Sealed with a Kiss (4 page)

“But she didn't.” The menacing glare was wasted in the swirls of navy that stained her eyelids and cheeks.

“That's a shame, too. Instead of rocking on your veranda at night I'm sitting on lawn chairs in the parking lot, enjoying the smell of simmering asphalt.”

“Somehow, I think it suits you.”

He was grateful for the excuse to smile at the ridiculous picture she made in her severe black jacket and skirt, straitlaced hairdo and birdman mask.

A mechanical roll of thunder overwhelmed the clinking of stainless on Melamine as three choppers pulled to a stop near the entrance of Ruthie's Kitchen. Burly men clad in leather removed their helmets to reveal colorful do-rags over balding heads.

Sam scooted the chair back and pushed to his feet. “Gotta go. The guys are here.”

“Those men? I thought you were talking about some of the students.”

“I know. You assume way too often, Rusty. And you know what they say about people who assume.”

“Save your clichéd pearls of wisdom for the college boys, Sam.”

“Thanks, I'll do that. I value the guidance of a woman who drinks in my every word and memorizes the lines on my face.”

 

Tara was mortified. The man must have gone home after her humiliating teenage soliloquy and made notes. All these years she'd prayed he'd forgotten her passionate profession of love. Of the millions of forgetful men in the world, she'd had to fall for one with a razor-sharp memory.

And Sam wasn't likely to forget anytime soon. As long as she took the bait, he'd keep setting the trap.

She considered tossing her glass of ice water in his insolent face. Instead, she took a long drink to cool down the heat that threatened to rise in her throat and cheeks. She stood, picked up her black clutch and turned away.

His strong hand shot out, grasping her forearm with surprising speed. As if sensing the unnecessary pressure, Sam loosened his grip. She fixed the offending hand with a hot stare and he released his hold.

“Wait, we need to talk,” he insisted. “This involves structural changes to the building that I think you should know about.”

He angled his dark head toward the sound of the bikes. “Those guys are my demolition crew. Tomorrow morning their equipment will arrive and we'll begin knocking out the alley side of the building to accommodate overhead doors. The day after that we'll take out chunks of the front side and replace it with showroom windows. It'll be noisy and dusty. I didn't want to get started without showing you the drawings and explaining it all first. And I need your signature on a couple of permits.”

The heat creeping up her neck couldn't be stopped by a barrel of ice water. “When did you start planning this ‘demolition' as you call it?”

“About fifteen minutes after the reading of your grandma's will.”

“And you're just now asking for my permission?”

Sam threw his head back and laughed. Not like you'd laugh out loud at a funny joke. More like you'd laugh with hysterical relief if you won the lottery. The lunch crowd at Ruthie's had stopped watching the commotion out front and were all staring at Sam when he caught his breath and wiped away the tears of mirth.

“You still don't get it, do ya, Rusty? I'm not asking for your permission. Not today. Not ever. I have as much right as you do to make changes to that building and if you want to drop by this afternoon, I'll give you a preview of the coming attractions. If
not, I suggest you work from Sycamore House tomorrow, because it's going to be dusty when those bricks fall.”

He retrieved his helmet and headed toward the exit, but he didn't exactly make a beeline for the door. Instead he worked the crowd as if he were running for office. He smiled and complimented the ladies and glad-handed all the men. If there'd been a baby in the place, he would have kissed it.

Along with everyone else, Tara found herself mesmerized by the vision of Sam and the other men beyond the plate-glass windows. Then, she caught sight of her reflection in the shiny pane. As Tara's hands flew to her face, Lacey's blond reflection joined that of the wretched blue-faced creature in the glass.

“You have to admit, I did try to get you to go to the ladies' room.”

Tara opened her black clutch and withdrew a small canister of pepper spray. She handed it to her friend.

“In the future, if I ever refuse to follow your instructions, use this.”

B
y noon the next day, a hole big enough to accommodate a fire engine gaped in the back wall of the Elliott Building. Each time a sledgehammer met with the antique structure, Tara shuddered from the impact, but she was intent on watching the entire operation.

