Wicked Women Whodunit Read online

  Right now she had different choices. She could either trudge through the snow to the bar and ask for directions, if not a snowmobile, or freeze to death drinking the bottle of Shiraz, happily drunk but ultimately a human popsicle. Sighing, she buttoned her coat, turned off the engine, and grabbed her purse, opening the door into a sudden gust of wind and blinking fat, wet snowflakes from her eyelashes. Slogging through at least five inches of snow, she staggered into the Coach and Four wet, shivering, and wishing like hell she’d worn something other than the cute spring mules she’d bought on sale at Saks the week before.

  And realized she was standing in the doorway like an idiot, staring at the crowd gathered at the bar and huddled up to the tables off to the right, all of whom were staring right back with curiosity.

  “It’s snowing,” she managed, sniffling and shaking snow from her hair.

  With that, everyone turned back to their drinks, and a flush of embarrassment melted her frozen cheeks. There was nothing like an idiotic understatement as a way to introduce herself.

  She edged her way up to the bar, murmuring apologies as she tapped on shoulders and tugged on coat sleeves. Directions could wait. She needed a hot drink, and she wouldn’t say no to a half dozen warm towels, either.

  The bartender was ignoring everyone to stare at a round little brunette in a fuzzy purple sweater at the opposite end of the bar. Lanie edged closer to lean on the solid oak surface, sniffling and trying not to bump up against the mountain of warm wool on her right.

  “Um, you’re dripping on me,” the mountain said.

  She was tempted to snap at him, just to burn off the irritation of being miles from home, freezing, and looking like five miles of wintry road, when she turned to face the man instead and blinked at the warm, deep blue eyes twinkling at her.

  Wow. They didn’t make guys like this in the city. She’d have to keep that in mind when her lease came up for renewal. She’d love to sketch him, too—all those masculine planes and angles of his face, the gentle curve of his mouth, those fascinating eyes.

  She wrestled the damp edge of her coat away from his leg, smiling what she hoped resembled an apology while she stared back. Rough around the edges in a scruffy, completely masculine way, he looked like a guy who knew how to fix more than the virus in a computer. Like a guy who would rather spend his money on baseball tickets and hot dogs than off-season Armani. Like a guy who’d never heard of Armani, in fact.

  In short, he looked good. Blond, and solid, and just a little bit mischievous, with those eyes twinkling at her. How did he do that in the smoky half-light of the bar?

  Not that it mattered. Good was bad, definitely. At least in her case. With her luck lately, flirting alone would result in grievous bodily injury and/or a hazmat team bursting through the door.

  “Tongue’s frozen, huh?” Twinkle.

  He was so big and burly and sweet, that ridiculous sparkle in his eyes should have reminded her of a young Santa Claus, but it didn’t. The eyes in question were too blue, but not at all chilly. They were as deep as the Caribbean, where it was hot and lush and wet ... Suddenly the jukebox that sometimes clicked on in her head cued up the theme from A Summer Place.

  Oh, God. What the hell had he asked her?

  “Tea’s good for that,” he said, reaching out to unwrap her scarf and drape it over the back of his chair. Then he slid off his stool and patted it. “Sit. You’ll thaw faster. And I’ll be out of dripping range.”

  “Thanks,” she managed with a slight croak, cursing the heat in her cheeks. “I’m a little, uh ...”

  “Stunned?” When she nodded, he told her, “It happens. We’re used to snow as late as May around here, but tourists aren’t. They come for crocuses and go home with frostbite.” More twinkling.

  She was doomed.

  Two

  He called for the bartender, who left the brunette and her sweater with a grunt of frustration, and ordered hot tea while Lanie peeled off her sodden coat and rubbed feeling back into her hands.

  “Will DeMaio,” he said, offering his hand, which was huge and dry and very warm against hers.

  “Lanie Burke.” Damn it, was her nose running?

  “Short for Elaine?”

  “Long for Lane.” She smiled up at him, trying to ignore the happy little thrill that rippled through her when he grinned back. “A family name. My sister’s Bell, which is just for ... well, Bell. My mother has a thing about genealogy.”

  “Good thing no one on her side was named Hocken-schmidt, I guess.” He slid the mug of tea toward her. “Sugar? Milk?”

  Who was this guy? She’d stopped shivering, but it didn’t make the urge to snuggle up to his broad, sweatered chest any less appealing. Her flirting instinct was coming to life despite her best intentions, and since the ceiling hadn’t caved in and she was fairly sure she didn’t have broccoli stuck in her front teeth, she figured it couldn’t hurt. Much.

  “Something artificial and probably very, very bad for me, if it’s available,” she said, wrapping her hands around the steaming mug. Will handed her two packets of Sweet ’N Low, and she stirred them in before tilting her head up to his. “Do you live here?”

