were destroyed. He’d lost more than a sibling that dark day; he’d lost his mother and father, too.
Landry groaned and threw up his hands. “Okay. Okay. He can stay a few days. I’ll try to talk to him but there’s no guarantee it’ll do one bit of good.”
Mom hugged him tight with a smug smile she couldn’t entirely hide. “You’re my anchor.”
“Just this week,” he reiterated.
* * *
Jet riffled through the stack of invoices and moaned. Paperwork sucked. Tomorrow would be much more fun when the delivery from Mobile came in.
A sharp rap at the front door startled her. The shop wouldn’t open for a couple more weeks. The front windows were taped over, so she couldn’t see who’d knocked. She stuffed her feet into a pair of flip-flops, went to the door and unlocked it.
Crap. If she’d known who it was, she wouldn’t have bothered. “Sorry, we’re not open for business yet,” she said quickly and began shutting the door.
“Not looking to buy anything,” Landry Fields said, stepping inside before the door closed. His sharp eyes roamed the mostly empty space. “When do you anticipate opening?”
Jet inhaled the soapy-clean male scent she remembered from yesterday. “Not for a few more weeks. I’ve got a big shipment of furniture coming tomorrow. It’ll take some time to get everything arranged.” She resisted the urge to touch a curling tendril of light brown hair grazing the auditor’s stiff white collar. His hair was slightly damp, as if he’d just showered or combed his hair down in a failed attempt to flatten the curly ends. Jet shook her head at the sight of his gray jacket and trousers. “You keep wearing suits like that and by next month the humidity will eat you alive.”
“I’m from Mobile. I’m used to it.” Landry didn’t even give a polite smile, bearing an air as formal and reserved as his attire.
It only sent Jet’s imagination into overdrive, fantasizing about what lay beneath the conservative clothing. She tried to convince herself Landry was probably pasty-white and about as fit as a dead June bug but as he walked away toward the front counter, something about the energy of his movements refuted that theory.
Landry stopped at the huge mahogany bar that served as a front counter and ran a hand down its gleaming, nicked surface. “Nice. You don’t see these kinds of large pieces anymore.”
Jet nodded, unexpectedly pleased at the compliment. “It’s the reason I bought this space to begin with. Came with the property.” She closed the door and walked to him. “I don’t have the manifests yet that you requested.”
Landry sat on one of the counter bar stools, as if settling in for a long chat. “How could you?” he asked with a wry smile. “I didn’t specify how many years back I wanted you to go.”
Jet scowled. “Years?”
“Correct. I want the documentation on all the salvage property you sold to Gulf Coast Salvage.”
“I didn’t think about it while I was in your office, but the company should have a record of that. Can’t you get it from them?”
“You should have a copy, as well.”
Landry didn’t look at her, instead he riffled through the invoices she’d left lying on the counter. Nosy man. Her pleasure quickly turned sour. “What are you doing?” she asked tartly.
He laid down a paper and faced her. “Just curious. I find everything about you curious and fascinating.”
A warm glow settled in the pit of her stomach at the words. No one had ever called her fascinating before.
“I want to satisfy my curiosity about you and your business associations.” His eyes returned to the icy-blue she remembered from their first meeting. “Especially your association with one Perry Andrew Hammonds. The third, to be precise.”
The warm glow died, replaced by a sharp chill up her spine. Damn. She knew it; Perry had somehow brought this fresh hell into her life. “What about him?”
“Now that Hammonds is out of prison, do you plan on resuming the treasure-hunting business with him?”
That was the million-dollar question. Jet opened her mouth, but no words came out. She’d had a sleepless night, debating whether to help Perry one last time. Maybe if she did he would make enough money to go away and leave her the hell alone. “I don’t know,” she answered truthfully.
“If you’re serious about operating this store, you won’t have time for long excursions.” His eyes honed in on the help-wanted sign by the door. “Hired any employees yet?”
So, he was trying to see if she was truly making a run at this venture or if it might be a front to shelter money. “No.” Jet crossed her arms and changed the subject. “What about your plans? You said the IRS field office here would only be around for tax season. When do you go back to Mobile?”
The blue chips in his eyes thawed a bit. “Trying to get rid of me? I was actually thinking of staying in Bayou La Siryna permanently and commuting.”
She almost laughed. “Why would you want to do that?” Mr. Sophisticated-Government-Man would die of boredom. Nobody visited their town and stayed. The bayou was an acquired taste—you were either born and raised in it, so that over the years the place settled into your blood and bone and brain like a fever, or you married a local. A disturbing thought hit her. “Are you seeing somebody in town?”
“No. But I have roots here.”
Jet narrowed her eyes and scrutinized him. “What roots? I’ve never seen you before.” She’d sure as hell remember if she had.
“I used to visit my grandmother most summers growing up, out by Murrell’s Point.”
“Hmm, thought I knew most everyone in these parts. What was her name?”
“Claudia Margaret Simpson.”
Simpson, Simpson... Jet ran the name through her mind’s inner database but came up blank. “How about her husband’s or children’s names?”
“What is it with people in small towns and the need to identify someone’s family history?” he grumbled. “Doubt you ever crossed paths. Mimi kept to herself a lot.”
“A family trait?” Jet observed wryly.
Landry tipped his head slightly in assent. “Could say the same about your family. In spite of the fact that your kin is one of the wealthiest and oldest in Bayou La Siryna, the Bosarges have a reputation for being aloof and reserved.”
“Can’t deny that.” Jet grinned, until it struck her that he was prying again for tidbits of information about her. “Are all IRS guys as nosy as you?”
“If they’re any good—yes.”
What was good for the goose... “All right, then, since you seem to know so much about me, what are your grandfather’s name and your mom’s name?”
“Edward Fields. He died before I was born.
