Carolina Girl (8 page)

“His kind doesn’t hang around long,” Cissy
warned. “He’ll play at helping for a while, then lose a battle and
disappear on that hog of his.”

Rory knew her sister was speaking from experience.
Mandy’s father had been a college student who’d worked on the
yachts in the harbor one summer. He hadn’t been from around here and
hadn’t been seen since. Outsiders stayed and played for a while, but they
seldom lingered. There wasn’t anything here for them.

“I won’t count on McCloud,” Rory promised.
“I just need him to hide the names of the Bingham heirs until I get some
zoning changes.”

“Ain’t gonna happen.” Standing, Cissy
limped toward the bedroom door. “Money talks, and you’ll be in the
way.”

Her sister sounded just like Clay. When had Cissy grown so
cynical?

Going back to her budget file, Rory studied the contents,
planning some way of presenting her case that would make sense to zoning
commissioners with dollar signs in their eyes.

If she’d thought of gas stations and minimarts, there
were others out there dreaming even bigger dreams. Best to nip those big dreams
before someone started acting on them.

o0o

Emerging from Cleo’s Hardware bright and early Monday
morning, carrying a new wrench to replace one of Jake’s he’d
broken, Clay halted in the shade of a magnolia at the sight of a familiar head
of sun-red hair in the street down the block. Seeing people standing in the
middle of the road around here wasn’t unusual. Aurora’s rigid
stance struck him as curious, though. She was wearing one of her business suits
again, with her hair all prim and proper, but the image of gauzy skirts and
braids was indelibly imprinted on his mind. He’d spent the weekend
fighting the urge to see what she was up to since she hadn’t called.

Sauntering in the direction of what appeared to be a
confrontation, he studied the other party involved. Tall, blond, and rich, he
diagnosed from the expensive cut of the man’s suit and the way he stood
with hand in pocket, suit jacket pulled back at a
GQ
angle. Also hot and
irritated, he gathered, recognizing the way Mr.
GQ
gestured curtly with
his free hand, stepping away from Rory as she spoke.

Clay got a kick out of watching Aurora’s Southern
version of dynamite, but this jerk didn’t seem quite as fascinated.
“Get real, Rora,” the jerk was saying when Clay came within
earshot. “We need a property tax base out there if we’re to make
any improvements.”

He didn’t think he should be eavesdropping, but it
wasn’t as if Mr.
GQ
was exactly quiet about his tirade. Standing
in the shade on the sidewalk, he waited to see how Aurora replied. Given their
discussion of last week, he figured she had already started to cut a swath
through the planning commission. Unlike him, she seemed to have no problem
getting involved or believing she could stop city hall.

“The cost of overdevelopment will be greater than any
revenue from your so-called property tax base,” she answered heatedly.
“Read your economics, Jeff. Building a base slowly and with planning for
the future will benefit the area far more.”

Clay didn’t like the sound of “building a
base” much better. What about the turtles? And the sweetgrass?

“The place is a swamp filled with losers and
misfits,” Mr.
GQ
replied with scorn. “The sooner we’re
rid of them and building something constructive, the sooner we can have cash
flow. I thought you, of all people, would understand that.”

“Why, no, Jeff,” she answered in mock
incredulity, “Ah’m just a loser and misfit, how could Ah
possibleah
understand what’s goin’ through the minds of brilliant men like
yourself? Cash flow! Imagine that. Ah’ll be certain to keep that in mind
come election day.”

Clay could hear the fury behind her syrupy drawl and
wondered if it was the insult or the danger to her hidden agenda that raised
it. She might tickle his hormones, but that didn’t mean she’d fried
his brains into forgetting she had something up her sleeve besides turtles.

“You won’t be here come election day,”
Jeff shouted in frustration, “and your swamp rats don’t vote. Drop
it, Rora, and do everyone a favor. The park will bring in business, and
there’s no reason to block progress.”

Thinking the balled-up fist at Aurora’s side probably
wasn’t a good sign, although he applauded the emotion behind it, Clay
sauntered over to join the fray. He wasn’t much on politics, but he
suspected Aurora’s anger didn’t bode well for the turtles if she
was already antagonizing the people whose aid they needed.

