Heart of Dixie - Tami Hoag (1) (4 page)

His attention focused on the curve of her mouth, and the jolt of attraction that hit him was as strong as anything he'd ever felt. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her curvy body and plant a kiss on her little bow of a mouth. The way she was looking up at him made him feel overwhelmingly male and strong, yet tender. She drew out the strongest emotions in him with just a look or a word. It was amazing.

"I don't want you to think I'm just another crass city dweller," he mumbled, staring at her lips. "I really do appreciate the effort. You're a good sport."

"Oh," Dixie said flatly, her foolish hopes deflating like a pricked balloon. Her cheeks colored with embarrassment as she stepped back from him. Of course he wasn't going to kiss her. She had grease on her nose and smelled like a diesel engine. It was a wonder he'd even touched her. Not that she'd wanted him to touch her, the blasted, meticulous perfectionist.

Good sport. Criminy. That was almost as flattering as being described to a blind date as having a nice personality.

She ground her teeth and mentally argued with herself. What did she want? She couldn't have her cake and eat it, too. She didn't want the interest of a perfectionist, no matter how handsome he was, so she should be relieved that he'd called her a good sport, shouldn't she? The fact that she wasn't made her as ornery as a wet cat.

"I mean it," he went on. "Aside from pulling that gun on me, you've been very nice."

"Don't mention it," she said. "I've got a soft heart, is all."

That wasn't all about her that was soft, Jake thought as he watched her move toward his car, hips swaying, rear wiggling in her snug jeans. He shook his head as lust tightened like a knot in his groin. This wasn't like him at all. His passions were normally sane, civilized, controlled. He wasn't the type of man who got turned on just by a well- rounded behind in a tight pair of jeans. He was obviously suffering from a kind of temporary insanity induced by the loss of his car.

They stripped the Porsche of his personal possessions. Jake was careful to take charge of the box of files on Devon Stafford. It wouldn't do for Miss La Fontaine to discover the stacks of photographs and reams of notes and articles he had accumulated. Even if she wasn't related to his quarry there would still be the matter of explaining himself to Dixie and her friends--Smith and Wesson, he thought with a smile. She had a lot of spunk. He couldn't help but like that. He placed the box on the floor of the Bronco behind the passenger seat and stacked his portable typewriter on top of it.

"What's left?" he called to Dixie.

"Just a couple of weights."

"I'll get those."

"No, no, I can manage," she insisted, adding under her breath, "I'm such a sport, you know."

Jake watched as she staggered across the pavement like a wind-up toy gone out of control. A dumbbell weighed down each arm, throwing her off balance in one direction and then another. She hefted the weights into the back seat, breathlessly cursing the founder of the fitness craze. The weights bounced off the hard side of a suitcase and bounded back toward her. She gave a squeal and jumped, just managing to dodge them as they plummeted to the ground. She glared at Jake to keep away and wrestled the dumbbells back inside, then slammed the door before they could leap out at her again.

"There," she said, gasping for breath, giving Jake a determined, brittle smile. "I've been meaning to pump me some iron. I feel like a new woman. Tomorrow maybe I'll bench-press a Toyota."

Jake bit back a grin. He decided to keep to himself the fact that the dumbbells were only ten-pounders. She could still get to that gun if she really wanted to.

He went around the nose of the Bronco as Dixie pulled on a battered leather bomber jacket and climbed into the driver's seat. The front seat was a disaster area, littered with junk-food wrappers, potato chip crumbs, and soda cans. An assortment of cheap bead necklaces hung from the rearview mirror and there was a Garfield doll clinging to a window by suction cups.

After sweeping debris off the passenger seat, he settled himself, but promptly bolted forward. Cautiously he reached down into the crease of the seat, and came up with a huge purple comb with long, dangerous-looking teeth. Dixie gave a little gasp of pleased surprise as she snatched it away from him. "De--I've been looking all over for this!"

"Why? Does your Clydesdale need grooming?" Jake asked dryly.

Dixie's bob certainly didn't look as if it required a comb of that size. But a woman with long, long hair might, he thought, bubbles of excitement fizzing in his chest. He hadn't missed her little slip of the tongue, either. He was on to something; he could feel it. And pretty little Dixie La Fontaine with her charm and penchant for firearms was the key. THREE

THERE WASN'T MUCH to Mare's Nest and all of it needed a coat of paint. They drove slowly through the town's business district, which was comprised of one street. There were maybe half a dozen businesses, most of which had already closed for the day. The two exceptions sat across the street from each other down by the waterfront--Clem's Seafood Restaurant, Live Bait and Taxidermy Shop, and Leo's Magnolia Bar.

