He’d believe it, all right. He’d already noticed the diversity of the books she’d swiped from his shelves. “So she’s working out, then?”
“Better than I could have hoped. Everybody in town’s found an excuse to drop by the store these past couple of days. Since they don’t want to look nosy, they all buy something. I try to wait on the women—they’re giving her a hard time—but I leave the men to her. She can hand-sell the boys just about anything, even the ones I swear can’t read a lick.”
“Glad to hear it,” he’d growled.
He headed for the kitchen to see about dinner. Sugar Beth had left his freezer well stocked, and he grabbed a casserole. She, of course, would be so wrapped up in reorganizing the kiddie section that she’d forget to eat. Or if she did remember, she’d grab a candy bar and call it dinner. Her dietary habits were abominable. She had no regard for her health, and while she might not be the best cook in town, she was far from the worst, and she needed to take better care of herself.
He thrust the casserole in the microwave and slammed the door, ignoring the fact that he was behaving very much like a man bent on slaying dragons and rescuing princesses. Dumping him, indeed. Did she really think it would be so easy?
The phone rang, and he snatched it up, hoping she’d called again so he could give her his opinion of fainthearted women.
But it wasn’t Sugar Beth . . .
Somebody banged on the door. The store had closed two hours ago, and Sugar Beth frowned as she heaved the last bookcase into place. By repositioning some of the standing bookcases, she’d made the children’s section more accessible. Unfortunately, she’d had to steal a little floor space from Jewel’s beloved poetry section, which would mean some fast-talking in the morning.
She brushed off her hands and headed to the front. Her short, one-piece coral knit sweater dress had a dirt mark on it. She hoped she could get it out because working at the bookstore was stretching the boundaries of her slim wardrobe.
“Coming!” she called out as the door continued to rattle. She passed through the biographies and saw a man standing on the other side of the glass. Big, broad-shouldered, wearing Versace and a thunderous expression. Her pulses kicked like a teenager’s. She fumbled with the lock and opened the door. “Your Grace?”
He pushed past her into the store, leaving behind the faintest trace of brimstone. “Who’s Delilah?”
She swallowed. “My cat.”
“Fascinating. Your cat wants to know why you haven’t called her in two days.”
Sugar Beth could have kicked herself. She’d left Colin’s phone number as a backup in case her cell conked out, and she’d forgotten to change it. The number had been only for emergencies, but Delilah could be wily, and she must have wormed it out of someone in the office.
“Did you scare her? I swear, Colin, if you said one thing to upset her . . .”
He slapped a foil-covered casserole on the counter. “Why would I upset her when I was conserving my energy to upset you?”
“What possible business is this of yours?”
“She called you her mummy.”
“Mommy. You’re living in the home of the red, white, and blue, buddy boy. We speak American here.”
But she couldn’t distract him. He leaned his hips against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, tapped the toe of an exquisitely polished loafer. “She did not sound like anyone’s little girl. She sounded like an older woman.”
“Delilah is my stepdaughter. Now, I have work to do, so ta-ta.”
“She told me she was forty-one.”
“Numbers confuse her. She’s not.”
His gaze was a lot steadier than her heartbeat. “She’s the reason for those whispered phone calls I used to overhear, isn’t she?”
“Don’t be silly. I was talking to my lover.”
“She told me she lives at a place called Brookdale. After I hung up, I did a little research on the Web. Your talent for obfuscation continues to amaze me.”
“Hey, I haven’t obfuscated in weeks. Makes you go blind.”
He lifted an imperious eyebrow. She grabbed the casserole he’d brought, and peeled back a corner of the aluminum foil. Her lasagna. He’d stuck a fork in the top. She’d barely eaten all day, and the smell should have made her mouth water, but she’d lost her appetite. “It’s no big deal. Delilah is Emmett’s daughter. She was born with some mental disabilities. She’s fifty-one, if you must know, not forty-one, and she’s lived at Brookdale for years. She’s happy there. I’m all she has. End of story.”
“Brookdale is an expensive private facility.”
She carried the casserole she didn’t want toward a reading nook with a table and two chairs. As she sat, she extended the fork. “Normally we don’t allow food or drink in here, but we’re making an exception for you.”
He advanced on her. “This finally begins to make sense.”
“All right, I’ll eat. But only because I’m famished.” She forced herself to dig in.
“I know you loved the man, but what kind of father wouldn’t make provisions for a dependent daughter?”
She’d never betray Emmett by revealing her own frustration with his lack of planning. “His finances were complicated.” She forced herself to take another bite. “I make good lasagna, if I do say so myself.”
“This explains why you’ve been so obsessed with finding that painting. This is the missing piece. You were never interested in buying yourself diamonds. I should have figured that out.”
“No kidding. I think this is the best casserole I ever made.”
He braced his hand on a bookcase. “You need the money so you can keep her at Brookdale. You’re not the villain in this piece, are you? You’re not the viperous blond bitch-goddess who only cares about herself. You’re the poor, unselfish heroine willing to sacrifice all to help the less fortunate.”
“Seriously, don’t you want some of this?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She couldn’t head him off any longer, and she jabbed the fork into the casserole. “I had no reason to.”
“The fact that we’re lovers didn’t factor in?”
She shot out of her chair. “Past tense. And I do what I have to so I can take care of myself.”
“By building a wall that’s so thick nobody can see through it? Is that your idea of taking care of yourself?”
“Hey, I’m not the one spending all my spare time laying stone in the backyard of Frenchman’s Bride. You want to talk about your basic symbolism . . .”
“Sometimes a wall is just a wall, Sugar Beth. But in your case, putting up barriers is a permanent occupation. You don’t live life. You act it.”
“I have work to do.” She headed for the counter only to have him follow.
“You’ve created this alternate persona—this woman who’s so tough that she doesn’t care what anybody thinks of her. A woman so tough that she’s proud to announce all her character defects to the world, except—and make note of this, because here’s where your true brilliance lies—those faults you hang out for everyone to see don’t have anything to do with who you really are. Applause, applause.”
She concentrated on straightening a display of bookmarks. “That’s not true.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me the real reason you needed to find the painting? Why did you shut me out?”
“Why should I let you in? What possible advantage could there be in it for me? Should I have stripped myself bare just because still another man has walked into my life? Another man to destroy my well-being? Thanks, but no thanks. Now get out.”
He gazed at her in a way that made her feel as if she’d failed another of his exams. But she was living her life the best way she could, and if that didn’t suit him, then too bad.
He came toward her, and as he looked down into her face, tenderness replaced his customary haughty expression. “You are . . . ,” he said softly, “. . . the most amazing woman.”