Remember When

4.

Half-dressed, his hair still dripping from his morning shower, Max answered the knock on his hotel room door with one and only one thought on his mind: coffee.

The disappointment was one thing. A man learned to live with disappointments. Hadn't he slept alone? Finding a cop at his door was another. It meant nimbling up the brain without the God-given and inalienable right of caffeine.

He sized up the local heat—big, fit, suspicious—and tried on a cooperative if puzzled smile. "Morning. That doesn't look like a room service uniform, so I'm guessing you're not here to deliver my coffee and eggs."

"I'm Chief Burger, Mr. Gannon. Can I have a minute of your time?"

"Sure." He stepped back, glanced at the room. The bed was unmade, and steam from the shower was still drifting into the room through the open bathroom door.

The desk looked like the hotel room desk of a busy businessman—laptop, file folders and disks, his PDA, his cell phone—and that was fine. He'd taken the precaution, as he always did, of closing down all files and stashing any questionable paperwork.

"Ah . . ." Max gestured vaguely to the chair. "Have a seat," he invited and walked to the closet to pull out a shirt. "Is there some problem?"

Vince didn't sit; he didn't smile. "You're acquainted with Laine Tavish."

"Yeah." A lot of little warning bells went off and echoed with questions, but Max just pulled on the shirt. "Remember When. I bought a present for my mother at her place yesterday." He put a shadow of concern in his voice. "Something wrong with my credit card?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Miss Tavish's residence was broken into last night."

"Is she all right? Was she hurt?" He didn't have to feign concern now as those alarm bells shot through him. The hands that had been busily buttoning his shirt dropped to his side. "Where is she?"

"She wasn't on the premises at the time of the break-in. Her statement indicates she was with you."

"We had dinner. Damn it." As coffee was no longer paramount on his list, Max cursed at the knock. "Hold on a minute." He opened the door to the cute little blonde who stood by the room service cart.

"Morning, Mr. Gannon. Ready for breakfast?"

"Yeah, thanks. Just . . . put it anywhere."

She caught sight of Vince as she rolled in the cart. "Oh, hi, Chief."

"Sherry. How you doing?"

"Oh . . . you know." She angled the cart and tried not to look overly curious as she shot glances at both men. "I can go down, get another cup if you want coffee, Chief."

"Don't you worry about it, Sherry. I had two before I left the house."

"Just call down if you change your mind." She pulled the warming cover off a plate, revealing an omelette and a side of bacon. "Um . . ." She held out the leather folder to Max, waited while he signed the bill. "Hope you enjoy your breakfast, Mr. Gannon."

She walked out, casting one last look over her shoulder before she shut the door.

"Go ahead," Vince invited. "No point letting those eggs get cold. They make a nice omelette here."

"What kind of break-in was it? Burglary?"

"Looked that way. Why was Miss Tavish with you last night?"

Max sat, decided to pour the coffee. "Socializing. I asked her to have a drink with me. She agreed. I hoped to be able to extend that to dinner, and since she was agreeable to that after we had a drink—down in the lounge here—we went into the dining room."

"You always make dates with women when you buy presents for your mother?"

"If it worked that well, I'd be buying my mama a lot more presents." Max lifted his cup, drank and met Vince's eyes over the rim. "Laine's a very attractive, very interesting woman. I wanted to see her, socially. I asked. I'm sorry she's got trouble."

"Somebody got in and out of her place during the time she was in town here, socializing with you."

"Yeah, I get that." Max decided he might as well eat, and forked up some omelette. "So you're wondering if I go around hitting on pretty women in shops, then setting them up for a burglary while I charm them over dinner. That's a stretch, Chief, since I never set eyes on Laine before yesterday, don't—as yet—know her residence or if she's got something worth stealing in it. Be smarter, wouldn't it, to hit the shop? She's got a lot of nice merchandise in it."

Vince simply watched Max eat, said nothing. "Couple of good thick glasses over there," Max said after a moment, "if you want some of this coffee after all."

"I'll pass. What's your business in Angel's Gap, Mr. Gannon?"

