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“But at least I don’t have to spend the night in jail. I couldn’t have done that.” She shuddered. “I don’t even have any moisturizer in my purse!”
Dylan just refrained from rolling his eyes. He noticed Andrew was trying hard to avoid his gaze. “Maybe you should think of that next time before you start barroom fights,” his brother suggested mildly.
“I won’t be starting any more fights. You can be sure of that. I never want to walk into the Lizard again.”
“Good idea. I can’t guarantee you’re not going to serve any jail time for this. Felony assault is a very serious charge, Ms. Beaumont.”
To Dylan, this seemed like a lot of wasted energy over a couple of punches.
“I know.”
“Your father says he can give you a ride home.”
She looked through the glass doors to where Mayor Beaumont waited, all but tapping his foot with impatience. “Do I have to go with him?” she asked, her voice small.
“No law says you do.”
“Can’t you give me a ride to my car? I’m parked behind the bar.”
Did she really think her attorney’s obligation extended to giving his clients rides after a night in the slammer? And why was she so antagonistic toward her family? It didn’t make sense to him. Seemed to him, the Beaumonts were the sort who tended to stick together. Just them against the poor, the hungry, the huddled masses.
“How much did you have to drink tonight? Maybe you’d better catch a ride all the way.”
“Three—no, three and a half—mojitos. But that was hours ago. If you want the truth, I’m feeling more sober than I ever have in my life.”
He had a feeling she would want nothing so much as a stiff drink if she could see herself right now, her hair a mess, dried blood on her cheek from the cut, her sweater fraying at the shoulder where the district attorney must have grabbed a handful.
“Maybe you’d be better off catching a ride with your father.”
“Would you want your father to give you a ride home from the police station right now?” she demanded of Dylan. When he didn’t answer, she nodded. “That’s what I thought. I won’t drive, then. You can just give me a ride to my grandmother’s house. Either that or I’ll sneak out the back and walk.”
Andrew sighed. “I’ll take you to your grandmother’s house. I have to drop my idiot brother off, too. But you can’t just ditch your father. You have to go out there and tell him.”
So much for his puppy-saving lawyer brother. Now she looked at Andrew as if he were making her pull the wings off butterflies. Dylan didn’t have a whole lot of sympathy for her. Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time, sister.
“Fine,” she said and tromped out of the room in sexy boots that had somehow lost a heel in the ruckus.
The minute she left, Andrew turned on him. “Gen Beaumont. Seriously? I do believe you’ve hit a personal low.”
“Knock it off,” he growled. Funny. While he might have said—at least thought—the same thing, he didn’t like the derision in his brother’s voice when he said her name.
“What were you thinking, messing with Gen Beaumont?”
“I was not messing with her.” He didn’t want to defend himself, but he also didn’t want to listen to his brother dis her, for reasons he wasn’t quite ready to explore.
“Yeah, I should have stepped back. It was stupid to get involved, but I could see that if I didn’t, somebody would end up seriously hurt. Probably her.”
“She’s a walking disaster. You know that, right? From what I hear, she’s been leaving a swath of credit-card receipts across Europe, embroiled in one financial mess after another.”
His family was going to make him crazy. For months they had been nagging him to get out of his house in Snowflake Canyon, to socialize a little more, maybe think about talking to somebody once in a while besides his black-and-tan hound dog. But the minute he ventured into social waters, they felt compelled to yank him back as though he were a three-year-old about to head into a school of barracudas.
“Relax, would you? I’m not going to get tangled up with her. I know just what Genevieve Beaumont is—a stuck-up snob with more fashion sense than brains, who wouldn’t be caught dead in public with someone like me. Someone less than perfect.”
He heard a small, strangled sound behind him and Andrew’s expression shifted from skepticism to rueful dismay. Dylan didn’t need to look around to realize Gen must have overheard.
Shoot.
He turned, more than a little amazed at the urge to apologize to her.
“Gen.”
She lifted her slim, perfect nose a little higher. “I’m ready to go whenever you are. I finally persuaded my father I didn’t need a ride,” she said to Andrew before turning a cool look in Dylan’s direction. “I’ll wait by the door. That way I don’t have to be around someone like you any longer than necessary.”
