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She surrendered, and, after planting a grateful kiss on his cheek, she headed down the small hall. At her doorway, she yawned and glanced once toward the living room. Jimbo stood near the window, where the streetlight shone just bright enough to let him read his new cookbook.
And Eddie the Demon was asleep.
“OHMIGOD.” Allison’s best waitress friend, Sue, paused with a set of silverware half-rolled in a napkin and inhaled sharply. “Look! There he is.”
Allison, who was really too busy to care, glanced toward the door, which had jingled its incoming-customer melody of joy. But it was lunchtime on a sunny spring Saturday, and at least a dozen people crowded around Moira’s hostess station. Allison couldn’t make them all out clearly.
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name. Look. Can’t you see him? Tall, dark and handsome from yesterday. The one with the mangled Mercedes.”
Oh. Allison felt her own breath swoop in, and she nearly dropped the order of coconut prawns she needed to deliver to table eleven, which would have been a shame, since they were regulars and big tippers.
But Sue was right. There he was. Redmond Malone. Yeah, she didn’t kid herself—she remembered his name. Even here in this upscale tourist town, she didn’t see many guys that sexy. A couple of inches taller than tall. Dark, wavy hair. Blue eyes so intense they looked Photoshopped.
Loose jeans and a black T-shirt that resembled the ones she bought at the superstore but probably cost more than she’d made in tips all week. Definitely an understated style. No obvious come-ons—nothing form-fitting to show off assets, either God-given or gym-acquired. No gold trinkets, no hair gel, no Armani. Actually, he looked as if the thrill of being a stud might have worn off somewhere between twenty and thirty, and he was tired of having to bat females away like flies.
Still, he had an industrial-strength level of self-confidence, and was in love with his boy-toy car. Definitely not her type.
Not that she had a type anymore. Except maybe the type that wore diapers.
Still, she wondered what he was doing here. She hoped it didn’t mean more trouble for Bill. Ordinarily, Bill would have been at table eleven, with his friends. They called themselves the Old Coots Club, and they rarely missed a Saturday. But Bill was at home, pouting about yesterday’s accident.
“He’s looking at you,” Sue said with a low growl. “Damn it. Why aren’t the sexy ones ever looking at me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Allison grabbed the Ultimate Club that Sven slid onto the shelf, added it to her tray with the coconut prawns, and headed over to eleven. She tried to give Moira the dark eye, warning her not to put Mr. Mercedes in her section. But Moira just shrugged. She really didn’t have much choice. Flip, the owner, ran The Peacock Café like a military operation, and it was Allison’s turn to get a table.
Oh, well. The closing on the new restaurant property had gone smoothly this morning, and nothing was going to spoil her good mood. Not even this Redmond Malone guy, who had insisted on reporting Bill’s accident.
Bill already had acquired so many points that another ticket might tip the balance. They might take his license away. And though all Bill’s friends worked hard to keep him from getting behind the wheel, they knew losing the license would badly damage his self-esteem. His wife’s death last Christmas had hit him hard, and he desperately needed to pretend he was still completely independent.
But what was done was done. She couldn’t undo it by being rude to Redmond Malone. Yesterday, he’d been the problem. Today, he was merely another customer.
As she approached eleven, Sarge Barker was returning from the restroom, whistling. She’d heard him announce earlier that he’d won the Fantasy Five last night. A whopping six bucks, but money didn’t mean much to a millionaire. He simply liked winning.
She had barely set the tray down when the old man scooped her into his arms and danced her around the table.
“Sarge!” she protested, laughing, but he was almost as burly now as when he’d been in the army fifty years ago, a fact he broadcasted proudly while he loosened his belt after every meal. She couldn’t pull away without making a scene. “You’re going to get me fired.”
“So, what? You’re too good for this place.” Sarge tried to get a quickstep going, but he had two left feet and it ended up a terrible galumphing mess. They barely avoided crashing into the chairs. “Marry me, and we’ll dance into the sunset together.”
“Sarge…”
But the rest of the Old Coot Club were clapping now, egging him on. Damn it. It had probably gone on only fifteen seconds, but that was an eternity for something this inappropriate. She was going to have to get tough.
Hoping she didn’t throw off Sarge, who had an impressive spare tire that clearly redistributed his center of gravity, she suddenly ducked under his arms and moved backward fast to free herself.
