Beauty in Hiding Page 2

  He should take his off, too. Not that he hadn’t already dripped all over the living room and kitchen. And he hadn’t exactly been invited to stay. “What can I do?”

  “We got it,” she said, not bothering to turn. “Thanks.”

  She got the old man’s jacket off, set it beside the hat on the hearth, then tucked the quilt around him. “You warming up?”

  “It’s colder than a witch’s—”

  “Gramps…”

  The man’s words died as Harper backed away, shed her own jacket, and turned toward Jack. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Uh…” Whatever he’d been about to say died on his lips. Holy cow, she was beautiful. Straight blond, shoulder-length hair, blue eyes, Hollywood cheekbones. And a body that made him congratulate himself for noticing she had a face.

  Her eyebrows lifted as if she knew what he was thinking.

  “Right,” he said. “No problem. Good thing I happened along when I did.”

  “We’d have made it.” She crossed her arms and attempted a smile, though the effort looked painful. “We just needed a little rest.”

  He let the comment pass and turned to the man. “I’m Jack.”

  “I’m not deaf,” he said. “Heard you outside.” The gruff words were barely out before he broke into a smile. “Harold Burns. But everybody calls me Red, on account of my luxurious red hair.” He ran a hand over his head, which was bare as a dog’s belly.

  Jack shook the man’s hand. His fingers were ice. “Great to meet you, Mr. Burns.”

  “Didn’t you hear me, boy? It’s Red.”

  “Okay, Red.” He turned to Harper, who was staring at the bags on the floor. She looked like she wanted to cry. He was pretty sure, based on the red in her eyes, that the moisture on her face when he’d found them was from more than rain. “Why don’t I take those back to the bedrooms for you. Which ones go where?”

  “I can do it,” she said.

  He swallowed his sarcastic answer. “I bet you’ve had a heckuva day. Let me help.”

  He was sure she was going to argue. Then, her shoulders slumped. “Yeah, okay. Thanks. The bigger suitcase goes in the bigger room, the smaller one and the duffel in my room.”

  He glanced at the smaller suitcase, which was fastened closed with duct tape. “Nice luggage.” He’d meant the words to be teasing, but added “no offense” when her back stiffened.

  “It broke.”

  “I see that.” He grabbed the things before she could change her mind and order him out of his own house.

  His house, except he’d rented it to them. He had no right to be there. So far his plan to make his way in real estate was working out swimmingly.

  Despite Harper’s defensiveness, Jack was glad he’d seen them when he’d driven by. He’d been keeping an eye out for his new tenants all day, so he hadn’t been surprised at the car in the driveway. He had been surprised to see two figures struggling up the steps.

  He set the bags where she’d directed and returned to the living room. Red was staring at the box on the floor. In the kitchen, Harper had opened cabinets and was staring inside. They were all clean, lined with fresh liner, and, of course, empty.

  “You looking for something?” he asked.

  She pulled a cell phone from her jeans’ pocket, peered at it, and tossed it on the countertop. “Piece of crap.”

  “No service?”

  “Can’t even order a pizza. I guess it’s cold sandwiches.”

  He cut his gaze to the shopping bags. Clearly, she was too tired to cook.

  “I have a phone you can borrow,” he said. “Better yet, why don’t I run home and grab some dinner? I made a pot of chili tonight, and there’s plenty to share. You guys like chili?”

  “I don’t—”

  “We love chili,” Red shouted.

  She lowered her voice. “He loves it, but spicy food doesn’t agree with him.”

  “Still not deaf,” Red yelled.

  She closed her eyes, dropped her head.

  Jack had the sudden urge to laugh, which he was smart enough to stifle. “I have some chicken and gnocchi soup in the freezer. I can defrost it and be back in a flash.”

  She turned again to the empty cabinets, opened the empty drawers. “I don’t know why I thought furnished meant there’d be dishes.”

  Ah. She had nothing to cook with or eat on.

  “It’s not a timeshare,” he said.

