Small Town Girl (13 page)

"I'll call my lawyer and sound him out when we're done here, but I think you have to sue me, too," he said in resignation.

"Well, that ought to make things real pleasant." She strode back to the closet to get out the mop and bucket. "Why don't you go call him now while I clean up? Let's find out how much shit we're in before we start cutting each other's throats."

"We?" he asked with a lift of his eyebrow. "Looks to me like I'm the one wading deep and getting deeper."

"There's a silver lining in every cloud and a rainbow after every storm," she sang as she filled the bucket with soapy water.

Giving her a look of disgruntlement, Flint stalked off to his office. Jo crossed her fingers behind her back.

She wanted to admire her boss's honesty in admitting that she'd been done wrong and helping her to correct it, but if she had to admire Flint's character as well as his bootie—she'd have to think twice about suing him.

She hadn't seen many silver linings in her twenty-eight years. With her luck, she'd lose her job, earn Flint's animosity, and have to go bankrupt paying legal fees after Randy won the lawsuit.

But damned if she would let Randy get away with theft, if she had to personally carve out his tonsils and sell them on eBay.

Chapter Ten

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"Yeah, yeah, I got that. If one of your clients wants to sue another of your clients, he needs a different lawyer. My friend can handle that," Flint said as heartily as he could. He hadn't wanted to play his hand out until he had the facts. No point in warning RJ what was coming down—as soon as Flint found a new lawyer.

He really didn't want to go down the lawsuit road again. Maybe he ought to let Jo go after RJ with that butcher knife she talked about. Life would be simpler.

But he couldn't live with himself knowing he'd co-wrote songs with a thief who would rob a talented new writer like Jo. He'd earned his money with years of hard work. He wasn't letting a lazy cheat turn the one good thing in his life into a lie while hurting innocents, if one could call a sex goddess innocent.

He'd have to start calling old friends to find another lawyer.

He could hear Jo singing "Amazing Grace" in the other room as she knocked tables around with her mop. Damn, but she was good. She could bring an audience to tears with her voice. Her soaring notes gave him goose bumps all up and down his arms.

She could have a huge career ahead of her if he could clear up RJ's theft. Maybe if he did the right thing, Jo would forgive him enough not to wipe out everything he owned.

He flipped through his address book and found another number to call. His long-distance bills would exceed his income at this rate.

He was still on the phone when Jo appeared in his doorway, her hair tumbling to her shoulders and her cheeks pink with the heat of exertion. She pointed upstairs to her apartment and left before he got his eyeballs back in his head.

Once he had all the information he could obtain over the phone, Flint delayed taking it upstairs to Joella. He'd spilled his guts to her up there, and he wasn't eager to return to the scene of the crime. She had a way of listening that made a man much too comfortable.

He locked up and took the deposit to the bank and debated calling jo from home so he didn't have to look into her big green eyes and watch her flap those flirty lashes. But that was the coward's way out.

Greeting a few of his regular customers on the street, Flint strode back to the shop. He knew he'd done the right thing to return to Northfork for his sons. He liked the small-town atmosphere. He just needed to get the two-ton weight of RJ's perfidy off his back so he could enjoy life again.

The purple pig with the upturned snout grinned at him as he passed by. In his freewheelin' days, he would have set the pig on its haunches and put a guitar between its hooves so it would look just like some of the hogs he knew back in Nashville. But he was making an effort to be a sensible businessman these days.

Jo opened the screen door for him before he reached the top of the stairs. Flint could see the anxiousness in her eyes that her smile couldn't conceal.

"Mary Jean can't work yet because of the baby," she told him without preliminaries. "Her sister Peggy can come in some, but she's not real reliable," Jo warned. "You saw her at the gig on Friday night. I have a couple more calls out. People need jobs around here, so it's just a matter of finding someone you can count on to hold down the fort on weekends."

Unable to halt her torrent of information, Flint stepped inside at her gesture and fell into a different world than he'd expected.

