But for every mystery he’d uncovered, a thousand more waited to be discovered. And there was so much they hadn’t done. He’d never had her in his own bed or in a shower. He wanted her on a table, legs splayed, heels propped on the edge. He wanted her turned bottom up over the arm of a chair. Oh, yes, he definitely wanted that.
He pushed himself away from the piano. He needed something more physical than Chopin to occupy him tonight. He needed to make love with her again.
The foyer had grown dark. He flicked on the chandelier, then turned it off again. He’d been taken aback on Sunday when she’d talked about falling in love with him, but now that he’d had some time to think it over, the idea no longer seemed quite so terrifying. It was simply Sugar Beth being overly dramatic as usual. Her shortsightedness in trying to put an end to their affair frustrated him. He wasn’t insensitive to her grief. She’d lost her husband only four months earlier. But Emmett Hooper had been in a coma for six months before his death and ill for months before that, so she was hardly being unfaithful to his memory. He understood she was frightened—he wasn’t calm himself—but if she’d consider the situation logically, she’d realize this was something they needed to see through.
He didn’t like how empty the house felt without her. His writing hadn’t been going well at all. In the old days, he might have talked with Winnie about it, but she had enough to cope with now. Besides, she tended to be too tactful. Sugar Beth, on the other hand, had an amazing ability to cut through to the essential, and she’d give him her unvarnished opinion.
That morning he’d called Jewel, ostensibly to order another book but really to check up on her new employee. “Sugar Beth’s a gold mine, Colin,” Jewel had said. “She loves selling books. You wouldn’t believe how well-read she is.”
He’d believe it, all right. He’d already noticed the diversity of the books she’d swiped from his shelves. “So she’s working out, then?”
“Better than I could have hoped. Everybody in town’s found an excuse to drop by the store these past couple of days. Since they don’t want to look nosy, they all buy something. I try to wait on the women—they’re giving her a hard time—but I leave the men to her. She can hand-sell the boys just about anything, even the ones I swear can’t read a lick.”
“Glad to hear it,” he’d growled.
He headed for the kitchen to see about dinner. Sugar Beth had left his freezer well stocked, and he grabbed a casserole. She, of course, would be so wrapped up in reorganizing the kiddie section that she’d forget to eat. Or if she did remember, she’d grab a candy bar and call it dinner. Her dietary habits were abominable. She had no regard for her health, and while she might not be the best cook in town, she was far from the worst, and she needed to take better care of herself.
He thrust the casserole in the microwave and slammed the door, ignoring the fact that he was behaving very much like a man bent on slaying dragons and rescuing princesses. Dumping him, indeed. Did she really think it would be so easy?
The phone rang, and he snatched it up, hoping she’d called again so he could give her his opinion of fainthearted women.
But it wasn’t Sugar Beth…
Somebody banged on the door. The store had closed two hours ago, and Sugar Beth frowned as she heaved the last bookcase into place. By repositioning some of the standing bookcases, she’d made the children’s section more accessible. Unfortunately, she’d had to steal a little floor space from Jewel’s beloved poetry section, which would mean some fast-talking in the morning.
She brushed off her hands and headed to the front. Her short, one-piece coral knit sweater dress had a dirt mark on it. She hoped she could get it out because working at the bookstore was stretching the boundaries of her slim wardrobe.
“Coming!” she called out as the door continued to rattle. She passed through the biographies and saw a man standing on the other side of the glass. Big, broad-shouldered, wearing Versace and a thunderous expression. Her pulses kicked like a teenager’s. She fumbled with the lock and opened the door. “Your Grace?”
He pushed past her into the store, leaving behind the faintest trace of brimstone. “Who’s Delilah?”
She swallowed. “My cat.”
“Fascinating. Your cat wants to know why you haven’t called her in two days.”
Sugar Beth could have kicked herself. She’d left Colin’s phone number as a backup in case her cell conked out, and she’d forgotten to change it. The number had been only for emergencies, but Delilah could be wily, and she must have wormed it out of someone in the office.
“Did you scare her? I swear, Colin, if you said one thing to upset her…”
He slapped a foil-covered casserole on the counter. “Why would I upset her when I was conserving my energy to upset you?”
“What possible business is this of yours?”
“She called you her mummy.”
“Mommy. You’re living in the home of the red, white, and blue, buddy boy. We speak American here.”
But she couldn’t distract him. He leaned his hips against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, tapped the toe of an exquisitely polished loafer. “She did not sound like anyone’s little girl. She sounded like an older woman.”
“Delilah is my stepdaughter. Now, I have work to do, so ta-ta.”
“She told me she was forty-one.”
“Numbers confuse her. She’s not.”
His gaze was a lot steadier than her heartbeat. “She’s the reason for those whispered phone calls I used to overhear, isn’t she?”
“Don’t be silly. I was talking to my lover.”
“She told me she lives at a place called Brookdale. After I hung up, I did a little research on the Web. Your talent for obfuscation continues to amaze me.”
“Hey, I haven’t obfuscated in weeks. Makes you go blind.”
