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Sonny Gifford’s personality occupied a lot of space in Miss Daisy. Worse, he seemed at ease in the luxury car, an ease she’d never quite mastered. Roxie had kept Gran’s Cadillac because customers expected to have spacious accommodations, but she’d rather be driving a gas-friendly hybrid.
If her business took off, she’d upgrade her transportation. Until then she was stuck in the cavernous Miss Daisy. Thank goodness she’d also inherited Gran’s mechanic. Elmer Lowe was a dinosaur, but he knew his way around Miss Daisy like no one else.
“The old hotel has possibilities for your business.” She pointed out the empty two-story brick structure and pulled into a parking slot on Seaside Drive. “It’s in the heart of Mossy Bog and stands out from the other buildings on the block. Plus, it has ample living space on the second floor.”
Sonny wrinkled his nose. “Looks too pretentious for what I have in mind. Let’s keep going.”
At Birding Square, she showed him the colonnade-fronted Colonial which he hated and a lovely shotgun cottage which had just been remodeled. “Our premiere craftsman, James Arden, did the work on this cottage,” she said proudly. “He installed period crown molding and a claw-footed bath tub.”
The investment counselor dismissed the property with a flick of his hand. “Not interested. Too far off the beaten path.”
“Okay, we’ll move right along then. I have more prospects to show you.”
They were two blocks off Main Street, not five miles out of town. What was with this guy? The way his eyes darted and the almost sneer of his lips didn’t add up. On the surface, Sonny Gifford was a lanky blonde businessman with expansion on his mind. But Roxie’s gut instincts were a little off kilter lately. Jumping at every shadow, imagining she was being followed, now suspecting clients of ulterior motives. What had gotten into her?
It didn’t matter. She didn’t like him and she didn’t have to like him. There were plenty of clients she didn’t like. And that was okay. She only had to like their money.
“This town is so quaint,” he said. “There must be quite a few legends associated with it.”
She drove on, making a series of turns. “We do. Our Chamber of Commerce revived the legend of our sea monster, Mossy Girl. She’s reputed to be kin to Nessie, the Loch Ness monster. Like Nessie, she’s been seen on misty mornings or at twilight.”
“Mossy Girl. I like that. I could use the story on my website once I relocate here. Any other legends I should know about?”
“Blackbeard Island is off the coast here. Edward Teach’s treasure was never found. Every year or two someone gets interested in searching for that again.”
“Ah yes. Buried treasure. That might work even better to entice investment clients. Mossy Bog has a rich natural history. And other legends around here, say pertaining to the land or homes?”
She was used to selling the town as well as the property, but his insistence on this line of questioning made her uneasy. “We have our share of ghost stories, if that’s what you mean.”
“Ghosts, eh? Give me a second here. Ghosts. Hmm. No, I don’t think that’s a good investment image. People might think their money would vanish into thin air.”
She stopped on River Street at the tabby coated shell of a single story building. The exterior limestone had darkened with age, but the thick walls of sand, lime, and oyster shell were still as strong as when they’d been shaped a century ago. “This property is dirt cheap, but as you can see, it needs extensive work inside and a new roof. It’s been on the market for a while, and the owner is willing to deal.”
Sonny studied the building, then tugged at his cufflinks. “It has potential. What’s the price?”
Finally. A nibble. Roxie drew in a deep breath and quoted a figure. “Would you like to walk the property?”
“No need. I’ve got the gist of it for now.”
She eased down the block, stopping at the larger tabby shell. “I’m working with a group to establish a nautical museum here.”
Sonny perked up. “Oh? Where are you in the process?”
“The community is receptive to the idea. We’ve drawn up plans. But funding is a challenge. We’ve yet to figure out how to pay for it.”
“You’ve pursued grants and loans?”
“Sure. We’re keeping our fingers crossed. I mentioned the museum because the other property will increase in value and cost as the museum moves forward.”
“So noted. What else is on your list this morning?”
She scooted a few streets over to the three-bedroom ranch on Third Street, drove past the waterfront contemporary on Octavia Drive, and even pitched him the abandoned convenience store a block off of Main.
