and coleslaw. Walking out with his treasure, he patted his washboard belly, assuring himself that he could occasionally indulge in junk food and keep the trim physique in which he took pride. As he opened the door of his car, he heard his name.
“Mr. Hunter. Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”
Rachel Perkins. Just what he needed. “Hello, Miss Perkins,” he said, remembered his baseball cap, and went through the motion of tipping his hat. “Great day we’re having,” he added, getting into his car as quickly as he could and igniting the engine.
Her obvious disappointment told him he’d escaped an invitation that he wouldn’t have wanted to accept, and a grin crawled over his face as he waved at her and drove out of the parking lot. He’d always enjoyed outfoxing people, and Rachel Perkins was outdone.
At home, he put the food on the kitchen counter, washed his hands, and was preparing to eat when the telephone rang.
“Hi, Callie. What’s up? I was going to call you as soon as I ate.”
“Nothing much. Mama said Papa’s still poorly, but I haven’t been down there since we last talked. He keeps driving himself just as he always did, even though we send him money and he doesn’t have to do it.”
“He’s a hard man, and that extends to himself. Thank God I got out of there when I did.”
“Tell me about it. I have to thank you for insisting I get my General Education Diploma and for sending me to college. No telling what I’d be doing now if you hadn’t.”
“Water under the bridge, Callie. You only needed a chance. Why don’t you come up here for part of your vacation? You haven’t seen my house yet.”
“Maybe I’ll do that. Don’t forget to call Mama.”
“I won’t. Hang in there.”
He hung up and walked back into the kitchen with heavy steps. He dreaded going to Six Mile, Alabama, but no matter what his father’s shortcomings, his mother needed his support, and he’d have to get down there soon. He sat against the kitchen counter, propped his left foot on the bottom rung of a step stool, and bit into a piece of chicken. Somehow, it failed to satisfy him as it usually did on those rare occasions when he ate it. He put the food in the refrigerator and went out on his patio. What the devil was wrong with him? He was hungry, but had neither a desire nor a taste for food, and that didn’t make sense: he loved to eat. Maybe he needed a check-up.
The phone rang again, and he raced to answer it. “Hello. Hello?”
The caller had the wrong number. He slammed his left foot against a leather puff that he’d bought in Morocco and considered himself fortunate to have chosen that rather than the wall as a means of relieving his frustration. Damn her, anyway.
Melinda looked over the list of people Blake suggested for membership on the board of the Prescott Rodgers Foundation, as she’d decided to call it, and ran a line through the name of Andrew Carnegie Jackson. The man’s parents named him Joseph, but he changed it, claiming that Joseph reminded him of the song “Old Black Joe.” A man with money, he’d said, ought to have a name to go with it. Hardly a social event took place in Ellicott City that someone didn’t make a joke of it.
She stared at the name Will Lamont, and grabbed the phone with such recklessness that she jerked it off the table and the receiver fell on the floor.
“What are you trying to do to me?” she asked, her voice sharp and cutting, when Blake answered the phone. “Will Lamont is head trustee at my father’s church. I can’t put him on this board unless I appoint my father, too.”
“Then scratch off his name.”
“That’s exactly what I did. How could you—”
“If he’s off the list, what’s the problem? I gave you a bunch of names. Do what you please with them.”
Her fingernails dug into the flesh of her palm. “Thanks so much. You’re supposed to be helping me, but it’s clear you’re waiting for me to blow the whole thing.” She held the phone in her left hand and pounded softly and rhythmically on the desk with her right fist.
“So you think I’m an ogre? Fine. I like that—it means I don’t have anything to live up to.”
She wanted to…What did she want? She’d better rope in her thoughts. “Prescott talked about you as if you could change the direction of the wind. I wish you’d show me some of your virtues. So far, you’re batting pretty low.”
“Well, I’ll be doggoned. You want to see some of my virtues. Why didn’t you say so? I’ll be happy to oblige you.”
She looked down at the print of her little fingernail in her right fist and shook her body, symbolically shedding the goose pimples that his words brought to her arms. Suggestive words that embedded in her brain images of his beautiful fingers stroking her flesh.
Angered that he seduced her so easily, she said, her voice crusted with ice, “What are you talking about?”
“Me? Same thing you’re talking about. Why?” The words came out almost on a laugh. Mocking. Yes, and accusing. “Did I say something wrong?”
She escaped to the safety of talk about the foundation and the list before her. “Who drew up this list, you or Irene?”
“I gave her the names. She did the rest. She’s extremely efficient.”
She didn’t give two hoots about Irene’s efficiency, and she was sure he knew it. “Did you put these booby traps in here intentionally, or did you have temporary lapses of political savvy?”
“I don’t have such lapses. If you see a name on that list, it’s because I intended for it to be there. I don’t mix foolishness with business.”
“I see.” She couldn’t help needling him, even though she knew that was a substitute for something far more intimate. “One of your virtues. Right?”
She heard the wind swoosh out of him and prepared herself for biting words, but the expectation didn’t materialize.
“Think over this conversation, Melinda, and let me know what you make of it. Any disinterested person would think you’re after more than you’re receiving. Think about what you want before you get in too deep.”
She had to let that stab go by, because he’d changed from teasing to baiting, and she refused to bite. “Since I’m not a disinterested party, I won’t be able to judge. Right?” She began walking back and forth from her desk to her bed. “The will says you’re to help me. If you don’t, I’ll do it without you.”
“You might as well cooperate with me. It will be done to my satisfaction or there’ll be no foundation and no inheritance.”
She swore under her breath. “A person with a flea brain could see through what you’re doing. I refuse to fail, because that would make you happy.”
She imagined that one of his mesmerizing grins had taken possession of his face when he said, “You don’t want me to be happy?”
“Does the sun rise in the north?” she asked him. “This isn’t getting me anywhere. See
