When Night Falls (22 page)

Then she turned and walked back to Roman. “Your brother hasn’t told you everything about the night Fred died, and it’s important that he does.”

“What?” Roman tensed, and his expression closed.

Uma knew instantly that Roman carried his own secrets and wasn’t releasing them to his brother.

“Ask him.” She pushed her torn dignity into a heap and marched out to the sidewalk.

“’Morning, Ms. Uma,” Lonny said uneasily.

“Lovely morning,” she returned on a sound that she hoped wasn’t a sob. She knew he’d never seen her so irrational or angry…and she’d been taught always to act like a lady. Uma had just thrown every bit of her mother’s “quality” teaching into the trash can and Mitchell had caused it. “How’s Irma?”

He looked at her warily. “Okay, I guess.”

“I’m glad. Please tell her that I said hello, will you? Why are you looking at me like that? Is there a problem?”

He blinked owlishly and glanced over her head to where Mitchell stood. “Uh. No. No problem.”

“Good. Then have a lovely day. See you.”

She didn’t turn when Mitchell said “Women” in that dark tone that somehow explained his thoughts about the whole sex.

Sex
. Her hand trembled on the steering wheel as she reversed; metal squeaked as her car pulled back from his pickup.
Oh, yes. They’d had plenty of sex, hadn’t they? That was something they both understood. But was there anything else in a man’s heart who could tell her to get out of his life so easily?

After driving a few feet, Uma pressed her foot to the brake,
and the car screeched to a stop.
How could she want Mitchell so, and how could he could slam all the doors of his life to her?

She shook her head and began driving again, only to stop the car abruptly.
How could she possibly understand him?

Uma gripped the steering wheel and slowly pulled a few more feet, before stopping with a screech of tires. She decided that—“While he’s mad, I may as well make him good and mad, because Dani deserves to know her grandmother. And because Grace didn’t deserve what she got. And because I know everything that happened.”

When Uma looked in her rearview mirror, she saw Mitchell, Roman, and Lonny standing in the street. They looked confused and uncertain. Lonny was scratching his head. Roman was standing hip-shot, bending to rub his damaged knee, and Mitchell was rubbing his forehead as if he had a headache. There was no reason for his obvious confusion. She was being perfectly logical after the man she’d made love to for two nights and who could be so endearing and sweet and tender had just told her to “get out.”

Oh, she would all right, but Dani and Grace deserved to know each other. “Men,” she said, using the same tone Mitchell had, and soared off to her home. Too angry to work, she sat down to write a searing Charis article on the benefits of releasing anger upon the one who has acted poorly. She inserted “justified” in front of “anger.” Yes, her anger with Mitchell was justified.

Later, Clyde crushed the roses in Pearl’s English garden. He needed the empty-headed twit, chattering all the time, pretending people actually listened to her. Right now, Pearl served his purpose—using her could bring Shelly and Uma right into his hands.

Too bad that Mitchell and Roman Warren had come to town. Too bad for them.

And Uma wasn’t taking hints, like the bullethole in her window, a perfect warning served at the same time thunder struck.

Soon, he’d have to stop warning and the games would end. Lauren was just the start, then that dimwit Pete Jones, who had asked for more money after the shooting. He shouldn’t have done that. No one messed with Clyde.

He tugged up his black gloves and smoothed his new tailored suit and adjusted his fedora, fueling the hatred inside him. Uma had to die, of course; she knew too much. And she’d only angered him by aligning herself with a Warren, and everyone knew they were bad news. Gossip about them ran through Madrid like wildfire.
Clyde really didn’t want Uma whoring. It wasn’t ladylike
.

Clyde skimmed his dapper appearance and thought about Walter, whom he had seen earlier, parked on the street outside his home. If Walter thought that the dying sunlight hid the gleam of his elegant hip flask as he tipped it high, he was wrong. Clyde had known Walter since childhood and knew his weaknesses.

Walter was apparently very angry, flinging the hip flask into Pearl’s garden. Obviously in pain, he eased out of the car and slammed the door. He rubbed his genitals as if they ached and cursed, “Bitch. That Uma is going to get what she deserves.”

Clyde watched Walter hobble up the elegant walkway. Apparently Uma was one woman with whom Walter could not score. Clyde had kept very close count of Walter’s affairs, because they’d make excellent blackmail fodder—when he chose to act.

