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She gave a slight shake of her head, then came to stand at the table, her hands gripping one of the ladder-back chairs. He figured her goal was to look as if she was casually resting her hands, but her fingers were clenched so tightly that the knuckles turned white. Why so nervous? He wasn’t likely to throw her to the floor and have his way with her, not when it meant burning the lasagna. Force wasn’t his style. Persuasion was way too much fun.
But maybe force had been someone else’s style. Maybe that was why she was cautious and evasive.
But it wasn’t his business, remember?
He got two bottles of water from the refrigerator, then set the table. As the timer went off, he pulled the lasagna from the oven and stuck the foil-wrapped bread inside, then asked, “What’s your book about?”
She’d been looking out the window. Now her gaze jerked back to him. “My…my book?”
“The one you’re writing. The one that’s set here in Oklahoma. What is it about?”
“Oh…well…” Her fingers tightened even more around the chair back. “It’s…it’s a love story.”
“Most romance novels are, aren’t they?” he asked dryly.
“Yeah. Of course.”
Using insulated mitts, he carried the lasagna pan to the table, then returned with the bread. After he slid into the nearest seat, she slowly pulled out the chair she’d had a death grip on and sat. He waited until they’d served themselves, then gave her time to take a bite before asking, “So? What’s it about?”
“It’s about…” When she looked up, her face was warm but her eyes were cool and her full lips had flattened into an aloof line. “I’m really not comfortable discussing it. If I tell people the story in detail, then there’s not much purpose in writing it—is there?—because I’ve already told it.”
He wasn’t asking for a scene-by-scene description. A general overview would have been fine, something like “a story of a spoiled Southern belle during and after the Civil War” for Gone With the Wind. He didn’t need names, subplots or even the highlights.
“Do you publish your books under your own name?”
This time she didn’t look at him, but kept her gaze focused on the plate in front of her. “No, I don’t. You were right—this is excellent lasagna. Is it an old family recipe?”
“Someone’s old family, but not ours. Mom came across it years ago, made a few changes and has been fixing it ever since.” Just as bluntly as she’d changed the subject, he changed it back. “What’s your…aw, hell, I can’t think of the word. Your alias?”
For a moment he thought she might laugh, but the twitch at the corners of her mouth faded. “Alias?”
“You know, your fake name. Cassidy McRae aka what? Jeez, don’t you ever look at Wanted posters?”
“No, I can’t honestly say that I do.” She paused. “Do you?”
“I used to. A lot.”
“Looking for anyone in particular?”
“Not for pictures of myself, if that’s what you’re thinking. Trust me, if I was wanted by the cops, Reese would turn me in so fast I wouldn’t know what hit me.”
“Your own cousin?”
“He’s a cop first, my cousin second.” That wasn’t entirely true. Reese would never break the law, but he would bend it a little if circumstances warranted it. Sometimes that was the only way to see justice done.
“Then what’s your interest in Wanted posters?”
He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t particularly want to admit that he’d been a cop himself. With his luck, she would probably have a lot of questions he wouldn’t want to answer. The few writers he’d met in the past, mostly reporters, were filled with them. “Curiosity,” he said with a shrug. “I watch America’s Most Wanted, too.” Once again he abruptly shifted direction. “You never told me what your alias—”
“Pen name.”
“—is.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Maybe I want to pick up a couple of your books and see what they’re like.”
“They’re very hard to find. Most of them are out of print.”
“Then you could loan me some copies.”
Her smile was quick and uneasy. “I don’t have any. Sorry.”
“Oh, come on…you don’t have a single copy of your own books?”
“Well, of course I have some, but not with me. They’re back home in my office in San Diego.”
“Lemon Grove,” he corrected.
She grimaced. “Hey, it’s all one big city.”
“And they’re in storage, with the rest of your office.”
Her face turned almost as red as the sweet tomato sauce that oozed between the layers of noodles. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Everything’s in storage.”
