The Stranger: The Heroes of Heyday (Harlequin Superromance No. 1266) (8 page)

Mallory?
He remained in the doorway, waiting for the adrenaline to die down. He was glad he wasn't hoisting a bookend. He would have looked even more ridiculous than he undoubtedly did right now.

“Tyler, what on earth are you doing here?”

She hadn't ever been good at hiding her emotions. He saw her go from fear to relief in a nanosecond. But immediately after the relief came something that looked a lot like nervous guilt.

That was odd. She was in her own shop, on her own turf. What could she possibly be up to that she'd need to feel guilty about?

She clearly hadn't been expecting anyone to come in. She was wearing a pair of cotton blue-and-green-plaid pajama pants and a skimpy blue T-shirt—no underclothes. He looked down, and saw that her feet were bare.

So what was she doing?

“I was on the balcony. I heard a noise in here, and I thought I'd better make sure everything's okay. It's pretty late. I assumed you'd be asleep, like the rest of the town.”

He was casually moving into the office as he spoke. She, however, seemed almost paralyzed, her hands awkwardly wrapped around something white.

When he got close enough, he saw to his surprise that she was holding a chrysanthemum. Or rather, not holding it but mangling it, the stem in one hand and the blossom crushed almost beyond recognition in the palm of the other.

At her elbow stood the half-empty glass vase the flower must have come in. And littered on the desk around her were the bits and pieces of at least a dozen other flowers. The air smelled like a perfume counter, all crushed roses and shredded sweet things.

No point trying to pretend he didn't see it. And even less point trying to act as if mutilating a fresh bouquet of flowers was normal.

He smiled, glancing at the mess on the desk. “Which one was the culprit? The flowers, or the guy who sent them?”

She was recovering. She put the chrysanthemum down slowly and brushed her hands together to whisk free the remaining petals. The gesture released a fresh puff of perfume into the air.

“Did you need anything else, Tyler? It was thoughtful of you to check on me, but, as you can see, I'm fine.”

He smiled again. “Is that what you call it? Some people would call it displaced aggression. See, it works like this. The civilized world won't allow you to chop off the head of the guy who sent you these, so you sacrifice the flowers in his place.”

She began collecting some of the pieces and dropping them into the trash can beside the desk. “Well, if
that's what I'm doing, maybe you'd better let me get back to it. Before I decide to displace it somewhere
else.
”

He chuckled, but he didn't move. He had not forgotten about the shadow in the park, and he had no intention of leaving her in here alone.

Besides, this display of anger really made him curious. Who could have sent these poor, doomed flowers? Her ex-husband, maybe? Or was there a new lover in the picture? He'd seen her kissing that guy at the golf club, but he'd assumed there was no real heat, on account of the skirt.

Maybe he'd misjudged. Maybe, for some women, men in skirts were kind of a turn-on.

As she stood there glaring at him, he discovered that, for some men, a woman in soft cotton pajama pants
definitely
was a turn-on.

She must have been trying to sleep before she came downstairs, because her hair was a mess. She used to wear it super short, but it was growing out, and curls were tumbling everywhere, tickling at her chin, her ears, her eyelashes.

He pictured her in bed, tossing and turning, creating that disarray. His whole body tensed, a feeling he remembered all too well.

She had always affected him this way, damn it. He remembered the first time he saw her. She'd been wearing her silly Ringmaster Café uniform, which was all black and white with a mannish bow tie. He'd thought she was sexy as hell, and he had, for just a mo
ment, considered breaking his firm rule against one-night stands with total strangers.

Then he saw the ring on her finger, and the fantasies screeched to a halt. The rule against sex with
married
women was one he never messed with.

It hadn't been easy. Everything about her had turned him on. Sometimes, when he sat in the café late at night, going over his notes from the day's interviews, he'd been so distracted he couldn't think straight.

When she poured him water from a sweating silver pitcher, apologizing as the cool drops splashed on his fingers, he'd nearly gone crazy. When she bent down to pick up a straw wrapper, or leaned over to wipe the counter, her breasts pressing against the Formica, he'd had to look the other way.

“So—” He glanced at the flowers. “Are they from your husband?”

He didn't know why he asked. She wouldn't think this was any of his business and undoubtedly would refuse to answer.

She cocked her head and smiled. “Of course not,” she said, surprising him. “How big a fool do you think I am?”

“I don't think you're a fool at all. Frankly, I thought
he
was.”

A fool, or
worse.
Sometimes, at the café, Tyler had seen her pick up her cell phone when she thought no one was watching. She'd dial a number, wait, then hang up with a tight frown between red-rimmed eyes. He knew she'd been calling her husband, because af
terward she'd roll her wedding ring roughly around and around on her finger, as if she'd like to take it off and toss it into the deep fryer.

