don’t think it’s a good idea for you to tell me. I might accidentally call you by that name in front of other people. It’s best that you remain Cecilia Webster to me.”
“Okay,” she agreed, although he thought he detected disappointment in the single word.
“What did you do before all this?” he asked, attempting to get her mind off bad guys, killer cops and false identities.
She smiled, and he saw the tension slowly leaving her. “I’m an interior decorator.”
He groaned. “I think I’m glad you can’t see this place. It would probably give you nightmares.”
“It can’t be that bad,” she protested. “What’s your color scheme?”
“Color scheme?”
She leaned forward, her features lit with an animation he hadn’t seen before, an animation that transformed her from pretty to something far more powerful. “You know, what’s the dominant color of the room?”
Jesse shrugged and looked around. “I’ve got a brown-and-orange sofa, beige carpeting, a rose-colored chair. I’m not sure there is a dominant color.”
“Orange sofa and rose-colored chair?” She looked slightly ill. “You’ve just managed to do what nothing and nobody has done in the past month.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“You almost made me grateful I’m blind.” The animation still shone on her features, and a stir of desire winged through Jesse, both appalling and irritating him. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” she continued. “As soon as I get my sight back and everything is settled, I’ll come back here to Mustang and redecorate your house.”
“It’s a deal,” Jesse agreed easily, although he knew it was a false promise on her part. This was a place to hide, a state of limbo for her.
When her sight returned and her life was no longer threatened, she would go back to Chicago and never look back. He knew that he and Mustang, Montana, would simply represent part of a very bad dream she would never again want to revisit.
Chapter 4
Sheriff Jesse Wilder had lied to her, Allison thought as she sat on the sofa and listened to the sounds of him clearing the table and cleaning up the breakfast dishes.
He’d told her he wasn’t particularly good-looking, but her fingertips had told her something altogether different.
Even now, her fingers still held the memory of his skin and features. His face was slender, with high cheekbones and a straight nose. He had long lashes and she could easily see in her mind his blue eyes framed by the dark fringes.
His mouth was soft, achingly soft, and if she dwelled on it, it would be far too easy to imagine those lips pressed against hers.
She stirred restlessly and smiled as she heard him whistling “Camelot” as he worked. She could imagine his dark hair falling carelessly over his forehead as he rinsed the dishes. She knew from touching that his hair was thick and silky and she had a feeling he needed a haircut.
When she put all the single images together, what she got was a mental image of a handsome man.
A confirmed bachelor, she reminded herself. Not that she was interested. She had a life, a full life waiting for her return to Chicago. That was her Camelot.
“Want another cup of coffee?” Jesse called from the kitchen.
“No, thanks. I’m fine,” she replied. She heard him enter the room and smiled in his general direction.
“I thought maybe we’d eat lunch down at the café this afternoon,” he said. She heard the squeak of a cushion and knew he’d sat in the chair opposite the sofa.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” The thought of going out, of being vulnerable, sent a flutter of anxiety to the pit of her stomach.
“Keller told me to keep my routine as normal as possible and to tell everyone you’re my girlfriend. Every person in town will begin to wonder about you if I keep you isolated here. That wouldn’t be normal.” He sighed audibly. “Besides, trust me that we’ll know if a stranger shows up anywhere in the vicinity. A fly doesn’t land on the back of a dog, that somebody in this town doesn’t comment about it five minutes later.”
She laughed, her anxiety ebbing somewhat. She had to trust his judgment, had to believe that he not only knew his hometown and the people in it, but also knew the business of protection. “Okay, lunch out sounds good.” She jumped as a heavy knock fell on the front door.
Jesse got up and walked to the window. “Relax, it’s my deputy,” he said to her, then opened the door. “Hi, Vic, what’s up?”
“Jesse, I think we’ve got another one.” The deputy’s voice boomed loud and deep.
“Dammit!” Jesse exclaimed. “Who?”
“Maggie Watson. I don’t know, Jesse. She’s in bad shape. She’s locked herself in her house and won’t let anyone in.”
“Has she been hurt physically?” Allison heard the concern in Jesse’s voice.
“Nobody knows. Amanda Creighton came down to the office and said something was wrong with Maggie, that she and Maggie were supposed to meet this morning at the café for coffee. When Maggie didn’t show up, Amanda went to her house.” The deputy paused, apparently to draw breath. “Maggie wouldn’t let her in the house, but she says she is a victim of Casanova. I don’t know what’s going on, but it sounds like she’s freaked out totally.”
“Okay, you go on back to the office and I’ll check things out at Maggie’s place,” Jesse said briskly. “You might try to find Shelly. Maybe Maggie will feel more comfortable talking to a woman deputy.”
“Shelly left early this morning to visit her parents. By this time she’s miles and miles away from here.”
Allison listened with interest as the two men finished their discussion and Vic left the house. She tilted her head questioningly, aware that Jesse hadn’t moved from the door. “I’ll be fine, Jesse. Go where you’re needed.”
“I’m not comfortable leaving you here alone.” He hesitated a moment, then continued. “Why don’t you ride along with me? I can’t promise you how long we’ll be gone and I’ll ask that you remain in the car, but I’d feel more comfortable if you don’t stay here alone.”
“Okay,” she agreed, and stood. It didn’t much matter to her whether she sat in his car or sat on his sofa.
Moments later she was safely ensconced in the passenger seat of Jesse’s car. “Who’s Maggie?” she asked.
“Maggie is a twenty-eight-year-old who works the evening shift as a waitress at the Round-Up.”
“And the Round-Up is?”
“A bar at the outskirts of town, decorated like an old-fashioned saloon.”
Конец
