Shameless (5 page)

The sun on her face and shoulders grew hotter by the minute, so hot she could almost feel her nose blistering. Holding up her hand to shield her face, she didn't have to walk far before she smelled the stench. Flies hovered above a cow that lay on it side, its belly bloated. Its legs stuck straight out. Black vultures whooshed excitedly around it when she walked up.

Oh, dear. The animal's eyes were gaping sockets. She was about to call for Phillip when a slip of fluttering white caught her attention. Somebody had nailed a note to the dead carcass.

Big block letters read, “You hurt my family, so now I will hurt yours.”

She screamed. Then the thick smell of the barnyard and the stench of the dead cow combined with the heat and she felt nauseated. The world seemed to spin, and she grew so unsteady on her feet, she was afraid she'd fall.

Somewhere behind her a screen door slammed. Then The Pope and Nero were grabbing at her long hair.

“Phillip,” she whispered groggily. “Save me! Don't let them—”

“Who, my darling— There's nobody here!”

“Thank goodness.” Her eyelids felt incredibly heavy as she grabbed a fence railing. The sun burned her face and made her lips feel dry. The sky seemed to blacken. In a halting breath she whispered, “Phillip….”

“I'm here. Right here,” he said huskily.

She shook her head back and forth. “Phillip— Phillip— No! Phillip doesn't want me.”

Then she felt strong arms around her and her words
were muttered shudderingly against his thick, hard shoulder.

“Don't be too sure about that, honey,” his gentle voice soothed.

She felt herself being lifted.

“Celeste….”

For a fleeting moment she realized she really was in Phillip's arms. Only the Phillip who held her now wasn't the harsh Phillip who despised her. No. This Phillip was the gentle, warrior giant she'd fallen in love with.

A weak smile formed at the edges of her lips as she whispered his name and begged him to save her. Then everything went black.

W
hen Celeste regained consciousness, she was in Phillip's bed and he was sitting beside her on the edge of the mattress.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“I'll stay,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because I need a job. Any job. And I don't have anywhere else to go.” Too proud to meet his eyes, she stared guiltily past his dark face until the bright window behind him began to swim.
Because I know you'll help me.

“Don't cry,” he murmured.

She brushed at her damp eyes. “Who's crying?”

He handed her his handkerchief.

She dabbed at her eyes. “I'm not crying!”

He laughed and touched her wet cheek with a blunt fingertip.

“I hate it when this happens.” In spite of herself, she smiled at him.

“That's better,” he whispered, his deep voice gentle. “For the record, I'm going to call the sheriff and get him to investigate the cow killing. I think I know who's behind this.”

“Who—” She shivered guiltily at the thought of Nero or The Pope.

“This isn't about you,” Phillip said. “It's about me and some unfinished business in Central America.”

“Central America?”

“Never mind. Just be careful. Lock the doors when I'm gone and Juan's not around. I don't want anything to happen to you. I'd never forgive myself if my work endangered you.”

“Your work?”

“Shh.”

She gulped in a deep breath. He was so concerned for her, she felt ashamed she'd left Vegas with a pair of killers after her. Ashamed that all her dreams and hard work had left her worse off than before she'd started. She was touched that he was so selflessly eager to protect her. There was no way she could confess that she was probably endangering him.

“Thank you, Phillip. I won't stay long—I swear.”

“Stay as long as you like,” he said.

She yawned and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, he was gone. The shades were drawn and there was a box of clothes on the floor. He must have come in at some point when she'd been asleep. When she got up and knelt to open the box, all the clothes she hadn't taken with her seven years ago were inside.

He'd kept them…packed them away…all these years. Had he been waiting and hoping she'd come back?

“Oh, Phillip—”

Suddenly she almost hated herself. She was using him as a human shield. Maybe The Pope and Nero had followed her. Maybe they'd killed the cow.

Tell him. He deserves the truth. If you don't tell him—he'll be furious.

She pulled a thin white dress out of the box and held it against her body. Memories tugged at her.

They'd driven in to a posh shop in Corpus Christi one afternoon and he'd bought her several outfits shortly before he'd left for the Middle East. He'd liked this particular dress so much, she'd worn it out of the store with the tags still on it. He'd laughed and cut off the tags with his pocketknife. Then they'd driven out to Mustang Island and had gone for a walk on the beach. It had been early spring and the southeasterly breeze had been strong. She'd chased seagulls, her skirts swirling. He'd caught her, and they'd found a secluded spot behind the dunes and made love on their beach towels.

