Yesterday's Scandal Read online

  “It’s common knowledge around here now,” she said with a shrug. “Even though it all happened more than four years ago, it was a huge scandal and people still like to talk about it. It started when Emily was a toddler and her mother—Josiah Jr.’s second wife, Nadine—apparently ran off with a married man, Al Jennings. Josiah was always very bitter after that, and mixed very little with the townspeople. He and Lucas, his son by his first wife, who died of pneumonia, didn’t get along well. Actually, Lucas didn’t get along well with many people, because he had such a temper as a boy. Probably because his own mother died so young and his father was such an unpleasant man. Especially after Nadine disappeared with Al.”

  “It sounds like enough to make anyone surly.”

  Smiling a little in response to Mac’s wry comment, Sharon continued, “Anyway, Lucas had a sort of hate/hate relationship with Roger Jennings—the son of the man Nadine supposedly ran away with. Roger blamed all the McBrides for his father’s defection, and Lucas took the brunt of it because he and Roger were close in age. One night very soon after Lucas finished high school, they had a particularly bitter public quarrel. Roger died that night.”

  “How?”

  “He fell off a cliff on McBride land, close to Lucas’s house. It was all very tragic and very mysterious and, needless to say, the local gossips had a field day. They all decided Lucas killed Roger. They had him tried and convicted even before the funeral. There wasn’t enough evidence to arrest Lucas, but the people who never liked him, anyway, didn’t care about that. They made life here so unpleasant for him that he felt he had to leave. He took off in the middle of the night, and no one heard from him for years.”

  “Which, of course, only made him look more guilty in the eyes of his accusers.”

  “Exactly. Fifteen years later, Lucas came home to visit his sister, Emily, and the truth came out. Nadine McBride and Al Jennings were murdered by Al’s own brother, Sam. It turned out Sam had been a jilted lover of Nadine’s, and he killed her and Al in a jealous rage. When Sam’s nephew, Roger, came too close to finding out the truth several years later, Sam pushed him over the cliff, making it look as if Lucas was the real murderer.”

  “You had a triple murderer living right here in Honoria?”

  “He was my dentist when I was a teenager. I always thought he was sort of weird, but I never dreamed…Anyway, he even tried to do away with Rachel, Roger’s younger sister, when she stumbled onto the truth four years ago. Had it not been for Lucas and Wade rushing to her rescue, he might have killed her. Now Sam is in prison where he belongs and Lucas is married to Rachel and living quite happily in California.”

  Mac had followed the tale with only a slight effort. “So Lucas married the sister of the man he was accused of murdering?”

  “Yes. He owns a successful software company now. He’s made loads of money, which might have something to do with why the whole town practically salutes him every time he comes back to visit.”

  “Success can be the best revenge.”

  She scowled. “I despise hypocrisy. The same people who were whispering about him now pretend they believed he was innocent all along.”

  Shifting a bit uncomfortably in his chair, Mac prompted, “So that’s when all the gossip about the McBrides began?”

  She shrugged. “There were a few other incidents, but that was the most dramatic. The other stuff has been generally exaggerated.”

  “And I thought nothing exciting ever happened around here.”

  “We’ve had our share of scandal. But personally, I prefer a quieter, more peaceful existence. If I’d wanted excitement, I’d have moved to a big city instead of settling down here to be close to my family.”

  Thinking of some of the “excitement” he’d seen as a vice cop, Mac decided she’d made the right choice.

  Sharon nodded toward his glass. “Would you like some more wine?”

  “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “I had a couple of thoughts about the renovation project this afternoon—specifically, the little front parlor. Would it be possible to change the doorway to an arch to match the shape of the fanlights in the entryway and dining room?”

  He would have liked to ask a few more questions about the McBrides, but there was really no way to pursue it now without arousing Sharon’s suspicions. “Actually, that’s something I’ve already discussed with the builder,” he said, going along with her for now.

