Mad About You (55 page)

* * *

By the time he locked up the house and climbed into his delivery truck, Ladden had convinced himself he'd close the store for a few days once he filed the insurance claim and drive down the coast for a short vacation. He'd been working too hard, and he was becoming consumed by a woman he couldn't have. Hell, he might even see if Betsy wanted to tag along—she was a cute girl with a sweet disposition. And she came from a nice family on the outskirts of Glenhayden—hardworking people who wouldn't mind that he wasn't rich or influential.

In the daylight, his truck looked even worse than he remembered, and he tingled with embarrassment when he realized that Jasmine was probably laughing at his clumsy efforts to be near her. By the time he pulled into the alley behind the store, he was determined to get out of Sacramento as soon as possible.

He opened the rear door to his storeroom and switched on the light, his gaze immediately drawn to the antique rug. Except it wasn't lying on the table where it had been last night when he'd locked up.

He was standing on it.

The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He inhaled sharply when a handful of remaining butterflies, disturbed by his entry, took wing and fluttered around his head.

Pressing his lips together, Ladden took several calming breaths. There had to be a reasonable explanation. Perhaps another tremor had occurred during the night, flinging the rug across the room?

"Yeah," he muttered, nodding. "That's probably what happened." He stepped to the side on shaky knees, then bent and rolled up the carpet, his fingers stinging from the static electricity crackling across the wool surface. Lifting the tall bundle carefully, he carried it to a corner and stood it next to an armoire.

He backed away, eyeing the carpet warily. Then he opened the door to his showroom and flooded the area with light, expecting to see evidence of another tremor to support his theory. But things were exactly as he'd left them—not tidy, but unchanged.

His mind racing, Ladden walked through the shop slowly, stopping to lean on both hands against the long mahogany counter. He was imagining things: the note, the newspaper, the moving rug. Maybe the tremor
had
been an explosion of some kind, an explosion that had released fumes and claimed a few brain cells.

A knock on his door brought his head up. Mrs. Pickney stood on the other side of the glass door. He smiled in relief—he needed to have a sane conversation with a sane person. Ladden unlocked the door. "You're here early."

"I wanted to talk to you before I opened, dear," Mrs. Pickney said, squeezing his hand.

"Is something wrong?"

She laughed. "Not at all. This won't take long—I'm retiring."

He blinked. "Retiring?"

"Yes. It occurred to me yesterday that you need the space, and I need to move on."

The business possibilities occurred to him instantly, but he spread his hands and slowly shook his head. "Mrs. Pickney, as much as I'd like to have your frontage, I'm afraid I'm not in a financial position to—"

"Ladden," she cut in, patting his hand. "I'm giving it to you."

He reached backward to steady himself on the counter. "You're what?"

"I'm giving it to you. I have no heirs. My sister and I have all the investments we'll ever need. Besides, you've kept up all the repairs for the last fifteen years—you've earned it."

He wondered briefly if she had lost her mind. Then he almost laughed aloud—if that wasn't the pot calling the kettle black. "Mrs. Pickney, I can't accept—"

"Ladden, this is my gift to you, my way of saying thanks for the friendship and support over the years." Her eyes shone. "You're like the son I never had. Nothing would make me happier than knowing I had helped you build your business."

Flabbergasted, he lifted his arms in the air. "I don't know what to say."

Her face creased in a wide smile. "Say you'll make Ladden's Castle a huge success."

He whooped and enfolded her in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground. "I will—I'll make it a huge success. Thank you!"

She laughed and kissed him on both cheeks. "I'll have my lawyer call you this afternoon to set up a time when we can transfer the deed." She waved as she headed for the door. "I need to call for a going-out-of-business permit."

Ladden watched her leave, then sheer joy moved him to jump straight up in the air. As he landed, his words from the previous day floated back to him.
I wish Mrs. Pickney would simply retire and give me her space.