He must have thought she was falling, because he reached out and tried to grab her shoulder. His hand caught her left breast instead. He yanked it back as if he’d touched a hot stove, and immediately lost his footing, plopping onto the table, scarcely missing the tines of a fork.
Equally startled, she took two more awkward steps backward, tangling her feet. Her rear end hit the small folding table on which she’d rested the tray, and before she could even think about righting herself, everything toppled over with a crash.
She landed in the prawns, with a broken glass of iced tea pooling in her lap, freezing her thighs. Sarge cried out, and, in a very stupid move, decided to rush over to help. He slipped on something, maybe a piece of bread slathered in mayonnaise, and landed in a heap at her feet.
Well, of course. Nothing by half measures.
Though her tailbone hurt, her hand was stinging, her dress was soaked and she was downright mortified, she suddenly had the strangest urge to laugh. Apparently, if you went far enough beyond awful, you reached ridiculous.
“Are you all right?”
She looked up. Redmond Malone squatted beside her, looking her over with an expression she couldn’t quite interpret. She wondered whether he, too, might be trying not to laugh.
“I’m fine,” she said, hoping she didn’t have any parsley in her hair. She plucked ice off her skirt and plunked it into one of the unbroken glasses. “We’ve almost got it, don’t you think? Next stop…Dancing with the Stars.”
“Well.” He gathered the largest chunks of glass and set them on the tray carefully. “You might want to work on the dismount.”
“Allie! I’m so sorry, honey.” The others had helped Sarge to his feet, and he held out a hand to help Allison up. Unfortunately, it was covered in mayonnaise. “Bring Flip out here. I’ll explain that it wasn’t your fault.”
She didn’t want to hurt the old guy’s feelings, but if she took Sarge’s slippery hand, she’d end up right back on her rear end. She glanced around for something more stable to hold on to.
Redmond, who still squatted only inches away, didn’t waste any time. He placed the last shard of glass in a safe place, then turned to her and held out both his hands. She glanced at those shoulders, then down at the lean, strong thighs. He could definitely support her. She put her hands in his.
She didn’t even have to use her own strength. In one fluid motion she was on her feet, tilting ever so slightly toward that soft black T-shirt. She got close enough to tell that he didn’t wear cologne and smelled only of fresh cotton and soap and something they ought to bottle and call Raw Sex Appeal.
Then, because she had a highly evolved sense of self-preservation, she held her breath and angled her head away from him. What the hell was she doing smelling this stranger’s T-shirt?
For that matter, why was she standing here at all, staring into his electric blue eyes, like a deer frozen before an oncoming car? She had things to do. She had to get a redo on that order into the kitchen, stat. She had to get the floor cleaned up, new drinks delivered.
She glanced down, and to her horror she realized she was still holding the man’s hands, as if she still hadn’t quite found her equilibrium. She pulled her fingers free and rubbed them nervously on her damp skirt. “Thanks,” she said. “I—”
“Gotcha covered, girlfriend.” Sue winked as she and Moira joined the crowd. Within seconds the two of them had efficiently cleared the food off the floor and carted it away. Teddy, the busboy, headed toward them with a mop.
The Old Coots Club had mobilized, too, and brought their silverware and salad plates to order. They clustered around her, fussing over her wet skirt, making sure the broken shards hadn’t cut her hand.
“I’ll make it right, Allie.” Sarge had washed his hands somehow, probably in his water glass. He put his arm around her shoulder. “I’ll talk to Flip and make sure he doesn’t dock you for the food. Don’t you worry.”
“I’m not worried,” she said honestly. Flip wasn’t here today, but he’d believe her version of the story. He knew what the Old Coots were like. Now and then, they’d break into a barbershop quartet version of some sad old song, like “Apple Blossom Time,” or “Sixteen Tons,” which would enchant the other customers, at least until Dickey O’Connor started crying. And last week Bill and Stuart Phipps had brawled up one end of the café and down the other, all because Bill had insulted Elizabeth Taylor.
Flip said they were like a free floor show. Plus, they were great customers. Every one of them an eccentric, well-to-do widower who hated eating alone at home. Mostly, though, Flip put up with them because, like everyone else who lived year-round in Windsor Beach, he loved the goofy old guys.
