Scorned Read online

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Throat tight with an undefinable mix of emotions, she nodded.

  When he combed his fingers through her hair, though his actions were platonic, her body read his every touch as erotic. No man had ever touched her like this and she wasn’t sure what to do with her hands, her hitched breaths, the strange, fluttery gallop in her pulse.

  Now, he wasn’t combing her hair, but massaging her temples and scalp. The sensation calmed yet thrilled. Her hairdresser had used this move dozens if not hundreds of times, yet this was different. Infinitely better.

  She arched her head back and groaned. “You should probably change professions.”

  “Yeah?” There he went again with his throaty chuckle. “Before they were old enough for dates, my sisters spent every Friday night playing beauty parlor, getting all gussied up for pretend dates. If I’d agree to be their hair-washing boy, they paid me a dollar and didn’t tell Mom and Dad that I rode my dirt bike in the junkyard. It was all dull until their friend Yvette started showing up. Her hair was even longer than yours. Thick and strawberry blonde. When I leaned just right, I caught a glimpse of her pink bra strap.”

  “Jackson!” Laughing, her face grew warm. Could he see her bra strap? Did he want to?

  “Hey—I’m just keeping it real. She was five years older than me and tipped extra for a good massage. You’d better believe I honed my skills real fast. All of which is a longwinded way of saying if you’re enjoying my services, you have Yvette to thank.” While talking, he’d smoothed and combed her hair until he now expertly wrapped it into what felt like a flawless messy bun—the kind Miranda had seen on models in magazines that she’d never quite managed. He fastened it by inserting one white Spanish Moss Inn pen, then crisscrossing it with another. “There. All done. And unless a hurricane hits in the next hour or so, it should last until bedtime.” When he stood, she missed him, which made no sense considering they’d barely known each other a few hours.

  “Thanks.” Her words fell out in a breathy whisper.

  “You’re welcome. Now, back to business, where do you sleep? I want to check your room for bugs or hidden cameras.”

  “It’s late. I’ll be fine for one night.”

  “Fine is relative. Fine would be like getting rye bread with dinner instead of whole wheat. In the matter of protecting you, let’s err on the side of caution.”

  “Fair enough…” The heat behind his concentrated stare—the genuine feeling—left her flushed and unsure what to do with her hands. The fact that he wasn’t just here to do a job, but actually cared, warmed her more than he could know. But that was a problem because he was here to do a job—not make her feel. “Oh—before I forget, if you’re hungry, I had my staff stock your mini-fridge. Amelia, the inn’s head chef, will prepare anything you’d like for breakfast. Just go to the dining room in the main house.”

  “Is there a key?”

  “No. We keep it open for our guests.”

  “Swell…” He slashed his hands through his buzz-cut hair. “That’s one more thing to add to my list—upping your inn’s security. Not only do your guests have free range, but so does your arsonist.”

  “You make a valid point.” She drew her lower lip into her mouth, biting hard. All of this was beyond frustrating. “I’ll introduce you to my manager, Josie, first thing in the morning. But for now, I need sleep.”

  “Then let’s get your room checked so—shit. Pardon my French. My bug detector was in my supply bag, which got torched along with everything besides my gun which I had on me.”

  “Without the detector, you can’t find a camera or listening device?”

  “I can.” He’d begun closing and locking all the windows. “It’s just more thorough with my gadget. I’ll send for another tomorrow.” Finished, he asked, “Ready?”

  “Sure.” She handed him the room key.

  “Thanks. But your locks are pretty much useless.”

  “What do you mean? All of the units are only a few years old.”

  “I’ll show you.” He ushered her outside, locking the door behind him. He tried the lock. “Seems secure, right?”

  In the dim exterior light, she nodded.

  He turned sideways to the door, using his shoulder as a battering ram. One hard shove was all it took to pop the door open.

  Hand over her mouth, she fought a wave of nausea. “New locks. Check.”

  “Look, we might catch this guy in a few days, making all of these security measures overkill. But wouldn’t you rather be safe than sorry?”

  She nodded. “I feel so stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid, but trusting. There’s a difference. This seems like a nice small town. I wish these were the kinds of things you didn’t need to worry about, but…”

  “I understand.” Tears of frustration stung her eyes.

  “Hey…” He drew her into his arms for a much-needed hug. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  His hug felt so good. Strong and safe and sheltering from all her added fears. She could stay in his arms forever, but that was no more realistic than believing her beloved hometown would forever be the kind of place where citizens could leave their homes and cars unlocked. Even once the arsonist was caught, there would always be a new threat. She had to toughen up, starting by not clinging to this stranger.

  Releasing him, she forced a deep breath. “We should both get to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

  He closed the room’s door, not bothering to lock it. “Lead the way…”

  She descended the stairs, then covered nerves by playing the tour guide. “My father provided the initial investment that got this dream started, but the rest is all me.” Heading down the palm-lined, winding brick path leading to her bungalow, she said, “I wanted this place to feel like a swanky Caribbean resort but be accessible to Louisiana brides.” They approached the shimmering turquoise jewel of a freeform pool and passed a series of splashing, three-tier fountains. “My best friend from college is a landscape designer. We have secret rose gardens with swings, a hedgerow maze and a half-dozen dreamy ceremony settings, depending on the size of the wedding party. In case you couldn’t tell,” she said with an over her shoulder grin, “I’m a hopeless romantic.”

