Jeannie Watt Read online

Tara let out a breath. It wasn’t so much that she minded him staying at the place. It was a big house, after all. A guesthouse. No, it was the feeling that she was becoming dependent on this man in ways she hadn’t anticipated that bothered her. But, on the other hand, if Ryan did come back, she wouldn’t mind watching Matt knock the snot out of him. She knew he’d do it so much better than she could.

  A corner of her mouth tightened. “One night, and that’s it.”

  There was a flash of relief in Matt’s hazel gaze, there and then gone.

  “One night,” he agreed.

  MATT BEAT TARA to the kitchen the next morning. He was standing at the stove with his back to her when she entered, stirring what she hoped was not oatmeal. Oatmeal was the only hot breakfast Aunt Laura had ever made and Tara had had enough to last a lifetime.

  He turned, smiling as he took in her bedraggled appearance. Old sweatpants and one of Nicky’s big T-shirts. Very alluring, no doubt. She’d tried to smooth her hair, but the wisps that had escaped the elastic stubbornly refused to be tamed and she’d given up.

  She took comfort, though, from the fact that Matt looked just as disheveled as she did. His hair was tousled and he was barefooted. The dark stubble was back on his face. He wore a shirt, but it was fastened by only one button at midchest, as though he’d thrown it on at the last minute and otherwise she would have found him standing at the stove, wearing only his Levi’s and his glasses. The thought pulled at her and suddenly the scenario seemed just a little too intimate.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No.” Other than the fact that he looked downright sexy and she was noticing.

  He gave her a look that clearly said, yeah, right, and Tara pressed her lips together, half-afraid he’d guessed the direction of her thoughts.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she said as she crossed the room to grind the beans for coffee.

  “You’re probably just sore because I beat you out of bed.”

  Tara gave him a face-saving smirk as she measured the grounds, and he grinned. She turned her back on him as she went to the tap, letting it run until the water was icy cold. Whatever he was cooking smelled great and it wasn’t oatmeal.

  “What’s for breakfast?” she finally asked, attempting nonchalance.

  “Frittata.”

  Her inner cook was immediately interested. This she had to see.

  Matt glanced down at her as she peered over his arm into the skillet filled with eggs, potatoes and ham. Heaven help her, despite the rich aroma of the sizzling ingredients, she was also aware of his scent—warm, masculine, somehow both comforting and stimulating. Oh, man. His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, and Tara felt her cheeks grow warm.

  “If you can cook like this, why have you been eating at the casino?”

  “Nothing to cook with at Luke’s house, and I didn’t feel like investing for only a couple of weeks.” He gave the pan a little swirl. “I didn’t know if your stomach was ready for something this substantial, but you said no oatmeal.”

  “No,” Tara said, drifting back, putting some space between them, “this is fine. Uh, what’s the red stuff?”

  He shifted as he used the spatula to loosen the egg at the edge of the pan and Tara took another step back. “Roasted red peppers. I found a jar in the pantry. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Tara shook her head. “No. Not at all. I was afraid they were pimentos.”

  “Don’t like pimentos?”

  “Not much.” She didn’t even own pimentos, for Pete’s sake. She turned and went to get the coffee cups, trying to get a grip on herself, and then jumped about a foot in the air when someone knocked on the back door. Both she and Matt whirled around as Rafe pushed the door open and walked in, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw Matt at the stove. His dark eyes immediately shot to Tara.

  Matt also cast her a glance, eyebrows raised, but she simply pulled out another cup. No explanations. She didn’t owe anyone anything. She saw Matt shrug before he expertly flipped the frittata. Rafe was frowning at Matt, who had obviously just rolled out of bed.

  She filled a cup, handed it to Rafe and motioned to a chair.

  “Hey, Rafe,” she murmured with studied casualness as she took the opposite chair. “Have time for breakfast?”

  Rafe started to shake his head, then changed his mind and nodded. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

  “Good. There’s enough for three, isn’t there, Connors?”

  “Yep.”

