She's No Angel

She just couldn’t afford any distractions, not today when she was involved in World War III. Because they might have won the first skirmish by leaving her out here in the middle of nowhere and stealing her car. But when she found Ida Mae and Ivy, the war was really going to begin.

CHAPTER TWO

Widows get to wear black…which is so much more slimming than divorcée red.

—Why Arsenic Is Better Than Divorce by Jennifer Feeney

THOUGH HER SISTER WAS ENTIRELY convinced they’d taken care of their “little problem,” Ivy Feeney Cantone Helmsley—now just Feeney again—was still hiding.

Ida Mae might think they’d put a stop to the schemes of that girl, but Ivy wasn’t so sure. Despite not being a true Feeney—not one by blood, anyhow—the girl had shown some surprising resilience and spunk over the years. Ivy should know…she’d tried to break the child more than once. But the stubborn chit had kept coming around.

So Ivy wasn’t taking any chances. Which was why she was skulking, alone, in her basement. This was her regular hiding place, her security zone. She felt safe here, with Daddy clutched in her arms. Well, half of him, anyway.

“Force us out of our house,” she whispered, keeping her voice nearly inaudible. “She thinks she can make us leave our home? Well, she’ll have to find us first, won’t she, Daddy?”

That wouldn’t be easy. The one place the girl had always been frightened of was this cellar. Ivy couldn’t see why. Personally, she found the dankness of the musty, cavernous room completely comforting.

She supposed the girl’s fear could have something to do with the fact that she’d been locked down here for a few hours when she was ten or eleven. Ivy didn’t regret shutting her in. The little sneak had needed a lesson, and no real harm had been done, even if Jennifer’s father, Ivan, had read Ivy the riot act over it.

Funny…the girl had later stepped forward, telling her father she might have twisted the lock on her own, by mistake. Ivy had almost liked her that day, as much as she could like any nosy intruder. That was saying a lot since Ivy didn’t like many females, her sister included most times. Plus, her young niece had always been much too pretty for Ivy’s liking.

Ivy was the pretty one in the family. She always had been.

But she didn’t like the girl today—or trust her. Which was why she remained hidden.

Here in the dark, oblivious to the dampness of the rough stone walls, Ivy was free to look at her treasures without fear of interruption. Not from the girl, not from the girl’s parents, not even from Ida Mae.

If Ida Mae suspected what was hidden beneath the stairs, she might force her way down them. Which was why Ivy never let on that this was where she kept her most prized possessions. Let Ida Mae think they’d all been burned up in the fire that had killed Ivy’s husband and destroyed their home up in New York City back in sixty-six. Ida Mae didn’t have to know all her secrets.

To this day, Ivy remained frightened over just how close Ida Mae had come to finding out the most important one. Over a year ago, her sister had stumbled upon Ivy’s most precious container. When Ida Mae had seen Mama’s old knitting box in Ivy’s room, she’d demanded to know how Ivy could still possess it when it should have long since ceased to exist.

Ivy had had to protect the box and the secrets it contained, fighting Ida Mae with all her strength in order to do it. Then, though it had nearly killed her, she’d sent the knitting box away, far from Ida Mae’s prying eyes. Because her sister, too, knew the secret of the box, and she would easily find that which Ivy had for so many years concealed. And might try to force Ivy to destroy it, to protect that secret.

How ironic that she’d given her greatest treasure to the safekeeping of the very girl she now wanted to murder. Jennifer.

Ivy had actually entrusted the case and its precious cargo to Jennifer last year when her niece had been working on one of her books. The combination of her desire to hide the case from Ida Mae and her own vanity—since Ivy had been thrilled to think of her story immortalized in print—had made her entrust the container to Jennifer’s young hands.

Right now, she was angry enough with the girl that she wished she’d never given it to her. “No, no, not safe,” she reminded herself.

She didn’t fear Ida Mae. Ivy had felt a strange presence lately, as if someone had been in her house, touching her things. She’d been hearing whispers of people who couldn’t be there, seeing odd shadows on the floor. Finding things moved or missing. Getting calls from hateful-sounding strangers. So though she didn’t like to admit it, her most important possession was still safer with Jennifer.

