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“Stone. Jake Stone.” He extended his hand. Emma intentionally misunderstood and took both his hands to shake instead of the one. Deirdre died of embarrassment as her daughter none too subtly inspected the ring finger of Stone’s left hand.
Emma fluttered her lashes at him. “Awesome name. You should be an actor. And you’ve got a great face. All rugged and rough, like you’ve lived real hard. Not too pretty, know what I mean? Nothing more boring than a pretty man, right, Mom?”
Deirdre made a garbled sound that might be assent as she considered ways to throttle her daughter.
Stone ate the praise up. “Thank you,” he said. “You must be Emma. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Emma beamed. “Mom’s been talking about me again, huh? I promise she gets off the subject of how wonderful I am eventually. Then she’s a real crack-up.”
Stone raised one silky black eyebrow. “I’ll bet.”
“Hey! That is way cool!” Emma enthused. “That thing you do with your eyebrow. Can you teach me how? It would be great for character parts. Not that I intend to do many of those. I’m an actress. I just got the part of Juliet. But that’s just high school stuff. Mom sent me to camp last summer at the coolest drama school in the world. And my teachers offered me early enrollment. If everything works out right, I’ll take early graduation and be in New York by spring.”
Stone whistled. “New York is a long way from home. What’s your mom think about that?” The P.I. looked as if he really cared.
“She’s happier about it than I am!” Emma wrinkled her nose. “She doesn’t want me to get stuck in this little town. Like I would, ever!”
Deirdre wondered if her daughter had any idea how many times Deirdre herself had vowed the same thing. But life was tricky, dangerous. And what was that saying Cade quoted so often? If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.
“I know you’re loving this scintillating conversation with Mr. Stone, Emma, but he’s a busy man. I’m sure he has business to take care of.” Deirdre shot Stone a glance of dismissal impossible to misunderstand.
But Stone was regarding her with infuriating innocence. “Actually, my morning is free. And I’d love a chance to talk theater with someone who really understands quality performing. I saw a lot of it when I was growing up.”
Oh, yeah, that line of baloney fit the Stone she loved to hate. Mr. Broadway. He’d probably had front-row seats at striptease clubs and burlesque shows.
Damn the man! Couldn’t he see she was trying to get him out of here?
Deirdre wished she could demand to know what the real story of this little performance was. But she couldn’t do that without tipping her own hand—something she couldn’t risk doing in front of her daughter.
But if Deirdre could see right through Stone, Emma was blinded by his action-hero looks and lethal charm. No wonder Stone was such a successful private investigator. He could wrap women around those powerful, long fingers of his and make them want to thank him for it. A dangerous skill, and an unforgivable flaw where Deirdre was concerned. But Emma was utterly enchanted.
The teenager laughed, looking so adorable Deirdre doubted Attila the Hun could deny her anything she asked. “Mom and I have this tradition that when I get a new part,” she confided, “we go out for breakfast at this really cool place called Lagomarcino’s. It’s like an old-fashioned soda fountain from a jillion years ago.”
“More like a hundred,” Deirdre grudgingly corrected.
“Whatever,” Emma conceded breezily. “Want to come along, Mr. Stone?”
Duct tape, Deirdre thought inanely. Duct tape was the only solution. If she could just tear off a strip and plaster it across Emma’s mouth, she could put an end to this whole situation once and for all. But that would be child abuse, unless, of course, she got a jury stacked with mothers of teenage girls.
A rogue ex-cop who’d done something so bad he’d lost his badge wouldn’t be the kind of company Deirdre would want her daughter around, period. The danger of Emma discovering exactly what Deirdre had hired Stone to “restore” made the invitation even more alarming.
“Emma, Mr. Stone is a very busy man,” Deirdre began.
“Everybody has to eat. Please, Mr. Stone!” Emma didn’t bother trying to wheedle her mother into it. She turned the Big Eyes directly at Stone. “This town is the cultural armpit of the world. Sometimes I feel like I’m starving for news of the big wide world out there.” The girl all but pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, playing out her best death scene. “It would be heaven to talk to somebody who really knows theater. Besides, Mom and I never get the chance to be escorted by a dark, mysterious stranger around here. We’ll have the whole town talking. Think what fun that would be.”
“Being the subject of town gossip is highly overrated,” Deirdre said.
She felt Stone’s gaze rivet on her, knew that something in the tone of her voice had intrigued him, impelled him to try to chip away at secrets. Panic fluttered under her breastbone. She crushed it. Let him dig away. Deirdre figured before the end of this case he was bound to find out that she’d been number one on Whitewater’s Most Talked About List often enough.