His response never wavered. “Not interested.” Defeated, she turned down Prospect Street to head back to the office. “I like that one with the yellow kayak in the yard,” he said.
Her house. Roxie blushed. “It is the same vintage as the other property you like, but that house isn’t for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale. What would the owner say to $400,000?”
She’d say holy cow. But she’d never sell her house. Not in a million years. It was her home. “I’ll pass your offer along, but don’t get your hopes up. That house has belonged to the same family since it was built.”
“What about the Victorian on Main Street? Any chance the owner is ready to part with it yet?”
Sloan’s house. Her heart sunk. “I’ve spoken with the owner about your interest. He was very clear. His house is not on the market. But, it may become available later.”
“Circle by there again, if you would.”
“Of course.” Roxie kept her polite real estate mask in place. Thank goodness it was a Tuesday and Sloan would be in Atlanta. There were several pickups on his lawn, two men standing on the roof.
“That house is perfect,” Sonny said. “The architecture is elegant yet understated, the grounds are manicured, and it doesn’t feel slick or glossy. It says Old South. Plus the location is exactly where I want. Any chance we could walk through?”
“No, it’s private property. Mr. Gifford, there are two vacant lots on Main Street that are this size. You could build this same house and be ready to go in six months.”
“I want 605 Main Street.” His voice sharpened. “If you can’t make it happen, I’ll call Sally at BC Realty.”
Roxie pulled into the office lot beside his sedan, her face in perma-freeze mode, her head pounding. “Call as many realtors as you like. It won’t make any difference. That property is not for sale.”
***
“WHAT’S BUGGING YOU?” Megan asked. “You’ve been down in the dumps for over a week. Did you have a fight with your Mr. Harding?”
Roxie looked up from the search she was running for a new buyer. Was she that transparent? Saying goodbye to Sloan had been awful. Even though she’d amputated him from her life, she secretly craved the comfort she’d felt in his arms. It felt as if he should still be there, still eating her up with those hungry eyes.
She’d done the right thing. Securing her financial future was her top priority. She wouldn’t let her relative youth or a bad economy tank the family firm. She’d promised Gran to keep it going, and she would.
“I’m no longer seeing Mr. Harding,” she admitted.
“What about your contract with him?”
“We parted ways.”
Megan’s brown eyes brimmed with speculation. “You want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. “Things didn’t work out between us. That’s all.”
Her friend drummed her fingers on her desk. “Um hmm. Why don’t I believe you? Could it be that you’ve spent most of the week staring out the window, watching leaves fall from the maple tree?”
“So?”
“I’m not buying your story one hundred percent, but I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt because you’re my boss. Anything else bugging you?”
Everything was bugging her, from the annoying tag in her shirt collar down to her absent-minded brother. “I haven’t heard from Timmy in weeks. He should have checked in by now. Why won’t he return my calls?”
Her friend walked over to the coffee pot. “If you’re so worried about him, why don’t you zip up to Atlanta and check on him?”
Atlanta was where Sloan lived.
Her heart lurched. Though it was a big city, her luck would be that she’d run into him. She wasn’t ready to see him yet. She might never be ready to see him again, not without her heart breaking in two.
“Could you think of anything worse than having your big sister drop by your college apartment to check up on you?” Roxie shuddered. “I should accept that no news is good news, but Timmy has always been a mix of free-spirited and needy. I can’t imagine him going so long without calling home.”
Megan carried her coffee back to her desk. “Let me get this straight. You’re worried because he’s settled in at college and doesn’t need his big sister to watch over him?”
“No. That’s not it. I’m worried there’s something he’s not telling me, that he’s deliberately avoiding me until it’s too late for me to help him.” Was that why that man had been watching her? Was Timmy in trouble with the law?
“You are worrying yourself to a frazzle.” Megan chuckled. “You need to get out of this office and have some fun.”
As soon as Megan said fun, Sloan’s face popped into Roxie’s head. He knew how to have fun. He was probably knee deep in some intriguing security problem, running his house rehab from his swanky Atlanta address, and dating a different beautiful woman every night of the week.
The thought of him with someone else nauseated her.
His rehab was in full swing. She awoke each morning to the whir of saws and the clatter of hammers. She wouldn’t go over there, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she had regrets.