  “All my life. DeMaio Carpentry and Construction, that’s me. What about you?”

  “I don’t live here.” She sighed and wriggled her still-frozen toes inside the soaked mules. Delicious buttery black leather ruined for nothing. “I’m looking for a little house on Gallows Hill Road, which actually doesn’t sound very appealing now that I think about it. Any idea where that is? And if I can get there without a snowmobile?”

  He grinned, and she watched in amazement, wondering how his mouth had learned to curve into such a sensuous, cat-with-a-canary shape. Nothing that sexy could be a genetic accident. “I live there, if you can believe it. On Gallows Hill, I mean. And you won’t need a Sno-Cat, but you might need a little help plowing through the storm if you’re planning to stay here long enough to drink that tea.”

  She glanced past a group of old-timers arguing about the Yankees’ latest trades, and out the front window, where only a thick white blur was visible beyond the dusty glass. A “gotcha” spring snow shower was one thing, but a blizzard was another. She’d be lucky if she made it back to the city on Monday night.

  “And you’d be offering to help?” she asked, turning back to catch that irresistible twinkle in his eyes again.

  Before he could reply, a rough hand settled on his shoulder, and a voice from behind him barked, “Who the hell do you think you are, DeMaio?”

  Well, there was the beauty of a local bar, Lanie thought. Everyone knew everyone else, and no one had any respect for an out-of-towner’s attempts at good old-fashioned flirting.

  Will shrugged off the hand and turned halfway around, giving Lanie a view of a guy who might as well have had “crotchety” tattooed on his forehead. Right underneath “curmudgeon.”

  “I think I’m exactly who I was this morning, Vic.” Will’s tone was even, if slightly amused. “Who do you think you are at the moment?”

  “Save the smart remarks, asshole,” the other man growled, swiping what could only be called a paw under his nose. “I want to know where you got the balls to underbid me by fifteen thousand on the high school job. You printing money in the basement now?”

  “Have they made that legal finally? Good to know.” Will shrugged and turned back to Lanie, who gave him a weak smile. It was nice to discover that he was an optimist. If he thought Vic was just going to walk away, he obviously subscribed to the “glass half full” philosophy.

  “I want an answer, DeMaio,” Vic shouted, and Lanie winced. One lit match within six feet of his breath, and the bar would go up in flames.

  “I don’t have one for you, Vic.” Will’s voice was suddenly as no-nonsense as a piece of rebar, and about as friendly. There was no sign of that twinkle, either. “Not unless you’re looking for something along the lines of honest bidding, fair pricing, and a crew that spends more time with their too
ls than down here drinking.”

  Oh, dear. Fighting words, definitely. And, strangely, kind of a turn-on. Had her brain frozen on the trudge over from the car? She’d never gone for the alpha type, not that she’d actually met a lot of them in the city. Not genuine ones, anyway. Not the kind who made a girl tingle by showing off his sexy twinkle as he took over, ordering tea and putting her into a chair. Well, put that way it didn’t sound very alpha, but going Neanderthal on the local drunk qualified. Still, she bit her bottom lip, praying that a bar brawl wasn’t imminent. She really didn’t know Will, but he’d been so nice before the other man showed up. He’d unwrapped her wet scarf. And plus, she wasn’t even close to finished admiring his face yet.

  She was trying not to picture the angled strength of his jaw purpled with a bruise when a younger guy walked up behind Vic, who had just reached the rolling boil stage. “Not the time for business, Vic. Come on. We’ll handle this Monday.”

  The stranger’s dark eyes flicked over Lanie, and she fought the urge to shudder. Something about the way he’d said “business” sounded much too ominous for an everyday argument between rival contractors.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Will said smoothly, and turned back to Lanie as Vic was steered away. “Sorry about that.”

  “Not very neighborly of them.” She watched as they disappeared into the crowd at the back of the bar. “Do contractors up here come to blows every day?”

  “With Vic, only the ones that end in Y.” Will flashed another grin and propped an elbow on the bar. “Speaking of neighborly, though, I think I know where you’re headed. Dave and Jess Seaver’s place, right? My house is just past theirs, and I look after their place when they can’t come up for a while. So we’ll be neighbors as long as you’re here.”

  At least sipping her tea was one way to hide a ridiculous, pleased grin. He was honest to God coming on to her. Either her flirting muscles were in better shape than she’d thought after six months on vacation, or the dusky light of the bar was hiding her half-thawed red nose and what was sure to be Bride of Frankenstein hair by now. On a good day it was two parts Felicity to one part Carrie Bradshaw (from the first season of Sex and the City, of course), but get it wet and it looked like she’d borrowed Elsa Lanchester’s wig.

  She was about to reply when she heard a voice from across the bar and watched Will’s jaw tighten in irritation.