Deirdre started to make excuses, but Stone either jumped at another chance to irritate her or had fallen under Emma’s spell.
He crooked Emma that killer smile. “Who could pass up an opportunity to get the whole town buzzing? And enjoy the company of two such beautiful ladies in the bargain?”
What in the name of heaven was the man thinking? Stone was one of the most calculating people Deirdre had ever known, with a reason for everything. Why on God’s green earth would he want to spend the next hour eating pancakes at some quaint little restaurant with a woman he didn’t much like and a star-crazed sixteen-year-old who would obviously talk until his ear shriveled up and fell off?
He had to know she was concealing things from Emma. They couldn’t say a word about the case. What possible reason could a man like Stone have for wasting his morning this way?
Deirdre groped for some way, any way, to send the man packing. “Two’s company, four’s a crowd,” Deirdre warned. “Don’t you think Trula and your redheaded lady friend would object? Or aren’t they the jealous type?”
The corners of Stone’s eyes crinkled, his sexy laugh setting alarm bells jangling up and down Deirdre’s spine. “Oh, my ladies are plenty jealous, but I’ll charm my way out of trouble. I can be irresistible when I want to be.”
“I’ll bet.” Emma laughed, softening the lines of strain etched in her face from the night before. “Come on, Mom. This’ll be great. No offense, Mr. Stone, but with just the two of us at the table, conversation gets a little dull sometimes.”
Deirdre forced a smile. “It won’t be boring next time, Emmaline Kate. I promise you that.”
Ignoring the warning in grand style, Emma slid her arm into Stone’s and grinned. “My mom is really, really picky about men. She wouldn’t go out with just anybody, you know. This is your lucky day.”
THE KID WAS DEFINITELY on the make—for her mother, that is. And if they gave Oscars for performances designed to get Mom a date, Emma McDaniel would be giving a hell of an acceptance speech come next year.
That is, if she survived her mother’s wrath in the hours to come. Steam might as well have been rolling out of Deirdre’s ears, the woman twitchy as hell. But then, Deirdre was usually so blunt, Stone supposed it was tough for her, trying to keep the lid on the reason he’d been hired. The more time he spent with Emma, the more likely the kid would figure out she’d been duped. And in Stone’s experience royalty objected to being made to look a fool.
Her Royal Highness deftly maneuvered them to her “lucky” table, set up for three, where she was able to manipulate her mother into sitting next to Jake on a crowded bench. Emma made her move with such cunning there was no way out of the predicament unless Deirdre was willing to be completely rude.
He figured Deirdre could be plenty rude on occasion, but to do so now would reveal to Emma that something was rotten in the state of Denmark. And once that happened, Stone wagered Emma would latch on to the mystery and never let go.
Besides, Stone figured he owed the teenager big-time. He was devil enough to enjoy Deirdre’s discomfiture and man enough to savor the pleasure of being close enough to touch the woman who’d been prickly toward him for so long.
He could have been a gentleman and squashed himself against the wall so he wouldn’t touch her, but what fun would that be?
He let his big body take up all the space it needed. His thigh touched Deirdre’s, his elbow brushing her arm whenever he moved. She was so near he could smell scents that had haunted him for so long—something exotic like bergamot or oranges alerting every one of his senses that this wasn’t your average woman—something so spicy and defiant it barely seemed possible so much emotion could be contained in such a small woman, a wild inner freedom that wouldn’t buckle to any man.
He wondered if Deirdre knew that such obvious reluctance on her part was the most addictive aphrodisiac of all. Could she guess how many questions she awoke in a man because of the boundaries she’d drawn so clearly?
She made it easy for Stone to understand why his ancestors had raided proud highland villages in ages past, so they could fill their beds with such strong, defiant beauties and have their sons carry the women’s fighting blood in their veins.
An all-too-vivid imagination flashed a scene from The Quiet Man in his head—but instead of Maureen O’Hara, it was Deirdre who struggled in Stone’s arms as he carried her into a thatched cottage, dead set on making love to her.
Stone yanked himself up short. Get a grip, he told himself. Stick to basics. The reasons you took this case. You’re here because you’re attracted to the woman. And because somehow she slipped past your guard to where your guilty conscience hides.
Remember who you are: a hard-nosed private investigator who can’t afford to feel emotions like these. Hell, he hadn’t even realized he still had it in him, thought he’d left them behind with the badge that had been taken away.