Regrets. That sounded so benign. Regret didn’t begin to cover the heaviness in her heart, the darkness in her days, the angst in her dreams.
Worse, she’d let someone else influence her judgment. She’d been swayed by the money Noreen had dangled in front of her. Never before had she sold herself. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth and an ache in her heart.
She’d traded one dream for another and in the process lost something she valued more.
Her self-respect.
***
“I EXPECT THAT ENTIRE section to be redone, at your expense.” Sloan couldn’t believe the roofing contractor had done such shoddy work. There was a half-inch gap between the plywood sections covering the hole in his roof. He could have installed a new roof in the time it had taken the roofer to get this far.
When his cell phone rang, he walked outside to take the call in privacy. His second-in-command, Jeff Bates, briefed him on the events of the week. Though it was only Wednesday morning, they were falling apart without him there at the office. “Damn it, Bates, you’re supposed to be handling this. Send a second team over to Castle Technology if things are so backed up. How hard can it be to fingerprint a firm of computer geeks? Are the background checks for that new drug store completed yet?”
“We’re working on it, boss.”
Sloan pinched the bridge of his nose. Yelling at Bates wasn’t productive. The man was rock solid. Work was getting done, that was good. He wasn’t running the company into bankruptcy by playing hooky with this rehab project. “Everything in place for the peanut company’s dog and pony show?”
“The caterer is lined up. Terence is tweaking your slide show presentation, glitzing up the graphics and animation. The office is clean. All that’s left is to get you back up here in time for the nine o’clock show Friday morning.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Great.”
“What about Gilmore? Did Reg have any luck searching his records?”
“He’s putting together his report, but here are the basics. Jared Gilmore was born in Albany, Georgia, the son of Vera Chapman and Alfonso Gilmore. His father took off before he was born, died of a drug overdose in Tallahassee a few years later. His waitress mother married Walter Cummings, a not-so-clever con who served time in Reidsville. The mother died of cancer while his step-dad was in prison. Gilmore dropped out of high school and became a gopher for a high roller. He branched out on his own eight years ago, building a reputation as an ambulance chaser for a shyster in Charleston.”
“What does any of that have to do with Team Six Security?”
“I don’t know, boss. None of our clients match up on a cross-check. You sure his interest isn’t personal?”
“I’ve never met the man.” Even as he said it, a tentative connection forged in his thoughts. His father had served time in Reidsville. What were the odds the two men would have run into each other in prison? And what would that have to do with Gilmore?
“We didn’t check Gilmore’s phone records. Reg could do that in between Castle Technology and the drug store dealio.”
“Do it.” Sloan ended the call and noticed the electrician exiting the freshly painted white house. He followed the man out to the driveway. In the last week and a half he’d found that contractors took a lot of breaks. If he didn’t watch out, they’d bill him for all that down time. “Where are you going?”
“Lunch.”
The electrician’s curt tone fueled Sloan’s simmering frustration. “It’s ten-thirty in the morning. If you walk off the job now, I’m going to fire you.”
“Suit yourself.” The electrician shrugged. “I’ve got more work than I can handle.”
Sloan ground his back teeth together. “You’re fired.”
Minutes later the cluster of pickup trucks on his lawn vanished. His house, which had been a beehive of activity, resembled a ghost town. These contractors didn’t know what hard work was. None of them would’ve lasted an hour over in Iraq. Sissies, all of them.
Earlier, the plumber had walked off the job after a day and a half of muttering. The other three plumbers in the phone book had no availability. Which meant no new hot water heater and cold showers.
He’d just fired the electrician. Who the hell went to lunch so early? It wasn’t like the guy had started before dawn and was starving. He’d reported to the job at nine a.m.
The roofer and his helper departed with the electrician. Good riddance. They hadn’t been setting the world on fire either. So much for that cream-of-the-crop contractor list from Roxie.
How did anyone make a living doing this? Keeping track of varied work schedules and additional contractor expenses was an unending nightmare. It would be easier to do the work himself.
With that thought, Sloan put Mac in the fenced backyard and picked up a screw driver he’d found in the kitchen rubble. How hard could it be to connect a few wires?