The hems of her black silk-knit slacks were coated in dust. Fine particles of baked clay clung to the tail of the matching knee-length tunic, a sign of her dogged determination to retrieve as many undamaged bricks as possible. Surely, she reasoned, some quaint and nostalgic collectible could be fashioned and sold at Bridges from the hundreds of otherwise useless blocks.

“Why don't you leave that to the crew? They'll be just as careful and you won't be picking bugs out or your hair for the rest of the day.”

Sam removed a leather work glove and touched the top of her head. Waving his fingers in front of her face, he dangled a shriveled granddaddy long-legs.

She yanked off her own gloves, tossed them on the pile of rubble and brushed frantically at her crown, further dislodging hair from the already beleaguered braid.

“Oh, I hate spiders!”

“Don't get excited.” It was obvious from the chuckle in his voice he was enjoying her discomfort. “The thing's been dead for ages.”

“It doesn't matter. The very idea of a spider touching me makes my flesh crawl.”

“I know.”

“That's right, you sure do.” She looked up into his dark sunglasses and, instead of obsessing over her dirty reflection, she noted the mischievous grin on his face. As a child she'd seen that smile many times, often accompanied by a silly prank.

“I figured you'd toughen up and get over that.”

“I thought I might, too. Then I moved to Manhattan into an apartment that had to be the spider capital of the world. And I don't mean a few here and there that you manage with a can of bug spray. I mean millions of the creepy things spinning webs faster than I could knock them down with a broom.” She shuddered from the memory.

“You wouldn't exaggerate, would you?”

“No.” She swatted at the top of her head again, certain the drop of sweat that slipped down her once-careful part was an errant arachnid. “Working with antiques, you run into all kinds of insects nesting in forgotten corners. I can live with moths and carpenter ants and I don't mind the odd beetle now and again. But spiders…”

“I remember when you first came to live with your grandma.” Sam removed his glasses, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “I was eight and my mama told me to be nice to you because you were Miss Elliott's granddaughter. It took me six years to work up the courage to ask how Miss Elliott came by a grandchild when she'd never been married herself.”

Tara nodded, understanding the circumstances surrounding the sudden appearance of a three-year-old in spinster Miriam Elliott's life. As small as she was, even Tara could sense the heads and tongues wagging behind their backs. By the time she'd started school the scandal was old news and most of the whispering had stopped.

“Anyway, you wouldn't give me any peace till I came up with a deterrent.”

“How did you know I was afraid of spiders?”

“What little girl isn't?” He smiled at the recollection of his plan. “It was worth a few minutes under the front porch to find out.”

Tara grimaced at the long-buried memory. “You
were bad to bring that jar of spiders into the kitchen.”

Sam tilted his head back and laughed. Again, she was struck by the appeal of his smile, her mind sweeping back to the one tender kiss she'd given him years ago.

“Hey, Sam, you want to measure this cased opening one last time to make sure we've got it wide enough to suit you? Then we're gonna knock off for lunch.”

Sam turned his back, striding away without so much as a nod. She shook off the dismissal and returned to the salvage operation. Reaching for another brick, she noted the hopelessly chipped state of once well-maintained nails.

“Oh, well,” she mused aloud, “the first time I strip a cabinet with five layers of paint you'll be history anyway. Might as well throw out all my polish and trim you short.”

“You still talk to yourself, I see.”

Tara looked up from her conversation with her fingernails, embarrassed yet again to have Sam catch her looking foolish. She huffed out a breath of exasperation in resigned response.

Sam let her off the hook, but not for long. “Want something for lunch? Preferably without raisins. I won't be able to keep an eye on you while you eat today.”

“No, thank you.” She brushed the back of her
filthy hand over her brow, damp with perspiration, feeling the gritty film layered on her skin. “I'll eat something at the house. I need to change for an appointment.”

