Remember When

3.

"What am I doing? This isn't something I do."

Jenny peered over Laine's shoulder at their dual reflections in the bathroom mirror. "You're going to have a drink with a great-looking man. Why that isn't something you do is best discussed with a therapist."

"I don't even know who he is." Laine set down the lipstick she held before applying it. "I hit on him, Jen. For God's sake, I hit on him in my own shop."

"A woman can't hit on a sexy guy in her own shop, where can she? Use the lipstick." She glanced down to where Henry was thumping his tail. "See, Henry agrees with me."

"I should just call the inn, leave a message for him, tell him something came up."

"Laine, you're breaking my heart." She picked up the lipstick. "Paint," she ordered.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into closing a half hour early. I can't believe how easy it was for you to talk me into it. Coming home to change—it looks obvious, doesn't it?"

"What's wrong with obvious?"

"I don't know." Laine used the lipstick, studied the tube. "I'm not thinking straight. It was that moment, that ka-boom moment. I just wanted to yank off his shirt and bite his neck."

"Well, go to it, honey."

With a laugh, Laine turned around. "I'm not following through. A drink, okay. It'd be rude not to show up, wouldn't it? Yes, it would be rude. But that's it. After that, common sense will once more rule the day, and I'll come home and close the door on this very strange interlude."

She held her arms out. "How do I look? Okay?"

"Better."

"Better than okay is good. I should go."

"Go ahead. I'll put Henry out in the mudroom. You don't want to smell like dog. I'll lock up for you."

"Thanks. Appreciate it. And the moral support. I feel like an idiot."

"If you decide to . . . extend the evening, just give me a call. I can come back and get Henry. We'll have a sleepover."

"Thanks again, but I'm not going to extend the evening. One drink. I figure an hour tops." She gave Jenny a light kiss on the cheek, then, risking eau de Henry, bent down to kiss the dog's snout. "See you tomorrow," she called as she dashed for the stairs.

It had been silly to drive all the way home just to drive back to town, but she was glad she'd been silly. Though even Jenny hadn't been able to talk her into slipping into a little black dress—talk about obvious—she felt more polished out of her work clothes. The soft sweater in forest green was a good color, and just casual enough not to send the wrong signal.

She had no idea what sort of signal she wanted to send. Yet.

There was a little bubble of panic when she walked into the hotel. They hadn't actually confirmed they were meeting for drinks. It had all been so off the cuff, and so out of character for her. What if he didn't show or, worse, happened into the bar while she was waiting and looked surprised—chagrined—annoyed?

And if she was this nervous about something as simple as a drink in a classy, public bar, she'd definitely let her dating tools rust.

She stepped in through etched-glass doors and smiled at the woman working behind the black oak bar.

"Hi, Jackie."

"Hey, Laine. What can I get you?"

"Nothing yet." She scanned the dimly lit room, the plush red sofas and chairs. A few businessmen, two couples, a trio of women starting a girls' night out with a fancy drink. But no Max Gannon.

She chose a table where she wouldn't actually face the door but could observe it. She started to pick up the bar menu just to do something with her hands, then decided it might make her look bored. Or hungry. God.

Instead, she took out her cell and used it to check for messages on her home answering machine. There weren't any, of course, since she'd only walked out the door twenty minutes earlier. But there were two hangups, a couple minutes apart.

She was frowning over that when she heard him speak.

"Bad news?"

"No." Both flustered and pleased, she disconnected, then dropped the phone into her purse. "Nothing important."

"Am I late?"

"No. I'm irritatingly prompt." It surprised her that he sat beside her on the little sofa rather than across the table in the chair. "Habit."

"Did I mention you smell great?"

"Yes, you did. I never asked what you were doing in the Gap."

"Some business, which I've managed to extend a few more days. Due to local attractions."

"Really." She wasn't nervous anymore, and wondered why she had been. "We have a number of them. There are some wonderful trails through the mountains if you like to hike."

"Do you?" He brushed his fingers over the back of her hand. "Like to hike."

"I don't make much time for it. The store keeps me busy. And your business?"

"Fills the day," he said, and glanced up when the waitress stopped by their table.

"What can I get you?"

She was new, and not someone Laine recognized. "Bombay martini, straight up, two olives. Iced."

"That sounds perfect. Make it two. Did you grow up here?" he asked Laine.

"No, but I imagine it would be nice to grow up here. Small-town enough without being Mayberry, close enough to the city without being crowded. And I like the mountains."

She remembered this part of the first-date ritual. It hadn't been that long. "Do you still live in Savannah?"

"New York primarily, but I travel a lot."

"For?"

"Business, pleasure. Insurance, but don't worry, I'm not selling."