That combination of fear and fury, of helpless pain and indignant pride, had been enough to drive Tyler mad. He had wanted to go over and kiss her until she did it, until the little gold band was bubbling and melting alongside the French fries.

Or else he'd wanted to go beat the tar out of the bastard who made her eyes so sad.

Stay out of it, stay out of it,
he'd tell himself. But even while the warnings were playing in his head, he'd call her over for a refill of coffee, and then he'd start a conversation. He'd try to make her think of something else. He'd try to make her laugh.

And sometimes he did.

“I've always wanted to ask you.” He decided to press his luck, sensing something a little softer in her tonight, as though the starchy indignation she'd felt toward him today might have passed. Maybe she appreciated that he had been worried about her just now. Or perhaps her annoyance had merely been chased away by more important problems. “Why on earth did you put up with it?”

“With what?” She frowned. “With Dan?”

He nodded. “You were married, what, something like six years? He didn't deserve six months.”

She shrugged. “I hoped I could make it work, I guess. You can't just throw away your wedding vows the minute your new husband disappoints you.”

“The hell you can't. People do it every day.”

“Well, I can't.” She was looking at her hands, rubbing at the palms as if something sticky had remained from the flowers. “It was a tough time for our family. My mother was working so hard to keep the business going, to make it support both Mindy and me. Mindy was having problems, and I—”

She swallowed. “Oh, well. It's over now. He's getting remarried. He actually even invi—”

Suddenly she glanced up, moving her shoulders as if to shake off a trance.

“No wonder you're such a good investigative reporter,” she said, her voice cool and amused. “You have a way of making people open up to you, even when they've made a solemn vow they absolutely will not ever do any such thing.”

He gazed at her beautiful, vulnerable face and wondered what she'd been going to say. He wondered what she'd do if he reached out and brushed away the white specks of pollen that had settled on her cheek.

“Did you make a vow like that, Mallory? Did you vow you'll never open up to me again?”

“Not exactly,” she said, meeting his gaze without wavering and smiling just a little. “Actually, I vowed that, if you ever set foot in Heyday again, I'd claw your lying eyes out.”

L
INDA
T
REMEL'S
garden store, The Welcome Mat, had been built on the very spot where the Ringmaster Café used to stand, back before it was burned down by an angry and unstable Imogene Jacobson.

Mallory had wondered if it would hurt to attend Linda's grand opening. Would it bring back painful memories of their own opening celebration? Her mother had been so proud, and rightly so. It had been a risky venture, and she had pulled it off so well. Mallory could still see her, exhausted but happy, greeting all her friends, who thronged the place to support her efforts.

But that was the great thing about Heyday. They stuck by one another, no matter what. So Mallory knew she couldn't let her own disappointments keep her from helping Linda Tremel celebrate her own success.

Once she got there, she was glad she'd come. The Welcome Mat was one of the most charming shops downtown Heyday had ever seen. Austin, Linda's ex-husband, must have helped bankroll the venture. Mal
lory knew the huge expense of ordering enough merchandise to stock a store. Linda had spent a fortune.

She stocked everything frivolous and delightful to make a garden into a fairyland. Wind chimes shaped like tulips and sunflowers; Italian planters carved into garlands of ivy; white arbors and trellises strung with climbing roses; bird feeders in every shape, from a thatched English cottage to the Taj Mahal; multicolored gazing balls, wall fountains and CDs that brought you bluebird sounds all year long.

And of course she had the zebra corner, which she had cleverly named “The Savannah” and filled with a tumble of grassy plants and a “watering hole” made from an in-ground vinyl pond.

“Amazing.” Lara Gilbert, Bryce McClintock's fiancée, was already in “The Savannah” when Mallory showed up. She was inspecting an outdoor water faucet topped by a brass zebra head. “Who knew there were this many zebra yard thingies on the planet?”

Mallory looked at the dozens of items scattered around. Cast-iron zebras to stand in your vegetable patch, a weather vane with a zebra on top instead of a rooster, a zebra-head doorknocker, a welcome mat painted with cavorting zebras.

“I knew,” Mallory said with a sigh. “You wouldn't believe what I get offered at the bookstore. Zebra stationery, bookmarks, paperweights, bookends, stuffed toys, coloring books. There's even a CD of zebra sounds. It reminds me of my grandfather gargling.”

Lara laughed and put the faucet back on its shelf.
“I was going to buy something for Bryce for the frat house, but I think I'd better look in another section. He hates zebras.”

“I don't hate them.” Bryce stuck his head around the corner. “I'm terrified of them. My worst nightmares always feature zebras.”

At the sight of him, Lara's face lit up. She and Bryce were to be married in June, and Mallory had never seen two people more in love.

