Her Fifth Husband? Read online

  Which made about as much sense as anything else she could come up with, Sasha told herself. The man was like a blotter, inviting all sorts of confidences. If he hung around much longer there was no telling what she might decide to share.

  She smoothed her skirt over her knees. After he’d called she had hobbled to the bedroom and changed into a long flower-sprigged yellow skirt and a pale green silk cami—last year’s styles, but still flattering. “Do you know many people in Muddy Landing?” she asked brightly.

  He hesitated, then said, “I know several deputies—used to know a guy who ran a bait-and-tackle place down on the river. He moved away a few years ago.”

  “How about your taxes?”

  “My what?” He did a double-take.

  “Taxes. You know, those things we all have to pay to fund schools and roads and congressmen’s junkets?”

  “Oh…those taxes.” He made a face, part amusement, part puzzlement. She was getting so she could almost read him until he put on his detective face. “Yeah, I pay taxes. Property, income, the whole shebang. You need to know how much, I guess I could get you the figures.”

  Sasha thought he was joking. Hoped he was joking. Embarrassed, she hurried to apologize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that I know this CPA who lives not far from here. Her name is Lily Sullivan, and—”

  “And?” he said after a while.

  She shrugged. And what? For all she knew, Lily had all the business she could handle. For that matter, she might not even be interested in dating. It wouldn’t be the first time the trio had goofed. “It’s just that I happen to know that she’s an excellent CPA, and I thought maybe—” She shook her head. “Forget it. You and your taxes are none of my business.”

  Rising slowly, Jake towered over her, yet oddly enough, he wasn’t the least bit intimidating. “You want to hand me your corn, I’ll put it back in the freezer. Ten minutes, okay? If you’ve got a cooler I could put it here beside you with a few cold drinks and another bag or two of frozen vegetables.”

  Embarrassment was her worst enemy. Sasha felt her face growing warm even as she heard herself saying, “No thanks, it’s royal blue—my ice chest, that is. I couldn’t possibly use it in this room.”

  He looked at her, and then he looked around the room. “Yeah, now that you mention it, I can see how blue would be a problem.”

  Obviously, he thought she’d lost her mind. For all she knew, he could be right. “Sorry, I’m not used to being out of action. I tend to get frustrated—my tongue runs away from my brain.”

  He nodded as if he knew exactly what she was talking about.

  Even she didn’t know just what she was talking about—which was part of the problem.

  “You need to stay off that leg as much as possible for at least another day or two. The sooner the swelling goes down, the sooner you can bring your car back home. I don’t think it’s in too much danger where it is, but you never can tell with a holiday weekend coming up.”

  She closed her eyes. “Gee, thanks, I really needed that.”

  “I can have it towed home for you if you’re worried. Or if you give me the keys, I can get someone to drive it here for you. Hack—this kid who works with me—”

  “No way is any kid named Hack getting his grubby hands on my car,” she declared. “Tomorrow I’ll have a friend drive me to Kitty Hawk. I’m sure my ankle will be well enough by then.”

  Jake shifted his weight, wanting to defend his young friend, but then he thought about the rebuilt TR-5 the kid drove. There was probably a reason he’d had a roll bar installed across the top.

  He glanced at the flesh-colored bandage, thought about unwrapping it to check the swelling, and backed away, literally and figuratively. Instead of the small metal clip, she had used a gaudy brooch to secure the end. Shaking his head in reluctant admiration, he said, “It’s your call. Just remember to pick a time when traffic’s light, maybe around supper time or early in the morning.”

  She nodded and solemnly promised, although they both knew she would do things her way, on her timetable. She’d already proved she wasn’t into obeying orders, even when they were in her own best interest.

  Stubborn woman, Jake thought half admiringly. Climbing behind the wheel a few minutes later, he told himself to put her out of his mind and get on with his business. He’d done his good deed and that was enough. Hell, he’d even gone the extra mile and brought her flowers.