The waitress brought the glasses and shakers on a tray and poured the drinks at the table. She set down a silver bowl of sugared nuts, then slipped discreetly away.

Laine lifted hers, smiled over the rim. "To your mother."

"She'd like that." He tapped his glass to hers. "How'd you come to running an antique store?"

"I wanted a place of my own. I always liked old things, the continuity of them. I don't mind paperwork, but I didn't want to work in an office all day." Comfortable now, she settled back with her drink, shifting her body so they could continue the flirtatious eye contact along with the small talk. "I like buying and selling, and seeing what people buy and sell. So I put all that together and opened Remember When. What kind of insurance?"

"Corporate, mainly. Boring. Family in the area?"

Okay, she thought, doesn't want to talk about his work, particularly. "My parents live in New Mexico. They moved there several years ago."

"Brothers, sisters?"

"Only child. You?"

"I've got one of each. Two nephews and a niece out of them."

"That's nice," she said and meant it. "I always envy families, all the noise and traumas and companionship. Competition."

"We've got plenty of that. So, if you didn't grow up here, where did you?"

"We moved around a lot. My father's work."

"I hear that." He sampled a nut, kept it casual. "What does he do?"

"He . . . he was in sales." How else to describe it in polite company. "He could sell anything to anyone."

He caught it, the hint of pride in her voice, the contrast of the shadow in her eyes. "But not anymore?"

She didn't speak for a moment, using a sip of her drink as cover until she worked out her thoughts. Simple was best, she reminded herself. "My parents opened a little restaurant in Taos. A kind of working retirement. With work the main feature. And they're giddy as kids about it."

"You miss them."

"I do, but I didn't want what they wanted. So here I am. I love the Gap. It's my place. Do you have one?"

"Maybe. But I haven't found it yet."

The waitress stopped by. "Another round?"

Laine shook her head. "I'm driving."

He asked for the check, then took Laine's hand. "I made reservations in the dining room here, in case you changed your mind. Change your mind, Laine, and have dinner with me."

He had such wonderful eyes, and that warm bourbon-on-the-rocks voice she loved listening to. Where was the harm?

"All right. I'd love to."

***

He told himself it was business and pleasure and there was never anything wrong with combining the two as long as you remembered your priorities. He knew how to steer conversations, elicit information. And if he was interested in her on a personal level, it didn't interfere with the work.

It wouldn't interfere with the work.

He was no longer sure she was neck-deep. And his change of mind had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he was attracted to her. It just didn't play the way it should have. Her mother tucked up with husband number two in New Mexico, Laine tucked up in Maryland. And Big Jack nobody knew just where.

He couldn't see how they triangulated at this point. And he read people well, well enough to know she wasn't marking time with her shop. She loved it, and had forged genuine connections with the community.

But it didn't explain Willy's visit, or his death. It didn't explain why she'd made no mention of knowing him to the police. Not that innocent parties were always straight with the cops.

Weighing down the other side of the scale, she was careful to edit her background, and had a smooth way of blending her father and stepfather so the casual listener would assume they were the same man.

No mention of divorce when they spoke of family. And that told him she knew how to hide what she wanted to hide.

Though he regretted it, he pushed Willy's ghost into the conversation. "I heard about the accident right outside your place." Her knuckles, he noted, whitened for a moment on her spoon, but it was the only sign of internal distress before she continued to stir her after-dinner coffee.

"Yes, it was awful. He must not have seen the car—with the rain."

"He was in your shop?"

"Yes, right before. Just browsing. I barely spoke to him as I had several other customers, and Jenny, my full-time clerk, had the day off. It was nobody's fault. Just a terrible accident."

"He wasn't a local?"

She looked directly into his eyes. "He was never in my shop before. I suppose he might've come in just to get out of the rain for a few minutes. It was a nasty day."

"Tell me about it. I was driving in it. Seems I got into town only a couple hours after it happened. Heard different versions of it every place I stopped the rest of the day. In one of them, I think it was at the gas pump, he was an international jewel thief on the lam."

Her eyes softened with what he could only judge as affection. "International jewel thief," she murmured. "No, he certainly wasn't that. People say the oddest things, don't they?"

"I guess they do." For the first time since he'd taken the job, he believed that Laine Tavish aka Elaine O'Hara had absolutely no clue what her father, William Young and a so far unidentified third party had pulled off six weeks before.

He walked her out to her car and tried to think how he could, and might have to, use her as a lever. What he could tell her, and what he wouldn't if and when the time came.

It wasn't what he wanted to think about with the chill of the early spring evening blowing at her hair, sending her scent around him.

