3

“WHAT A NIGHT…” Miranda placed a stack of clean towels on the foot of Jackson’s bed. He’d be staying in one of the wedding venue’s raised bungalows. This near the Atchafalaya River, most all homes were built on stilts. Even the southern mansion-style main house had been raised, but with multitiered decks and stair landings, the stilts had been hidden. The end result was her mother’s vision of Gone with the Wind’s Tara—only hurricane and flood-proof. “I can’t apologize enough for your less than congenial welcome to town.”

He shrugged. “Shit happens.”

“But I think you’re right. The fire wasn’t just personal, but a message.”

“Hundred percent. This was the arsonist’s calling card. Not only does he want me gone, I’m guessing he doesn’t like me being with you.”

“Why would you think that?” She sat on the foot of the bed, raising her long hair from her neck, twisting it into a bun. Of all nights to forget a hair clip.

“You do that a lot,” he said, nodding toward her head. “If your neck’s so hot, why not cut your hair?”

“Maybe I love my long hair?”

He chuckled. “I like it, too. But if it bugs you…”

“Are you suddenly a hair and arson expert?”

“Yep.” His slow and easy grin caught her breath. He’d been surveying the suite with its living and kitchen combo and assortment of potted plants, but he now zeroed in on the antique ball-and-claw writing desk. He took something, shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans, then returned to her. “As the little brother to three sisters, I spent a lot of time being babysat. During that time, I learned more than any man should ever know about hair. May I?” He gestured to the general vicinity of her head.

“By all means. Show me what you’ve got.” When he sat behind her, close enough for his radiant heat to warm her back, her pulse curiously raced. She dropped her hair, letting it fall in a heavy wave to the center of her back. Call it vanity, but she did love her locks. She’d never thought of herself as being pretty. Her gray eyes were too big, nose too small and cheekbones too high. All of that might be okay on a five-foot-eleven fashion model, but she stood a petite five-two. Given her extra twenty pounds, she wouldn’t be hurt by backing away from any given dessert tray.

She sucked in a deep breath when the backs of his fingers grazed her neck’s hypersensitive skin. All her senses heightened. From beyond open screened windows, insects hummed louder. The air felt thicker. Smelled of the rich, dusky swamp and the faint beer lingering on Jackson’s breath.

How long had it been since she’d been attracted to a man? It might not be professional, but there it was, as undeniable as it was instant. Not good when she held the livelihood of the entire town in her hands.

“You okay?” he asked.

Throat tight with an undefinable mix of emotions, she nodded.

When he combed his fingers through her hair, though his actions were platonic, her body read his every touch as erotic. No man had ever touched her like this and she wasn’t sure what to do with her hands, her hitched breaths, the strange, fluttery gallop in her pulse.

Now, he wasn’t combing her hair, but massaging her temples and scalp. The sensation calmed yet thrilled. Her hairdresser had used this move dozens if not hundreds of times, yet this was different. Infinitely better.

She arched her head back and groaned. “You should probably change professions.”

“Yeah?” There he went again with his throaty chuckle. “Before they were old enough for dates, my sisters spent every Friday night playing beauty parlor, getting all gussied up for pretend dates. If I’d agree to be their hair-washing boy, they paid me a dollar and didn’t tell Mom and Dad that I rode my dirt bike in the junkyard. It was all dull until their friend Yvette started showing up. Her hair was even longer than yours. Thick and strawberry blonde. When I leaned just right, I caught a glimpse of her pink bra strap.”

“Jackson!” Laughing, her face grew warm. Could he see her bra strap? Did he want to?

“Hey—I’m just keeping it real. She was five years older than me and tipped extra for a good massage. You’d better believe I honed my skills real fast. All of which is a longwinded way of saying if you’re enjoying my services, you have Yvette to thank.” While talking, he’d smoothed and combed her hair until he now expertly wrapped it into what felt like a flawless messy bun—the kind Miranda had seen on models in magazines that she’d never quite managed. He fastened it by inserting one white Spanish Moss Inn pen, then crisscrossing it with another. “There. All done. And unless a hurricane hits in the next hour or so, it should last until bedtime.” When he stood, she missed him, which made no sense considering they’d barely known each other a few hours.

“Thanks.” Her words fell out in a breathy whisper.

“You’re welcome. Now, back to business, where do you sleep? I want to check your room for bugs or hidden cameras.”

“It’s late. I’ll be fine for one night.”

“Fine is relative. Fine would be like getting rye bread with dinner instead of whole wheat. In the matter of protecting you, let’s err on the side of caution.”

“Fair enough…” The heat behind his concentrated stare—the genuine feeling—left her flushed and unsure what to do with her hands. The fact that he wasn’t just here to do a job, but actually cared, warmed her more than he could know. But that was a problem because he was here to do a job—not make her feel. “Oh—before I forget, if you’re hungry, I had my staff stock your mini-fridge. Amelia, the inn’s head chef, will prepare anything you’d like for breakfast. Just go to the dining room in the main house.”

“Is there a key?”

“No. We keep it open for our guests.”

“Swell…” He slashed his hands through his buzz-cut hair. “That’s one more thing to add to my list—upping your inn’s security. Not only do your guests have free range, but so does your arsonist.”

“You make a valid point.” She drew her lower lip into her mouth, biting hard. All of this was beyond frustrating. “I’ll introduce you to my manager, Josie, first thing in the morning. But for now, I need sleep.”

“Then let’s get your room checked so—shit. Pardon my French. My bug detector was in my supply bag, which got torched along with everything besides my gun which I had on me.”

“Without the detector, you can’t find a camera or listening device?”

