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A Man to Rely On
Cindi Myers


Marisol Luna has no illusions about her past–and the straitlaced, finger-pointing town she left behind as a teenager. Now a single mother with a teenage daughter, she's come back to Cedar Switch only long enough to sell the family house. And that plan does not include giving the gossips something to talk about by getting involved with the sexy Scott Redmond.But it seems she can't avoid this particular scandal, because he's not taking no for an answer. In fact, he's offering the notorious Texas native something Marisol is finding irresistible: a second chance.









“Have you thought about staying?”


Marisol shook her head at Scott’s question. “There are too many memories here.”

“So make some new memories.” He set down the roller and moved closer to her. “I’d like it if you stayed.”

Her eyes met his, calm and clear. “I meant what I said. I’m not interested in a long-term relationship. I’m not ready to let another man into my life.”

“Maybe you’ll change your mind one day, but until then, I’m here.” He took her hand in his, his large fingers laced with her slender ones. “I’ve been dying for one moment alone with you. You’ve felt it, haven’t you?”

She said nothing, though the longing in her eyes answered for her.


Dear Reader,

I’m fascinated by the way stories evolve—the process is rarely the same from one book to the next. The characters Marisol and Scott came to me long before I found the right story for them. I tried several different plots before I found the one that was a perfect fit. The result is A Man To Rely On.

I’m particularly drawn to stories of people who defy expectations or overcome tough odds. One wonderful thing about writing is that my characters get to be tougher or prettier or braver or more talented than I ever could be. I get to live their adventures in my head as I tell their stories.

I think that’s one of the great things about reading, as well. We get to live great adventures through the pages of a book, without ever leaving home or our comfortable armchair.

I hope you’ll enjoy reading about Marisol and Scott’s adventures, as well. Let me know what you think. I love to hear from readers. You can e-mail me at Cindi@CindiMyers.com or write to me in care of Harlequin Enterprises, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.

Best,

Cindi Myers




A Man to Rely on

Cindi Myers










ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Cindi Myers grew up in a small town in Texas, but she never had the desire to jump off a highway bridge, in any state of dress or undress. She now lives in Colorado with her husband, who never plays basketball, and two spoiled dogs.


For Pam,

who loved this story in all its incarnations.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN




PROLOGUE


Cedar Switch, Texas, 1988

“D ID YOU HEAR ? She’s going to do it. She’s really going to do it.”

“Do what?” Scott Redmond struggled to keep up with his friend, Sam Waite, as they splashed through the muddy shallows above the swimming hole in the Brazos River. It was after noon on a Thursday in August, and the river was the temperature of bath water. The air smelled of weeds and mud and the beachy scent of Coppertone oil.

He lunged through the thigh-high water. At fourteen, Sam was a year older and a head taller. His legs were longer too, and he moved faster in the water.

Scott scrambled for purchase on the slick river bottom. With a loud splash, he fell, and came up sputtering, muddy water filling his eyes and nose. Sam didn’t even notice, he was so intent on reaching the bridge. Around him, other kids were making their way upstream toward the bridge too. In local swimming hole hierarchy, the bridge was the territory of older kids, who took turns daring each other to leap from the creosote posts that supported the guardrail beside the highway.

“What’s going on?” Scott asked, as he stood and slicked his hair back out of his eyes.

“Marisol Luna is gonna jump off the bridge,” a boy Scott’s age said.

“So?” Kids did it all the time. He hadn’t yet, but he probably would soon. At least by the time he was in high school.

“She’s gonna do it naked! ” The other boy’s eyes lit up with a wicked gleam. “C’mon. You don’t want to miss this.”

The chance to see a female naked in broad daylight was not something that happened very often in the lives of most thirteen-year-olds in Cedar Switch, Texas. Inspired by this rare prospect, Scott floundered through the water again, determined not to miss the spectacle.

When he joined the crowd gathered beneath the high concrete span, he could see the group of older kids on the bridge. Danny Westover was the high school football team’s quarterback. His sometimes-girlfriend, Jessica Freeman, was there, along with half a dozen other high school boys and girls. And in front of them all was a girl Scott thought he had seen around town before: a Mexican girl with curly black hair that hung past her shoulders. She wore a modest one-piece tank suit, red with black roses printed on it.

“That’s her. That’s Marisol,” Sam said, pointing.

Scott nodded. “I know. What makes you think she’s gonna jump?” He couldn’t even say the part about her being naked. It was too impossible to imagine.

“Jessica dared her. She said if Marisol thought she was such hot stuff, she ought to let them all see.”

“And she said yes?” The girls he knew got mad if you said something about the strap of their training bras showing. He couldn’t imagine one of them voluntarily taking her clothes off in broad daylight before God and everybody.

A hush fell over the crowd in the water as Marisol stepped up onto the flat top of the thick post that supported part of the guardrail. She didn’t look at any of them. Instead, she stared out across the water. Scott held his breath, awed by the expression on her face. She wasn’t that much older than him—maybe fifteen or sixteen. But she looked so determined. Not scared at all. He’d seen girls jump before—with their swimsuits on—and every one of them had looked like she was about to cry before she dove into the water.

But Marisol Luna looked calm, as if she was waiting to cross the street in front of the school.

“Take it off! Take it off!” Someone started the chant and others picked it up, until it was a deafening chorus, echoing off the water.

Scott remained silent, watching the girl on the post. She glanced down at the water, and in that moment, her expression changed. She looked angry, he decided. Was she angry at Jessica and her friends for taunting her? Or at all of them for watching?

He ducked his head, feeling ashamed, then quickly brought it up again, unable to resist seeing her fulfill the dare. He looked at her again, and this time, he saw hurt alongside the anger. He felt the hurt in his own chest, but still could not turn away.

She brought one hand to the strap of her suit, and a half smile formed on her lips. She reached back and undid the strap slowly, then let it fall down across her still-covered breasts, taunting them.

“Take it off! Take it off!” The volume of the chant increased.

The same amused expression fixed on her face, she grabbed the top of the suit with both hands and shoved it down, then quickly stepped out of it.

The chant faded away in the heavy, hot air. Scott stared at the girl, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. She had small round breasts, tipped with dark brown nipples, a small waist and round hips. He could see the tuft of dark brown hair between her legs, and felt a stiffness between his own legs. He stifled a groan and sank deeper into the water, not daring to take his eyes from her for a moment.

She raised her hands over her head and held the pose for what seemed like a full minute. No one said anything. Scott could hear the water slapping against the concrete pilings of the bridge, and the buzzing of dragonflies that hovered on the river’s surface, and his own frantic pulse throbbing in his ears.

Then she dove, her legs and arms folded together in a perfect jackknife, cleaving the water like a bullet.

The mournful keening of a siren broke the stillness, and a sheriff’s car came to a halt on the bridge. A deputy climbed out of the car, his uniform shirt plastered to his back by sweat. “What are you kids doing?” he bellowed. “Y’all know you’re not supposed to dive off here.”

They scattered then, swimming or running away from the site. When Scott looked back, the deputy was holding up Marisol’s swimsuit and talking with Jessica and Danny. He dropped his gaze to the water, but Marisol was nowhere in sight. Scott froze, half sick with fear. What if she’d drowned?

Then he saw her, farther down the bank, half-hidden in the salt cedars that grew beside the river. She was picking her way through the shallows, moving away from the bridge, as graceful as a mermaid, and as naked as the day she was born. Scott stared until he couldn’t see her anymore, then he reluctantly made his way home.

That night, and many night afterwards, he dreamed of Marisol, standing on the bridge. Of the beauty of her body, and the defiance and pain that shone from her eyes. In his dreams, he wanted more than anything to comfort her, but she was unreachable, someone he could only long for from afar.




CHAPTER ONE


Cedar Switch, Texas 2008

M ARISOL L UNA ONCE SAID she would never come back to Cedar Switch, Texas, except to dance on the graves of all those who had scorned her. The image pleased her, of whirling and tapping and kicking and leaping past the stolid tombstones of the men and women who had looked down their noses at her. Her steps would reverberate down to where they lay unmoving in their coffins, and reduce the soil over them to dust.

As far as she knew, most of those people were still alive. Alive and well enough to see her come home with her head ducked in shame. She’d disappoint them in that respect at least. Of all the emotions that had dogged her in the past nightmare of a year, shame had not been one of them. She had done nothing wrong. A judge and a jury had said so—though her enemies would never believe it.