  In exchange, she had screwed up any chance of catching Jamison and his side dish in a compromising situation. He’d tried to call his client, missed her and left a message. He would have liked to have good news—or at least some news to report—but as long as that red car was parked outside the cottage, the game was on hold.

  Marty and Faylene converged on the lavender house early the next morning. Sasha hobbled to the door to meet them after seeing Marty’s white minivan and Faylene’s pink Caddie pull up in front of her house.

  The night before, she had finally told them about her temporary indisposition, assuring both women that she was on her way to bed and the last thing she wanted was to have to get up and answer the door. That had staved off the visitation until this morning.

  “You look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed considering you’re just back from your honeymoon,” Sasha said, greeting Marty, then laughing, she held up a hand. “No details, please! Just tell me this much—was this one an improvement over the last two?”

  Faylene snorted as she strode directly to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. “Tell you one thing, she’s not stopped humming since she got home. ’Nuff to drive a person batty.” But her faded blue eyes, set in a bed of wrinkles and frosted turquoise eye shadow, twinkled with amusement.

  Five minutes later all three women were seated in the living room with coffee and doughnuts, ready to sift through the local gossip for any snippets that might be useful in their matchmaking games.

  Sasha said slyly, “You’re obviously getting plenty of sleep.” Marty was infamous for her early-morning grumpiness. It was still not quite nine o’clock.

  “Quality sleep,” the new bride said smugly. “Makes a big difference. And before you take out your crowbar and start prying, that’s all I’m saying. So—what’s this about a new man for Lily?”

  Sasha stirred a second spoonful of sugar into her cup. “He’s only perfect, that’s all. Like I told you over the phone, he’s at least an eleven.”

  “And that’s his shoe size, right?” Marty asked, tongue firmly planted in cheek.

  “Uh-uh. His shoes are at least size twelve.”

  Faylene cackled and Sasha stretched out on the sofa and kicked a pillow under her ankle with her good foot. “Look, I’m just guessing, okay? Lily’s tall, right? Jake’s taller. He’s big, but not too big—attractive without being blatant about it.”

  “What’s wrong with blatant?” asked Faylene, whose Bob Ed was gray-bearded and beer-bellied, and according to the housekeeper, the sweetest man you’d ever hope to meet.

  “Well, at least he’s not vain. Remember that lawyer we introduced Lily to at the Christmas party? The one who couldn’t pass his reflection in any shiny surface without preening?”

  “Ask me, I think he used more wax on his hair than he did on his fancy car.” Faylene snorted. “And how ’bout the guy that gave her that cheap box of candy that still had the sale sticker on it?”

  “Hey, we tried. A good man is hard to find,” Sasha said.

  “Ain’t the way I heard it,” Faylene remarked dryly.

  “Okay, so the thing is, how are we going to get them together? The box suppers won’t start again for another few weeks, and I already asked him about his taxes.”

  “And?”

  “And I botched it. He thought I was being nosy.”

  “You were, but you’re usually slick enough to get away with it,” Marty said with a laugh. “You’re slipping, honey.”

  “You try being crafty when your ankle looks like a stuffed sausage
and you’ve got three broken nails on one hand.”

  “Why don’t you go natural? Nobody wears long red nails now. It’s not even considered retro. Besides, think of all you’d save in maintenance alone.” Marty admired her own French manicure.

  “Terrific. Next you’ll be wanting me to start wearing gingham.”

  “I can see it now. A ruffled gingham apron worn over a matching garter belt and bikini top.” Marty giggled.

  Marty never giggled. Now she not only giggled, she glowed.

  Sasha studied her frosted cherry nails—the ones she had left. “Do acrylic nails come in short natural? I told you about my shoe, didn’t I? The pink ankle-straps?”

  Marty shook her head. “I warned you about those things. This time it was only a sprain, but next time you might break your neck. Shoes like that weren’t even meant for walking, much less climbing stairs. And we’re talking sun-warped, outdoor stairs with cracks between the boards, right?”