  “I know that. I just…”

  When she didn’t finish, he said, “Why don’t you sit?”

  She stared at the table, didn’t move. “Been sitting for twelve hours.”

  “And you look like you’re about to drop.” He stepped out of the doorway and gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat. I’ll take care of dinner, and after you’ve eaten, you can regroup. Okay?”

  She seemed to be formulating an argument, so he walked away. There was another quilt still in the house, a castoff from the previous owners. He’d thought to take the handmade blankets home with him, maybe try to sell them like he planned to do with the rest of the stuff the previous owners had left. Most of that was still in his garage collecting dust. But the quilts were too nice to leave out there, and his house was always in some stage of reconstruction. He’d forgotten about them until tonight. He snatched the quilt from the closet in Harper’s room intending to use it to entice her to sit, but when he returned, he found her half sitting, half lying across the sofa. He draped it over her, and she smiled.

  Oh, man. That was the kind of smile that could compel a man to wrestle giants.

  “Thanks,” she said. “You’re right. I’m so tired, I can’t think.”

  “Been there.”

  She glanced past him to the TV box, and he debated. Entertainment or food? Maybe a little escape from reality would do them both good.

  “Don’t just stand there, boy,” Red said. “Set it up. Let’s see if there’s anything on.”

  “Okey-doke. I’ll see what I can find.” He removed the packaging, got the TV out, and plugged it in. It went through its start-up sequence, finally finding a few channels. Not a lot, but without cable or satellite, it was all they’d get. “Looks like we have news, cartoons, or Frasier reruns.”

  “Frasier.” Red left no room for arguing, and Harper didn’t seem to care.

  “I’ll be back in a little bit.” He focused on Harper. “For now, just rest. Okay?”

  “I don’t need…” But her argument was cut-off by a yawn.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” He walked out before she could stop him.

  Chapter Three

  Derrick Burns had stayed home all weekend, certain with every noise and slamming door on the street outside his Baltimore condo that the police were coming to arrest him. There would be no evidence against him. After Harper had confronted him the other night, Derrick had snuck in the side door of the garage and retrieved the contaminated Gatorade bottles. Then, he’d taken them to a fast-food restaurant along I-95, dumped the contents into the bathroom sink, and rinsed the bottles before he’d stuffed them in the trash can. By now, those bottles were in a landfill somewhere.

  The police wouldn’t be able to prove a thing.

  Assuming Harper had figured it out. He didn’t think she had. There’d just been a bunch of open bottles. But he couldn’t be too safe. Or maybe paranoia was closing in.

  Derrick went to work on Monday as if everything were normal. He had a good day, made some money for his clients—and for himself. He landed a few new clients, too. It had been months since he’d lost Russell Caldworth’s business—lost it thanks to Harper. Since then, Derrick had built his clientele up again, so now he had more clients and managed more accounts than ever.

  Screw Russell. Screw Russell’s rich friend, Constantine. Screw Harper. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need anybody.

  He did need two hundred thousand dollars.

  And fast.

  The thought of the money he owed brought back the image of Harper’s bruised
cheek, the cut on her neck he’d seen Thursday night. At the time, he’d felt terrible, but the further he got from that day, the clearer he saw it. It was her fault he didn’t have the money to get out of debt. If she’d supported him at the beach house last summer instead of working against him all weekend, he’d have kept Russell’s business and landed Constantine’s, too. If she’d just given in and let him stay with her, he wouldn’t have lost that night’s poker game to Carter. He’d had to pay the snake almost all that had remained in his checking account. A few thousand dollars, but he’d needed it to make a good-faith payment to Quentin.

  Quentin Gray, the scariest moneylender in Vegas, was after Derrick. And it was Harper’s fault.

  And she was going to fix it.

  After work that Monday, he drove straight to Gramps’s house, pounding his steering wheel and directing more than a few curse words at the other drivers slowing him down. Morons, all of them.