Correction. She had done one thing wrong. She’d made the mistake of falling in love with a man who kept more secrets than the CIA. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as she thought of her late husband. Lamar Dixon, star center for the Houston Rockets, the highest paid player in the history of professional basketball, had been a liar and a cheat and a gambler who lost more than he could ever afford to repay. In the end, it had cost him his life, and it had almost cost Marisol hers.

But that was over now. She was making a fresh start. Cedar Switch was only the first stop in her new life. She’d stay long enough to sell the house her mother had left her, then take that money and head to a place where no one had heard of Lamar Dixon or his infamous widow.

Marisol glanced toward the passenger seat. Her fourteen-year-old daughter, Antonia—Toni—had her eyes closed, bobbing her head in time to some hip-hop tune on her iPod. Oblivious to her mother. Toni had Marisol’s light brown skin and wide mouth, and her father’s strong chin and thick, unruly hair, which she wore in long braids gathered with a clip at the nape of her neck. She’d been a pretty child and would be a beautiful woman, if Marisol could only manage to see her through these turbulent teen years.

As if feeling her mother’s gaze on her, Toni jerked the earbuds of the iPod from her ears. “I can’t believe you’re moving me all the way to East Podunk,” she said, picking up the argument that had raged between mother and daughter for days. “I don’t know why we couldn’t stay in Houston.”

“Did you really want to spend the rest of your life barricaded in your house, dodging reporters?”

Toni stuck out her lower lip and twined the cord of the iPod between her fingers. “They would have gone away, eventually.”

“Maybe. But the truth of the matter is, we couldn’t afford to stay in Houston any longer,” Marisol said. “I spent pretty much everything we had on lawyers.”

Toni’s eyes widened. “Do you mean we’re poor?”

Marisol’s idea of poor and her daughter’s were probably several decimal places apart, but Marisol understood that to Toni their present reduced circumstances might seem dire. She had some money set aside—enough to pay for Toni’s education. But she was determined not to touch it. “We’re not rich,” she said. “And I’ll have to get a job. But you don’t need to worry about having enough to eat or a roof over your head.”

Toni slumped back in the seat with a sigh. “I just wish we could go home,” she moaned.

Me too, Marisol thought. But the house in River Oaks, the platinum credit cards, the exclusive clubs and the luxury vacations had disappeared with Lamar’s death. All she had left was her car, a small savings account and the house she’d inherited from her mother. That house was her ticket to a new future, a less extravagant one for sure, but one in which she’d call her own shots. After her experience with Lamar, it would be a long time before she was so naive as to trust anyone else again.

A green city limits sign announced their arrival in Cedar Switch, Texas, population 9,016. Marisol turned her attention from her daughter as she guided the red Corvette down Main Street. She wished now she’d sold the car and bought something more conservative, but she’d told herself she could always trade it in later if things got really bad. Lamar had given her the vehicle for her last birthday; it was one happy memory to hold on to in spite of everything that had happened since then.

But the Corvette was definitely the kind of car that made people take a second look, and when folks in Cedar Switch realized who was in the car…

She took a deep breath and told herself to get over it. Why should anyone care if she was here now? Likely no one remembered what had happened all those years ago.

“What a dump,” Toni said, scowling at the passing scenery.

“Actually, it looks better than it did when I was here last,” Marisol said. In her memories, everything here was sepia-toned—the brown brick of the courthouse, the faded facades of storefronts and the yards of houses brown from winter’s frosts or summer’s drought. So it surprised her to recognize color all around her. Azaleas bloomed pink and lilac around the courthouse. New stores with bright striped awnings lined the streets.

She drove past the corner where the Dairy Freeze had once sat—now occupied by a bright yellow McDonald’s—and turned onto a wide, shady street. Her destination was halfway down, on the right. She blinked rapidly, cursing the tears that stung her eyes as she stared at the familiar white brick ranch house, with its narrow front porch and cracked concrete drive. Even the mailbox was the same, the paint faded over the years but still readable: Davies.

She pulled in front of the garage and shut off the engine. “This is it?” Toni asked. “It’s so tiny.”

Marisol laughed, a bitter attempt to avoid bursting into tears. “It’s little to you because you’re used to our huge house in Houston. But when I was a little girl, this seemed like a really big house.” Before Mercedes Luna had married Harlan Davies, she and Marisol had shared a one-bedroom apartment over a dry cleaner’s downtown. Marisol had stayed in bigger hotel rooms than the place where she’d spent the first eleven years of her life.

Toni shook her head, unimpressed by nostalgia, and shoved open her car door then climbed out.

Marisol sighed and got out as well. She refrained from looking around as she headed up the walk to the front door. The neighbors were probably already getting cricks in their necks, trying to see what was going on at the Davies’ house. The phone lines would be buzzing when they figured out who was back in town.

She dug in her purse for the key the lawyer had sent. Toni waited on the porch, slumped against the post, feigning boredom, though impatience radiated from her. No matter what she said, the girl was interested in this glimpse into her mother’s past—a past Marisol had never found reason to share with her.

She took a deep breath, bracing herself against the onslaught of memory, then turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness in the closed-up room, but in that time the scent of White Shoulders filled her. Her mother’s perfume. One breath and it was as if Mercedes were there in person, urging her daughter to shut the door and come inside. To make herself at home.

She groped for the light switch. A single yellow bulb glowed feebly overhead, revealing furniture draped in old sheets, and the same red-and-black patterned rug that had been bought new when Marisol was eleven.

Toni gingerly lifted one sheet. “You really lived here?” she asked.

Marisol nodded. She had not really wanted to come here, but told herself she had no choice. Staying here until she could sell the place seemed like the safest bet for her and her daughter. And she couldn’t deny a curiosity, a need to see what had become of this place she had left so long ago. An unvoiced hope that in death Mercedes might have left behind some clue as to what had really happened to tear them so irrevocably apart.

“I want to stay in your room,” Toni said, interrupting her mother’s reverie. Before Marisol could stop her, she hurried down the hall, opening doors as she went, looking in at the dusty furnishings of a guest room/-home office, bathroom and finally, at the end of the hall, Marisol’s girlhood room.

“Toni, no,” Marisol called, but too late. Toni had already opened the door and stood just inside it, staring.

Marisol came up behind her and stared too, at the white single bed with its pink puffy comforter. The pink curtains, faded by the sun, still hung in the window, and the pink fluffy rug still lay by the bed.

She took Toni’s shoulder and urged her gently over the threshold into the hall. “You don’t want to stay here,” she said. “We’ll fix up the guest room for you.”

“Why can’t I stay here?” Toni whirled on her, her face fixed in the stubborn pout Marisol recognized too well. “What’s in there you don’t want me to see?”

Marisol closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose—a technique she had read somewhere was calming, but she couldn’t tell that it made any difference now. She still felt as if she’d swallowed broken glass, as if there was no move she could make that didn’t hurt. “There’s nothing special here to see,” she said calmly, though a voice in her head screamed Liar! “It’s just a house. You can look at it later. Let’s unpack our things first.”

Toni blocked her mother’s passage down the hall, arms folded across her chest, mouth set in a stubborn scowl. Already she was taller than Marisol, having inherited her father’s height. “What was the deal with you and your mother, anyway? How come I never met her? How come she didn’t want you attending her funeral? Why do you always keep so many secrets?”

Not secrets, Marisol thought. Just things no one needs to talk about anymore. She wet her dry lips. “I didn’t get along with her husband. She chose him over me.” The truth, but only part of it.

“And that’s it? You let something like that keep you apart for what—twenty years?”

“About that.” She forced herself to look her daughter in the eye, to not flinch from that disdainful glare. It was so easy to judge at this age, when you were so sure of right and wrong. “I’m not proud of it. If I could go back and do things differently, I would. But I can’t. So now I have to live with it.”

Toni scowled at her, then pushed past, headed to the living room. Marisol followed her daughter and sank onto a sheet-covered sofa, her legs suddenly too weak to support her. Oh God, why had she come back here? True, she hadn’t seen any other choice. But everything felt wrong. There were too many bad memories in these walls, too much hurt to have to deal with. She looked around the room, at the shrouded shapes that were like so many ghosts, taunting her.

