got it.”
The woman looked as if she might step closer, then seemed to think better of it. “I’m Jenna Stanton. I spoke to you on the phone a few weeks ago? About renting a cottage?”
“Yeah. I figured that’s who you were.”
“Oh. Well, um, I know we’re a little early, but I was wondering if our cottage is ready?”
Hank almost grinned at that, too. He picked up the ladder, walked past her to thunk it against the outside office wall. “Well, ma’am, this is your lucky day. The previous occupants checked out ahead of schedule.”
“So…the cottages are more popular than the single units?”
Annoyance started to burn, right in the middle of his gut, only half because he’d wasted a perfectly good sarcastic comment. “It’s early yet. Things’ll pick up in a couple weeks. So, you ready for me to show you to your cottage or what?”
She was giving him of one those figuring-out looks that women were so good at and that Hank hated with a passion. She crammed her hands into her shorts pockets, which is when Hank decided she had pretty nice legs. For a woman her age. “I forgot to ask when I spoke with you before—what are the cooking facilities like?”
Hank felt his brows take a dive. “Julia Child probably wouldn’t wet her pants over them, but long as you don’t mind bein’ creative, I’m sure you’ll get by okay. And by the way, there’s no air-conditioning in the cottages, ’cause the old units weren’t any good and I haven’t gotten around to replacing ’em yet. All the rooms have ceiling fans, though.”
Her mouth twisted. “You sound as if you’re daring me to stay.”
“Nope. Just stating facts.”
“I see. Well, Mr. Logan—” she plucked her sunglasses off her head, only to stick them right back up there “—I am hot, have just enough of a headache to be considered dangerous and have spent the last two days on the road with a crabby teenager who’s convinced she’s just been consigned to hell. As long as there’s indoor plumbing, the mattresses don’t look like flophouse rejects and I don’t have to share the place with various and sundry critters, I’ll be a happy camper.”
Hell, he could practically see her pulse ramming in her throat from here. Maybe her words sounded tough, but her eyes—heavy-lidded, deep-set under naturally arched brows—told a whole other story. Too bad he had no idea what that story was. Like most men, Hank was totally clueless when it came to reading women’s minds. However, his cop instincts were rattling around in his brain, telling him that something seemed funny about this. And it was going to bug him to death until he figured out what.
“Well,” he said, scratching his unshaven chin and playing the hayseed to the hilt, “the mattresses are all new, the plumbing’s old but it usually works, and if you see any wildlife inside, I’ll be happy to send somebody up to shoot it for you. How’s that?”
She paled. “I don’t want to kill anything. I just want to be sure it all stays outside, where it belongs.”
Hank hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Well, honey—” he used the endearment deliberately, figuring it would set her off, which wasn’t something he normally did but something about this one just begged for it “—I hate to break it to you, but where you’ve got country, you’ve got critters. And since they were here first, they don’t have too many qualms about wandering on inside a place if the mood strikes. The four-legged ones’ll generally run back out if you make enough noise, and the six- or eight-legged ones you can just squish. So, that was a two-bedroom you wanted, right?”
He stepped into the office, a wood-paneled affair boasting a counter with a computer on it, a hookboard with the keys, a phone, and a couple of slightly beat-up chairs he’d gotten off Curly Mason after his wife left him and he couldn’t bear to look at her stuff anymore. Oh, and some photos of the area the former owners had put up about a million years ago which Hank hadn’t gotten around to taking down. The kid, he saw, was studying them with a tight frown wrinkling her forehead. Red-headed and peppered with freckles, she was going to be taller than her mama, he imagined, who was taller than average to begin with.
He heard Jenna Stanton’s footsteps behind him. Waited for a reaction that didn’t happen. Except, when she spoke, her tone had gone all tight-assed.
“Yes, a two-bedroom,” she said, then added, “and I forgot something else. I need a phone jack for my Internet connection.”
The key already in his hand, Hank made a face, then turned around and exchanged that key for another. See, that’s what was bugging him. If she was so damn picky, why hadn’t she asked about all this earlier? And why would a woman like her want to stay way the hell out here in the middle of nowhere, anyway? Especially with a teenager who was probably gonna be nothing but a pain in the can the whole time they were here. Just didn’t add up.
“There’s a jack in this one,” he said, holding up the key. Good thing he’d had Cherise clean out more than one cabin. “Former owners used to live there, so it’s got more outlets, too. Although, if you don’t mind my asking, what kind of operation you planning on running while you’re here?”
The girl moved on to the next set of pictures, as though she was trying to pretend none of this was going on.
“No operation,” the woman said with a tight-lipped smile. “I’m a writer. I’m here…doing research for my next book.”
“Huh,” Hank said, not missing the kid’s snort in response. “Okay, you can sign right—” he turned the register around and handed her a pen “—here.”
She signed left-handed. A left hand adorned with a wide gold wedding band and a knock-your-socks off engagement ring. An observation that provoked more brain-rattling, even as Hank told his brain to go lie down and be quiet, already.
He turned the register around. Her handwriting was strong, the letters uneven but legible. “Will…Mr. Stanton be joining you?”
“No.”
He looked up, but she hadn’t. “Credit card?”
“Oh. Of course.” She switched the small leather purse sitting on her hip around and up onto the counter, dug out her wallet and a credit card. Her nails were short; she didn’t wear any perfume that he could tell, although whatever she used in her hair was smelling up the whole office. From the heat, he supposed. He swiped a blank receipt, then handed her back the card.
“And…what do you do with the receipt?” she asked.
“Goes into the safe until you check out. Nobody can get to it except me. You can drive on around to the cottage—yours is the second one you’ll come to, with the blue porch.” He hesitated. “You need any help unloading the car?”
For a second or two, that wary gaze—now blended with a touch of pissed-offedness—tangled with his. “No,” she said. “We can handle it.” Then she straightened her shoulders and turned to the girl. “Blair, sweetie? You ready?” Obviously expecting the gal to follow, Jenna Stanton pivoted on her fancy little shoe and headed back outside.
“Yeah, ready to barf,” the girl muttered as she slowly trudged after.
Jenna stood on the cottage’s front porch, soaking
