Head Over Heels (2 page)

But aloud she merely said, “Here,” and passed him her jacket and purse. “Where do you want me to start?”

 

She was run ragged by the time the bar closed down for the night. Exhausted, she pulled off her apron, dropped it in the basket beneath the bar, and collected her belongings. She didn't even have the strength to shoot Coop a dirty look, and if you asked her, the man had missed his calling as an SS officer. Without a word, she turned and dragged herself to the door.

“Night, Princess.”

She flipped him a succinct one-handed gesture over her shoulder, and his low laugh followed her out the door.

The house she'd grown up in was just across the street, a fact she'd deplored when she was a kid, but was grateful for at the moment. She fished the key out of her purse and let herself in.

She nearly tripped over the suitcases she'd dumped in the hall earlier tonight. She'd gotten into town too late to pick up Lizzy, so she'd dropped off her luggage and headed across the street to the bar. Her thought
had been simply to get the duty call out of the way so she wouldn't have to obsess over it. Then she'd planned to come back, unpack, and fall into bed to get a good night's rest for tomorrow.

So much for best-laid plans. Veronica stumbled into the living room and turned on a lamp. Then she blinked several times, thinking her eyes must be deceiving her.

Surely it was merely being blinded by the sudden light after the dark hallway that made everything seem so brassy. But when she narrowed her eyes to take a good hard look, nothing dimmed. “Oh, my God.”

The room was all done up in red flocked wallpaper and gold fabrics, and every item that wasn't nailed down appeared to have been gilded to within an inch of its life. She'd never seen such an accumulation of ticky-tackies in one place in her life.

“Damn, Crystal,” she whispered. “Why not just raise Lizzy in a whorehouse? It would probably be more subdued.” She stared in amazement at the table lamp she'd switched on: It was painted with overblown roses, trimmed in gold leaf, and dripping with crystal teardrops that clinked and chimed where the brush of her hand had set them in motion. Picking up a crimson velvet pillow that had
Reno, The Biggest Little City in the World
embroidered in metallic gold thread, she fingered its fat tassels while trying to find just one furnishing that was a neutral color or unembellished by curlicues, gold, or fringe. But every item her gaze lit upon seemed more garish than the one before, and she was appalled right down to the bottom of her artistic, restoration specialist's soul. When the heck
had Crysal accumulated all this? The house hadn't been crammed with this stuff the last time she'd visited.

Veronica suddenly found herself completely and uncontrollably furious.

“If this isn't just typical, Crystal! You never did have a lick of taste. And you sure as hell never had common sense. You just had to keep working all your stupid angles, didn't you? God, I can't believe you're such a bimbo!” Ambushed by her use of the present tense, she shook her head furiously. “Were, I mean. I can't believe you
w-were
such a dumb, reckless…”

Grief sucker-punched her out of the blue, and clutching the pillow to her stomach, she collapsed onto the tufted brocade couch beneath a huge black velvet painting of a bullfighter. Folding at the waist, she sobbed into her knees, tears flowing in an unstoppable stream that soaked spreading circles on her khakis.

Oh, God, oh, God. She couldn't believe her sister was dead. And not just dead, which was hard enough to accept, but
murdered
. That was something that happened in movies, in books—not to people one knew.

It was no secret that Crystal hadn't been the nicest woman in town, and they'd fought like a couple of cats more often than not. But she'd been her
sister,
and precious memories etched Veronica's mind of moments when Crystal had been sweet, or big-sister protective, or so downright funny it could make you nearly wet your pants laughing. She hadn't deserved to die like that, to have her life choked out of her beneath the unrelenting hands of an enraged man.

A noise out on the back porch brought Veronica's
head up. Sniffling, she sat up and wiped the tears from her cheeks with her palms, swiped the edge of her index fingers beneath her eyes. She had a view straight through the kitchen archway to the back door, but there was nothing to see. She shrugged. It was probably one of Mrs. Martelucchi's cats.

Then a man's shadow crossed the door's shade-drawn window, and Veronica's heart kicked hard against the wall of her chest, before starting to pound. The back door knob jiggled and she shot to her feet, the cushion in her lap tumbling to the floor. She looked around for something to use as a weapon and snatched up a gaudy, gold-toned replica of an Erte statuette. Heart lodged so firmly in her throat she could barely breathe, she wrapped both hands around the statuette's base and instinctively assumed the batter's stance she'd learned playing sandlot ball behind Murphy's Feed and Seed. The kitchen door creaked open.

Muscular shoulders and spiky blond hair, backlit by the porch light, sparked a synapse of recognition in her overloaded brain a millisecond before a deep, ironic voice drawled, “Tossing the joint for valuables, Princess?”

