Wonders Never Cease (Harlequin Super Romance) Read online

  He smiled, which triggered the memory of his intriguing accidental laughter the day of their interview. For a guy with such a stern demeanor, his smiles were truly something.

  But it’s not just his lips, she thought. It’s the way they fit his face. And his nose is very nice, too. Have I ever noticed a man’s nose before?

  “What about you?” he asked. “Trouble with the tax man, too? You seemed a bit upset just now.”

  Jill knew he was speaking to her, but her mind—stuck on cataloging facial features—couldn’t quite make the connection. Upset? Oh yeah, Dorry.

  “Who’s Dorry?”

  The name penetrated her fog. Her nervous tingle started anew, making her hope she’d remembered to use antiperspirant that morning. “Dorry? Dorry who?”

  His neatly arched eyebrows came together.

  Ooo…nice.

  “I don’t know. You said, ‘Dorry.’”

  “I did? Oh!” Jill blinked, trying to come up with a believable ruse. She was sorely tempted to share her worries with him, but what if she was blowing this totally out of proportion? She’d look like a fool. Better to check it out more thoroughly before calling in reinforcements. “Of course I did. She’s my sourc…sore, I mean, sick…friend. I came to see her, well not her, specifically. Today’s Friday—my life-and-death day. Then I stopped by to see Dorry, and she wasn’t there. That’s it.”

  Her babbling nonsense didn’t seem to faze the serious frown scrutinizing her. Did my face give me away? Peter insisted she couldn’t lie worth a hill of beans, and since he was an authority on the subject she took his word on it.

  “Why is this Dorry person’s absence a matter of life and death?”

  For a second, Jill thought he’d somehow read her mind, but then she realized he’d misunderstood her. “No,” she explained. “Friday is my life-and-death day. Once a week I collect folk data from the Hall of Records—marriages, deaths, births, divorces. I enter it all on my laptop, then rush back to the paper to make deadline.” Jill patted the thick black case at her side.

  “I see,” he said evenly, still looking at her with a shade of that all-too-familiar cop look. “And Dorry is…”

  Jill shrugged—the weight on her left shoulder making her feel like Quasimodo. “Probably sick at home. That’s what upset me. She’s never sick, so it must be serious. In fact, I’d better go call her.”

  She leaned over to give Czar a quick pat. She loved the way her fingers sank into the thick, soft fur. If only Ben Jacobs was as approachable as his dog.

  “You are such a sweetie,” she told Czar, planting a kiss on his large, wet, black nose. “I wish I’d had a dog like you when I was growing up.”

  “You never had a dog?”

  Jill knew instinctively the word either deserved to be attached to the question. “Nope,” she said. “No pets. Not even a goldfish. My family moved around a lot.”

  “Really? Why did I get the impression you’re a Bullion native?” His eyes didn’t reveal anything beyond mild curiosity. Most people were intrigued by her roving childhood.

  “We lived here from my sophomore year on—the longest we ever stayed put, so I call Bullion home. Then I went away to college, got married, moved around some more, and finally ended up here, again. Which is kind of ironic, but cool. This is a good place to live.” She frowned, thinking about what she and Dorry had discovered in those files. “As long as nobody screws it up.”

  The sun, which had been sneaking in and out of clouds, suddenly popped out, drawing Jill’s attention once more to Ben Jacob’s hair. Shiny jet waves, thicker and springier than she’d imagined. No gray. No receding hairline requiring expensive specialists and prescription snake oil.

  He started to say something, but suddenly a low grumble shook the air. In the space of a heartbeat, Ben’s body morphed from a relaxed state to ready-for-action.

  “Wow,” she mouthed softly.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the woman of the hour,” a rancorous voice said. “I just got off the phone with your boss, honey, and you’re in big trouble.”

  Jill grimaced. She knew that voice all too well from the endless Board of Supervisors meetings.

  “Mayor Francis,” she said, plastering a fake smile on her face. “Kinda early for you, isn’t it?” The bars don’t open for another hour.

  “It’s never too early to order up a good tar and feathering.”

  His hubris made Jill’s saliva lodge against her windpipe.

  “Whatdaya think, Jacobs?” Bud said, laying a pudgy hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Size ten, maybe?”

