Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena) (9 page)

T
he next week, Dax went out for a run. The cold wind slapped him around and stole his breath, but it did nothing to settle the unease that had been gnawing at his brain all week.

Staring at the walls of his rental was driving him nuts, and Dax was itching to get back in the action, back to the adrenaline rush of a life that left him too busy and too spent to ponder stuff he shouldn’t be pondering. Which was the only reason he could come up with for why he was running toward town hall, looking for a certain food cart.

Sure, he still had no idea how he was going to get to PT tomorrow. And he’d scrolled through his phone, a lesson in why it was important to keep up with old friends, because the only people in there who weren’t family lived in San Diego or were stationed in another country.

He would have asked Emerson, except he didn’t have her number either. The one she’d given him always went to voice mail—as though he was sent there. So he’d woken before the sun, set up camp on his porch, and waited so he could ask her. Hoping to catch her dropping off his food and sneaking away, a direct violation of their agreement—which she’d been directly violating since Monday.

Mission failed. The five-foot-nothing piece of work had outsmarted him. Again.

Oh, she’d been to his house, day three of her little color-coded containers in the freezer bag on his porch were proof, but she must have waited for him to hop in the shower before ringing the bell. Rookie mistake. And one he wasn’t going to make again.

So he was headed off to hunt her down.

He ran up Main Street in a hard sprint on his second pass, and when he still didn’t spot the Pita Peddler, he continued on past the
sheriff’s station, not slowing down until he reached the wine and chocolate bar on the far side of downtown. According to his investigation, a
sneaky little Greek goddess subleased the kitchen space behind the bar.

He pushed through the front door and entered what could either be a bar or a high-priced brothel. The past-midnight lighting and deep red velvet accents had him thinking it was the latter, until a warm w
ave of nutty chocolate and fruity goodness wafted past, and if he closed his eyes, he could even detect a hint of fresh-baked pita. He was in the right place.

“Good afternoon?” He phrased it as a question, because the place looked empty.

A frosted bun poked up from under the counter, followed by a set of assessing eyes. They ran the length of him, taking in his mirrored wraparound sunglasses, lack of shirt, and excess of tattoos. “It sure is now. You here about my melons?”

Dax wasn’t sure if the woman was senile, hitting on him, or just plain crazy, but he stared her in the eye, avoiding the melons at all costs, which were sagging on display. “I thought this was a wine bar.”

“We dip too, anything that goes with chocolate. Only the last batch of melons were overripe and the supplier said he’d send his guy out.” She looked at him, hopeful.

“Sorry, wrong guy.”

“Huh.” She smoothed down her
LET’S GET CORKED AND SCREW
tee, tugging it to make sure the letters were readable. “Well, it ain’t my birthday,” she said, sounding genuinely perplexed when she looked at the calendar to find that, no, it was not. Then she caught sight of his running pants, stared at the seams for a good, long time, and grinned the kind of grin that had Dax squirming in his shoes. “You’re the new entertainment for the panty raid next week. Clovis said she’d let me test out the top picks.” She reached under the counter and came up with a smartphone. “Can I film it for my website? Business purposes, you understand.”

Dax took in his attire and understood that he resembled a cast member from
Magic Mike
. “Not that guy either,” he said, pulling his tee from the waistband and sliding it over his head, but he heard a few clicks of the camera. “I was just out for a run and forgot to put my shirt on.”

“Well, if you aren’t here to squeeze my melons or strip, then what can I do for you?” she asked, but he noticed she still had her phone out, still aimed and still ready to roll, as though this was part of the skit and he was about to rip off his pants.

“I’m here to see the resident cook.” He took out the business card Emerson had given him the other day.

The woman’s eyes narrowed, her smile fell, and she mumbled something about “even in a cork costume” and shoved her phone back under the counter. “Of course you are.”

“Is she around?”

“Nope,” she said, her face carefully neutral, but her tone told him that even if she were, her answer would be the same.

“Do you have a number I can reach her?”

She crossed her arms and her eyes went on stranger-danger alert. “Cute as you are, Sexpot, I’m not in the habit of playing matchmaker or giving out private info to tourists.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Dax said sweetly, pouring on the charm. “And I’m not a tourist.” Not really. “The name’s Dax.”

He reached out his hand. When she just looked at his outstretched offering as though it were a grenade with the pin pulled, he leaned forward and to the side slightly, to engage her while coming off as a nonthreat. “I hired Miss Blake to do some cooking for me while I’m in town.”

Nothing changed in her stance, then suddenly her face went bright, like the light had been flipped on, and she snapped her fingers. “Oh my word, I didn’t recognize you with all those clothes on.”

That was the last thing Dax expected to hear.

“Why, you’re Marie Baudouin’s youngest,” she said, and Dax felt that familiar unease that always accompanied talking about his mother. He never knew what to say or how to feel. His mother had been beloved by everyone in St. Helena.

Except Dax. He’d only been two when she died. Outside of pictures and stories, he didn’t really know anything about her, which made reminiscing difficult. And awkward since people expected him to carry that same torch of fondness for the woman they knew and loved.

“She’d be happy knowing the last one of her boys has come home, God rest her soul.”

