Sweet Justice (9 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
NDREW
'
S
TRUCK
WAS
bare bones in the luxury department. Mallory hadn't realized they still made trucks with vinyl bench seats and no carpet. The radio was strictly the AM variety, the windows operated with a hand crank and the only nod to creature comforts was the welcome heat pouring out of the vents.

Taking it in reminded her of her dad's truck—of her dad, in fact. Unlike her mom, who loved gadgets and accessories, her dad was of the mindset that any accessory on a vehicle was simply one more thing to break. Mallory closed her eyes, slid her palm against the vinyl that was patched with duct tape and sighed.

“It's not a Rolls Royce, I know that,” Andrew snapped.

His words brought her back to the present. “What?”

“The truck. I know it's not up to your standards. But it's bought and paid for, and it runs like a top. Plus, it does what it's designed to do—which is farm work.”

“It's fine,” she insisted. “I'm grateful that you...” What? Offered to give her a lift? No, Carole had practically twisted his arm, appealing to his gallantry. “That you're giving me a ride home.”

“It's too dark for you to be riding that fool bike anyway,” he grumbled. His hands flexed on the steering wheel, and his jaw tensed, as though he were biting back more words.

“I didn't expect to be at the library so long.” The urge to explain and defend herself irritated her. She made an effort to change the conversation to something else before she could pile on more excuses. “Uh...thank you for bringing back the book.”

As he braked at a stoplight, Andrew turned to her. “What book?”

“The Lee Child book. I had placed a hold on it, and I was—”

“You like suspense novels?” His brows lifted in surprise. “You read?”

Exasperated, and her urge to be more charitable to him quickly evaporating, Mallory retorted, “And why are you so blown away by that? Yes, I read. I love to read. And suspense thrillers are just one of the many, many kinds of books I enjoy. Why on earth do you think I was in the library in the first place?”

“Oh, I dunno. The fashion magazines?” he quipped.

“No, I don't go to the library for the fashion magazines! What kind of brainless idiot do you think I am?”

They locked eyes, Mallory not backing down from his surprise, which was now morphing into frank interest. A horn beeped behind them. Andrew swore, released the clutch and stepped on the gas. The truck took off with a start, jerking Mallory sideways. She flung out a hand, searching for something to brace herself with.

That something wound up being Andrew's shoulder.

It was a warm and solid shoulder, well defined even through the fabric of his jacket. She managed to pry her hand loose a second before it became socially awkward.

“Sorry,” he muttered, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Now Mallory's temper began to boil in earnest. That was all he could say? Sorry? When it was obvious he was painting her with the same brush he painted all his former girlfriends? She pulled herself straight and tall in the seat and asked, “When will you stop pretending you know anything about me and get to know what sort of person I really am?”

The question must have startled him almost as much as the horn beep had, because he slowed down, then sped up, then slowed down again as he approached the courthouse. Abruptly he pulled into one of the parallel parking spots along the curb, stopped the truck and turned to her, arms folded, mouth straight and unbending.

“All right. Tell me what I should know about you.”

A flutter of nervousness shot through her. “Well, you don't have to be a jerk,” she said.

If anything, his mouth compressed all the more tightly. She had the sudden urge to do something, anything to make him smile, so that she could experience again the easy kindness he'd first treated her with.

“I'm trying to
stop
being a jerk,” he told her. “You say I don't know you, that I have the wrong idea about you. So...fix it.”

Mallory put her fingers to her eyes, leaned against the cool glass of the passenger side window. “You know, forget it. I don't know why it's important to me for you to see me in a positive light.”

“It's important to you? That I like you?”

The trace of wonder in Andrew's response completely undid the earlier edge to his words. She lifted her eyes and stared at him.

“Well, of course, nobody wants to be disliked.”

Was that disappointment that flashed across his features? He shrugged and said, “If it makes you feel better, tell me where to sign up for the Mallory Blair fan club and I—”

“See? That!” She jabbed a finger at him—too close, because it brushed the denim of his jacket. Yanking her hand back to her side of the truck, she swallowed. “I don't have a fan club. I don't need one or want one or...sheesh. I just...”

