Bayou Heat Page 18

  And Avery didn’t even want to get started on the odd guests. Such as the group of women from Australia who’d been drunk for three days. They must have spent every evening at the Rusty Nail. Or the guy last week who’d looked like some upscale mobster, complete with a slick Italian suit and a ridiculously heavy gold watch. He’d stayed all of one night, leaving behind a stack of old newspapers that was almost a foot high.

  Good Lord, what was she doing here?

  Avery couldn’t stop thinking about her work at the Recovery Center. Still, she didn’t feel ready to return. She needed to come to terms with what had happened, and until she did, she’d stay in Star Harbor. How long that would take, she had no idea. But as each day passed, Avery felt her future slipping farther and farther away.

  As if on cue, the antique black phone on the reception desk rang.

  “Star Harbor Inn, how may I help you?” she said in her best telephone voice. “All right. Let me check the reservation book for next year. Please hold on a moment.” Avery placed the phone on the counter and bent down to retrieve the leather ledger from underneath the desk. Why Aunt Kate couldn’t go digital was beyond her. Just as she bent her head, the front door to the Inn opened and snapped shut, letting in a biting gust of cold air.

  “I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she said as she continued to fumble for the heavy reservation book. “Ah, got it.” She pulled it out from under the desk and plopped it onto the wood. Unfortunately, the book hit the pen she was about to use and it began to roll toward the edge of the desk. Standing on her toes, she leaned over to grab it, catching it just before it fell off the side. Then she looked up.

  Directly at the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life.

  He was huge, easily six-four, and he filled the small foyer so completely that all the air seemed to be sucked out from her lungs. Despite the thick coat he wore, she could tell he was in impeccable shape from the way the cloth was stretched over his broad shoulders and how his jeans hugged his long legs. And his boots? Enormous.

  Embarrassed that she was even considering the size of his feet, she jerked her gaze up, cheeks beginning to flush. It was a mistake.

  Because now she was staring at his face. Hair as black as a raven’s wing swung over his forehead, tousled by the winter wind. Prominent cheekbones and full, lush lips made him look both angular and alluring. But his eyes were what really got her. A curious mix of green and amber, they seemed to glow behind the glasses he wore. He was sinfully beautiful. Could you call a man beautiful? This one was, despite the hard line of his jaw and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. It was the imperfection that made him gorgeous. So gorgeous it was scary.

  And as she appraised him, he was surely returning the favor, those oddly colored eyes sweeping over what he could see of her behind the desk. His mouth dropped open a little—was he about to say something?—and his gaze sharpened. And then it happened. The thing that robbed her of any ability to function. His lips curled up on one side, displaying straight white teeth, and he smiled. Directly at her.

  The small quaver in her belly told Avery one thing: this man was trouble with a capital “T.” And for her, a woman who attempted never to take anything at face value, who tried to look impartially at every issue before making a decision, the fact that her body wasn’t listening to her brain was bad. Really, really bad.

  A moment passed. Or maybe it was two.

  “Hello? Hello?” the woman on the end of the line squawked.

  “I think you’d better get that,” the man rumbled bemusedly in a low, deep voice that warmed her from within.

  She blinked and scrambled off the desk before snatching up the ancient phone and flipping the huge book open. “Yes, I’m here,” she said. “March twentieth? Yes, we have availability that week. When would you like to come? Okay, to reserve that I’ll need a credit card number.” She took down the woman’s information, giving her the cancellation information in turn. “Wonderful. See you next March.” She hung up the phone and for a moment, tried to gather her thoughts. Then she returned her attention to the fallen angel before her.

  “You must be a Grayson,” she said coolly, trying her best to sound dispassionate.

  “I see that my reputation precedes me,” the man said smoothly. “You look familiar, too, but I know we’ve never met.”

  “Emma Newbridge—now Emma Bishop—is my sister.”

  “You look like her, except for the hair.”

  “Oh,” she said, self-consciously sweeping the mass of it over her shoulders, hiding the length from him. “Yes, a lot of people say that.”

  Orange. There was no delicate way to put it. Her hair was bright orange. Always had been. While Emma had been gifted with deep, auburn hair that shone like mahogany in the sun, she’d been cursed with hair the color of a ripe pumpkin. Most of the time she wore it in a long braid down her back or up in a twist so people wouldn’t gape so much. And when she met with her clients it was always in a tight bun. Not anticipating any guests at the Inn today, she’d worn it down. From the way this man was staring, she wished she hadn’t.

  “So how may I help you?” Despite her jitteriness, she met his gaze evenly.

  Without breaking eye contact, he stepped closer to the desk and leaned one large forearm against it. “I need a room.”

  With difficulty, she swallowed. He was making it impossible to be rational. “Why don’t you stay with one of your brothers? I’m sure they’d be happy to have you.”

  “I’ve been staying with Val on that damned houseboat of his. It’s no good for writing, sleeping … or anything else.”

  Blinking, she tried to focus. “So, ah, how long will you be staying?”

  “Indefinitely.” He was still staring at her with great interest.

  “We don’t really do that here—”

  “Theo,” he supplied.

