Текст книги "Within Temptation"

Автор книги: Tanya Holmes

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CHAPTER FOUR
Beware Of Blondes Bearing Rock Salt

TRACE

____________________________

I’d warned her. Told her straight out to drop the subject. All I’d wanted was a ride and an explanation for what she’d done. I’d never intended to get into a deep conversation, not with my soul still gushing blood. But she had to press me, goad me, so I chewed her up and spat her out.

Maybe now she’d leave me the hell alone.

Stalking down Jefferson Boulevard with the wind at my back and pain in my ribs, I tried to shove Shannon out of my mind, but I was still boiling mad. ‘Let’s make amends,’ she’d told me. ‘Let’s bridge gaps.’ Screw her gaps; screw her prick of a fiancé and her olive branches. What a joke. She’d cowered in the limo like I was a monster. No wonder she’d sent the letter.

I scared the hell out of her.

When she’d penned the thing, she was an adult, capable of making her own choices and living with the fallout. Whatever she wrote swayed the board’s decision to deny my parole last year. The consequences set a tragic chain of events into motion, events that would haunt me forever.

I ducked my head against the lashing wind and zigzagged across the street to my childhood home. The pillowcase I’d slung over my shoulder seemed to weigh a ton as I took the porch steps, going slowly because my knees were shaking. So were my hands. This place was my greatest nightmare. The house of cards built with cement and brick.

‘Stare the monster down,’ Doc Rosen had said.

I sighed. “Easier said than done, old man.”

It was a typical cracker box; probably still swarming with cockroaches and an equally impressive rodent population. The battered screen door smacked my butt as I fished the chain from my pocket. I shook lint balls off the key and unlocked the door, giving it a gentle nudge with my foot. The rusty-hinged block of wood wailed open. It reminded me of the muted squeals the sows on Bisabuelo’s farm used to make while birthing.

Pale light spilled in from a long hallway that led off to the kitchen. I took a whiff, and my stomach rumbled. The scent of home cooking softened the visual. Maybe Bev had left me some dinner. I flipped the wall switch for the ceiling lamp, but nothing happened. Burned-out bulb, no doubt.

Even in the dimness, the room looked homely. Like fruitcake, cockroaches, and taxes, Mama’s patchwork furniture—complete with plastic slipcovers—would endure forever. Add a maze of water spots on the ceiling and an ugly orange carpet, and you had the makings for a bass-ackwards funhouse in hell.

I eased down on the sofa expecting to feel grief or even anger, but it wasn’t there. Maybe Doc Rosen was right about facing the monster, because the knot in my gut had slackened. If I could survive Gainstown, surely I could endure Gary Dawson’s House of Horrors.

But what about the basement?

A chill rippled over me when I glared at the basement door. Funny. I didn’t remember it looking that damn creepy. The wood appeared worn in some spots, splintered in others, and where the bottom met the floor, two inches of darkness reached out from beneath.

I looked away, shelved the thought altogether. These were temporary digs. Aside from my share of the money in Mama and Daddy’s retirement account, the one good thing the old man had done was deed me this house. Ten-and-a-half months of rent money from a revolving door of tenants—a little over six thousand—along with whatever I could net from the sale of this hell hole, would further my plans. I’d satisfy the conditions of my parole, deal with the situation with my brother, and get this place in shape for the market. In two months, six tops, I’d start on my BA, and later I hoped to launch my own business. Somewhere.

But first I’d have to do a major overhaul here. The walls needed spackling and paint. Crown molding along the ceiling. Wainscoting in the stairwell. A pine floor lay beneath the carpet. Maybe I’d rent a buffer—

Light flooded in from the adjacent dining room. I leapt to my feet and pain speared my ribs. In the hallway stood my apron-wearing sister. She cradled a white bowl filled with what looked like dough. An iPod was clipped to her waist. Headphones draped her neck.

I breathed a relieved sigh. Seeing Bev made my soul feel a hundred pounds lighter. She flashed a smile and a tear dashed down her cheek. Her long auburn hair was gathered up high in a ponytail. That combined with a sprinkling of freckles, made her look much younger than her thirty-two years.

“I was beginnin’ to worry,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.” I glanced beyond her. “Is Icky in there?”

She set the bowl on the table and scrubbed her hands together. A cloud of flour wafted up. “I haven’t seen him since he left to get you.”

So she didn’t know about our fight. Good. ‘Cause I wasn’t in the mood to rehash it. “What’s up with the lights?”

