The Gazebo. Kimberly Cates
fallen under Emma’s spell.
He crooked Emma that killer smile. “Who could pass up an opportunity to get the whole town buzzing? And enjoy the company of two such beautiful ladies in the bargain?”
What in the name of heaven was the man thinking? Stone was one of the most calculating people Deirdre had ever known, with a reason for everything. Why on God’s green earth would he want to spend the next hour eating pancakes at some quaint little restaurant with a woman he didn’t much like and a star-crazed sixteen-year-old who would obviously talk until his ear shriveled up and fell off?
He had to know she was concealing things from Emma. They couldn’t say a word about the case. What possible reason could a man like Stone have for wasting his morning this way?
Deirdre groped for some way, any way, to send the man packing. “Two’s company, four’s a crowd,” Deirdre warned. “Don’t you think Trula and your redheaded lady friend would object? Or aren’t they the jealous type?”
The corners of Stone’s eyes crinkled, his sexy laugh setting alarm bells jangling up and down Deirdre’s spine. “Oh, my ladies are plenty jealous, but I’ll charm my way out of trouble. I can be irresistible when I want to be.”
“I’ll bet.” Emma laughed, softening the lines of strain etched in her face from the night before. “Come on, Mom. This’ll be great. No offense, Mr. Stone, but with just the two of us at the table, conversation gets a little dull sometimes.”
Deirdre forced a smile. “It won’t be boring next time, Emmaline Kate. I promise you that.”
Ignoring the warning in grand style, Emma slid her arm into Stone’s and grinned. “My mom is really, really picky about men. She wouldn’t go out with just anybody, you know. This is your lucky day.”
THE KID WAS DEFINITELY on the make—for her mother, that is. And if they gave Oscars for performances designed to get Mom a date, Emma McDaniel would be giving a hell of an acceptance speech come next year.
That is, if she survived her mother’s wrath in the hours to come. Steam might as well have been rolling out of Deirdre’s ears, the woman twitchy as hell. But then, Deirdre was usually so blunt, Stone supposed it was tough for her, trying to keep the lid on the reason he’d been hired. The more time he spent with Emma, the more likely the kid would figure out she’d been duped. And in Stone’s experience royalty objected to being made to look a fool.
Her Royal Highness deftly maneuvered them to her “lucky” table, set up for three, where she was able to manipulate her mother into sitting next to Jake on a crowded bench. Emma made her move with such cunning there was no way out of the predicament unless Deirdre was willing to be completely rude.
He figured Deirdre could be plenty rude on occasion, but to do so now would reveal to Emma that something was rotten in the state of Denmark. And once that happened, Stone wagered Emma would latch on to the mystery and never let go.
Besides, Stone figured he owed the teenager big-time. He was devil enough to enjoy Deirdre’s discomfiture and man enough to savor the pleasure of being close enough to touch the woman who’d been prickly toward him for so long.
He could have been a gentleman and squashed himself against the wall so he wouldn’t touch her, but what fun would that be?
He let his big body take up all the space it needed. His thigh touched Deirdre’s, his elbow brushing her arm whenever he moved. She was so near he could smell scents that had haunted him for so long—something exotic like bergamot or oranges alerting every one of his senses that this wasn’t your average woman—something so spicy and defiant it barely seemed possible so much emotion could be contained in such a small woman, a wild inner freedom that wouldn’t buckle to any man.
He wondered if Deirdre knew that such obvious reluctance on her part was the most addictive aphrodisiac of all. Could she guess how many questions she awoke in a man because of the boundaries she’d drawn so clearly?
She made it easy for Stone to understand why his ancestors had raided proud highland villages in ages past, so they could fill their beds with such strong, defiant beauties and have their sons carry the women’s fighting blood in their veins.
An all-too-vivid imagination flashed a scene from The Quiet Man in his head—but instead of Maureen O’Hara, it was Deirdre who struggled in Stone’s arms as he carried her into a thatched cottage, dead set on making love to her.
Stone yanked himself up short. Get a grip, he told himself. Stick to basics. The reasons you took this case. You’re here because you’re attracted to the woman. And because somehow she slipped past your guard to where your guilty conscience hides.
Remember who you are: a hard-nosed private investigator who can’t afford to feel emotions like these. Hell, he hadn’t even realized he still had it in him, thought he’d left them behind with the badge that had been taken away.
The cop he’d been back then had seemed like a stranger for years. An idealistic fool too damned young, too involved, too emotional, who cared too much even when he damned well knew throwing himself into a case that way was going to bite him in the ass and leave him bleeding.
When he’d walked away from the force, he’d thought he was done playing Sir Galahad. From that moment on he’d see the world with all its hard edges, people taking whatever they could get, even the best ones looking for ways to wriggle out of nasty situations.
And damned if it hadn’t worked until he’d crashed into the McDaniel clan, a family more stubbornly honorable than anyone he’d known since he’d crossed swords with Sergeant Tony Manoletti at twelve years old.
Stone fought to quell the memories of that dark Italian face, and the uncomfortable emotions Deirdre and her family loosed in him.
Concentrate on the entertainment value, he told himself. Here he was, sitting close enough to kiss a woman he figured would never so much as stay in the same room once he’d entered it. Yeah, it was big fun, Stone told himself cynically, except it only made him wonder what she’d taste like. Deirdre was so small, he’d have to bend way over, gather her up against him and—
“…and Hugh Jackman in The Boy from Oz played this gay singer who—Mr. Stone, you’re not listening,” Emma accused.
Stone actually felt the back of his neck get hot.
“Whatever you’re thinking about, it sure isn’t theater,” the girl scolded. “I expect you to tell me right—oh!”
Saved by the bell. Literally. The old-fashioned brass bell above Lagomarcino’s door jangled. Emma’s eyes widened, her face turning a shade pinker than the moment before as a tall kid of about seventeen entered the diner, his sun-streaked blond hair and angular, wind-burned face giving him a kind of Ralph Lauren, preppie outdoorsman look. For a heartbeat, Stone could see the incredible woman Emma would grow into. Then, between one moment and the next, she transformed back into a fluttery teenage girl.
“Ohmigod,” she breathed. Her mother’s gaze pinned her.
“Emma? Are you all right?”
“Mom, cut it out!” Emma hissed under her breath, one hand sweeping up in an effort to smooth her flyaway hair. Wasted effort, Stone wanted to tell her. Like her mother’s unruly locks, Emma’s hair looked best a little tousled.
Of course, on Emma it looked cute. On Deirdre it looked like a man had just buried his hands in the silky locks. Unless, Stone figured, the guy looking at the two McDaniel women was seventeen. There was no missing the appreciation lighting the boy’s hazel eyes. Trula would have called them bedroom eyes. Stone figured they were closer to a golden retriever’s—and not one that had honored the humane society’s mandate for neutering.
Ignoring her daughter’s stammered plea not to embarrass her, Deirdre glanced over her shoulder to see what held her daughter’s attention. She needn’t have bothered. The boy nabbed a can of Dr Pepper from the pop machine, then headed straight for them.
The kid smiled at Emma,