“Hey. Allie. Over here.” For some reason, Dickey O’Connor was talking out of one side of his mouth. Only five feet tall, and a hundred pounds soaking wet, he was a wonderful storyteller, but he was a little too fond of drama. He frequently created cloak-and-dagger mysteries out of thin air.
Maybe he was going to warn her that her fall had been orchestrated by the evil conspirators of Shadowland. But she’d play along. Dickey was probably the closest of all the Old Coots to a nursing home, though it broke her heart to think of it.
“Psst. Allie.”
She glanced once at Redmond, who seemed to be watching the whole thing with a strangely analytical interest, as if he were an anthropologist studying some indigenous tribe. Then she joined Dickey at the side of the table.
“Here, honey,” he said under his breath, sounding more like a gangster than the honest, retired Irish boat-builder he was. He had something hidden in his hand, which he held stiffly at his side. He gestured jerkily, trying to get her attention. “Here.”
She put her own hand out, low and sneaky, as obviously was required.
He nodded, satisfied. “You don’t need anything from Sarge,” he said. “This’ll make it right.” He flicked his hand and dropped something in hers. Then, laying one finger aside his nose, he glided smoothly away, pretending it hadn’t happened.
She turned her back to him, and opened her hand. Glittering against her palm was a very large, very beautiful, but very fake diamond. Oh, Dickey.
Sighing hard, she clamped her fingers shut over her palm, then slid the diamond into her pocket. As if she didn’t have enough to do…
She felt suddenly prickly, as though someone were staring at her. She glanced up. Redmond was only a few feet away, watching her intently. The expression on his face had changed dramatically in the past few minutes.
His eyes were cold. His mouth, which had looked quite nice in a smile, was tight, utterly unyielding. He flicked a glance at her pocket, then returned his gaze to her face without blinking.
She tilted her head, confused.
In response, he casually tossed some bills on the table. “Sorry,” he said. He smiled, but his voice was cool under the surface friendliness. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay after all.”
Then he turned and walked away. Within seconds he had simply exited the restaurant without ordering a single thing.
What on earth?
For a minute, the strange attitude stung her. She stared stupidly at the door. Had he received a call…some emergency? No…his attitude had felt almost hostile. And oddly personal.
Had he watched the weird interlude with Dickey? Did he think she was doing something criminal? Or was simply greedy? Her cheeks flushed. Was he daring to pass judgment on her for accepting the diamond?
What the hell did he know about Dickey, about her…about anything?
Then she forced herself to turn away, brushing the feeling aside. Redmond Malone was nothing to her. A total stranger. A stranger she didn’t even like very much. The fact that he had an overabundance of sex appeal only made him that much less desirable, at least in her life.
So good riddance, Mr. Mercedes. She wouldn’t waste another minute worrying about it. As a single mother, she’d fought too long and too hard to get where she was today. She’d had to eliminate old, deeply ingrained patterns. To keep herself focused, she’d created a both a Do list and a Don’t list.
The Do list included saving money, working hard, keeping a positive attitude, opening her restaurant. Creating a good, secure life for her little boy.
The Don’t list was simpler still.
Men.
CHAPTER THREE
RED KNEW HER HOME ADDRESS, of course. Lewis had provided it in the packet of contracts and other legal odds and ends. It was a small second-floor apartment in a white concrete block building. Nice porch from which you might, if you were about ten feet tall, catch a postage stamp–size glimpse of the Pacific in the distance.
The landlord didn’t exactly kill himself with the yard care, letting a few rock gardens and one stringy hibiscus suffice as landscaping. But he seemed to keep up with the paint and repairs pretty well, which helped.
It wasn’t a crummy address, but of course it was on the “wrong” side of town, which meant not on the water. Windsor was a small pocket beach about an hour south of San Francisco, one of the few little towns that didn’t even try to be artsy. The low bluffs, sandy beach and warm water had originally attracted the retirees who wanted to be left alone, and now the old guys were constantly at war with the Chamber of Commerce, which wanted to attract more paying tourists.
Two categories of people lived in Windsor Beach year-round. One—those retired, relaxed rich people. And two—the housekeepers, waiters, shop owners and repairmen who facilitated their cushy existence. About twenty-five hundred people, all told.
Red had been waiting across the street for the past hour. He hoped Bill Longmire wouldn’t be stopping by tonight, but he’d bought all the extra coverage the rental agency offered, in case.
The western sky had taken on a deep pink tinge before Allison finally drove up in her Honda. As soon as she parked on the tiny asphalt driveway, he opened his own door and called her name.
