Fugitive Heart (2 page)

Nick sank into a crouch, resting on his heels. Eventually he’d have to go into town and interact with other people, but he had no desire to face anyone before he had to.

The women knocked again. They even rattled the doorknob. He could hear their surprise when they discovered it locked. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

Eventually they clattered off the porch, still talking. He strained his ears and for a moment felt dismay that they were chattering about “the back porch”. Except, no, they weren’t trying another approach to this house—there was no back porch, just a door off the kitchen. Their words made no sense until he remembered seeing a sign for a Back Porch Diner in town. That was where the crowds would gather to plan their next attack on the new neighbor, he supposed. Women offering plastic containers of food and aluminum-covered cakes.

He laughed, and the sound echoed in the nearly empty room. After a lifetime of dealing with the fallout from his father leaving the “family business” and then the whole nonsense with Elliot, no wonder Nick had gone over the paranoid edge. There wasn’t some kind of conspiracy, just a bunch of bored, curious locals stopping by the house.

Probably.

Nick went back to searching the house—Elliot’s “safe place” maybe meant an actual safe. Nick had bought a shovel. Time to start digging in the dirt basement.

Nick started in the far corner, where the dirt was darker, and dug down at least two feet per hole. He was on his fifth unpleasant hole when the floorboard over his head creaked.

He froze, held his breath, listened. Footsteps crossed the floor, moving from the front of the house toward the back. The tread sounded too light for the person to be one of the thugs he’d half expected to show up on his doorstep. On the other hand, no one was calling out a welcome to announce their presence. And, damn it, his gun was upstairs in the bedroom where he’d left it.

He hefted the shovel in his hands, turning the spade head up so he could use it as a weapon; then he crept to the stairs and slowly began to ascend, catching his breath every time one creaked.

Crap, he should probably just stay put in the basement. If this home intruder had a gun, he was screwed. There was an exit from the basement to the outside—one of those old-fashioned, slanting doors. He should probably have used it and hidden out in the woods until the house was clear. But he was nearly at the top of the stairs now. Through the partially open door, he caught a glimpse of someone moving. He drew a breath and leaped out into the hallway, brandishing the shovel.

A shriek pierced his ears, and a woman whirled to face him. Her eyes were so wide the whites showed almost all the way around. Blue eyes. Cornflower blue and fringed with thick lashes. Brown curly hair, cut shoulder length. Short, compact build and neat, even features. Not beautiful but cute, especially with that little uptilt at the tip of her nose. Clearly not someone who’d been sent to kill him.

Not unless the Espositos were radically changing their hiring practice for contract killers. Plus, she was carrying yet another covered container—one she appeared about ready to throw at him as she gasped in alarm.

Immediately he realized the shovel must look like a weapon to her. He lowered the spade head to the floor.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Where I come from, people don’t usually come into your house without knocking.” He frowned. “How’d you get in anyway? The front door’s locked.”

Chapter Two

“Um.” In the face of the New Yorker’s frightening glare, Ames found she’d completely lost her power of speech. She couldn’t remember her own name, let alone what had possessed her to break into a stranger’s house. She tried to regain that righteous indignation she’d felt as she’d fished the key from her pocket. Her house. Not his. He was the interloper here.

“I…” she began again, then got distracted by his sheer magnetic presence. The rumors of his hotness had not been exaggerated. He was tall, lanky, dark-haired and brown-eyed. No, not brown. Almost black and with a gaze so intense she felt as if all her clothes had magically disappeared and she was standing there naked. Her face burned, and she fought the urge to fold her arms over her breasts. Not that he was staring at her chest or anything. He was looking into her eyes—deep into her eyes, mesmerizing her like headlights did a stupid deer. She’d walked right onto the highway just because she thought she owned the road.

Anyway, she couldn’t cross her arms because she clutched a Tupperware of fried chicken. Mutely, she thrust the container at him like an offering to some wild and foreign pagan god—and where the hell had that image come from? “Chicken,” she muttered. “From the Back Porch. Where I work.”

The broken fragments of speech were better than nothing and seemed to be enough for now. He leaned the shovel handle against the wall and reached to take the chicken. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She glanced down the hallway toward the front door, wishing she could run for the rectangle of sunshine. “I’m sorry I let myself in. I did knock and call out, but no one answered and there was no car here, so I thought you might be, I don’t know, in town or something. So I came in. Because I have the key.”

“Why do you have the key to my house?” His low, sexy voice purred like some big car engine, a little rough and in need of tuning but oh so powerful.

“The neighbor, Mrs. Landry, gave it to me ages ago. I was in and out so much, measuring rooms and windows, that she finally just gave me the key so I could let myself in.”

“So, what, you’re like some interior decorator or a contractor or something hired by the realty company?” His frown deepened, knitting his straight black brows together.

“No. It was… This house was supposed to be mine. I was buying it. Or, I mean, saving up to buy it. And then Jenny made a deal without talking to me first.”
The bitch
, she thought.

“Then you knew the house is occupied?” He glanced down at the Tupperware container in his hands as if trying to decide whether to shove it back at her. “But you came in anyway.”

Ames knew her cheeks were fire-engine red. She could feel the blood burning in them. “It was stupid. I apologize. I just wanted to…to see the place one more time before you got really moved in. I thought you were gone, so I took the opportunity.”

He moved toward her—no, sauntered or maybe stalked was the right word. His long legs glided over the floorboards, which creaked beneath his weight. Ames found herself wanting to take a step backward, but she stayed rooted to the spot until he was right in front of her, looking down into her eyes, making her feel like a mouse facing off against a tomcat. A tomcat with a devastating gaze and a scruff of stubble on his jaw that, for just an instant, she imagined rubbing roughly against her own cheek.

