big four-poster bed in the West Gold Room of the Crystal Creek hotel. He was savoring, with sharp appetite, a smorgasbord of delicious details about Kitt Mitchell.
“Now wait,” Mel said, “she was a homecoming attendant both years she was at this posh school in Dallas?”
“Both years,” said DeJames, a grin in his voice. “Queen her senior year. And the Sweetheart of Phi Omega Phi.”
“What in hell’s Phi Omega Phi?” Mel demanded.
“The boys’ academic honor society. She was also editor of the high school paper.”
“And star of the girls’ track team,” muttered Mel. The redhead was clearly an overachiever. Not normal, a driven person.
DeJames said, “This is what they put under her picture in the yearbook. ‘Some girls break records. Some break hearts. Kitt Mitchell breaks both.’”
“Cute,” Mel said sarcastically. “What else does it say?”
“Most ambitious,” said DeJames. “And most likely to succeed.”
Mel envisioned her, a fiery-tressed Scarlett O’Hara, conquering by sly charm. Consumed by ambition, a schemer to beware of—even back then. He intended to have the full goods on her. He said, “But how did she get from Podunk High in Crystal Creek to the Snob-brat School in Dallas? I thought her father was just a ranch hand.”
“The Stobbart School,” DeJames corrected. “He was. And Stobbart was expensive. Very.”
“Maybe a scholarship,” Mel muttered. For track. Or academics. Or for just being disgustingly over-talented.
“Stobbart didn’t give scholarships,” DeJames said. “I haven’t figured out yet how she got there. I will. The school itself’s been closed eight years. But I was lucky—got a copy of one of its yearbooks with her in it.”
Mel’s brow furrowed. “Yeah. How did you do that?”
“Because,” drawled DeJames, “I am excellent at my work. And I also have mystical powers. You want me to fax that other stuff to you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mel said. “Send it on.”
DeJames had given him all the basic info on the redhead, where she’d gone to college, her job history, where she lived in New York, even who her last boyfriend had been, a writer who worked for Celebrity Magazine.
Mel glanced at his watch. “You’re working late, aren’t you, DeJames?”
“It’s how I’ll get to the top. My excellence. My mystical power. And my legendary tirelessness.”
“Don’t forget your becoming modesty,” Mel gibed.
“That, too. You want me to send this yearbook? I can get it there tomorrow by courier.”
“Do that,” said Mel. “And keep digging. I want to get beneath this woman’s surface.”
“I think you want to get beneath her skirt,” laughed DeJames.
“It’s time for you to go home now, DeJames,” Mel said from between his teeth. “To that pitiful, empty thing you call your life.”
“I happen to have a girlfriend who looks like Jada Pinkett Smith’s prettier sister. A steady girlfriend, Don Juan. You should try it sometime.”
“Goodbye, DeJames,” Mel said and hung up.
He sighed and rose from the bed. He’d kicked off his shoes and socks and was shirtless. He smacked his bare chest and padded to the window. It had luxuriantly full white curtains that matched the bedspread and the canopy over the bed. He was in a set of matched rooms called the Gold Rooms, with a sitting room in between.
The Plaza, it wasn’t. Still, it was a decent enough place, with a window seat and hooked rugs and a surprisingly well-stocked minibar. There was a combination restaurant and pub downstairs. Its Scottish décor would have struck Mel as absurd in the heart of Texas if he hadn’t known the hotel owner was from Glasgow.
Mel knew much about this town. He’d come to it as his brother had, armed with knowledge. Unlike his brother, he wouldn’t let some woman make him into a turncoat.
He stared out the window. He could identify the buildings as easily as if he’d lived here for months. There was the bank, Wall’s drug store, the Longhorn Coffee Shop, which was closed because it was Monday. Next to the café was the Longhorn Motel, where Nick had stayed.
It was nothing but an L-shaped row of units, not shabby, but clearly low-priced. It wasn’t the kind of place Nick would have normally stayed on a bet. But he had done so because of the woman, Shelby.
Mel looked at the whitewashed motel units and shook his head in disgust. He rubbed his upper lip and thought of all Brian Fabian had done for the Belyle family.
Their mother still got teary when she tried to talk about how Nick had turned his back on such a good man. How Nick had given up everything. For a woman.
“I trust you won’t make the same damn mistake,” Fabian had hissed at him before he’d left.
“No problem,” Mel had assured him. And he meant it. He was made of tougher stuff.
Behind him, the fax machine began to whir and click, receiving the first batch of data on Kitt Mitchell. She didn’t interest him as a person, he told himself. Not a bit. All he wanted was to know his enemy.
CHAPTER FOUR
KITT HAD BEEN WORRIED. After all these years, would she and Nora have anything in common, anything to say to each other?
But they couldn’t stop talking. One memory sparked another; each story unleashed a flow of more. The two found they could still complete each other’s sentences—and make each other dissolve in hopeless giggles.
They sat at the kitchen table with Ken, who listened to them with wry amusement.
“And remember when we hiked up to Hermit’s Cave—” Nora began.
“—we’d lugged tons of books up there—” Kitt put in.
“And a blanket to sit on. And potato chips and a canteen of limeade—”
“We were going to hide out all summer from my brothers—”
Nora grinned. “—and a bat pooped in my hair—”
“—and you screamed and ran halfway down the mountain—” Kitt snickered.
“—yelling, ‘Bat poop! Bat poop!’ and pouring limeade on my head. Oh, Lord! And you behind me yelling, ‘It’s okay! People use it for fertilizer!’”
Nora almost doubled up. Ken looked at his wife in wonder, as if he’d never seen her so giddy.
Kitt laid her head in her folded arms on the table and laughed until she cried. Nora told how she’d washed her hair four times and would never go back to the cave.