“Hey, there, Mal.” Bryce leaned over and gave Mallory a kiss, too. When Bryce first came to town, Kieran and Claire had tried to fix him up with Mallory. But it hadn't taken root. He was already crazy for Lara, though he had been in complete, stubborn, typically McClintock denial.

But he'd become a good friend. That was the story of Mallory's life since her divorce. Lots of friends, no lovers. She worked hard to keep it that way. She wasn't ready for a lover. She wasn't sure if she ever would be.

She noticed that in his left hand Bryce was holding a ceramic statue of a frog. Unfortunately, the statue was in two pieces, head separated from the body.

“Oops,” Mallory said with a smile. “You broke something already?”

Bryce held out his other hand. “Two of them, actually. At least we'll have a matched set.”

The second little green frog was broken, too. Its arms were detached and lying loose in Bryce's palm.

Lara blushed. “Well, we didn't mean to. There's this
little alcove over there, and we just thought we could…you know, a little privacy and—”

She looked over at Bryce, who was grinning rakishly at her, refusing to help out. “Anyhow, I bumped into this shelf on the wall, and the whole thing fell down. Dozens of frogs. We were lucky only two of them broke.”

Mallory shook her head, laughing. She didn't know why they had bothered to hide in the alcove. Everyone in town knew Bryce and Lara couldn't keep their hands off each other. Aurora York openly said she hoped they'd hurry up and get married so they could start taking each other for granted like decent folk.

A minute or two later, Claire McClintock joined them, which meant Kieran couldn't be far behind. So far, Claire and Kieran were proving the exception to Aurora's philosophy of marriage. Though they'd exchanged vows last summer, they were almost as sickeningly in love as Bryce and Lara.

Claire, who carried baby Stephanie over her shoulder, stood close to Mallory, rippling her fingers through a silver zebra wind chime.

“You okay?” She smiled at Mallory. “Not too many…uncomfortable memories?”

Mallory had wondered who would bring it up first. She should have known it would be Claire, who was sensitive but believed in discussing problems openly. Her brother had died about five years ago, and refusing to work through her grief had almost killed her, too.

“I'm okay,” Mallory said. “It's a little sad, of course. But Linda's changed it so completely. There's hardly anything left to remind me.”

Kieran showed up then, burying his face in his wife's neck so that he could kiss Claire and Stephanie at the same time. After a few minutes of small talk, the foursome moved outside, to the small Victorian garden Linda had set up to show off her merchandise.

Though they urged Mallory to come with them, she held back. Most of the time she didn't mind being unattached, but around those couples it felt like a sin not to be in love.

Besides, she was going to have to pick out something to buy quickly and get back to the bookstore. Wally was holding the fort, but she knew he had homework and couldn't stay forever.

She picked up a small pair of pruning scissors. These would be good for her balcony philodendron. The rest of this stuff was for people with houses, with green lawns and brick patios, with elm trees and swimming pools and gazebos out back.

Mallory didn't have any of that, not anymore. Her mother had sold the family home to start the café. And, though Mallory and Dan had owned a house, she'd discovered that it wasn't possible to “split” the house in a divorce. You could only split the proceeds.

With her share, she'd started Rackham Books. With his, Dan had bought a big, new house in Grupton. Probably he'd felt rich, with all the money he was sav
ing on prostitutes, now that the Heyday Eight were out of business.

But listen to her. She sounded bitter. And she wasn't, really she wasn't.

Well, not much, anyhow.

To her surprise, she saw Tyler Balfour over by the water features, chatting with Slip Stanton. As she watched them out of the corner of her eye, she wondered what they were talking about. Tyler hadn't come to a garden shop grand opening because he was eager to buy some wind chimes. Besides, he had his sharp-eyed reporter face on, that hyperfocused look she could easily imagine on the face of a miner panning for gold.

He was sifting through Slip's conversation, looking for any valuable nuggets.

She wondered if he suspected that Slip's hotel and bar, the Absolutely Nowhere, might have been an assignation spot for the Heyday Eight. If so, for once the great Tyler Balfour was barking up the wrong tree. The police had thought of that, too, but no connection had ever surfaced.

As if he could feel her gaze, Tyler glanced up and gave her a quizzical look.
Darn.
Now he'd think she wanted to talk to him. She answered it with a chilly courtesy-only smile that offered no encouragement, then turned away.

When she felt someone come up very close, at first she assumed it was Tyler and tried to pretend she hadn't noticed. How many times did she have to tell this man she wasn't interested in his friendship? His friendship always came with strings attached.

But then she heard a deep, husky, yet clearly female voice. “So it's you. I knew you'd be here.”

Mallory turned with a shock, the skin along her shoulders breaking out in a sudden rash of shivering bumps. It was Imogene Jacobson, the woman who had torched the Ringmaster Café.