“I’m sorry I took your house.” One corner of his mouth slightly quirked upward.

“I’m sorry I broke into yours.” She smiled back and an odd moment of connection flashed between them.

He dipped his head, acknowledging her guilt. “Well, anyway, thanks for the chicken. It smells good.”

The deep-fried scent rose between them, a small barrier of crispy crackly goodness.

“It is good. Gopher’s secret recipe. Been in his family for generations or so he claims, but I have my doubts. He’s the cook at the Back Porch. Where I work. Oh, I already told you that. I’m Ames, by the way.” Why was she babbling? At first she’d barely been able to squeeze out two words, and now she couldn’t seem to stop talking.

“Sam Allen.” He freed one of his hands from the Tupperware and stuck it out.

She took it. His palm was still warm from holding the container of chicken. Or maybe it was always that temperature. Either way, his warmth roused an answering heat in her.

She wanted to rub her hand on her jeans to dispel the sensation, but that might look rude and she’d done enough of that lately. “Okay, then. Sorry to invade your house like I did, and welcome to Arnesdale. It’s a real friendly place.”

“Yeah, I got that. A lot of food involved.”

She smiled. “If you’re a bachelor, you may never have to cook for yourself again.”

Oh great, now she sounded like Missy, sniffing around to see if he was married or not. She hadn’t meant it like that. Or maybe she had. A little.

“Hm.” He stared down at the container. “You could do me a huge favor by spreading the word among the townsfolk that I really prefer to be left alone. I don’t want them to think I’m unappreciative, but I like my privacy. Could you do that for me?”

“Um, sure. I understand. You like your privacy. This place is like a retreat for you.” She wondered what he was retreating from. Looking past his hotness, she noticed his mouth was tight at the corners. He didn’t seem like a man at ease. In fact, she’d go so far as to say his eyes appeared haunted or at least worried. She knew that expression well. She’d seen it in the mirror often enough over the past couple of years.

“A retreat? Sure. Something like that.” His tone was telling her she’d outstayed her welcome, and he led the way to the front door, leaving her no choice but to follow.

“I’ve always thought of this place as a haven. It’s been abandoned for years, as you can probably tell from its dilapidated state. But the house has so much potential. I had big plans for renovations. Not that I could afford them all at once, but I figured over the years I’d restore it to the beauty it must have been at the turn of the century. I can just see a big, sprawling family living here back then, the rooms filled with kids and pets and laughter. I’m a huge fan of Victorian houses, and I imagined painting the outside lilac with dark purple, green and yellow trim, which I know sounds weird, but that’s the kind of colors they’d use back then. They called the houses ‘painted ladies’.”

Right. Speaking of Victorian times, apparently her tongue was like a runaway horse. She couldn’t bring it back under control.

“Yeah?” he said, and that was enough to set her off again.

“My brother and I used to come here. The house was abandoned when I was about ten, and we wanted to check it out. We didn’t figure it mattered if we broke in and made it our clubhouse. It was great when we were kids. Our own private place. But about middle school Elliot got too cool to hang out with me. He brought his friends here to get high, and they trashed the place. Then a local cop on patrol saw a light flickering in here at night, caught the boys and kicked them out before they could burn it down. We both stopped going here after that. Then someone cleaned it up, moved in for a while as a tenant.”

“You and…Elliot?” Allen said.

“My brother.” She paused by the front door, a hand resting on the knob. “God, you must think I’m crazy babbling on like this. I guess I just wanted you to know this place is special. I hope you come to care for it as much as I have. Just thinking about all the history here is—” She cut herself off with a laugh. “I’m doing it again. Sorry. I’ve got no business telling you what you should feel about your new house.”

“Not at all. I’d like to hear more about the house. You’ve already made me appreciate it more than I did. Honestly, looking around the place, I was beginning to think moving here was a big mistake.” He looked at the plastic container still clutched in his hand. “Hey, if you’re not in any hurry, why don’t you stay and share this chicken with me and tell me more about Arnesdale?”

She looked from him to the sunny day outside. Part of her wanted desperately to run away and hide until she recovered from the humiliation of being caught poking around a stranger’s house, but the rest of her was clamoring that chicken with Mr. Sam “Hotness” Allen was an excellent way to spend what would otherwise be a boring afternoon off.

She weighed her options: laundry and housecleaning or lunch with a handsome, mysterious stranger. “Sure. I’m always up for some of Gopher’s fried chicken. Secret family recipe or box mix, it’s good.”

Ames followed the New York stranger toward the kitchen of the house—from now on she’d have to stop calling it her house—and marveled at the unexpected turn this run-of-the-mill day had taken. Mysterious handsome strangers didn’t land in Arnesdale, ever. What was Sam Allen all about and what had brought him to this quiet backwater?

Chapter Three

Elliot. It wasn’t an extremely common name and this was a small town. How many Elliots could there possibly be, especially ones who had used this house as a getaway when he was a kid?

Ames sure talked a lot, and so had Elliot. If she was his sister, the house they grew up in must have been a noisy place. She was more entertaining than her brother, though.

“Why are you grinning?” she asked.

“Private joke. So what’s your last name? I forgot.”

“Jensen.”

Bingo. She’d confirmed what he already knew to be true. He now had a direct link to Elliot, which might help him uncover his old pal’s secret hiding place.

She tilted her head. “Do you hate the name or something?”

Since when did his face give away his thoughts? Answer: it didn’t. Usually. “Not at all. Just thought of something else.”

“Another private joke?” Her smile showed dimples. Curly hair, dimples—why did Ames look familiar? She didn’t remind him of Elliot, although her last name confirmed the relationship.

Of course—that girl in the movie he’d watched at four a.m. in some crappy motel, the night after his world turned to shit. “Hey, anyone ever tell you that you look like Shirley T—”