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Midnight found Sloan pacing around the chipped Formica table in his kitchen circling back to the sink. Tonight’s romantic dinner had been perfect. He’d nailed the place. Romantic atmosphere. Delicious food. Roxie had been full of smiles just for him. Everything had proceeded nicely until Noreen Bagwell stopped by their table.
Something had flickered between the women once Noreen mentioned his father. His hands fisted at his sides. His deadbeat father wasn’t a secret, but he was tired of being tarred with the same brush. Everywhere he turned in this town he ran into his father’s memory.
He stared out the window over the sink. Nothing but night outside. Not a light in sight. The unrelenting darkness out there matched the emptiness he felt inside.
At dinner, he’d sensed his time had run out. Like a drowning man, he’d yanked the lifeline of Roxie’s friendship until it snapped in his hands. Stupid. Not at all his style. He’d spent years perfecting his seduction technique. But when things fouled up this time, instead of cutting his losses, he’d dug a deeper hole for himself.
He wanted her. Wanted her so much that he’d been careless with his feelings. He knew better than to let emotions get involved. Only, this time it mattered. This time he didn’t want to be anyone’s boy toy. This time, this woman, they mattered.
He opened the new fridge he’d just bought and pulled out a root beer. His dog stared at him with reproach in his eyes. “I screwed up, okay?” He sipped the cool beverage. “I tipped my hand too soon. She panicked, so we’re alone tonight. My bad.”
Mac rested his head on his paws with a long-suffering sigh. Sloan knew just how he felt. He scanned the tiny kitchen, his attention coming to rest on his granddad’s Army trunk. Might as well entertain himself with the past. He sat down and opened the battered green trunk. Last time he’d sorted through the stack of papers on the left. He reached for a handful of papers from the center.
Hours later, he held three canceled checks for five thousand dollars each made out to Matthew Bolen. Lavinia’s husband. Roxie’s grandfather. Curiosity sliced through him, along with suspicion.
What were the checks for? The other canceled checks in the trunk had been issued to cover routine expenses. These checks made out on the first of three successive months didn’t follow that pattern. They lent credence to another theory and established another pattern. Further, this money trail had no known outcome.
Fifteen thousand dollars. Twenty years ago, that was a small windfall. What had Roxie’s grandfather done with the money? His pulse raced in his ears. Was this a lead to the lost Harding fortune?
Had his father seen these checks? Was that why he’d been so certain he’d been cheated out of his inheritance? The idea tantalized Sloan. By all accounts, his father had been unhinged. Had the old man been onto something all along?
To know that he had to dig beneath the surface. Was he willing to risk even more ridicule and disdain? Not that anyone’s opinion in Mossy Bog amounted for much in his book. Except Roxie’s.
She mattered.
What a mess.
What happened to his inheritance? Had his granddad gambled the money away? Had he been blackmailed? What could possibly explain the missing money?
Had Roxie’s family benefitted from Sloan’s inheritance all these years? Was his granddad’s money the seed capital for Lavinia’s real estate business?
He shifted uneasily in his chair. Was this the underlying reason for Roxie’s caution in their personal relationship?
Was she afraid the truth would come out?
That she’d have to give the money back?
***
ROXIE UNFASTENED THE last button on her coral blazer and sat down in the bench seat across from Noreen. Sheryl’s Diner was hopping at eight in the morning. White-headed seniors dotted the fifties-style booths and burly men with hearty appetites lined the bar stools at the counter. The cozy aromas of bacon and fresh perked coffee filled the air. “Morning.”
“Don’t you look pretty as a picture,” Noreen cooed. “How’s my favorite real estate broker this morning?”
For five years, Noreen had dangled Widow’s Peak as a potential listing. Gran had done everything short of buying the property herself, but Noreen never signed a contract. Would this year be any different?
“Doing good.” Roxie opened her silverware roll and placed her paper napkin in her lap.
“What about all that hoo-rah over at your place? The burglar and the boat and the credit card mess?”
“I’ve stopped the bleeding on the credit card disaster. Laurie Ann’s got no idea who my burglar was or where the kayak came from. Fortunately, the burglar hasn’t returned.”
“What will you do with the boat?”
“Use it, I guess. I can’t believe no one is missing a kayak.”
The waitress appeared, and Roxie ordered coffee and toast. Noreen got a steak and mushroom omelet, a fruit platter, and a side serving of pumpkin pancakes.