"I'm with Reliance Insurance, and I'm here doing some fieldwork."

"What kind of fieldwork?"

"Chief Burger, you can contact Aaron Slaker, CEO of Reliance, and verify my association with the company. He's based in New York. But I'm not at liberty to discuss the details of my work without my client's permission."

"That doesn't sound like insurance work to me."

"There's all kinds of insurance." Max opened a little jar of strawberry jam and spread some on a triangle of toast.

"You got identification?"

"Sure." Max rose, walked over to the dresser and took his driver's license out of his wallet. He passed it to Vince, then took his seat again.

"You don't sound like New York City."

"Just can't drum the Georgia out of the boy." He was just irritated enough to exaggerate his drawl and make it a challenge. "I don't steal, Chief. I just wanted to have dinner with a pretty woman. You go ahead and call Slaker."

Vince dropped the license beside Max's plate. "I'll do that." He started for the door, turned with his hand on the knob. "How long do you plan to be in town, Mr. Gannon?"

"Till the job's done." He scooped up more egg. "Chief? You were right. They do a really good omelette here."

Even when the door shut behind Vince, Max sat and ate. And considered. A cop being a cop, Burger would run him, and the run would turn up his four years on the force. And his investigator's license. Small towns being small towns, that little tidbit would get back to Laine before too long.

He'd decide how to play that when it had to be played. Meanwhile there was the matter of the break-in. The timing was just a little too good to be serendipity. And it told him he wasn't the only one who thought the very attractive Miss Tavish had something to hide.

It was all a matter of who was going to find it first.

***

"Don't worry about anything," Jenny assured Laine. "Angie and I can handle things here. Are you sure you don't want to just close the store for the day? Vince said your place is a wreck. I could come over and help you out."

Laine switched the phone to her other ear, scanning her home office and thinking about the very pregnant Jenny dragging chairs and tables into place. "No, but thanks. I'd feel better knowing you and Angie have the shop. There's a shipment coming in this morning, a pretty big one from the auction in Baltimore."

And, damn it, she wanted to be there, getting her hands on all those lovely things. Admiring them, cataloguing them, arranging them. A good deal of the enjoyment came from setting up new stock in her place, and the rest came from watching it walk out the door again.

"I need you to log in the new stock, Jen. I've already done the pricing, that's in the file. There's a Clarice Cliff lotus jug, with a tulip design. You want to call Mrs. Gunt and let her know we have it. The price we agreed on is seven hundred, but she'll want to negotiate. Six seventy-five is firm. Okay?"

"Gotcha."

"Oh, and—"

"Laine, relax. It's not my first day on the job. I'll take care of things here, and if anything comes up I can't handle, I'll call you."

"I know." Absently, Laine reached down to pet the dog, who was all but glued to her side. "Too much on my mind."

"Small wonder. I hate the thought of you handling that mess on your own. You sure you don't want me to come? I could bop over at lunch-time. Angie can handle the shop for an hour. I'll bring you something to eat. Something loaded with fat and wasted calories."

Angie could handle the shop, Laine considered. She was good and getting better. But Laine knew herself. She'd get more done if she worked alone without conversation or distraction.

"That's okay. I'll be all right once I get started. I'll probably be in this afternoon."

"Take a nap instead."

"Maybe. I'll talk to you later." When she hung up, Laine stuck the little portable phone in the back pocket of her baggy jeans. She knew herself well enough to be sure she'd find half a dozen reasons to call the shop during the day. Might as well keep a phone handy.

But for now, she needed to focus on the matter at hand.

"'Hide the pooch,'" she murmured. Since the only pooch she had was Henry, she had to assume Willy had been delirious. Whatever he'd come to tell her, to ask of her, to give her, hadn't been done. He'd thought someone was after him, and unless he'd changed his ways, which was highly unlikely, he'd probably been right.

A cop, skip tracer, a partner in crime who hadn't liked the cut? Any or all of the above was a possibility. But the state of her house told her the last option was the most likely.

Now, whoever had been looking for him, was looking at her.