***
THE BARKING WOULDN’T stop.
Roxie held her pounding temples and peered out into the damp night. She hadn’t slept well in ten days, and this incessant noise was pure torment.
Had someone left their dog out overnight? Where was the noise coming from?
When she walked out her front door, the noise receded. Next she tried her back porch, and the sound increased. She squinted into the murky drizzle.
Mac? It couldn’t be. This was Wednesday. Sloan was in Atlanta.
Her head ached with the constant barking. Mac wouldn’t bark like that anyway. He was too well trained. Still, the phone calls she’d planned to make this evening to track down more missing McClintoch heirs would have to wait.
She reached for her hooded khaki trench coat and lantern-style flashlight. The dismal weather suited her mood. She felt gray inside, like the drizzle falling in the cool night air.
She’d felt crappy for days. Ever since she’d decided against seeing Sloan. Ever since she’d told him she didn’t want to see him again.
Instead, she’d focused on her work with tunnel vision. The Ashburn property had closed. Another Open House had netted a contract Naomi Thompson had accepted for her cottage.
She’d even attended the Garden Club meeting last night to chat up the museum. The ladies had lauded her idea, so it had been worthwhile. And as a bonus, she now knew how to force her Christmas cactus to bloom, and that it was time to take her potted geraniums in for the winter.
She clicked on the flashlight while she locked her door behind her. The darkness bothered her but that couldn’t be helped. A dog was in trouble.
Following the sound of the barking, she crossed her soggy backyard, skirting a puddle near the heirloom azaleas. The dampness had her shivering in her sneakers. When would the rain stop? The ground couldn’t absorb much more water.
The barking grew louder the further she walked from her house. At least the animal wasn’t trapped on her property. When she found it, she’d befriend it with Mac’s dog biscuits in her pocket.
She opened the wooden gate into Sloan’s backyard. Funny, the noise seemed to be coming from his dark house. The grounds were clear. That was odd. Where was the equipment that went along with a big rehab job? All she saw was a construction dumpster sitting at the end of a newly paved driveway.
Suddenly, a large animal bounded out of the dark toward her. Fear rooted her feet to the ground, trapped a scream in her throat. A wet nose burrowed into her side, very near the pocket of dog biscuits. Her flashlight beam revealed a very familiar German Shepherd, whose tail wagged a mile a minute.
“Mac?”
The dog licked her hand. It was Mac.
Where was Sloan?
She rubbed dog’s head and pulled a treat from her pocket. The odor of wet dog filled her nostrils. Mac gulped down the treat without chewing it, then raced toward the house and back to Roxie. Her stomach clenched.
Something was wrong.
Sloan would never ignore his dog. Hadn’t he told her Mac was one of his best security employees?
She glanced at the dark house again. Her misgivings increased with each second. Why was Mac alone out here in the rain? Should she call Laurie Ann?
Common sense told her that there had to be a logical explanation for the dog being outside. More than likely it wasn’t a police matter.
Summoning her courage, she climbed the concrete steps to the back door and knocked.
The dog cried beside her. She called Sloan’s name and knocked louder.
No answer.
Icy fear twisted around her heart. Holding her breath, she tried the knob. It turned easily in her hand.
Exhaling cautiously, she leaned inside. A chill thickened her blood at the absolute silence in the pitch-black gutted kitchen. Had the intruder returned? “Sloan?”
Mac barreled past her. She followed the dog, her heart thumping madly. “Sloan?” she called again. Her flashlight beam illuminated the light switch near the back door. She flipped it on. Nothing happened.
Her heart skipped a beat. No electricity. Figured. She used the beam of her light to trace the wet paw prints up the staircase.
In the second floor hallway, Mac barked at the base of the fold-down attic stairs. Roxie mounted the creaking stairs and shone her light into the rafters. Sheer black fright swept through her. This was so creepy, as if Sloan had vanished in thin air. “Sloan?”
The rain was much louder up here. The air felt cooler, damper. She shivered uncontrollably at the steady plink of water dripping through the roof into a bucket. “Sloan? Where are you?”