  He hadn’t forgotten his main purpose in being here this evening. He would find a way to learn more about the McBrides later.

  BY CONVINCING HERSELF this was a business dinner, Sharon was able to relax considerably during the remainder of the meal. It was easier to talk about decorating with Mac than to make social small talk. She was still annoyed with herself for babbling on about the McBrides the way she had. She’d let her irritation with the local gossips and her natural inclination to defend her friends carry her away.

  Mac had probably been bored by the whole conversation about people he hardly even knew. In all likelihood he considered her as big a gossip as the others he’d encountered around here.

  Better, she thought, to stick to business.

  Her awkwardness with Mac could be attributed to the fact that it had been a long time since she’d spent an evening with any man other than Jerry, who tended to dominate conversations with talk about himself. An evening with Jerry was usually entertaining—and never made her as nervous and self-conscious as this supposedly simple dinner with Mac. Maybe because Jerry didn’t have Mac’s habit of studying her across the table as if everything she said or did was inherently interesting.

  Seeing that Mac’s plate was empty, she asked, “Would you like coffee and dessert? I made a strawberry cake. It’s sort of my specialty.”

  A decidedly odd look crossed his face. “Um…thanks, but strawberries make me break out in hives.”

  Of course they did. There seemed to be some force at work to cause as many awkward moments as possible between the two of them. “Something else, then? I have ice cream or…”

  “Just coffee, thanks. Dinner was so good I’ve eaten too much already.”

  “Why don’t we have our coffee in the living room. I have a few sketches I’d like to show you in there.”

  His grin was a brief flash of white, both wicked and disturbing. “Are you offering to show me your etchings?”

  “Behave yourself,” she said sternly, not sure whether she was talking to him or to her own suddenly activated hormones.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He stood when she did and reached to move her chair out of the way for her. “Can I help you clear away the dishes first?”

  She couldn’t help smiling. Mac had the kind of old-fashioned manners that she’d been trying to teach Brad—with only partially satisfying results. “Are your parents still living?” she asked impulsively.

  He seemed to go still for a moment. And then he replaced her chair without looking at her. “I was raised by my mother. She died three years ago.”

  Something in his voice told Sharon he hadn’t quite recovered from the loss. Her tone was gentle when she asked, “Was she the one who taught you to be such a gentleman?”

  Though the question appeared to disconcert him a bit, he nodded. “My mother was a real stickler for manners. ‘Stand up when a lady stands, Miguel.’ ‘Take your hat off indoors, Miguel.’ ‘Say please and thank you, Miguel.”’

  Intrigued by this fleeting glimpse into his past, she cocked her head. “Miguel? That’s your first name?”

  He gave her a funny little bow. “Miguel Luis Cordero.”

  “When did you start answering to Mac?”

  He shrugged. “That came from my mother, too. She grew up in San Juan, but she wanted me to have a more mainstream American upbringing. She gave me her father’s name, but she thought it would be easier for me to answer to a more common nickname.”

  He was reaching for his dishes as he spoke. Sharon rested a hand on his arm to stop him. “I’ll take ca
re of these later. Why don’t you just go on into the living room and I’ll bring the coffee.”

  He glanced at her hand on his arm, then raised his eyes to hers. And once again she understood what it meant to be held captive by someone’s gaze. She wasn’t sure she could look away if she tried. She was relieved when Mac broke the contact.

  “I take my coffee black,” he said.

  She deliberately stiffened her knees. “I’ll be right in.”

  She lingered in the kitchen a few minutes longer than was absolutely necessary, giving herself a chance to recover from that moment of connection between them. She was fine with him as long as they stuck to business, but every time she became aware of him as a sexy, single male, she froze. It wasn’t that she had anything against sexy, single males, but with Mac she had the feeling things could get complicated—and not only because she would be involved with him professionally for the next few months.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SHARON ASSEMBLED a tray with two cups of coffee and a plate of chocolate cookies, just in case Mac changed his mind about dessert. When she carried the tray carefully into the living room, she noticed Mac sitting on the couch, examining an antique-reproduction lighting catalog she’d left on the coffee table. “These wall lights you’ve marked with adhesive strips—are you considering them for the Garrett house?” he asked.