"Are you hungry?" Dixie asked. Supper time had come and gone as far as her stomach was concerned and it was on the verge of complaining loudly. Now that it had gotten used to a steady supply of solid food again, it had become very demanding and she saw no reason not to give in to those demands. She had suffered long enough in the name of the perfect figure. Now she had more important things to think about than getting her fanny into a size four spandex miniskirt. Things like watching the sky turn iridescent as the sun pushed its way up over the Atlantic and listening to children playing on the beach.

She watched Jake eye Clem's pink neon sign warily.

"Do you think it's a good idea to eat seafood at a place that sells live bait?"

"Oh, you're okay so long as you don't order anything deep-fried."

"I don't eat fried food."

Figures, Dixie thought sourly, glancing over his gorgeous physique. She'd spotted him straight off. He was a California health nut. He probably drank bottled water from Switzerland and jogged every morning. Not her type at all. She was all through with people who were more worried about their cholesterol count than about their friends.

Why then did she have to find him so doggone attractive?

"What about the little caf� next to the bar?"

Trulove Caf� had a sign so old it had gone out of fashion once and come back in. There were ruffled chintz curtains at the windows and a sign that said "Welcome," but the lights were off. "Closed," Dixie said. "They're only open for breakfast and dinner." Jake glanced at his watch. "It's dinner time by me."

"Not around here it isn't. Dinner is at noon. Supper is at night and the Trulove sisters don't do supper. It interferes with them watching Wheel of Fortune. Besides, they're in their eighties. They go to bed at eight-thirty."

She turned into the unpaved lot in front of the bar and parked next to a dull red pickup that looked as if it had been rolled and then beaten with tire irons. "Leo will fix us some sandwiches. It's more than you're going to get at the Cottages."

"No room service?"

Dixie gave him a pained smile and shook her head. Room service. She wasn't going to touch that with a ten- foot pole. Her hormones had all kinds of room service in mind concerning Jake Gannon, but it was probably best not to broach the subject.

They entered the Magnolia Bar to a small chorus of "Hey, Dixie," followed by a pregnant silence, during which all eyes were momentarily glued to Jake. The bar was dimly lit and smelled of cigarette smoke and beer. The bare wooden floor was littered with peanut shells. A marlin hung over the bar--an example of Clem's fine hand at taxidermy. Three men were seated on vinyl-upholstered, chrome-legged stools at the bar; two elderly ladies occupied a small, round table near the big-screen TV. The booths along the far wall were empty.

Dixie made a general introduction as she hauled herself up onto a bar stool and motioned for Jake to do the same. "Hey, everybody, this here's Jake Gannon from California. His car broke down and he'll be here till Eldon gets it fixed."

There were general murmurs of sympathy from the men as a deodorant commercial played on TV. Dixie pointed to each person and gave Jake a name. Bubby Bristol, Joe Dell Ward, Leo Vencour, the proprietor of the establishment. The Trulove sisters, Cora May and Divine, prim Southern ladies with flowered dresses and small clouds of cotton-candy hair. They all nodded pleasantly to Jake. The instant the program came back on, however, their attention went immediately to it.

A man with buck teeth and a bad toupee was spinning the big wheel. He hit $1,500 and called for an L. The crowd at the bar shouted for him to spin again, but after some debate and a verbal prodding from Pat Sajak, the man announced he was going to solve the puzzle. This brought on groans and boos from the patrons of the Magnolia Bar.

"Guy's dumber than a red brick!"

"He left double R's and triple M's!"

The two white-haired ladies blew loud raspberries. Dixie frowned at them all. "Hey, now, maybe the fella needs that fifteen hundred to get braces for his kid and he didn't dare spin again for fear he'd hit bankrupt and lose it all and his kid would have to go around looking like a big old nutria rat for the rest of his life. Y'all don't know the kind of pressures he might be under."

Halfhearted grumblings of "I guess so" came from the crowd. They all frowned, eyes downcast into their beer mugs.