  “I beg your pardon,” Jill said, swinging around so her briefcase bumped him. For some reason, his hand touching Ben struck her as obscene. “If you’re talking about me, I wear a size eight.”

  Bud repositioned himself across from Ben, careful not to get too close to Czar, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the man since the first growl. “I think two buckets of tar ought to be enough, don’t you agree?”

  His cackle held a degree of satisfaction that made Jill’s stomach release a blast of acid.

  Despite the cowboy boots, Ben seemed poised on the balls of his feet—as if still on guard. He didn’t reply to the mayor’s taunt.

  “Since you haven’t drawn your weapon on her, I have to assume you haven’t read the paper.” Bud looked at him, waiting for an answer.

  “No, sir. I ordered the paper, but my delivery hasn’t started.”

  Jill noticed that he lowered his hand to Czar’s harness, as if to reassure the dog that the mayor wasn’t a threat. She wished he could reassure her, but she knew Bud Francis too well.

  “I’ll give Everett Davenport a call. He’s a friend of mine.” Name-dropper. “He owns the newspaper that she works for. Or, perhaps I should say used to work for. After this fiasco, he owes you big time. Thanks to our illustrious little journalist here, you and your dog are now a big joke.”

  Jill’s confusion was matched only by her anger. “What are you talking about, Bud? My story isn’t due out until tomorrow. I have the Saturday Lifestyle page.”

  “Your story, or, rather, your screw job, is in today’s paper. Here, see for yourself.” He snapped a folded newspaper at her—gut level.

  Jill caught the paper before it connected, but the motion threw off her balance. Ben’s rock-solid arm shot out to steady her; one big hand momentarily anchored on her shoulder. Czar’s muzzle displayed a nice set of teeth but no growl came from his well-trained lips. She enjoyed the brief sense of safety, even though she had a sinking feeling her relief would be short-lived.

  When first assigned this story, Jill had been told to slant the piece with a softer, human-interest edge. That was how she’d written it.

  She held the paper so Ben could read it, too. The boffo headline read: Going to the Dogs. A four-column color photo drew the reader’s eyes to Czar’s mouth attached to a body curled in a fetal ball.

  “Damn.” Jill hated to swear in public—Mattie’s Rule Number Six—but it slipped out. She scanned the cutline, spotting the word attack, which she’d specifically requested not be used.

  From the corner of her eye, Jill caught the mayor’s satisfied look; she was too dismayed to look at Ben. She flipped to page three where the story continued. On the surface were a lot of familiar words—even a phrase or two that could have been crafted by her hand, but the rest was a miasmic mix of run-on sentences and nonsense.

  “Someone will die for this,” she muttered.

  “With any luck it’ll be the writer.” The mayor snickered.

  She sent him a look any moron could interpret. “That lets me out.”

  “It’s got your name on it.”

  Jill would have paid the Word God any price for a snappy comeback, but all of her gods seemed to have deserted her. And the bald truth of Bud’s words undercut her self-confidence. Jill’s writing was her Achilles’ heel. She loved to write and aspired to do more: a novel, screenplays, short stories, but was she good enough? She doubted it. />
  Bud was right on one count. To the world—at least the town of Bullion—this was her story, butchered and flawed though it was. Everyone, including Ben Jacobs, would believe she’d written this drivel, and there was no way to take back the words.

  Her fury, edged with inexplicable dismay, made her crumple the newspaper into a ball, which she tossed in the general direction of the mayor. She turned to Ben. How could she explain—make him see the hidden agendas and political eddies that churned within a newsroom?

  Uh-oh. The cop face. Stony and unreachable. She didn’t try. Instead she bent low to Czar and whispered, “I’m sorry, my friend. I meant well. Truly I did.”

  His tongue caught a tear, and she turned away before anyone else could see. Jill Martin didn’t cry in public: Mattie’s Rule Number Three.

  BEN WATCHED JILL dash across the street and pick her way through the dozen or so cars in the parking lot. He knew which one she was headed for—he’d spotted it before he’d parked. If he were honest, he’d admit that a part of him had hoped for a chance encounter in the halls of the Bullion County Courthouse.

