Wonders Never Cease (Harlequin Super Romance) Page 5

  “Recreational cocaine,” she’d called it.

  “Against the law,” he’d called it.

  What had unnerved him most was that she’d fooled him on both a personal and a professional level. He didn’t plan to let himself become that blind again, even if his sister despaired of his ever finding a mate.

  According to Joely, Ben’s personal life was as hopeless as a Woody Allen movie. “What about love?” she’d asked while helping him move.

  Ben’s estrangement from their parents meant Joely was the only family he had, and he welcomed her visits—and was prepared to put up with her nagging.

  “Hey, if the right woman were to walk into my life tomorrow, I’d throw out the welcome mat and make Czar sleep on the floor, but until that happens he sleeps at the foot of my bed,” Ben had vowed as they’d unpacked his kitchen boxes.

  “Why is it I get the feeling your idea of a welcome mat involves a lie detector and an FBI check?” she’d retorted, tossing him the salad spinner. “Just promise me you’ll give dating a try again. There has to be at least one eligible girl in Bullion.”

  As he eased off the gas to round the bend, Ben pictured Jill Martin. Bright, buoyant, intriguing. But the mayor had as good as ordered Ben to stay away from her. Plus, she’d apparently skewered him in her story. He had absolutely no business tracking her down. Except to find out why she’d done it.

  “Woof.”

  “I know, boy. Red rice rocket at one o’clock. And there’s Ms. Martin, too.”

  The gravel entrance was deeply rutted, but the Blazer handled it with ease. In an area the size of a football field, the small red car stood out like a cheerleader on the fifty-yard line.

  The woman leaning against the car wasn’t cheering. “She doesn’t look too happy to see us.”

  Czar’s low moan verbalized Ben’s feelings completely, but he couldn’t turn back. He had to speak to her even though he didn’t have the slightest idea what to say.

  She didn’t give him a chance to worry about it. She advanced on the car, shoulders set, eyes flashing. He pushed the power window control.

  “If you’ve tracked me down for an apology, you can go to hell.”

  Ben looked at Czar; the dog pulled his head back into the shell, abandoning his partner in his moment of need. “Coward,” Ben muttered. He turned off the engine and opened the door.

  He followed as Jill stalked back to her car—wobbling on the rocky ground in black pumps that emphasized her slim ankles, curvy calves and great knees.

  “The way you took off out of the parking lot made me think I might find that tin can of yours crumpled at the bottom of some ravine,” he said.

  She spun around. “I’m a very good driver.”

  “Even when you’re upset?”

  “I’m not…” She didn’t bother finishing the lie. Her cheeks reddened with a girlish color that made Ben want to smile. He’d bet a paycheck she hated those blushes. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you and Mayor Francis don’t like each other, do you?”

  She smiled. Such a simple act, but one that transformed her face from merely attractive to gorgeous. Ben almost flinched.

  “Loathe is a good word. Scurrilous is another. Don’t get me started. That’s what I’ve been doing for the last twenty minutes—communing with the Word God, composing a thesaurus of adjectives to define the nature of our esteemed leader.” She practically spat the word esteemed.

  Ben asked the question that had been on his mind ever since he’d first interviewed for the job and met the mayor. It wasn’t the sort of question one asked in a political work-place like a police department until one knew all the players and which team they were on. “How’d he get elected?”

  Jill threw up her hands. “My point exactly. Good ol’ boy politics, I guess. If I could explain politics, I’d be writing for the New Yorker. All I know is he’s got connections that go back to God himself.”

  Ben studied her as she threw herself into a soliloquy about mountain politics and the abuse of power. She was wearing a power suit and high heels. Her thick cascade of red-gold hair was tangled and windblown. He hadn’t thought professional women had long hair anymore.

  “You’re not one of them, are you?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “Too early to tell. I don’t even know the names of all the players.”

  Her scoffing sound mimicked Czar when he was impatient. “Well, grab a program, stranger, ’cause things are heating up and you’re gonna get caught in the crossfire if you don’t watch out.”