Toni slumped in the chair opposite. “So what do we do now?” she asked.

Marisol took a deep breath. “We’re going to do whatever we have to,” she said. That was how she’d lived her life. She’d done tougher things to survive before. She could do this. She could do anything as long as she knew it was only temporary.



S COTT R EDMOND LEANED against the door to his father’s office and watched his dad, attorney Jay Redmond, shuffle through stacks of folders. “I need to pick up my dry cleaning,” the old man muttered. “I know the claim slip is here somewhere.”

“Just tell Mr. Lee you lost it,” Scott said. “It’s not as if he hasn’t known you for years.” That was one good thing about living in a small town for years—everyone knew everything about you.

And that was the worst thing about living in a small town as well. Mess up even once and no one ever forgot it. Make a habit of screw-ups and it could take years to rebuild a reputation, something Scott was finding out the hard way.

Two years ago he’d been the top-selling real estate agent in town, riding the tail end of a housing boom that had brought wealthy investors from Houston, three hours to the north, to buy up old homes or build new ones on vacant land for weekend retreats. Scott had wined and dined these high rollers and become something of a roller himself. He’d ended up with habits he couldn’t afford and made some really stupid mistakes. Only his dad’s influence and Scott’s own remorse had kept him from serious trouble.

So here he was at thirty-four years old, starting over at the bottom. A one-man real estate office sharing space with his attorney father.

“Found it!” His father held a yellow slip of paper aloft triumphantly. “Now I won’t have to defend Eddie Stucker wearing my golf clothes.” He settled back in his worn leather desk chair. “Speaking of golf—how’s Marcus Henry’s latest project coming along?”

Scott almost smiled at this not-so-subtle maneuvering of the conversation to Henry’s—and Scott’s—latest triumph. Scott suspected heavy lobbying from Jay had led Cedar Switch’s biggest developer to award Scott the exclusive listing for his most ambitious project to date—an upscale development centered around a Robert Trent Jones golf course, private lake, stables and green belt.

“The roads are going in this week and next,” Scott said. “I’ve got some people coming from Houston this weekend to take a tour. Once the streets are in and the clubhouse starts going up, we expect to see a flurry of interest.”

“Everything the man touches turns to gold,” Jay said. “Getting in with him is one of the best things that could have happened to you. You’ll give the other agencies around here a real run for their money. Before long this office won’t be big enough for you. You’ll have to have new space, hire associates…it’ll be just like the old days.”

The old days of only two years ago? “Not just like them,” Scott said. “I’m done with life in the fast lane.”

His father’s expression sobered. “You’re right,” he said. “You shouldn’t try to take on too much. Better to keep things manageable. You don’t need the stress.”

Scott resented the implication that he wasn’t strong enough to handle whatever the job required. If he wanted a different kind of life now, it wasn’t because he couldn’t cope with more. He’d simply learned some things about himself and what was important to him now.

Others didn’t see things that way, though. To them, he was Scott Redmond—Jay’s boy who’d had such a bright future and thrown it all away.

Scott would probably spend the rest of his life paying for the recklessness of that one half year.

He was about to excuse himself, to walk to McDonald’s and grab some lunch when the door opened and a woman entered. She was beautiful, with long dark curly hair, smooth, olive skin, a classic hourglass figure and an air of money and poise he associated with socialites from Dallas and Houston who spent weekends shopping in the “quaint” shops on the town square.

Jay rose to greet his visitor. “May I help you?”

“Mr. Redmond?” She flashed a dazzling smile. “I’m Marisol Luna.”

But of course they had both recognized her by then, the beautiful face less strained, the clothes less severe than they had been in countless pictures splashed across the front pages of newspapers and filling their television screens each night. The Lamar Dixon murder trial had all the elements of riveting drama: the celebrity victim, the beautiful accused, wealth, glamor, sexual affairs, gambling and unsavory secrets. People chose sides, wagered bets on Marisol’s guilt or innocence and read everything they could find about the case.

“Please sit down.” Jay gestured to the chair before his desk. “What can I do for you? Ms. Luna? You’ve gone back to your maiden name?”

“I thought it best.”

She sat, demurely crossing her legs at the ankles and smoothing her skirt down her thighs. Scott struggled not to stare at her.

“This is my son, Scott. You might remember him from school.”

Scott stepped forward to shake her hand, a brief silken touch gone too soon. He was sure Marisol did not remember him, though he had never forgotten her. His heart beat faster, remembering that day on the bridge. She wouldn’t have known him then, of course, but later, she had come to their house once. He’d been fourteen at the time, in awe of her sixteen-year-old beauty and her notoriety.

A notoriety she maintained years later, when the local papers were full of news of her marriage to basketball great Lamar Dixon. He’d seen Lamar on the basketball court once in Houston. Lamar had netted twenty-seven baskets in that game and hadn’t even broken a sweat. The papers had reported his last contract at seventeen million, making him one of the highest paid stars in the NBA.

And of course the murder charge and trial had only added to her reputation.

“I’m sorry about your husband’s passing,” Jay said. “And about everything you’ve been through.”

“Thank you.” She folded her hands in her lap. She looked very…contained. Behind the outward polish, Scott sensed she was shaken by more than grief.

“How have you been?” Jay asked.

“I’ve been fine.” Her voice was flat. Unemotional. The voice of someone concentrating on staying in control. Scott could feel the tension radiating from her, and she sat so rigidly he imagined she might shatter if touched.

Jay’s response was to relax even more, leaning back in the chair, hands casually clasped on the desktop. He’d once told Scott that the best way to handle fearful or nervous clients was to ease the tension with small talk. “It’s been a while since you’ve been back to Cedar Switch, hasn’t it?” he said. “I imagine it’s changed a lot since then.”

“It’s been a long time,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I’m more surprised by how much has remained the same.”

“Really?” Jay leaned forward. “Having lived here so long myself, it seems as if every other day some old building is being torn down and replaced by something new.”

She shifted in her chair. “I guess what I mean is that, for me at least, the town has the same feeling it always did.”

Scott and his father waited for her to elaborate on what that feeling might be, but when she did not, Scott wondered if she was waiting for him to leave. “I’ll let you two talk in private,” he said, moving toward the door.

“I don’t mind if you stay.” He felt a jolt when their eyes met, a shock of recognition that, even after all these years, this woman could stir him somewhere deep inside. He settled slowly into a chair a little ways from her and searched for something innocuous to say.

“Is your daughter with you?” Jay asked.

Scott vaguely recalled the mention in news reports of a teenage daughter.

“Yes. Antonia isn’t too happy about being here in ‘East Podunk’ as she insists on calling it.”

“I’ll bet she’s as pretty as her mother was at that age,” Jay said.

Scott could see the girl Marisol had been so clearly in his mind’s eye, exotically beautiful to a small-town boy like himself.

“Prettier, I hope. She’s tall, like her father.” Pride warmed her voice and softened her expression.

“You’re staying at your mother’s place?” Jay asked. “Your place now, of course.”

“Yes. I appreciate your handling transferring the title and everything after she died,” she said. “I obviously wasn’t in a position to come down and handle it myself.”

As Scott recalled, when Mercedes Luna had passed away, her only daughter had been confined to a cell in the Harris County Jail.

“I was happy to do it,” Jay said. “And it’s good to have you home.”

Marisol looked uncomfortable with the word, Scott thought. Then again, why would a woman like her, used to the finest things in life and the social whirl of a big city, ever feel at home in a small house in a sleepy place like Cedar Switch?

“I plan to stay here for a little while,” she said. “Until I can sell the house. That’s what I came to see you about. I was hoping you could recommend a real estate agent. I’d like to list the house as soon as possible. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

Jay’s smile broadened. “You came to the right place. Scott here is an excellent agent, and his office is right next door.”

She looked at Scott again, her gaze lingering, and he had the impression he was being judged. Sized up. “That’s very convenient,” she said. “Do you think you can sell my mother’s house?”

“I’ll be happy to help you find a buyer,” he said.

“Thank you.” She looked away from him again, her hands knotted tightly in her lap, gaze focused somewhere above his father’s desk. The silence went on so long he began to feel uneasy.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Jay asked.

She took a deep breath. “You’ve always been so kind to me,” she said.

“I’ve always liked you very much.” Jay’s voice was gentle. He cleared his throat. “We all do.”