  For the past two days, for reasons that made no sense and that he chose not to dwell upon, Ben had found himself thinking about the Bullion Sentinel reporter who’d captured his attention so thoroughly Wednesday afternoon. He’d put out a few feelers and had gained a wellspring of gossip, including the fact that Jill’s ex-husband had left her to marry one of Jill’s closest friends.

  He’d also learned that she had a reputation for tackling tough stories but was in hot water with her boss for painting an unflattering picture of Bullion’s mayor—the man who now seemed utterly delighted that he’d succeeded in making Jill Martin cry.

  “I don’t know what it is about that woman that pisses me off,” Bud said, as if Jill were to blame for that, too. “Maybe her holier-than-thou attitude.”

  Ben hadn’t noticed anything of the kind, but he couldn’t very well defend her when her story might have compromised his department and his future.

  “Glad I bumped into you, Jacobs. Been meaning to talk to you,” Bud said with a friendly grin. “This was even better. Killed two birds with one stone. Well one, for sure. Bang.” His chuckle sent a shiver down Ben’s back.

  Neatly turned out in a Jerry Garcia tie and a tailored suit that couldn’t quite disguise his paunch, Bud crossed his arms over his chest and leveled a serious look at Ben. “Let’s talk. Follow me. My office is right inside.”

  He sauntered off, obviously expecting Ben and Czar to follow.

  Ben glanced across the parking lot as a little red car shot out into traffic; he hoped she didn’t do something foolish. Impetuous people shouldn’t be allowed to own high-powered sports cars.

  He gave a tug on Czar’s harness, sensing his partner’s reluctance to enter the building. Ben felt the same. They used the pneumatic, wheelchair entrance instead of the revolving door. By the time Ben’s eyes had adjusted to the dimness, he could see the small, impatient man waving to him from the end of the corridor.

  “Behave yourself,” Ben said in a low voice meant for Czar’s ears only. “In a way, this guy owns us.”

  Czar made a whining sound.

  Ben shoved his tax bill into his pocket as he paused at the building’s directory. The Office of the Assessor was on the second floor. He wondered where Jill’s absent friend worked.

  When Ben walked into the office, the mayor was pouring amber liquid from a cut-glass decanter into a coffee mug bearing his name. At a closer glance, Ben realized the three letters actually represented the logo of a famous beer company.

  “What’s your poison, son?”

  “Nothing for me, sir. I’m on duty this afternoon.” Ben gave the place a quick assessment. Mahogany paneling, green baize accents, shiny brass lamps and muted, seafaring reproductions. Someone had class, but Ben was pretty sure it wasn’t Bud Francis. Ben had seen the booze-in-the-mug trick before; alcoholics were great pretenders.

  “Just a short one?”

  “Not a good idea, sir. Thank you anyway.” Czar pressed up against Ben’s thigh. Ben buried his fingers in the dog’s thick coat.

  “This is nice, gives me a chance to formally welcome you to Bullion, son.” The word made Ben’s stomach turn, especially when accompanied by a chummy pat on the back and the smell of whisky.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Bud moved to a high-back leather chair behind his desk and sat down, motioning Ben to do the same. Political savvy warred with habits ingrained decades ago. Run. Split. Leave before things get ugly, a voice in his head urged. Ben glanced down; a corner of the billing notice stuck out of his pocket.

  “Actually, I need to get this matter cleared up before my shift, sir.”

  Bud’s watery gray eyes perked up. “What’s that? Some kind of tax bill?” he asked, reaching for the bill that Ben had fished from his pocket.

  “A supplemental assessment.”

  “Lemme see.”

  Ben gave up the mangled copy, reluctantly.

  “Let’s just call the assessor and get this cleared up.”

  Ben wasn’t surprised to learn the good ol’ boy network was active in Bullion; in fact, he’d have been surprised to find out it wasn’t, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be dragged into it. Favors never came free.

  Ben snatched back the copy before the mayor could reach for the phone. “Thank you, sir, but I need to make every effort to meet the people I’m serving. So, although I appreciate the offer, Czar and I will check it out for ourselves.”

  He headed for the door; Czar led the way.