  “Probably none of my business,” he said, “but how come you’re not married?”

  “Long story.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve got the courage to share.” They rounded one of the pergola-covered hot tubs. The damp night air smelled heavenly of jasmine. Tree frogs sang a cheery tune.

  “You don’t have to. I was just making conversation.”

  “It’s all right. I thought I’d found the love of my life in James. We were seniors at Louisiana State and he got me through economics. He was everything I’m not—great at small talk, funny, good looking.”

  “For the record,” Jackson cleared his throat. “I think you’re beautiful.”

  Her heart stopped. “You don’t have to say that.”

  “Obviously.” He lightly grabbed her shoulder, pulling her to a stop beneath a trumpet-vine covered arbor. “The more you get to know me, you’ll realize I don’t say things I don’t mean. In fact…” With a touch so light if she hadn’t seen him, she would have believed the moment a dream, he skimmed his hand along her cheek and then up into her hair. He leaned forward, making her heart and breath catch in her throat. “…If we’d met under different circumstances, I would totally make a play for you.”

  You would? Her knees threatened to buckle. Was he going to kiss her?

  Please, kiss me!

  Miranda’s heart thundered, but then reality set in when she remembered Jackson wasn’t her beau, but a man she’d trusted with the safekeeping of her entire town. For a woman who’d spent her adult life trying to be the consummate professional, she was sure struggling with that goal now.

  Forcing a deep breath, she took a step back, resuming her tour on legs too wobbly
to fully trust. “This arbor is one of our most popular photo backdrops. My goal is for our brides and grooms to feel as if they’ve been transported to an exotic secret world of romance. Sounds corny, but considering the fact that we don’t have an open weekend till September, my staff and I must be doing something right.”

  “It’s pretty awesome. Romance isn’t my thing, but hey, if I had to have it, I suppose here would be as good a place as any.”

  If he had to have it? She felt as crushed as a chocolate-covered strawberry that had fallen from a server’s tray, then been stomped on the dance floor.

  From behind her, he said, “You never finished your story—about James.”

  “Oh.” How was it possible to feel hot and cold at the same time? “Short version—I got pregnant. He told me that because he’d worn a condom there was no way the baby could be his. Outside of class, I never saw him again.”

  “Bastard…” he said from behind her. “So you had the baby on your own?”

  “At twelve weeks, I miscarried.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Because it was what she did, Miranda kept walking, kept her focus on the future because even so much as a glance to her past brought too much pain. “It’s okay. Ancient history.”

  He was again gripping her upper arm, drawing her around to face him. “There’s nothing about that situation that’s remotely okay. I’m truly, genuinely sorry.”

  “Thank you.” Head bowed, she believed him. Something about his tone, the way he still lightly held her, told her he was sincere. But then she’d once believed the same about James. “We should get going. I haven’t been up this late in ages.”

  “Wish I could say the same.”

  They finished the trek to her bungalow in a few minutes. The discreet outdoor lighting made the winding brick paths easy to follow.

  “Your home isn’t raised?” he asked when they stood on the front porch of the simple white-washed structure with its red door, tall windows with black shutters, and front porch just big enough for a swing and obligatory pale blue ceiling.

  “It’s over a hundred years old. It’s been renovated a few times after floods, but it’s somehow survived every storm.”

  “Incredible.”

  Miranda fit her key into the lock, only to have the door swing open. “That’s odd? I’m sure I locked this before I—” What she saw next had her frozen, clutching her throat in fear.

  On an heirloom silver platter given to her by her grandmother, someone had written the word W-H-O-R-E in Sterno, then set it on fire.

  4

  “LOOKS LIKE YOU’VE had company.” Jackson grabbed the flaming abomination, taking it outside where he set it on the grass.

  “Ohmigod! How can you be so calm?” She hugged herself, shivering despite the warm night air.

  “Because I’m guessing if we’re not on camera, whoever did this is still very close. I don’t see the point in giving him a show, do you?”

  She shook her head, but said, “I’m scared.”

  “Look…” He nodded to the tray. “The accelerant has already burned itself out. Nothing to fear there. But we do have a problem when it comes to staying here. Where are your parents?”

  “I would imagine at their house? It’s further north—about five miles.”

  “Is anyone else staying here? At the inn?”

  She shook her head. “On nights when we have no guests, it’s just me.”

  “No security guards?”

  “There’s never been a need.”

  “Right. Pack a bag. We’re sleeping at a motel.”

  “But wouldn’t we—” She opened her mouth, presumably to launch a protest, but then eyed her open front door, then the charred tray. The arsonist had strolled inside her bungalow as if he’d been an invited guest. Zero signs of forced entry.

  The thought sickened him.

  “Come on,” he slipped his arm around her shoulders. “I’ll help.”

  While she packed an overnight bag and toiletries, Jackson sat on the foot of her bed, watching Miranda’s every move. It was pushing four a.m., and he was tired, but had no intention of showing it.