Imogene, who was supposed to be in an institution. Wasn't she?

“Yes, I'm back,” Imogene said, her handsome face altered by emotion into something ugly and almost frightening. A forty-year-old former nurse, she had for years been growing more and more eccentric, more and more paranoid and delusional. Even before the fire, she'd quarreled with almost everybody in town, from the grocer to the mayor.

Most people, when they learned about Sander Jacobson's involvement with the Heyday Eight, had said they didn't blame him.

“Did you think they'd keep me locked up forever? While you and your family see what other lives you can ruin? While you hunt for other marriages you can destroy?”

“Imogene, I—”

“I'm Mrs. Jacobson to you,” the woman said, holding up a finger that shook with rage. “I'm the wife of a prominent lawyer whose family has practiced for three generations here in Heyday. And you. You're just a whore. You, and your mother, and your trashy little sister.”

Mallory had to fight the urge to slap the woman.
Her
mother?
This woman would dare to say such things about Elizabeth Rackham, after what she had done to her?

Though a million furious insults bubbled toward her lips, Mallory tried to remind herself that Imogene Jacobson was mentally unstable. She'd spent two years in an institution instead of going to jail for her crime. How on earth had she convinced anyone that she was sane enough to be released?

Mallory saw Tyler coming toward her. He gestured for her to back away, which she did, as far as the crowded tables of merchandise would allow.

He put his hand on Imogene's arm.

“Mrs. Jacobson,” he said. “You're not supposed to be bothering the Rackhams. I think you'd better leave.”

Imogene turned to him. “Who are you?” Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, that's right. The reporter.” She exhaled with a rasping sound. “You can't tell me what to do. You're as bad as she is. You destroy people. And then, because you're just a vulture, you pick over the bones to make your stories.”

“I'm sorry you think so, Mrs. Jacobson,” Tyler said equably. “But the fact remains that you're not supposed to come within fifteen hundred yards of the Rackham family. I think you'd better leave.”

“You can't make me leave.” To Mallory's horror, Imogene jerked her arm free so roughly she set a dozen wind chimes pinging and clanging with fear.

The commotion attracted plenty of attention.
Within a minute, both Kieran and Bryce, who knew all about the restraining order, were at Tyler's side.

“Come on, Mrs. Jacobson,” Kieran said. “Come on, now. You don't want to make a scene.”

“Kieran, thank heaven,” Imogene said. Even lunatics, Mallory noticed as if from a great distance, worshipped Kieran. “Please tell
that man
—” she glared at Tyler “—that I have just as much right to be here as
she
does.”

Kieran murmured something soothing. Just behind him, Bryce had his cell phone to his ear. Mallory couldn't hear his low, measured words, but she was sure he was calling the police.

After a couple of seconds, he flipped it shut and turned to Tyler, motioning him closer.

“Her husband is on his way, and the police won't be far behind,” Bryce said quietly. “Can you get Mallory safely out of here?”

Tyler nodded. He already had his arm around Mallory's shoulders. She was very much afraid that they were shaking.

“I don't want to run away,” she said stubbornly, even though she knew she sounded a little like Imogene Jacobson, which horrified her. But it was true. She wasn't the one under a restraining order. According to the law, it was Imogene who should leave. “I don't have anything to be ashamed of.”

“I know,” Tyler said. He ducked down to look straight into her eyes with a bracing smile. “But there's no way to win a fight with a crazy woman, you know.”

“It's true,” Bryce said with his own devilish grin. “I've tried a million times. It simply doesn't work.”

In spite of herself, she smiled. Nodding his approval, Tyler began guiding her toward the exit. And, because the trembling had made its way to her legs, she let him.

Bryce went with them as far as the door. At the last minute, Tyler smiled and put his hand on Bryce's shoulder.

“Thanks,” he said.

They both looked back toward Imogene, who was now almost calm, slightly tearful, unburdening her woes to Kieran, yet another victim of his trademark charm.

Bryce laughed slightly.

“I believe we should all thank St. Kieran,” he said. “But hey. What else is family for?”

 

“W
HAT ON EARTH
is going on in here?”

Tyler, who was standing on a ladder just inside the front door of Rackham Books, looked over at Mallory, though he didn't have to see her face to know how shocked she was. Her voice said it all.

And he knew why. Her store opened in one hour, and right now it looked as if a bomb had gone off in here.

“We're installing a security system,” he said. “I know it looks bad right now, but they've promised me everything will be finished by ten. Down here, at least.”

“Down
here,
at least?” She repeated the words with ominous clarity.

She still stood by the side door, with her keys and purse and satchel dangling from her hands. She slowly scanned the rest of the store. He knew she could see at least three men working, and there were two more outside, where she couldn't see.