Unless, of course, she and Ida Mae decided to kill the girl, in which case Ivy would still get her box back, since she, alone, knew where Jen had it hidden in her apartment.

“There’s still the rest,” she whispered, sitting in her usual spot and gazing across the basement as she so often did.

Every day, while her sister was next door taking her nap, Ivy would visit her past in the cellar. She’d lovingly open the sealed plastic bins and unwrap her treasures, one at a time. Like her photo albums. Her autographed LP’s from her favorite stars like Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens.

What an almighty crime that they’d all three gone down in a blaze of glory at the same moment. If any of them had been clients of her first husband’s, she’d have suspected him of tampering with the small plane they’d been traveling in. Such things weren’t, as she knew, beyond producer Leo Cantone, whose soul had been darker than Ritchie Valens’s thick, black hair.

Ivy thrust off the thoughts of Leo, whom she’d once loved, then grown to hate, and stroked the urn holding her father’s ashes. Well, half his ashes. Since the dust-up over Ida Mae’s hiding him in a sugar canister last summer, filling his real urn with ashes from her charcoal grill, Ivy had insisted they split him rather than passing him back and forth. She liked to think her half included Daddy’s big, strong arms and hearty belly laugh, but not his black, cheating heart, which had been the reason Mama’d probably killed him.

The women in her family could never abide cheaters. Or abusers. But especially not cheaters.

“My lovely things,” she whispered. Ivy longed to creep over there and open them, to lose herself in the images of her youth. Like the framed, autographed photo of her standing on a stage, flanked by Frankie Avalon and Bill Haley after one of Alan Freed’s rock-and-roll revues at the Paramount. Or the newspaper clipping showing a laughing, soaking-wet Ivy in a slinky gown rising out of a fountain after a party at the Ritz. A snapshot of her doing the twist with Leo at the Peppermint Lounge, him only as tall as her forehead, though seeming bigger because of his money and his presence.

But she couldn’t risk it, couldn’t make any noise at all in case the girl returned and heard.

She made do by mentally going over all her other treasures, also contained in the bins. Like the fork Ricky Nelson had used when they’d dined with him in Chicago. And the silk scarf she’d stolen from Cass Elliott’s dressing room. All lovingly preserved in plastic, kept in waterproof containers, and hidden beneath stacks of old newspaper and dusty sheets.

None, though, were as good as the knitting case, which held a secret within a secret. A hidden pocket that even the girl didn’t know about held the most treasured remnants of him.

Eddie James.

Ivy had to close her eyes for a moment, letting only a few of the memories—good and bad—creep into her head. Much more and she’d go crazy, she surely would.

Some would say she already had…on that day, the last time she’d seen Eddie. Or Leo. It had been a violent, bloody day on which she’d also lost her beautiful home to fire. Lost everything, everyone…maybe even her mind.

“Enough now,” she whispered, still clutching the urn, immediately clearing her thoughts of her old life, of which Daddy would never have approved.

Shifting on her rickety lawn chair, she sighed, wishing she’d thought to bring a nice, quiet magazine down with her. One of those ones with pictures of today’s movie stars, all bawds and cads, but entertaining just the same.

She also wished she’d brought one of her fancy hats. The damp air was no good for her thinning hair. “Drat Ida Mae and her thick hair,” she muttered sourly, before clapping a hand over her mouth. She’d forgotten to whisper, so she kept her hand there, listening intently for any sign of life from above.

Silence. Thank goodness.

She’d wait another hour or two, then creep upstairs and see what she could see, not sure which she hoped for more: the girl to be gone, or Ida Mae to be wrong about something for once.

Ida Mae had felt sure her plan would work, instead of Ivy’s. As usual, she had bullied Ivy into going along. So they’d thrown the girl’s clothes in her suitcases and dumped them outside next to her fancy car. The keys were in the ignition and the message couldn’t be clearer. So maybe she had returned to town, seen the car, gotten in it and driven away, having received the answer to her ridiculous suggestion that they move from this place.

Or maybe she hadn’t—maybe Ida Mae had been wrong, and the girl was right now preparing to drag them from their homes.