Her eyes widened, as if in surprise, for half a second—such a fleeting expression Scott wasn’t entirely sure he’d actually seen it. The unnaturally calm mask was back in its place. “I have some questions I hope you can answer,” she said.

“I’ll do my best.” Jay relaxed in his chair again, while Scott continued to study the woman who sat a few feet away, unable to tear his eyes from her. The beauty he remembered had matured to something deeper, something more compelling even than the girl who had cast a spell over him.

“Why didn’t my mother want me at her funeral?” she asked, her accusing tone startling after the long silence.

“There wasn’t a funeral,” Jay said. “She insisted on that. I suppose, given the circumstances, she thought it best.”

Marisol laced her fingers together. “I had permission to come to town for a funeral,” she said. “My lawyers even thought it would help gain sympathy for me.”

When the media learned there was to be no funeral—that it had been her mother’s last wishes that Marisol not return to Cedar Switch—the press had trumpeted the news for weeks. Marisol was so bad, her own mother had rejected her. Of course a woman like that would murder her husband.

Jay frowned. “I didn’t know Mercedes well,” he said. “But I don’t think she even considered doing you any harm. I think she was simply a very private person who didn’t want any fuss over her. She wanted everything taken care of so you wouldn’t have to bother.”

“And she told you to wait until after she was buried before you contacted me?”

“Yes. I tried to talk her out of the idea. I told her you would want to be contacted. She made me promise not to bother you.”

“Was that the word she used? Bother? ”

He nodded. “Yes. She said it would be better for everyone if all the details were out of the way and over with before you even knew she was gone. I couldn’t convince her otherwise.”

Marisol’s shoulders sagged, and her fingers played with the strap of her purse, stroking the leather over and over. In that moment she seemed more vulnerable than she had since walking into the office. Scott fought the urge to put his arms around her. But the fact that he wanted so much to touch her kept him firmly in his chair. What he felt for the woman across from him went beyond sympathy for a client or compassion for an old friend. His feelings for Marisol were too mixed up with adolescent desire, unfulfilled fantasy and maybe even the fact that as an adult she was so much like the women who had attracted him during his high-flying days—polished, sophisticated women whose outer sleekness was a thin coating over an earthy sensuality. He couldn’t separate all these facets of his attraction to Marisol in his mind, and therefore had no business laying a finger on her.

She stood suddenly, poised once more. She extended her hand to Jay. “Thank you for talking with me.”

“If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you.” She turned to Scott. “I’ll want to sell the house as soon as possible.”

“I can come out late today or tomorrow to look at it and draw up a listing agreement.”

“Tomorrow would be best, thank you.” She turned to leave. He stood and followed her, holding the door open for her. Then he moved to the window and watched her walk to a bright red Corvette that was parked at the curb. He smiled. He would have guessed the girl who stood naked on the bridge and the woman who held her head high and faced the television cameras head-on would drive a car like this. A car that dared everyone to watch her. As they always had.

As he always had.




CHAPTER TWO


M ARISOL WOKE the next morning to golden light streaming through the yellow curtains in her mother’s old bedroom. Lying there in a place she had never imagined she would find herself she felt the impotence of a person in a dream, unsure her legs would support her if she tried to rise. The grief she had fought for days battered at her, waves of memory threatening to drown her: her mother teaching her to make tortillas when Marisol was five years old, Mercedes’s larger hands over her small ones, helping her to pat out the flat disks of dough; mother and daughter watching the movie Grease at a matinee at the Cedar Switch cinema, sharing a tub of buttery popcorn and pretending to swoon over John Travolta; the pink silky dress she wore to her mother’s remarriage, and how much she’d cried when the newlyweds left her behind for their brief honeymoon.

Mercedes had told her she was gaining a father that day, but in truth Marisol had lost her mother to Harlan Davies. He had been a hard, possessive man, who had demanded Mercedes take his side in all disputes. Until finally he had dug a chasm between mother and daughter that could not be crossed, not even after his death.

If Marisol could have asked her mother one question now, it would be if she felt all she’d gained by marrying Davies had been worth all he had forced her to surrender.

She shut her eyes tightly and forced her mind from such thoughts. She had too much to do to indulge her grief. This morning she had to see about finding a job; the few thousand dollars left in her bank account after she’d paid the legal team and all their investigators, and settled the debts Lamar had left her with would not last long. And she absolutely would not touch Toni’s college fund. Lamar’s death had robbed his daughter of the advantages of wealth and privilege; Marisol would not deprive her of a first-class education as well.

Besides, working would keep Marisol occupied and out of the house until it sold and they could leave town for good.

What kind of job she had no idea. Years of attending charity balls, shopping and lunching with her friends had left her without any marketable skills. But she was smart. She could learn.

She’d spent the previous afternoon arguing with Toni, who had wanted to explore the town on her own. Marisol had refused to consider the idea, which had led to a shouting match, ending with Toni declaring, “I hate you!” and retreating to Marisol’s old room, where she’d plugged in her iPod and refused to budge, even to eat.

How many times had Marisol acted out a similar scene with her own mother? If anything, she had been more unruly than Toni, sneaking out of the house at all hours of the day and night, purposely doing things she knew would enrage Harlan. Only now, from the perspective of an adult and a parent herself, could she understand how much her rebelliousness must have also hurt her mother.

She forced herself out of bed, made coffee, then knocked on her daughter’s door. Toni had insisted on moving into Marisol’s bedroom. “Toni, are you up? I need to go out for a while.”

“I’m up.”

“There’s cereal and bread in the kitchen. Fix yourself something to eat.”

“I will.”

She would have liked to see her daughter’s face this morning, to have hugged her and to have drawn strength from the sight of her. The last thing Marisol wanted to do was to go out and beg for a job in a town she’d always hated—from people she’d always felt hated her. But for Toni, she would do it.

She went first to the courthouse. At one time, the county and the school district were the town’s largest employers. She wasn’t qualified to be a teacher, but surely she could handle work as a clerk in one of the county offices.

The woman behind the counter’s eyes widened when she saw Marisol. “You’re Lamar Dixon’s wife,” she said. “I mean widow.”

“I’m Marisol Luna. I’d like to apply for a job.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Doing what?”

“Anything.” Marisol forced herself to meet the woman’s critical gaze. “What openings do you have?”

The woman shook her head emphatically. “You couldn’t work here.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t have a criminal record and work for the county government.”

Marisol stiffened. “I don’t have a criminal record,” she said. “I was acquitted. That means I was found not guilty.”

“I know what it means.” The woman’s lips were a thin, straight line in her stern face. “I don’t think anyone would want to hire you. It wouldn’t look good.”

Marisol ground her teeth together, battling the urge to tell this woman exactly what she thought of her. “May I fill out an application?” she asked evenly.

“Fill it out all you want.” The woman pulled a sheet of paper from a cubbyhole and sailed it across the counter, then turned away, muttering about people who “weren’t any better than they should be.”

Marisol fared little better at the other places she tried. The office supply owner asked why a woman “whose husband made all that money” would need to work.

Marisol chafed at explaining Lamar had gambled away most of his income, and she had spent the rest fighting for her life in court. “Trust me, I need the job,” she said instead. She didn’t mention she only planned to stay in town a few months at the most; no sense giving anyone another reason not to hire her.

“Can’t help you. I already got a high school girl who works part-time and that’s all I need.”

The librarian was more sympathetic. “I wish I could help you, I really do,” she said. “But the county cut our budget this year and we had to let one of our librarians go. We’re getting by with volunteers. But if you’d like to volunteer…”

The florist squinted at Marisol behind thick spectacles. “I know you,” he said.

Who doesn’t? she wanted to reply, but kept quiet and waited for him to say something about the trial. Instead, he startled her by saying, “You’re Marisol Luna. I knew you in high school.” His grin was more of a leer. “I remember when you jumped off the highway bridge. Stark naked.” He chuckled. “That was really something.”

She wanted to slap the grin right off his face, but, thinking of Toni, she repressed the impulse. “Do you have any job openings?” she asked.

He leaned across the counter toward her, his tone confiding. “I’d love to hire you, hon, but my wife would have a conniption if she thought the two of us were working together. So I’d better not. Though if you’d like to come back after I close up, maybe we could have a drink for old time’s sake.”