  She was about to get up and set the table, when Matt pulled out another plate and placed it in the oven on top of the other two warming there. Then he took a pitcher of orange juice out of the fridge and set it on the table. He looked like a man who knew his way around her kitchen.

  Tara read the unspoken questions in Rafe’s eyes, and reconsidered her no-explanation plan.

  “Matt gets meals as part of the job,” she said, keeping her voice low enough that she didn’t think Matt could hear.

  Rafe’s expression was impassive. “So why is he cooking?”

  Tara let out a soft sigh. “I’ve been sick. He spent the night,” she replied, giving up. Rafe would find out anyway. “This is none of your business, Rafe. I don’t need another brother.”

  “Tough.”

  “It was no big deal.”

  Rafe raised one eyebrow. Clearly he thought it was a big deal that she’d let a man she barely knew spend the night. Tara stared at her coffee cup.

  “So how are you feeling today?” Rafe asked with a slight edge to his voice.

  “Fine.” Matt set the frittata on the table along with a bottle of hot sauce.

  Breakfast was a rather stilted affair, long on tension, short on conversation. Rafe and Matt engaged in a bit of civilized verbal sparring of the male variety, while Tara ate her meal in silence. She walked Rafe out to his SUV after they finished, for once glad to see him on his way.

  He leaned back against the vehicle and studied her through his sunglasses. She’d known Rafe forever. He had been part of her misfit band while growing up, the poor kid from an immigrant Mexican family who wanted to be a cop. They’d even dated briefly in high school, the only time she’d dated in high school, before deciding they were meant to be friends. But that didn’t mean he had any say in her life.

  “Don’t,” she said warned him.

  “Tara, what do you know about this guy?”

  “I know he’s a cop,” she replied, hoping the fact that Matt was one of the brethren would slow Rafe down. But he was obviously already aware of it.

  “Tara…” He let out a frustrated breath. “There’s more to this guy’s history than you know.”

  “Like…”

  “Like, he was involved in a critical incident a while ago.”

  “What kind of critical incident?”

  “It was a shooting followed by a standoff. Connors pulled a John Wayne.”

  Tara frowned.

  “He took matters into his own hands. It’s a wonder he survived.”

  Tara felt a chill. “Maybe he had a reason for pulling this…‘John Wayne.’”

  “He probably did. But Tara, what I’m saying is that usually when guys do things like that…well, it might be for reasons other than the obvious. They have something they need to prove, or something they need to live down.”

  He paused and let the words sink in. “And sometimes, after situations like that, there are post-traumatic reactions.”

  “You’re not saying he’s dangerous?” Tara asked incredulously.

  Rafe shook his head. “No. I’m just saying he has a history and he might have some issues. You should be aware of it. I’d feel better if he wasn’t spending the night.”

  Tara chewed her lip as she digested the information. Rafe looped an arm around her, pulling her to his side. She leaned her head against him.

  “Jealous?” Tara asked in a weak attempt to lighten the mood.

  Rafe dropped a brotherly kiss on her forehead. “You bet.” His
expression grew serious, though, as she stepped away from him. “Call if you have any trouble.”

  “I’ll call,” Tara agreed wearily.

  Rafe gave her one last long look. “I think this guy is all right, but damn, Tara, you never know.”

  MATT GLANCED THROUGH the window at Rafe and Tara as he finished washing the dishes. He had no doubt that Tara now knew whatever Rafe Sanchez had dug up on him. He wondered if that included his father’s history. He wasn’t going to ask.

  He still wasn’t certain what Tara and Rafe’s relationship was, either. During breakfast, she’d treated him with the easy camaraderie and congenial disrespect that comes from growing up together, but then they had embraced before Sanchez got into his rig and drove away. He’d kissed her, but not on the lips. There was something there….

  His mouth tightened as he turned on the tap water. Tara had made it very clear the night before that he had no business butting into her life. And he had to admit she was right.

  TARA RUBBED HER FOREHEAD with the back of her hand, trying to ease the tension that had been building there since breakfast.