The cop he’d been back then had seemed like a stranger for years. An idealistic fool too damned young, too involved, too emotional, who cared too much even when he damned well knew throwing himself into a case that way was going to bite him in the ass and leave him bleeding.
When he’d walked away from the force, he’d thought he was done playing Sir Galahad. From that moment on he’d see the world with all its hard edges, people taking whatever they could get, even the best ones looking for ways to wriggle out of nasty situations.
And damned if it hadn’t worked until he’d crashed into the McDaniel clan, a family more stubbornly honorable than anyone he’d known since he’d crossed swords with Sergeant Tony Manoletti at twelve years old.
Stone fought to quell the memories of that dark Italian face, and the uncomfortable emotions Deirdre and her family loosed in him.
Concentrate on the entertainment value, he told himself. Here he was, sitting close enough to kiss a woman he figured would never so much as stay in the same room once he’d entered it. Yeah, it was big fun, Stone told himself cynically, except it only made him wonder what she’d taste like. Deirdre was so small, he’d have to bend way over, gather her up against him and—
“…and Hugh Jackman in The Boy from Oz played this gay singer who—Mr. Stone, you’re not listening,” Emma accused.
Stone actually felt the back of his neck get hot.
“Whatever you’re thinking about, it sure isn’t theater,” the girl scolded. “I expect you to tell me right—oh!”
Saved by the bell. Literally. The old-fashioned brass bell above Lagomarcino’s door jangled. Emma’s eyes widened, her face turning a shade pinker than the moment before as a tall kid of about seventeen entered the diner, his sun-streaked blond hair and angular, wind-burned face giving him a kind of Ralph Lauren, preppie outdoorsman look. For a heartbeat, Stone could see the incredible woman Emma would grow into. Then, between one moment and the next, she transformed back into a fluttery teenage girl.
“Ohmigod,” she breathed. Her mother’s gaze pinned her.
“Emma? Are you all right?”
“Mom, cut it out!” Emma hissed under her breath, one hand sweeping up in an effort to smooth her flyaway hair. Wasted effort, Stone wanted to tell her. Like her mother’s unruly locks, Emma’s hair looked best a little tousled.
Of course, on Emma it looked cute. On Deirdre it looked like a man had just buried his hands in the silky locks. Unless, Stone figured, the guy looking at the two McDaniel women was seventeen. There was no missing the appreciation lighting the boy’s hazel eyes. Trula would have called them bedroom eyes. Stone figured they were closer to a golden retriever’s—and not one that had honored the humane society’s mandate for neutering.
Ignoring her daughter’s stammered plea not to embarrass her, Deirdre glanced over her shoulder to see what held her daughter’s attention. She needn’t have bothered. The boy nabbed a can of Dr Pepper from the pop machine, then headed straight for them.
The kid smiled at Emma, something about him so damned shiny and new it made Stone feel a hundred years old.
“Hey, Juliet,” the kid said, shoving one hand into the pocket of jeans his mom had obviously pressed.
“Hey, Romeo.”
So this must be the kid cast opposite Emma in the play. “Romeo” had that soulful, romantic look that would give all the impressionable girls watching the performance something to dream about for months.
So why did the look on Deirdre’s face make Stone wonder if the kid would be giving her nightmares?
Romeo turned respectfully to Deirdre. “You’re Emma’s mom, aren’t you? I’m Drew Lawson.”
“Hello, Drew,” Deirdre replied. Stone knew that tone. It was the icy one she’d used on him so often. Stone had to credit the kid for guts as Drew awkwardly offered the Ice Queen his hand. Deirdre glanced at his fingers, then away, a pointed rejection that astonished Stone. Why didn’t she just kick that poor puppy and be done with it?
Drew tugged at the open collar of a purple-and-green-striped rugby shirt. It looked like the kid registered Deirdre’s chilly reception loud and clear. Even so, the kid didn’t beat feet for the door. He stood there, nervous but determined. “I just want to tell you how glad I am Emma got the lead,” Drew said. “Her audition had half the teachers bawling.”
Drew slid Emma another glance. “I’m looking forward to working with her.”
Yeah, kid, I’ll bet you are, Stone thought. Wasn’t there a kissing scene or two in the play? And it didn’t look like Emma would object to rehearsing it with this particular Romeo. So why was Deirdre giving the kid a glare that could be aimed at barbarian hordes bent on pillage?
The kid wasn’t wearing a Marilyn Manson shirt or sporting enough body-piercing to fill Jake’s grandmother’s pincushion. And he could hardly have offended Deirdre. Drew had just introduced himself.
