Mad About You (62 page)

The paramedics arrived on the scene, checked Jasmine's vital signs, and pronounced her nearly fully recovered. Security succeeded in clearing the crowd, leaving only a knot of people closely associated with the hotel or with the governor, and Ladden. McDonald wanted Jasmine to go to the hospital, but she insisted she only needed rest and a hot shower.

"I'll drive you," Ladden said in unison with McDonald, which garnered him another glare from the governor.

Standing now and wrapped in one of the hotel's robes, her eyes darted back and forth between them. "I'll get a room here at the hotel, and I'll be fine."

"I'll walk with you," Ladden said in unison with McDonald. They traded glares again.

"Trey, would you excuse me and Mr. Sanderson for a moment? I'll be right there."

McDonald frowned, but nodded and moved out of earshot, although he stood behind Jasmine, within Ladden's line of vision.

Ignoring the other man, Ladden studied her eyes and drank in the contours of her pale face, his hands itching to pull her close. "Are you sure you're okay?"

She smiled and nodded, but her eyes welled. "Thank you, Ladden."

He bit his tongue hard. "Jasmine, if you start crying, I swear I'm going to scoop you up and carry you out of here, governor or no governor."

"I don't know what happened," she said. "I lost my balance, and I fell, and I can't swim—" She broke off in a choked voice.

Ladden sighed. "You're determined to make me do something McDonald will regret, aren't you?"

She shook her head and sniffed mightily.

"Better give me a smile since lover boy is getting nervous," he said lightly.

"I ruined your suit," she said miserably.

"It’s not Armani."

"Ladden, about this evening—"

"We'll talk about it some other time. You need rest."

She gave him a watery smile. "I'll call you tomorrow." Her chin went up. "Because I still want that rug."

Ladden glanced at McDonald, who looked as if he was ready to charge. "For
his
bedroom, I think the price just went up. You'd better get going."

He watched as she walked away with McDonald, his heart twisting when the other man wrapped a possessive arm around her waist. He'd lost her for the night... but at least he hadn't lost her for good.

Turning to leave, he nearly walked into the massive Duncan, who offered him a tight smile. "Mr. Sanderson, the governor has asked me to follow you home and make sure you arrive safely. And we need to have another little talk about Ms. Crowne."

* * *

"Our top news story this morning," the anchorwoman said, "is the near drowning that occurred last evening at the Shoalt Hotel during a political rally for Governor McDonald. The victim was none other than the governor's girlfriend, Jasmine Crowne, who reportedly cannot swim and fell into a pool by accident. It is not known if alcohol was a factor, but the story took an ironic twist when it was discovered that the man who pulled her from the water and resuscitated her is Ladden Sanderson, the same gentleman who only yesterday was linked romantically to Ms. Crowne by a bizarre message on several billboards on the bypass." The woman's mouth quirked. "Political analysts say this is yet another blow to Governor McDonald's image, and does not bode well for the upcoming election."

Cursing, Ladden turned off the television, then padded downstairs for his morning ritual of breakfast and paper on the porch. He hadn't slept well. He couldn't stop thinking about Jasmine... their dance, their kisses, the warmth of her body next to his... and the incredible terror he felt when he pulled her from the pool. God, how he'd wanted to be with her last night, just to watch over her.

The only good news, he decided when he opened the paper, was he didn't have a customized headline. The bad news was the featured photograph showed him reviving Jasmine, which to the casual reader looked as if they were locked in an intimate embrace.

Both Mrs. Matthews and Mrs. Hanover traipsed over to try and squeeze any tidbit of gossip they could out of him, but he managed to gloss over the details and dismiss the media's assertion that Governor McDonald's campaign had stumbled because of his "friendship" with Jasmine.

He was glad to be reopening the store today, he decided as he pulled his truck into the alley. Customers would help keep his mind off Jasmine. The rug expert would be stopping by, he remembered, and he needed to start making plans for his new store space.