  A John Wayne.

  What kind of John Wayne?

  Luke knew Matt, so he must know Matt’s past. He wouldn’t have had Matt working for her unless he trusted him. Therefore, Matt must be trustworthy.

  Or so she hoped. She needed Matt to finish the house. But more than that, she was attracted to him.

  He was the first man since her awful experience with Ryan who had sparked any kind of reaction in her. And, to her astonishment, she liked having a reaction. It felt good in a secretive sort of way, and it took her mind off mortgages and balloon payments and Nicky’s education. She’d probably never do anything with Matt, but at least she was interested.

  It gave her hope that someday she might feel whole again.

  MATT DROVE AWAY from Tara’s house at dusk. She’d firmly eased him out the door after feeding him dinner, and he had gone quietly—because he’d promised to, and because he knew that her perception of him had probably changed drastically since talking to Rafe that morning.

  It was for the best, he told himself, unnerved that he was thinking about her differently lately. He’d gotten a glimpse of the hurts and scars Tara was hiding under her tough veneer. And, regardless of her assertion that she didn’t need a white knight, he felt a strong desire to protect her from new wounds. Maybe even to help soothe the old scars.

  But he wasn’t the man to do it.

  Lisa, his ex-girlfriend, had driven home the point that stress, retribution and relationships do not mix. As things were now, he could walk away, with no one the wiser that Tara was starting to get to him. He had issues he needed to settle in Reno and he didn’t want any distractions in his life when he did.

  He felt better about leaving her alone now that all of her doors had new locks—if she actually locked them. The side door had had no lock at all until today. Tara, for being so protective of herself emotionally, was not very security conscious. But he hadn’t seen the white BMW all day, and maybe it had just been a fluke that Ryan had been in the vicinity the other day. All he could do was hope, since it was obvious Tara wasn’t going to let him hang around after hours.

  JACK WASN’T AT the meeting.

  Tara sucked a breath through her teeth as she searched the crowded convention room. Jack was a hard man to miss. On the plus side, though, she didn’t see Martin Somers, either.

  Ryan was obviously taking his place. Drat.

  Well, Ryan wouldn’t attack in public. He had an image to uphold—that of poorly used ex-lover and all-around good guy. He would mind his manners.

  Tara sat in the first empty aisle seat she came to, next to Lydie Manzo, owner of the Hair Affaire. Nodding a hello, she received a hesitant nod in return. Lydie looked as if she wanted to say something, but Stacia started the meeting before she could speak.

  The secretary was reading the minutes when Dottie Gibson bustled in, uncharacteristically late. She had obviously planned to sit next to Lydie, who shrugged helplessly, as though Tara had strong-armed her way into Dottie’s chair. Dottie gave an indignant huff as she realized there was no seat near her friend, reversed course and finally settled two rows behind Lydie.

  The meeting continued with an update on correspondence, but Tara could still hear Dottie rustling. The committee reports came next. Various people stood and gave updates. Tara jotted notes.

  The last committee report was for the Welcome Back luncheon. Dottie and Lydie were co-chairs, but Dottie rose to speak. The menu the caterer provided had been approved and was adaptable to adding new guests at the last minute. The high school swing choir would sing and, Dottie announced with a girlish laugh, having obviously recovered from the seating incident, they had come up with an interesting luncheon entertainment. A prom-dress parade.

  “What exactly is that?” Stacia asked, and Dottie Gibson, queen of the 1966 prom, happily filled in the blanks.

  “We have located several vintage prom dresses, including one from the 1930s. We’re having these dresses cleaned and mended and they’ll be modeled during the luncheon by high school girls.”

  There was a murmur of approval and Dottie beamed before outlining her plan.

  “Weren’t you a prom queen?” Lydie whispered.

  Tara kept her expression pleasant as she nodded at the woman beside her. She needed to make an effort to be part of the community, she reminded herself, and she had taken Dottie’s seat. This wasn’t the time to make a scathing comment about the “honor” of being both queen and the butt of the joke.