She moved on. Her feet hurt, and her mouth, neck and shoulders strained from holding her head high and smiling. Sweat pooled in the small of her back and she worried her anti-perspirant had given up. She was also hungry and had a pounding headache. She tried to distract herself by looking at her surroundings. As she’d told Toni, the whole town looked better than it had when she’d left, with new awnings, fresh paint and flowers around the square. She recalled seeing an article in the travel section of the Houston Chronicle last year, which had touted Cedar Switch as a popular destination for weekend getaways, with a newly revitalized downtown, an abundance of bed-and-breakfast inns and restaurants and shops that catered to tourists.

The whole square now looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting—except for the hulking brown building two blocks west of the courthouse. Once a masterpiece of Victorian architecture, with elaborate wedding-cake trim, soaring columns and a stained-glass cupola, the Palace Hotel had been the social center of town when Marisol was a girl. Countless senior proms, wedding receptions and formal balls had been held in the upstairs ballroom.

Now the paint was faded and flaking, the windows broken or boarded up. Overgrown rose vines spilled across the front steps, bright pink petals scattered down the walk, as if left over from a long-ago wedding reception. A red-and-white metal For Sale sign was planted near the sidewalk.

Marisol stared at the once-grand building with a knot in her throat. When she looked back on her life in Cedar Switch, almost all of the good times were associated with the Palace Hotel. Seeing it so neglected and rundown made her doubt the reliability of her memories. Maybe her recollections of the past were as flawed as her judgment about Lamar.

She turned away, and hurried back to the square, mentally reviewing her employment options. She was running out of places to look for work. The bank, hardware store and Cherie’s boutique had all turned her down, some more politely than others. Everyone had stared. Some had asked rude questions. No one had offered her a job, or any clue as to where she might find employment.

There was the grocery store out near the highway—though the thought of dragging dripping chickens and twelve packs of beer across the scanner made her recoil in revulsion. She stopped and studied the square for anything she might have missed. Her gaze rested on a white storefront in the middle of the block on the east side of the courthouse. The Bluebonnet Café.

There had been a café in that location when Marisol was a girl, though then it had been the Courthouse Café. Open for breakfast and lunch, it had done a good business, catering to downtown workers and shoppers and those who had dealings at the courthouse.

Restaurants almost always needed help, didn’t they? And no special skills were needed for waitressing beyond a good memory, a certain grace and the ability to chat up the customers. Countless charity balls and cocktail parties had trained her well in those talents.

She squared her shoulders and walked to the corner to cross the street. With her luck, she didn’t want to risk getting arrested for jaywalking. Even that would be enough to make her the top story in the evening news.

The café itself was a neat, white-painted room lined with red-leatherette booths, the center filled with small tables with blue-checked tablecloths and ladder-backed chairs.

“Can I help you?” an older woman with twin long gray braids, a white apron over overalls and T-shirt asked when Marisol stopped in the entrance.

“I’d like to apply for a job,” Marisol said.

The woman gave her a curious look, and Marisol braced herself for comments about the trial, or Lamar, or even her infamous past in Cedar Switch. Instead, the woman said, “You’re prettier than most we get in here. You ever waitressed before?”

Marisol shook her head. “But I’m very good with people.”

“Can you carry a tray full of blue plate specials, that’s the question.”

“Yes, I can. I’m sure I can.”

“All right.” The woman opened a drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper. “Fill that out.”

Marisol completed the brief questionnaire, writing in the number and street of her mother’s old house in the space for address. Even after twenty years, she could recall it easily. Staring at the address on the paper, she felt a sense of disorientation—the same feeling she’d had each morning in jail when she’d first awakened, as if at any minute she’d discover she’d only been dreaming. Lamar wasn’t dead. She wasn’t accused of killing him. Everything was all right again.

The woman returned, took the paper and glanced at it. “The pay is five dollars an hour plus tips,” the woman said. “6:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Can you start tomorrow?”

Marisol blinked. “You mean I’m hired?”

“If you want the job and you can do the work, yeah.”

“Yes. I mean, thank you. I’ll be here tomorrow.” She’d meant to spend tomorrow getting Toni enrolled in school, but there would be time to do that in the afternoon. Toni would have to get herself up and onto the school bus each day, but the responsibility would be good for her.

“Thank you,” Marisol said again, unable to keep back a smile. “Thank you.” Then she hurried away, before the woman could change her mind. She had a job. A real job. She looked around, wishing she had someone she could tell. Some friend.

But the women she’d thought of as friends—other players’ wives, women in her neighborhood and those with whom she’d served on the boards of various charities—had ceased to be friends the night Marisol was arrested. Not one of them had visited or written to her during her trial or in the long days leading up to it. She was no longer one of them.

That had been one more hurt, on top of losing her husband and learning the truth about all he’d done behind her back. One more thing to harden herself against. She straightened and walked toward her car. She’d celebrate tonight with Toni. As long as she had her daughter, she didn’t need friends.



S COTT PULLED HIS CAR to the curb and studied the modest white brick house with a critical eye. This sort of place wasn’t as attractive to buyers from Houston as the Victorians near the square, but given enough time he was sure he could find a buyer. He hoped Marisol wasn’t disappointed in the price he thought he could get; to a woman used to living in a River Oaks mansion, the going rate for small-town residences probably seemed like pocket change.

He shut off the engine and glanced at his reflection in his rearview mirror, wondering why he was bothering. Marisol Luna wasn’t going to be impressed by the likes of him. Besides, he had a girlfriend. Tiffany Ballieu, the blue-eyed blond sweetheart of his high school days, had sought him out last year, letting him know she was newly divorced and more than willing to pick up where they’d left off. Tiffany was sweet, respectable and exactly the sort of woman he needed in his life.

Carrying the folder with the comparables he’d pulled and a blank listing agreement, he made his way up the walk and rang the doorbell. He waited, and was about to ring a second time when the door creaked open a scant two inches and one bright brown eye studied him through the crack. “Hello?” said a soft female voice.

“I’m Scott Redmond,” he said. “Here to see Marisol Luna.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to any reporters.” The door started to close.

“I’m not a reporter,” Scott said. “I’m a real estate agent. She talked to me yesterday about selling this house.”

The door opened a little wider, and Scott saw half of a pretty, young face. “Mama went downtown to look for a job,” the girl said. “I can’t let you in.”

A job? Did this mean Marisol planned to stay in Cedar Switch? Maybe she’d changed her mind about selling the house. “Do you think she’ll be back soon?” he asked. “Could I wait out here for her?”

“I think she’ll be back soon.” The door opened wider still. The girl had a beautiful, oval face, long braids and long, thin arms and legs. “You can wait if you want.”

“Thanks.” He moved over to a green metal chair at one end of the porch.

The door closed, and he heard the rattle of a chain being moved. Then it opened again and the girl came out. “My name’s Toni,” she said, and leaned against the closed door, as if ready to retreat inside at any minute.

“Hi, Toni. What do you think of Cedar Switch?”

“Not much.”

“Yeah. I guess it’s not that impressive to someone from the city.”

“Have you lived here a long time?”

“All my life.” He glanced at her. She was taller and thinner than Marisol had been, but he could see her mother in her. “I knew your mother when she was about your age. We went to school together.”

“Really?” She turned toward him, her expression eager. “What was she like then?”

How to explain the Marisol who had awed him so? “She was pretty, like you. And daring. She did things no one else would try.”

“Really? What kind of things?”

He frowned. In addition to diving naked off the bridge, when assigned to write a paper on an important historical figure Marisol had reported on Sally Rand, the infamous fan dancer and stripper. Half the football team claimed to have slept with her, but Scott couldn’t recall having seen Marisol in the company of any of them, so he suspected wishful thinking on their part. What was true was that she was frequently in trouble for mouthing off to teachers and was a familiar figure in detention hall her final year at Cedar Switch High School.

None of this was the sort of thing he could share with her daughter. “Your mother was very independent,” he said. “The kind of person others looked up to and wanted to be like.” At least, he’d felt that way.

“She never talks about growing up here,” Toni said. “It’s like it’s some big secret or something.”

“She probably doesn’t want to bore you,” Scott said. Everyone had secrets they didn’t want to share, especially not with children.