“You’re looking good, Noreen,” Roxie stated, anxious to shift the conversation away from her troubles. Noreen’s dashing camel colored ankle boots, crisp tweed slacks with matching brown pullover, and gleaming amber pendant could have been plucked from a glossy catalog.
“No point in looking shabby. Men pay attention when you look good. Learned that lesson a long time ago.”
“You looking for a man?”
“Honey, I’m always looking for a good man. Trouble is, they’re darned hard to find. Too many of that other kind.”
Roxie dumped sugar and milk into her steaming coffee and took a cautious sip. Fortification was essential when dealing with a formidable opponent. “What other kind?”
“The kind that does you wrong.” Noreen’s diamonds flashed as she waggled a finger at Roxie. “You better watch that Harding boy.”
Her hand jerked. Coffee sloshed over the top of her hand. Wincing, she quickly dabbed it dry. “Sloan? What about him?”
“As a kid, he stayed one step ahead of the law. If there was trouble in Mossy Bog, you could bet your bottom dollar that Harding boy was involved.”
Roxie’s hackles rose. “I don’t remember any major crime sprees.”
“Your grandmother, bless her heart, did everything she could for that boy, and he still had a bent for mischief. He ran wild, that’s what, and his crowd ended up in jail, every last one of them.”
The waitress appeared with a tray of food. Roxie’s toast plate was dwarfed by the multiple platters of food for Noreen.
“Sloan turned his life around.” Roxie slathered her toast with orange marmalade and took a bite. “He has a security business in Atlanta.”
The older woman snorted. “Hiring that Harding boy for a security job is like asking a shark to patrol the fish pond. Mark my words, nothing good can come from that family. His father was a complete wastrel.”
Unwanted fascination flared. “Last night you said you knew his father.”
Noreen’s pale blue eyes glistened with excitement. She pointed a forkful of omelet at Roxie. “Edward Harding ended up wrapped around a bottle. He had everything, a good job, a pretty wife, a golf club membership, a brilliant future over at the college, but he threw it away chasing after foolish things.”
“Like what?”
“Like women half his age, like backroom gambling with the boys over at the Green Door, like taking for granted the good times would never end. When life turned on him, Edward imploded. He gave up.”
“Why does that bother you so much?”
“Edward had potential. He was the smartest kid in our class, but he never applied himself. He put forth the minimum effort and slid by. That boy of his wasn’t much better.”
Roxie placed her toast crust on the empty white plate. Blood rushed in her ears. “What are you saying?”
“You should be very careful.”
This conversation had strayed too far into the personal for her comfort. And—for God’s sake—was the man in the corner having coffee the same man she’d seen last night at the restaurant? This was getting bizarre.
Time to get refocused. She removed a sheaf of papers from her tote bag and placed them on the marble-like tabletop.
“Let’s talk contracts, Noreen,” she said firmly. “Have you settled on an asking price?”
“I want two million.” Noreen studied her. “Lavinia always told me that was too high.”
Was this a test? Would Noreen be unreasonable about the list price? “It is. In this down market, you’re more likely to get one million.”
“That won’t do. Not at all. I’m counting on you to do better than that.”
“I want your business, but even if your place went on the market today, it could take years to find the right buyer. Especially if it’s way overpriced.”
Noreen’s fork paused on the way to her mouth. “Years, you say?”
Roxie nodded.
“I assumed folks would stand in line to own Widow’s Peak.” Her watery gaze sharpened. “It would make a nice bed and breakfast if you get that museum of yours going.”
Irritation simmered in Roxie’s blood. “That project was vetoed by City Council. I’m sure you remember.”
“Details. You’re a fighter, like Lavinia. You’ll find a way to fund that museum and when you do you’ll have my vote.”
“You’re no longer opposed to the museum?”
“I’m not opposed to the museum, just to the notion of paying for it with my taxes. It would be a lovely addition to Mossy Bog.”
“I see.” Roxie rubbed her throbbing temples. Dealing with Noreen after a restless night taxed her patience. She desperately wanted to believe the woman, but this could be another game she was running.
Was it too much to ask for the woman to sign a property contract and leave the museum out of it?
“I thought you might.” Noreen shoveled in the last of her pumpkin pancakes. “Time is running out for me, I’m afraid. I can’t afford to wait years to cash out of Widow’s Peak. Something has come up, you see...”