He lifted an imperious eyebrow. She grabbed the casserole he’d brought, and peeled back a corner of the aluminum foil. Her lasagna. He’d stuck a fork in the top. She’d barely eaten all day, and the smell should have made her mouth water, but she’d lost her appetite. “It’s no big deal. Delilah is Emmett’s daughter. She was born with some mental disabilities. She’s fifty-one, if you must know, not forty-one, and she’s lived at Brookdale for years. She’s happy there. I’m all she has. End of story.”
“Brookdale is an expensive private facility.”
She carried the casserole she didn’t want toward a reading nook with a table and two chairs. As she sat, she extended the fork. “Normally we don’t allow food or drink in here, but we’re making an exception for you.”
He advanced on her. “This finally begins to make sense.”
“All right, I’ll eat. But only because I’m famished.” She forced herself to dig in.
“I know you loved the man, but what kind of father wouldn’t make provisions for a dependent daughter?”
She’d never betray Emmett by revealing her own frustration with his lack of planning. “His finances were complicated.” She forced herself to take another bite. “I make good lasagna, if I do say so myself.”
“This explains why you’ve been so obsessed with finding that painting. This is the missing piece. You were never interested in buying yourself diamonds. I should have figured that out.”
“No kidding. I think this is the best casserole I ever made.”
He braced his hand on a bookcase. “You need the money so you can keep her at Brookdale. You’re not the villain in this piece, are you? You’re not the viperous blond bitch-goddess who only cares about herself. You’re the poor, unselfish heroine willing to sacrifice all to help the less fortunate.”
“Seriously, don’t you want some of this?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She couldn’t head him off any longer, and she jabbed the fork into the casserole. “I had no reason to.”
“The fact that we’re lovers didn’t factor in?”
She shot out of her chair. “Past tense. And
I do what I have to so I can take care of myself.”
“By building a wall that’s so thick nobody can see through it? Is that your idea of taking care of yourself?”
“Hey, I’m not the one spending all my spare time laying stone in the backyard of Frenchman’s Bride. You want to talk about your basic symbolism…”
“Sometimes a wall is just a wall, Sugar Beth. But in your case, putting up barriers is a permanent occupation. You don’t live life. You act it.”
“I have work to do.” She headed for the counter only to have him follow.
“You’ve created this alternate persona—this woman who’s so tough that she doesn’t care what anybody thinks of her. A woman so tough that she’s proud to announce all her character defects to the world, except—and make note of this, because here’s where your true brilliance lies—those faults you hang out for everyone to see don’t have anything to do with who you really are. Applause, applause.”
She concentrated on straightening a display of bookmarks. “That’s not true.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me the real reason you needed to find the painting? Why did you shut me out?”
“Why should I let you in? What possible advantage could there be in it for me? Should I have stripped myself bare just because still another man has walked into my life? Another man to destroy my well-being? Thanks, but no thanks. Now get out.”
He gazed at her in a way that made her feel as if she’d failed another of his exams. But she was living her life the best way she could, and if that didn’t suit him, then too bad.
He came toward her, and as he looked down into her face, tenderness replaced his customary haughty expression. “You are…,” he said softly, “…the most amazing woman.”
She wanted to melt into him like the needy exhomecoming queen she was. Instead, she kept her spine straight and arms at her sides. “I have work to do.”
He let her go with a sigh and walked to the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned back and regarded her imperiously. “It’s not over, my dear. Whatever you may think.”
She waited until he disappeared to rush to the door and throw the lock. Her chest felt tight, but she absolutely refused to start crying over another man. She grabbed the casserole and paced around the store, eating a few bites here and there, missing Delilah, missing Gordon, missing the man she was determined to lock out of her heart. By the time she finally got back to work, the pleasure had faded, and at ten o’clock, she began turning off the lights. When she reached the front of the store, however, something across the street caught her attention. At first she thought it was an illusion, an odd reflection from the streetlights, but then she looked more closely and gave a soft gasp.
Smoke was trickling from the second-floor window above Yesterday’s Treasures.
“’Tis no wonder we grew up like snarling dogs.”
GEORGETTE HEYER, These Old Shades
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sugar Beth watched the smoke trailing from the window. The lights were on. Winnie was up there.
She dove for the phone and called 911. After she’d given the dispatcher the information, she hung up, thought for a moment, then grabbed the stapler from the counter, unlocked the door, and rushed across the street.
Smoke was still coming out. “Winnie!” she yelled up toward the window. “Winnie, can you hear me?”
There was no response. She peered through the front window but couldn’t see any smoke on the first floor. She rattled the knob and, when it didn’t give, stepped back and flung the stapler at the door. The safety glass shattered into a thousand round pebbles.
The faint smell of smoke hit her as she stepped inside. “Winnie!” She made her way to the back of the store. “Winnie, are you up there?” The smell of smoke grew stronger. She saw a narrow wooden staircase leading to the second floor. It had death trap written all over it.
“Winnie!”
She heard a thud, then an un-Winnie-like curse. “Call the fire department!”
“I did. Come down!”
“No!”
She strained to hear sirens, but there hadn’t been enough time. Reluctantly, she grabbed the handrail and made her way up the stairs.
Three rooms opened off the dingy hallway at the top, with a smoky haze coming from the center one. She headed toward it. “Winnie?”
