I Think I Love You Page 10

  “Looks like it’s going to be a nice day,” he said.

  She sighed noisily. “All right—if you must know, twelve years ago, Mica ran off with Justine’s fiancé on the day of their wedding.”

  He stopped chewing, cheeks full, then swallowed. “Oh.”

  “You were wondering, weren’t you, what would cause two grown women who are blood-related to roll around on the ground and call each other names?”

  He shrugged. “I figured there was a man involved.”

  She set down her coffee. “You figured a man was involved. Why?”

  Another shrug. “Female nature.”

  She gaped at his conceit… and accuracy.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “The guy is a loser?”

  Reluctantly, she nodded.

  “Where is he?”

  “Thank goodness he stayed in LA.”

  “I don’t suppose he ever married your younger sister?”

  “No.”

  “Typical. Women can’t get enough of that kind of guy.”

  She glared. “That’s a sexist thing to say.”

  He splayed a hand. “But it’s true. Women want the bad boy, but once they get him, they want him to settle down, and he won’t. Vicious cycle. Take it from a former bad boy.”

  “A former bad boy?”

  “Yeah, now I just have bad knees.” He rubbed his shin through his faded jeans. “By the way, your sisters kick like mules.”

  She winced. “I apologize for dragging you into the middle of it.”

  He dismissed her concern with a wave. “Glad to help—I’m a full-service appraiser-slash-bouncer.”

  She indicated his laptop on the desk. “I’m still not clear on what I’m supposed to be helping you with.”

  “Other than making sure I don’t rob your parents blind?”

  Her cheeks warmed. “Justine spoke out of turn.”

  “Well, no offense, but your parents would be an easy target if I were the unsavory sort. This place is a wreck.”

  “I know. John and Cissy love antiques and they’re good with customers, but they’re not much when it comes to the nuts and bolts of running a business.”

  “I see a lot of that in my line of work.”

  “What exactly is your line of work?”

  “Appraisals, mostly. Managing estate sales, consulting for insurance companies, that kind of thing. The bank officer handling your parents’ business loan contacted me about this job. I’m going to put a reserve price on everything here so the bank will have a ballpark idea of what the auction will gross. I could use your help with the paperwork, and maybe some other things. Your father told me you have a good eye.”

  “I only plan to be here through next weekend.”

  He nodded. “I work fast and I’ve never had a helper before, so this should go quickly.”

  “Will the store be open for business while all this is going on?”

  “Sure, move what inventory we can. After everything is appraised, it would be best to close for a couple of weeks to get ready for the auction.”

  She pressed her lips together, wishing the world would slow down until she could adjust.

  “Hey, don’t be depressed—there’s a lot of good stuff here. I plan to get the word out to collector friends. With a little luck, your folks will be able to keep that great house of theirs.”

  “My parents are splitting up.” She covered her mouth with her hand. Oh, God, more proof that her family was a mess.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said quietly, then removed his legs from the desk. “Ready to get started?”

  She nodded gratefully and carried her coffee to join him at the desk. Between doughnuts, he explained his simple inventory and appraisal software, although she didn’t absorb much of what he was saying. He was sitting too close, and his bigness got in her way—too much knee-bumping and elbow-brushing. While he watched the screen, she watched him. She guessed the self-proclaimed former bad boy to be approaching forty, even though his Tshirts and tennis shoes gave him a more youthful appearance. His thick dark blond hair lay close to his head, and his face was all mature planes and angles—high, wide cheekbones, a broad nose, strong chin. His short sideburns were dark, like his eyebrows and lashes. From his fit physique and tanned extremities, she surmised he enjoyed outdoor sports. Indeed, he was wearing a faded “Kayaking Rules” T-shirt, and it didn’t take a stretch of imagination to visualize him naked from the waist up, battling the current.

  “We can start with furniture if you want,” he offered, picking up the laptop.

  “Where are you from?”