“Fuse musta burnt out.” Her grin faded as she drew near and frowned up at me. “What happened to your face?”

“It’s nothing.”

Her hazel eyes—the same color as mine and Mama’s—narrowed with concern. “You been fightin’ again, Tracemore?”

“Naw. C’mere.” I hugged her close to stifle her questions, mindful of my sore ribs and her messy hands. A lump wedged in my throat. I didn’t think I’d ever hold my big sister again as a free man. “Damn, I missed you.”

“Missed you more,” she said, sniffling. “Amber had to go sign some papers for the rental car she got, but she’ll be back. I put her bag in your room.”

That was a relief. I could use some of Amber’s TLC. We were ‘friends with benefits’—great sex with no commitment, which suited me just fine because I didn’t want strings and neither did she. The girl loved her freedom.

“Before I forget.” She rested her chin atop my chest. “I may have a lead on a carpentry job for you. Now nothin’s set in stone, but Zoe Dillon’s husband owns a construction company, and they’re in the running for a big contract. It’s with the city to build a new library. She said she’d put in a good word for you.”

Zoe and Bev had been friends for years, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”

I fingered Bev’s ponytail, smelled it. “I thought you said you quit?”

She buried her face in my shirt. I could feel her grin. “God’s just testing me,” she told me, her voice full of sass.

Ever since Bev found Jesus three years ago, He, let her tell it, had kept her busy. The Lord was an easy scapegoat for her nicotine addiction.

She gazed up at me again. “I’ll serve you as soon as dinner’s done, but I can’t stay. I gotta get home.”

To that wife-slapping crackhead. “Soooo what’d you make?” I asked, keeping my thoughts to myself.

“All your favorites. T-bone steak. Mashed potatoes and broccoli.” She pecked my cheek, grabbed the bowl, and set off down the hall. “There’s Herradura in the fridge,” she said over her shoulder. “Cold, just the way you like it. I put fresh towels in the closet, a new robe in the bathroom, and a bottle of Mr. Bubble on the sink. Oh, and Shannon Bradford called.”

TRACE

____________________________

“Shoot.” Amber canvassed the busy parking lot. “Where the hell is the car?”

I strode beside her lugging a dolly weighted down with renovation equipment and supplies. Cupping a hand over my brow, I squinted against the biting wind. The day was sunny, but a cold front was expected to slide in after dark, bringing an unseasonable ten inches of snow. Not surprisingly, Home Depot had morphed into a hornet’s nest of panic buying.

“There.” I pointed, picking up the pace. “By the Hummer.”

The trek to the car was treacherous. Black ice and potholes abounded. When we finally reached Amber’s SUV rental, my relief was short-lived. A rude shout greeted us—this from one of five teenage punks loitering by the dumpsters several yards away.

“Yo, Butcher Boy. What’d you buy?”

“Garden tools,” the idiot next to him blurted with a cough.

A burst of laugher followed.

Another hollered, “Psycho!”

“Fuckin’ nutjob!” someone else yelled.

“Ignore them,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. I stabbed the remote at the car and yanked the hatch open. “Just a bunch of dumb ass kids.”

“Hey, baby,” the first boy yelled at Amber. “If you’re still alive tomorrow, call me.” He shook his junk. “I may have a home improvement project for you.”

“I’ll prolly need a microscope to find it,” she fired back.

I blasted her with a glare. “What are you doin’?”

“Eat me, bitch,” the crotch-grabber retorted.

She smiled, tilted her head, and flashed a one-finger salute.

“Amber!” I barked.

“What?” She batted her lashes innocently. “The little bastard had it coming.”

I ignored the dull ache in my ribs and snatched a set of power rollers and a can of paint off the dolly. “Get the hell in the car before you get me arrested.”

“Don’t worry, shug. I’ve got your back.”

No doubt she did. Though her close-cropped black hair and violet eyes made her look like a pixie, the leggy ex-prison guard held a concealed weapons permit and two black belts—one in karate, the other in aikido.

She grabbed a snow shovel and grinned. “Speaking of arrests, I still have my handcuffs if you want to play later. I’ll even spring for the honey and whipped cream.”

I fought a smile. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“I can think of a few things,” she said with a saucy wink.

By the time we finished loading the car, the punks had moved on. I hopped in and was about to start the engine when Amber began squirming in her seat.

“Oh, my God. Look.” She nudged her chin. “That’s my girl Neecie—and she’s got her baby boy with her! Give me a minute, okay? I haven’t seen her since they let her out of rehab.” She smashed a kiss against my cheek. “Be right back.”