  Setting the tray on the coffee table, she settled on the couch next to him to study the photographs. “No, I’ve ordered those for one of my customers who’s redoing her bedroom. She has a house full of Mission and Shaker antiques, and I thought those fixtures would go well with her decor. But there are several others in the catalog you might want to look at for your project.”

  “I like this one,” he said, and pointed to a corner of the page farther from her, so that she had to scoot a little closer to examine the photo he’d indicated.

  “That is nice,” she agreed. “I can envision it in the downstairs hallway, can’t you? It would nicely illuminate that dark corner outside the dining room.”

  He turned a page. “What about something like this in the parlor?”

  She leaned a little closer, studying the ad with a thoughtful frown. “Well, it’s pretty, of course, but do you really want to go with that look? This fixture is more representative of the 1950s than the 1920s era, but we can certainly mix styles, if that’s what you’d like. Some decorators recommend mixing styles and periods for a more complex and eclectic—”

  “You’re the designer on this project,” he reminded her. “What I want you to do is decorate the house as if you were going to live in it yourself.”

  She glanced at him with a smile. “What makes you think I’d want to live in a restored Victorian? How do you know I wouldn’t prefer stylized chrome and glass from the 1980s? Or the Danish Modern look of the 1960s?”

  “Because I saw your face when you got your first look at the Garrett place. I watched you run your hand over the moldings in the master bedroom. I saw the way you practically melted over the beveled-glass fanlight in the dining room. It was lust, Sharon. Pure, heart-pounding, skin-dampening lust.”

  It took her a moment to respond coherently to his wholly unexpected side trip into rather erotic fancy. “I, um, love the house, of course—or at least the house I know it can become—but I’m not sure I would describe my feelings as, er—”

  “Lust?” He smiled a little. “You don’t think the word is appropriate?”

  “Well, no, not really. I’ll admit I have a certain passion for decorating. I’m excited to be a part of your team. And I certainly might fantasize about owning a place like the Garrett house, myself. But lust is perhaps too strong a word to describe my feelings.”

  He gave a low chuckle. “You’ve just used the words passion, excited, and fantasize pretty much in one breath—and you accuse me of using too strong a word?”

  They were supposed to be talking business, not swapping innuendoes. Somehow this conversation had gotten completely out of hand. She made a weak effort to get it back on track. She looked at the catalog again. “Do you see anything you like?”

  “I definitely see something I like,” he murmured, bringing her gaze back up to his. He wasn’t looking at photographs. His intense dark eyes were focused on her face.

  “I, um…” What had she meant to say? The words were gone, having slipped from her suddenly overheated mind like wisps of steam.

  She didn’t realize he had lifted his hand until she felt his fingertips against the side of her face. What was it about his touch that electrified her, even as it gave her an incredible sense of security? Was it the memory of the way he’d held her the night they’d met? Had that dramatic introduction made her react differently to him—or was it something about the man, himself?

  “What did you ask me?” she murmured, trying to clear her thoughts.

  “Nothing.” His gaze was on her mouth now.

  She cleared her throat. “Do you want…?”

  His eyes rose to hers again. “Do I want…?”

  What was it she’d started to offer? “Coffee.”

  His smile twisted wryly. “Coffee,” he repeated.

  Neither of them moved.

  “This,” she said after a moment, still feeling the weight of his fingers against her face, “is what some people might call an awkward moment.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” His thumb moved, tracing across her cheek to her lower lip. “We can go back to talking about fixtures.”

  Her lip quivered beneath his touch. Talk? She wasn’t even sure she could speak coherently.