He dropped heavily into the leather chair behind his counter, laid his head back, and reflected on the strange events of the last twenty-four hours. The craziness had all started when he'd carried in that mysterious rug.

Ladden squinted. What was it the homeless guy had said to him?

The spell has been broken... You have given me my life... Anything you want, simply wish for it, and I shall grant you three of your heart's desires...

He stared at the ceiling and shook his head. "That's too bizarre to even consider," he said. Yet he
had
wished for the fantastic, incredible thing that had just occurred.

"Coincidence," he murmured. Mrs. Pickney was giving him her building because she had no family and because he had helped her over the years. Not because he had wished for it.

But the note from the bar…
A wise first, wish, Master.
And his newspaper's strange headline:
A wise second wish, Master.

But even if he were to give an ounce of credence to the wild ravings of a homeless man, he couldn't for the life of him recall wishing for anything besides Mrs. Pickney's store space.

The peal of the telephone broke his train of thought. Grateful for the diversion, Ladden jammed his fingers through his hair, then picked up the handset.

"Ladden's Castle."

"Is this Ladden Sanderson?" a man asked.

"Yes, may I help you?"

"Is this the same Ladden Sanderson who rented all the billboards on the bypass?"

Ladden frowned. "Billboards?"

"Yeah—the ones that say, 'Ladden Sanderson is crazy about Jasmine Crowne.'"

Chapter Six

JASMINE ANGLED HER HEAD at the TV, watching one of Trey's political commercials. Tall, slim, and handsome, he was a commanding yet comforting figure, with serious eyes and a strong jaw. During the time they'd spent together, she had been pleasantly surprised by Trey McDonald's sincere regard for his duty as an elected figure.

"How lucky I am," she murmured, plaiting her hair into a long, loose braid. The frustration she had harbored last night when he hadn't returned her call dissolved as the camera zeroed in for a close-up.

"Vote for me," he said with a nod and a smile, "and I'll make sure your voice is louder than the lobbyists who are trying to take over state government."

She sighed. Trey was a very busy man, with an agenda far more important than keeping his girlfriend entertained. He was trying to change the world, and she was pouting because he didn't have time to take her to the movies.
Shame on me.

Her phone rang and Trey’s name came on the screen. She smiled and connected the call. "Hello."

"Good morning, beautiful. Sorry I didn't get back to you last night. I simply couldn't get away from Senator Dodge until after midnight, and I didn't want to disturb your sleep."

"Are you insinuating I need my beauty sleep?" she teased.

"Never. Could I persuade you to attend a dinner and rally with me this evening?"

"Possibly," she said, her voice light.

His chuckle rumbled over the line. "I'd consider it a huge favor. It's a big media event, and maybe the press will be more kind if I have you by my side—you're so good at working those vultures. And you're so damned photogenic."

"Hmm. Sounds as if you need a prop."

"I miss you," he said, his voice deepening. "Once this campaign is over, I promise I'll make it up to you. We'll go away for the weekend."

She immediately felt contrite. "Trey, you don't have to make it up to me. I know the election means everything to you." She smiled into the receiver. "And it means everything to me, too."

"You're a gem. Then I'll see you tonight?"

"Absolutely. Where?"

"The Shoalt Hotel, seven-thirty. I won't be able to pick you up, but I'll send over a car."

Remembering her transportation predicament, she cleared her throat. "That's not necessary, but speaking of cars, I have a confession to make. Mine was towed last night."

He laughed. "You're kidding."

"I could have sworn the parking meter still had time left on it—"

"Don't worry about it. Do you know where it is?"

"City lot D," she said morosely.

"No problem. I'll make a few phone calls—"

"Trey," she cut in, "I just want you to be aware of the situation. If you took care of this, and someone found out, the media would blow it way out of proportion."

He sighed. "As petty as it sounds, you're probably right."

"I already called a taxi, so I'll pick up my car in an hour or so. I hope this doesn't embarrass you."