  Faylene offered her own advice. “Be like me. I know how to dress sensible for work.”

  For as long as anyone could remember, the housekeeper’s summer uniform had been white sneakers, white shorts and suntan support hose worn, more often than not, with a pink shirt.

  “We all have to make the most of our natural attributes. Mine just happen to be small feet, nice ankles and good hair,” Sasha said.

  “Natural?” Marty jeered. “Yeah, like Mount Rushmore is natural.”

  “Besides,” Sasha continued, ignoring the interruption, “I don’t climb all that many stairs. I just had a few more of those three-story cottages this season on account of all the storm damage. And who’d trust a shabby-looking interior designer?”

  “We’re talking sensible, not shabby. White jeans and a halter, flip-flops and maybe a Hermes do-rag and you’ve got instant chic.”

  “Right, and I’d look like every other woman on the beach. Well…maybe not the Hermes scarf.” Sasha sighed.

  For as long as she could remember she’d loved playing dress-up, her imagination turning her mother’s faded cotton dresses into fancy ballgowns. Having been accused more than once of never having met an artifice she didn’t like, she’d never bothered to deny it. After dozens of makeovers she had found a style she really liked and stuck to it ever since. And while she might draw the line at silicon and botox, if dewlaps or wattles or cellulite ever seriously threatened, she would definitely go for liposuction—maybe even plastic surgery.

  Faylene said, “Long’s I’m here, I’ll just put in a load of laundry. Be back later this evening to put it in the dryer, so don’t you go messin’ around in my utility room, y’hear?”

  “When did I ever?” Sasha replied.

  Marty said, “You know, I’ve been thinking…that fund-raising yard sale that’s coming up? You reckon we could get them together there? There’ll be food stands and tables, almost like the box suppers.”

  “Jake lives in Manteo. He’d hardly come all this way for a local fund-raiser.”

  “Manteo’s not all that far. Besides, it’s for an underprivileged kids’ summer camp. Betcha he’ll go for it if he’s as good a guy as you say he is.”

  “Did I say that?”

  In the background, the washing machine began churning.

  “You sort of implied,” Marty said with a lift of one eyebrow.

  “I don’t know how you do that.” Sasha shook her head. “That one-eyebrow thing.”

  “It’s easy. You could do it, too, if yours were real instead of penciled on.”

  “Bless her heart,” Faylene said, drying her hands on the seat of her shorts as she rejoined them, “It comes from all that waxing she gets done. Last time they slipped up and did her eyebrows along with her legs and I don’t know what-all. You get you one o’ them Brazilian jobs?”

  Sasha tossed a teal-and-orange linen pillow at her. All three women began to giggle, and then the phone rang. Faylene was closest. “Want me to get that?”

  “Would you please?”

  “Lasiter residence, Faylene speaking.”

  “Who is it?” Sasha whispered. No matter how many quit-bothering-me lists she signed up for, she still got calls from tour groups, resort salesmen and political surveys.

  Faylene held the phone against her pink sequined chest. “Man says his name’s Smith. I think it’s him,” she whispered loudly. “He says he’s coming this afternoon to take you to get your car.” When she hung up, her smirk said it all. “Didn’t you say that guy’s name was Smith? The one you got picked out for Lily? He sure sounded like a twelve to me. I better go add the softener, I forgot to fill the cup.”

  “Way to go, gal!” Marty jabbed a fist in the air. “While you’ve got him here you can tell him about the kids’ day-camp fund-raiser and get him on the hook.” She gave her a knowing smirk. “Some folks believe in catch-and-release. Me, I never did.”

  Jake brushed a hand over his newly trimmed hair as he left the barbershop. His client, when he’d finally been able to reach her, had called off the dogs. All a big misunderstanding, according to Ms. J.

  Yeah. Sure it was.

  All the same, with the holiday weekend bearing down on them, the car wasn’t safe where it was.

