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Books by Dixie Browning
One Standing in the middle of the bedroom, dangling a pair of Chanel slingbacks by the stiletto heels, with a sleeveless black Donna Karan slung over her shoulder, Val Bonnard stared at the partially open closet and listened for the scratching noise to come again. Shivering in the chill air, she glanced quickly at the window. With the wind howling a gale, it might be only a branch scraping the eaves. What else could it be? She was alone in the house, wasn’t she? She was alone, period. Swallowing the lump that threatened to lodge permanently in her throat, she glared at the closet door. It was ajar because there wasn’t a level surface in the entire house. All the doors swung open, and all the windows leaked cold air. The temperature outside hovered in the low forties, which wasn’t particularly cold for Carolina in the middle of January, but it felt colder because of the wind. And the dampness. And the aloneness. She was still glaring when the mouse emerged, tipped her a glance, twitched
Two John Leo MacBride studied the encrusted mass of plates and cutlery that had been brought up from one of the Nazi submarines sunk during the Second World War off the New England coast. He considered leaving a few as he’d found them instead of soaking them all in an acid solution, prying them apart and cleaning them up. The before-and-after contrast would make a far more interesting display at the small museum that had commissioned the dives. He glanced at the clock on the wall of his stepbrother’s garage where he’d set up a temporary workspace a couple of months ago when Will had called, asking for help. So far, about all he’d been able to do was to keep Macy, Will’s wife, from making matters worse. That and stay on the heels of his lawyer, who might as well be back chasing ambulances for all the good he’d done his client. Mac had been standing by chiefly to offer moral support, which was more than Macy was doing. Instead, she seemed almost to be enjoying her role as the wife of a m
Three A few hours later, with both the furniture and the downstairs windows sparkling—on the inside, at least—Val collapsed onto one of the freshly scrubbed kitchen chairs. She kicked off her Cole Haans and sipped on a glass of chilled vegetable juice, hoping that that and peanut butter constituted a balanced diet. The ugly green refrigerator probably dated from the sixties. It was noisy and showing signs of rust, but at least it was now clean, inside and out. And if it wasn’t exactly energy efficient, neither was she at the moment. Marian had relayed the promise that her phone would be hooked up sometime today, which was a big relief. New number equaled no crank calls. She’d had to go outside and stand near the road to get even an erratic signal on her cell phone. After today, though, she could hook up her laptop, deal with her e-mail and check out the Greenwich newspapers to see if there’d been any new developments since she’d left town. That done, she’d better start composing a résu
Four From the waist down, he was scrumptious, Val mused, gazing up at the man on the ladder, his upper torso disappearing through the trap door. And if that was a sexist observation, he could sue her. Not that she would dare voice the sentiment aloud, but a woman would have to be both blind and neutered not to notice. They’d been working together for a day and a half now. Actually, not always together, but in the same small house there was no way she could ignore the man. For one thing, he was usually tapping, hammering or scraping. Not only that, but he whistled while he worked. Did he have any idea how far off-key he was? Either he was truly tone deaf or he was going out of his way to get under her skin. But why would he do that? As a plumber and a carpenter, he admitted to being adequate. When it came to inspecting the house wiring, he’d advised her to hire a licensed electrician. He had, however, checked the small heaters and the kitchen appliances, assuring her that the mice hadn’
Five Tired of the fruitless task of searching for a needle in a paper haystack, Val headed for the kitchen for something rich and sinfully decadent. Lacking any thing better, peanut butter dipped in chocolate syrup would serve as an antidote to frustration, only she didn’t have any chocolate syrup. Speaking of sinfully decadent, Mac was on his knees under the kitchen sink, an array of tools and a section of drainpipe beside him. She paused in the doorway to admire the view. “Hmm?” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Nothing. That is, I thought we might take a peanut—that is, a tea break between chores.” He backed out, bumped his head on the edge of the sink and started to swear, but cut it off. “Are we between chores?” “I am. I’ve just gone through a dozen years of worthless receipts for a house I don’t even own. I had no idea plumbers charged so much. Are we sure I can afford you?” Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he grinned up at her. “Depends. How good you are with a pipe wrench