"Chilly yet," he commented.

"It can stay cool at night right up into June, or turn on a dime and bake you before May's out." He'd be gone before the nights grew warm. It would be smart to remember that. It would be sensible.

She was so damn tired of being sensible.

"I had a nice time. Thanks." She turned, slid her hands up his chest, linked them around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers.

That's what she wanted, and screw being sensible. She wanted that punch, that rush, that immediate flash in the blood that comes from a single dangerous act. She lived safe. The second half of her life had been nothing if not safe.

This was better. This hot and shocking clash of lips, of tongue, of teeth was better than safe. It pumped life into her, and made her remember what it was to just take.

How could she have forgotten what a thrill it was to leap and look later?

He'd known she'd surprise him. The minute he'd clamped eyes on her, he'd known. But he hadn't expected her to stagger him. It wasn't a come-on kiss, or a silky flirtation, but a full-on, sexual blast that rocked him back and shot the libido into overdrive.

One minute she had that compact and curvy body plastered to his like they were a couple of shipwreck survivors, then there was a little cat-in-cream purr in her throat and she was pulling away slowly—an elastic and endless move that he was too dazed to stop.

She rubbed her lips together. Sexy, wet lips. And smiled.

"Good night, Max."

"Hold it, hold it, hold it." He slapped a hand on her car door before she could open it. Then just left it there as he wasn't confident of his balance.

She was still smiling—soft lips, sleepy eyes. She had the power now, all of it, and they both knew it. How the hell had that happened?

"You're going to send me up there." He nodded toward the hotel, the general direction of his room. "Alone? That's just mean."

"I know." Her head angled a bit to the side as she studied him. "I don't want to, but I have to. That's just going to have to hold us both."

"Let's have breakfast. No, a midnight snack. Screw it, let's go have a brandy now."

She laughed. "You don't want a brandy."

"No. It was a thinly disguised euphemism for wild and crazy sex. Come inside, Laine." He ran a hand over her hair. "Where it's warm."

"I really, really can't, and it's a damn shame." She opened the car door, glancing over her shoulder, deliberately provocative, as she slid inside. "Henry's waiting for me."

His head snapped back as if she'd sucker punched him. "Whoa."

Suppressing a bubble of laughter, she slammed the door, waited just a beat, then rolled down the window. "Henry's my dog. Thanks for dinner, Max. Good night."

She was laughing as she drove away, and couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so alive. They'd be seeing each other again, she was absolutely sure of it. Then they'd see . . . well, what they'd see.

She turned the radio up to blast and sang along with Sheryl Crow as she drove, just a bit too fast. The recklessness felt good, a sexy fit. Lusty little chills danced over her skin as she bumped up her lane and parked in the secluded dark outside her house. There was a nice kicky breeze whisking along through the barely budded trees and a pretty half-moon that added its light to the old amber glass lantern she'd left glowing on the porch.

For a moment, she sat in the car, in the music and moonlight, and replayed every move and touch and taste of that brain-draining kiss.

Oh yeah, she was definitely going to get another taste of Max Gannon, transplanted Georgia boy with the tiger eyes.

She was still singing as she strolled up her path. She unlocked her front door, tossed her keys into their bowl, slid her cell phone into the recharger, then all but skipped into the living room.

The heady sexual buzz flipped into shock. Her couch was turned over, its cushions shredded. The cherry wood armoire she used as an entertainment center stood wide open, and empty. The trio of African violets she'd rooted from leaves and babied into lush plants had been dumped out of their pots, and the soil scattered. Tables had been overturned, drawers emptied, and framed prints she'd arranged on the walls were tossed on the floor.

For a moment she stood, frozen in the inertia of denial. Not possible. Not her house, not her things, not her world. She broke through it with a single thought.

"Henry!"

Terrified, she bolted for the kitchen, ignoring the debris of her possessions that littered the hall, the mess of glassware and staples that covered the kitchen floor.

Tears of relief stung her eyes as she heard the frantic answering barks as she charged toward the mudroom door. The instant she flung open the door she was covered by trembling, frightened dog. She went down with him, her shoes skidding on spilled sugar, to clutch him against her as he struggled to crawl into her lap.

They were all right, she told herself over the frantic pounding of her heart. That's what mattered most. They were okay.

"They didn't hurt you. They didn't hurt you," she crooned to him while tears tracked down her cheeks, while she ran her hands over his fur to check for injuries. "Thank God they didn't hurt you."

He whimpered, then bathed her face as they tried to calm each other down.

"We have to call the police." Shivering herself, she pressed her face into his fur. "We're going to call the police, then see how bad it is."