Ivy stroked the urn harder, pursing her lips, wishing her sister had just gone along with one of her ideas for a change. It certainly would have been more assured of success.

After all, the girl couldn’t be plotting against them if they’d waited for her to get back, tied her up, thrown her in the trunk of her car, then pushed it off a cliff.

“YOU KNOW, YOU REALLY don’t have to keep clutching that thing. It’s not like I can leap over and attack you while I’m trying to drive. Especially not on these windy roads.”

Mike watched out of the corner of his eye as his reluctant passenger jerked to attention. Her fingers immediately clenched, then released, relaxing against the iron bar she’d been holding tightly since the moment he’d met her.

The iron bar she’d thought he was afraid of a while ago.

It almost made him laugh, her thinking she could frighten him. All hundred and twenty pounds of her, with her slim arms and slender shoulders. Mike really had nearly chuckled about it back there when she’d sought to assure him she wasn’t dangerous…to him, at least. As if he’d really had something to worry about.

He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had made him laugh. And wasn’t sure he liked the idea that this quirky, ballsy one had already nicked a tiny chink in the armor he generally kept in place around himself with everyone but his family.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m not usually this bloodthirsty.”

Her self-deprecation and weariness reaffirmed that she was frustrated…not deadly. Not that he didn’t think a woman could be—he knew better. But he’d already ruled out a genuine danger factor with this one. If she had a gun, he might have been worried. But a tire iron? He could have that out of her hand almost as fast as he could slap a pair of cuffs on her wrist.

“I guess I’m just still steaming and irritated.”

“At the old ladies?”

“They stranded me out there. Tricked me out of my own car and took off.”

“How’d they get you out of your shoes?”

“Long story.”

“You don’t want to tell because you’re embarrassed that you were outwitted by a couple of old ladies, admit it,” he said, knowing, somehow, that it was true.

She didn’t try to deny it. Instead she laughed, a thick, throaty chuckle that came from somewhere deep inside her. Add it to the list of things he already liked about the stranger. A list growing longer by the second. Which was really out of left field since on the rare occasions Mike had gone out with a woman lately, she’d always been more quiet…soft-spoken and sweet.

Unchallenging, his brothers would say. And Mike wouldn’t argue it. He had enough strife in his day job; he didn’t want it after hours. Particularly not after his last serious relationship, which had blown up in his face. Violently. With him on the receiving end of a bullet meant for his girlfriend, courtesy of her own psycho friend who’d been coming on to him for months and had decided she wanted Mike for herself.

Crazy shit that. Especially when his girlfriend had then dumped him, determined to be loyal to her “friend in need” and certain he’d led the woman on.

“Okay. I admit it, I’m humiliated.”

She leaned down to drop the iron bar to the floor, and as she did so, that thick, amazing hair of hers swung across and brushed the bare skin of his arm. He immediately tensed, every sense he owned heightened by that soft touch and the sweet fragrance of her shampoo. Not to mention the even sweeter fragrance of her body, so close to his.

His hands curled tighter on the wheel, as if by their own will, and he suddenly had a mental image of sinking his fingers into those soft curls. He liked dark hair. Liked seeing it sprawled across his chest. Liked wrapping his hands in it while looking up at a woman riding him into sexual oblivion.

Not that he’d been ridden lately. His last sexual encounter had happened sometime before he’d started working cold cases. Hell, if he was honest with himself, it had probably been sometime before the last election. Dealing with women was his brother Max’s strong point. Mike wasn’t the charming one; he didn’t have the time or the patience to play the games most females liked to play before they’d unzip their skirts.

“Oh, boy,” she said, interrupting his mental pictures of what she’d look like wearing nothing but her long brown curls.

“What?”

The woman winced, then lifted one foot up over her knee, causing that flimsy, nothing-of-a-dress to slide dangerously high on her thighs. Mike shifted in his seat, the intensity building inside him again at the sight of all that creamy skin.

Just a pair of legs, he reminded himself, tightening his jaw against his own reactions. That was all they were.

But good legs. Definitely good.

Though the summer breeze had pressed the dress against her body in delightful ways earlier, he hadn’t realized how incredible her legs were. Nor had he pictured the lacy pink edge of fabric at the top of them that said she was wearing those sexy, silky shorts women sometimes used as underwear. Tap pants? Something like that, he was pretty sure.