She had converted the upper story of his rotten old building into a spacious loft apartment with light pouring in a two-story, double row of windows that exposed a view of the mountain. Sunbeams danced off spirals of color hanging from the rafters in the slanted ceiling. In the breeze from her open door, whirligigs spun, butterflies soared, and crystal prisms caught the sun and reflected bouncing rainbows.

"Did you get the fire department out here to hang them?" he asked in disbelief, risking a crick in his neck to gaze upward.

"Scaffolding," she said. "Slim's an electrician with a construction company. Have a seat and tell me what you found out. Would you like anything to drink?"

"No, I'm fine." Bringing his gaze down to earth, he studied the explosion of color that was her living space. The wine-purple sofa didn't surprise him any. He winced at the orange-brown side chair, but it seemed to work okay with the loosely woven rug that could have been made of the plates she'd broken the other day, the colors were so numerous. Even the walls seemed to glow with warm gold.

Accustomed to his sterile modern home in Nashville or the run-down apartment he'd retreated to after the separation, Flint felt as if he'd just walked into Disney World. He took the orange chair gingerly, fearing the winged arms would fall off. The chair had to be a thousand years old, but she must have had the cushions re-strung. It sat fine. He sprawled his legs across the waxed floor and watched as Jo poured herself some tea from the galley kitchen on the far side of the open space.

His gaze found the half wall that probably hid her bath. A ladder led to a loft above it, but he couldn't see if it contained her bed.

Everywhere he looked he saw sheet music, amplifiers, and music stands. A rugged-looking guitar and piano occupied one corner. He'd run away from music only to land in a nest of musicians. Figured, that was the way his life worked.

"You hold auditions up here?" he asked as Joella curled up on the couch with her iced tea, tucking those long, tanned legs beneath her. He sucked in a deep breath as his wicked mind took a journey down the road where those legs led.

She'd apparently taken time to clean up a little. Her hair was back in its pins and ponytail, and without the bib apron, her golf shirt exposed the brown column of her throat. And more. But he was trying not to look there. He was trying to remember she was a talented woman who'd been badly cheated.

She shrugged and looked around. "The guys used to hang out at Randy's place, but since he took off, they've been leaving things here."

"You don't care?" he asked in amazement. "Melinda used to pitch fits when I left my stuff laying around, and we had a lot more space than this."

"Space is for living in. What else would I do with it? Dust?"

He thought of his mother's pristine decor with everything in its place, and the expensive homes he'd been in throughout his life, and decided she was right. They were pretty pictures no one ever lived in.

As a matter of fact, except for all the colors, her place felt like his log cabin, spacious and welcoming. He relaxed his shoulders, and this time the breath he took was one of acceptance. Their goals differed, but they stood on common ground.

"I've called the best lawyers in Nashville," he told her. "You can't use mine because he wrote the contract and has to defend me and RJ. Most I talked to are in bed with the record companies and aren't interested in suing their cash cows."

She sat forward, her eyes shining. Flint really couldn't resist looking down her shirt. He shifted uncomfortably and sought his lost train of thought.

"But you found somebody, didn't you?" she urged him on.

"Yeah, yeah, I did. I found one in Knoxville who specializes in contract law. His name is E. D. DuBois, but I didn't get a chance to talk with him. His assistant seemed to think he'd be interested in visiting Northfork to gather your evidence rather than you going up there, so I made an appointment for him to meet with you on Thursday."

She set her glass on a low table that looked as if it had been made of broken dishes. Except, when he looked, the colors formed a mosaic of a flame azalea.

"Maybe you better tell me what's going to happen," she said quietly.

"Maybe I'd better let the lawyer explain. What I do know is that he'll either ask for a hefty amount of money up front, or if he's confident you have a case, he'll ask for something like half of everything you win. So we're not talking a path to riches here."

"I'd be just as happy slicing Randy into a baloney sandwich," she asserted.

"Well, this is how you do it without getting arrested." Because he couldn't resist following how her mind worked, he asked, "What will you do if you win real money—buy Manolos and Jimmy Choos?"