She could tell Vince . . . what? Absolutely nothing. Everything she'd built here was dug into the foundation that she was Laine Tavish, a nice, ordinary woman with a nice, ordinary life with nice, ordinary parents who ran a barbecue place in New Mexico.

Elaine O'Hara, daughter of Big Jack of the charming and wily ways—and yard-long yellow sheet—didn't fit into the pretty, pastoral landscape of Angel's Gap. Nobody was going to come into Elaine O'Hara's place to buy a teapot or a piecrust table.

Jack O'Hara's daughter couldn't be trusted.

Hell, she didn't trust Jack O'Hara's daughter herself. Big Jack's daughter was the type who had drinks in a bar with a strange man and ended up knocking said man on his excellent ass with a steamy, soul-deep kiss. Jack's daughter took big, bad chances that had big, bad consequences.

Laine Tavish lived normal, thought things through and didn't make waves.

She'd let the O'Hara out for one brief evening, and look what it had gotten her. An exciting, sexy interlude, sure, and a hell of a mess at the end of it.

"It just goes to show," she murmured to Henry, who demonstrated his accord by thumping his tail.

Time to put things back in order. She wasn't giving up who she was, what she'd accomplished, what she planned to accomplish, because some second-rate thief believed she had part of his last take.

Had to be second-rate, she thought as she gathered up the loose stuffing from the once pretty silk throw pillows she'd picked out for the George II daybed. Uncle Willy never traveled in the big leagues. And neither, despite all his talk, all his dreams, had Big Jack.

So, they'd trashed her place, come up empty and took easily fenced items in lieu.

That, Laine thought, would be that.

Of course, they'd probably left prints all over the damn place. She rolled her eyes, sat on the floor and started stacking scattered paperwork. Dim bulbs were a specialty when Uncle Willy was involved in a job. It was likely whoever'd broken in, searched, stolen, would have a record. Vince would trace that, identify them, and it was well within the realm of possibility that they'd get picked up.

It was also in that realm that they'd be stupid enough to tell the cops why they broke in. If that came down, she'd claim mistaken identity.

She'd be shocked, outraged, baffled. Acting the part—whatever part was necessary—was second nature. There was enough of Big Jack in her veins that running a con wouldn't be a stretch of her skills.

What was she doing now, Laine Tavish of Angel's Gap, but running a lifetime con?

Because the thought depressed her, she pushed it aside and immersed herself in refiling her paperwork. Immersed enough that she nearly jumped straight off the floor when she heard the knock on the front door.

Henry bolted out of his mid-morning snooze and sent out a furious spate of throaty, threatening barks—even as he slunk behind Laine and tried to hide his bulk in the crook of her arm.

"My big, brave hero." She nuzzled him. "It's probably the window guy. No eating the window guy, right?"

As a testament to his great love and devotion, Henry went with her. He made growling noises and stayed one safe pace behind.

She was wary enough herself after the break-in to peek out the window before unlocking the door. Her brain, and her blood, did a little snap and sizzle when she saw Max.

Instinctively she looked down, in disgust, at her oldest jeans, her bare feet, the ancient gray sweatshirt. She'd yanked her hair back in a short tail that morning and hadn't bothered with makeup.

"Not exactly the look I wanted to present to the man I considered getting naked with at the first reasonable opportunity," she said to Henry. "But what're you gonna do?"

She pulled open the door and ordered herself to be casual. "Max. This is a surprise. How'd you find me?"

"I asked. You okay? I heard about . . ." He trailed off, his gaze tracking down to her knees. "Henry? Well, that's about the homeliest dog I've ever seen." A big grin split his face when he said it, and it was hard to take offense as he crouched down to dog level and aimed the grin at the dog.

"Hey, big guy, how's it going?"

Most, in Laine's experience, were at least initially intimidated by the dog. He was big, he was ugly, and when he was growling in his throat, he sounded dangerous. But Max was already holding a hand out, offering it for a sniff. "That's some bad face you've got there, Henry."