  Which was how Jake came to be driving to Muddy Landing for the second day in a row, neglecting two new commissions, not to mention keeping up with the paint crew that was finishing up work on his side of the duplex. He put it down to a natural talent for procrastination, along with worrying about his son, who was shipping out any day now, and worrying about the Jamison case. Something didn’t feel right about it, but at this point it was out of his hands.

  He made a mental note to have Miss Martha return the retainer, and then his thoughts veered back along a familiar path.

  The phrase, “Out of the frying pan, into the fire,” came to mind. He switched on a Molasses Creek CD and tried to focus on the lament of a crabber’s woman.

  Five

  Marty had brought a cold pasta dish earlier and put it in the refrigerator. A size six, Marty had never met a carb she didn’t adore. Faylene had brought a can of corned beef hash and a bunch of loose-leaf lettuce from Bob Ed’s garden. Her culinary skills were notorious.

  So there was no real reason for Sasha to accept Jake’s offer of lunch at a seafood restaurant on the way to Kitty Hawk. “I had breakfast early,” he said. “Are you sure your ankle’s good to go?”

  Ignoring the question, she said, “So did I. I’m an early riser.”

  The truth was, her ankle still bothered her. As for her sleep patterns, those had been crazy for the past three days. Yesterday she had dozed on the sofa during the day, then lain awake half the night. When she finally fell asleep she dreamed.

  Oh, how she dreamed…!

  Jake had looked her over when she’d first let him in, his gaze moving slowly down her body to settle on her feet. She could have swatted him. For a change, she was wearing one of her few pairs of sensible shoes. Her three-inch cork platforms with flowered straps were the only shoes she could get on over her bandage.

  From the way he’d looked at her, she might as well have been wearing stilts.

  It had to be her imagination. Too much time on her hands.

  After carefully helping her into his SUV, his hands lingered on her arm. He said, “Listen, if you’re not up to this, just say so. Like I said, I can get Hack to drive your car to Muddy Landing. It’s practically on his way home since he lives in Moyock. The logistics might take some arranging, but we can work it out.”

  Sasha assured him she was feeling loads better. Actually, she was, until she’d overdone it. Just climbing up and down the stairs was exhausting enough without plowing through the spare room that doubled as a warehouse, looking for the set of framed patent medicine advertisements from a 1920s magazine she’d bought at a yard sale last year. Matted and reframed, they’d be perfect for the suite of doctors’ offices she was doing.

  They talked shop on the way to Kitty Hawk. Her shop, not his. As it turned o
ut, Jake was a private investigator as well as a security expert. Evidently, private investigators discussed their work only on a need-to-know basis.

  It wasn’t his work she needed to know about as much as it was the man himself. For all her experience with the opposite sex, she had never met any man who affected her the way this one did. He was sweet, but not smarmy sweet. Sexy without even trying. She could hardly look at him without wondering what he would be like as a lover.

  The curse of an inquiring mind!

  By the time they were shown to a table in the beachfront restaurant, Sasha was practically salivating, which wasn’t like her at all. It must be a lingering side effect of the painkillers she’d taken the first day and then dumped.

  Once seated, she announced to the waitress, “I’ll start with dessert. Then, if I’m still hungry, I might have something healthy. Lemon chess pie, please.”

  Jake looked at her across the table, scattering her feeble defenses with a lazy grin. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Judging from the looks the waitress was giving him, Sasha wasn’t the only one who’d like a large serving of Jake.

  Without even glancing at the menu he ordered the fried oyster basket. She opened her mouth to ask if it was true what they said about oysters, then closed it before she could make a fool of herself. Any more of a fool, that was.

  “You were serious,” he said after the waitress left. “About having dessert first.”

  She fluttered a battery of false lashes. “I’m always serious.”

  He stared at her. She fluttered again. And then they both started laughing. “Don’t make me wrinkle my eyes,” she protested, “these things aren’t foolproof.”

  “You mean those centipedes circling your eyes aren’t real?”

  “Absolutely, they’re real. They’re the best money can buy, but the glue’s not guaranteed against squinting or crying.”