It came as no surprise to him that the rug was once again spread over the table he'd been holding for Jasmine. He saluted as he walked by, closed the door connecting the storeroom and showroom, then picked up the phone and arranged for another antiques dealer to deliver the table to the governor's mansion. The last thing he needed was another run-in with McDonald, especially after Duncan's none-too-subtle threats last night.

The morning passed quickly. Business was brisk, with new customers who were curious and old customers who stopped by for coffee and gossip. And he had a barrage of phone calls from family and friends who wanted just the gossip, hold the coffee. He had managed to put the other strange incidents of the last few days out of his mind until the bell rang and Marie Davies walked in with a smile and her magnifying glass to inspect the rug.

Ladden stepped from behind the counter, feeling suddenly nervous about letting someone else examine the carpet. "Hello, Ms. Davies."

"Hello, Ladden." She peered over her half-glasses. "You're quite the celebrity, I hear."

"Don't believe everything you read."

"I've worked with Ms. Crowne on several occasions—a lovely woman, I'm so glad she's all right."

"So am I. In fact, Ms. Crowne is the designer who wants to buy the rug."

"For an account of hers?"

"Something like that."

"From your description of the carpet over the phone, I must admit, I'm very intrigued. Do you have any documentation?"

"No, but there was a small oil lamp in the same lot and it had these markings on it. I don’t know if it might help to date the rug." He handed her the symbols he’d written down.

She squinted at the markings. "There’s no date or numbering here. The only word I can make out is 'magic.'"

Magic?
He tucked his tongue into his cheek and reached for the paper. "My mistake—the lamp must be a toy. Give me a moment to retrieve the carpet. I, um, have trouble keeping up with it." He backed away with a smile and opened the door to the storeroom tentatively, his heart sinking when he saw the rug had once again scampered away. But this time he couldn't find it. He peered behind and under every piece of furniture, and after twenty minutes, he was ready to concede defeat.

"Is there a problem?" Ms. Davies poked her head through the doorway.

He shrugged sheepishly. "I can't find the carpet. I've been moving things around so much lately, I must have misplaced it."

"By chance, is that the rug?" Ms. Davies asked, her head tilted back.

Ladden followed her gaze and nearly swallowed his tongue. Indeed the rug was hugging the ceiling, a good thirty feet above their heads—and he had absolutely no idea how to retrieve it.

"Um, n-no, that's not it," he lied. He tucked the note on which he'd scribbled the foreign markings from the lamp back into his pocket. "I must have packed the carpet and simply forgotten. I don't want to take up any more of your time."

But she still stared at the ceiling. "How on earth did you get that carpet up there?"

"I-I didn't," he stammered. "I mean, it was already there."

"When you bought the place?"

He cleared his throat. "Uh-huh."

Her thin eyebrows rose. "You really should find a way to get it down. From here it looks Indian, and the markings are some of the most ancient I've seen." She nodded emphatically. "You could have a museum-quality piece up there."

"Thanks, Ms. Davies," he said, ushering her back into the showroom. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

"Call me when you find the rug," she said, "and when you get your hands on the carpet on the ceiling."

"Will do," he said, waving cheerfully, wondering what he'd tell Jasmine now about the rug she wanted for her boyfriend's boudoir. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Where's a genie when you need one?"

"Greetings, Master," a familiar voice said behind him.

Ladden froze and turned slowly to see Gene, new pajamas, same turban. "Hey, Gene. You could give a person the creeps the way you pop in and out of places."

"Did you need something, Master?"

Ladden lowered his voice to a menacing level. "As a matter of fact, buddy, I have a bone to pick with you. Leave Jasmine alone. We compared notes last night after you lured us to the men's room and locked us in. You're a weirdo, and if I see you around here or around Jasmine again, I'm going to call the police and have you hauled off to a looney bin, got it?"

The man's thick gray eyebrows knitted. "You were not happy to be alone with your princess?"

Ladden felt like shaking the man. "Not when it's so underhanded! What if she thinks I put you up to it? I'm lucky she's even speaking to me."

"Sometimes extreme measures are required." Gene grinned widely. "You saved her life, did you not?"