And there it was, the look that always followed the mention of his mom. It was one of respect and warmth, as if all he had to say was that he was Marie’s and people accepted him immediately as family. Which was why he avoided bringing attention to that fact when he was home. But today he needed to talk to Emerson, convince her to take him to PT so he wouldn’t be stuck listening to Frankie talk about the most effective pregnancy positions. And if knowing he was Marie’s helped convince the gatekeeper he was harmless, a legit customer and not some pervy stalker, then he’d go with it.

“The last time I saw you, you had on diapers and were dragging around a doll.”

“Action figure,” he clarified. “A G.I. Joe
action figure
.”

“Your mom was at chemo and I was babysitting. You cried the whole time because your brothers wouldn’t let you in their blanket fort.” She reached out her hand and Dax, making a mental note to punch his brothers later, shook it.

“Ida Beamon,” she said. “I’m too old to babysit, but I still play bunko with your great-aunt Lucinda and Frankie. Although Frankie’s too busy with her husband to make it to the game much anymore.” She leaned in and whispered, “You know he’s Italian.”

Yes, and he’d heard enough for one lifetime about his brother-in-law’s prowess, but thankfully Ida was already moving on. “I heard you were back in town. The ladies down at the pool canceled senior water aerobics when they read on the Facebook that you were jogging up and down Main Street topless. I had a lady doctor visit that day, so I had to miss the excitement.” She gave him a thorough examination. “Wait until they hear I got a private showing.”

Unsure of how to respond, he asked, “So you want to help me out and tell me where I can find Emerson?”

“You should come to Blow Your Cork on Saturday. It’s a single's heaven.
And
ladies’ night.” She gave him an appreciative shimmy of the cantaloupes. “You’d start a riot. The other night it was so hopping the fire marshal came by.” She pulled out a VIP card and slid it across the bar top. “Just drop my name and this will get you in free of charge. Or you could just come with your aunt.”

“People pay a cover charge in St. Helena?” Dax had a hard time picturing any establishment in a town of six thousand asking for a head fee. Almost as hard as it was to picture his seventy-year-old aunt coming to a club.

“Only the tourists,” she said as though he were mentally chal
lenged. “But if you’re looking for Emerson, she caters all of our events.”

“Thanks,” Dax said, pocketing the card. “But I was hoping to talk to her before she delivered my next batch of food.”

“Seems pretty important to you.” Ida leaned forward. “You sure this is just about her flipping your flapjacks?”

At this point, Dax wasn’t sure what it was—only that he wanted to find her. Normally he’d have cut out of there the second Ida brought up his mom. But something about Emerson playing stealthy ticked him off—and turned him on.

Hell, at this point he was so bored and antsy, he’d rather spend his day searching down his chef than sitting on the couch watching television. So here he was, chasing her down with no clue as to what he’d do once he caught her. “I’m sure.”

“Her number’s in the phone book,” Ida said.

“Already tried that one, it goes to an answering machine.” Which she either wasn’t checking or had selective caller block installed.
“
Tried her cell too.
”

“Only two reasons a woman like that doesn’t return your calls,” Ida said. “Either she’s playing coy.” Not likely—Emerson didn’t know the meaning of
coy
. “Or she isn’t interested in what you’re selling.”

Or she knew it would mess with his head. Regardless of the reason, Dax was intrigued.

“But,” Ida went on, “because you showed me a little skin earlier, I’ll tell you that she has a home number that she always answers.” Ida pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled it down.

“Thanks.” A grin as wide as the valley split his face as Dax reached for the paper. Ida tapped her cheek, so he leaned across the counter and gave her a peck, then moved toward the door.

“But it’s Thursday so she won’t be home,” Ida called after him, and Dax stopped.

“You going to tell me where she is?”

That got a toothy grin. “That information will cost more than a kiss.”

“I’m not taking off my clothes,” Dax clarified, knowing that this little favor was going to cost him. That was how it worked in small towns. Ida did him a solid, and before he left, Dax would have to return the neighborly favor. He just hoped it had nothing to do with her melons.

“She closed up the cart early and headed to the community park.”

It took Dax less than three minutes to jog to the park and two seconds to locate his target.

His person of interest was huddled around one of the public barbecue pits at the far end of the park. Alone. Bent at the waist, her hands moving a mile a second, she was like a homing beacon, drawing him in.

Her hair was pulled through the back of a camouflaged ball cap, and she wore a sweater, also camo, that fell off one shoulder, revealing the thin strap of what his gut was telling him was a bra. Solid black. Like her skirt, which in her current ass-to-the-sky pose was pulled high enough to show him the curve of her cheeks and if the lace was a matching set—were it not for the camo leggings she had on underneath.

She should have looked ridiculous with that knockout body covered from head to her patriotic-themed Converse in multicamo. Instead she looked sporty and tough, while managing to crank the sexy to full throttle.

“Should you be running with your knee?” she asked, her eyes firmly affixed to what was happening in the barbecue.

Dax walked around to look at her from the front and found himself smiling. Her hat was pulled low. Not low enough to hide the way her face was pursed in concentration—or the ash smudges on her forehead and right cheek—but low enough to know she meant business. And since she was trying to light the pit with a hunting knife and a flint rock, he took a big step back.