Six They were less than halfway along the boardwalk when the rain struck in earnest. Mac might have grabbed her hand to pull her along, but there was no room on the narrow pathway, so he let her go ahead. When they were nearly at the end, he pointed to a park service facility nearby. Val didn’t ask questions. By now she was breathless, laughing and freezing, her shoes and jeans soaked through. The small facility was locked, but there was a covered porch separating the men’s side from the women’s. Leaning against the back wall she laughed until her sides ached. “What’s so funny?” Mac asked. “I don’t know. Nothing.” He shot her a quizzical look, and she said, “Didn’t you ever laugh at nothing?” “Not in the past twenty-odd years. Not while I was sober.” Her laughter died and she bit her lip, picturing a much younger John MacBride, a little bit drunk, a little bit vulnerable—not nearly so sure of himself. The stabbing pain she felt in the region of her heart had nothing to do with having r
Seven Twenty-five minutes later Val wheeled in off the highway, skidded on the wet grass and parked under the live oak tree. The ladder was gone. There was no sign of MacBride. Damn him, who was he? Why had he lied to her? His car was still here. She’d half expected him to have fled. Drumming on the steering wheel, she rehearsed the questions she intended to ask—no, to demand answers to. It didn’t help when she noticed that her last two unbroken fingernails had been nibbled to the quick. She hated this! They had just been getting to know each other. Talking, exploring—feeling their way. As for the kiss, she dismissed it as an impulse. Tried to, anyway. All right, so maybe talking wasn’t all she was interested in, but he’d lied to her, and that she could not forgive. Social lies—small lies intended to spare someone’s feelings—those were occasionally necessary, but the intent of MacBride’s lie had clearly been to deceive. There was never an excuse for that. Feeling raw and shaky, she got
Eight Later that night Mac, arms crossed under his head, stretched out on the hard bed. It no longer sagged, thanks to a sheet of plywood between mattress and springs. An unseasonably warm wind whistled through the window, rippling the light spread over his boxer-clad body. All that ladder work, not to mention crawling around under the house, hadn’t helped his knee. But a stiff knee was the least of his problems. What the devil was he going to do now? Admit that he was here on a mission that had nothing to do with leaky washing machines and clogged drains? That she had something he wanted, and one way or another, he was determined to get it? Unfortunately, what he wanted most of all was the woman herself, and that wasn’t going to happen. His conscience alone would prevent it as long as he kept reminding himself that any evidence he might find to clear his stepbrother was bound to condemn her late father. Hell, she had to know Bonnard was guilty, even if she didn’t want to believe it. L
Nine Mac stood and glared at the white satin ballet slippers half hidden under the sofa. What in God’s name, he wondered, had made him offer to play detective? He didn’t have the right mindset, much less the right skills. Not in this century. Not when real, live people were involved, people he cared about. People who wore ballet slippers and muttered ladylike curses at a dirty oven. Flipping the last file into the box, he thought about getting himself another beer, but he’d already had two. He was having enough trouble keeping his mind on track without blurring the edges with alcohol. He’d never been much of a drinker, mindful of the familiar warning that drinking and diving don’t mix. “Okay, MacBride, put it in perspective. Small company, fewer than half a dozen employees in a position to cook the books.” The most likely candidate, CFO Sam Hutchinson, had been turned inside out and given a clean bill of health. Next most likely was in no condition to testify, at least not in any earth
Ten Mac wanted to carry her upstairs, but Val insisted on being set on her feet. As the steps were too narrow, they jostled their way to the top, arms around waists, hips nudging hips, hearts pounding as one. At least, hers was. As she wasn’t wearing a bra—didn’t really need one—her feather-soft sweatshirt moved against her sensitized nipples until all she could think of was tearing off her clothes and feeling his hands on her body, his lips— It’s going to happen, a voice inside her whispered. Don’t fight it. Another voice answered, Who’s fighting? Something told her it was now or never, and never wasn’t even a faint possibility. Her bed was a double and her mattress was in somewhat better condition than his, but he could have taken her on any floor in the house, sandy or not, and she wouldn’t have complained as long as he joined her there. She felt for the overhead light switch just inside the door, but he stayed her hand. Instead, he turned on the hall light and left the door ajar. J
Eleven Neither of them bothered to pretend they weren’t going to end up in bed together. In matters concerning BFC they might be skating on thin ice over moving water, but when it came to personal matters, Val couldn’t even pretend to hold back. What had happened before—spontaneous combustion described it best—might have been ill-conceived, but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want it to happen again…and again. “Shower’s all ready to go,” Mac told her. “If you need any help, just yell.” He stopped at the bathroom door, leaned back against the wall and drew her into his arms. It was a long time before she reluctantly stepped away. “You might smooth the bed. I don’t think I ever got around to making it today.” “Yes, ma’am. Anything else, Miss B.?” The devil lurked in his clear brown eyes. She loved it when he teased her this way. “Wait for me on the left side of the bed. I always sleep on the right.” “Who said anything about sleeping?” He leaned in for one last kiss, then opened the
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