  “Do you still have your dress?”

  Tara forced a smile and nodded again.

  If they wanted her dress, they could have it. Aunt Laura had preserved it. Practically embalmed it, in fact, but Tara didn’t blame her. Her aunt had made the dress herself, sewing zillions of pearls into intricate designs over the pale gray satin. It was a masterpiece. Tara never told her aunt about the embarrassment she’d suffered that night, and she truly hoped Laura never knew. Of course in Night Sky, that was highly unlikely.

  “All right,” Stacia said, interrupting Tara’s thoughts, “the last item is the donation jars for the new gym floor. The boosters are really hoping that donations from the reunion will send them over the top and construction can begin in August. If you haven’t already volunteered to have a jar at your business, please raise your hand so Ernest can get your name.”

  Several hands went up, including Tara’s.

  “Uh, okay…” Ernest Stewart, the booster club president, looked a little overwhelmed at the number of hands. “Uh, keep your hands up until I say your name.”

  He wrote names, saying them aloud, and the hands went down one by one. When Tara lowered hers she heard Dottie whisper, “We’d better watch that jar, if you know what I mean….”

  Dottie’s voice was low and she may not have meant for everybody to hear, but they did. Tara clenched her teeth, and she was more than aware of quick glances her way, but she kept her eyes straight ahead, pretending she hadn’t heard. Several sharp retorts came to mind, but she was going to take the high road, ignoring the fact that Dottie had not once but twice publicly accused her of shoplifting in her convenience store when Tara was a teen. Both times Tara had been thoroughly searched and both times she’d had nothing on her person. After the second time, she’d never gone into the Gibson store again. But the memory of the humiliation lived on. It was one of the reasons she’d taken Nicky with her when she left for college. She wasn’t going to subject her little brother to the same blind prejudices she’d had to live with.

  The meeting was adjourned shortly after Dottie’s rude comment. Tara had just started toward the rear exit when she heard her name. She turned to see perky Sandra Hernandez hugging a clipboard to her chest.

  “Tara, you’re not on a committee yet and you need to be on one if you’re going to participate in the reunion,” Sandra chirped like a happy parakeet.

  “Fine,” Tara said
. “Put me on a committee.”

  “I already have. You’re on the prom-dress parade staging committee. Flowers, decorations, dress rehearsal. Things like that.”

  “Oh?” Tara replied. “Can I be in charge of the slide show?”

  Sandra had the grace to blush, before pursing her lips defiantly. “That was none of my doing.”

  “It was a long time ago, Sandra. Maybe you can’t remember that far back. Anyway, I didn’t care then and I don’t care now. What do I need to do on this committee?”

  “Dottie will call you.”

  Tara refrained from rolling her eyes. Great. Dottie. “Thanks, Sandra,” she said dryly. “See you.”

  In the few short minutes she’d spend talking to Sandra, the room had nearly emptied. Tara started down the long L-shaped hall that led to the rear exit. She rounded the corner and immediately regretted her decision to take the shortcut. Ryan was standing next to the isolated door, a self-satisfied smile on his handsome lips.

  Tara fixed a stony expression on her face and tried to brush by him, but he stepped into the center of the hall. Short of knocking him over, which she seriously considered, she couldn’t leave this way, so she did an immediate about-face and started back down the hall, only to be pulled up short by a heavy hand on her shoulder. Tara immediately twisted out of his grip and turned, ready to do whatever she had to to protect herself, but her tormentor casually stepped away and leaned against the wall.

  “I want to talk to you, Tara. Privately. And since your bodyguard never seems to leave your house…”

  Tara’s spine stiffened at the implication of his words…and that he knew Matt was there most of the time.

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” Tara replied through her teeth, holding the man’s gaze so that he couldn’t surprise her again. Her shoulder was already starting to ache where he’d grabbed her too hard.

  “Not even to work a deal out on your house? Save you the embarrassment of foreclosure? You’ve had time to think since I last spoke to you.”