Obviously torn between terror and delight, Henry inched his snout forward, took some testing whiffs. His tail whapped the back of Laine's knees before he collapsed, rolled and exposed his belly for a rub.

"He has no pride," Laine stated.

"Doesn't need any." Max became the newest love of Henry's life by giving the soft belly a vigorous rub. "Nothing like a dog, is there?"

First there'd been lust, she thought, naturally enough. Then interest and several layers of attraction. She'd been prepared—or had been trying to prepare—to shuffle all those impulses aside and be sensible.

Now, seeing him with her dog, she felt the warming around the heart that signaled—uh-oh—personal affection. Add that to lust and attraction and a woman, even a sensible woman, was sunk. "No, there really isn't."

"Always had a dog at home. Can't keep one in New York, not the way I travel around. Doesn't seem right." His hand slid up to rub Henry's throat and send the dog into ecstasy.

Laine very nearly moaned.

"That's the downside of city living for me," Max added. "How'd they get around him?"

"I'm sorry?"

He gave Henry a last thumping pat, then straightened. "I heard about the break-in. Big dog like this should've given them some trouble."

Down, girl, Laine ordered herself. "Afraid not. One, he was shut in the mudroom. That's his place when I'm out. And second, well . . ." She looked down at Henry, who was slavishly licking Max's hand. "He doesn't exactly have a warrior's heart."

"You okay?"

"As good as it gets, I suppose, the morning after you come home and find somebody's trashed your house and stolen your property."

"You're pretty secluded back here. I don't guess anyone saw anything."

"I doubt it. Vince, the police chief, will ask, but I'm the only house back on this lane."

"Yeah, I met the chief. Another reason I came by was to make sure you didn't think I asked you to dinner to get you out of the house so this could happen."

"Well, of course not. Why would . . ." She followed the dots. "Vince. I hope he didn't make you uncomfortable."

"It's his job. And now I see I've put the same suspicion in your head."

"No, not . . ." But she was trying it on. "Not really. It's just been a very strange week, I think I've dealt with Vince twice on a professional level since I moved here. Now it's been twice in a matter of days. He must've come by your hotel room this morning. I'm sorry."

"Just routine. But coming home and finding your house has been burgled isn't." He reached out, touched her cheek. "I was worried about you."

The warmth pumped up a few degrees. She told herself it wasn't a good fit—Willy Young and Max Gannon in league. And that if Max was of the ilk, she'd know.

Like, she believed, recognized like.

"I'm okay. Jenny and Angie will work the shop today while I put the house back into shape." She gestured toward the living room. "I've barely made a dent. Good thing I like to shop, because that'll be stage two."

He stepped around her, looking into the room himself.

It could be taken for a spate of vandalism accompanying a burglary. But to Max's eyes it looked like what it was: a fast, nasty search. And if they'd gotten what they were after, he didn't think Laine would be calmly clearing up the debris and talking about shopping.

Nobody was that cool.

On the tail of that thought, he imagined her coming home alone, in the dark, and opening her house to this. Small wonder she had shadows under her eyes and the pale look of a woman who'd spent a sleepless night.

"They did a number on you," he murmured.

"Not the usual thing in the Gap. When I lived in Philadelphia, I worked with a woman who went home one night, found her apartment broken into. They cleaned her out and spray-painted obscenities on the walls."

He looked back at her. "So it could be worse?"

"It can always be worse. Listen, I've put the kitchen back together and made a quick morning run to the store so there's coffee. You want?"

"I always want." He walked to her. She looked so fresh. All that bright hair pulled back from that pretty face, her eyes only bluer with the shadows haunting them. She smelled like soap, just soap. The innocent charm of freckles was sprinkled over her nose.

"Laine, I'm not looking to get in your way, but . . . let me help you."

"Help me what?"

He wasn't sure, but he knew he meant it, that the offer was unqualified. He looked at her, and he wanted to help. "For a start, I can help you put your house back together."

"You don't have to do that. You must have work—"

"Let me help." He cut off her protest simply by taking her hand. "I've got time, and the fact is, if I went on my way, I'd worry about you and I'd never get anything done anyway."