  “Is that so? I thought this was a peaceful little mountain town. No big-city problems.”

  “Different scale is all,” she said. “Instead of drug lords and prostitution, you’ve got kids getting drunk and driving into the river. Bad things happen, but so do good things.”

  His sister called him cynical, but Ben preferred the term world-weary. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen Bullion. He’d hoped the smaller town might still possess some fundamental values that had gotten lost with urban sprawl.

  “What kind of good things? Give me an example.”

  “Last spring, I did two stories about the homeless. One was on a single guy, the other was about a mother with three kids. I spent twenty-four hours with each of them. When we ran the stories, the outpouring of support from the community was overwhelming.”

  “Money? Food?”

  “Yes, but more importantly, we’d succeeded in putting a name on the nameless, faceless people we all try so hard not to see. My female subject wound up on the street after she broke her shoulder in a car accident and her boss canned her. She slept in her car and farmed out her kids to relatives, but she never gave up.”

  Ben’s blood quickened at her passionate recitation.

  “After the story came out, she had job offers, found an apartment and got her kids back.”

  Her enthusiasm warmed him. “And the guy?”

  A frown skidded across her face like a cloud. “He was…is…”

  Ben waited.

  “Bobby Goetz is a loser.”

  The sadness in her tone surprised him. It must be tough to have such a soft heart in her line of work, he thought.

  “I wanted to help him, but the truth is he doesn’t have much ambition. He’s…troubled.”

  “And you’re a Good Samaritan.” He didn’t mean to sound sarcastic, but he’d dealt with scores of social workers over the years and invariably one or two wound up being raped or brutalized by the very people they were trying to help.

  She straightened as if he’d poked her with a sharp stick. “I did what I could to help, but after a while I realized he was using me and the system. I’m not stupid.”

  “And he’s okay with that?” Ben asked, knowing there was more to the story than she was telling him.

  “I guess so.” Jill backed up a small step, as though his observation invaded her space. Ben recognized the evasive look in her eyes, even though she kept her gaze trained on the ground. Guilty.

  “He still calls the paper once in a while,” she said. “He’d like to see me do a follow-up story.”

  And… Ben knew from experience sometimes the best way to get answers was to be silent. An instructor once told him: “Nature hates a vacuum, guilty people hate silence.”

  “Okay,” she said huffily. “So he pesters the heck out of me. It’s nothing I can’t handle.” He knew she believed that. The social workers who got beaten up also believed it.

  “Anyway, the point is—Bullion is a good place to live, and contrary to the evidence in the paper today, I’m glad that you and Czar are here. I did some research, and police dogs have been shown to reduce crime in some areas by as much as fifty percent. Just the animal’s presence—not even the physical threat—can diffuse a situation.”

  Ben tried to remain unmoved by her praise. She’d expressed the sentiment he preached to any and all listeners, and it felt great to hear the words from other lips, par
ticularly lips as appealing as hers.

  “So, tell me what happened with this story.” He’d read the article before leaving the courthouse. What puzzled him was the banality of the writing. At moments it read well and seemed to hold true promise, then the flow would disappear, leaving behind a vapid, meaningless sequence of words.

  Ben pulled the wrinkled copy from his hip pocket. He read aloud, “In the wrong hands, a police dog is a lawsuit waiting to happen. And Czar is one such police dog.”

  She threw up her hands and paced. “I don’t know what to tell you. I just spent the last half hour trying to find out what happened. Will Ogden, my editor, was at lunch. The managing editor left this morning for San Francisco. All the copy editors work at night and won’t answer their phones during the day.”

  She sighed. “Even if I told you someone butchered my copy—which someone did—you won’t understand how crucifying it is to see your byline on a story and know the words aren’t yours.”

  Her anguish came through loud and clear. Ben promised himself he’d visit the library and read some back issues to get an idea of Jill’s writing style.

  “Don’t you keep a copy in your computer or something?” he asked.

