shook his head. “San Francisco.”
“Oh, yes. Lovely city.” Bill extended the money again. “So, as I was saying. You can take this as a down payment, and I will write you a check for another five thousand to cover the rest.”
“That’s very generous, Mr. Longmire, but I’m afraid—”
“Hey, give the guy a break, why don’t you?” Two burly men separated from the crowd and flanked Allison, one at each shoulder as if they were hired bodyguards. One spoke through a tight jaw. “He said he’d pay for the damages. Why do you gotta bring in the police?”
Another murmur of agreement moved through the crowd, which clearly had only one mind among them. They inched forward, closing ranks. For a minute, Red felt like the hapless stranger in a horror film who stumbles into Looneyville and spends the rest of the movie running from its spooky townsfolk.
Or…maybe he was in the middle of a very strange dream. A dream—yeah, that would be nice. Maybe he wasn’t really standing here at all, negotiating with this old man, who was probably insane. Maybe Victor wasn’t really dead. Maybe there was no Allison York, no baby, no danger to Victor’s grieving family.
“Mr. Malone?” Allison turned her eyes toward him, wordlessly asking for his help. More crazy dream material. Those big bedroom eyes didn’t begin to match that girl-next-door face. They were gorgeous—round, dewy, lash-fringed. A clear dark honey-brown that looked strangely bottomless.
He almost found himself saying okay. Okay, we’ll do this your way.
But that would make him crazier than the old man.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He lifted his phone again, ignoring her disappointed frown, as well as the army of Windsor Beach zombies lined up behind her. “I’m afraid I’m still going to have to call the police.”
BY THAT AFTERNOON, the story had grown even better in the retelling.
Red was pretty good with impersonations, and by the time he’d finished describing the scene to his older brother Colby, both men were laughing. Red could even picture the accordion-folded rear end on his poor Mercedes without cringing.
The best part? The Windsor Beach policeman everyone had been so afraid to call turned out to be Bill Longmire’s pimple-faced great-nephew Larry, who was clearly terrified of the old man. Equally clearly, the kid also had a crush on Allison York and would have flushed his own badge down the toilet if she’d asked him to. For a minute there, Red thought he might end up getting a ticket for upsetting her.
“Hell, Red, this town sounds nuts.” Colby glanced around the small store space they’d been inspecting. “Are you sure we want to open a Diamante here?”
Red shrugged. “Crazy people eat pizza, too, don’t they?”
This trip to Windsor Beach was doing double duty. He’d set aside the morning to get a glimpse of Allison York, and now he could devote the afternoon to checking out the single storefront that had become available. Scouting new locations for Diamante take-out stores was Red’s piece of the family business, and he’d had his eye on swanky, touristy Windsor Beach for months.
He’d been waiting to find the right spot. He thought this might be it. The strip mall was fully occupied—this vacancy was rare. He’d only found out about it because he had a friend who had a friend. The building had easy access, ample parking and about a thousand bored, hungry rich people within a three-mile radius.
“And the price is right,” he said, opening the door to the storage closet. He recoiled as a cloud of vanilla-scented air wafted over him. The Bath Goddess had moved out of the space yesterday. “Damn, we’ll have to do something about the stink, though.”
Colby, who was the company lawyer and therefore wouldn’t get really interested until he got his hands on the lease, had already wandered over to the windows, where sunset-pink was seeping into the western sky.
“Stink?” He tossed a grin over his shoulder. “Oh. I thought that was you.”
Red ignored him. As the youngest of three brothers, he was used to being insulted. He poked around some more, though he’d already decided to take the store. He’d put out an SOS to Colby because, after the assault on the Mercedes, he needed a ride home. Not because he needed permission to rent this place.
It had taken him a while to find out where he fit into Diamante, but he had finally carved out his own niche. Nana Lina had long since taken the training wheels off, allowing him to make these acquisition decisions more or less alone. Turned out he had great instincts about real estate.
And he owed it all to his mentor. Victor Wigham.
Which brought him full circle to Allison York. Irritably he kicked a small net full of rose petals into the corner that was functioning as a trash can. What was he supposed to do now? What on earth was he supposed to do about Allison, the waitress with freckled cheeks, a snub nose, and Scheherazade eyes?
He’d been so sure that, once he met her, he’d be able to size her up easily. He assumed he could calculate what it would take to buy her silence, just as he could look at a property and sense what he would have to pay to acquire it, almost to the dollar.
But this situation hadn’t worked that way. Instead of being a simple, money-grubbing “mistress” type, she’d turned out to be a stew of contradictions. Part kid, part sorceress. She was an unwed mother, a waitress living on tips who needed a new pair of shoes. But somehow he could sense she was also a force to be reckoned with. She could coldheartedly betray Victor’s wife and kids, but she was a marshmallow for an eighty-year-old nut job.
She didn’t break down into logical, predictable elements. And yet somehow he had to fix this. What a mess.
“You know—” He turned and saw Colby watching him with a worried big-brother expression in his eyes. Red straightened, scowling. “What?”
“Don’t pretend with me,” Colby said. “I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The holy shit look. You’re thinking about Allison York. You’re regretting it already, aren’t you?”
For a minute, Red wanted to deny it. Right from the start, Colby had told him he was a fool for agreeing to “take care of” Allison. “God, Red,” he’d said. “If Victor had asked you to rope-swing naked into a snake pit, would you have promised to do that, too?”
But Red put aside his instinctive defensiveness. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He was thirty-two years old, and, though Colby might occasionally revert to using a paternal tone, the three years between them hadn’t really mattered for a long time.
Besides, Colby might rib him, but ultimately he had Red’s back, no matter what. And, as a lawyer, he might have some good advice. Red decided to come clean. He wiped his hands on a piece of sparkling tissue paper left over from some Bath Goddess purchase, then joined Colby at the window.
“Yeah, I am. Well, not regretting it, exactly. Just not sure what to do next.”
“Can’t you do what you said you would do? Present the deal, and hope she takes it?”
Red took a deep breath, though it made him
