More Than Meets the Ink

More than Meets the Ink

Elle Aycart

www.loose-id.com

More than Meets the Ink

Copyright © June 2011 by Elle Aycart

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eISBN 978-1-61118-431-0

Editor: Rory Olsen

Cover Artist: Anne Cain

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

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This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Chapter One

“Mom, this is insane! What the hell makes you think Mr. Bowen killed Amy?” Tate muttered as she spat a piece of wet grass from her mouth. Damn, someone had been watering the lawn. Her white top was going to suffer big-time.

“Watch your language! And I know he did. Now keep quiet and crawl or you’ll get us caught,” her mom said while elbowing her way through the part of the backyard that connected her condo with Mr. Bowen’s as swiftly and efficiently as if the fifty-eight-year-old woman did this for a living.

“I’m sure Mr. Bowen has everything to do with it,” she continued in a whisper. “Amy hasn’t come home for a week, and the police won’t do anything.”

The police were doing nothing? No shit!

“It’s up to us.”

“Up to us?” Tate all but shrieked. “There is no ‘us’ here, Mom. There’s just you bullying me into making an ass of myself.”

As her mother’s back immediately went stiff, Tate winced in regret and softened her attitude, trying her damnedest to keep her voice low and her tone conciliatory. “Amy’s an independent cat, Mom. She probably just took a vacation.”

Away from this Florida Eternal Sun Resort insanity, she thought to herself. Living in this senior complex was like being stuck on a very demanding, never-ending, hyperactive vacation hell, with bingo nights, afternoon salsa lessons, and morning gardening. Not to mention hula classes, self-improvement workshops, feng shui instruction, writing seminars, bonsai pruning, painting lessons, yoga, meditation exercises, pet training courses, tai chi, and other activities sane people only engaged in once a year during their two-week vacation and then spent the rest of the year recuperating from. Tate had only been here for a couple of days and was already exhausted—mentally and physically. No wonder her mom was cracking up. Big-time. Still, it was one thing to understand her mom’s weird “coping mechanisms,” another very different matter to condone them or take part in them, even if only grudgingly.

She should at least try to make her realize all this was silly. “Let’s be reasonable here. Did you see him kill her?”

“Nope,” her mom answered.

“Well, did Mr. Bowen tell you he killed her?”

“No, he didn’t say he killed Amy, but neither did he deny it,” she explained, turning to Tate and giving her a conspiratorial look that froze her daughter in place.

Tate stared incredulously at her mother. “Did you ask him?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Oh God, this was even worse. “Sooo, how on earth can he deny the accusations if you don’t even ask? Really, Mom, we need to find you another place to live. This one obviously isn’t agreeing with you,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“Good morning, ladies. Mind if I ask what you’re doing crawling out there?”

Tate cringed at the sound of those words. Damn, busted.

She tilted her head up, surely sporting a monumental deer-in-the-headlights look on her face. Despite the fact that the sun was in her eyes and silhouetting the imposing figure nearby, she had no doubt it wasn’t her mom’s neighbor. If for nothing else than because the senior complex only accepted residents from fifty-five years old and up, and the man in front of her was in the prime of his youth—all tight muscles and broad shoulders.

Oh boy, she’d known this was a very bad idea. Furiously blushing, she hurried to stand up and then moved to help her mother, only to realize she was already on her feet and glaring at the man.

“And who might you be?” her mom asked, arms crossed over her chest, one foot tapping the grass impatiently.

Jeez, leave it to her to get caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar and force the other person to justify himself. Had she been born in another time, Tate had no doubt whatsoever that her mom would have made it to inquisitor general in no time.

The man chuckled, amused, obviously not that impressed. “I’m James Bowen, ma’am. My father happens to live here. And who are you? The resident SWAT team?”

“Ha-ha. Very funny, young man. No, I’m Mrs. Cooper from condo A4. Next door actually.”

James kept silent, probably waiting to hear why they’d been crawling through the lawn, but she didn’t offer any more explanations, and Tate knew she wouldn’t.

She nervously wiped her palms on her cutoffs to clean off the blades of grass and the dirt still attached to them, and then extended her hand, offering the young man a tentative smile. “Hello, I’m Tate. Sorry for”—she searched for a word that would describe the situation, but soon gave up—“
this
, but my mother seems to think your father…um…uh…killed our cat,” she said, mortified, her voice getting lower and lower as she reached the end of the sentence.

To the man’s silence and baffled expression, Tate answered by shrugging, her smile apologetic.

“Or at the very least kidnapped her,” her mom crisply added. “Or maybe that horrible saber tooth of yours has eaten her. He had her totally terrorized. Ugly, ugly beast.”

“I see,” James said, unsuccessfully stifling a laugh. “And what were you doing? Engaging in a covert operation behind enemy lines hoping to make an extraction, dead or alive?”

Tate had avoided staring straight into his face, partly because the sun was blinding her and partly because she was too embarrassed to make eye contact after her mom’s wacky stunt, but his obvious amusement at their expense and his flippant remarks had her gaze darting up, her lips pursed in a tight line. With the sun right behind him, she still couldn’t see him clearly, so she shaded her eyes with her hand and faced the jerk.

The jerk was gorgeous.

Tall. Imposing. His dark blond hair was short but on the shaggy side, honey waves framing a devilishly handsome face with sharp masculine features. He took his shades off, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement.
My
. Beautifully thick, blond lashes. He looked rugged and sexy. Sinfully yummy with his five o’clock shadow and that cocky smirk on his lips.

“Don’t get smart with me, young man.” The elder woman scowled at him. “Just give us Amy or tell us where she is, and we’ll be on our way.”

For a second, he looked startled and turned toward Tate. “Amy?”

She threw her hands up in defeat and sighed. “The cat.”

“That’s right, the cat,” he repeated, barely holding his laughter.

“Your father never liked her crossing over his lawn…even made a couple of nasty remarks. She’s missing, so either your father killed her or he’s keeping her prisoner.”

James’s stance was relaxed, playful even, with his bulging arms crossed over his broad, hard chest. “I just came this morning and haven’t been debriefed yet about the status of our latest prisoners. As a matter of fact, I’d barely stepped inside,” he explained, a hint of mockery in his tone. “I guess you understand I’ll have to talk to my CO before pardoning anyone. Dad?” he called toward the patio doors, his eyes never leaving Tate and her mom, his crooked smile showing off his sparkling white teeth. Or maybe they seemed so white because the man had that glorious suntan, the one Tate never got. Exposed to the sun, she always went from paper white to crispy red, no intermediaries.

It was a pity her mother wasn’t as impressed with him and wasn’t willing to wait outside; she narrowed her eyes on him defiantly and then darted inside the house through the open patio door.

“Mom, please…” Tate mumbled as she tried without much success to stop the determined lady. She threw a pleading glance at James and, letting out a harsh groan of annoyance, followed her mother. Thank God he was finding the whole situation amusing enough not to call the cops—so far.