“In here!”
The room was long, high-ceilinged, and old-fashioned, a combined living area and kitchenette. Smoke poured from the area near the stove. Winnie was beating at the cupboard next to it with a bath towel. Although Sugar Beth couldn’t see any leaping flames, the situation was far from under control, and Winnie should be getting out.
“I was making fried chicken, and—” She glanced over her shoulder and started to cough. “What are you doing here?”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“I don’t care what you do.”
“I should let you burn.”
“Then get out.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Winnie gasped as a stack of paper napkins sitting on the counter burst into flames. While she swung the towel at them, Sugar Beth snatched a scatter rug from the floor and began beating at a wisp of flame licking at a wall calendar. She heard the sound of a siren. Her eyes were stinging, and it was getting harder to breathe.
“This is stupid. The fire department’s coming. Let’s leave while we can.”
“Not till they get here. I can’t let this spread downstairs.”
The store held irreplaceable antiques, and Sugar Beth could almost understand. Almost. She slapped at the cupboard door. “Say, ‘Pretty please, Sugar Beth. Stay and help my stupidass self.’”
“The towel!”
Sugar Beth spun around in time to see a dish towel drop to the floor in flames. She smothered it with the scatter rug, coughed. “You’re giving me back Diddie’s pearls, or I swear to God I’ll lock you up in here.”
“Bite me.”
The smoke was getting thicker, the sirens closer, and Sugar Beth decided Winnie had pressed her luck for long enough. She tossed down the scatter rug, took a quick step forward, and threw a hammerlock around her neck.
“What are you doing?”
“Putting an end to negotiations.”
“Stop it!”
“Shut up. The trucks are almost here.” Sugar Beth pulled her toward the door.
“I’m not going anywhere!” Even though Sugar Beth was taller, Winnie must have been working out because she was strong as an ox, and she started to break away. Sugar Beth used a neat trick she’d learned from Cy Zagurski and dragged her into the hallway.
“Ouch! That hurts. You’re twisting my arm off.”
Sugar Beth began maneuvering her down the steps. “Play nice, and I won’t break it.”
“Quit it!”
“Save your breath.”
They were nearly at the bottom when she made the mistake of easing the pressure. Winnie immediately tried to bolt back up the stairs, but she’d breathed in just enough smoke to slow her reflexes, and Sugar Beth put her in another choke hold. “Quit being an idiot!”
“Let me go!”
She wasn’t certain how much longer she could have held on to her if the first fire truck hadn’t pulled up in front of the store just then. Winnie saw it, too, and finally stopped struggling. Through the broken door, Sugar Beth watched people getting out of their cars and realized a small crowd had begun to form.
She also realized she’d just been handed a golden opportunity. Granted, it was the kind of opportunity a more honorable person would resist. Colin, for example, wouldn’t think of it. Neither would Ryan, and certainly not Winnie. But the fire didn’t seem too serious, and none of those stuffed shirts had Sugar Beth Carey’s particular gift for enjoying the moment.
The firefighters jumped from the truck and rushed toward the broken door, but before they could get there, Sugar Beth stuck out her foot and tripped Winnie. Since she was a naturally considerate pers
on, she made sure she caught her before she fell into the broken glass.
“I’ve got her!” she called out to the pair of firemen who’d just broken into the store. “I didn’t think I was going to be able to carry her all the way down the stairs—she weighs a ton—but the Good Lord was watching over both of us.”
“What do you think—”
She plastered her hand across Winnie’s mouth. “Don’t try to talk, honey. It’ll make you cough again.” She waved the fireman toward the stairs. “She’s fine. I’ll get her outside.”
One of them began to break away to come to her aid, so she took her hand off Winnie’s mouth just long enough for her to start to sputter again. “See! She’s breathing fine. But it’s a mess up there.”
He joined the others, and as they stormed past, Sugar Beth dragged Winnie out onto the sidewalk, not an easy task, since Winnie was fighting mad. “You’re going to be okay now, honey,” Sugar Beth announced just loudly enough for the small group of onlookers to hear. “I’d have died myself before I left you up there to burn. And I’m no heroine, so don’t you dare thank me again.”
The EMTs rushed up and grabbed Winnie, which was a good thing, because she was starting to bite. Sugar Beth hurriedly backed away. Dulane Cowie, who looked a lot better in a cop’s uniform than he’d looked picking his nose in fourth-period study hall, rushed up to her.
“Sugar Beth? Did you carry Winnie out by yourself?”
“It’s amazing what you can do when a person’s life is at stake,” she said modestly.
Winnie had begun arguing with the EMTs, and a woman Sugar Beth recognized as an older, chubbier version of Laverne Renke waved from just behind the police line. “Hey, Sugar Beth, what happened in there?”
“Hey, Laverne. I saw smoke when I was leaving the bookstore and ran over to see if I could help. Winnie was being so brave trying to fight the fire by herself. I’m just glad I was around to help.”
“I’ll say,” Laverne replied. “It looked like she was unconscious when you carried her out.”
Winnie heard that, and she stuck her head around the EMT to shoot Sugar Beth a furious glare.