The fever rose to hurt something, anything, now. Uma, Shelly, and Pearl would have to wait, because Clyde didn’t want to kill them without enjoying their fear…he rummaged for what would squeal and pleasure him and thought of Rosy, the Ferris’s pot-belly pig. Clyde had stepped in Rosy’s mess once, spoiling a perfect shoe shine.

Yes, Rosy was a perfect candidate for tonight.

“But I don’t need a dishwasher,” Shelly said as Roman and Mitchell muscled a dishwasher into her house. “I can’t afford one.”

“You can this one,” Dani said with a grin. “The old man tuned up a throwaway down at the church thrift shop and put a new hose in her. He sure can make a motor hum.”

Shelly had discovered that Roman knew how to make women hum, too; his kisses in the fallen tree branch were sweet and tender and hungry. She’d just managed to tear herself loose, fighting her way out of the leaves and twigs to her feet. Roman was frowning, obviously in pain as he had bent to rub his knee. She’d fought running and her conscience. “Can I help you?”

He’d scowled at her and struggled to his feet. Though obviously favoring his knee, he had refused to bend and rub it. “No. Get away from me.”

Uma had been crying and angry, because apparently the brothers shared the same defense, slam-door-shut style. Shelly had seen Uma angry only the one time she’d confronted Billy with his treatment of Lauren.

Now, Shelly wondered if anger was contagious as Roman continued to interfere with her life.

The men ignored Shelly as they discussed how to hook the dishwasher to the sink. A new empty space beneath the counters had greeted Shelly when she’d come home from Uma’s house. To make matters worse, Roman was quietly explaining installation procedure to Dani, now lying on the floor beside him, her head under the kitchen sink. When he asked for a tool, she dug into the battered box and hauled out the right one.

Mitchell stood, his arms folded, watching Roman and Dani. Then he looked at Shelly. “Saw your car at Uma’s. Is she okay?”

“No, she’s not. I could kill you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You think she just—?” Shelly glanced at Dani, who was suddenly sitting on the floor, watching the exchange with Mitchell.

“What did he do, Mom?” Dani asked, rising to her feet and scowling at Mitchell. “Did he hurt Uma?”

“Not exactly. Uma tried to help him, and—”

Mitchell’s hand slashed the end of her sentence. “She shouldn’t have.”

“Sometimes I wonder if the Warren family has any couth at all,” Dani murmured, shaking her head.

“Not much,” Mitchell said. “Goodnight, ladies.”

“She’s…making…Christmas fruitcake,” Shelly leveled at him. Her ominous tone spelled trouble.

Dani whistled through her teeth. “Man. He really must have pulled one. The last time she made fruitcake was—when she went after Billy Howard, right there on Lauren’s front yard, amid everyone buying her things. I’ve never seen Uma so mad, as if she could have picked up six-guns.”

“She bought all the maraschino cherries, raisins, pecans, and walnuts in the grocery stores, got a bottle of rum from Clyde’s Tavern, bought Mrs. Clover’s frozen on-sale candied fruit, and enough flour and eggs to cause a real shortage.”

“It’s only August, ladies,” Mitchell said warily, as if he were trying to connect the guilty dots—and they all led to him.

“Well, she might cool down a bit by Christmas—just maybe. Or like the fruitcake recipe she has that requires aging to get the best flavor, maybe she’s just warming up. If I were you, I would either apologize or leave town. And I swear, I will help her with any plans she has to show you some manners.”

Mitchell’s head went back at the threat, his eyes flashing. He started to say something, then nodded grimly and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

“Let’s try this baby out,” Roman said as he rose awkwardly to his feet. He glared at Shelly as if reminded of his disability.

She was still wrapped in Uma’s heartbreak. “Do you ever talk about what happened the night your father died?”

“Why the hell would we want to do that?” Roman’s fierce scowl said he didn’t want to open that door to the past.

“How you felt. Do you ever talk about that? Or your mother?” she pressed him.

Dani stood still, clearly fascinated by her mother’s reaction to Roman. “Get him, Mom. Let it all hang out.”

“Stay out of this, Dani. You’re in my face, Roman, pushing me. It’s only right that I push back. My turf, my house, and you’re in it. My neighbors are gossiping all up and down the street, whispering about you being here so much, about Dani being at the garage. I will not have her slandered.”