Fingering the tiny buttons, she began to shake as she remembered his fingers fumbling with each pearly stud as he'd undone them one by one. He'd been so clumsy, she'd had to help him.

“Oh, Phillip—” She buried her face in the soft white cloth, wishing it didn't remind her of how sweet life with Phillip had once been.

“I won't be staying long. I won't. I can't love him. I can't. I'll get myself back on track and he'll never have to know the whole truth. He doesn't still love me. I can't hurt him now.”

She put Phillip out of her mind and took a long hot bath and washed her hair. After towel-drying her hair, she slipped into the white dress with the gleaming pearl
buttons. It felt so good to be fresh and clean—to be home.

She turned in front of the mirror and the circular skirt floated around her legs. Then she stopped herself.

“This isn't home. I'm still going to be a star.”

Was she really? Or had she just lived on dreams so long, she didn't know how to live any other way? Dreams kept her going. They made it possible for her to face the everyday pain and the hassles of life and find them bearable, made it possible for her to hold her head up even with killers tracking her.

She'd put Phillip in danger. Maybe she'd gotten his cow killed. Would she ever be worthy of a man like Phillip?

He thought he'd seen her at her lowest in the bar brawl. He didn't know. She hadn't told him near everything about what she'd endured in those foster homes. Never once had she told anybody how often she'd had to change homes because her new “father” had started looking at her wrong. And that had meant she'd had to change schools.

So often had she changed schools, she hadn't been able to make friends with the good kids, and, of course, she'd fallen behind in her schoolwork. Once she'd even flunked a grade, which had made the kids, at least the ones she'd admired, believe she was stupid.

The spring of her junior year in high school, she'd painted her lips with bright red lipstick and auditioned for the talent show. Only when she'd stood on that stage had the other kids begun to think she was special. When she'd sung for them, she'd felt reborn, as though she was a whole new person. If she hadn't had that special gift she'd inherited from her mother, she would have stopped believing in herself a long time ago. Every time
she remembered standing on that stage behind her mother as a little kid, she knew she couldn't quit.

 

The days passed. Before she knew it a whole week had flown by. Not once had Phillip hit on her.

She relaxed a little and began to let herself notice him a little more. She tried hard not to smile at him when he said something. Some part of her wanted to get up first thing and make his coffee. But she didn't.

Life as his housekeeper soon became routine. The work itself might be the same everywhere, but Phillip's being around spiced up the most mundane activities. Not that he made any more overt moves.

Still, there were more than a few awkward moments, especially at first, such as when he'd asked her where she wanted to sleep, and she'd eyed his bedroom door, hesitating a second or two before choosing the last bedroom down the hall instead of his, the one they'd once shared.

All he'd said was, “Okay,” but his eyes had grown dark and cold, and the military mask had fallen into place when she'd carried her box of clothes from his bedroom down the hall.

Being a Marine, he tried to run his home the way he might run a military base. Maybe that worked when she wasn't around, but she wasn't about to play the grunt to his Lt. Col. Westin. On the first morning after she'd bathed and slipped into her soft white dress, he'd caught her on the back porch when she was towel-drying her hair and had started off with a long list of orders.

“I want you up at 0600 sharp,” he'd barked.

“This is a home not some Marine camp,” she'd replied.

Laughing at his audacity, she'd saluted him with her
left hand. “I never did get those big old numbers—0600? Translation, please!” She'd wadded his list of chores and stuffed it down the scooped neckline of her soft white dress and into her bra.

“Six a.m. Sharp.”

“You can't be serious,” she'd said, aware of his silver eyes lingering on her hand between her breasts. “Only lunatics or maniacal Marines get up at such an ungodly hour.”

“You didn't even read my list—”

“I know how to keep house! You don't have to tell me what to do!”

“You could have at least read—”

“Didn't anybody in colonel school ever teach you to delegate?”

“There's no such thing as colonel school.”

“Maybe there should be.”

She'd made a habit of sleeping through the alarm he set for her every night just as she had made a habit of ignoring the long lists of chores he left on the kitchen table every morning. Instead, she did what she thought needed doing, which was more than he ever saw. Naturally, there were some resulting fireworks. He had started in on her that first night.

No sooner had they sat down to supper than Phillip had started shooting blunt questions at her, like, “Did you do…?” Then he'd systematically gone down his list, which he knew by heart and she hadn't bothered to read, unerringly selecting the tasks she'd neglected to do, such as keeping the doors locked all the time, instead of the chores she'd done.