She trailed off. He was waiting for her, silent and steady and giving absolutely zilch encouragement. She took in a deep breath, let it out and then plunged ahead.

“I like to read. A lot. And cook. And I sew—but you know that. I like to bike. I'm afraid of horses—you know that, too—but I love almost every other critter out there. I'm not good at parties, and I'm a disaster on the dance floor because I have two left feet. I prefer the mountains to the beach. My favorite color is coral, but I can't wear it because it makes me look like an overripe strawberry.”

Some of the rigid tenseness in his frame seemed to leave him. He relaxed against the vinyl bench seat and propped his jaw against his hand. “A disaster on the dance floor?”

“Completely. I could manage to step on your toes even if you were levitating two feet above the floor. I have absolutely no sense of rhythm.”

“That's a shame. I love to dance.”

She could just bet he did. He was probably a great dancer—probably he and Her Royal Highness LeeAnn had torn up more than a few dance floors in their time together.

“Your turn,” she prompted.

“Hmm...okay. Don't tell Ma, but I still hate cabbage. I love to read, too, but only mystery novels, and, uh, what are they called? Biographies. I hate all those TV shows and movies about fire departments because none of 'em are accurate, and about the only thing I actually do watch on TV is the weather and the news. I'd rather ride a horse all day than bike ten minutes anywhere. If I'm not on a horse or at the station, I like to fiddle around with wood and building things. I have absolutely no clue what color coral is, but I'll bet it looks good on you, despite what you said a minute ago.”

Her cheeks suddenly felt red-hot. “It's...orange trying to be pink. Or maybe pink trying to be orange.”

“Like the sunset?”

She couldn't answer him at first, because he had his fingers out, gently tracing the curve of her cheek, his thumb idly following the contour of her cheekbone into her hair. And to her horror, she was sliding closer to him, the bench seat suddenly making all the sense in the world.

“Exactly like the sunset—except not the mauves or the lavenders—”

“Wait, the mauve, is that the purple one?” He didn't seem to be too interested in colors because his fingers were moving back, finding the oversize pin she'd used that morning to skewer her hair into a bun, pulling it out. Her hair tumbled down. “That's better. You don't look so polished now. You look all rumpled and kissable...”

“I do?” She tilted her head up, staring into blue eyes that seemed as clear and calm as a Caribbean lagoon.

Now he cupped her jaw in his palm, tugged her closer...and she followed his lead. His mouth on hers was warm and soft, tentative at first, then more confident. It was a good kiss, a near perfect kiss, all the better because he didn't push things, but let it break naturally and allowed her to lay her cheek against his shoulder.

“Mauve is the pink trying to be purple,” she murmured for lack of anything else to say.

“Never can keep those straight.” His hand slid along her hair, tucking it back behind her ear. She felt his gaze upon her, smelled a hint of smoke on his skin.

He was wearing his uniform under the denim jacket, she realized with a start: navy blue with the insignia stitched onto the pocket.

The same uniform he'd worn when he'd abandoned Katelyn to that demon fire.

Mallory pushed away from him. Fumbling with her hair, she began to wind it up into a bun again.

“Hey. What's the deal?”

She jabbed at her hair with the oversize pin, missed because her fingers
would
tremble so much, jabbed again and got a huge swath of scalp instead of hair. “Uh, Katelyn,” she gabbled. “I need to get home.”

“Katelyn's out at the farm. She was staying for supper,” Andrew said. “Ma suggested I bring you out to eat, too. She seems to think you can't afford to eat a decent meal—” He stopped abruptly, but Mallory didn't prompt him to finish. No doubt he was going to say something about how Mallory preferred to spend money on shoes rather than buy what it would take to cook one of Ma's “decent meals.”