She didn’t seem to hear him. She got out slowly, stuffing her sneakers into her purse and taking a minute to rub and flex her arches. She still had on her striped uniform. She must have worked all day. No wonder her feet hurt.
She put her purse on the hood, then crossed to the passenger side of the backseat and leaned in. Oh. Right. He really wasn’t thinking very clearly about this whole thing, was he? He’d forgotten she probably would have the baby with her.
Victor’s son. The birth certificate listed the baby’s name as Edward James York. Mother, Allison Rowena York. Father, a blank line.
As she pulled the lumpy bundle out of its car seat, Red steeled himself not to react. He’d been around enough kids to know it wasn’t likely he’d recognize Victor’s features in the face of a three-month-old. His brother Matt’s little girl was the spitting image of her mom, Belle. But that hadn’t happened until she was…maybe two. His friend David Gerard’s son, same thing. At three months, babies all still looked as if they’d been hastily molded out of Play-Doh.
He called her name again, and she turned, tucking the baby’s blanket under her chin so that she could see. What was left of the fading light was right behind him, and she squinted, trying to make him out.
After a fraction of a second, she stiffened. He’d expected that. If he had asked for her phone number while she was serving him a sandwich at the café, she might have refused to give it, but she wouldn’t have been freaked out. Probably happened to her all the time.
But a customer showing up out of nowhere, clearly having tracked her to her home…that was stalker territory. He had decided to risk it because he suspected she wouldn’t agree to talk to him if she knew who he was. Still, he hoped she didn’t have pepper spray and an impulsive trigger finger.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you privately. I’m Red Malone. I’m the guy who—”
“I know who you are.” Frowning, she pressed the bundle of baby closer to her chest. The kid whimpered, as if she held on too tightly. “What do you want? Is it about Bill?”
“No.” He smiled. “No, our insurance companies are handling that fine. My car’s already been towed to San Francisco and put on the lift. I’m actually here about something else.”
“Really?” She still looked suspicious. “What?”
He glanced around. The street wasn’t exactly crowded, but the April weather was balmy, the kind that made people open all the windows to let the breeze blow through. Anyone could be listening. “It is personal. Is there somewhere we might talk privately?”
Her eyebrows drove together, and she took a step backward. She clearly thought that was pushy as hell.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Malone. I’m not sure how you got my address, or what you think we have to talk about. But I don’t know you. I certainly am not going to invite you into my home.”
“Please, call me Red,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know it seems strange, but I promise you I’m not some creep who followed you home from the café. I’m here on behalf of a mutual friend. It’s important.”
At that her eyes widened. The setting sun lit their honey-brown depths. It also pinked her freckled cheeks and full lips. The effect was amazing, and he felt a purely male reaction that he clamped down on instantly. Panting like a pervert wouldn’t be at all helpful in the I-am-not-a-creep department.
“A mutual friend?” Her voice sounded tight, as if her breathing had accelerated. Her nostrils flared subtly. It looked a little like anger. He wondered who she thought he meant. Was it possible she’d already begun to suspect the truth?
The baby began to fuss and wriggle, as if he reacted to his mother’s emotions. She dropped a kiss on top of the blanket to soothe him, then looked at Red. “What are you talking about? What mutual friend?”
Okay, moment of truth. He met her gaze squarely. “Victor Wigham.”
She lifted her chin, but not before he saw the contempt that flickered behind her eyes. “Victor Wigham is not my friend.”
“Okay. That might be the wrong word.” Red tried to remember that he’d been chosen for this task because he supposedly understood how to be diplomatic. “But, as I understand it, he was the father of your child.”
She didn’t even blink. “And since that fact doesn’t seem to interest Victor in the least, I’m afraid I don’t see how it could possibly interest you, either, Mr. Malone.”
Red hesitated. She was using present tense when she mentioned Victor, just as he sometimes found himself doing. But why? He was struggling with grief, but clearly she had no affection for the man who had fathered her child.
Which had to mean…she didn’t realize Victor had died.
Hell. That complicated things. For some reason, he’d taken it for granted that she knew. But how? The Wighams owned a vacation house here in Windsor Beach, but they kept it rented out, so they wouldn’t be considered locals. His obituary wouldn’t even have made it into the back pages of the Windsor Beach Bulletin.