  “This isn’t really a long-term kind of place. For one thing, it’s very expensive.” For another, having you stay here would be dangerous. She knew her aunt would tell her that turning away customers during the low season, especially when the Inn was empty, was bad for business, but she tried to convince herself she was simply looking out for his best interests.

  “You don’t think I can afford it?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “What I meant to say was that if you’re going to be staying in town for a while, you might want to consider renting an apartment instead. It would be more cost-effective.”

  “Cost isn’t an issue.”

  “Even so, sir, I think that—”

  “Theo,” he insisted.

  “Theo, I think that you should find someplace else.” Somewhere far away from the Inn where she wouldn’t be distracted by him. She needed to figure out her long-term game plan for getting back on track with her career. The last thing she needed was to be tempted into some short-term affair that could only go nowhere.

  “Clearly, you don’t have a background in sales,” he said wryly.

  The redness suffusing her cheeks was answer enough.

  “Look, do you have any available rooms or don’t you?” he asked softly. But there was hard steel behind his voice.

  “We do, but—”

  “Then I’ll take one.” He reached into his pocket, pulled a credit card from his wallet, and handed it to her.

  Avery frowned as she looked down at his enormous hand. She reached for the card, but as she grabbed it, her fingertips brushed his. Before she could even think, an electric jolt raced from the place they’d touched and zapped up her arm. It wasn’t static electricity—it was something different entirely. Now she was tingling. All over. She snatched her shaking hand away and glanced up at him.

  A mistake. Again.

  This time he gave her a full smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. This man was dangerous, no doubt about it. She quickly swiped the card, all too aware that he was watching her every move.

  “So,” she said when the card cleared, “would you like
me to show you to your room?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Follow me, then.” Immediately missing the sanctuary of the desk, she walked as briskly as possible through the foyer. When she reached the staircase, she stopped and turned. He was right there behind her, and though she knew it was unwise, she met his gaze, praying he couldn’t tell how nervous she was. “After you,” she said, gesturing for him to go up first.

  “Oh, no,” he said, looking at her intently. “After you.” Since he was now a paying guest, she couldn’t exactly insist, so she headed up the stairs to the second floor, stepping precisely on each stair, acutely aware of his gaze.

  “So you’re back in town for a visit?” she asked, trying to choose a neutral subject. “You live out West somewhere, right?”

  “San Francisco. I’m just visiting for a couple of months. I needed some inspiration for my writing, and Star Harbor seemed like a good place to start.” His voice was low.

  Heading up the next flight of stairs—the ones that led to the two rooms on the third floor—she placed her hand on the banister as she made the turn. “I could use some inspiration myself,” she muttered.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” she said curtly. There was no way she was getting into that with him. Not now. Not ever. “Here’s your room—Smuggler’s Cove. I put you in the top corner room with a nice view of the water. It should be quiet up here, especially since we don’t have that many guests at this time of year. Tea is served in the parlor at two-thirty every afternoon. Do you have any luggage you’d like brought up?”

  “Not right now.” He paused, and she knew he was staring at her. “May I?” he asked, his voice quiet.

  “Oh, yes, sorry,” she said, holding out the room key for him to take. He moved closer until he was standing directly in front of her. She forced herself to look at him. When her eyes met his intense gaze, her breath caught in her throat. Instead of reaching for the key, as she’d anticipated, he raised his hand to her head. Without warning, he lightly ran his fingers through her hair from her scalp to the ends of the strands, staring at them with wonder as they fell from his hand. Her body’s entire nervous system went into overdrive, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

  Even as she shivered from the contact, he swept the key from her hand, unlocked the door, stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him.

  Right in her face.

  Avery stood there for a few seconds, frankly shocked. Finally, she came to her senses, releasing the breath that she’d unconsciously been holding. More disturbed at her reaction to his touch than she was by his obnoxious manners, she turned and slowly descended the stairs, fervently hoping—no, praying—that as long as Theo Grayson was at the Star Harbor Inn, he would stay in his room and out of her way.

  Read on for an excerpt from Karen Leabo’s

  Lana’s Lawman

  PROLOGUE

  Ten Years Ago

  “Please, guys, could you wait your turn?” eighteen-year-old Lana Walsh pleaded as she tried to make sense of the handfuls of grimy dollar bills being thrust at her. She’d warned her friend Callie Calloway not to put her in charge of carnival tickets. Math was her worst subject.

  “One at a time,” she tried again. It was hot in the gym. Why didn’t someone turn on the air-conditioning? It was April in central Texas, for crying out loud. Texans needed their A/C.

  She looked up at the half-dozen senior boys who had descended on her booth. Then she noticed the boy in back, standing slightly apart from the others, and her breath caught in her throat. Sloan Bennett. What was he doing here? With his long hair and his motorcycle and black leather jacket, he was every schoolgirl’s bad-boy fantasy.

  What no one knew—at least, not from her—was that Sloan was more than Lana’s fantasy. For twenty-three days he had been her reality. Her obsession. The boy who’d found dark, uncharted territory in her soul and scared her to pieces at the same time.