“I can.” He’d begun closing and locking all the windows. “It’s just more thorough with my gadget. I’ll send for another tomorrow.” Finished, he asked, “Ready?”

“Sure.” She handed him the room key.

“Thanks. But your locks are pretty much useless.”

“What do you mean? All of the units are only a few years old.”

“I’ll show you.” He ushered her outside, locking the door behind him. He tried the lock. “Seems secure, right?”

In the dim exterior light, she nodded.

He turned sideways to the door, using his shoulder as a battering ram. One hard shove was all it took to pop the door open.

Hand over her mouth, she fought a wave of nausea. “New locks. Check.”

“Look, we might catch this guy in a few days, making all of these security measures overkill. But wouldn’t you rather be safe than sorry?”

She nodded. “I feel so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid, but trusting. There’s a difference. This seems like a nice small town. I wish these were the kinds of things you didn’t need to worry about, but…”

“I understand.” Tears of frustration stung her eyes.

“Hey…” He drew her into his arms for a much-needed hug. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

His hug felt so good. Strong and safe and sheltering from all her added fears. She could stay in his arms forever, but that was no more realistic than believing her beloved hometown would forever be the kind of place where citizens could leave their homes and cars unlocked. Even once the arsonist was caught, there would always be a new threat. She had to toughen up, starting by not clinging to this stranger.

Releasing him, she forced a deep breath. “We should both get to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

He closed the room’s door, not bothering to lock it. “Lead the way…”

She descended the stairs, then covered nerves by playing the tour guide. “My father provided the initial investment that got this dream started, but the rest is all me.” Heading down the palm-lined, winding brick path leading to her bungalow, she said, “I wanted this place to feel like a swanky Caribbean resort but be accessible to Louisiana brides.” They approached the shimmering turquoise jewel of a freeform pool and passed a series of splashing, three-tier fountains. “My best friend from college is a landscape designer. We have secret rose gardens with swings, a hedgerow maze and a half-dozen dreamy ceremony settings, depending on the size of the wedding party. In case you couldn’t tell,” she said with an over her shoulder grin, “I’m a hopeless romantic.”

“Probably none of my business,” he said, “but how come you’re not married?”

“Long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

“I’m not sure I’ve got the courage to share.” They rounded one of the pergola-covered hot tubs. The damp night air smelled heavenly of jasmine. Tree frogs sang a cheery tune.

“You don’t have to. I was just making conversation.”

“It’s all right. I thought I’d found the love of my life in James. We were seniors at Louisiana State and he got me through economics. He was everything I’m not—great at small talk, funny, good looking.”

“For the record,” Jackson cleared his throat. “I think you’re beautiful.”

Her heart stopped. “You don’t have to say that.”

“Obviously.” He lightly grabbed her shoulder, pulling her to a stop beneath a trumpet-vine covered arbor. “The more you get to know me, you’ll realize I don’t say things I don’t mean. In fact…” With a touch so light if she hadn’t seen him, she would have believed the moment a dream, he skimmed his hand along her cheek and then up into her hair. He leaned forward, making her heart and breath catch in her throat. “…If we’d met under different circumstances, I would totally make a play for you.”

You would? Her knees threatened to buckle. Was he going to kiss her?

Please, kiss me!

Miranda’s heart thundered, but then reality set in when she remembered Jackson wasn’t her beau, but a man she’d trusted with the safekeeping of her entire town. For a woman who’d spent her adult life trying to be the consummate professional, she was sure struggling with that goal now.

Forcing a deep breath, she took a step back, resuming her tour on legs too wobbly to fully trust. “This arbor is one of our most popular photo backdrops. My goal is for our brides and grooms to feel as if they’ve been transported to an exotic secret world of romance. Sounds corny, but considering the fact that we don’t have an open weekend till September, my staff and I must be doing something right.”

“It’s pretty awesome. Romance isn’t my thing, but hey, if I had to have it, I suppose here would be as good a place as any.”

If he had to have it? She felt as crushed as a chocolate-covered strawberry that had fallen from a server’s tray, then been stomped on the dance floor.

From behind her, he said, “You never finished your story—about James.”

“Oh.” How was it possible to feel hot and cold at the same time? “Short version—I got pregnant. He told me that because he’d worn a condom there was no way the baby could be his. Outside of class, I never saw him again.”

“Bastard…” he said from behind her. “So you had the baby on your own?”

“At twelve weeks, I miscarried.”

“I’m sorry.”

Because it was what she did, Miranda kept walking, kept her focus on the future because even so much as a glance to her past brought too much pain. “It’s okay. Ancient history.”

He was again gripping her upper arm, drawing her around to face him. “There’s nothing about that situation that’s remotely okay. I’m truly, genuinely sorry.”

“Thank you.” Head bowed, she believed him. Something about his tone, the way he still lightly held her, told her he was sincere. But then she’d once believed the same about James. “We should get going. I haven’t been up this late in ages.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

They finished the trek to her bungalow in a few minutes. The discreet outdoor lighting made the winding brick paths easy to follow.

“Your home isn’t raised?” he asked when they stood on the front porch of the simple white-washed structure with its red door, tall windows with black shutters, and front porch just big enough for a swing and obligatory pale blue ceiling.

“It’s over a hundred years old. It’s been renovated a few times after floods, but it’s somehow survived every storm.”

“Incredible.”

Miranda fit her key into the lock, only to have the door swing open. “That’s odd? I’m sure I locked this before I—” What she saw next had her frozen, clutching her throat in fear.

On an heirloom silver platter given to her by her grandmother, someone had written the word W-H-O-R-E in Sterno, then set it on fire.