Alarm replaced Roxie’s irritation. “What’s wrong, Noreen?”
The older woman shook her head. “I can’t say, dear. Not even my bridge group knows yet. I’m willing to sign that listing contract with you right now.”
Roxie blinked at this strange turn of events. “You are?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she said slowly, not trusting her good fortune. She dug through her briefcase until she found a blank contract. Her hands shook. Her commission as the listing agent would be a huge chunk of cash. She started filling in the particulars. “What’s your real asking price?”
“How about a bonus to sweeten the pot? Everything I clear over a million dollars I’ll donate to your Friends of the Museum group.”
Roxie’s excitement dimmed. Clearing a million would be hard, if the place sold at all. Still, it was better than nothing. “That’s more than generous of you, Noreen. Thank you.”
“What do you say to a million five? That would give us negotiating room.”
Dollar signs danced in Roxie’s head. If she listed and sold the property and took home a bonus for the museum, she’d be sitting pretty. “A million five it is.” She completed the form and passed the document across the table.
While the woman reviewed it, Roxie thought of ways to attract a big ticket buyer. Definitely Internet ads. She could contact people off the richest people in America list. This was so cool. She couldn’t wait to tell Sloan her good news.
“There’s an itty bitty catch to my offer.”
Roxie toned down her mental happy dancing. “What?”
“Youngsters like you are the future of this town. I’ve seen how you care about this place, and I’m impressed. Therefore, I’ve taken it upon myself to protect you.”
“Oh?” She picked up her coffee cup, saw that it was empty, and put it down.
“Lavinia would be appalled if she knew what was going on.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I realize I have no right to say anything. Your private life is just that.” Noreen blotted her face with a napkin. Roxie braced for the rest of it. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good.
“I’m no fool,” the woman continued. “Selling my place will secure your financial future. If you do as I ask, your Friends group could gain a boatload of money. Here’s the bottom line. I asked around. Sloan Harding goes through women like water, same as his father. My condition for the bonus is that you stop seeing him socially.”
The noise from the diner faded. Roxie’s heart pounded in her ears like a kettle drum. “Excuse me?”
Noreen signed her name in large script. “You don’t have to tell me your answer. I’ll know by your actions.” With that, Noreen swept out of the restaurant, sticking Roxie with the check.
That was one part of the morning she’d expected. The rest boggled her mind. But she held a signed contract in her hands. That was a fact.
Her stomach knotted as she digested Noreen’s pointed remarks. She had worked so hard to get where she was today. It hadn’t been easy selling real estate and going to school. Passing the broker’s test had been as hard as any collegiate exam.
Harder.
But she had garnered the credentials to succeed in Gran’s business. Given Noreen’s ridiculous demand, dating Sloan could cost her hundreds of thousands of dollars.
She stared into her empty coffee cup as people bustled in and out of the busy diner. The coffee-drinking man from the corner left too. Grimly, she ranked her objectives. Securing the future of Marshview Realty was her priority.
She wouldn’t let a spate of hormones jeopardize her business or the museum.
Would she?
The waitress paused beside the booth. “More coffee, hon?”
“No thanks. I’m all done.”
***
SLOAN ROSE WITH THE Saturday sun. He ate a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast, then drained the rest of the milk from the carton. From the kitchen window, he watched Mac romp in the backyard. His gaze lingered on the back gate that separated his property from Roxie’s. Suddenly the proximity of her place took on sinister connotations.
From Prospect Street, her modest two-story house appeared unassuming. But then, her roof didn’t leak, her plumbing worked, her electrical connections were up to code, and her appliances were modern.
As he was finding out, house repairs weren’t cheap. No telling how much money had been sunk into her place over the years. A fortune, most likely. If they’d paid in cash, it would be untraceable.
Had her family stolen from his?
The question wormed through his thoughts. Not even a lukewarm shower cleared his head.
He stared at the painting supplies neatly stacked on his coffee table. Frustration gnawed at his gut. Painting was too tame for his mood. He needed action. He grabbed his shiny new sledge hammer and started bashing in the kitchen cabinets.
Wood splintered and crunched as he made his way from the ancient stove toward the new refrigerator. With each heft and crash of the heavy tool, his satisfaction grew.