Now he didn’t merely shift, he stretched and arched, the tightness of his jeans signaling her effect on him. He might be single by choice these days, but that sure didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate a great pair of legs, or imagine what they’d feel like wrapped around his hips. Or his neck.

And those shorts…Did she have to be wearing sexy lingerie, too? What was it with women, anyway, the slinky dresses, the silk undies. What was wrong with jeans and plain cotton underwear?

Other than the fact that they would be much too rough against the silky perfection of her skin. Would mar it, redden it, and never do it justice.

Hell. He was in trouble here. Big trouble. Part of him wanted to grab the hem of her dress and yank it back down to her knees. Another part wanted to ask her if she’d like to pull over to the nearest secluded spot and have wild, crazy sex.

He’d seen a movie once where a woman claimed she wanted total honesty, for a man to say he didn’t want to trade lines or play games. She swore she longed for no pretense, just for a guy to say, “I want you, let’s cut to the chase and go for it.”

It was tempting. It was also bullshit. Though it sounded good, it was a total lie. They all wanted the strings, even if they swore they didn’t. And Mike wasn’t into strings. He hadn’t been, not since the last time he’d almost gotten hanged by tying himself up with them. Well, not hanged exactly. Just shot.

So he didn’t think telling this woman he wanted her was a good idea, particularly after a ten-minute acquaintance.

It was only when he heard her hiss in pain that he was able to stop casting quick glances at those thighs and the pink fabric caught between them and pay attention to her foot…the one with blood on it. “Jeez, lady, what’d you do to yourself?”

“The road wasn’t exactly paved in cotton.”

“So why didn’t you stay put and wait for help?” he growled, hearing the annoyance in his voice but unable to hide it. Did the woman have no common sense?

“Waiting around for help’s not my thing,” she muttered.

Yeah. He was getting that. Stubborn woman.

She poked and prodded at her foot, still oblivious to the peep show she was providing. If he was any kind of gentleman, he’d tell her. Then again, Mortimer was the gentleman of the family. Mike had never even pretended to be one.

“Ouch,” she said with a wince, touching the tip of her index finger to a particularly raw spot.

He rolled his eyes. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? I would have helped you to the Jeep.” Or some other nearby flat surface where she could get off her feet. Preferably landing on her back.

“I guess I didn’t feel anything. I was too busy walking on a cloud of righteous anger,” she said, still never glancing at him. Instead, without asking permission, she opened the glove compartment and dug out a few wrinkled-up napkins. Wetting one with her tongue, she put it on the ball of her foot, which was bleeding in two or three spots.

“Perfect, add infection to your pain,” he said with a disgusted sigh. Reaching into the back seat, he flipped the lid on a small cooler there and grabbed a bottle of water. As he lifted it out, he shook it off, then tossed it to her. “Here. Clean it with that. The spit-on-a-cut thing only works if it’s your mother’s spit.”

“Thanks.”

She opened the bottle, wet the napkin and cleaned off the sores on one foot, then the other, apparently not minding when specks of blood—and the water—flicked onto her dress. A few drops also plopped onto the high arch of her foot and slid down her heel, onto her leg, landing just above her other knee. They glided up her bent limb, riding a long, soft line of flesh, weaving an intricate trail across the ridges of her skin. His hands tightened on the wheel. His jaw and jeans tightened, too.

When the droplets reached the lacy fabric of those panties of hers and rode on underneath, she finally noticed. Sucking in a surprised breath, she glanced down, realized that her dress was hiked up almost to her crotch, and immediately looked over at him. Mike managed to keep his eyes forward, as if he hadn’t been stealing glances at her like some horny fourteen-year-old peeking into the girls’ locker room. He still saw out the corner of his eye as she grabbed the hem of her dress and yanked it down. And wasn’t sure whether to give thanks or curse his luck.

“You could have said something.”

Playing dumb seemed the safest course of action. “About what?”

She frowned in disbelief. “I thought boys outgrew their fascination with girls underpants by the time they hit twelve.”