***

It was bad. In the few hours she'd been gone, someone had come into her home, stolen her property and left a manic rubble in his wake. Small treasures broken, valuables gone, her personal things touched and examined then taken or discarded. It bruised her heart, shattered her sense of safety.

Then it just pissed her off.

She'd worked her way up to anger before Vince arrived. She preferred anger. There was something powerful about the rage that was building inside her, something more useful than her initial shock and fear.

"You're okay?" It was Vince's first question as he took her arms, gave them a quick, bolstering rub.

"I'm not hurt, if that's what you mean. They were gone before I got home. Henry was in the mudroom. He couldn't get out, so they left him alone. Jenny. I left Jenny here, Vince. If she'd still been here when—"

"She wasn't. She's fine. Let's deal with what is."

"You're right. Okay, you're right." She drew a deep breath. "I got home about ten-thirty. Unlocked the front door, walked in, saw the living room." She gestured.

"Door was locked?"

"Yes."

"Broken window here." He nodded to the front facing window. "Looks like that's how they got in. Got your stereo and components, I see."

"The television in the media room upstairs, the little portable I used in the kitchen. Jewelry. I've just taken an overview, but it looks like they took electronics and small valuables. I've got a couple of good Deco bronzes, several other nice pieces, but they left those. Some of the jewelry they took is the real deal, some of it junk." She shrugged.

"Cash?"

"A couple hundred that I kept in my desk drawer. Oh, and the computer I used here at home."

"Made a goddamn mess out of it, too. Who knew you'd be out tonight?"

"Jenny, the man I met for drinks—we ended up having dinner, too. He's at the Wayfarer. Max Gannon."

"Jenny said you just met him, in the shop."

Heat tingled its way up her neck. "It was just a drink and a meal, Vince."

"Just saying. We're going to go through everything. Bunch of cops tromping around in here, you might want to go to our place, stay the night."

"No, but thanks. I'll stick."

"Yeah. Jenny said you would." He gave her shoulder a pat with his big hand and walked to the door as he heard the radio car pull up. "We'll do what we do. You might want to start working up a list of what's missing."

She spent the time in the sitting room upstairs with Henry curled tight at her feet. She wrote down what she'd already seen was missing, answered questions as Vince or one of the other cops stopped in. She wanted coffee, but since what she'd stocked was on her kitchen floor, she settled for tea. And drank a potful.

She knew her feelings of violation, fear, anger were all classic reactions, just as the sheen of disbelief that kept layering over them. It wasn't that crime was nonexistent in the Gap. But this sort of break-in, the malicious destruction of it, certainly wasn't typical.

And to Laine, it seemed very, very personal.

It was after one in the morning before she was alone again. Vince offered to leave an officer outside, but she'd refused. Though she'd gratefully accepted his offer to board up the broken window.

She checked, then double-checked the locks, with Henry keeping close on her heels as she moved around the house. Anger was trickling back, wiping away the fatigue that had begun to drag at her while the police worked. She used it, and the resulting energy, to set her kitchen to rights.

She filled a waste can with broken crockery and glassware, and tried not to mourn the lost pieces of colorful Fiestaware she'd collected so carefully. She swept sugar, coffee, flour, salt, loose tea, then mopped the biscuit-colored tiles.

Energy was leaking out of her system by the time she trudged upstairs. One look at her bed—the mattress stripped and dragged onto the floor, the turned-out drawers of her lovely mahogany bureau, the gaping holes in the old apothecary chest she'd used as a jewelry case, brought the grief back.

But she wouldn't be driven out of her own room, out of her own home. Gritting her teeth, she hauled the mattress back into place. Then got out fresh sheets, made the bed. She rehung clothes that had been pulled out of her closet, folded more and tucked them neatly into drawers.

It was after three before she crawled into bed, and breaking her own rule, she patted the mattress and called Henry up to sleep beside her.

She reached for the light but hesitated, then drew her hand away. If it was cowardice and a foolish security blanket to sleep with a light on, she could live with that.

She was insured, she reminded herself. Nothing had been taken, or broken, that couldn't be replaced. They were just things—and she made her living, didn't she, buying and selling things?

She burrowed under the blankets with the dog staring soulfully into her eyes. "Just things, Henry. Things don't matter all that much."

She closed her eyes, let out a long sigh. She was just drifting off when Willy's face floated into her mind.

He knows where you are now.

She sat straight up in bed, her breath coming in short pants. What did it mean? Who did it mean?

Willy shows up one day, out of the blue, after nearly twenty years, and ends up dead on the doorstep of her shop. Then her house is burgled and vandalized.

It had to be connected. How could it not be? she asked herself. But who was looking for what? She didn't have anything.