Intimate Enemy

“What about one of his friends? Someone, maybe a female, who might drag him into her problems?”

Tommy shrugged. “You’d have to ask him about that. Or her. You have a particular female in mind?” After a moment, he grinned. “Of course you do. Only one woman still in town gives you that look.”

Russ scowled. “Let her take half of everything you own, and see how warm and fuzzy she makes you feel.”

“She didn’t take it, man. Judge Whitley did.”

“Based on the crap she let Melinda tell him.”

“Come on. Everybody knows you didn’t run around on Melinda, and everybody damn well knows you never mistreated her.”

Not everyone, Russ thought, his muscles tightening until he felt a headache coming on. A lot of people had listened to Melinda’s lies, and they’d assumed the worst of him. Clearly, the judge had believed them. Why else would he have rewarded Melinda so richly for being an unfaithful wife?

“Back to the subject,” he said, knowing he sounded stiff and not caring. “Is Robbie involved in anything even remotely that could cause trouble for him?”

“He’s a lawyer. He’s friendly with everybody. He’s a Calloway. Of course he could get into trouble. But that’s nothing new.”

If trouble doesn’t find you, you go looking for it, their mother used to say. Was that after they’d gotten caught painting all the high-school windows in the school colors of blue and gold? Or maybe when Rick had gotten his nose broken in a fight after football practice and Russ and Robbie, despite being younger and smaller, had jumped in to help him. They’d held their own, too. Or the time they’d gotten caught racing for pink slips. Or…

“Why are you worried about him?” Tommy asked. “Did he say something?”

“Just to let you know if anything strange happened while he’s gone.”

Tommy considered it while he ate the last of his doughnut, then shrugged again. “If he’s got a problem and he hasn’t talked about it with you or me, how serious can it be?”

Good point. Robbie wasn’t the sort to keep things to himself. If he had a thought on something, and he always did, he shared it. He wasn’t a secretive sort of guy.

Tommy wadded up his napkin, then stuffed it into the empty coffee cup. “If anything strange does happen, you know how to find me. Otherwise, I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah,” Russ agreed absently. “I’ll see you.”

“How was your frozen dinner last night?”

Jamie looked up to find Lys standing in the doorway, a bag slung over her shoulder and two boxes in hand. One bore the green and red of the Krispy Kreme doughnut shop down the block; the other was from Luigi’s Pizza, no doubt bearing leftovers from Lys’s own dinner the night before.

“Very good. Grilled chicken, bowtie pasta and fire-roasted veggies in a low-fat cream sauce. Yum.”

“Uh-huh.” Coming closer, Lys set both boxes on the desk, then pulled two cans of diet pop from her bag. “Sounds better than it tasted, I bet. Any word on your car?”

“I’m supposed to call the garage later today to get the bad news.” Jamie opened the pizza box and lifted out a slice heavy with toppings. “I love cold pizza for breakfast.”

“I know.” Lys chose a glazed doughnut from the other box, holding it over a napkin, and settled into one of the two client chairs. Her slim sheath and three-inch heels were black and, with her sleek black hair and porcelain-delicate skin, should have looked stark, but it worked for her. It made Jamie, in khaki trousers and pale blue shirt, feel dumpy.

“How long were you here last night?” Lys asked.

“Not long. Half an hour, maybe.”

“Any trouble?”

Immediately Russ popped into Jamie’s mind. In anyone’s book, he was trouble with a capital T, but not, she was pretty sure, what Lys was referring to.

“Anything new from your secret admirer?” Lys clarified.

After another bite of pizza, Jamie told her about the nail-studded wood.

As she’d feared, Lys looked concerned. “You think he wanted your tire to go flat so he could…play the white knight for you? Offer to change it? Give you a ride home? Jeez, Jamie…”

“It could have been an accident.” She’d been telling herself that every time the incident came to mind, but she hadn’t managed to convince herself yet. “It could have just been kids being brats.”

“Or it could have been a setup to get you in this guy’s debt—or into his car, alone somewhere. Did you call the police?”

“No.” It seemed so petty. After all, no damage had been done, and the motive was purely speculation.

“Do you still have the wood?”

“It’s in the car.”

Lys laid down the doughnut and held out her hand. “Give me your keys. I’ll put it in the vault for safekeeping. The police may want it later.”