The sooner he got this house remodeled, the sooner he could shed his ties to the past. Pots and pans clattered to the floor as another cabinet fell victim to his blows. Dishes and glassware splintered and shattered
He didn’t care about any of it. There was nothing in this house worth keeping, with the exception of his new bed and refrigerator.
Outside, Mac woofed a welcome.
Sloan turned, sledge hammer in hand. Roxie stood at his back door. From the wary expression in her tropical eyes, she wouldn’t be jumping into his bed this morning either.
His rising spirits plummeted.
What had the Bagwell woman said to her this morning?
He risked a wry smile as he opened the door. “Watch your step. I got an early start.”
She skirted past him, picking her way through the rubble on the floor. “I see that. I thought you were keeping the repairs simple and cosmetic.”
“Changed my mind this morning.”
Her thick hair was snugged back in a ponytail, her long legs encased in body skimming jeans. There were no buttons open on her prim white blouse. Something intangible had changed between them. His gut tightened.
“We need to talk,” she said.
His grip on the sledge hammer tightened. Every conversation where he’d been dumped had started like this one.
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” she began.
“But?”
“But, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Define this.”
“This.” Her hand gestured between them. “Us.”
He’d been right.
She was dumping him.
A cold wind swept through him. Not trusting himself to speak, he pressed his lips together and waited for her to say the words.
When she didn’t say anything else, hope flickered in the back of his mind. He hurried to fill in the silence. “I’m sorry about last night. I made a mistake by pushing too hard. I want to spend time with you, Roxie. We have something good going on here. Please give us another chance.”
Her hands clenched together. “This isn’t a decision I’ve made lightly. All my life I’ve searched for a place to belong. Mossy Bog is my home. I’ve put down roots here—”
“I’m not asking you to give that up.”
“Let me finish. Last night, I saw a different side of you, one I’d refused to acknowledge before. Being here is painful for you. Once you conclude your business with the house, you’ll head back to Atlanta. Right?”
“Maybe.”
“Even if we got along famously, geography would be a problem.”
“I can make it work.”
“Why should you have to? Truth is I don’t want to go to Atlanta. You don’t want to stay here.”
“You’re calling it quits because we live in different cities? That’s a challenge, I’ll grant you that much, but it isn’t a deal breaker.”
“It is to me.”
“Let’s think about this.”
“Nope. My mind is made up. This is for the best.”
He took a step forward. “Not for me. This isn’t better for me.”
Her palm shot out. “Stop.” She cleared her throat. “I don’t think you need a property manager, not if you take charge of the rehab work yourself, but if you still want one, I’d like to suggest my associate, Megan. She is very organized and will do a good job for you.”
She didn’t want to work with him either. Old fears and uncertainties swam into his consciousness. A small voice chanted in his mind, You’re no good, Harding. “We have a contract,” he grimly reminded her.
“One that I’m willing to let you out of without billing you for any of my time to date,” she countered.
She didn’t want anything to do with him.
What was the point of tying her to him with a business contract if he couldn’t have her?
She’d had him dancing to her tune for three weeks. He’d almost forgotten his true goals. Find the money and unload the house. He didn’t need permanent ties to Mossy Bog. About time he came to his senses.
“You’re right.” He lowered the sledge hammer to the floor. “Looks like I don’t need a property manager.”
Silence yawned across the abyss between them.
A great heaviness settled on his shoulders. He felt so weary he could barely hold his head up, but his eyes drank her in.
Strands of dark hair trailed down her neck from her ponytail. Those incredible blue-green eyes of hers, watery now, but so much a part of her that he’d never forget her.
Or how she’d melted against him.
She placed his house key on the table, squared her shoulders, and took a deep breath. “Good-bye, Sloan.”
Mutely, he watched her go.
He felt like the sun had gone behind a dark cloud. He wanted to crawl back in bed, but he wouldn’t give in to the emptiness he felt. Mac prowled around the demolition debris on the kitchen floor, sniffing purposefully, as if that would bring her back.
“Sorry, bud.” Sloan couldn’t explain what had happened to his dog. Hell. He couldn’t explain it to himself.
He’d gotten dumped before he’d even slept with her. That was a first.
To hell with her.
To hell with a property manager.
He’d show everyone in this lousy town what he was made of. He’d be his own property manager. Sell his own house, too.
Why share his profits with anyone? Mossy Bog had turned its back on him long ago. Nothing had changed. Roxie was right.
Mossy Bog wasn’t his home.
He didn’t belong here.