  He seemed surprised at her question.

  “I… can’t place your accent.”

  “I’m from all over the South, really. My folks were wheeler-dealers, always dabbling in antiques in some form—flea markets, auction houses. We moved around.”

  “Where do you live now?”

  “I have a post office box in Charlotte.”

  A former-bad-boy drifter. She helped him load the laptop and other supplies onto a rolling cart.

  “So, what do you do in Boston?” he asked.

  She pushed up her glasses. “I edit books.”

  “What kind of books?”

  “Non-fiction. Reference books, health books, self-help.”

  “Those Mars-Venus books?”

  “Some.”

  “Sounds dull.”

  She blinked. “It’s not. Are we going to get started or what?” She pushed the cart ahead of him, over the uneven wood flooring into the main showroom. His footsteps sounded behind her, as well as the rhythmic clicking of Sam’s toenails.

  “All I meant was that I’d rather do things than read about them.”

  She kept walking. “Sorry my job isn’t glamorous enough for you. I’m not as comfortable in the spotlight as my sisters are.”

  He snagged her arm and came around to face her. “Hey, relax. I didn’t mean to offend you. And who said anything about your sisters?”

  She stared up at him with defiance.

  “Do I detect a little sibling rivalry here?” His mouth curved into a teasing smile. “Oh, wait—don’t tell me you had a thing for the loser bad boy, too?”

  His audacity floored her. She itched to slap him, but she didn’t want him to think he could so easily provoke her. Instead she matched his smile. “I keep my distance from bad boys.” She pulled her arm away from his grasp. “Including former ones.”

  “Ouch.” He looked down at Sam. “That, my friend, is what’s called a brush-off. Luckily, I’m thick-skinned.”

  “Could we please get started?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Much to her relief, when they got down to business Mitchell was serious and efficient. They quickly worked out a system—she fed him info for the program from the massive file of index cards that her parents still used to maintain inventory records and, when no card could be located, from inspecting the piece of furniture. At first her tongue was rusty, but soon the vocabulary came back to her: Empire, Federal, Art Nouveau, Arts and Crafts, Rococo, Regency, Shaker. Once he had fixed a reserve price, she tagged the piece and they moved on. She did stop occasionally to admire a particularly nice piece.

  “I hadn’t realized how much I missed this business,” she murmured, running her hand over a fine chestnut wood table.

  He laughed. “I don’t think you can ever truly get away from it. I tried but found my way back. Are you a collector?”

  She shrugged. “All my childhood knick-knacks are still at Mom and Dad’s—junk mostly. Now I like letter openers, but I’m not a serious collector.”

  “Letter openers? Why letter openers?”

  She looked up, then back down. “No reason. What do you collect?”

  “Books.”

  She looked back up. “Books?”

  “I can’t be good-looking and well-read?”

  A noise from the stairs saved her from a response. Her dad came into view, favoring an arthritic foot, but
all smiles for Regina.

  “There’s my girl,” he said, opening his arms.

  “Daddy.” She went willingly and buried her face into his neck, inhaling Old Spice—the official Dad smell. “It’s good to see you. How’s your foot?”

  “Fine. Better if I’d get more exercise. Let me look at you.” He held her face in his hands and grinned. “Still pretty as a picture.” Then he gave her a sad smile. “Sorry I wasn’t home to see you last night. I….” His eyes grew moist.

  “It’s okay,” she soothed, alarmed at the despondent look in his blue eyes—her blue eyes. “I know you’re going through a tough time, but things are going to be fine.” She pecked him on the cheek, then grinned. “And guess what? Justine is home.”

  He brightened. “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know your mother is happy about that.”

  “And guess what else?”

  “I can’t stand any more good news.”

  “Then I guess I won’t tell you that Mica’s home, too.”

  “All my girls are home?”

  “Looks that way.”

  His hug lifted her off her feet. When he set her down, he looked over her shoulder. “I see you’ve met Mitchell.”