Jamie gave her the keys, then picked up the pizza again. Cold cheese, peppers, Canadian bacon and extra onions on a thin crust were particularly comforting this morning. She polished off that piece and made a good start on the next by the time Lys returned, wood strip in hand. She disappeared into the file room—an honest-to-God vault from the days when the building had housed a savings-and-loan—then returned to pick up her doughnut. “How did you find it?”

“I didn’t. Russ did.”

That made Lys sit straighter, alerting the way Mischa did to a squirrel intrusion. “Russ Calloway? He was poking around your car when this crap suddenly appeared?”

“Russ wouldn’t have flattened my tire or changed it or offered me a ride home. He doesn’t want my gratitude, and I’m the last person in the world he would play white knight for.” Saying the words stirred an ache in Jamie’s gut. There had been a time when they’d meant so much to each other, when she’d had such hopes for their future. Now he felt nothing but hostility for her. How had they come to this?

Well, for starters, representing his ex in their divorce hadn’t been the best way to stay on good terms with him. But someone had had to take Melinda’s case. The marriage was beyond saving, and Jamie had been new to town, looking for clients to build her practice. And Robbie had assured her it was okay. Russ was a lawyer himself. He would understand that it was just business.

Yeah, right.

“White knight, giving you a ride—those would have been secret admirer motives,” Lys said. “Russ Calloway wouldn’t have secret admirer motives.”

Another twinge of pain. “And what kind of motives would he have?”

“Stalker motives. Vandalism. Harassment. Pure meanness. He doesn’t like you, Jamie. He says horrible things about you. Maybe he wants to punish you. Maybe he wants to hurt you.”

The pizza felt heavy and unwelcome in Jamie’s stomach. She set the remains of the second slice down and took a cautious drink of pop, grateful when it stayed down. “Not Russ. He’s a decent guy—”

“Who’s mad as hell at you.” Lys leaned forward, her dark eyes troubled. “Who happened to be right there when the wood showed up. Who has access to wood and nails on the job site. You said he found it and was removing it when you came out. What if he was really putting it there? He’d have no choice but to take it out again or be caught.”

Jamie pictured the scene from the night before in her mind—the dusky evening, the man crouched beside her car, his back to her. She hadn’t even recognized him until an instant before he’d turned; she certainly hadn’t seen exactly what he was doing. Had he been removing the wood strip…or wedging it in place?

Common sense waved its little fingers for her attention. For God’s sake, this was Russ they were talking about. His feelings for her aside, he was a good guy, respected in business, adored by his family, admired by his crews. Hell, she’d loved him. He wasn’t the type who would vandalize a woman’s car, not even hers. He wouldn’t harass her, would never hurt her.

“Not Russ,” she said aloud, and she believed it. “Okay, so he’s holding a grudge—”

“A grudge? It’s been three years, and he still calls you Satan.”

The pang was smaller this time, barely a discomfort. “A little displaced anger isn’t uncommon in a nasty divorce. Melinda left town. I’m the only one left to hate.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Every person who gets divorced feels that way toward the opposing counsel. It’s a wonder that any lawyer will even take on a divorce case these days, isn’t it?”

Lys’s sarcasm made Jamie smile a little. “You’ve noticed that I’ve cut way back on divorces, haven’t you?” While she’d practiced criminal law in Macon, it was tough to specialize in Copper Lake. Like the other lawyers in town, she did a little bit of everything, from criminal trials to estate planning to contract negotiation. While she would prefer to never handle another divorce, she still took on a few. It was part of practicing law in a small town.

“Jamie—”

“Lys, it was probably just kids who found the wood at the construction site and thought it’d be funny to flatten someone’s tire. Until Russ showed up, my car was the only one on the block. I got picked by default.”

Lys was reluctant to accept that version of events; it was clear in her grudging expression and tone. “You think so?”

“I do.” And if she kept saying it, before long she would believe it. Not a stalker. Not a threat. Just kids, or really bad luck.

As the digital clock on the wall rolled over to 9:00 a.m., the phone began ringing, first the main line, then the rollover. Rising, Lys put both calls on hold, then gazed at Jamie a moment. “You be careful anyway.”