He was saved from further comment by the arrival of the red Corvette. Marisol parked in the driveway and got out. Despite the heat, she looked fresh and vibrant, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a tropical-print sleeveless dress bright against her tanned skin. “Scott,” she said. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not long.” He held up the portfolio. “I came to discuss listing the house, if now’s a good time.”

“Now is fine. Come on in.” She walked past them and led the way inside.

“Did you get a job?” Toni asked.

“I did.” Marisol smiled. “I start tomorrow morning.”

“Where will you be working?” Scott asked.

“I’m the newest waitress at the Bluebonnet Café.”

She laughed at the obvious surprise on both their faces.

Scott had a difficult time imagining the elegant woman before him taking orders at the down-home restaurant. “Have you waited tables before?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. But I told the woman there I could learn.” She glanced at her daughter. “It’ll be an adventure. And the hours will let me be here when you get home from school.”

Toni rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I need a baby-sitter,” she said.

“I know.” She patted Toni’s shoulder. “Scott and I need to talk business for a bit, okay?”

“Okay.” She headed down the hall and in a moment Scott heard a door close.

“She’s a sweet girl,” Scott said. “She reminds me of you at that age.”

“I’m amazed you remember me. I’d better show you the house.”

He was aware of being alone with her in rooms that still held the chill of long-unoccupied space. When her hand brushed his arm as she reached past him to flip a light switch, he felt a sharp stab of arousal. Her eyes met his and he sensed she felt it too. Then she turned away and the moment passed.

He forced himself to focus on the house. There wasn’t much to see—three bedrooms, two bathrooms, formal dining and living rooms and the kitchen, where they ended the tour. “Everything seems to be in good repair,” he said. “But that wood paneling in the dining room and the black and white tiles in the kitchen and bath scream 1970s. If you’d put some money into updating the place—paint over the paneling, and install new flooring and countertops, and maybe some new appliances—you’d get a much better price.”

“I can’t afford to remodel.” She took two glasses from the kitchen cabinet. “I’m going to have some iced tea. Would you like some?”

“That would be good.” He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, enjoying the view of her curvy backside and shapely legs as she pulled the pitcher from the fridge.

“I’m guessing my kitchen cabinets aren’t what’s making you smile that way,” she said as she set the tea in front of him and joined him at the table.

Heat burned his cheeks. To cover his embarrassment at being caught ogling her, he opened the folder and shuffled through the papers. “I pulled the legal description at the courthouse, and some comparables of other sales of similar properties for you to look at. Judging by them, here’s how much I think you can get for the place.” He slid the listing agreement to her and pointed to the line for the selling price.

Her eyes scanned the paper, and she frowned. “I was hoping for a little more.”

“We can ask, but the market is in a bit of a slump now, and these smaller places tend to sell more slowly. Again, if you’d remodel…”

She shook her head, and picked up a pen. “If this is the best we can do, then we’ll do it.” She signed with a flourish, then handed the papers back to him. “How long do you think it will take to find a buyer?”

“Tough to say. The average time on the market has stretched to five months, though of course I’ll do my best to shorten that.”

“Do what you can,” she said. She looked around the kitchen. “It feels strange, being back here after so many years.”

“There are some attractive new homes on the west side of town,” he said. “Maybe after you’ve sold this place you could move to one of them.”

“No, I’m not planning on staying. There’s nothing for me here.” Her eyes met his and he felt the impact of that gaze, and a leaden ache in his stomach. He could admit, if only to himself, that he hadn’t completely set aside the fantasy of the two of them getting together. Having a relationship that went beyond agent and client. But her words made it clear she saw no possibility of that.

What did it matter, anyway, when she was so clearly out of his league? He’d trespassed in this world once before and proved he couldn’t keep up. He changed the subject. “Who did you talk to at the Bluebonnet?”

“I didn’t get her name. An older woman with braids. She was wearing overalls and an apron.”

“That’s Mary Sandifer, the owner. She and her husband bought the place from Marty Wakefield a couple of years ago. She’s a good woman. The kind who doesn’t suffer fools and isn’t afraid to say what she means. She probably sensed you were a kindred spirit.”

“Maybe I used to be that way.” She traced a line of condensation down her glass. “I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut.”

He studied her, at the fine lines at the corner of her eyes, the few strands of silver shining in her dark hair. She was still a beautiful woman, but there was an added depth to her now, a sense that she’d survived hard times and triumphed that only added to her attractiveness. “Has it been very hard for you?” he asked. “The trial, and everything that came out during it?”

“You mean that my husband was a lying, gambling cheat?” She smiled ruefully at his obvious shock. “I suspected there were other women all along, but I never dreamed he was so deep into debt—and with the mob, no less. It’s a wonder he stayed alive as long as he did. But it was hard, yes. Hard to hear the accusations that were made about me, hard to lose my home. Hard to see Toni suffer.”

“She seems to have come through it all right.”

Marisol nodded. “As well as she could, I suppose.” She took another long sip of tea, studying him over the rim of the glass. “Tell me about yourself. All I know is that you’re Jay’s son. I’m sorry I don’t remember much from school.”

“There’s no reason you should. I was two years behind you.” He replaced the papers in the portfolio, sorting through all the things he might tell her about himself. I once had a huge crush on you, or I almost ruined my life a few months ago and am still trying to pull my reputation out of the cellar. “There’s nothing exciting to tell,” he said. “I used to work for one of the big firms in town, but six months ago I opened a solo office in my dad’s building. I’ve lived in Cedar Switch all my life. Guess I’m just a small-town kind of guy.” While she was definitely not a small-town girl.

“Are you married?”

The question startled him. Was she merely making conversation, or was she truly interested? His heart beat faster at this idea. “I’m…seeing someone,” he admitted, reluctantly.

“You probably think I’m being nosy,” she said. “I don’t mean it that way. It’s just that I never thought I’d be single at this age and I wonder how it is for other people.” She traced one finger around the rim of her glass, the gesture strangely sensual. Her nails were long, painted a pale pink. “I married Lamar when I was nineteen. We were together sixteen years. Now it’s as if…I’ve not only lost my husband, I’ve lost my whole identity.” She laughed, a jagged, desperate sound. “It’s like being a teenager all over again, trying to find myself.”

“I don’t think there’s any deadline on figuring out what you want to do with your life,” Scott said. “At least I hope not. I’m not sure I’ve answered that question for myself yet.”

She nodded, and pushed her glass away, then stood. “Thank you for stopping by. Is there anything else you need from me?”

“Not now.” He gathered up his papers and prepared to leave, wishing he had an excuse to linger.

She walked him to the door, thanked him again, then shut the door behind him. Before he drove away, he glanced at the house once more, half hoping to catch a glimpse of her at a window.

But there was no sign of her. He checked the mirror, then pulled into the street. His newest client fascinated him, not so much for her notoriety, or even for the long-ago crush he’d had on her.

Marisol was independent and determined to keep her distance from everyone, and yet he sensed a deep longing for connection within her. That longing, more than anything, called to him. He shook his head, unsure how much of this perception was true, and how much was based on everything he’d believed about her when he was a boy.

He’d believed that she knew more about life than he could even guess.

That she’d been hurt, but didn’t let it show.

That she was braver than anyone he knew.

And now? He still believed that she was brave and wise. With one smile, she’d reduced him to a stammering schoolboy. With one look, she’d reminded him what it meant to be a man. What it was like to want a woman not only for her looks, but for her mystery.




CHAPTER THREE


M ARISOL REPORTED for her first day of work at the Bluebonnet Café as jittery as someone who’d downed three cups of coffee, though she’d stuck to herbal tea at breakfast. She hadn’t had a real job since a stint at McDonald’s as a teenager, but she was determined to do her best.

Mary greeted her with a firm hello and handed her a black apron and an order pad. “We do things the old-fashioned way here,” she explained as she led Marisol toward the kitchen. “Write the order down and give a copy to the cook.” She introduced Marisol to the cook, Frank, and the other waitress, Paula.

“Just holler if you need help with anything,” Paula, a diminutive blonde who wore bright pink lipstick, offered. “You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”

As it turned out, the worst part was not remembering which table ordered what, or even carrying the heavy trays without dropping them. The worst part was forcing herself to ignore the stares and whispers when diners realized who she was.

“What in the world are you doing working here?” a burly man with a luxuriant gray moustache asked as she refilled his coffee cup. “I thought I read Lamar Dixon had more money than God.”