His back was itching again. He shifted in his chair, rubbing against the spindles. If he checked Directory Assistance for Lemon Grove, California, would he find a listing for Cassidy McRae? Instinct said no, but that wouldn’t mean anything. Most women who lived alone in big cities had unlisted numbers. But if one of his cop buddies checked the utilities and didn’t find a recent account in her name…
It would prove she’d lied about where she lived. So what? She was an author, and no doubt had fans. For some people it was a short step from fan to stalker. If some stranger was buying his book and thought he was making some sort of connection, he would want personal information such as where he lived kept private, too.
As he pushed his plate away, he slumped back in the chair and fixed his gaze on her. “You’re not married.”
She shook her head.
“Any kids?”
“No.” That was accompanied by a faint regret. It wasn’t as if it was too late. She couldn’t be more than thirty, thirty-two. She still had time to bring a dozen or more kids into the world before Mother Nature said no more.
“Family?”
Her smile was faint. “Don’t have one.”
“No parents, brothers or sisters?”
She shook her head again. “No aunts, uncles, cousins or grandparents, either. I’m an only child from a long line of only children.”
“No family. Jeez.” Then… “Want some of mine?”
She pushed her plate away, too, having cleaned it. “Your parents live outside Buffalo Plains, your cousin is the local sheriff, and your cousin four times removed sells real estate around here. Who else is there?”
“Reese’s folks live in town. My mom’s parents are about forty miles from here, and her two brothers and three sisters all live within an hour or so. There are a lot of cousins, some great-aunts and -uncles, some in-laws and out-laws. Last time the family got together, there were about seventy of us.”
“That’s nice.”
It was nicer when he lived in another state and didn’t see them that often, he was about to retort but stopped himself. There was something wrong with complaining about too much family to a woman who didn’t have any. Instead he agreed—more or less. “Yeah. It can be.”
“Are you married?”
“Nope. Never have been.”
“Ever come close?”
He thought of Amanda and the diamond ring he’d been considering for a Valentine’s Day surprise. The few people he kept in touch with in Kansas City never volunteered any news about her and he never asked. “Nope.” It wasn’t a complete lie. They hadn’t been nearly as close to a lifetime commitment as he’d thought.
“Any kids?”
“Not without being married first, or my mother would tan my hide.”
“That’s an old-fashioned outlook.”
“She’s an old-fashioned mother.” He thought about digging up another question, then stuck to the subject. “She believes parents should be married before they start having children, that honesty comes first in a relationship, and that marriage shouldn’t be entered into lightly. You don’t have to stay in a bad marriage, but you damn well have to do everything you can to keep it from going bad.”
What if he had married Amanda? What if politics hadn’t derailed his career or had done so six months after the wedding? Just how bad could that marriage have gotten? Very bad, he suspected. Bitter-divorce-and-protective-orders bad. His mother would have been incredibly disappointed in him for making such a lousy choice.
So one good thing had come out of the mess. Amanda had saved him the hassle of a divorce down the road and spared him Rozena’s disappointment.
“Your mother’s a smart woman.” Cassidy slid her chair back, then held out her hand for his dishes. Stacking them with her own, she carried them into the kitchen.
He followed with the lasagna pan. “How long does it take you to write a book?”
“It varies.” She turned on the water in the sink, waited for it to heat, then put in the stopper and squirted in dish soap.
“Give me a ballpark figure. A week? A month? A year?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes three months, sometimes six, sometimes longer. Some days I want to tell the story. Other days, I can’t force myself to get within ten feet of the computer.”
“Did you always want to be a writer?”
“Not really.”
“How long have you been doing it?”
“A few years.”
Just like her earlier answer that she’d sold a few books. He’d pinned her down to a number then, and sometime he might pin her down on this, but not now. Instead he put the last square of lasagna in the refrigerator and took out the pie and a tub of whipped cream. “Where do you get your ideas?”
She scowled at him over her shoulder before turning her attention back to the dishes. If she scrubbed that plate any harder, she was going to take the pattern right off of it, he thought, and wondered why she was so tense. “They come to me in my sleep,” she said, clearly annoyed.
Another evasion, if not an outright lie. He was beginning to think “evasion” was Cassidy McRae’s middle name.