The warmth of affection rushed through Jamie. Lys had been a good friend from the moment they’d met on Jamie’s second full day in town. She’d applied for the job of paralegal and secretary, and had provided support, laughter and plenty of shoulders to lean on when Jamie needed them. She hoped she’d been as good a friend in return.

The morning was busy, but they still made time for their construction-watching break, though with more care this time. Jamie scanned all the vehicles parked along the streets, looking for the 1972 Chevrolet Cheyenne pickup that was Russ’s baby—one piece of property Melinda had desperately wanted but failed to gain ownership of—and she studied every guy with dark hair, broad shoulders and a long, lean body. Ogling a site full of hard bodies to find one hard body in particular: nice work if you could get it, she thought wryly as she relaxed.

“Remember I said I need a date bad?” Lys murmured as she slid her feet back into her heels, then stood, about to return to work. “J.D. asked me out yesterday.”

“J. D. Stinson? The Calloway cousin? Our client’s soon-to-be ex-husband?”

“I didn’t say yes.” Lys gave her a chiding look. “I understand conflict of interest. But…we used to date. Before you came to town. For a while.”

“What happened? Did you break his heart?”

Lys’s smile was broad and extraordinarily white against the crimson slash of her lipstick. “You’ve got to care about someone besides yourself before you can get your heart broken. We just lost interest. He met someone else, and so did I.”

Lys hadn’t been in a serious relationship in the three years Jamie had known her. She didn’t ask how it had worked out with her someone else. The answer was pretty clear.

“He and Laurie have been separated six weeks, and he’s already dating again?”

“He never stopped dating. A lot of what Laurie says may be bull, but the infidelity stuff—that’s all true.”

“So he’s not too broken up by the divorce.”

“Like I said, you have to care about someone besides yourself.” With a wide-eyed shrug, Lys left the office for her own desk.

Jamie couldn’t imagine it as she turned back to her desk and slid the computer keyboard closer. Marriage was a big deal. A person should go into it with hopes, dreams and commitment. Of course no one was guaranteed happily ever after, but if that wasn’t your goal, if you weren’t willing to work and compromise, why bother marrying at all?

If she ever got married, it would be with the intention of striving for the till-death-do-us-part. If divorce became inevitable, she would be heartbroken, but she would know she’d done everything possible to avoid it.

Like Russ. Even Melinda had admitted in an unguarded moment that none of it was his fault. He’d tried to work with her, had compromised and given in, had even been willing to go to marriage counseling. But all she’d wanted was out, with as many of their assets as she could get.

And Jamie had helped her get them. If she could somehow return to the past and undo her involvement in a particular case, that one would be at the top of the list.

Then she rubbed the spot low on her ribcage that still ached at times, though the wound was long since healed, and amended the thought: Russ’s divorce would be second on the list.

She worked through the rest of the morning, hardly noticing the passage of time until her stomach growled. It was after one o’clock, and the satisfaction from morning pizza was long gone. Rising from her chair, she slung the strap of her purse over one shoulder and went into the outer office. “I’m hungry. Want to get a sandwich at the deli?”

Lys looked up from the fax machine she was feeding. “Sure. Why don’t you go on over and order, and I’ll be there as soon as I finish sending the Thompkins stuff to his new lawyer in Miami. I’ll have a vegetarian wrap.”

“With ranch dressing, baked veggie chips and bottled water.”

Lys gave her a thumbs-up before turning back to the machine.

It was another warm day with only the thinnest of clouds in the sky. Humidity hung heavy, trapping the fragrance of the flowers that bordered the square close to the ground. Jamie loved the mix of smells: flowers, greenery, dampness, tasty aromas from Krispy Kreme, the coffee shop and the restaurants along the block. She fancied she could even catch a whiff of fresh-sawn lumber from the River’s Edge project—which, she congratulated herself, she hadn’t so much as glanced at since stepping outside.

Ellie’s Deli occupied prime corner-of-the-square real estate, an old building that had begun life as a general store. Broad steps led to a porch, and a few items there harked back to its past: metal advertising signs mounted on the walls, a checkerboard balanced atop an old wooden barrel and rockers, silvered with age.

Jamie placed their order, took a number and went looking for a table in her favorite section, a long narrow enclosure that had once been a back porch. Screens had been replaced by windows that looked out on Ellie Chase’s kitchen garden.