“Your mom is a real tiger, kid,” Roman said too softly. “Too bad she’s revved up over the wrong thing.”

Shelly’s hands went to her hips. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“Figure it out,” he said darkly before slamming out of the house.

Dani ran to the kitchen window and peered outside. “They’re out there, leaning against Mitchell’s truck. They’re not talking. How can guys do that, just stand there and not talk?”

She jerked open the window and yelled, “I want to meet my grandmother, and no one is stopping me.”

“I am, kid,” Roman shot back.

Both men glared at her, then Mitchell jerked open his pickup door, got in, revved the motor, and backed out onto Tabor Street.

Roman entered the kitchen to scowl at Dani and Shelly. “You know that there is some maniac here in town, up to no good. The pieces aren’t fitting together yet, but they will. Meanwhile, the two of you better get used to having me around.”

Dani gripped a kitchen chair, swivelled it, and straddled it.
She braced her arms over the back and rested her chin on it. “Here’s the deal. You can stay here—on the couch—and I’ll hit the books and play Little Miss Nice. But you’d better be nice to your mother—
my grandmother
—if and when she turns up.”

“No deal. She ran out on us.”

Shelly recognized Dani’s expression, just as stubborn as Roman’s, but aching, too. “I’ve heard that Grace was a good person.”

“Sure, a mother who deserts,” Roman scoffed. “I don’t want to talk about her anymore.”

“He’s holed up like a wounded old bear. I guess it’s up to us, Mom.”

Roman eyed them. “Don’t get any ideas, either of you.”

Shelly returned Dani’s look, smiled slowly, and asked, “Who, us?”

Later, Roman was sitting on the couch, watching television and brooding. After her shower, Shelly decided she could ease the tension in her by ironing. In the kitchen, she inhaled the scent of freshly pressed clothes and ignored Roman, who came to stand, leaning against the counter and studying her.

Instead of wearing her usual nightgown, Shelly had decided to wear a T-shirt and shorts, her freshly shampooed hair dampening the cloth. “I really don’t like you staying here,” she said, flipping a man’s long sleeve to the opposite side and ironing it briskly. “I want you to leave.”

“Those bulletholes in the ivy aren’t exactly friendly. How would you feel if they’d hit Dani instead?”

Shelly shivered, terrified by the image of Dani crumpling as Lauren had. “We’ll be careful.”

Roman rubbed his jaw and the sound of stubble grated in the silence. “I want to do something. It’s late, but I want to protect my daughter and you.”

Shelly locked her eyes with his. “I don’t want you here. I need to be comfortable in my own home.”

“So be comfortable.”

“You’re a whole invasion, Roman. We’re not used to having a man around. There’s the toilet seat up and things changing, and I—”

“I’d like to hold you, Shelly. Just hold you. I know that you’re scared for Dani and Uma and Pearl and you can’t forget how Lauren died—”

“Do you know how many times Uma looks at her hands every day? Still seeing Lauren’s blood?” Shelly wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head. “Do you think whoever it is will try to hurt her?”

“Mitchell will take care of her—if she’ll let him.” Roman hesitated and then came to look down at Shelly. “Here,” he said simply and folded her into his arms, bringing her close to him.

Shelly closed her eyes and absorbed the comfort she needed so badly. “Dani—”

Roman’s lips moved against her temple. “I know. You’re worried about her. I am, too. Our guy likes to make his moves at night. Let me stay, Shelly. Please.”

She knew how much that soft “Please” had cost him, a proud, arrogant man. He’d used it only once before, asking to be a part of Dani’s and her life.

“For Dani’s sake,” she agreed slowly and moved away from him. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to Dani.”

“Nothing is going to. Tell me why you’ve never married or dated,” he asked rawly, tension humming around him, ricocheting from the silence into her heart and lying there, pounding at her.

Roman stood still, his hands at his sides, looking so lonely she ached. She turned away, because she wanted to hold and comfort him, too. That wouldn’t do, not with what hummed
inside her, the need of a woman for a man. He’d been her only lover, and her body hadn’t forgotten his in those eighteen years.

The truth was that she’d never wanted anyone else. Inside her, she knew that she’d bonded with Roman Warren, that he was in her blood and staying there…and now the fever was hot and mature and explosive—just like him.