  He had two goals for this visit. To get back into Gramps’s good graces—he should have done that months before—and to make up with Harper. He needed her on his side. He needed her to help him convince Gramps to loan him the money. And it would be a loan. Derrick could make it back, no problem. He’d get on a payment plan with Gramps. He just needed a few more clients, and he’d have the extra cash he needed to keep Gramps off his back. As if the old man needed it.

  The rich cheapskate, gripping his money in his old, wrinkled fists.

  Derrick had to get Gramps to loosen that grip, or Gramps’s supposedly beloved grandson would be the next one with the bruises. And Quentin’s goons wouldn’t be as gentle with Derrick as they had been with Harper.

  He rubbed his knee instinctively.

  He’d heard of broken kneecaps, crushed feet. Nothing bad enough to keep a guy from working, but a lesson he’d never forget.

  He parked in the circular drive in front of the house, glanced at his image in the rearview mirror, and practiced his humble smile.

  He could do this. He had to do this.

  When nobody came to the door at his knock, he used his key and let himself in. “Harper? Gramps?”

  The house was silent. The TV wasn’t even on.

  He started in the kitchen. Empty. The living room was empty, too. He crossed to the back door and reached for the deadbolt, but it was already unlocked. Odd. Maybe they were out back, but a quick look proved the yard was empty.

  He ran up the steps. Nobody in Gramps’s room. He opened Harper’s door, stepped into the sacred space.

  Sacred because she’d never let him in.

  As if she were so pure. He knew better.

  Her room was empty, too. He was tempted to go inside, look around, touch her things, just because he could. Because she’d kept so much of herself from him.

  Because she owed him.

  But they’d probably just gone to get something for dinner. They’d be home any minute.

  So he closed the door and went to the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of ice water.

  And he waited.

  But an hour passed, and they still weren’t home.

  He dialed her phone number. It went straight to voice mail. “I’m at the house,” Derrick said. “I wanted to check on Gramps, see how he was feeling. Where are you guys?”

  He figured he’d get a call back, but ten minutes passed, fifteen.

  Weird.

  He checked the fridge, but there was nothing worth eating in there. He’d check the garage freezer, maybe find a frozen meal he could heat up. He opened the door and froze.

  The Caddy was gone—he’d expected that.

  But Harper’s car was gone, too.

  That made no sense at all. Gramps didn’t drive anymore. How could both cars be gone?

  Where were they?

  He forgot about eating and returned to the kitchen and dialed her phone again.

  Voice mail again.

  Something wasn’t right.

  He sat, skimmed through his phone, and checked his email. Got one from his bank and clicked on it, but the link seemed broken. Everything was messed up today. Didn’t matter. He knew what his bank was going to tell him. He was out of cash.

  And without Harper and Red, he was out of luck.

  Chapter Four

  Harper forced her eyes open. Thanks to her wet jeans and socks, her legs were freezing.

  She heard a man’s voice, a low chuckle, and clanging dishes.

  The TV was on but muted.

  Red’s chair was empty.

  She sat up, fought a wave of pain and dizziness, and stood. “Gramps?”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a knot,” he called. “I’m fine.”

  His voice came from the direction of the kitchen behind her, so she stepped that way and froze.

  Red…Gramps…was seated at the kitchen table sipping from a steaming mug.

  Jack smiled over his shoulder as he stirred a steaming pot of something that smelled of chicken and some heavenly spice she couldn’t identify. “Have a nice nap?”

  “How’d you get in?” That was a stupid question, though. Had she even locked the door?

  One eyebrow lifted. “You always wake up so cheerful?”

  She tried to come up with a good retort but was silenced by a shudder. She should’ve changed out of her wet clothes before she’d fallen asleep. She crossed her arms and eyed the steamy mug in Gramps’s hand.

  “Go change into something warm and cozy,” Jack said. “I’ll have a cup of tea waiting when you get back.”

  She stared at him. This man, this total stranger, was going to make her tea?