She nearly tossed the statuette at his
head
for scaring several years off her life. Trying to get her galloping heart back down to a normal rhythm, she forced herself to carefully lower it to her side. She refused to relinquish it entirely, however. “What do you want, Blackstock? And where do you get off, just waltzing into Crystal's house like you own the joint?”

His voice was full of amusement when he said, “In a way, I do—at least a portion of it. I live upstairs.”

Veronica sucked in a shocked breath. “
Excuse
me?”

He closed the door and crossed the kitchen, stopping in the archway. Hands stuffed in his jeans pockets, he propped his shoulder against the doorjamb and gave her a crooked little half smile that inexplicably sent sparks of awareness shivering down her spine. “I said, I live here. Ms. Travits rented me the attic apartment when she hired me to run the bar.”

Marissa did that?
Dear God, Mare, what were you thinking?

Then guilt suffused her. She owed Marissa everything for holding things together when no one had known where Veronica was, or how to reach her to tell her about Crystal. Marissa had gone above and beyond the ties of an old friendship to take care of matters she never should've been called upon to handle.

But renting space to this big bruiser in the house where Veronica and Lizzy had to live was not one of her smarter moves, and Veronica didn't intend to live with it. Taking a step toward Coop, she tilted back her head to meet his gaze and said firmly, “I suggest you get a good night's sleep, then, because tomorrow you can just go look for someplace else to rent.”

He had the temerity to laugh. “Forget it, sugar—I signed a lease. If you have a problem with the arrangements,
you
move.”

“Don't be absurd. Lizzy's been through enough—she's going to need the continuity of at least living in her own home.”

Something flashed across his face, and his voice was contemptuous when he said, “Like I'm supposed to believe you're full of concern for your niece?”

He might as well have slapped her, and Veronica's head snapped back. “
Excuse
me?”

“Nothing.” His face expressionless, he shrugged. “Never mind.”

“The hell I'll never mind! What was that supposed to mean?”

“It meant you were right in one part of your little directive, sweetpea—I do need a good night's sleep.”

And, leaving her to fume in outraged frustration, he pushed away from the doorjamb, turned on his heel, and took the back stairs two at a time to the top floor.

J
AMES
C
OOPER
B
LACKSTOCK AWOKE THE FOLLOWING
morning the way he always did: from deep sleep to immediate, alert consciousness between one moment and the next. Rolling onto his back, he frowned up at the ceiling at the discovery that the first thing on his mind was identical to the one he'd gone to bed with last night.

Veronica Davis. Damn. She had no business being on his mind at all, so what was
that
all about?

Tossing back the covers, Coop climbed to his feet, then stretched until his joints popped. He scratched his stomach, gave his morning erection a couple of absentminded strokes, and headed for the bathroom. Okay, it was probably just because her looks didn't even come
close
to what he'd expected. He'd anticipated a woman just like her late sister. Although he'd
never met Crystal, he'd heard plenty these last couple weeks about her flamboyance and overt sexuality. Who would've thought little Miz Veronica would turn out to look more like Snow White instead, with that sleek black hair, those smoky green eyes, and that skin?

Man, that white, white, strokable skin.

Coop picked up his toothbrush and scowled. Wasting such baby softness on a Davis was a crying shame. Because Veronica might attire herself in khakis, white T-shirts, and little ballerina flats; she might even give a decent impression of a princess forced into servitude just because he'd made her serve a few drinks. But in all the ways that mattered, she was exactly like her sister Crystal. She was just another Davis woman without an ounce of concern for anyone but herself.

Coop brushed his teeth and slapped on some deodorant. Then he spread foamy shaving cream on his face and reached for his razor. He may not have ever met Crystal, but he knew her just the same. Watching his mother had educated him on the ways of women looking to become upwardly mobile, and from everything he'd ever heard, Crystal probably could've taught
her
a thing or two. It wasn't simply a matter of old prejudices rising up to color his view, though. He knew the type of woman Crystal was from letters and telephone conversations with his half-brother Eddie, who, despite having grown up the only heir of the wealthiest man in Fossil, was probably the sweetest guy on earth.

And one whose belief in the goodness of everyone had landed him in a world of hurt.

Coop rarely believed in the goodness of anyone, and Crystal in particular didn't deserve that kind of faith. When she was twenty-eight she'd seduced his twenty-year-old half-brother. He suspected she'd deliberately gotten pregnant so Eddie would have to marry her, only to have Eddie's father nip that plan in the bud. Still, she'd gotten around it by using Lizzy, whom his brother loved more than life itself, as a bargaining chip. And if that didn't pretty much say it all, Coop'd eat his Marine-issue combat boots.

Crystal had been a user, a woman who'd made a habit of playing all the angles and looking out for number one. Hell, she'd been a homicide waiting to happen. But Cooper also knew that Eddie hadn't killed her, and he'd come to Fossil to prove it.