“Maybe he did,” she said calmly. “But he pissed it all away.”

That surprised a laugh from the man. Marisol turned and walked on shaking legs to replace the coffeepot on the burner.

“How’s it going?” Paula asked, joining Marisol.

“Okay,” Marisol said. Most people had been polite, and she’d pocketed fifteen dollars in tips in her first two hours. Not bad considering most people only wanted coffee and one of Mary’s oversize cinnamon rolls.

“Business is up this morning,” Mary said as she passed on her way into the kitchen. “I reckon everyone wants to get a look at you.” She nodded to Marisol.

Marisol flushed. Paula patted her arm. “Don’t worry. The novelty will wear off in a few days and you’ll be as invisible as I am.”

Paula left to take the order from a table of truck drivers, who grinned and flirted. So much for being invisible. Marisol took a deep breath and went to clear the table the moustached man had vacated. He’d left a five-dollar tip. She stared at the bill, angry at the pity the gesture implied, furious with herself for revealing the desperateness of her situation to a stranger. Next time someone had the nerve to ask what she was doing here, she’d be glib, and tell them she was rehearsing for a starring role in a movie about a waitress—or thinking about writing a book.

She pocketed the bill with her other tips and moved on to the next table, three women who stared at her with open curiosity, but said not a word.

By lunchtime, Marisol’s feet and legs hurt from standing so long, but she felt more comfortable taking orders and was congratulating herself on mastering the knack of carrying a loaded tray of food. On Paula’s advice, she’d made more of an effort to smile. Not only did it improve her disposition, it had the added bonus of unsettling those who gawked the most. They apparently hadn’t expected an accused murderess to be so friendly.

A flutter of nerves struck her anew when Scott Redmond came into the café with his father. The sharp physical attraction she’d felt for him yesterday had caught her by surprise. After so many months of being forced to bury every emotion, such frank desire made her feel almost giddy with relief and wonder. That living, lusting, female part of her hadn’t died along with Lamar. It had only been hiding, waiting for the right moment—or the right man?—to reappear.

The question remained as to what she would do about it. The thought of a solely physical affair, with no strings attached and no promises for the future, held all the appeal of forbidden fantasy. But she had Toni—and Scott himself—to consider. As much as she longed to be selfish for once, practicality and a cursed sense of responsibility interfered.

The two men sat at one of the booths assigned to her, and greeted her with warm smiles. “How’s your first day going?” Jay asked.

“I think I’m getting the hang of it,” Marisol said.

“She’s doing great.” Mary came up behind her and put one hand on Marisol’s shoulder. “I think I might let her stay.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Scott said. His gaze met and held hers for a beat too long. Her heart thudded in her chest like a wild bird, proving she hadn’t imagined the attraction between them.

He was the first to look away. He picked up the menu and studied it, then said, “I’ll have a burger and a glass of iced tea.”

“Give me the Reuben,” Jay said. “And a Diet Coke.”

She hurried from the booth to turn in their orders, aware of his gaze on her as she crossed the room. He’d watched her yesterday, too, checking her out as she fixed their tea. Clearly, he liked what he saw, just as she appreciated his broad shoulders and slim hips, the wiriness that was in direct contrast to Lamar’s height and muscular bulk.

She collected chicken-fried steak dinners for a quartet of construction workers and started across the room, veering around a young man who’d inexplicably stopped in the middle of the room. She’d almost reached the table when a bright light blinded her, followed quickly by a second flash, and the unmistakable click of a camera shutter. A woman squealed. The young man who’d been stopped shoved a small tape recorder in front of her face. “Mrs. Dixon, what can you tell us about your new job here at the Bluebonnet Café?”

The tray slipped from Marisol’s hands, chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and green beans flying. The camera flashed again and she ducked, shielding her face, while voices rose around her.

“Out! Out of here before I call the police!” Mary shouted at the reporter and photographer, who ignored her, continuing to take pictures and shout questions at Marisol.

Paula rushed over and began cleaning up the spilled food, while the construction workers complained loudly about Marisol’s clumsiness and their ruined dinners. Mary continued to shout at the two intruders.

Panic and anger choking her, Marisol tore off the apron and flung it and her order pad onto the counter. She had to get out of here, lay low somewhere until things calmed down. She darted for the door, only to find her exit blocked by the reporter, who grinned and extended the microphone. “Is it true you’re originally from Cedar Switch, Mrs. Dixon? What do the people here think of your notoriety?”

“I think if you don’t move out of the way and stop blocking the door, I’ll make you move.”

Marisol hadn’t thought of Scott as an imposing man before, but there was definite menace in his posture now as he glowered at the reporter.

“Better do as he says,” Jay spoke from just behind his son.

The reporter glanced from one man to the other, then decided retreat was in order. With a sweeping bow, he indicated the door was clear.

Scott put one arm around Marisol and guided her down the sidewalk. “I didn’t see your car in the lot or on the street. Did you walk?”

“I shouldn’t leave,” she said. “If there’s somewhere I could hide for a few minutes…” She looked back toward the café as the photographer and the reporter exited.

“If you go back, so will they,” Jay said. “We’ll drive you home.”

As they rounded the corner to the small parking lot behind the café, the camera flashed again. Scott lunged at the photographer, who laughed, then dove into a waiting car, which sped away.

“Sorry about that,” Scott said as he helped Marisol into the back seat of a blue sedan, then climbed in after her. Jay took the driver’s seat and drove slowly toward Marisol’s house, circling the block a few times, looking for suspicious vehicles or persons, before pulling into her driveway.

“Maybe I should go back,” Marisol said. She hated running away, like a coward. “I should have stood up to them.”

“What would that have done but give them more pictures, and words they could misquote?” Scott asked. His face was flushed, his eyes dark with anger. Part of her wanted to throw her arms around him, to let him hold her and be the rescuer to her damsel in distress.

Except that she was through with men rescuing her. No man who was supposed to protect had ever done her any favors. And no good would come of letting Scott think she needed taking care of. “I’ll be fine now,” she said. She started to open the door and climb out of the car, but Scott’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked. “Do you want us to stay with you a while?”

“I’ll be okay.” She scanned the front yard and the street, but they were empty. “It doesn’t look like they’ve found this place. At least not yet.”

“Who were they?” Scott asked. “Do you know them?”

She shook her head. “They’re probably from some gossip rag.” She smoothed the front of her skirt. “I was hoping they wouldn’t find me here in Cedar Switch.”

“Was this what it was like for you in Houston?” Scott’s face reflected his horror at the idea. “With people like that hounding you?”

“Pretty much. From the time I was released on bail until the trial ended and Toni and I left to come here there was always at least one group, sometimes more, parked in front of my house. They trailed me everywhere. We managed to avoid being followed here by leaving in the middle of the night and driving through back streets to lose the one car that tried to come after us.”

“I’ll call the police chief and ask him to keep an eye on your place,” Jay said. “Chase away anybody who’s loitering.”

“Thank you, but you can’t keep them out of public places,” she said. “They know their legal rights.” The horror of the scene in the café was beginning to set in—that first blinding flash, the flying tray of food. “Mary will never let me come back to work now,” she said.

“I’ll talk to her,” Scott said. “It’s not your fault—”

“No.” She gripped his arm, silencing him. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. I’m not helpless.”

He started to protest, then apparently thought better of it. “What will you do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.” She opened the door and climbed out of the car. He didn’t try to stop her this time, though she could feel his eyes on her as she unlocked the front door.

Inside, she locked the door and leaned back against it. What little peace she’d enjoyed since leaving Houston had been shattered. She could only imagine the headlines that would accompany the pictures those two lowlifes had taken: Accused murderess reduced to slinging hash in small town café. Or maybe Billionaire’s widow forced into menial labor. The pictures and stories would make the rounds of all the Junior Leaguers who had once welcomed her as one of their own. They’d shake their heads and click their tongues and tell each other how they had always suspected Marisol was not really “their kind of people” and this only confirmed it. Worse, how long would it be before those two men, or others like them, zeroed in on this house? How long would she and Toni have to barricade themselves inside before a more interesting scandal distracted her pursuers?