“Did you iron my shirts?”

“In this heat?”

“Why isn't my bed made?”

“It isn't? Why, I went in—”

She'd stopped. No way could she admit that when she'd lifted his pillow, she'd thought of him lying there and cupped it against her face to breathe in his tangy, male scent. Then the memories of them together in his bed had flooded her and she'd run.

Blushing, she'd toyed with a strand of her hair. Her tongue seemed to stick itself to the roof of her mouth.

He'd turned a little red, too. “Okay. Okay. Forget the bed.”

“I can if you can.” She'd hardly breathed.

“What about my clothes in the hamper?” he'd growled.

“The…hamper's in your bedroom, too,” she'd whispered.

“Oh.”

“I—I'll do them tomorrow…if you'll bring the hamper to the laundry room.”

“Did you—”

“Phillip, did you memorize your old list—”

“I know what I wrote down—”

This was bad.

Cocking her head saucily, she'd shaken her yellow curls. To gain time she'd fluffed them around her shoulders. “Of course, I didn't do those silly things on your silly list. There were way too many. If you knew anything—you'd know no woman could have done all that in one day—”

“Of course you didn't? What kind of employee are you?”

“The same kind of boss you are. A good boss would praise me for making the kitchen look so wonderful. I rearranged—”

“You hid everything. I couldn't even find a spoon.”

“It's called finding a place for things and putting them where they belong. I even dusted behind the canisters and…and I bleached the sink.”

He'd glared at her.

“That wasn't on my list.”

“The porcelain was all yellow and stained.” She'd smiled.

“Don't forget this is my house. You work for me.”

“I wouldn't have to if you'd help me get a real job.”

He'd jabbed at his eggplant. Then he'd begun to eat in silence. When he helped himself to seconds, she'd beamed. “How's the eggplant Provençale by the way?”

“Eggplant? I don't eat eggplant!”

“Then why is yours all gone?”

He'd eyed his clean plate with amazement. “Because…because I was starving, that's why!”

“Because you liked it,” she'd amended gently.

“I wrote steak at the top of my list.”

“Have you been listening to me at all? I didn't read your stupid list. I don't do lists.”

“I wanted steak.”

“Hardening of the arteries,” she'd murmured. “Ever hear of that?”

“What?”

“Men in this country eat way too much red meat. You probably eat too much steak. At your age—”

“You work for me.”

“Aye. Aye.” She'd saluted him with her left hand.

Before he thought, he'd almost saluted her. Then he'd clenched his fingers into a fist and slammed it on the table. “You haven't done one single thing I wrote down today.”

“Because you're not a housekeeper or a cook. You
don't think about your health. In short, you don't think like a woman…”

“Thank God!”

“You don't have the least idea what to put on my list. You write down all these silly things that no woman in her right mind would ever do.”

“Don't be absurd. You work for me—a man, in case you haven't noticed.”

“Oh….” She'd slanted her long-lashed eyes his way. Then she'd batted them and given him a seductive smile. “Oh, I see. This isn't about your list. You're just sulking because I don't want to share your bedroom.”

“The hell I am.”

“Then fire me.”

“And you'd go?”

“All you have to do is get me a real job.” She'd flashed him her most brilliant smile. “But if you won't get me a real job, as a tiny concession…because you're so stubborn, we'll have steak tomorrow.”

“I'm stubborn?”

She'd giggled. “But no more than five ounces of red meat.”

“You're impossible.” But he'd grinned back at her.

“Look who's talking.”

“You'll really cook steak?”

Over dessert, which was strawberries and fat-free, sugar-free vanilla ice cream, she'd said, “Since you're not going to fire me…”

“It doesn't take much for you to get cocky—”

“Which is a trait I share with you.”

She knew she shouldn't tease him. It made her remember how wonderful loving him had been. To break the spell, she'd sat up straighter and said, “Phillip, I need money.”

“I knew it.”

“Could I have an advance against my paycheck?”

“An advance? Already?”

“It's important…or I wouldn't ask.”

“How much?”

She'd named the exact amount she needed to pay Cole Yardley.

Phillip had given her a sharp look, but he hadn't asked what the money was for.

“I owe somebody,” she'd blurted, on the defensive because she could tell he was suspicious. “That's all.”

“All right. We'll leave it at that.”

The next morning, she'd gone to the bank and the post office and sent Mr. Yardley a five-hundred-dollar money order.