Besides, Emma was sixteen—and a real looker, like her mother. Even if, by some miracle, Emma hadn’t been kissed yet, it was going to happen and soon. Wasn’t this clean-cut, all-American type kid every mother’s dream boyfriend for her daughter?
“Emma is very talented,” Deirdre said firmly. “But I can’t say Juliet is a part I think she’s suited for.”
“Really?” Drew asked, incredulous.
“Emma’s got far too good a head on her shoulders to be sucked into that whole star-crossed-lover bit—she’s going to have to work hard to make it believable. I mean, the whole thing—the poison, the suicide, the whole parents-being-evil bit just isn’t her style.”
Emma grimaced. “That’s why they call it acting, Mom.”
“I knew there had to be a reason.” Deirdre smiled at her daughter. “I’m glad Emma got the part, and I know she’ll be phenomenal, but the role of Juliet seems a better fit for your girlfriend.”
“Huh?” Drew glanced from mother to daughter in genuine puzzlement.
Emma kicked under the table, missing her intended target and slamming square into Stone’s shin instead.
“Yeow!” Stone exclaimed as pain shot up his leg. He felt the press of three pairs of eyes on his face, both McDaniel females and this Drew character looking at him as if he’d gone crazy. “Y’all know, I, uh, really need some coffee,” he improvised, signaling the waitress, a high school girl with bottle-blond hair and inch-thick makeup who seemed to be studiously ignoring them.
Was Stone imagining it, or did the waitress really give Emma a nasty look from above the edge of her order pad? Drew looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Chris,” he called, the girl unable to ignore his summons. “They’d like to order over here.”
“Be right there,” the girl said sourly, turning to fiddle with a tray of water glasses. Stone wondered what the story was.
But Emma was too busy trying to do damage control to notice. “I was telling my mom that everybody assumed Brandi Bates would get the part and that the two of you were going out.”
“People assume a lot of things,” Drew said, his gaze holding Emma’s a little too intently. “That doesn’t mean they’re true.”
Emma blushed. “Listen, about rehearsing—Mom said we could use the gazebo out in the garden at March Winds.”
Deirdre’s eyes flashed. “You know, I’m not so sure that’s such a good idea. The guests love the gazebo and—”
“The guests will understand,” Stone interrupted, figuring he could lend Emma and Romeo a hand. “What mom could resist looking out her kitchen window to watch the whole process of her daughter developing her lead performance? It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”
Emma didn’t look pleased about the setup he’d described, but Deirdre seemed to reconsider. “I don’t know,” she mused grudgingly.
“Emma’s dad will be jealous as hell.” Stone told himself he wasn’t fishing for information. He was just trying to make the deal irresistible. From what he’d seen of broken marriages, nothing delighted an ex-spouse more than sticking the knife in and breaking it off. But the flash of something in Deirdre’s all-too-expressive eyes made the back of his neck prickle.
“Emma’s father isn’t—”
“He vanished before I was born and never cared about seeing me again. And that’s fine with me. I never needed a dad, anyway.” Emma gave her mother a pointed glance. “I have Uncle Cade and the Captain.”
Drew looked even more uncomfortable than he’d been moments before. If Deirdre’s obvious disapproval hadn’t chased him off, the tension thickening the air this time seemed to make him look for an exit line.
“Actually, I’d better get going,” he said. “I was heading home to work on learning my lines now.”
“Oh.” Emma wasn’t quite a good enough actress to hide her disappointment. “Yeah, sure.”
Drew hung in there a moment longer in spite of The Mother from Hell. “Some of the language in this play…well, it’s not like normal dialogue, you know? It doesn’t exactly roll real easy off my tongue.”
“It can’t be too difficult,” Deirdre said. “People have been performing it for five hundred years.”
“It’s brilliant,” Drew said, brave enough to risk the evil eye in defense of the Bard. “I love listening to it, reading it, seeing it performed. I just feel a little dorky doing it alone. My kid brother and I share a room, and he’s a real pain in the a—neck when I try to practice lines. You know how brothers are.”
“No, I don’t,” Emma said. Was that wistfulness Stone detected in her voice? “It’s just Mom and me at home.”
Drew almost looked envious. “Wow. That must be awesome when you’re trying to practice.”
Maybe it was great at times like that, Stone mused, the hint of loneliness in Emma’s dark eyes echoing memories of his own childhood. It was the rest of the time that stunk.
