Rachel Dahlrumple. Shea McMaster

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ to the first half of his sentence, the second half killed it. I also wondered who might be listening. Background noise provided no clue. One of those golf-playing bigwigs? “No, Rachel. I’m not backing out. I figure we’ll finish up around noon and then I’ll drive straight on from there. If I don’t stop for lunch, I might make it by two, more likely three.”

      Three? The party started around four, or when people drifted back from the rodeo and the other Independence Day events in town. If I left the coolers in the truck, the ice would be completely melted by then. Outside may have been ninety, but the garage had to be closer to a hundred and twenty. Not for the first time, I considered putting air conditioning in the building. Of course, it was impractical as the garage was nothing more than the old carriage house at the back of the lot and had barely been updated with overhead doors and some basic earthquake reinforcing. Hay still littered the loft and gaps between the boards were big enough for birds to fly through.

      “What am I supposed to do? I can’t leave the coolers in the truck that long.”

      “Call John. Or one of the others. I’ve helped their wives often enough, one of them should be more than happy to help you. Just don’t call Miguel. He flirts too much.”

      Right. The very notion was laughable. Burt, who flirted with everything in skirts, worried about thirty-year-old Miguel flirting with me? Our resident EMT who lived at the far end of the street, Miguel was so in love with his wife and brand new daughter, he talked of nothing else. As for Burt, Marge Olsen told anyone who’d listen how he’d groped her ass the year before. And he continued to insist he’d been drunk enough he’d thought it was me in the dark. Considering it had been years since Burt had groped any body part of mine in public or private, and Marge’s bra and ass were several sizes larger than mine, I didn’t buy his line.

      From where I sat I could see the entire length of our street. The flash of sun glinting off silver flake paint on a low muscle car caught my attention. Only one car like that ever prowled our street. It belonged to Deputy Dan Weston, younger brother of my next door neighbor, John Weston.

      My eighth grade year, John and Dan had moved in next door with their parents after their dad was assigned to the Lemoore Naval Air Station to the north of our little town on the west side of California’s San Joaquin Valley. After growing up and several years of seeing the world courtesy of Uncle Sam, John took a transfer to Lemoore himself, bought the house from his parents, and had moved home with his young family only a few years past. Dan followed a couple years later, after a wound put him on the Navy’s retirement list. He’d spend the past twelve months meandering about the county in a deputy’s uniform without a hint of the career-ending injury.

      I considered John and his wife, Cyndi, close friends, but Dan, well, he and I had never gotten along well. When he showed up, I stayed away. If we bumped into each other, we’d nod and move on as quickly as possible. Stuck in the same room, we looked the other way and found someone else to talk to. Things had always been awkward between us and showed no sign of improving.

      Ask the Westons to help? Not without including the man slowly rolling up their driveway in the sleek, sixty-three Corvette. I couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to drive the beast. All that muscle at my control…

      “Rachel? Stop daydreaming and listen to me.”

      “I’m here, I’m here. Was just looking around to see who’s home. John’s brother just drove up.” I ran one hand over my hair, smoothing back any strands that’d escaped from the chignon I wore for work. My skin was damp, but the dry air took care of the worst sweat, evaporating it almost as soon as it formed. Maybe I didn’t have visible sweat stains down my back or under my arms.

      “For God’s sake don’t ask him. I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

      That did it. I laughed. More of a snort, the bane of my existence, but still a laugh. “He never looks at me, much less speaks to me. No one does, Burt. Getting jealous in your old age?” His forty-ninth birthday wasn’t far off. Just a few weeks.

      “I care about my wife and make note of those hitting on her.”

      Not that I’d seen signs of either situation, but what the hell, I decided to go for broke. “Then come home and you hit on me. You might be surprised at the response.” I gave it my best throaty purr.

      “Stop clinging. It’s not like you to be needy. I’ll call when I’m on my way. Call the admiral. One of his boys should be around to help.” Another one of our neighbors on the street, the admiral had recently retired from command at the nearby base and had grandsons hanging about for the summer.

      “Yes, Burt.” Too hot and too tired to fight, I sighed as any hope of support, understanding, or attention from him drained away. “Whatever you say, Burt.” It was as close as I ever came to truly voicing any discontent. He knew how unhappy I’d become, but what Burt said amounted to Burt’s law and, as the number one resident of Burtland, if I didn’t obey, well, let’s just say he knew how to make my life miserable.

      “Stop pouting. If I were still in the Navy, you wouldn’t have me home most weeks out of the year.”

      “If you were still in the Navy, we wouldn’t have volunteered to host the party this year.”

      “Deal with it, Rachel. You’re more than capable. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

      And with that, he disconnected. So much for, I love you, or, have sweet dreams of me tonight, or, even, goodbye.

      Deflated, discouraged, and irritated by the usual mid-summer heat added onto a normal Friday night weariness, I dragged myself from the truck, hauling a pizza and a salad from the local joint, along with my purse, from the cab.

      If I’d known I’d be eating alone for the fifth night that week, I would have skipped the food stop altogether and made a salad from the fresh items growing on the other side of the house. Though I’d inherited the garden, I’d modified the landscaping of our large lot so flower gardens lined the circular front drive, and a vegetable garden grew on the west side of the house. More flower beds dotted the back yard, brightening the large lawn wrapped around a long lap pool and spa. The garage, set back on the east side, bumped up against the lot-line shared with the Weston’s driveway.

      Juggling my dinner and grumpy mood, I stepped from the garage and heard a throat clear from the other side of the low hedge that marked the division of properties. Unable to avoid him without being supremely bitchy-rude, I turned and smiled at my childhood nemesis. “Hi, Dan.”

      “Rachel.” He nodded, and late day sunlight glinted off the golden streaks in his brown hair. Why did men get the beautiful hair? Even from a half dozen feet away I could see dark lashes shading what I knew were hazel eyes. Mostly green with bits of amber. Eyes that looked me over from head to toe, and I found myself wanting to hunch over, as if I could hide from the unaccustomed appraisal. I distracted myself by looking at his new mustache. The hairs themselves were short, but the growth pattern extended down each side of his mouth. Fu manchu? Briefly I wondered what that kind of mustache, well, any mustache really, would feel like. Burt had never grown one.

      “Need help?” Once more he nodded, but in the direction of the pizza box and the bag hanging from my arm, and his gaze returned to my face. Was I relieved or disappointed? Oh God, had he seen me checking him out? Honestly, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d caught a man checking me out, maybe like I was attractive or something. It was enough to set off a nervous reaction.

      “With this? No…” Oh hell. “But I do need help with the coolers. Think you and СКАЧАТЬ