She threw the door open and giggled her way over to a blue Sentra in the next aisle.

Women.

I sat for a time picking at a hangnail until my stitches started bothering me. I adjusted the rearview mirror and eyed my chin. Damn if the cut didn’t itch something fierce. So did the tape on the bandage.

I was seconds away from a scratching fit when a blur of blonde hair whisked past my peripheral vision. I jerked the mirror to the right. Aw, hell. It was her. Shannon Bradford, one row behind me, fighting with a shopping cart. As she pushed, the thing pushed back, its wheels slipping and sliding over the icy pavement.

Clearly, God, the devil, or both were determined to screw with me. Bad enough one of her damn billboards stood big as day on the same street as Fontana Exxon. Every morning her sunny face greeted me, and now this. I squeezed my lids shut, and tried to forget she was out there, but curiosity chomped at my insides.

Fuck it.

I scooted forward and snagged the mirror again, just in time to witness a bag of rock salt topple from her cart and slap the ground. The plastic burst open, spitting pellets everywhere. Shoppers streamed around her, too consumed by their own Snowmageddon madness to care.

Before I even realized it, I’d wrapped my hand over the door handle.

Oh, hell no. Caution made me uncurl my fingers. I glanced across the dashboard. Amber had since climbed into Neecie’s car and was gabbing away. With Amber being Amber, they’d be jawing for at least another ten minutes. I glared up at the roof and tried to talk some sense into myself, but three seconds later, I was slamming out of the car, muttering curses the whole way.

Even as I stood behind her, I regretted it, but for whatever dumb reason, I couldn’t leave. “Need some help?” I muttered, my voice taut with irritation.

Wearing a brown sheepskin jacket, jeans, and ankle boots, Shannon tore around. The broken bag in her arms hit the ground again in a mad spray of salt. “Jeez. You scared me.” She eyeballed the lot as she knelt to stuff handfuls back into the busted sack.

“You want some help or not?”

“No thanks,” she said, her gaze still sweeping the area.

I smiled.

We’d been the talk of the town for the past few days, so clearly little Miss Priss was dealing with the backlash. Why else would she be casing the parking lot like she stole something? Now she’d been seen consorting with the infamous Butcher Boy again. God, I was trying not to enjoy this, but her paranoia only made me want to extend my visit.

“Move,” I grumbled. “You’re just making a bigger mess.” My sore ribs screamed when I snatched the ruined bag off the ground—a twenty pounder—but I bit back the pain. “Why didn’t you send Jeeves to pick this stuff up for you?”

“His name is Gerard,” came her curt correction. She shoved to her feet, smacking salt from her hands. “Anyway, this ‘stuff’ isn’t for Briar. It’s for a property I’m showing next week. The place is special, so I don’t mind doing—oh, forget it.”

I gave her a ‘whatever’ look and dumped the leaking bag into a stray cart. Salt rained through the plastic grill as she continued skimming the scene for gawkers. “Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll get bored eventually.”

She glared at me for a long moment. “Why haven’t you returned my calls? I’ve left you six messages.”

More like eight. She’d had my phone on blast all week. “Maybe ‘cause I didn’t want to talk to you.”

She opened her mouth, but a trio of blue-haired old ladies ambled by in a flurry of whispers. Her voice held a cautious undertone when she spoke. “I didn’t write the letter, Trace.”

So she’d said eight times ago. I grabbed one of the three remaining bags and positioned the thing in her open trunk.

She tossed a hand. “You’re just going to ignore me?”

“Naw,” I said in a bored voice. “I’m also gonna finish loadin’ up your car.”

Dark amusement warmed me at her look of outrage. Tiny as she was, she still managed to block my way. “You accuse me of destroying your family,” she spat, eyes flashing, “but you won’t let me defend myself? How fair is that?”

My nostrils flared as the smoky-sweet scent of her teasing perfume snuck up on me. Annoyed, I stepped around her to grab the next bag. “Life ain’t fair, Miz Bradford.”

“Oh, grow up. Someone impersonated me. I have a legal right—no, a duty to dig into this. Darien’s even helping.”

I froze. “So lover boy’s in on this now?”

“‘Lover boy’ isn’t ‘in’ on anything.” She jammed her hands into her pockets as a breeze carried her scent past me again. “He’s an ex-prosecutor, so he can plow through the bureaucratic mire a lot faster than I can. What did the letter say?”