  “Before you go, son. There’s one thing you should know about Bullion,” Bud said, his voice serious and full of portent. “We don’t go much for those liberal, tree-huggin’ environmentalists who think they know what’s best for us. Change is comin’—ain’t any way around it or you ’n that dog wouldn’t be here, but we’re gonna be making those changes on our own terms, and we don’t need no nosy, do-good reporter buttin’ in—even if she does have a nice ass. Plenty of other asses around.”

  “I would have to agree with you on that, sir,” Ben said, employing every ounce of self-control to keep his lips straight. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to do before my shift.”

  Bud nodded magnanimously. “Just keep in mind what I told you. And you don’t have to worry none about your reputation in town. I just said that to get Jill’s goat. Nobody gives a hoot what that rag prints. Nobody that matters, anyway.”

  Ben took care of his tax business as quickly as possible then jogged to his car. He tried to digest the import of the mayor’s words as he eased the Blazer into traffic. He had two hours before his shift and a long list of chores—including hauling his trash to the dump, but first he wanted to make sure the fire-red Toyota wasn’t at the bottom of some gulch.

  “Hey, pal,” he said as Czar popped his head into the cab of the vehicle through the connecting window. “Her car’s not at the Sentinel. Maybe she went home.”

  Since he had to pass by Jill’s house on El Capitan Drive to reach the county dump, Ben didn’t feel that his concern was intrusive. But the car wasn’t parked in front of the upscale town house where he’d spotted it yesterday while on patrol.

  Unsettled but lacking other options, he continued on to the waste disposal site. Ben let Czar roam while he unloaded the last of the detritus from his move. It felt good to finally be settled. He had a good feeling about Bullion—even if he had certain reservations about its mayor.

  He whistled for his partner, but Czar didn’t respond.

  Ben put his hands on his hips and looked around. He expected to see the dog poking into some nasty sort of garbage, but instead saw him standing on a slight rise a hundred feet away. Puzzled, Ben followed.

  “Whatcha find, pal? A dead body?” He was only half joking. Czar’s nose was something to be reckoned with.

  The dog made a whining sound as Ben approached, his focus trained on something in the distance. Ben squinted but cou
ldn’t see anything suspicious. To the north, a bowl-shaped plateau sat surrounded by oaks and pines. Beyond that, the terrain turned mountainous with rocky inclines and steep canyons.

  Czar made a noise that sounded like a reprimand.

  “You’re going to make me work for this, aren’t you?” Ben muttered, jogging back down the hill to retrieve his field glasses.

  He returned a minute later and scanned the horizon. A little red car shining in the midday sun in the middle of an open field that had been pointed out to him as the entrance to the Excelsior mine. The Ex—as Jimmy Fowler, Bullion P.D.’s resident know-it-all, called it—had been one of the richest mines in the entire Sierra Nevada a hundred years earlier.

  “Now it’s just a nuisance,” Jimmy had explained. “Local lovebirds used to park up there at a spot called Lover’s Leap, but nowadays it’s a hot spot for taggers and dopers.”

  Maybe she used to go there with her husband, Ben thought, turning away.

  Czar swiped his knee with his paw.

  Ben looked down. “What? Are we supposed to just drive over and say hello?”

  Czar took off as if Ben had just answered his prayers. Grumbling under his breath, Ben followed. After closing the rear hatch behind the dog, Ben climbed into the Blazer. “You know, you’re in bad shape, buddy boy. You’re worried about this woman, and I’m not even sure I like her.”

  Czar popped his head through the window from the rear compartment, pressed his nose against Ben’s ear and snorted.

  The loud, wet puff of air was Czar’s private wake-up call to Ben. Laughing, Ben wiped away the moisture with the heel of his hand. “All right. I’m attracted to her. But it’s not the same thing. You use different parts of the anatomy. I’m not going down that road again. Janine was gorgeous, but look how that turned out,” he said, reluctantly turning left instead of right.

  Instead of examining his reasons for going to the mine, he thought about his former lover, Janine Fitspatrick. Worldly and engaging, Janine had shared his interest in gourmet cooking and murder mysteries. Ben truly had enjoyed their relationship while it lasted. They’d been dating for six months before Ben discovered her drug use.