As soon as her head cleared the stairwell, she beamed her light over the floor. Her heart raced out of control. Sloan lay on his back not four feet away, an overturned water pail by his head. She hurried over and knelt at his side.
As a child of missionaries, she knew first aid basics. With trembling fingers, she monitored Sloan’s vital signs.
Airway – clear. Pulse – good. Skin – warm.
He was alive.
Relief swept through her as she checked his pupils.
Dilated, but responsive to light.
She noticed a slight abrasion in his hairline above his left eye. Skimming the area with her fingertips, she discovered a golf ball sized lump on his head.
What had happened? It looked like he’d been emptying rain buckets because of the storm, but he’d beaned his head on the low hanging rafter by the stairs. How long had he been out?
An hour? More? Should she call nine-one-one?
Sloan moaned.
The dog barked from the base of the stairs.
Warmth flooded her veins, melting the shards of ice that had settled there. She said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that she wasn’t too late.
“It’s all right, Mac. I found him,” she called. The dog hushed at the sound of her voice.
Sloan opened his eyes and tried to sit up. “Roxie?”
“Don’t move,” she cautioned, laying a hand across his chest. His heart thumped a steady rhythm under her fingers. Sympathy tangled with concern. “You’ve had an accident. Where does it hurt?”
His hand covered hers. All the emotion she’d been battling since they’d parted ways shot to the surface. The deluge of feelings stole her breath, but she couldn’t give in to them now. Sloan needed her to think for both of them.
“My head hurts like a son of a gun,” he said.
“I found a lump in your hairline. Looks like you hit your head on a rafter. Can you move your arms and legs?”
He sat up. “Everything seems to be in good working order. It’s just my head that’s giving me fits.”
“Stay put. Are you woozy? Seeing stars?”
He glanced at her, his dark brown gaze sweeping over her in a very familiar way. Her blood heated. “I’m surprised to see you,” he said.
Not nearly as surprised as she was to find him passed out cold in his attic. That was a sight she wouldn’t soon forget. “Mac has been barking like a dog possessed trying to get someone’s attention for over an hour,” she said. “I thought some poor animal was hurt, so I went looking for him. Mac led me here.”
“Where is he?”
“At the base of the stairs. He’s very anxious to see you.”
“He hates those stairs.”
“I hate them, too. What happened to your electricity?”
“I fired the electrician today, and the roofer quit too. I tried to finish the wiring job, but I short-circuited the whole house.”
She stared. The electrician she’d recommended was the most reliable, most easy-going contractor in the low country. “You fired Mr. Cramer?”
He gingerly ran his fingers along his jaw. “We didn’t see eye to eye. I fired him. I’ll hire another electrician.”
“Don’t waste your time.” She shot him a critical glance. How could she be upset with him when she was so happy to see him again? “If you fired Mr. Cramer, not a soul in this county will work for you.”
“Hell. It’s not my fault. The man wanted to take his lunch at ten-thirty in the morning. This job will never get finished at that rate. I had to take a stand.”
She wanted to shake some sense into him. “I’ll bet you didn’t ask him why either.”
“Wouldn’t matter. There’s nothing that would make me change my mind. He took advantage of me.”
Roxie lost it. “You moron. He always takes his wife in for dialysis on Wednesdays at lunch time.”
Sloan flinched. “Why didn’t he say so?”
The startled expression on his face pleased her. Mr. Successful Atlanta Businessman didn’t know everything. About time he learned the world didn’t revolve around him. “Because everyone knows about his wife. He’s related to half the town. Your roofing contractor is his son-in-law.”
“My ex-roofing contractor. He walked off the job when I fired Cramer.”
“Sounds like you need a property manager.”
“Had one. She quit on me.”
He struggled to his feet, swaying wildly. She grabbed him around the waist and stabilized him. Did he think he was invincible? “Hold on. You can’t go down the stairs weaving like that. I’ll call the fire department to carry you down.”
“Hell no. I can get down the stairs.” He clutched a cross beam for support. “I don’t need a house full of people laughing at me for beaning my head.”
“Wait a minute.” She righted the overturned bucket underneath the biggest leak in the ceiling. Trying to catch that single stream of water was probably a wasted effort when rain sprinkled around them in the attic.