I rolled my eyes. As if she didn’t know. “Beats me. It came with a confidentiality request. So they wouldn’t let me see it, which is laughable since somebody mailed a copy to my mama.” I threw the second bag into the trunk and shot her a look packed with blame. “Must’ve been a doozy considering the fallout.”

Bitter satisfaction filled me once her face fell and she looked away. Outfreakingstanding.

Gossip had almost faded when the Dawson double suicides dropped Temptation, West Virginia back on the map last year. My mother had died with a plastic bag over her head, crucifix in hand, and a bellyful of pills washed down with half a pint of good old Jim Beam.

But my crazy ass daddy had gone out with a bang. Blew his brains out with a shotgun. Bev claimed some of the buckshot was still embedded in the basement wall. Soon afterward, my baby brother Coltrane (Cole for short) ended up at Saint Mary’s Asylum. The boy slashed his wrists with a Ginsu knife and smeared his chest with his own blood after finding the bodies. To this day, he still swears ‘voices’ told him to cut himself.

News accounts glossed over everything with the usual tactless comments from judgmental neighbors:

What else would you expect? The whole family was nothin’ but trash.

Yet I knew the truth.

So did Shannon Bradford.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she snapped. “Just think about this, okay? If I sent the letter, why didn’t I send another one to keep you from getting out again?”

I dug the last bag from the cart and hauled it to her car. “How the hell should I know? You’re the one with amnesia. Maybe you forgot.”

Shannon stared hard at me. “Really?”

I lifted a brow in answer.

She scowled. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, and once I do, you’ll have no more excuses.”

I laughed at her and dumped the bag in.

“We’re both injured parties here,” she insisted.

Yeah, right. I made a ‘bitch, please’ face, slammed the trunk and shoved the cart aside. Tipping an invisible hat brim, I said, “You have a good day.”

But she caught my wrist when I turned to leave and it felt like some kind of heat ray zapped the spot she touched. The sensation coursed through my blood, melted into my bones.

Her hand wasn’t much bigger than a child’s, but it had the weight of someone three times her size. I stared at where we were joined, then lifted my eyes to her face. She looked as stunned as me. Lips parted, she’d had the same confused expression when we’d stood outside the hospital. Then and now, the world and the last twelve years seemed to fall away.

I blinked to clear my head. “You got somethin’ else to say to me?”

Our gazes held as the wind tore into her hair. She released my wrist to absently tuck an errant lock behind her ear. “You may not believe this,” she said, her bottom lip trembling, “but the fact that you’re hurting makes me hurt too.”

My shoulders inched down a notch. She actually looked sincere. The moment stretched on while I examined her face, searching for something beyond my reach. Silence ballooned into awkwardness and she backed away, her skin pale, her chocolate-brown eyes dulled over in bewilderment.

She wasted no time hightailing it to her car, and after climbing behind the wheel, she pulled off without looking back. An icy breeze tugged at my peacoat as I absently rubbed my wrist and watched her Volvo melt into the endless chain of traffic.

When she’d completely vanished minutes later, I turned to find Amber leaning against the SUV, waiting, her eyes fixed on me.

CHAPTER FIVE
Little White Lies

SHANNON

____________________________

I was crouched on the wraparound porch of an old house, trying to open the front door. Ten minutes I’d been at this, and I hadn’t gotten anywhere. Thanksgiving and Snowmageddon had come and gone a week ago, but everything was still iced-over—hinges, locks, the whole shebang. At this rate, I’d need a blowtorch.

Situated in the heart of New Dyer’s historic district, this house, a romantic Queen Anne Victorian, had languished on the market for a year. The leaky roof, warped parquet floors, termite damage, and peeling wallpaper hadn’t endeared it to many, but anyone with imagination could see the swan within this ugly duckling.

A wind gust rocked the porch just as my 9 a.m. appointment rolled into the carport thirty minutes early. Musty air greeted me once the lock finally relented, but another gale licked from behind and ripped the handle from my grasp. My purse went next. Its contents skipped across the parquet floor like jacks.

I stared down in horror: ChapStick, wallet, mints, Midol, change, and two tampons.

“Just lovely,” I muttered.

Without thinking, I dropped to the floor in a frantic grab, but had to bite my lip to keep from crying out. Pain roared down my leg when the scab on my knee split. The weathervane on the carport whirled as Ian Lovejoy, a marine with sleepy brown eyes and a buzz cut, rounded his car to help Kimmy, his very pregnant wife.

A minute later, Kimmy gave a buoyant wave. “Hi, Shannon.”

