Playing for Keeps (Texas Scoundrels) (7 page)

Buck screeched for Goldie when his order was ready. She grumbled something Jed couldn’t quite make out, then placed a steaming platter of fried cod, fries and a side of greens in front of him.
 

“You’re not from around here.”

He kept his attention on the food. “Nope.” Now he remembered what it was about small towns that made him uncomfortable. Curiosity. He should have hit the tavern.

She wiped down the counter. “Passing through?”

Was he? Or was he going to do something he’d probably regret for the rest of his life? Two days of anonymity and not drinking himself into a drunken stupor had him realizing he’d been on a collision course for far too long.
 

He slathered a pat of butter on the greens. “Visiting an old friend,” he said, feeling regret creep into his soul. “Can you tell me where Griffen Hart lives these days?”

Goldie’s eyes narrowed over the rim of her bifocals. “You an old friend of Griffen's, huh?”

“You could say that,” he hedged, then popped a ketchup soaked fry into his mouth.
 

“You could, huh?” She planted her hands on the counter, her narrowed gaze becoming a hostile glare. “Seems if you was any kind of friend, you’d know where she lives.”

“It’s been a while.” He reached for the tea and downed the contents, then offered up his empty glass for a refill. Goldie took the hint and went for the pitcher.
 

“Where she living these days?” he asked, after she topped off his glass.

Goldie set the pitcher back under the counter and started filling salt and pepper shakers. “Still in that fancy house on the lake,” she said. “But you can probably find her at the antique store ‘bout now.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Antiquities. A block down,” she indicated with a nod of her head. “Big sale going on today and tomorrow.” She screwed the tops on the filled shakers, then delivered them to the booths.

When he finished his meal, Goldie dished him up a heaping serving of the still-warm cobbler with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side. His hunger finally satisfied, he dropped enough cash on the counter to cover the bill and a generous tip, then left the diner.
 

Well, hell. He was here. In Hart. Although he still hadn’t figured out
why
he’d come, he might as well pay a visit to Griffen.

He headed in the direction Goldie had told him to go, passed the barbershop, the post office and Hart Savings and Loan, then crossed the deserted street to Antiquities. A red and white sign with bold blue letters indicated a going out of business sale.
 

Interesting. Maybe he hadn’t been wrong in thinking she’d come to him for a handout. Hit up the rich guy and claim that an adopted kid was his. He wondered how much she would demand to keep the news away from the media? But that didn’t make much sense. Considering he hadn’t heard word one from her since she’d walked out of his house a week ago.

Curious, he pushed open the door to the shop. Some sale. The place was deserted. He closed the door and the bell jangled as he looked around. Traffic patterns were established by strategically arranged furniture. Bowls, vases and Victorian lamps all doubled as display and decoration. To his left sat a country style dining room, complete with a pine hutch filled with dishware similar to those his grandmother had owned. A heavy pottery bowl laden with waxed fruit sat atop a white lace table runner, flanked by matching candle holders with blue and white drip candles.
 

He stepped deeper into the shop, around a vintage hi-fi with a stack of old Dean Martin records arranged in organized confusion on the top. A table he suspected to be Chippendale sat off to the side, an array of perfume bottles and a silver backed comb and brush set were perched on top of an oval mirrored tray. He caught sight of the price tag for the Chippendale and did a double take. Pretty stiff for a close-out sale.

Turning, he caught the scent of lilacs. Griffen's scent.
 

A lace curtain separating the showroom from the office was pulled back and tied with a blue velvet bow, giving him a perfect view of her profile. She stood, bent over a roll top desk, her attention engrossed in whatever she was reading. Her auburn hair was swept up in an elegant style that showed off the slim column of her neck. The urge to press his lips to the skin at her nape, to breathe in her sweet scent, unnerved him.
 

“I’ll be right with you,” she called, not taking her eyes from the paperwork in front of her.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t think he could. The woman wearing the white sleeveless blouse and slim navy, linen skirt that stopped mid-thigh, couldn’t have been the same spitfire who’d come to his lake house last weekend. While that woman had stirred his temper, this elegant, sexy-as-sin vision stirred his libido.

She shut a journal of some sort and turned to face him, a pleasant smile lighting her face. “Can I help...”
 

Recognition flashed in her eyes. The sweet smile curving her lips disappeared into a tight, thin line. The spitfire was back. For some reason, that thought pleased him.
 

He hitched his elbow on a display case and leaned casually against the glass. “Hello, Sister,” he said, deciding this was going to be a whole lot more fun than emptying a fresh bottle of scotch.

Five

GRIFFEN STARED IN utter shock at Jed Maitland.Why was he here? In her store? Curiosity? Or something else? Something that could threaten the mess her life had become. She had enough to cope with right now without having to add dealing with him to her growing list of problems. Oh God. What if Austin heard his
father
was in Hart.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

He straightened and strolled across the gray and blue pile carpeting to the framed reproduction print of a Picasso abstract hanging above a round gilt table. “Heard you were having a sale.”
 

She skirted behind the counter. Drunk, obnoxious and surly, Maitland could easily be overlooked as a threat. Instinct told her sober was another matter altogether and she’d better keep her guard up around him. “You heard wrong. We’re closed.”

He kept his back to her. “Sign says you don’t close until six.”

Against her will, her gaze slid to his faded-denim-clad ass.
 

He inclined his head toward the Picasso reproduction. “Nice copy.”

Nice ass
.
 

“I never did understand his blue period though,” he said with a shrug of his wide shoulders.
 

“No one does.” She forced her eyes anywhere but on him and the way his shoulders filled out the shirt he wore or the way the denim covered that mighty fine backside. She moved the business card holder in front of the till, then pushed it back to where she’d had it. “I’m closing early.”