“As long as you're changing anyway, why don't you wear something that's not so…not so…” He seemed to search for the right word. “Black.”

She glanced down at the chic and now very dirty ensemble she'd been fortunate to acquire at a fashionable second-hand shop in Manhattan. She fervently hoped the fabric's thick covering of red dust was temporary.

“I'm afraid that's not possible.”

“And why not?” Sam crossed his arms, waiting for a reply. She studied the muscles flexed across his chest and lost her train of thought.

“Hmm?” she mumbled.

“Why isn't it possible for you to wear something that's not black?”

“Oh, that's simple.” Her eyes snapped back to his face. “Because everything I own is black.”

“I kinda figured that, but so has everybody else in town.”

Startled by Sam's blunt observation, she grudgingly admitted he was probably right. Her black city clothes seemed out of place in Beardsly and her skin was crying out for something light while the air-conditioning unit was being replaced. Still, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

“My wardrobe is none of your concern.”

“Suit yourself.” Sam executed a smooth about-face to head in the direction of his friends. He shot back over his shoulder, “If you wanna spend the summer looking like an undertaker, what do I care?”

Undertaker? She snorted at the insinuation. Just because a person wore black, it hardly labeled her as a mortuary manager. Black was elegant. Black was slimming. Black was…too hot!

 

Fresh from the shower, Tara stood in the open door of her darkened closet. Her fingers slipped along the wall in search of the switch plate. A flip of the plastic lever coated the room with glaring light from an overhead globe. She squinted in the brightness.

As her eyes adjusted, she faced the full-length mirror on the opposite wall and grimaced at the sight of her body in baggy shorts and a tank top. Years of eating on the run and lack of exercise had added pounds to her tall frame. Under the harsh light, her bare arms appeared fleshy and pale, full thighs were in need of sun and physical activity. The all-black wardrobe concealed her flaws well.

“Exactly why I never wear anything else,” she admitted.

For the millionth time, she pondered the mystery father who must have been a man of some stature. Her mother and grandmother had both been slen
der, so the constant struggle with twenty extra pounds in her adult years must have come from the paternal gene pool. It wasn't fair. Girls should take after their perpetual-motion mothers, not their couch-potato fathers. Making a mental note to look into a gym membership, she clicked off the light.

When the phone jangled in the hallway, she abandoned the effort to wangle her thick wad of hair into a twist. A female voice cancelled the loan officer's appointment, but confirmed the funds would be available within twenty-four hours.

Going back to the steamy confines of Bridges was out of the question. The free afternoon was a sign she should do something productive. Something useful. Something she was good at.

Shopping.

First stop, Lacey's Closet, the one ladies' boutique in town. Right out of college, Lacey had opened the store, to the excitement of the young women of Beardsly. Of course, there was always Shoppers' Mart, but Tara had sworn never again to buy clothes at the same store where a customer could also purchase a side of beef or a truckload of mulch.

Next stop would be the big flea market over in Longview. It was open until dark the first week of each month. She smiled at the thought of haggling over musty pine chests and scarred sideboards. Hopefully there wouldn't be any spiders lurking in the drawers.

 

“Wear your hair down.”

The thought hadn't occurred to Tara in so long, she was surprised by the casual suggestion.

“When we were kids I always loved your hair. Why you insist on bunching it up like that is a mystery to me.”

Without waiting for permission, Lacey removed the large pins that secured the heavy twist, and auburn curls fell in a soft cascade around bare shoulders.

The likeness in the three-way mirror was becoming. Capri pants weren't a new fashion statement, but they were a novelty to Tara's ultra-conservative wardrobe. The stretch denim fabric hugged in all the right places while leaving a flash of pale shin exposed.

“That yellow blouse is yummy with your hair color. It's so feminine.”

“You sure? I thought redheads shouldn't wear yellow.” Tara admired the contrast of her hair against the buttery linen, sure the scoop neckline was too daring.

“Of course they can.” Lacey reached for a pair of hand-decorated sneakers. “Here, try these. You can't put those black flats back on or you'll look like a dweeb.”