"That's awfully sweet." And she knew she was a goner. "That's really very sweet."

"And there's this one other thing." He took a step forward, into her, which put her back up against the wall. Still, when his mouth came down, the kiss was slow and smooth, almost dreamy. She felt her knees unlock and go halfway to dissolve before he lifted his head. "If I didn't do that, I'd be thinking about doing it. Figured we'd get more done if I got it out of the way first."

"Good." She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. "Finished?"

"Not hardly."

"That's good, too. Coffee," she decided before they started rolling around on the floor of the disordered room instead of setting it to rights. "I'll just get that coffee."

She walked back toward the kitchen, with the dog prancing happily beside her. It helped, for the moment, to keep busy. Grinding beans, measuring coffee into the French press. He'd gotten her nerves up again, she realized. He was just leaning against the counter, watching her. That long body relaxed, but those eyes focused. Something about him made her want to rub up against him like a cat begging to be stroked.

"I have to say something."

"Okay."

She got down two of the mugs that had survived the kitchen rampage. "I don't usually . . . Hold on, let me figure out how to say this without sounding incredibly stupid and ordinary."

"I don't think you could sound either. Ever."

"Boy, you really push the right buttons. All right." She turned to him while the coffee steeped. "It's not my habit to make dates, even casual ones, with a man I've just met. With a customer. In fact, you're the first."

"I've always liked being first."

"Who doesn't? And while I enjoy the company of men, and the benefits thereof, I also don't, as a rule, wrap myself around one after dinner like sumac around an oak."

He was certain he'd remember the moment she had for a long time. It would probably come back to him on his deathbed as a major highlight of his life and times. "Would I be the first there, too?"

"At that level."

"Better and better."

"You want cream? Sugar?"

"Just black's good."

"Okay then, to continue. I also don't—and this has been a pretty hard-and-fast rule of thumb—contemplate sleeping with a man I've only known for twenty-four hours, give or take."

He was scratching Henry between the ears, but he never took his eyes off her face. "You know what they say about rules."

"Yes, and though I agree with what they say, I don't break them lightly. I'm a firm believer in the need for structure, Max, in rules and lines. So the fact that I'm considering breaking a rule, crossing a line, makes me nervous. It'd be smarter, safer, more sensible if we backed away a bit, at least until we get to know each other better. Until we give things a chance to develop at a more reasonable and rational pace."

"Smarter," he agreed. "Safer. Sensible."

"You have no idea how hard I've worked to live by those three attributes." She laughed a little, then poured the coffee. "And the problem here is I've never been as attracted to anyone as I am to you."

"Maybe I'm a little looser when it comes to rules and lines, and not as worried about being sensible in certain areas." He took the mug she offered, then set it on the counter. "But I know I've never looked at another woman and wanted her the way I want you."

"That's not going to help me be smart." She picked up her coffee, stepped back. "But I need some order. Let me put my house back together, as best I can, and we'll see where things go."

"Hard to argue with that. We share some of these domestic chores, we ought to get to know each other."

"Well, it's one way." He'd be a distraction, she concluded. A lot more of a distraction than Jenny and a lunchtime Big Mac.

But what the hell.

"Since I've got some muscle on hand, let's start with the living room. The sofa's pretty heavy."

***

In Remember When, business was brisk. Or at least browsing was. It hadn't taken long for word to get out about Laine's latest trouble, or to bring out the curious to pump for more details. By one, with the new shipments logged, tagged and displayed, sales rung up and gossip exchanged in abundance, Jenny pressed a hand to the ache in her lower back.

"I'm going to take lunch at home where I can put my feet up for an hour. Will you be all right on your own?"

"Sure." Angie held up a protein bar and a bottled, low-fat Frappucino. "Got my lunch right here."

"You don't know how sad it makes me, Ange, to hear you call that lunch."

"Weighed in at one-nineteen this morning."

"Bitch."