He turned to face her and smiled, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling. If she didn’t fear his presence could hurt her son, she might,
might
, have found that killer grin appealing. If he wasn’t Jed Maitland with a reputation to make Casanova blush, she might even find him relatively attractive. Only she didn’t find him attractive, relative or otherwise. The man wasn’t even likable. Not one iota. The only thing he meant to her was one more complication in her life she didn’t need, one she couldn’t run away from, no matter how tempting the thought.

He moved to the tapestry sofa and sat, propping one scuffed boot on his knee and stretching his arms along the back. “Guess that’s why you’re going out of business, huh?” He just smiled at her, a lazy, comfortable smile that had her gritting her teeth.

Her nerves were shot, and he wasn’t helping much with his I-have-all-the-time-in-the-world attitude. Bad news came in threes, and Maitland’s appearance was her third for the day. The shop had been open since ten. Little more than a dozen customers had bothered to venture in to browse all day. Her final divorce decree had arrived from the courthouse in the morning mail, declaring her officially single. While the thought of divorce from Ross didn’t exactly break her heart, that one document reminded her of one more failure in her life. And now Maitland was lounging around as if he had nothing better to do. Her icing on the cake. “What do you want, Mr. Maitland?”

He shrugged, then winced, reminding her of the reports of his injured shoulder. “I was passing through.”

She braced her hands on the counter and tried to ignore the churning in her stomach. “And?”

“And nothing.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

His eyes narrowed and that square jaw of his hardened for an instant before he resumed his relaxed pose. “Believe what you want, Sister. I’m passing through.”

She wasn’t about to play mouse to his cat. “Then I suggest you continue passing through.” She pushed away from the counter and headed toward the office. “Good day, Mr. Maitland.”

Tea. Tea would help settle her stomach. She filled a mug with water and zapped it in the microwave, listening for the bells over the door to signal his departure. The bell on the microwave dinged and she jumped.
 

Get a grip
. She retrieved the mug and dipped an Earl Grey tea bag into the steaming water to steep. The man couldn’t hurt them if she didn’t give him the power to do so. She’d ignore him and he’d leave. If he didn’t, she’d—
 

“I’d like to meet him.”

She flinched, then spun around, her hand shooting to her throat. “There’s a sign over the door that says ‘private,’ or can’t you read?” Rudeness wasn’t her typical style, but he was crowding her, not just physically, but emotionally. His presence was making her face what frightened her most and she wasn’t prepared. Going to his place in Possum Kingdom, she’d been ready. Finding him on her turf wasn’t something she’d ever dreamed would happen, and she didn’t like it one bit.

“I’d like to meet my son,” he said again, his deep, rough voice hard.

She lowered her hand and turned back to her tea, adding a packet of sweetener to her mug. His rich chocolate colored eyes weren’t bloodshot this time, but clear and, she realized, held a hint of danger. “Last time we spoke, you didn’t have a son. I have adoption papers that say he’s my son, remember?” Hoping to come off more confident than she was feeling, she sipped her tea as if
she
had all the time in the world.
 

He shoved a hand through his thick, dark hair, and gave her a crooked smile. “You caught me at a bad time. I apologize.”

She lifted a brow at the curving of his lips, a smile she considered more cocksure confidence than contrition, then lowered her mug. “From what I know about you, it’s never a good time. Oh, wait. I take that back. You always have a good time, don’t you, Mr. Maitland?”

She needed to get away from him. He stood too close. Close enough for her to catch the spicy scent of his aftershave. Stepping around him wasn’t easy since he was so big, and she brushed against him on her way back into the showroom.

He followed her. “Now wait just a freaking minute.”
 

Why wouldn’t he go away? Why did he have to keep dogging her, standing too close and making her nervous? She snatched an atomizer from the Chippendale and wiped at dust that wasn’t there. “Is that what you had with my sister, Mr. Maitland? A good time?”

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

She caught his reflection in the ornate mirror hanging on the wall in front of her. His eyes were hard, as was the firm jaw he was busy clenching. Arms crossed over his wide chest pulled the black graphic t-shirt tight, emphasizing his massive size. She’d seen that gloriously wide chest bared only a week ago. Then, he hadn’t affected her. Now, he intimidated her, and she wasn’t used to being intimidated.

With more calm than she believed herself capable of possessing in the face of such a huge, angry man, she gently returned the atomizer to the Chippendale. Turning to face him, she smiled, a smile meant to infuriate him so he’d get out her life. “And you’re an ass,” she said sweetly. “So I guess that makes us even.”

She took a step, but he blocked her path and glared down at her. “I said I was sorry about last week.”

“Apology accepted.” She moved again, but he moved with her. She realized she knew nothing about him, other than various press reports and entries in Dani’s journal, both sources of information conflicting. One depicted him as sweet, kind and gentle, while the other declared his motto as live hard, play harder, and leave a good-looking corpse.

“Please leave.” Who was the real Jed Maitland?

“Not happening.” He shook his head. “Not until we resolve this.”

She tipped her head back until she could see his eyes. The determination in them made her sorry she’d bothered. “What’s to resolve? You made your position perfectly clear.”

“I want to meet the kid.” He didn’t shout, but there was a frustrated edge in his voice.

“He’s not your responsibility.” Anger sparked from her own mounting irritation, making her voice rise.

He moved then, stepped back and dragged his hand down his face. “Then why did you come out to see me if you’re not looking for someone to take responsibility for him?”

He didn’t know, she realized. He had no idea why she’d done the single most difficult thing in her life. “You didn’t read it, did you?” She dropped the dust rag on the display case. “You didn’t even bother to read Dani’s journal, did you?”