Tara slipped into the trendy shoes, enjoying the colorful appeal. It was a good thing she was headed
outside the city limits, otherwise she'd be too self-conscious to test the new look.

With a bright blue T-shirt and a pair of crisp khaki shorts in her shopping bag, she climbed back into the mammoth sedan and headed for Rent-a-Heap-Cheap, the one truck rental in town.

“It runs great as long as you keep pouring in the oil, Miz Elliott. There's a case behind the seat. Be sure you add a can or two when you stop for gas.” The rental agent smiled, slammed the door of the eighties-model pickup and waved Tara out of the gravel parking lot.

Rearview mirror adjusted, seat belt tightened, she headed south on the Longview Highway. A half hour into the drive, the truck began to sputter. A red light flashed in the cracked dash.

She steered to the shoulder of the road, catching a glimpse of her watch. Three thirty. No need to get excited. Some kind farmer would stop to render aid if she couldn't get the truck started.

First things first, she hoisted the creaky hood, a universal sign of motorist distress. After a struggle to pull the seat forward, she located the promised case of motor oil. A can opener hung from a string tied to the gun rack. She punched V-shaped holes in the tops of two cans and carried them to the front of the truck.

Now what? Stretching up on tiptoe, she leaned over the workings of the engine and tried to figure out where to pour the dark goo.

 

As the Deuce glided around the bend, Sam wondered what malfunction had stalled the old truck, fifty yards up ahead. When he spied the woman, poised on the balls of her feet exploring beneath the hood, the truck was soon forgotten.

He slowed and appreciated the sight the woman made; her shirt was the color of a caution sign, but it was the luxurious rust-colored hair spilling over her shoulders that caused the involuntary clenching of his fingers on the wheel. He came to a screeching halt at her heels.

He watched the shoulders sag and the head give a shake of resignation as the woman realized the identity of her Good Samaritan.

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” he taunted, removing his helmet. “Need help again, little lady?”

Holding both cans of oil, Tara straightened. Careful not to whack her head on the hood, she twisted to face him. The color in her face was already high from leaning over the warm engine. The pink tones deepened.

“Very gallant.” Her eyes narrowed. “Would you please help me get this truck started so we can both be on our way?”

“Aren't you even going to ask me what I'm doing here?”

“Okay,” she sighed. “What are you doing here?”

“I've been in Longview getting the word out about Sam's Cycles' grand opening. I even mentioned your place a time or two.”

“I would appreciate it if you'd let me handle my own affairs.”

“Hey,” he held his palms out. “If you don't want the free publicity, no problemo.”

“I'm sorry,” Tara apologized. “I'm renting this clunker by the hour and I need to get to Longview myself to catch the last day of the flea market.”

He leaned the bike against the kickstand and slid off.

“What makes you think it needs oil?” he asked. He rounded the truck bed and pulled open the driver's door.

“That red light on the dash was a dead giveaway.”

He leaned out the window to get a good look at Tara.

“Did you also notice the red light that said you were out of gas?”

She closed enticing blue eyes and shook her head, a small but definite admission of guilt.

“No. The guy I rented it from mentioned adding oil when I stopped for gas. I didn't realize I was supposed to stop so soon since rentals usually come with a
full
tank.”

“Well, the good news is, this is easy enough to fix.” He relieved her of the oil cans, then moved to
the bike and snapped a spare helmet off the back. He held the protective headgear out to Tara, enjoying the incredulous look on her face as she realized his intentions.

“Oh, no.” She backed up, trapping herself between the truck's grill and his approach.

“Oh, yes. I'm not leaving you alone beside the road.”

Then he gave in to something he'd longed to do since the day a grown-up Tara Elliott had stepped foot into his classroom. Sam tucked thick strands of hair behind her delicate ears, slowing long enough to enjoy the sensation of silk against his skin. Fingers lingering longer than necessary, he stared into azure depths that darkened at his touch.