"I'm sure the incident will go unnoticed, but thanks for being so concerned about how it might look. These days, it only takes a whiff of gossip to get a scandal started." He laughed dryly. "And right now I can't afford to lose a single vote."

"Things will turn around," she offered, a finger of guilt nudging her.

"I hope you're right. Will you still go out with me if I'm only an ex-governor?"

Jasmine laughed. "You don't sound very optimistic this morning."

"Have you seen this morning's headline? The numbers are pretty grim—oh, there's my other line. Are you sure I can't send over a car this evening?"

"No, I'll drive," she assured him. "See you tonight."

She disconnected the call. Trey's words about scandal echoed in her head. How foolish she had been last night. Even though nothing had happened, if a photographer had been inclined to mischief, a photo of Ladden Sanderson dropping her off at her townhome would be easy to exaggerate. She glanced over at the unfolded newspaper and swallowed hard. Such a photo would have sold more papers than the news that the incumbent governor was falling behind in the polls.

Jasmine fastened the end of her braid with a silver clasp, then stepped into pumps and walked to the tiny kitchen. Of the sparse contents of her refrigerator, orange juice looked like the safest choice. Her stomach still churned over her physical and emotional brush with Ladden, and she decided the best course of action would be to avoid contact with him until she got her head back on straight. An evening with Trey would do wonders. But when she wandered back into the living room, the copper lamp drew her to the mantel, and she felt an uncomfortable twinge of longing for Ladden's easy smile. A single black-and-orange butterfly sat perched on the blade of the silent ceiling fan.

"I'm bringing a net home with me," she said, shaking a warning finger at the insect.

Unable to resist, she lifted the lamp and ran her hands over the smooth, shiny copper. When she felt raised etchings, she moved to the window and squinted at the symbols near the bottom. "Arabic," she murmured, amazed that she could even recognize a letter or two because she hadn't studied the alphabet of her mother's lineage since she was very young. The full words escaped her, however, and she resolved to unearth the old textbooks buried somewhere in her attic.

Frowning, she fought the sadness that filled her chest when she thought about her childhood. Her mother, gone now for over twenty years, would be happy to know she was thinking about the old language, no matter how flimsy the excuse. Running her fingers over the cool metal surface, she smiled at the source of the unlikely link to her heritage.

A car horn interrupted her reverie. Jasmine ran out the front door and hopped into the backseat of the cab. She leaned forward to give the driver directions, then stopped at the sight of his black turban. He looked strangely familiar. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

The skinny man shook his head. "No. Just arrived in city."

She nodded, wondering how on earth the man could drive with all that fabric draped around his body. But he seemed to understand where she told him to go, so she sat back and flipped through her calendar, planning her day. She had written herself a note to schedule delivery of the table Ladden had refinished for her. Always conscientious, Ladden would remember.

Jasmine still wished she could talk him into selling her that carpet—it would be the perfect congratulatory gift for Trey. With a sigh, she decided that despite the awkwardness that had sprung up between her and Ladden, she needed to stay in touch if she was going to get her hands on that rug. When guilt pricked her conscience, she squashed it. After all, she was willing to pay him a goodly sum.

She planned to spend most of the day at the office building of a wireless communications company she had acquired as a customer only last week. The company president, a young, aggressive woman, had challenged her to give the offices a cutting edge decor, an atmosphere to match their progressive philosophy. Jasmine's mouth twisted into a wry smile. Lots of metal and glass—at least she wouldn't need to shop at Ladden's Castle for this job.

"A wonderful day," the cabdriver said, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

Jasmine nodded and looked out the window, realizing for the first time that it was the beginning of another gorgeous day in Sacramento. How she loved it here where winter was comically short and spring practically unending. And the city's landscape was evolving beautifully. The recent retail development on the bypass was being carefully tended with lots of green space retained, restrictions on high-rises, limited billboards—