  She’d been right, something about this place was unnerving, but odds were he wouldn’t discover a logical reason any time soon. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but his stomach was tight and spine tingly, as if the devil danced on his back. Since he doubted the bungalow was haunted, there had to be a more tangible cause for the discomfort.

  “Got a flashlight?” he asked once she’d finished and they were on their way out the door.

  “Sure. In the kitchen.” He followed her to where she took a civilian model from a junk drawer. His halogen beam had been another casualty of the car fire.

  “Thanks. Let’s go.” He took her car keys, keeping her close while they wound along the meandering brick path to her ride—a white VW convertible Bug. He used the keyless remote to unlock both doors, then opened the passenger side for her. “Get in, I want to check it out before starting the engine.”

  “You think there could be a bomb?” Her wide eyes shone bright in the gloom.

  “At this point, I’m not ruling anything out.” He tossed her bag in the trunk, then dropped onto his stomach to shine the light on the vehicle’s undercarriage. He felt under the wheel-wells, then looked over the engine for anything that didn’t belong. Jackson was just about to close the hood when he eyed something odd affixed to the body—a black object that was a smidge larger than a deck of cards. Though held in place by a high-powered magnet and wired to draw juice from the car’s battery, it was easy enough to pluck off. When the task was completed, he closed the hood and crossed to Miranda’s side of the car.

  She sat sideways, with her feet resting on the blacktop parking lot and her cheek against the passenger seat’s leather. Her eyes were closed, but upon hearing him approach, she popped them open. “Find anything?”

  “This.” He handed her his prize.

  “What is it?” she asked with a confused expression.

  “GPS device. You mentioned your dad owns a car lot. Is this something he would have placed on your ride as a safety precaution? It allows whoever put it there to track your every move in real-time.”

  Hand over her mouth, she said in a voice barely loud enough for him to hear, “This is going from bad to worse.”

  “Pretty much. Just to be thorough, we’ll ask your dad about it in the morning. Parents of teens put this kind of stuff on their kids’ cars, but you’re a little old for that. On the flipside, if your dad did install it, it could be a theft recovery issue. We won’t know till we ask.”

  “What are you going to do with it now?”

  “I’m embarrassed to say I probably already tipped our hand by alerting whoever placed it there that we’re on to him or her. I should have re-rigged it to an alternate power source, but in my defense, I’m fresh out of batteries.”

  Miranda sighed. “I need sleep, so here’s what I’m going to do.” She stepped out of the car, dumped the GPS unit in a nearby fountain, then returned to fasten her seatbelt. “Let’s find a place to crash. I’ve got a full day of meetings. And would love at least a few hours’ rest.”

  “Yes, ma’am. FYI—next time I hand you a piece of possible evidence, could you maybe not dump it in water?” Jackson climbed in beside her and drove through still sleeping Brutal Bayou to the next town up the highway. He booked them a room at a clean-looking mom-and-pop place, then escorted Miranda to their home for the night.

  “I’m sorry,” he said upon flicking the overhead light switch to find the clerk had given him a king instead of two doubles as he’d requested. “I asked for two beds.”

  “I don’t even care.” She pulled back the spread, kicked off her wedge-style sandals, then climbed into the bed.

  “I’ll sleep on the floor.” He closed the door, turning the deadbolt, then flipping the steel safety latch. For added precaution, he grabbed one of the two chairs from a small table, then wedged it beneath the d
oorknob. Not a foolproof method if someone wanted in bad enough, but at least it bought time by making a lot of noise.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re both adults. Get in bed.”

  He pulled the curtains closed, turned off the light, took a quick piss, then unlaced his combat boots before lying down beside her. Her soft, even breathing told him she was already asleep. He wished he could join her in slumber, but something about the GPS find still bugged him.

  Whoever was watching her, feeling free to enter her home, also had full access to her car. This also upped the odds of them getting their grubby hands on her phone—which was also probably being tracked. Which meant this exercise of leaving town had been a waste of much-needed sleep time.

  More likely than not, the arsonist was someone Miranda knew.

  A fact that made that night’s calling card more chilling. Jackson wasn’t just dealing with someone who had a thing for fire, but Miranda…

  5

  “RITA, I KNOW. Please apologize to Claudette, Neil, and Jackie, but my absence can’t be helped. I’ll be in the office as soon as I finish eating.” Miranda ended the call with her secretary, then turned her phone on silent, flipping it upside down before setting it on the diner’s table alongside her plate. “Sorry. Mayoral duties apparently don’t end because of potentially life-threatening events.”

  “No worries.” Her companion dug into his Belgian waffle, two sides of bacon and biscuits and gravy.

  She started on her ham and cheese omelet, but nerves had her stomach churning. As did the all-too-fresh memory of waking to find herself using Jackson’s chest for a pillow. Her cheeks blazed just thinking about it.

  They’d slept till eleven, meaning she’d already missed her morning meetings. She’d fought Jackson on taking the time for a sit-down meal when there was a perfectly good McDonald’s drive-thru across the street from their motel, but he’d insisted.

  “Before you head back to your office,” he said between bites, “we need to get you a new cell.”