  “I’m helping him. Why don’t you go home and see the girls? We’ll hold down the fort here, and I’ll be home for dinner.”

  “Regina, why don’t you go, too?” Mitchell offered. “I know you’d like to be with your family.”

  To be honest, she wasn’t ready to face them again. And as crazy as it sounded, she knew from experience that Justine and Mica argued more when she was around because they counted on her to referee. Cissy and John deserved a few hours of peace and quiet to enjoy the daughters they rarely got to see.

  She gave him a pointed look. “I’ll stay here and help you.”

  He looked back to his work. She watched her father leave, thinking of all the good times they should have had—should still have. She had to believe everything was going to work out, but at the moment, things looked pretty bleak.

  Behind her, Mitchell cleared his throat. “You could have gone with him—I’m not going to steal anything.” He sounded put out.

  She wiped her hand over her eyes and turned. “And just maybe this isn’t about you. Now, where were we?”

  Chapter 10

  DO be a snoop.

  Justine sat straight up in bed, the image of Lisa Crane’s menacing face seared in her brain. The room was bathed in shadows, and she sensed the woman lurked within their cover. Terror clawed at her heart as she leaned over and groped for the gun under her mattress. Her arm was caught on something—the woman was going to kill her in her own bed. Sobs tore at her throat as panic overwhelmed her. When her body reached maximum tension, something broke loose in her mind, and she realized her arm was hung on a bed-sheet. She stopped flailing when she noticed her surroundings. The ornamental brass bed she’d slept in as a child. Peach-and-green paisley quilt. Matching curtains.

  She was home. Safe.

  She dropped back to the pillow in sweaty relief. A few seconds later, she remembered that Mica, too, was home and that their first greeting after twelve years hadn’t been the stuff that Hallmark commercials were made of. She rolled over and groaned into her pillow. The nutmeg tea she’d drunk last night left her feeling lethargic this morning. Maybe she’d pretend to be ill and stay in bed all day—no one could very well argue with that. Her eyes had closed on the comforting idea when the bleeping of her cell phone sounded. She hesitated, then realized that Lando could be calling her with good news. She sat up, fumbled for the lamp switch, and yanked the phone off the nightstand. “Hello?”

  “Justine?” A male voice.

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Officer Lando. Did I wake you?”

  “Yeah.” She felt for her watch, then remembered it now belonged to a guy in Shively with bad teeth. “What time is it?”

  “A little after nine. I wanted to give you an update.”

  “Did you find her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet? Do you know where she is?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. Are you in North Carolina?”

  “Yeah, at my folks’ house.”

  “I’m going to need that address.”

  “Why?”

  “We think Lisa Crane might have left the state.”

  She slung back the covers, walked over to one of the two long windows in her room, and raised the shade. The sunlight nearly blinded her. After her eyes adjusted, she looked out over the front yard and long, winding driveway. Her car sat where she’d left it. Regina’s car was gone, but she’d had to meet that hunky junk guy at the shop. The sprinkler was running, as if any of that giant green stuff down there needed encouragement. A hammock swung empty in a slight breeze. Cement animals stood at attention. All seemed quiet and well.

  “Are you still there?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I don’t see her lounging in the front yard. What makes you think she left the state?”

  “A woman matching her description left a convenience store without paying for a tank of gas at the Pennsylvania-Maryland state line.”

  She swallowed. “When?”

  “Last night about ten. It might not be her, but I wanted to let you know in case she somehow followed you. I’ll notify the local sheriff.”

  She winced. “Is that absolutely necessary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, but do you have to go into detail with the local yokels? They know my parents.”

  “I’ll be discreet,” he said, and she heard the unspoken words: Even though you weren’t.

  “Do you have an update on Randall Crane’s condition?” she asked, rummaging in her bag for a cigarette.

  “Upgraded to ‘good.’ We’re still guarding his room.”