Her favorite table was empty. Setting down her bag, she slid into the chair and tension she’d hardly noticed eased away. It was a lovely place, with exposed brick walls and a well-worn brick floor, with all the glass and light and ceiling fans lazily stirring the air. The noise from the main dining room was muted, and the proximity to the kitchen allowed the fragrance of hot bread to seep into the space, along with hints of desserts baking.

She was so lost in noticing that she didn’t realize she wasn’t alone until a pair of boots came into view through the glass tabletop. Work boots, spattered with paint and mud. Faded jeans, also spattered. A snug-fitting T-shirt with a coat of chalky dust overlaying its crimson hue.

And a world-class scowl.

The muscles in her neck knotted and her jaw clamped together hard. This wasn’t fair. No more surprise sightings. No more sightings at all if he was going to look at her as if she were something nasty in need of squishing.

Russ rested one hand on the back of her chair and bent closer. “I thought I saw blood oozing from the brick.” Uninvited, he sat down in the chair to her left.

She forced a smile. “Watch it, or I might turn the sky dark, too.”

Coincidentally, the sun disappeared behind a cloud, shadow falling over the garden. She resisted the urge to laugh at the timing. He clearly felt no such urge.

“Have you dragged my brother into something he can’t handle?”

Jamie kept her gaze even, unflinching. Russ didn’t even make the list of people Robbie might have discussed her admirer-stalker with. He and Jamie occupied distinctly separate areas of Robbie’s life. If he’d tattled to anyone, it would have been Tommy Maricci or his cop brothers.

“Offhand, I can’t think of anything Robbie can’t handle.” Then she slyly asked, “We are talking about Robbie, aren’t we? You’re not accusing me of impropriety with Rick or Mitch, are you?”

His response was a snort, but it said enough. His older brothers wouldn’t be interested. She wasn’t pretty enough, sexy enough, to tempt them away from their wives, but no woman was. Fidelity might not have meant much to all Calloways—J. D. Stinson came to mind—but it was important to these four brothers.

And Melinda had taken such pleasure in publicly airing all the dirty details of her extramarital affairs. A broken heart, wounded pride and a bruised ego—Russ had hit the trifecta.

“What’s going on?” His voice was deep, tautly controlled, a lot like Robbie’s, except she could count the number of times she’d heard anger in Robbie’s voice on one hand. It was all she’d heard from Russ for three years.

“Maybe you should ask him.”

“I did. All he would say was that someone he knows is in trouble.”

“And you automatically assume it’s me?”

“Who else is as deserving?”

Her first inclination was to ignore the tiny ache in her chest. As her number was called over the intercom, she decided to go with her second. Rising, she put one hand on the back of his chair, leaned close enough to smell sunshine, sweat and dust and softly said, “Bite me, Russ.”

She made it halfway to the hall that led to the main dining room before he caught up with her. “If something’s going on, leave Robbie the hell out of it.”

She didn’t slow her pace. “Robbie’s a big boy. He can make decisions for himself.”

“I’m not kidding.”

She gave the girl behind the counter a tight smile as she claimed the trays that held her and Lys’s lunches, then faced him again. “Give it up, Russ. I’ve been threatened by people way scarier than you. If you have enough energy to worry about someone’s life, make it your own. You’re way more screwed up than Robbie will ever be.”

“You don’t know what the hell—”

The bell over the door dinged, announcing a new arrival. Russ looked that way, and so did Jamie. Lys’s gaze locked on them, and she charged forward like an overprotective bulldog in puppy’s clothing.

Jamie shoved Lys’s tray into her hands, then bared her teeth at Russ in a parody of a smile. “It’s been fun talking to you. What do you say we wait another three years to do it again?”

Color stained his dark skin crimson, and his gaze turned stormy. She didn’t wait to hear what he might say, but took Lys’s arm and steered her toward the back. It wasn’t until they’d turned the corner into the glassed-in porch that Lys spoke.

“Good show. Now would you please let go of my arm so the blood can start flowing again?”

Contritely Jamie did so. “I’m sorry. It’s just…”

“I know. It’s just Russ.”