She's right. I can't afford it if her definition includes great huge slabs of meat
, Mallory said to herself. Her pride wouldn't allow her to confess that. Now that she'd managed to corral her hair, she felt more put together, more able to resist the charms of Andrew Monroe. “Katelyn would prefer to eat junk food three times a day if I'd let her.”

“I'll bet you're into that paleo diet, where all you eat is brown rice and nuts and berries.” Andrew shook his head and put the truck into gear.

“A paleo diet wouldn't actually use rice,” she corrected.

“See? You look the type that would know stuff like that. Vegetarian, I'll bet. No rib eyes for you.”

The image of a steak, complete with succulent wafting smells of sizzling, smoky fat, appeared to Mallory as realistically as any mirage of water to a man thirsting in a desert. When was the last time she'd had a rib eye?

No. Dwelling on what you didn't have—on what you
couldn't
have—was a recipe for disaster and dire unhappiness.

And what she couldn't have was a good, juicy prime rib...or Andrew Monroe.

* * *

A
NDREW
CHECKED
HIS
rearview mirror and saw the headlights of Mallory's little convertible bouncing up and down as the car negotiated the ruts of Ma's drive. She'd insisted that he drop her off at the apartment so she could drive her car out to the farm.

Now, why had he kissed her? He'd completely blown his promise, just that morning, to Dutch and Daniel. The county attorney had shown up at a training fire they were holding and buttonholed Andrew, then drew Daniel into the impromptu conference.

The good news: no official papers filed yet at the courthouse.

The better news: neither Mallory nor Katelyn had a history of any sort of litigation.

The bad news: using the name Chad McGovern for a start, Dutch had most likely discovered that Mallory's mysterious attorney friend was an aggressive personal-injury attorney, one who had racked up a sizable track record and fortune chasing ambulances. He had a reputation for leaving no deep pocket untouched—and he tended to dip his fingers into even shallow pockets if there was a nickel to be lifted.

Dutch had minced no words.

“This guy's a pro—this is how he makes his bread and butter. Lawyers like this work on contingencies, so they're after the deepest pockets they can find. McGovern has sued counties, cities, corporations, small businesses and even Fortune 500 companies. What he's after is to make things so unpleasant that the target will offer to settle out of court for a huge sum—including an obscene amount for attorney fees—and then he takes a cut of the award,” Dutch had explained. “And once he takes a case, according to my buddy, he sinks his teeth in and doesn't let go. The only people who use him are truly committed—they don't seem to care what dirty tricks he employs to get them their settlement.”

“Unpleasant?” Daniel had asked. “What kind of dirty tricks are we talking about?”

“Everything just south of what could get him disbarred or brought up on ethics charges—he's famous for dragging up skeletons out of people's personal lives.”

Andrew shrugged and stared off into the rumbling flames of the condemned house that was being used as a training fire. “We don't have any skeletons. Let him dig,” he insisted.

Dutch shook his head. “You don't get it, Andrew. This guy could ruin your career—ruin Maegan's career. He could take her license if he set his mind to it, as collateral damage.”

Daniel rubbed his chin. “We can't let that happen. I won't let that happen.”

“Look,” Andrew suggested. “What if I talk to Mallory? What if I straight up ask her if this is the guy? If I tell her—”

“No!” The word came in unison from both Daniel and Dutch.

Andrew lifted his hands. “Whoa. It was just a thought.”

In the end, he'd assured Daniel that he wouldn't divulge any forewarning they might have about a pending lawsuit. He'd treat Mallory the same as he would any relative of any patient of Maegan's.

Now it was Andrew who rubbed his chin in puzzlement as he parked the truck and sat there, considering. Not ever before had he kissed any woman even remotely connected to one of Maegan's patients.

And besides that...hadn't he learned anything about women from his disaster with LeeAnn?

You just have to keep picking the same woman over and over, don't you? When will you ever get it through your head? The last one was supposed to be the last one.

Maybe Mallory was as different as she insisted...but all the signs pointed to someone who was simply out for money and the good life. Look how she'd sighed over having to ride in his pickup. He'd bet she was more accustomed to traveling in luxury sedans and sports cars.