  She dug a hand beneath the cascade of hair at the base of her skull as if to massage away her tension. “Of course. I went to my office after I left the courthouse. I planned to print out the original and leave it under your door.” She pursed her lips and looked toward the towering bull pines ringing the opening. “But it was gone.”

  Ben believed her. He couldn’t say why but he did.

  A sudden bark broke the silence between them. Ben felt guilty for leaving his friend unattended for so long. He jogged to the Blazer and opened Czar’s door. Normally, Czar would wait for Ben to attach his lead or give him a command, but this time he cleared the door before Ben had it completely open. The impact almost dumped Ben on his keister.

  “Czar!”

  The dog loped across the barren lot. Even from a distance he could sense Czar’s joy at seeing Jill. Ben was puzzled. Czar tolerated people. He accepted Joely and the kids, but the only human he displayed any affection for was Ben—which was the way it should be.

  To his further surprise, Jill looped her arms around the big dog’s neck and hugged him. No fear of shedding hair or dog drool.

  None of this made sense. Ben hated things that didn’t make sense. He’d had enough of that growing up.

  Jill straightened as he approached. Ben did his best to keep his inner turmoil concealed.

  “Listen,” she said with an almost fatalistic tone. “Land Barons is throwing a black-tie affair at the Ahwahnee Sunday night to woo prospective investors to buy lots in Excelsior Estates.” She looked around, her eyes suddenly wistful and a little sad. The sun glinting off her hair made it more copper than gold. “They plan to turn this place into a paying gold mine again. Homes, shops, a golf course.”

  He didn’t have any trouble interpreting her tone. “And this is bad?”

  She shrugged. “You have to decide that for yourself. If you come with me to the gala you can mingle with the powers that be—old money, new money, no money. That’s me.” She forced a laugh. “Bring along a scorecard, line up the players. The mayor and his cronies will be there.”

  “Is this a date?” he asked, hoping his amusement didn’t set off her touchy temperament.

  Her cheeks blossomed with color and she focused on smoothing Czar’s coat in place. “I have two tickets. I have to go. For the story. But I’ll give you the other ticket if you don’t want to go with me. I…I’d understand.”

  Ben hesitated. Not because he had any intention of declining her offer, but because he enjoyed watching the myriad emotions play so eloquently across her face.

  She was right about his need to get a handle on the political climate of his new world. And despite the fact he’d been warned otherwise, he wanted to know more about Jill Martin, too.

  Czar barked as if impatient to let Jill off the hook.

  Ben shot him a quelling look. “Yes. I’ll go with you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  JILL PULLED into the parking lot of the Bullion Sports Center three minutes ahead of schedule. The Time God owed her.

  Saturday mornings from ten-thirty to eleven was the Mommy and Me swim class—Jill’s chance to fill a maternal void and help Penny give the twins quality time. The eighteen-month-old toddlers sometimes got shortchanged since the arrival six months earlier of their little sister. Lisle, the very demanding demon beauty, was home with her daddy.

  Looking around the parking lot, Jill spotted Penny’s Jeep Cherokee just arriving. The Baylors had invested in the larger vehicle when they first learned Penny was pregnant; now Penny cursed it as too small for three infant seats, toys and diaper bags.

  Jill grabbed her tote and got out of the car, relishing the perfect autumn morning; the air was so crisp and clean it almost hurt to take a deep breath. She inhaled deeply anyway and pushed away the niggling worries—Peter, Clarice, and especially Dorry.

  After half a dozen calls, she’d finally gotten someone to answer at Dorry’s number at nine o’clock last night. But the slurred voice—one of her brothers most likely—was no help. All he said was, “She can’t come to the phone right now. Don’t call back.”

  Jill would have hopped into her car and driven to the Fishbank house, if its street address had shown up on any of her maps. Unfortunately, once one left the city limits, the maze of country roads was a cartographer’s nightmare.

  “Hello, my little swimmers,” Jill said, opening the rear door on the passenger side.

  “Nooo….” Penny screeched. “Don’t use the ‘S’ word.”