“I’ll have to tell Jared the locals call him a
swamp rat,” he offered as both combatants turned at his approach.
“I’m sure he can turn that into a juicy item for his strip. He wields
a mean pen.”

“Your brother is a property owner, so he doesn’t
qualify as a rat,” Aurora explained in a tight voice. “Jeff’s
referring to my father and Grandma Iris and the squatters out there. Homeless
people, they call them in the city. Except here they have homes. They just
don’t pay for them.”

He
really
didn’t want to get into that.
He’d much rather punch smug Mr.
GQ
in his square jaw. He
couldn’t remember ever wasting energy in street brawls, but he flexed his
muscles menacingly, just to keep
GQ
in his place. He couldn’t
think of anything to add to the conversation, so he just watched the worm
wiggle in silence.

Aurora picked up on his vibrations instantly. Clay bit back
a snicker at the evil eye she gave him, but she made the introductions without
comment. “Jeff, Clay McCloud. Clay is the state’s computer expert
for the park. Clay, Jeff Spencer. He’s an officer of the Community Bank
and on the zoning commission.”

“The commission is elected?” Clay asked with
feigned ignorance.

“Of course not,” they both answered in unison,
looking at him as if he were an ignoramus.

Again Aurora caught on quickly. Clay didn’t think she
was admiring his unfastened denim vest or bare chest with the look she shot
him, but he smirked as if she had. She rolled her eyes and returned to the
debate. He was getting a kick out of matching wits with a woman who could see
right through him—and who didn’t mind looking.

“Jeff is running for town council. I asked him to
support our petition against rezoning the island until an environmental study
can be done.”

He didn’t know they had a petition, but he was sure
they’d have one the minute they got out of this street. “Fair
enough. I’ll get Cleo on it. C’mon, we’ll go talk to her. She
knows all the swamp rats and every other rodent up and down the coast. Great
meeting you, Jeffy!”

Not giving the puffed-up banker a chance to retaliate, Clay
grasped Aurora’s elbow and all but dragged her out of the middle of the
road to the shaded sidewalk. Keeping the momentum, he marched her back up the
road to the hardware store. He figured she was too steamed to speak, and
he’d like to keep it that way as long as possible.

Actually, he kind of liked holding her elbow and having her
match him stride for stride. Upon occasion he’d absentmindedly outwalked
frilly women who minced about in high heels.

He was much too conscious of Aurora’s in-your-face
presence to forget her. Her floral fragrance wafted around him, and he sneaked
a peek at the way her thigh-high skirt slid up her leg. He was damned glad she didn’t
wear jeans like every other woman in the universe. Pity it wasn’t a
little leather number instead of another of her business suits. If he kept his
thoughts purely on sex, he wouldn’t have to wonder what in hell he
thought he was doing.

“This had better be good, McCloud,” she muttered
as he shoved open the old-fashioned wooden door of Cleo’s store.

Ignoring her threat, Clay shouted for his sister-in-law
while steering Aurora through the maze of paint cans and lawn tools to the
counter in the back of the store.

A head shorter than both of them, her short copper curls
tousled from her habit of running her hand through them, Cleo eyed their
approach with the same skeptical expression Clay normally wore. Seeing it,
Aurora laughed out loud and pulled away from his hold.

“Hi, I’m Rory Jenkins, and I bet you’re
Clay’s ever-suffering sister-in-law. I’ll haul him right back out
of here, if you like.”

The normally stoic Cleo almost broke a smile at that.
Lifting rounded eyebrows in Clay’s direction, she held out her hand to
shake Aurora’s. “Deal. Keep him away from the Monkey, throw him in
the harbor occasionally, and I’ll do whatever it is you want.”

“A petition. We can keep a page here on the counter. I
want the zoning commission to hold off on any rezoning on the island until an
environmental study has been completed.”

“You got it.”

Clay glared at Cleo’s smug expression as she cleared a
stack of advertising brochures from the cluttered counter, but he didn’t
have to care what anyone thought. He just wanted...

What the hell did he want? Certainly not another MBA with a
hidden agenda, although he was beginning to suspect Aurora didn’t hide
much. He just wanted to save the swamp.