“Hey, lady.” I shoved the last tampon into my purse. “Be careful. One of the neighborhood boys put rock salt out for me, but there’s still some ice patches.”

“We’re early, but I was kinda anxious,” Ian said. He curled an arm around Kimmy as they made their way up the steps. “Yeah, the place needs work. Termite damage, a warped porch…a leaky roof, but we want it anyway.”

I struggled to my feet, brushing myself off. Though I was all smiles, I felt numb. The Victorian had really grown on me. “Well, now,” I said, pumping a ton of sunshine into my voice. “Looks like we’ve got an offer to write. Shall we go back to the office?”

Ian beamed. “Mind if we take another look?”

“Take all the time you need.”

Lovejoy didn’t waste any.

He scooped Kimmy up and whirled her around. They rushed into the house like children hearing a recess bell. After Kimmy slid down his body, he delivered a kiss that bordered on pornographic. With one hand cupping his wife’s behind, Lovejoy palmed the door shut.

Swoosh.

Musty air fanned my face just as a frosty gale whistled across the porch, yet I was anything but cold. Watching that young couple filled me with longing because they had something I didn’t—spellbound passion. Lately, all Darien and I seemed to do was argue.

The vibration tapping my hip yanked me back. I dug my cell phone out. “Shannon Bradford.”

“I finally found it,” Darien said. “It’s a five-pager.”

The parole letter. My heart smacked my rib cage. “Five?”

“Written on Bradford Realty stationery. And, Shannon, the signature’s a dead ringer for yours.”

Weak-kneed, I gravitated to the porch swing and dropped. The chains rattled. I’d been in an emotional tailspin since the limo screamfest with Trace. Seeing him at Home Depot last week didn’t help. He’d acted as hateful as ever. God, but the man had the uncanniest ability to completely unnerve me with just a look. It was so annoying.

“Babe? Are you okay?”

“Give me a sec.” I closed my eyes to gather my scattered thoughts. “Who…where did you find it?”

“The parole board. The letter was submitted directly to them. A colleague faxed me a copy yesterday. I also contacted Victim Services. It’s an arm of the Department of Corrections. I would’ve called sooner—”

“But you were swamped,” I finished.

Darien and Uncle Sears were lead counsel on a celebrity murder trial in LA. Uncle had flown back yesterday on the heels of a stomach virus, leaving Darien with junior partners Yao Cài, Tom Blake, and paralegal Kate Sims. Their celebrated firm, Bradford, Jacobs and Montgomery had earned a national reputation for excellence.

“Yeah, it’s been nuts around here.” He gave a labored sigh. “Who has access to your office stationery?”

I combed my memory. “My admin keeps it in the back room.”

“Did anyone from the parole board or Victim Services ever contact you?”

“No. Never.”

“Amazing. I can’t believe they skipped a follow-up.” I heard papers being flung aside. Something was slammed. “Here it is,” he said. Irritation spiked his voice. “It was date-stamped two weeks before Dawson’s first parole hearing.” He counted out loud. “That would have been a little over a year-and-a-half ago.”

“Is the letter the reason he didn’t make parole last time?”

“No. He’d already racked up a long list of offenses. You know, fights, contraband violations. On the plus side, he earned two associate degrees and an HVAC apprenticeship. He even taught dance classes.” More pages turned. “Anyway, the good didn’t outweigh the bad. His prison psychiatrist, a Dr. Joseph Rosen concluded he still had anger management issues.”

Color me surprised. “How did he get out this time?”

“He cleaned up his act. Plus Cholly Fontana vouched for him, guaranteeing his employment upon release. That had weight since he’s a well-respected celebrity.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yeah. A woman named Amber Pugliese. She used to work as a corrections officer there. Now she runs an event planning business. They were rumored to be lovers. All of his apprenticeship teachers stood up for him too. He got the most help from Dr. Rosen though. Whatever he said allayed the board’s concerns.”

I pushed out of the swing. Its rusty chains creaked and wailed. “So what was in the letter?”

His pause lingered past my comfort zone. “I’m on a hotel phone, honey. I’d prefer not to get specific.”

“It’s that bad?”

“Try disgusting. I see why Dawson’s mother was devastated.”

An insane combination of curiosity and dread burned hot. I crossed the porch to get a better signal. “Then fax it.”

“Look, it was a prank. Knowing who did it won’t change a thing. Dawson’s gone on with his life. You should do the same.”