Too bad he was no longer in the business of finding out why.
Chapter 3
She had regrets—a lot of them. More than any ninety year old who’d squandered her life should be burdened by on her deathbed, and she was nowhere near ninety. Looking into his amazingly handsome face, with his sharp black eyes, his straight nose, his stubborn jaw and his full, sensuous, sensitive-looking mouth, and lying through her teeth to him was only the most recent in a long string of regrets.
He believed in honesty between a man and a woman—had said so in no uncertain terms, and yet she had lied to him.
And all the regrets in all the world wouldn’t stop her from doing it again.
Cassidy directed her sharpest scowl at herself. She didn’t regret lying to Jace any more than she regretted lying to anyone. There was nothing special about him, nothing that separated him from the countless people she had deceived in the past.
Except for the fact that he was handsome as sin.
And more tempting than chocolate.
She hadn’t looked twice at a man in thirty-five-and-a-half months— No, that wasn’t true. She looked two and three and four times, searching faces, praying she didn’t see any particular face. She looked at men as a potential threat to her freedom, her safety, her very life.
Jace was the first one she’d looked at as just a man. Someone to be attracted to. Someone to share a meal with. Someone to stir her long-sleeping hormones back to life.
Someone she couldn’t even think about getting involved with. He had that honesty thing going for him. She had a million lies and counting. He belonged here, with his family all around. She didn’t belong anywhere. He was an easy-going, unsophisticated part-time cowboy. She was a woman for whom people would kill.
All those things were among her regrets.
And hopefully, when she left here, Jace Barnett wouldn’t be.
Avoiding him would be the best way to prevent that. No matter that he was handsome and friendly and his mother made the best strawberry pie she’d ever had. No matter that she had been—to borrow a line from Hank Williams—so lonesome she could cry. She needed to stay away from him. He asked too many questions and she didn’t have the right answers. He was suspicious of her—she had seen it in his eyes yesterday at lunch. Maybe he wouldn’t do anything with his suspicions.
Or maybe he would.
The hell of it was, it was her own fault. All she’d wanted was a little time to do nothing. Peace and quiet in a place where she wouldn’t have to worry about fitting in, having friends or meeting enemies. She’d wanted to be as alone in her private little world as she was in the world at large.
She shouldn’t have lied to Paulette Fox, but the woman had been so damn nosy, wanting to know why Cassidy had chosen Buffalo Plains, refusing to believe that anyone would come to the shores of little Buffalo Lake for a vacation. After all, the lake offered no amenities beyond a few picnic tables. There was no resort, no place to rent a boat or Jet Ski, no charmingly quaint vacation cottages, not even a convenience store for a quick run. The only cabin for rent had no telephone and lousy television reception and depended on a window air conditioner to keep it cool.
You can tell me, honey, the woman had wheedled with a gleam in her eyes and a confidential air. What are you really here for?
Cassidy had thought of the paperback in her purse and the lie had found its way out before she’d even thought about it. I’m a writer. I’m looking for a quiet place to finish my book.
It wasn’t the first time she’d lied and wouldn’t be the last. Besides, how hard could masquerading as a writer be? It wasn’t as if she needed a degree to hang on her wall. She skimmed the author biographies in every book she read—and for the past few years that number was in the hundreds. There were doctors, teachers and lawyers writing, sure, but there were also housewives and mothers and high-school graduates.
And what did a writer do? She sat around dreaming up stories, then put them on paper. Cassidy sat around dreaming up stories—that sounded so much better than making up lies—and she could pretend to put them on paper. In fact, she’d decided to actually try her hand at writing. Lord knew, she had a story to tell.
There was just one small problem—at least, it had started out small. It seemed to get bigger with each passing day.
What she didn’t know about being a writer would…well, would fill a book.
And Jace was reaching that conclusion, too, if he hadn’t already.
Suddenly too antsy to sit still, she exited the Free Cell game, then stood and stretched before grabbing her car keys and purse. She needed a few groceries—she never wanted to eat another ham sandwich as long as she lived—and she could certainly benefit from some fresh air and a change of scenery.