  She lit the cigarette, sucked it to life, and exhaled. “Good.”

  “Those things will kill you.”

  She smirked and took another drag. “They can get in line.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Fine. Although considering my whacked-out family, I might should’ve stayed and taken my chances with Lisa Crane.”

  “That messed up, huh?”

  “Understatement.” She told him her parents’ address.

  “Take care of yourself,” he said. “I’ll keep you posted from this end.”

  She disconnected the phone thoughtfully. No one ever told her to take care of herself—everyone just assumed she could.

  Justine took another lusty drag from the cigarette.

  And she could take care of herself, by God.

  Exhaling the smoke in a sigh, she realized she’d have to put in an appearance downstairs after all. And face Mica again. After the “incident,” Regina had relegated them both to opposite ends of the house to cool off. Justine and Mica had both offered to go to a motel, but Regina wouldn’t hear of it—they were sisters, after all. Justine shook her head—Regina the negotiator. Regina, who thought everything could be fixed with a group hug and a to-do list. Regina, who didn’t realize that she was just as screwed up as they were.

  She knocked on the door of the bathroom between her room and Mica’s. Actually, the bathroom had been all hers until Mica turned thirteen, upon which John had yielded to his darling Mica’s demands and added an entrance from her bedroom. After that it seemed that Mica was always in the way… and sharing far more of Justine’s belongings than Justine had realized.

  How long had Dean and Mica been carrying on behind her back? Months? Years? On top of the humiliation of discovering that her groom had left her standing at the altar so he could run off to LA with her little sister, she hadn’t had the satisfaction of confronting them, of telling them what she thought of them… of looking into their eyes and seeing if they were even a little remorseful for deceiving her.

  Until yesterday. Whatever fantasies she’d harbored about Mica coming to her for forgiveness with her heart in her hands
had vanished when she’d burst out of that limousine and announced that she was home!, home to rub everyone’s nose in her gorgeousness and her success. Not home to make amends, but home to make an impression. And all Justine could think about was leaving Mica’s impression in the driveway.

  Hearing no sound on the other side of the door, she dropped her cigarette into the dregs of the nutmeg tea and entered the bathroom, stepping on and around Mica’s model paraphernalia to get to the sink.

  She drank water from her cupped hands to rinse the foul taste of nutmeg from her mouth—ugh. Then she lathered up her skin with a plain old bar of hand soap—a big no-no in the makeup industry, but one day wouldn’t undo her Botox injections. The soap stung in a few places, and she noticed the red marks on her face had the pattern of claw marks.

  That little witch had scratched her face. Okay, she’d blacked Mica’s eye, but Mica’d had it coming. The clawing, however, would not go by without comment. Justine tossed the towel into the sink and yanked open the door leading to Mica’s bedroom to find an empty rumpled bed. She grunted in frustration, then stopped at the ringing of a cell phone. Not hers, she realized, but the one peeking out of Mica’s obscenely expensive purse. The display screen lit up with the caller’s name: Dean.

  Her heart vaulted. She hesitated until the third ring before getting up the nerve to answer in her best Mica impersonation. “Hello?”

  “Hey, baby, what’s going on?”

  Justine closed her eyes—his voice was still chocolaty. “Um, I just woke up.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  Justine lifted an eyebrow—trouble in paradise? Her mind raced for a noncommittal response. “Can’t you guess?”

  “Look, this isn’t funny. I’ve called you a hundred times; I checked with all your friends. All your dumb-ass agent will tell me is that you’re taking some time off. By the way, I found his jacket hanging in the bathroom—if he’s been banging you, I’ll rip off his pecker.”

  She blinked and said nothing.

  “Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you. We’ll talk, baby. We’ll work everything out.”

  So they were having problems. A sliver of vindication cut through her chest. And if Dean came here, she’d get the opportunity to see him again, to confront him. “I decided to come home for a few days, to see my folks.”