Jake gave Dixie a curious look, a half-smile turning up the right side of his mouth. The sassy tow truck driving lady had a heart like a marshmallow. For some reason that idea pleased him enormously. He wanted to kiss her again. She made an annoyed face at him and thrust a plastic-coated menu into his hands.

Leo roused himself from his seat and went behind the bar to take their orders. He was a tall, lean man in his sixties with slicked back thin gray hair and a face like a bloodhound. "What'll y'all have tonight, then, folks?" he drawled, adding extra syllables to each word.

"I'll have the usual, Leo," Dixie said with a smile.

Jake glanced up from his menu with a dubious look. "Is the turkey on white bread?" Leo beamed. "White as snow."

Jake grimaced a little, drawing a startled frown from the bartender. "Are the tomatoes organically grown?"

Leo's brow furrowed. "They're grown in the dirt if that's what you mean."

Dixie rolled her eyes. "They're grown in Macy Vencour's greenhouse and the worst thing she puts on them is stale beer."

Jake ignored her impatience and smiled squarely at Leo. "I'll have a light beer and the turkey sandwich, hold the bread, hold the mayo, thanks."

"It ain't much of a sandwich then, is it?" Leo said. He sauntered off toward the kitchen, shaking his head.

Dixie sniffed, feeling extra peeved at Jake's fussiness. She hated that particular trait and it galled her no end that she would be wildly attracted to a man who exhibited it. "I swear, you're worse than my Great-aunt Suki, and she had some kind of convoluted gallbladder problem, so she at least had an excuse."

"White bread happens to be loaded with chemical preservatives," Jake informed her. "The human body is a temple, you know." And you worship at yours every day. Dixie bit her tongue to keep the remark from spilling out. However, she couldn't keep herself from thinking that she wouldn't mind doing a little worshiping at Jake's temple, either. She cursed herself for being both ornery and randy. The two didn't seem like a good combination.

It was Jake Gannon's fault her feelings were getting all stirred around. Since she had returned to Mare's Nest she'd been a perfectly pleasant person--once her depression and grief had subsided. Then along he'd come with his blue eyes and his blue Porsche, making her remember she was a woman and bringing reminders of a way of life that had made her miserable.

Leo returned and set a plate in front of each of them. Side by side the meals looked like a do and don't guide for good health. Jake's meal consisted of sliced turkey on a bed of lettuce and tomato. Dixie's sandwich towered alongside it--salty Virginia ham layered with bright orange cheddar cheese, all stacked between two slices of thick white bread that resembled slabs of foam rubber.

Jake frowned. "Are you really going to eat that?"

"No," she said peevishly. "I'm gonna put it in a time capsule and bury it for posterity."

He raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, it's your body." "That's right, and I'll do with it whatever I darn well please."

"Fine, fine," he muttered, cutting his meat. "Jeez, you don't have to pull your gun on me again."

Dixie scowled at him and pushed her plate away. There was nothing like a nutritionally conscientious person to take all the fun out of eating. She chalked up another strike against Jake.

"So, Jake, what happened to the car?" Bubby Bristol asked, turning toward a new source of entertainment. On the TV screen the credits for Wheel of Fortune rolled over the image of Pat and Vanna waving good-bye.

"Overheated. Might be a hose," Jake said, trying to sound as if he knew something about it.

"Or the water pump," Bubby added, nodding. Bubby looked around thirty. He was built like a lumberjack and had dark eyes and dark hair so thick it looked as if a beaver pelt rested on his head.

Jake sipped his beer and nodded along in macho camaraderie. "The radiator was bone dry."

A horrified look crossed Bubby's square face. "Man, let's hope you didn't blow the engine." "Yeah." Jake tried to force a chuckle, but it sounded more like he was choking. He stared morosely at his plate, his appetite gone.

Dixie tried to take vengeful enjoyment in the fact that Jake had gone as pale as the bread housing her killer sandwich, but she couldn't. Poor guy. He looked like a kid whose biggest, best, shiniest Christmas present had just gotten sat on by his fat aunt. She reached over and patted his hand consolingly. Little currents of magnetism buzzed up her fingers.

"I know a fella had that happen once," Joe Dell said, shoving his mug toward Leo for a refill. He adjusted the bill of a dirty red baseball cap with "Whippets" stitched across the front in gray. His mouth turned down in a frown that elongated his lean face. "Cracked the engine block, if you can believe that. The whole works just plum froze up--the drivetrain and everything. Had to sell that car for scrap."