With one last disdainful glance she picked up her purse and her Dior coat and walked back out of the office with her spine straight and her head up.
“There you go. See?” Dylan said after she had left, shoving down the ridiculous urge to chase after her and apologize. “Nothing to worry about. Now she won’t be speaking to me anyway.”
“And isn’t that going to make for a fun ride home?” Andrew muttered, shrugging into his own coat.
* * *
SHE REFUSED TO look at Dylan Caine as his brother drove through the dark, snowy streets of Hope’s Crossing. Since Thanksgiving had come and gone, apparently everybody was in a festive mood. Just about every house had some kind of light display, from the single-strand, single-color window wrap to a more elaborate blinking show that was probably choreographed to music.
“I’m living in my grandmother’s house,” she reminded Andrew from her spot in the second row of his big SUV that had a Disneyland sticker in the back window and smelled of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
“Got it.”
“You know where that is?”
“Everybody knows where Pearl lived.”
Genevieve looked out the window as they passed a house with an inflatable snow globe on the lawn featuring penguins and elves apparently hanging out in some kind of wintry playground. She thought it hideous but Grandma Pearl would have loved that kind of thing. She felt a pang of sorrow for the woman who had taught her to sew and could curse like a teamster, especially when she knew it would irritate her only son.
Gen had flown home for her funeral in April, wishing the whole time that she had taken time to call her grandmother once in a while.
Grandma Pearl’s house squatted near the mouth of Snowflake Canyon on a wooded lot that drew mule deer out of the mountains. It was just as ugly as she remembered, a personality-less rambler covered in nondescript tan siding.
“You have the key?” Dylan asked.
“Yes,” she answered, just as curtly.
He opened his door on the passenger side of the front seat. “You don’t have to get out,” she said quickly. “I don’t want to be seen with you, remember?”
He ignored her and climbed out of the SUV and held her door open in a gesture that seemed completely uncharacteristic. She thought about being childish and sliding out the other side, but she figured she had already filled her Acts of Stupidity quota for the day.
Aware of his brother waiting in the car, she marched up the sidewalk to the front door, where she at least had had the foresight to leave a porch light burning before leaving for the bar.
“I’m good. Thanks. You can go now.”
“Genevieve. I’m sorry you heard that.”
“But not sorry you said it.”
“That, too,” he said.
She still burned with humiliation, though she wasn’t sure why. Everyone saw her that way. Why did it bother her so much that he did, too?
“Forget it,” she said. “I have. Do you think I really care about your opinion of me? After tonight, we won’t have anything to do with each other. We don’t exactly move in the same social circles.”
“Praise the Lord,” he said in an impassioned undertone, and she almost smiled, until she remembered he despised her.
“Good night, Dylan.”
“Yeah. Next time, try to have a little self-restraint.”
She nodded and quickly unlocked the door, hurried inside and closed it shut behind her.
She had to will herself not to watch him walk back to his brother’s waiting vehicle. Instead, she forced herself to focus on the challenge ahead of her—the horrible green shag carpeting, dark-paneled walls, tiny windows.
She was so tired. Exhaustion pulled at her, and she felt as if her arms weighed about a hundred pounds each. Mental note: lingering jet lag and adrenaline crashes didn’t mix well.
She headed straight for the hideous pink bathroom and managed to wrestle her clothes off with those giant, tired arms then stepped into the shower.
At least she had hot water. Always a plus. Actually, the house had a few things going for it—decent bones and a fantastic location at the mouth of the canyon, to start. The half-acre lot alone was worth at least a couple hundred thousand. If she could transform the house into a decent condition, anything else would be a bonus.
She stood under the hot spray until the water finally ran out, then toweled off, changed into her favorite pair of silk pajamas and climbed into the bed, grateful for the sheets she had thought to bring down from her parents’ house.
She could do this. Yes, it was overwhelming, especially on an extremely limited budget. Difficult, but not impossible.
If she pulled this off, she might be able to leave Hope’s Crossing with a nice chunk of cash, at the very least, and maybe pick up a little hard-earned pride along the way.