  Almost two weeks had passed since their explosive breakup. She’d managed to avoid him since then, although it didn’t feel right, not after what they’d shared. But she’d taken a long look at herself, at her goals, her dreams, and she’d known she was better off without Sloan in her life. She’d had to get out—while she still had choices to make.

  Then why, when she tried to put it all behind her, did it hurt so much?

  Sloan wasn’t bad, not deep down. He wore the outward trappings of a rebel—perhaps because that’s how other people had labeled him from early on—but to those who really knew him he was more hotheaded than truly destructive, even if you took into account the fact that he’d once stolen a car.

  He hadn’t pressed Lana to make love. She’d been perfectly willing.

  Lana suddenly found herself wishing she could rush through the ticket sales to these boring football players so Sloan could advance to the front of the line and she could talk to him. They’d both cooled down by now, she reasoned. Maybe she could make him understand.… Or maybe you’re hoping he’ll make you change your mind, an inner voice whispered seductively.

  “You, Gaston,” she said, addressing Bart Gaston, the team captain. “You first. How many tickets would you like?”

  Bart, big and blond and too sure of himself, leaned across the table until he was uncomfortably close. “However many you got.”

  “I have several thousand. How much money do you have?”

  The other boys snickered, and Bart looked annoyed. “Enough,” he replied, peeling off a bill from a wad he’d pulled from his pocket and smacking it down on the table. “I’ll take a hundred.”

  Lana’s eyes widened. The bill was a fifty—a pretty healthy sum of money to blow on carnival tickets, even for the son of a banker. Well, it wasn’t any of her business if that’s how Bart wanted to spend his allowance. She carefully counted out one hundred tickets and handed them over.

  “Me next,” another boy hollered out, waving a twenty in Lana’s face. She brushed it aside. That’s when she saw Callie the Carnival Queen herself elbowing her way through the crowd toward her, clipboard in hand.

  “Excuse me, official business,” she said as she bulldozed through, carrying a full head of steam.

  “Hi, Callie,” Lana said with a smile. “Ticket sales are booming.”

  Callie nodded with obvious satisfaction. “Mrs. Dingmeir can handle sales for a while,” she said, motioning to the kindergarten teacher who sat at the table next to Callie with nary a customer. “We have some official business to take care of.”

  “But …” But then Lana would miss her chance to talk to Sloan. She could hardly tell Callie that. No one knew. Her brief liaison with Sloan had seemed so fragile, so unreal, Lana had been unable to speak of it to anyone.

  Bart, who’d been listening to Callie with amused interest, now put his hand on top of her head and exerted just enough backward pressure that she was forced to look up at him. “What kind of official business?”

  Looking supremely irked, she ducked out of his grasp. “Nothing that concerns you, lunkhead.” She turned her attention back to Lana. “Coming?”

  “Sure.” Lana smiled apologetically to Bart, then cast one cautious, regretful look toward Sloan. Their eyes met briefly. As always, his burned with a fire that seemed to brand her as his, never mind that she’d refused to see him anymore. She looked away quickly, her heart pounding.

  Forcing herself not to dwell on might-have-beens, Lana shook off the memories like a dog shakes off water. She put Sloan out of her mind—firmly.

  “You shouldn’t be so rude to Bart,” Lana whispered as she and Callie left the group of boys to Mrs. Dingmeir. “I think he’s going to ask me to the prom. Has Sam asked you yet?”

  “Sam and I won’t be going to the prom.”

  Lana opened her mouth, then snapped it shut when Callie gave her a quelling look. Lana knew that look. It meant Callie wasn’t ready to talk. But how could they not be going to the prom, when they were practically an institution? T
hey’d been dating since freshman year.

  Callie abruptly changed the subject.

  “Where’s Millicent?” Millicent Whitney was the third on their student carnival committee.

  “She’s helping out with the face painting, remember? Honestly, speaking of not having a date for the prom …”

  Callie frowned a warning.

  Lana continued, undaunted. “I mean, Millicent’s not as plain as she thinks she is. If she would only try to meet some boys …”

  “I know. But she’s so darn shy.”

  “She’s going to end up alone and lonely,” Lana said sadly. “And that’s really a shame. She’s smart and nice, and she loves kids.”

  That much was obvious. As the two girls approached the face-painting booth, they found Millicent busily painting a unicorn onto a little girl’s cheek. The child, about four, sat still as a stone, enthralled by the artist’s soft voice as Millicent told her a story. She finished up just as she saw Callie and Lana approaching.

  “Hi, how’s it going?” Millicent lifted the child from the table where she’d been sitting and put her on the ground, sending her off with a pat on the head.

  “Fine with me,” Lana said, “but Callie says we have official business to take care of.”

  Millicent looked to Callie for clarification.

  Callie pushed her glasses up on her nose and pointed to the corner of the gym, where a red-silk-swathed booth glittered invitingly. “Did y’all see that?”

  Where had that come from? Lana wondered. She hadn’t noticed it before. The small booth featured a gold-lettered sign that read THEODORA, FORTUNE-TELLER.