Frowning at the man's gleeful expression, Ladden answered warily. "Yes, but barely."

Gene scoffed. "I made sure you had plenty of time."

Ladden went completely still. "What are you saying?"

Another gap-toothed grin. "I arranged for Ms. Crowne to fall into the pool so you could save her life!"

"You what?"

"I knew she couldn't swim—"

Ladden cut off his words with a hand around his windpipe.
"You pushed her in?"
A red haze descended over his eyes and his stomach boiled. "She could have died because of you!"

"Master," the man sputtered in a strangled voice, "I knew... you would... save her... I cannot... take a life."

But Ladden only tightened his grip around the man's scrawny throat.

"Ladden, boy, what are you doing?" Ernie boomed behind him, then lunged between the men to break Ladden's death grip. Gene stumbled backward, coughing and gasping for air.

His uncle shook him by the shoulders. "Good thing I stopped by—you might have killed that man!"

Ladden was seething. "I might still."

"Pipe down," Ernie chided. "You have customers."

Gene straightened, his face sad and crumpled. "But Master, I only wanted you and your princess—"

"Shut up!" Ladden snapped. "Enough with the Master and the princess garbage! I'm calling the police." He charged to the phone, but when he put the handset to his mouth and turned around, the old man was gone.

"Where did he go?" Ernie asked, turning in a full circle, craning his neck.

With a loud sigh, Ladden replaced the phone. "The man's a lunatic—he has a way of disappearing." He ran his hand through his hair, his nerves frayed.

"What did he do?"

"He's been harassing Jasmine, and as good as admitted he pushed her in the swimming pool last night."

"The paper said she fell."

"The paper also insinuated she might have been drunk."

"Was she?"

"No!" Ladden slumped against an old desk. "What a damn mess."

"Yeah... well, Ladden, I came to deliver bad news," Ernie said soberly.

Ladden straightened. "What?"

"The health department inspector just closed down Tabby's."

Chapter Twelve

"SO TELL ME ABOUT this Sanderson guy," Trey said casually.

Jasmine glanced up in surprise. Intent on the brunch menu, Trey appeared scrupulously uninterested, but she wasn't fooled. Her body temperature spiked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, closing the menu and setting it aside, "is there or isn't there something going on between the two of you?"

She didn't need this—not after lying awake all night, confused and restless, reliving Ladden's kiss a hundred times, wallowing in the feelings he'd evoked. "Trey, don't tell me you're starting to believe the newspapers."

"No. I know the closest thing to the truth in the papers is the comics." He leaned forward. "But why didn't you tell me he drove you home the other night?"

Just yesterday, she'd seen a segment on television about how to tell if someone is evading the truth. She concentrated on not doing any of those things. "Why didn't I tell you?" Oops—repeating the question was one of the signs. "Trey, election day is less than two weeks away. Why would I bother you with an insignificant detail about who dropped me off at my condo after my car was towed?" She manufactured a laugh—another telltale sign, then swallowed hard—yet another sign. "If I wanted to be clandestine about it, would I have ridden in a big old delivery truck with the name of his business written on the side?"

"Okay, okay, so I'm imagining things," he relented with a smile. "I guess I'm nervous about the wrap-up tour."

"You'll be great," she said with sincerity, touching his hand. "What time do you leave?"

"In about two hours. I'll have Elam fax you a copy of my itinerary."

Relieved they were on a more neutral topic, she nodded. Elam was probably just glad to get Trey out of her reach. A waiter took their orders, then they buttered miniature croissants.

"You gave me quite a scare last night," he said. "Are you sure you're feeling well?"

"Fine," she assured him. "And I'm signing up for swimming lessons next week. I'm sorry, Trey, I know the last couple of days have been somewhat of an embarrassment for you."

He shrugged. "I can't fault the guy's taste."

"You're being very gracious."

"I'm being very jealous."

Guilt stabbed her and she smiled to cover it. "There's no need."

"You're right." Trey shook his head, then raised his glass of juice. "As if you would be interested in a construction worker."