He’d been the reason for a lot of emotions in her life—happiness, giddiness, need, desire, lust, satisfaction, affection, love, anger, betrayal, headache, heartache and every other kind of ache. He’d been the best part of her life for a time, and the worst.

One of these days, he wasn’t going to be any part. She promised herself that.

Just as soon as she figured out how to perform magic.

Chapter 3

In less than a day and a half, three people had offered criticism of Russ’s life. He hadn’t asked for advice, hadn’t given a clue that he was open to suggestions, so why the hell couldn’t they keep their opinions to themselves?

And after three years of pretty decent avoidance, why the hell did he have to keep running into Jamie?

“Because God doesn’t like you,” he muttered as he walked into the kitchen.

It was after eight o’clock. The sun had set, darkness had settled in, and he was still on the job. The day had turned into the day from hell—too many appointments, too much work, too little time—and his run-in with Jamie at lunch had only made it worse. He’d walked out of the deli with a pounding headache, and the aspirin tablets he’d taken were eating a hole in his stomach. He should have gotten something to eat before the last dose, but anything he ate right now would just aggravate the burning in his gut.

But this Walton Way job was his last stop, and then he was heading home. A night’s sleep would make everything better—and no matter what else was going on in his life, he always slept like a baby. He was lucky that way.

The work on this remodel was slow going. The house was old, and they kept running into unforeseen problems, like wiring that wasn’t up to code and pipes that had to be replaced. Another few weeks, and he could scratch this one off his list.

Another few weeks, and he wouldn’t have to come back into Jamie’s neighborhood until someone else hired him.

He shouldn’t have spoken to her at the deli. He should have just walked past as if she were a total stranger. She was right: Robbie was grown. He didn’t always make the smartest decisions—his continued friendship with Jamie proved that—but he was old enough to face the consequences.

The next time Russ saw her, he would ignore her. He didn’t want anything to do with her; she didn’t want anything to do with him. Simple solution. They would act like strangers, and before long they would really be strangers.

He finished his walk-through of the house, then let himself out the front door, yawning as he locked the deadbolt. The homeowners were staying with the husband’s parents during the remodel, and the wife called every other day wanting to know when she could move home again. Russ, his secretary, his subs and everyone on his crew who’d had to deal with the woman would be as happy when that day came as she would be.

He was walking to his truck in the driveway when a familiar voice across the street caught his attention. “Mischa? Mi-i-i-scha.”

The call was distant, coming from the back of Jamie’s house. A sissy name for a pet. Probably a sissy cat.

Jamie’s outside lights came on, then the front door opened. He refused to let his gaze linger; the instant she stepped outside, he focused narrowly on unlocking his pickup, on opening the door and tossing the clipboard he carried into the passenger seat. He was about to slide behind the wheel when her voice sounded again, this time only slightly calmer than a scream.

“Mischa! Oh my God!”

He couldn’t stop himself from looking, even if it was just a damn cat. The lights on either side of her door shone down on a large form, and Jamie, damn near prostrate over it. Had she fallen? Was she hurt?

None of his business. If she had a problem, let her call someone for help. She had friends besides Robbie—freaky Lys Paxton, for starters—and the police were duty bound to come if she called. His head hurt. His stomach hurt. He’d dealt with enough for one day. He was going home.

But when he moved, it wasn’t to step up into the truck. Swearing with every step, he stalked down the driveway, across the deserted street and into her yard. As he drew closer, he could see that the form was a dog, huge, black and tan, lying motionless on the top step. Shivers rippled through Jamie, and her words were frantic.

“It’s okay, Mischa, you’re okay, baby. Wake up. Come on now, open your eyes. You can’t be…Mischa, you can’t…”

Tears. Jamie Munroe was crying. He wouldn’t have thought her capable of it.

He took the steps two at a time and crouched beside the dog. It could have been asleep, except no one could sleep through the shaking Jamie was giving it. “What happened?”

She looked up, startled, and swiped at her tears with one hand. “I don’t know. I let her out a few minutes ago, like I do every night, and she didn’t come back.”

The dog was breathing, slow and easy. Running his hands over its body, at least on the side he had access to, didn’t reveal any signs of obvious injury, but when he lifted its head, something crackled beneath his fingers. Heavyweight paper, index card-size, tied to the dog’s collar with a ribbon.