She scrambled to the stairs first. “Follow me. If you lose your balance, I’ll catch you.”
“Bad plan,” he grumbled. “If I lose my balance, I’ll flatten both you and Mac.”
“It’s the only plan we’ve got. Come on. People get concussions from hitting their heads like you did. You should be checked out at the hospital.”
“No doctors.” He eased down the ladder.
“You can’t out-stubborn me, Sloan Harding. If you won’t get medical attention, then you will come home with me.”
“I’ll be fine here by myself.”
She gripped his waist again and steered him toward the back door, stopping to help him into his jacket which was slung over the chair. “Do you want me to yell at you again? Your head is probably pounding something fierce. I would have taken a dog in out of this storm. I’m not leaving an injured man alone in a house with no electricity.”
To her surprise, he relented. She forced her confused emotions into order. She had to be strong for both of them.
Mac dogged her heels all the way home. She heaved a sigh of relief when they crossed her threshold. “I’m putting you in Timmy’s room. Can you make another flight of stairs?”
“Nice place,” Sloan said as she steered him toward Timmy’s double bed.
She turned down the bedding and helped him remove his damp jacket. Mac sniffed the perimeter of the room, then lay down on the rug.
“Can I get you anything to drink or eat?”
“I want to sleep.”
“Not happening. I need to periodically check your pupils to make sure they are responsive to light. Why don’t you get out of those wet clothes?”
He grinned and tugged off his shirt. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She left the room while he peeled off his clothes. Even injured, his charm was potent. Her thoughts weren’t Florence Nightingale pure to start with.
She returned with a damp washcloth. “How about a cold cloth for your head?”
He patted the covers beside him. “How about if my nurse lays down next to me?”
He couldn’t be hurt too bad if he was flirting with her. “Are you cold?” She unfolded the white blanket at the foot of the bed and arranged it over the bedding covering him.
He caught her hand and pulled her across the bed, down to his chest. “Please. Stop moving. It hurts my head to keep following you around.”
“I’ll leave, then.”
Sloan didn’t release her hand. “How are you going to check my pupils out from out there?”
“With a long stick?” she improvised, wishing her pulse would settle.
He swore under his breath and brought his other arm up to reach for her, the cold compress sliding onto the pillow. “I’m not road kill. I’ve never jumped a woman in my life.”
She eased into his bare arms, grateful for the layers of bedding separating them. He didn’t feel very cold. He radiated heat like the barrier island sand dunes in July.
His arms tightened around her as they lay on the bed together, him under the covers and her on top. “Thank you for taking good care of me.”
His nearness sent her senses spinning. “Just being neighborly,” she said.
He sighed, and she guessed he’d closed his eyes. “Things are different in the city. I don’t even know who my neighbors are. You’re the best neighbor I’ve ever had.”
Her insides jangled with excitement. She had no doubts about who her neighbor was. Just how she felt about him.
She thought he’d fallen asleep when he turned his head and asked, “Roxie?”
His masculine scent filled her lungs with wanting. This wasn’t a good idea. She was far too vulnerable where he was concerned.
Turning her face up to his, she answered him. “Yes?”
His fingers stroked the side of her face. His gaze was as electric as his caress. “I want to kiss you.”
“You do?” Her spirits soared. She’d dreamed of his kisses. “We shouldn’t. I mean, you’re hurt.”
The corners of his lips twitched. “I don’t mind playing the patient if you’re my doctor.”
“I’m not a doctor. I’m not even a nurse.”
His lips hovered over hers for a second, then brushed lightly against hers, leaving her yearning for more. Her arms tightened around his neck as she lost herself in his surprisingly gentle kiss. A delicious sensation rippled through her. As his kiss deepened, she hungered for completion.
“This isn’t a good idea,” she murmured. His lips nuzzled the pulsing hollow of her throat. Feverish chills raced down her spine.
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing.” He kissed the buttons of her blouse open. His warm breath inflamed her with reckless abandon.
Need bubbled through her. She wanted him. She’d known it from the moment she’d first laid eyes on him. Staying in his bed invited disaster.
It was also the most thrilling thing she’d ever done.