She supposed it was too much to hope that she might even earn her family’s respect—or anything but contempt from a tough, hardened ex-soldier like Dylan Caine.
* * *
OVER THE WEEKEND, Dylan tried not to give Genevieve Beaumont much thought. He was surprised at how difficult he found that particular task.
He would think of her at the oddest times. While he cleared snow off his long, winding driveway in Snowflake Canyon with the thirty-year-old John Deere he had fixed up. While he went through the painstaking effort of chopping wood for the fireplace one-handed and carried it into the house—also one-handed. While he was sitting by said fire with a book on his lap and Tucker curled up at his feet.
Monday morning his cell phone rang early, yanking him out of a vaguely disturbing but undeniably heated dream of her wearing a demure, lacy veil that rippled down to a naughty porn-star version of a wedding gown made out of see-through lace.
His phone rang a second time while he was trying to clear that vaguely disturbing image out of his head.
“Yeah?” he growled.
“Cheerful this morning, aren’t we?” His father’s Ireland-sprinkled accent greeted him. “I suppose I might be a mite cranky, too, if I had spent my weekend on the wrong side of the law.”
Dermot made it sound as if his youngest son had been riding the range holding up trains and robbing banks. Dylan imagined his father viewed the transgressions the same.
“Not the whole weekend,” he answered, sitting up in bed and rubbing a little at the phantom pains in his arm. His now-narrowed world slowly came into focus. “Only Friday night. I spent the rest of the time shoveling snow. How about you?”
“You didn’t come to dinner last night.”
Dermot threw a grand Sunday dinner each week for any of Dylan’s six siblings who could make it and their families. The combined force of all those busybodies was more than he could usually stand.
“I came to dinner on Thanksgiving, didn’t I? I figured that would be sufficient. Anyway, it took me a couple hours to clear the snow and by then I figured you’d be eating dessert.”
“Nothing wrong with coming just for the dessert. It was a delicious one. Erin brought that candy-bar cake you like so much and we had leftover pie from Thanksgiving.”
His stomach rumbled at the mention of the signature recipe Andrew’s wife made. “Sorry I missed that.”
“She left a piece especially for you as she knows how you favor it. You can stop by the house when you’re in town next.”
That was an order, not really a suggestion, and Dylan made a face he was quite glad his pop couldn’t see.
“I’m to give you an important message from your brother.”
“Which one? I have a fair few.”
“Andrew. He tried to call you earlier but couldn’t get through. He said the call went straight to your voice mail, and he left orders for me to try again.”
Dylan hadn’t heard his phone but sometimes the cell-tower coverage up here could be sketchy. He checked his call log and saw he had three voice-mail messages, no doubt from Andrew.
“What’s the message?”
“You’re to meet him at the district attorney’s office at noon. Don’t be late and wear a tie if you can find one.”
Now, that sounded ominous. He had always hated dressing up, something Pop and all five of his brothers knew. A lifelong healthy dislike had become infinitely more intense over the past year.
“A tie.” Another of his many nemeses. He defied anybody to knot a damn Windsor one-handed.
“Do you have one?” Dermot asked when he didn’t respond. “If you don’t, I can run one of mine up to you.”
“I can find one. You don’t need to drive all the way up here.” He didn’t know whether to be touched or guilty that his father was willing to leave the Center of Hope Cafе during the breakfast rush to bring his helpless son a necktie.
“Did Andrew tell you why I’m supposed to meet him wearing a tie?”
“Nary a word. All I know is he was heading into court and ordered me to make sure I personally delivered the message. If you didn’t answer your phone this morning, I was under orders to drive up Snowflake Canyon to drag you down. You’ll be there, right?”
“I’m not five years old, Pop. I’ll be there.”
A guy might have thought multiple tours in Afghanistan would be enough to convince his family he could take care of himself.
Then again, since he had come home half-dead, they could possibly have room for doubt.
“See that you are,” Dermot said. He paused for a moment, long enough for Dylan to accurately predict a lecture coming on.
“I’m disappointed in you, son. Surely you know better than to find yourself in a fight at a place like The Speckled Lizard, no matter the provocation.”