  She squinted at him. What was his angle? Why was he there acting like a neighbor, a friend? She nodded toward the mug Gramps held. “That better be caffeine-free, or he’ll be up all night.”

  Jack’s smile stayed in place, maybe even got a little wider as if he found her amusing.

  His response made her want to growl at him, but he’d probably break into raucous laughter.

  Jack tapped the side of his head with his fingertips. “Actually thought of that.” He looked at Gramps and added, “When you got a face as pretty as this”—he circled an invisible outline of his face with his free hand—“they think you must have all the brains of a sweet potato.”

  Gramps lifted his cup in a sort of salute. “Happens to me all the time, son. All the time.”

  The men chuckled at their brilliance.

  She maybe did growl a little as she turned toward her bedroom. Just what she needed, some man to give Gramps more material.

  When she reached her room, she froze. Her bed was made with the cheap bedding she’d bought on sale. The suitcase had been left on the bed.

  Gramps couldn’t have maneuvered around it with his bad hips and back. And he’d been too tired to do anything.

  Which meant Jack, a total stranger, had found her sheets and stretched them across the bed. He’d pulled the comforter on, made sure it draped evenly over both sides. He’d stuffed her pillowcase with the pillow on which she’d lay her head.

  Even as she marveled at the kindness, the image of his hands on her bedding made her shudder again.

  She tore the duct tape from her luggage and dug through it looking for something warm.

  A total stranger had come into her house, had made her bed, and was now fixing her tea. And her dinner. What kind of weird dimension had she and Gramps landed in? Because nothing in her experience had ever led her to believe that men like Jack existed outside of romance novels. He might have been joking about the pretty face, but he hadn’t been wrong. The man was good-looking in a rugged, flannel-shirt-and-work-boots kind of way. Though he may have looked different from the men in her past, she’d learned the hard way that no matter what a man wore—suits and ties, joggers and sweatshirts, or jeans and flannel—men were not to be trusted.

  She found a clean pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Then she pulled something else out of the bag. Her fleece pajamas. Baggy, fluffy, ugly, pink fleece pajamas.

>   He’d said to slip into something warm and cozy. These fit the bill.

  She peeled off her still-wet clothes, careful with her wrist, which was more tender after the debacle on the porch steps, and climbed into the fuzzy warmth. With a cup of something hot, she just might warm up before spring.

  She touched the cut on her neck. It was healing. Hopefully, Jack wouldn’t notice it.

  What did he want from her? If he was like every other man she’d ever known, at least every one who wasn’t so old he needed a little blue pill and an hour’s notice, she could guess exactly what he wanted.

  She pulled on a pair of dry socks and slipped her feet into her furry slippers.

  Nothing said no-way-not-gonna-happen like furry yellow slippers.

  She shuffled back to the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe. Now that the sleepy haze had worn off, she noticed all the changes since she’d first seen the room. Stuff…everywhere.

  “I hope you don’t mind.” Jack adjusted the heat on the stove and turned to face her. He started to say something, stopped, and said, “Nice jammies.”

  “They’re warm.”

  Their eyes met and held for a second before he cleared his throat and turned back to the stove. If she wasn’t mistaken, a flush of pink climbed up his neck as he poured water from a saucepan into another mug, added a tea bag, and handed it to her.

  “Thank you.” She heated her hands on the warm cup and inhaled the scent. Smelled like cinnamon and something heavenly she didn’t recognize. “This is perfect.”

  “Some kind of herbal something,” Jack said. “I thought it would warm you up and help you relax.” He stirred the soup. “When I bought this house, it was filled with… Well, it seemed like junk. All that stuff was still in my garage, and I remembered…” He turned to the counter, pointed at an old microwave and a toaster. Behind the toaster…was that a coffee maker? “No idea if they work.”

  She eyed the appliances, thought of what they represented. Coffee and food. Glorious—and easy—food. Her eyes tingled. Seriously, what was wrong with her? “That’s… Thank you so much.”