Being able to rent these rooms in the Davis house had been an unexpected bonus. He'd had the entire place to himself for almost two weeks, and had gone through every room with a fine-toothed comb, looking for evidence to clear his brother's name. But the only proof he'd found so far was that Crystal had been self-absorbed and narcissistic. Her clothing stuffed every closet to overflowing, and he'd come across photograph after garishly framed photograph of her, with her blond-streaked brown hair all teased up, her makeup layered on, jeans tighter than a coat of spray paint, and her tops unbuttoned to the legal limit.

He'd found exactly one photograph of Lizzy. Coop paused with the razor poised above his Adam's apple and took a couple breaths before he ended up slicing off something he might need in the future. But, shit fuck hell. His brother had been throwing every resource at his disposal into trying to gain custody of his
daughter, and the fact that he'd been charged with her mother's murder instead just went to show there was damn little justice in the world.

Hearing a noise down in the kitchen, Coop rinsed the remaining shaving cream off his face, pulled on a pair of jeans, and jerked a sweater on over his head. Veronica wasn't a damn bit better, and although he'd stopped letting women get to him the day he'd walked out of his mother's house more than seventeen years ago, last night little Miss Ronnie had all but made steam blow out of his ears.

Chump that he was, he'd felt almost guilty when he'd come in and found he'd driven her so hard over at the Tonk that she had tears drying on her cheeks. But then she'd had the nerve to invoke Lizzy's name as an excuse to make him vacate the house, and both guilt and sympathy had gone up in smoke. If she'd been so freaking concerned about her niece, she would've hauled her ass back to Fossil a month ago.

Pushing aside the thought that he was a fine one to talk, he left the bathroom. Hell, it wasn't as if he'd
intended
to keep his identity as Eddie's brother a secret when he'd come to Fossil. But when he'd learned Lizzy wasn't staying in her own home because her Aunt Veronica had better things to do than come home to take care of her, he'd made a trip up to the Bluff to introduce himself to the woman who
was
looking after her. Before he could do much more than state his name, however, Marissa Travits had mistaken him for an applicant for the vacant position at the honky tonk. And it had occurred to him that the Tonk would be an ideal place to gather information to clear Eddie's name.

And
that,
in the long run, would serve Lizzy much better than an uncle she wouldn't even remember, since she'd only seen him once or twice when she was a baby. Especially an uncle who didn't know diddly about little girls.

He loped down the back stairs but stopped dead at the base of the staircase. Veronica sat sprawled in a chair at the kitchen table, her upper body draped across the tabletop. Her hair was mussed and her chin was propped on her fist while she stared blearily at the gurgling coffeemaker.

He'd seen any number of sheer, slinky little nighties while going through Crystal's dresser drawers, but Veronica's attire bore no relationship to any of them. Instead, she wore turquoise thermal pajamas and a pair of wool socks. She apparently didn't share her sister's penchant for flaunting her sexuality.

So it pissed him off that he got half hard anyway, seeing her in what amounted to a set of colorful long johns.

He scraped a chair back from the table and dropped down on it. “I'll expect you at the Tonk by eight tonight.”

“Expect all you want.” Her moss-green eyes had been drifting closed, but she pried one open and peered at him. “If you're lucky, you might even see me there.”

“Might, hell. We were shorthanded
before
Rosetta quit—now it's critical. We need a lot more help than we've currently got, and until someone answers the ads I've got out, Princess, that means you.”

Both her eyes were open now and if their expression was anything to go by, she wasn't pleased with
him. That was just fine with him, because he wasn't exactly delighted with her, either.

Then her eyes narrowed until they were little more than glints of green glaring out at him between dark lashes. “Listen, stud-biscuit—”

He jerked upright in his chair, his hand whipping out to shackle her wrist to the table. “What did you call me?”

“Oh, I'm sorry—don't you like nicknames? Gee, and I just adore being called princess-honey-sugarpea.”

“
Sweet
pea,” he corrected. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch up. “Sugarpea's a good one, though; I'll have to remember that.” He tested the texture of her forearm with his fingertips. It was every bit as soft-skinned as it looked, and he immediately quit doing that, sliding his fingers out from beneath her loose pajama sleeve. Knowing she expected a display of temper, he raised a brow at her instead and gave her his best good ol' boy smile. “Okay, then, stud-biscuit it is. Actually, that's a handle I can wrap my mind around—given how well it fits and all.”

“Wonderful,” she said in disgust and jerked her hand out from under his. She pushed to her feet as the coffeemaker burbled into silence, and went over to pour herself a cup. “Maybe I oughtta just call you Mr. Humble instead.”

Coop found himself enjoying this exchange a little too much, and he rose to his feet as well. “You can call me anything that tickles your fancy,” he said, staring down at her. “Just have your butt at the Tonk by eight.”

