in the past few minutes.
His eyes were cold. His mouth, which had looked quite nice in a smile, was tight, utterly unyielding. He flicked a glance at her pocket, then returned his gaze to her face without blinking.
She tilted her head, confused.
In response, he casually tossed some bills on the table. “Sorry,” he said. He smiled, but his voice was cool under the surface friendliness. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay after all.”
Then he turned and walked away. Within seconds he had simply exited the restaurant without ordering a single thing.
What on earth?
For a minute, the strange attitude stung her. She stared stupidly at the door. Had he received a call…some emergency? No…his attitude had felt almost hostile. And oddly personal.
Had he watched the weird interlude with Dickey? Did he think she was doing something criminal? Or was simply greedy? Her cheeks flushed. Was he daring to pass judgment on her for accepting the diamond?
What the hell did he know about Dickey, about her…about anything?
Then she forced herself to turn away, brushing the feeling aside. Redmond Malone was nothing to her. A total stranger. A stranger she didn’t even like very much. The fact that he had an overabundance of sex appeal only made him that much less desirable, at least in her life.
So good riddance, Mr. Mercedes. She wouldn’t waste another minute worrying about it. As a single mother, she’d fought too long and too hard to get where she was today. She’d had to eliminate old, deeply ingrained patterns. To keep herself focused, she’d created a both a Do list and a Don’t list.
The Do list included saving money, working hard, keeping a positive attitude, opening her restaurant. Creating a good, secure life for her little boy.
The Don’t list was simpler still.
Men.
CHAPTER THREE
RED KNEW HER HOME ADDRESS, of course. Lewis had provided it in the packet of contracts and other legal odds and ends. It was a small second-floor apartment in a white concrete block building. Nice porch from which you might, if you were about ten feet tall, catch a postage stamp–size glimpse of the Pacific in the distance.
The landlord didn’t exactly kill himself with the yard care, letting a few rock gardens and one stringy hibiscus suffice as landscaping. But he seemed to keep up with the paint and repairs pretty well, which helped.
It wasn’t a crummy address, but of course it was on the “wrong” side of town, which meant not on the water. Windsor was a small pocket beach about an hour south of San Francisco, one of the few little towns that didn’t even try to be artsy. The low bluffs, sandy beach and warm water had originally attracted the retirees who wanted to be left alone, and now the old guys were constantly at war with the Chamber of Commerce, which wanted to attract more paying tourists.
Two categories of people lived in Windsor Beach year-round. One—those retired, relaxed rich people. And two—the housekeepers, waiters, shop owners and repairmen who facilitated their cushy existence. About twenty-five hundred people, all told.
Red had been waiting across the street for the past hour. He hoped Bill Longmire wouldn’t be stopping by tonight, but he’d bought all the extra coverage the rental agency offered, in case.
The western sky had taken on a deep pink tinge before Allison finally drove up in her Honda. As soon as she parked on the tiny asphalt driveway, he opened his own door and called her name.
She didn’t seem to hear him. She got out slowly, stuffing her sneakers into her purse and taking a minute to rub and flex her arches. She still had on her striped uniform. She must have worked all day. No wonder her feet hurt.
She put her purse on the hood, then crossed to the passenger side of the backseat and leaned in. Oh. Right. He really wasn’t thinking very clearly about this whole thing, was he? He’d forgotten she probably would have the baby with her.
Victor’s son. The birth certificate listed the baby’s name as Edward James York. Mother, Allison Rowena York. Father, a blank line.
As she pulled the lumpy bundle out of its car seat, Red steeled himself not to react. He’d been around enough kids to know it wasn’t likely he’d recognize Victor’s features in the face of a three-month-old. His brother Matt’s little girl was the spitting image of her mom, Belle. But that hadn’t happened until she was…maybe two. His friend David Gerard’s son, same thing. At three months, babies all still looked as if they’d been hastily molded out of Play-Doh.
He called her name again, and she turned, tucking the baby’s blanket under her chin so that she could see. What was left of the fading light was right behind him, and she squinted, trying to make him out.
After a fraction of a second, she stiffened. He’d expected that. If he had asked for her phone number while she was serving him a sandwich at the café, she might have refused to give it, but she wouldn’t have been freaked out. Probably happened to her all the time.
But a customer showing up out of nowhere, clearly having tracked her to her home…that was stalker territory. He had decided to risk it because he suspected she wouldn’t agree to talk to him if she knew who he was. Still, he hoped she didn’t have pepper spray and an impulsive trigger finger.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you privately. I’m Red Malone. I’m the guy who—”
“I know who you are.” Frowning, she pressed the bundle of baby closer to her chest. The kid whimpered, as if she held on too tightly. “What do you want? Is it about Bill?”
“No.” He smiled. “No, our insurance companies are handling that fine. My car’s already been towed to San Francisco and put on the lift. I’m actually here about something else.”
“Really?” She still looked suspicious. “What?”
He glanced around. The street wasn’t exactly crowded, but the April weather was balmy, the kind that made people open all the windows to let the breeze blow through. Anyone could be listening. “It is personal. Is there somewhere we might talk privately?”
Her eyebrows drove together, and she took a step backward. She clearly thought that was pushy as hell.
“I don’t think so, Mr. Malone. I’m not sure how you got my address, or what you think we have to talk about. But I don’t know you. I certainly am not going to invite you into my home.”
“Please, call me Red,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know it seems strange, but I promise you I’m not some creep who followed you home from the café. I’m here on behalf of a mutual friend. It’s important.”
At that her eyes widened. The setting sun lit their honey-brown depths. It also pinked her freckled cheeks and full lips. The effect was amazing, and he felt a purely male reaction that he clamped down on instantly. Panting like a pervert wouldn’t be at all helpful in the I-am-not-a-creep department.
“A mutual friend?” Her voice sounded tight, as if her breathing had accelerated. Her nostrils flared subtly. It looked a little like anger.