Toni. The thought of her daughter spurred her to action. She needed to telephone the school and ask them to have Toni wait in the office for her mother to collect her after school. Under no circumstances was she to go outside, and the school should be on the lookout for any suspicious characters hanging around the campus, especially anyone with a camera.

Toni would hate being singled out this way, especially on her first day. And she would, as usual, blame her suffering on her mother.

For her part, Marisol laid the blame firmly on Lamar, though fat lot of good that did, considering he was dead. What remaining love she’d had for the man upon his death had been leeched out of her by the ugly revelations of the trial and the suffering his mistakes and bad habits had brought on her and on Toni. The part of her heart that had once belonged to her handsome husband was now empty and cold. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to risk ever trusting a man again.

Which made her reaction to Scott that much more suspect. Maybe her sudden desire for him fell into the same category as nervous laughter at funerals and the sensation of wanting to jump when standing on the balcony of a tall building—involuntary, misplaced emotions or misfiring synapses. In a way it was comforting to realize her body was still capable of feeling attracted to a man. And Scott was, after all, good-looking and charming.

But it would be a long time before her mind was ready to let a man into her life. And when it happened, it would be somewhere a long way from Cedar Switch, Texas. Her time here was merely an interlude while she regrouped, refreshed her finances and prepared herself for a new life, one far removed from either her glamorous days in Houston, or a childhood here in the sticks she’d spent twenty years working to forget.




CHAPTER FOUR


T HE RINGING PHONE woke Scott the next morning at 6:30. “Have you seen the front page of today’s Houston Chronicle? ” a raspy voice demanded.

Scott sat up on the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes. “Marcus, is that you?” He checked the bedside clock. Apparently the real estate mogul was an early riser.

“Your picture is on the front page of the Houston paper, all cozied up to Lamar Dixon’s infamous widow.”

The words had the same effect as dunking his head in a bucket of ice water. “What?”

“I didn’t know you knew Marisol Dixon,” Marcus continued. He was a man who preferred asking questions to answering them.

“She’s using the name Marisol Luna now,” Scott said. “She’s listed her house with me.”

“I thought that River Oaks mansion was sold to pay her legal fees.”

“She has a house here in Cedar Switch. She inherited it from her mother.”

A crackling sound, like paper being rattled, reached his ears. “Since when do real estate agents cuddle up to clients in the backseat of cars?”

Marcus should have been a tabloid reporter. He made one innocent gesture sound so lurid. “She was ambushed by a reporter and a photographer in the Bluebonnet Café yesterday when my dad and I were there eating lunch,” he said. “We helped her get away from them and gave her a ride home.”

Help Marisol hadn’t been particularly grateful for, he reminded himself.

“And now half the state thinks the two of you are involved.” Even this early, Marcus sounded as if he’d been drinking straight bourbon and smoking cigars for hours.

“I don’t care what they think,” Scott said. Phone to his ear, he leaned over and grabbed a pair of jeans off the back of the chair he’d flung them across before crawling into bed last night and began to pull them on.

“Well, I care!” Marcus’s shout startled Scott so much he almost dropped the phone.

“I’m not involved with Marisol,” he said. Yes, there had been that moment when their eyes had locked in the café yesterday. In that briefest instant he’d felt the heat of desire and possibility arc between them once more.

A possibility that would go unfulfilled. Marisol was leaving town. And he was staying here, out of trouble.

“You’d better not be involved with her,” Marcus growled.

Scott stiffened. “Even if I was, what difference would it make?” he said. “She was acquitted of the murder charges.”

“Acquitted! All that means is she had good lawyers. It doesn’t mean she was innocent.”

Scott froze in the act of zipping the jeans, his hand tightening on the receiver. “Marisol did not murder her husband,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even.

“And you know this how? Were you there?” Marcus’s voice was a gravelly sneer.

“Of course I wasn’t there.” He finished zipping the jeans and began to pace. “I watched the trial and the prosecution clearly didn’t have enough evidence to convict her. Besides, she had nothing to gain by her husband’s death, and everything to lose. She did lose everything, which is why she moved back here and got a job waitressing in a café.”

“Maybe she’s just waiting for all the hubbub to die down, then she’ll go away and spend the millions she’s hiding from the government.”

Scott took the receiver from his ear and stared at it. He was tempted to ask Marcus if he also believed in UFOs, alien abduction and other bizarre theories.

Marcus laughed again, a harsh, barking sound. “Don’t you get it? It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference what you think or even what the truth is. For the better part of a year, Marisol Dixon was the woman people loved to hate—the rich bitch socialite who offed her husband, the highest paid player in NBA history. Just because some jury said she didn’t do it doesn’t mean people believe it.”

Scott knew a thing or two about being tried and found guilty in the court of public opinion, but Marcus’s cynicism about Marisol annoyed him. “Thanks for letting me know about the picture in the paper,” he said. “I’ll lay low a few days and it will all blow over.”

“And stay away from Marisol whatever-her-name-is.”

“She’s a client. If she wants to talk to me, I can’t avoid her.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have her as a client, then.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I hired you to represent my interests in this new development. The buyers I’m courting here are high rollers from Houston and Dallas—the kind of people who think the worst of a social climber like Mrs. Dixon. If they think you’re associated with her, then that reflects badly on me.”

The fact that Marcus had hired him to sell a bunch of golf course lots didn’t give him the right to dictate who Scott could and could not associate with. He would have liked nothing better than to tell the man so, but that desire came up against hard reality. Those listings from Marcus were Scott’s ticket back to both solvency and respectability. If he lost them, he may well lose his last chance to redeem himself.

“I took a big risk hiring you,” Marcus reminded him. “Don’t make me regret it.” Or you will regret it was the unspoken codicil. Marcus had ruined people with better reputations than Scott who had gotten on his wrong side. He wielded the power that came with his wealth with all the subtlety of a war club.

“I promise not to do anything that would fuel any rumors about my association with Ms. Luna,” Scott said stiffly. “Ours is strictly a business relationship.” That was all that would ever be between them, but he would not—even at Marcus’s insistence—refuse to do the one thing he could do for her, that is, sell her house.

“See that you don’t. And keep Sunday open for me. I’ve got a group of investors coming down from Houston to look at the development. I think they’ll be good for at least one lot each, maybe more.”

“I’ll be here,” Scott said. “I’ll let you go now. Goodbye.” He hung up before Marcus could think of any more orders to give him. He sat on the side on the bed, heart thudding hard in his chest, the familiar feeling of wanting to escape almost overwhelming. Drugs had provided that kind of escape once, a floating euphoria that made all his problems disappear.

But he was stronger than that now. He could cope. He stood and went into the bathroom, where he chose a bottle from the medicine cabinet and shook out a single, small pill. He hated he’d traded one drug dependence for another, but a methamphetamine habit and the subsequent recovery had left him with a lingering anxiety disorder he kept under control with the help of a prescription and a meditation practice the Buddhist director of the treatment center where he’d spent three months had passed on him.

He finished dressing and made coffee and toast, then walked to the street and collected his copy of the Houston paper from the box at the end of the driveway. Sure enough, there on the lower right quadrant of the front page was a close-up of him and Marisol, his arm around her, their heads together, in the backseat of his father’s car.

It was an intimate shot, her head tilted toward his, almost touching, her hair fallen forward to hide much of her face, only the curve of her cheek and lips and part of one eye showing. Lamar Dixon’s widow wastes no time finding new beau read the caption beneath the photo.

They obviously hadn’t talked to anyone in Cedar Switch about his relationship with Marisol, or they’d have learned pretty quickly he was her real estate agent, not her lover. Then again, he supposed men like those reporters never let truth get in the way of a good story.

He continued to stare at the photograph, at that moment frozen on the page. Marisol looked beautiful and vulnerable and he had never felt more protective. Had she seen this? What did she think? Should he call her and see how she was doing? Not out of any romantic interest, but because he wanted her to know she had at least one friend in this town.

He was still standing on his front porch, staring at the paper when the screech of tires drew his attention. He looked up as a familiar lime-green VW pulled to the curb.

The driver’s side door opened and a lithe blonde dressed in navy trousers and a navy and white blouse stepped out.

“Tiffany? What are you doing here so early in the morning?” he asked. Tiffany Ballieu taught fourth grade at Cedar Switch Elementary school. Normally at this hour she’d be on her way to playground duty or bus duty or preparing her classroom for the day’s lessons.




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