Then he turned and left the room before sleepy green eyes and a challenging attitude could make him
believe he was dealing with a different kind of woman than he knew to be the case.

 

An hour later Veronica stood in the bedroom, her nose wrinkling in distaste at the odor wafting off her blazer. She'd washed the strong scent of cigarette smoke off her skin and out of her hair, but her good jacket still reeked of it, and she tossed it aside to be dry-cleaned. She might have to work at the Tonk until a new waitress could be found, but she'd be damned if she'd bring this smell home to Lizzy every night. What kind of example would that set? She finished dressing, then went in search of the phone book.

An hour later, she left the house on Baker Street and headed for Marissa's. It had been a dozen years since she'd lived in this sleepy little town, but it never seemed to change much between her visits home. Oh, some of the apple orchards on either end of town had given way to new housing developments, additional fast-food joints had popped up along the main drag, and a new Big K had been built just off I-82. But Fossil was still pretty much a one-horse town. And its flatlands and surrounding hills still sported the same depressing mud-brown and dusty beige hues of winter.

Birch trees stretched denuded branches toward a crystal-blue sky, though, and cast their foreshortened shadows along the streets and sidewalks. Winter sunlight poured through the windshield of her car as she drove across town, a welcome break from the largely overcast skies of Seattle, where she lived now.

And where she would continue to live with Lizzy
just as soon as she found a buyer for the Tonk and the house.

Minutes later, she drove into a circular driveway behind a large timber-and-river-rock house and cut the engine. Then she simply sat for a moment, staring at the back of the lavish home. The Bluff, as this area overlooking the town and the river beyond was called, was the rich folks' part of town, and Veronica could never quite get over the fact that her oldest friend lived here now, and had for some time. Marissa had certainly come a long way from her Baker Street house, which was jammed so close to Veronica's they used to utilize the low fence dividing the properties as a stepping stone from one back porch to the other.

She smiled. The low stone fence that marked the boundary of Marissa's property from her nearest neighbor's was a far cry from their rickety wooden version, and it was a safe bet that nobody used it the way she and Marissa had used theirs. A woman could kill herself trying to hop porches between these homes.

Oh, God.
Kill
. The word wiped the smile from her face. Berating herself for her appalling lack of sensitivity to her sister's death, Veronica reached for the door handle. How could she already forget about it so easily? She'd only learned of it two days ago.

The kitchen door banged open as she climbed from the car, and Marissa flew across the brick patio to the driveway, waving her arms in the air and screaming with joy. Veronica's mood skyrocketed, and the two women met in the middle of the yard, exclaiming and hugging each other tightly.

Once upon a time, their friends had called them
Mutt and Jeff, because Marissa was a couple inches shy of six feet tall and built along generous lines, while Veronica was a fine-boned not quite five-five. They didn't fit any better now than they once had, yet Veronica felt as if she'd come home when she was hauled into her oldest friend's warm, cushiony embrace.

Eventually Marissa stepped back and gripped Veronica's shoulders in her long, impeccably manicured hands to hold her at arm's length while she inspected her from head to foot.

“You cut off all your hair,” she said, touching Veronica's sleek bob. “How very chic—I like it. Did you have it done in Europe?”

“Yes, in Edinburgh.” Then the guilt she'd been living with since getting back from Scotland rose up to swamp her. “Rissa, I'm so sorry I didn't think to leave a number where I could be reached. I can't believe Crystal's funeral had been over and done for nearly a month before you finally tracked me down.” She laughed, but it was a short-lived sound, lacking humor. “God, when I think how full of myself I was! That castle restoration was my big break, and I thought I was pretty hot stuff to have gotten it all done on time and on budget. I feel so guilty knowing that while I was busy congratulating myself over the future clients this project would bring me, Crystal was already dead and buried.”

Marissa gave her a shake. “Well, stop it.”

“You're right, you're right.” Veronica took a deep breath, blew it out, and stepped back, straightening her spine. “This isn't about me.”

“Of course it's about you—your sister was murdered!”

That stabbed straight to the core, but Veronica shook her head. “No, it's about Lizzy losing her mama, having her daddy accused of the killing, and her aunt missing in action when she needed her most. How's she doing? It was so hard to tell during those two brief telephone conversations.”

“Oh, Ronnie, she breaks my heart.” Marissa took Veronica's hand and led her into the house. They crossed the gleaming slate floor of a kitchen whose granite countertops were cluttered with family flotsam, and whose state-of-the-art fridge bristled with children's art. “She acts as if nothing's happened, but it has to be eating her up inside. Not only has she had to deal with the loss of both her parents, but you know what this town can be like—everyone and his brother knows every last detail of
why
Eddie and Crystal are gone and is busy talking about it.”