Everyone—Darien included—had opposed my inquiries from the beginning. Since then, my faith in the town had flatlined. My faith in my family had died too, but nothing had died quicker than the faith I’d once had in myself.

“It’s not a prank,” I insisted. “It’s a tragedy.”

“Sears said you and Dawson are the talk of town. Think what damage this misguided guilt trip of yours can do.”

“Now Uncle is calling you with updates?”

“He’s…concerned. And that tabloid hasn’t helped matters. We’re not just talking about your reputation, there’s your family and Mead’s campaign to consider.”

I started down the porch steps and gripped the handrail to keep from slipping as Darien’s caustic reminder hung in the air like a noose.

Gossip had shaped my life and many of the choices I’d made, and now here I was, dealing with its specter again. How could I not understand my family’s concerns? They’d been drilled into me from birth. Since Trace’s parole, Aunt Hesta, Bradford mediatrix extraordinaire, had swept the ‘unpleasantry’ beneath the proverbial rug. Uncle Sears and the others had followed suit.

The only holdout was Cousin Mead who talked nonstop about my ‘stupid lapse in judgment.’

And Darien agreed. “Let this go before it snowballs, babe.”

“Someone used me to destroy his family.” I picked my way down the icy footpath. “Now they’re after anyone who helps him.”

“You think I would’ve prosecuted him if I wasn’t convinced he did it? You should know better. And a jury agreed with me.”

“Are you saying twelve people can’t be wrong?” I asked.

“Are you saying they are?”

That was the problem. I didn’t know what I was saying.

“Okay, how’s this?” Darien offered. “Since we’re throwing everything in but the kitchen sink, I guess you have an explanation for the con Dawson killed.”

Trace had allegedly murdered an inmate, but I didn’t want to believe it. “Since when are rumors facts?”

“The guy’s name was Nyle Weathers, and my contacts are sure Dawson killed him. They just didn’t have the evidence to prove it. No weapon was ever found. Some say Amber Pugliese stashed it for him. They did an investigation, but nothing ever came of it.”

This was bad, but I wouldn’t concede. “Is that all?”

“Isn’t that enough? He’s a psychopath and you’ve got no reason to feel guilty. You’re Catholic. Go say a few Hail Marys and be done with it.”

I stalked to my car, ice patches be damned. “The sarcasm doesn’t help.”

“I’m just telling it like it is. You know, the facts? Those annoying little things you take issue with?”

“Here’s a fact.” I caught my balance when I almost slipped. “Mother hurt me, but I didn’t remember the abuse. Until now.”

“Even if she beat you, it doesn’t absolve that murdering piece of sh—” He mumbled beneath his breath. “I’m not getting into this with you again. Can we change the subject?”

My call waiting beeped before I could answer him. “Hold on.” I punched a button to switch over. “Shannon Bradford.”

“This is Jane Younger. Valene Campbell’s granddaughter.” A dramatic pause preceded her snippy, “I’m returning your calls.”

I rested my hip against my car door. “Yes, Ms.—”

“I don’t like repeating myself,” she continued, her tone icy. “But my grandmother can’t speak with you. Now or ever.”

SLAM.

Incredulous, I glared at the receiver, muttering a curse as I clicked back over to Darien.

“Hi,” I said tightly.

“Did something happen?”

“Mrs. Campbell’s granddaughter all but told me to go screw myself.” I scowled. “Something’s going on, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you couldn’t care less.”

Darien sighed. “Shannon, can we stop this? Please? Our wedding’s in four months and all we ever do is quarrel.”

He had a point, but then, most of our arguments stemmed from his absence. “Are you sure you can’t make the luncheon?”

I’d been planning Auntie and Uncle’s anniversary for months. They were like parents to me; parents who were dangerously close to divorce. I’d hoped this gala would remind them that their thirty-six years together were worth fighting for. Speaking of which, whoever had given The Dirty Dish that bogus engagement party tip, had probably confused it with this one.

“Honey,” Darien said, his tone firm. “I already told you I can’t make it. But as soon as this trial winds down—”

“Fine. Can you fax me the letter?” I wrenched my car door open and plopped down sideways, legs out. “I’d like to review it before I leave for the realtors seminar.”

Static crackled for a few seconds, and when he spoke, I could feel his reluctance. “I’ll send it tonight. But I can’t concentrate if I’m worrying about you. Stay away from Dawson.”

That was so far from okay, it wasn’t funny. “But Darien—”

“No buts. Promise me.”

If I told him I planned to track Trace down as soon as I got back, he’d worry. So what else could I do but lie?