  She could insist on keeping the evening strictly business, and Mac would go along with it. She could move to another chair, away from the feel and heat of him, and he wouldn’t try to hold her back. It would be the sensible, practical, Sharon thing to do.

  Funny, she mused, studying the strong shape of his mouth. She hadn’t been quite herself since her car sank beneath the surface of Snake Creek. She hadn’t seen things in quite the same light—her job, this town, Jerry. Her life. Maybe because she’d come so close to losing it all. The accident had made her very aware of everything she had—and everything she’d only dreamed of.

  She realized abruptly that it would have been a shame if she had died without ever meeting Mac Cordero. Without really knowing what it meant to melt at a touch.

  His mouth was very close to hers now. If she reacted so strongly to the feel of his hand, what would it be like to kiss him? Did she really want to miss this chance to find out?

  Taking her silence as permission, he covered her mouth with his.

  Okay, she thought, somewhat relieved that no fireworks exploded around her, no cymbals crashed in her ears. It was just a kiss, like the kisses she had received before. Just a pleasant, gentle press of lips. Nice, but it certainly wouldn’t change her life.

  Lulled into relaxing, she closed her eyes and tilted her head for him. Her lips softened, parting just a little. She raised a hand to his shoulder, letting it rest lightly there. Just a simple kiss between two unattached adults, she assured herself. If nothing else, it would satisfy their curiosity, and then they could get on with business.

  The tip of his tongue touched her lower lip, eliciting a slight shiver of reaction. Okay, so it was a pretty good kiss. There was no reason to hurry through it. She slipped her other arm around his neck and parted her lips a bit more.

  A moment later, her head was spinning, her pulse racing, her toes curling—and she would have sworn there were fireworks going off and cymbals crashing somewhere around her. Every cliché she’d ever heard had just become real for her—and this tricky, unprincipled male had deliberately waited until her guard was down before springing them on her.

  Just a kiss? Right—like a tornado was just a stiff breeze.

  Somehow his arms had gone around her, and his hands were sneaking into places they shouldn’t be, but she didn’t want him to move them. Which only proved how good he was at being bad.

  His tongue
swept her mouth, taunting and teasing until she couldn’t resist responding with a few tentative thrusts of her own. Which only seemed to encourage him to take the kiss deeper.

  This was why, she thought somewhere in the back of her mind, she had been so jumpy around Mac from the start. Somehow she had known almost from the first time she’d seen him that this would happen—and that it wasn’t going to be uncomplicated.

  She’d known all along that Mac wasn’t like the forgettable men she had dated in the past.

  She couldn’t think clearly with his arms around her, his mouth on hers, his tongue sparring with hers. It was wonderful. Heady. Exciting. She couldn’t seem to care that she had known him only a week. That she still knew very little about him.

  All that mattered at the moment was that she’d felt a connection to him from that first dramatic meeting. That she’d been drawn to him every time she had seen him since. That his eyes, his touch, his voice affected her in a way she’d only fantasized about before.

  His right hand slid slowly up from her hip, leaving a shivery path behind him. He pressed lightly against the small of her back, urging her closer. She tightened her arm around his neck, letting her fingers burrow into his thick ebony hair.

  She didn’t know how this had happened, exactly—but she couldn’t be sorry it had. It really was a spectacular kiss.

  His hand moved again, sliding around her waist to pause perilously close to her breast. Even as she ached to feel him there, she felt herself pulling back.

  “Too much?” he murmured against her mouth, moving his hand to a more innocuous position.

  “Too soon,” she amended candidly.

  Very slowly, he drew back. He wasn’t smiling, she noted. He didn’t look particularly pleased with himself for slipping so neatly behind her defenses. In fact, he looked almost as startled as she felt—and almost as dismayed.

  Because he was so very good at masking his emotions, his expression cleared almost immediately. He pulled his hands away from her. “Our coffee’s getting cold,” he said, his voice only marginally huskier than usual.