No wonder Aurora had rolled her eyes at him earlier. Even
he
didn’t believe that. He shoved his hands in his back pockets and held his
tongue.

“I appreciate that.” Rory produced a file from
the bag slung over her back, removed several sheets of paper from it, and set
it on the cleared space. “Anywhere else you’d suggest leaving
one?”

“The Monkey, Kate’s restaurant, and the
bookstore. Why don’t you give me a few of those? Jared can run them by
the schools and the yacht club, and get some of the hunters and fishermen into
this.”

“You are a saint!”

Clay watched in amazement as she produced still another
stack of papers from the bottomless bag. Maybe this wasn’t an intelligent
idea after all. Cleo and Aurora in one room could ignite explosions.

On second thought, he’d always liked fireworks.

“Bring me back a hamburger. I’ll be making a few
phone calls.” Cleo tucked a petition into a pocket of her tool belt and
turned an expression brimming with mischief on Clay. “I leave you in good
hands.”

He wasn’t at all certain who was in whose hands, but
he felt a need to assert himself a little more forcefully than usual as Aurora
started toward the door without him.

Catching up with her, he took her elbow again, opened the
door, and pushed her out. “I think that went well, don’t
you?” he asked dryly.

“I think I’m going to like working with you,
McCloud,” she replied, taking off down the street, heedless of his hold
on her. “You’re so damned predictable.”

Predictable
? He was a friggin’
genius
.
Geniuses weren’t predictable, were they? His ex had called him an
uncommunicative sphinx in one of her better tirades. Other women had cooed and
called him mysterious and enigmatic—or the ones with a vocabulary had,
anyway.

He hadn’t done a damned thing except take her to Cleo.

Maybe he’d better make a few ground rules clear before
they got started—like that she should tell him what in hell kind of
petition they were carrying around, and why. If he blindly trusted an MBA, he
could be signing away his rights to live and breathe.

“Coffee.”

Without asking for her opinion, McCloud steered Rory down
the next block, in the direction of the concession stand at the harbor.
Unaccustomed to being hustled around in quite that manner, she wasn’t
prepared with an effective protest. She had a cup of coffee in her hand and
McCloud at a picnic table across from her before she could decide if she even
wanted coffee, much less whether she wanted to share it with him.

Staring at Clay’s bronzed, nearly bare chest, she had
to admit she didn’t mind sitting here, admiring the view. He didn’t
have a spare ounce of fat anywhere she could see. She’d certainly never
had opportunities like this at the bank. Men in suits were interchangeable
obstacles to overcome, but Clay’s lean abs stirred thoughts she
hadn’t had in a long, long time.

Except the family bad luck with the opposite sex had made a
large impression on her psyche. She didn’t do casual sex. It was a
committed relationship or nothing for her, and she and McCloud had no basis for
even basic friendship. The man was not only not her type, but he was obnoxious
about proving it.

“You had something you wanted to say?” she
taunted, since he said nothing. She was used to men who grabbed the
conversation and ran, as if it were their goal to keep the conversational ball
in their court. Clay’s silences made an interesting change of pace. She scratched
idly at the vendor’s contest ticket that declared she could be an instant
winner and uncovered the inevitable
Try again
.

“I thought you might like to tell me about those
petitions.” He sipped his coffee and watched her through narrowed eyes.
“I thought you
wanted
development out there.”

A gull squalled from the sandy playground behind them. The
outboard motor of a sailboat chugged sluggishly as it backed out of a docking
station. People strolled the boardwalk along the harbor and sat at tables on the
restaurant patios above. In this idyllic setting, she had no reason to fear the
tall man sitting across from her. She supposed she ought to, since he’d
just hauled her down here like a dog on a leash.

Only she’d learned from her father not to judge people
by their appearances. It would be a lot easier if she could label Clay McCloud
a biker or beach bum, sniff, and not give him the time of day. He certainly
worked at maintaining the look: sun-bleached, uncut hair, three-day-old beard
shading his angular jaw, denim vest, cutoff jeans, and sandals.

But she’d seen his high-tech computer and the
programming language and his reluctant fascination with the turtles. She
suspected there was more to this man than readily met the eye.