Scandal in Copper Lake. Marilyn Pappano
clothes—a denim skirt that ended a few inches above her knees, a white V-necked shirt, its short sleeves cuffed once—but the image, too, filled him with heat and hunger.
She was gorgeous.
“Three men are traveling,” she said without a greeting. “An accountant, a doctor and a lawyer. A storm breaks, they have nowhere to stay, so they stop at a farm, knock on the door and ask the farmer if they can spend the night. ‘I only have room for two of you inside,’ the farmer says. ‘The third one will have to sleep in the barn with my pig.’ The accountant says, ‘I’ll do it,’ so he goes to the barn. A little while later, he comes back to the house and says, ‘Sorry, I just can’t stand the smell out there any longer.’ The doctor says, ‘I’ll go,’ and he goes to the barn. Soon after, he’s back at the house, saying, ‘Sorry, the smell is so bad.’ The lawyer sighs and says, ‘I’ll go.’ A little while later, the pig comes to the house and says, ‘Sorry, the stench is just too bad.’”
Robbie didn’t crack a smile. Lawyer jokes weren’t overly appreciated in the Calloway family, where about half the adults had law degrees. “River’s Edge is closed to the public on Wednesdays.”
“I know. Miss Lydia says hello.”
“Did she ask you to come here or did you set this up?”
Anamaria gazed at him a moment, all dark eyes and full lips, revealing nothing. “And this is your business how? Oh, right, her husband’s paying you to spy on both her and me.”
He didn’t feel guilty. A lawyer’s job was to protect his client. If Anamaria were as innocent as she wanted him to believe, she wouldn’t mind that.
“Where’s your toy car?”
He gestured over his right shoulder. “In my sister-in-law’s parking space.” Jamie’s office came with one space in the private lot behind the building, but deeming the alley spooky, she never used it. Since he knew the only two tenants who did, he figured the Vette was safe there.
“My car may not be as pricey—or apparently as high maintenance—as yours, but it is mine, so please get off it.”
He stood, brushing dust from his butt, then stepped onto the curb beside her just as she stepped off. She didn’t go to the driver’s door, though, and let herself in. Instead, she headed across the street.
“Where are you going?”
She waved one hand in the air but didn’t slow or turn back. “Follow me and see.”
It was a nice, sunny Wednesday morning. He had nothing on his schedule for the rest of the day and had a cooler packed with ice-cold water and sandwiches and his boat waiting at the Calloway dock for an afternoon’s fishing—his favorite pastime.
Then he glanced at Anamaria again, at the gentle sway of her hips, the strong muscles of her calves, the swing of her arms—and amended that thought to second favorite. The fish were always biting.
He jogged across the street and caught up with her as she started along the block on the north side of the square. “How is Lydia this morning?” he asked as he matched his stride to hers.
“She’s perturbed with one of your brother’s subs for messing with her flowers.”
He grimaced. He’d once crashed his bike into one of Lydia’s flower beds and had spent the better part of the next month doing penance in her garden, digging, hauling rock, weeding. He’d never gone near anyone’s flower beds after that. “I suppose you had another ‘message’ for her today.”
She glanced at him as they reached the corner, then turned onto the path that led to Ellie’s Deli. Steps led to a broad covered porch, and a screen door opened into the main dining room. Ignoring his comment, she said, “I met your brother.”
“Which one?”
“Russ. He seemed very nice. I was surprised.”
The waitress greeted them with a smile. “Table for two?”
Anamaria gave him another glance, quick but seeing more, he’d bet, than others saw in twice the time. “Are you going to skulk nearby if I don’t invite you to share my table?”
“Calloways don’t skulk.” Then he added, “Yes, I am. We’ll take a table in the back room, Carmen.”
Anamaria opened her mouth as if to object, glanced around the dining room, then closed it again. Ellie’s was a busy place, the main room nearly full, and more than a few people were watching them. Wondering who she was. Wondering what he was doing with her.
Carmen led them to a wrought-iron table on the glassed-in back porch, set out menus and silverware, then left to get iced teas for them both. Anamaria chose the chair facing out. He sat where he had a great view of brick wall and her.
“How many brothers do you have?” she asked as she spread a white linen napkin over her lap.
For a moment, he closed his eyes, aware of her slow, even breaths and that sweet, exotic fragrance, of warmth and desire and need. When he opened them again, she was giving him a level look. “I was projecting the answer. You didn’t get it? Some mind reader you are.”
“I don’t read minds. I read futures.”
Reaching across the table, he held out his hand, palm up. “Read mine.”
“No.”
“Why not? Am I not gullible enough?”
“Because you’re a skeptic. I don’t waste my time on skeptics.”
“How convenient, to deal only with people who already believe your mumbo jumbo.”
She studied him a moment, a cynical smile curving her lips, then opened the menu and turned her attention to it. One instant she was focused entirely on him; the next, she wasn’t. The difference was as obvious as turning off a light.
Carmen returned with the teas, delivered a loaf of warm dark bread and soft butter, then left with their orders. Anamaria continued to ignore him. He didn’t like it.
“Three,” he said at last. “Rick lives in Atlanta, Mitch in Mississippi and Russ here. We look alike, we talk alike, we sometimes act alike, but I’m the charming one.”
Finally she shifted her attention back to him. “I doubt everyone who knows you would agree.”
“Maybe their wives would argue the fact.” Rick’s wife, Amanda, certainly would. Jamie might adore him, and Mitch’s wife, Jessica, hardly knew him, but Amanda tolerated him only for Rick’s sake. Robbie couldn’t even blame her. He’d given her plenty of reason to despise him.
“Why aren’t you married?” she asked.
“How do you know I’m not?”
She nodded toward his left hand and the bare ring finger. He held out his hand, fingers spread, gazing at it. “Rumor has it that my old man had so much practice at removing his wedding band that he could do it with just his thumb, and so quickly that a prospective one-night stand never even noticed his hand moving.”
“I bet he was your hero.”
“I hardly remember the bastard. I was five when he dropped dead of a heart attack. I never missed him.” He sounded callous but didn’t care. “Tell me about your father.”
She gave another of those cynical smiles. “Don’t disappoint me and tell me you didn’t check out my birth records.”
He shrugged. “Mother—Glory Ann Duquesne. Father—Unknown. That’s officially. Unofficially, did you ever meet him?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Did you ever miss him?”
She waited until Carmen had served their meals to answer. “The last marriage in the Duquesne family took place more than two hundred years ago, and the only children born