"Jimmy—to pry open; chew—to masticate… Nope, doesn't sound like anything I'd buy." She held up a slender bare foot with hot-pink toenails, showing she knew what he was talking about but was playing ignorant. "I've a hankering for some of those glittery, strapped ankle-breakers if you'll just take out the counter so everyone can admire my toes. Reckon I could win enough to put in a see-through counter?"

Flint couldn't help grinning at the image of Joella tripping around behind a glass counter on high heels. "You'd knock 'em dead, Cinderella, but I don't recommend dancing in them."

"I'm not messing with any more pumpkin coaches," she agreed obscurely, returning her toes to the coffee table. "And someone else can have Prince Charming. Just show me the money."

Flint stood up before he got too comfortable and started enjoying her silliness. Or those long, tanned legs. "Take tomorrow and the next day off, if you can work this weekend. I've gotta go buy some paint."

She ripped a page off a notepad beside the phone and handed it to him. "Here's your rock climber. Jimbo is great with kids. It'll cost you for a private climb, but if you don't mind going with a pack of others, the price isn't bad. Give him a call."

Despite the fact that she'd talked him into changing what he didn't want to change, Flint accepted the number with gratitude. "Thanks, Cinderella. May the bluebirds of happiness fly up your nose."

Her laughter carried him out the door on lighter feet than he had coming in.

"Are you sure your lawyer is coming? I go up to Mama's and look after the kids on Thursday nights, and I'll need to leave soon." From the top of her stepladder, Jo aimed another nail into the molding she was installing along the cafe's ceiling.

"Your mother has kids?" Flint asked, pounding the last piece of paneling into the wall beneath the big plate-glass window.

The cafe had been closed for nearly an hour. Jo sat back to admire the work they'd completed in the afternoons over the last few days. "Amy's kids," she explained. "Mama's sick, and Amy won't leave them alone with her, so I get in my visits with the kids and Mom at the same time. Kind of takes off some of the pressure. Are we putting up shelves for the plates or hanging those ugly photographs again?"

"Will you quit doing that?" He sat back on his heels and glared up at her. "My tired brain can take only one topic at a time. What pressure?"

She replayed her words inside her head and grinned when she reached the offending passage. "I didn't want to be accused of information overload again. My mama nags. Doesn't yours?"

"And then some. Will you stop swinging that hammer before you fall off? You've got paint on your nose. That molding must still be wet."

She laughed. "I bet you sound just like your mother. Will I get to meet her this weekend?"

"Over my dead body. If I fall off the rocks, you can come to the funeral. Get down from there. You're making me nervous."

He didn't look nervous. He looked like six feet of scrumptious irritated male, and she was enjoying irritating him entirely too much.

He was as jumpy about this lawyer as she was and hiding it far worse. "You're covered in sawdust and you've ripped the seam of your shirt," she informed him as she started down the twelve-foot ladder with a can of wood filler in her hand. "Do we assume your lawyer isn't coming and get dirtier, or stop now and clean up?"

Tall, dark, and dirty halted at the foot of the ladder, and she swung her butt just to give him a good view.

"I told you, he's coming. It's not four yet. I—"

Whatever he was about to say got lost as the cafe door unexpectedly swung open with a crash. In startlement, Jo lost her balance. The can of filler flew from her hand, and she slipped backward.

With the impetus of her fall, the ladder crashed across the pink and chrome tables, taking the hammer and nails with it. Before she hit the floor, strong arms grabbed her from thin air, then cuddled her against a broad chest that thumped as erratically as hers. Gasping, not wanting to contemplate the unexpected thrill of pressing her nose into the curly thatch of hair above his shirt collar, Jo grabbed his neck and peered around him to the entrance.

A stunning, ebony-haired, model-tall woman in summer white linen stood there, studying them skeptically. "Flynn Clinton and Joella Sanderson, I assume? Or did I walk in on an
I Love Lucy
episode?"

"It was not my fault," Joella hissed as they left the lawyer sipping unsweetened tea and reading Flynn's publishing contract while they cleaned up in the cafe's only restroom. "I thought you said she was a he."