  Jill blinked in confusion. She looked at the twins, who smiled drool-laced grins but didn’t offer any explanation. Fraternal, not identical, the boys were as different in personality as in looks. Rambunctious Tristan, a miniature Nordic god, could have passed as Jill’s offspring; introspective Trevor favored his mother’s warm, Mediterranean coloring.

  “That’s why we’re late. Just as we were leaving, their daddy said,’ Have a great time ‘S’-ing,’ if you get my drift, and they came unglued. Major tantrum. I don’t know why. They loved it last time.”

  Jill tickled Tristan’s pudgy tummy, drawing a high-pitched baby giggle that gave her heart a funny twist. “So, what are we doing here?”

  “We’re going ‘S’-ing. We’re just not going to call it that,” Penny replied as if that went without saying and Jill purposely was being obtuse.

  “Well, we can’t call it ‘S’-ing. That sounds dirty.”

  Penny, who was busy stuffing baby gear into two bulging, brightly colored diaper bags, gave an elaborate shrug. “How ’bout snorkeling?”

  “Snorkeling?”

  “They don’t know what it means. Next week we can change it to something else. You can pick.”

  Jill had long ago decided that motherhood involved some serious rearranging of brain cells, but being a good sport, she leaned close to the towhead strapped in the thickly padded gray and maroon car seat and said, “Okay, Tristan B., ready for a little snorkeling with Auntie Jill?”

  He held out his arms to her.

  “Good boy. We’ll snorkel till we drop.” She kept up a running dialogue of nonsense as she unsnapped the chest band and loosened the two shoulder straps.

  “You’re awfully perky this morning,” Penny observed, handing her one of the diaper bags. “Oh my gosh. You saw Peter, didn’t you?”

  Jill tugged down Tristan’s sweatshirt. “As a matter of fact, I did, but not in the way you’re implying.”

  Penny pinned Jill with a suspicious stare. “How then?”

  “Two cars passing in the night. Pausing briefly at a stop-light.”

  “Go on.”

  Jill made fish lips at Tristan, who giggled and tried to make them back. “Just that. I stopped. He, I mean, they stopped. And that’s it.” I wish. “Since when do car agencies rent luxury cars? How
pretentious!”

  Penny gathered up Trevor and slammed the door shut. “You’re hiding something. Tell me the rest.”

  “Nope. Too humiliating.”

  They hurried toward the two-story cinder-block building that would have looked like a prison if not for the burgundy and teal stripes running at geometric angles across it.

  Penny cuffed Jill lightly. “Even better.”

  “You’re not being very supportive. This is traumatic stuff.”

  “Bullfarkle. Peter’s gone and you’re a hundred million times better off without him, even if you won’t admit it. Tell me.”

  Jill glanced around. The parking lot seemed more packed than usual but no one was near. “After work, I ran by the market for some cat food and a frozen pizza.”

  At Penny’s exaggerated gagging sound, Jill said defensively, “It was a Wolfgang Puck gourmet pizza.” It probably would have been good if she’d had any appetite left by the time she got home. “Anyway, there I was cruising along, thinking about an obit I’d just written for some thirty-year-old guy who left behind a wife and three kids.”

  “Local?” Penny interrupted.

  “His grandmother lives here. He lived in Reno.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “Cancer.”

  “What kind?”

  “How would I know?”

  “You’re the obit writer. You should know. I think they should publish cause of death so we know what we’re up against.”

  “Ghoul.”

  Penny made a hmmphing sound; she paused at the entrance, waiting for Jill to catch up. “So, anyway, you’re driving along without a life of your own, thinking about death and…”

  Jill made a witchy face at Tristan; he smiled back. “So, I’m stopped at a light, and I happen to look over and there’s Peter. In the Lexus.” She hurried along the corridor that smelled of sweat and chemicals. “But, I’m there in my sports car. And I could be on my way to a party. Right?”

  “With your cat food and frozen pizza.”

  Jill stuck her tongue out at Penny’s back.

  “Then…” Penny prompted.