While Angie laughed, Jenny got her purse from behind the counter and her sweater from the hook. "I'm going to nuke leftover pasta primavera and finish it off with a brownie."

"Now who's the bitch?" She gave Jenny's belly a pat, hoping as always to catch the baby kicking. "How's it going in there?"

"Night owl." She stuck a loose bobby pin back in her messy topknot. "I swear the kid wakes up and starts tap dancing every night about eleven, and keeps it up for hours."

"You love it."

"I do." Smiling now, Jenny tugged on the sweater. "Every minute of it. Best time of my life. Be back in an hour."

"Got it covered. Hey, should I call Laine? Just check on her?"

"I'll do it from home," Jenny called back as she walked to the door. Before she reached it, it opened. She recognized the couple, searched around in her mental files for the name. "Nice to see you. Dale and Melissa, right?"

"Good memory." The woman, thirtyish, gym-fit and stylish, smiled at her.

"And as I recall, you were interested in the rosewood armoire."

"Right again. I see it's still here." Even as she spoke, she walked to it, ran her hand over the carving on the door. "It keeps calling my name."

"It's such a beautiful piece." Angie strolled around the counter. "One of my favorites." The truth was she preferred the modern and streamlined, but she knew how to pitch. "We just got another rosewood piece today. It's a gorgeous little davenport. Victorian. I think they're made for each other."

"Uh-oh." Laughing, Melissa squeezed her husband's arm. "I guess I have to take a look at least."

"I'll show you."

"I was just on my way out, if you don't need me . . ."

"We're fine." Angie waved Jenny away. "Isn't it beautiful?" she said, aiming her pitch at Melissa as she ran a fingertip down the glossy writing slope. "It's in wonderful condition. Laine has such a good eye. She found this in Baltimore a few weeks ago. It arrived only this morning."

"It's wonderful." Leaning down, Melissa began opening and closing the small side drawers. "Really wonderful. I thought a davenport was a kind of couch."

"Yeah, but this kind of little desk is called that, too. Don't ask me why; that's Laine's territory."

"I really love it, whatever it's called. Dale?"

He was fingering the price tag and sent her a look. "I've got to think about getting both, Melissa. It's a pretty big chunk."

"Maybe we can chip it down a little."

"We can work on that," Angie told her.

"Let me take another look at the armoire." She walked back over, opened the doors.

Knowing how to pace a sale, Angie hung back while Dale joined his wife and they began a whispered consultation.

The doors were closed again, opened again, drawers were pulled out.

"Do we get what's inside, too?" Dale called out.

"I'm sorry?"

"Box in here." He took out the package, shook it. "Is it like the prize in the cereal box?"

"Not this time." With an easy laugh, Angie crossed over to take the box. "We had a big shipment come in this morning," she began. "And we were pretty busy on top of it. Jenny must've gotten distracted and set this in there."

Or had she? Things had been hopping for an hour or two. Either way, Angie considered it a lucky break the drawer had been opened before the piece was missed.

"We're just going to talk this over for a few minutes," Melissa told her.

"Take your time." Leaving them to it, Angie went back to the counter. She unwrapped the package and studied the silly ceramic dog. Cute, she thought, but she didn't understand why anyone paid good money for animal pieces.

She found soft, fuzzy stuffed animals more companionable.

This was probably Doulton or Derby or one of those things Laine was still trying to teach her.

Since, from little snatches of conversation, Melissa seemed to be wearing Dale down all on her own, Angie gave them a little more space by walking the statue over to one of a few displays of figurines and bric-a-brac to try to identify the type and era.

It was like a game to her. She'd find it in the file, of course, but that would be cheating. Identifying pieces in the shop was very like identifying character types in the bar. If you spent enough time at it, it got so you knew who was who and what was what.

"Miss?"

"Angie." She turned, grinned.

"If we took both, what sort of a price could you give us?"

"Well . . ." Delighted with the prospect of greeting Jenny with news of a double, she set the ceramic dog down and went over to bargain with the customers.

In the excitement of closing the deal, arranging for delivery, ringing up the sale, she didn't give the little dog another thought.