I could smell.

“Your friend, Mr. Jon—”

“Detective Jones.” Anarchy’s voice was a blade cutting through all pretense.

“Detective Jones,” Wright corrected with a twisted smile that told me he’d made the mistake on purpose. “He was telling me you had some excitement here last night.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Excitement wasn’t the word I’d use to describe seeing a man gunned down in my driveway.

“A man was murdered?”

“Yes.” I searched the counter for my coffee mug, my free hand reflexively clutching an imaginary handle. My other hand held Wright’s bouquet. The roses were wrapped in crinkly plastic—most likely purchased from the hotel gift shop.

“You saw the murder happen?” There was sympathy in Wright’s voice.

“Yes.” Where the heck was my mug?

Anarchy poured a fresh cup of coffee, brought it to me, and took the flowers from my hand.

“Thank you.” Two words completely inadequate for the depth of my gratitude.

Now Wright’s eyes narrowed. He smoothed his red cashmere scarf over the lapel of his camel hair coat, sprinkling raindrops onto the kitchen floor, and jerked his chin toward Bruce’s bouquet. “Pretty. Where are the flowers I sent you?”

“The living room. Thank you, again. They really are lovely.”

“Not nearly as lovely as the woman I sent them to.”

What was that sound? Was Anarchy grinding his teeth?

I painted on the brightest smile I could muster. “Wright and I met on Friday night. We had dinner with Bill and Libba at the Alameda.”

“Yes,” said Anarchy. “He told me.”

“Best blind date I’ve ever been on.” Wright beamed at the room at large.

The sound again. Anarchy was definitely grinding his teeth.

It hadn’t been a date. Not really. Except for the part about drinks. And dinner. And two couples.

“I learned so much about commercial real estate.” Surely Anarchy would understand how incredibly bored I’d been.

“You’re a developer?” asked Daddy.

“I am.”

“What are you in town for?” Daddy was being polite. That or he was trying to defuse the tension that pulsed in my kitchen like the beat of a kettle drum.

“Downtown development.” Again Wright smoothed his lapels.

“The new convention hotel?”

Wright answered with a nod and a satisfied smile. “Exactly.”

“Are they going to get that thing up before the Republican convention next year?”

Wright’s smile faltered. “We’re trying.” He glanced around my kitchen—at the copper pots hanging from a rack in the ceiling, at cooling plates of eggs, at the paintings on the wall. “Are those your paintings, Ellison?”

“They are.”

“You’re talented. Very.” He sounded almost surprised.

“Thank you.” My voice might have been a tad dry. The man had offered to buy paintings sight unseen. One would think he would have at least asked if they were any good before saying he’d cover the walls of his new hotel with them. I shifted my gaze to the three plates of food. “And thank you for stopping by.”

Not a subtle hint.

“Libba said you have a daughter. I’d love to meet her.”

“She’s not here.” And, for a half-second, much as I wanted her home, I was glad she was away.

“Oh?”

“She spent the night with a friend.”

“So she missed all the excitement.” There was that word again. “It’s hard to keep track of teenagers these days.”

“Do you have children?” Daddy asked.

“No.” Wright shook his head as if his lack of children was the single biggest regret of his life. “I just think it must be hard being a parent. Especially to a teenager. There are so many temptations out there. So many ways to fall off the straight and narrow.”

Anarchy’s brows, which had been drawn together rose slightly. “Grace is a great kid. She’s got her head on straight.”

“Do you know her well?” There was a challenge in Wright’s question.

“Yes.”

Wright’s face tightened. Anarchy’s one-word answer hadn’t pleased him. “She can’t be as pretty as her mother.”

“Prettier,” I said. And smarter. And braver.

“Not possible.” Wright’s dazzling smile was back in force. He looked around the kitchen as if he was just realizing Anarchy was cooking breakfast. “I won’t keep you.”

“Thank you for the flowers.” I nodded toward the bouquet Anarchy had abandoned on the counter. “All of them.”

“You’re welcome. I don’t suppose you’d like to have dinner with me tonight?”

There was that grinding noise again.

I didn’t dare look at Anarchy. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Another time.” Wright’s devil-may-care tone made it sound as if I’d be willing to go out with him on a different night. “I can see myself out.” With one last dazzling smile, he leaned forward, brushed an unexpected kiss across my cheek, and pushed through the kitchen door.

A charged silence followed him. A silence that lasted an eternity (fifteen seconds).

Finally, I whispered, “Is he gone?”

“I’ll check.” Daddy pushed through the kitchen door. Either my father had adopted a significantly more helpful attitude than he’d ever exhibited before, or he wanted to escape the arcs of electricity zapping from Anarchy’s narrowed eyes.

I clutched my coffee cup. Tightly. I swallowed.

Brnng, brnng.

Saved by the bell.

I grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Russell? This is Donna calling. Would you please let Grace know she forgot her sweater?”

Grace forgot her sweater? That couldn’t be right. Grace was still at Donna’s house. “Grace isn’t there?”

“No, she left a little while ago.”

The cold rain pelting the windows was warmer than the blood in my veins. “She left?”

“Yes, ma’am. With a friend named Jane.”