That immediately sparked a genuine laugh, and Mike had no control over it. It spilled out of his mouth, as warm as it was unfamiliar, tasting strange. But feeling…good. When was the last time he had really been amused by something? Before his transfer, perhaps. Before the drug case that had brought about that transfer, even.

The ridiculousness of her claim echoed in the car and within two seconds, she was chuckling with him. Laughing at herself. “Okay. That didn’t come out right.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“I meant…”

“I know what you meant. You were talking about that boys’ elementary-school urge to catch a glimpse of some fellow third grader’s Strawberry Shortcake panties.”

“Well, it so happens that I don’t wear Strawberry Shortcake panties,” she retorted.

“Yeah. I know,” he murmured, unable to get rid of the tiny smile still tugging at his lips.

“You were looking.”

“All the male angels in heaven would have looked.” Never glancing over at her, he continued, “We might not want to see the pink cotton under your school uniform anymore, but we are instinctively bred to zone in on anything made of silk and lace. Especially when it’s resting between a pair of soft thighs.”

Where in the hell all that had come from, Mike honestly didn’t know. He couldn’t remember stringing together such a thought in a long time, much less actually saying it to someone. A woman. A stranger.

A stranger who was watching him from the other seat, her jaw hanging open and her cheeks a little pink.

“Don’t go grabbing for the tire iron, I’m still not going to leap on you,” he said, his tone dry. “I was just making a point.” Returning his attention to the road, he noted the few small scattered buildings that made up the outlying area of the town of Trouble. And another one of those Trouble Ahead signs. “Who named this place, anyway?” he muttered.

She cleared her throat, glad for the subject change. As was he. Talking about a woman’s silky panties and her silkier thighs was a bad idea less than an hour into a relationship.

Not that they were in a relationship! No way. Their acquaintance was going to last approximately twenty minutes…the length of time it took to get her to her car.

“Probably the same person who named the towns of Paradise and Intercourse, Pennsylvania,” she said.

He wondered if he ought to point out that some considered paradise and intercourse connected but figured he shouldn’t. They’d managed to skate off thin ice and he definitely didn’t want to glide back out onto it. He just needed to get this woman to her destination, push her out of the Jeep and keep on going to his grandfather’s house. Where his world was normal. Not involving kooky women who got pissed off and walked until their feet bled. Ones who made him laugh. And leer.

“The name Trouble definitely suits some of its residents. My relatives included.”

“You going to tell me how they ditched you?” he finally asked.

She sighed, then shook her head in resignation. “We went for a drive, then pulled up at a rest stop outside town. I, uh…made a suggestion they weren’t happy about and they demanded to leave. When we got to the car, one of them started screeching about her handkerchief blowing away and demanded that I chase after it.”

“Let me guess. You kicked off your shoes to run?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And they got in the car and left without you?”

“Yep.”

“Where does the tire iron fit in?”

She made a sound of frustration. He glanced over, seeing a look on her face that matched it.

“Aunt Ivy waved it out the window as they drove away, yelling that she’d hit me over the head with it if I tried to force her to move out of her house. I picked it up along the way and was fantasizing about shoving it up the old witch’s nose.”

Bloodthirstiness obviously ran in the family. But he figured it wasn’t the time to point that out, particularly since she’d finally let go of the tire iron.

“She better not have scratched my car when she dropped it,” Jen muttered, sounding more disgruntled than genuinely angry.

Hmm. Tire iron flying out the window of a moving car. He somehow suspected she wasn’t going to get her wish for no scratches. She’d be lucky if there were no dents. But that was for her to work out with her aunt—and her insurance agent—so he kept his opinion to himself.

“Why would you try to force her out of her house?”

“I’m not trying to force them. But I suggested that they move somewhere more appropriate.”

Like a mental institution, from the sound of them. But he figured he’d better not say that, either. He’d been doing a lot of keeping his mouth shut since he’d met her, which really wasn’t surprising considering he genuinely liked to mind his own business and let other people mind theirs. However, they still had a few minutes to kill, and he was curious, so he asked, “Why do you think they should move?”

“Because they each live in ancient monstrosities that are held together by the beehives and termite nests hidden in their foundations, and the congealed dust and mildew on the walls.”