  “Hey there, Will DeMaio.” A redhead in a thick black coat and a metallic gold scarf rubbed her shoulder against his, her lower lip caught between two very white, very large front teeth. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Jill, this is Lanie Burke.” He’d edged closer to the bar to escape her friendly nudging, and his eyes had darkened to a furious navy blue, despite the courtesy in his tone.

  Jill stopped rubbing and nudging, her overplucked red eyebrows drawn into a frown. “I don’t think we’ve met. Lanie. That’s a weird name, huh?”

  The last few words were delivered with a falsely bright smile. Marking her territory, definitely, Lanie thought. She wondered when Jill would figure out Will wasn’t interested.

  “No weirder than Jill, I guess,” she replied, and wanted to bite her tongue. Cattiness wasn’t the most attractive trait to put on display in this situation, but she couldn’t help it. Will had been flirting with her, damn it, and if Jill was her bad luck personified, she wasn’t going to give in without a fight.

  “She’s here for the weekend,” Will cut in, taking Lanie’s hand. The contact was so unexpected, Lanie nearly jumped. “And we’re busy catching up.”

  “Well, don’t let me interrupt,” Jill said, swallowing hard. Her injured sniffle puffed out her chest, which Lanie was pretty sure had been fortified with a padded WonderBra.

  “That was flouncing,” Lanie whispered as the other woman headed for the back of the bar, red hair swung violently over her shoulder. “There are some hurt feelings there, if you ask me.”

  Not that he had. Not that it was any of her business. She hadn’t come up here to find a guy, and she didn’t really know Will DeMaio at all. His romantic troubles were his problem—although it surprised her to realize how glad she was that dyed red hair and Spandex didn’t seem to be his taste.

  “Her feelings have been hurt since the seventh grade,” Will said, shaking his head. “I’ve been giving her the ‘not interested’ signs since then, without much luck. She’s the most single-minded woman I’ve ever met.”

  Hmmm. Lanie sipped her tea and glanced down at his left hand, which was wrapped around an icy bottle of beer, checking for the pale white stripe that would prove a wedding ring was nestled in his bureau at home. But he was clean—his hand was uniformly tan, with just the kind of long, capable-looking fingers she liked on a man.

  “It’s the truth,” he said. Twinkle. Sparkle. “There’s no secret tragic history there, believe me. That probably doesn’t sound very convincing, but ...”

  “The way my life has been going lately, I’m actually inclined to believe you,” she said, and looked down to find her hand resting on his wrist. This was flirting, all right. Two-way, official flirting.

  “What’s wrong with your life?” He slouched against the bar, and his body was suddenly much closer. His big, strong, beautifully built body. She could smell the crisp, spicy scent of him, and for one wild second she had to resist the urge to lick her lips.

  But before she could answer, someone shouted at the other end of the bar, and a beer bottle shattered with an explosive crash.

  “Oh, cry me a river, Nick! Do you think I give a shit about your shop or your new goddamn girlfriend? You can both starve to death for all I care!”

  A skinny guy with a moustache that looked very much like a moldy caterpillar stood up, his cheeks flaming, his thin shoulders trembling inside an oversized leather jacket.

  “No blood from a stone, Staci, you ever hear that? I don’t have your fuckin’ money!”

  Staci, who was almost as tall as he was and much broader, squared off in front of him, jabbing a finger toward his chest. “So your kids’ll just have to make do again, huh? Even though you got the money to be here with her, drinking your fill?”

  The “her” in question, a bleached blonde who had narrowed her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, defiantly picked up her mug and took a thirsty swig.

  “That does it, you fuckin’—”

  The end of Staci’s threat was cut off as a man shaped like a steamroller grabbed her from behind, one arm around her waist and the other hand clamped over her mouth. “Time to go, honey,” he said, shaking his head. “You wanna fight, you take it somewhere else.”

  He carried her, kicking and grunting, out of the bar and into the snow, and Lanie watched as the other patrons shrugged and turned back to their drinks. The name Churchville was all wrong for this town.

  “In case you were wondering,” she said to Will, setting down her empty mug of tea, “I’ve reconsidered moving up here permanently.”

  His laugh was a deep rumble of relief. “Do you want to get out of here?”

  “I think it’s probably advisable at this point.”

  There was that grin again, complete with twinkle. Her insides did a slow, warm roll. “What were you planning to do for dinner?” he asked.

  “There’s a big bag of peanut M&Ms in my car.”

  He arched an eyebrow, and she shrugged. “Hey, it’s ... nutritious. Kind of. Half carbs, half protein.”

  He grabbed his coat and put it on, handing her her scarf. “I think we can do better than that, if you let me stop in the kitchen. I’ll drive your car, and I can walk from there to my place.”

  She let him help her into her coat, savoring a pleasurable little thrill at the feel of his hands on her arms, lingering on her shoulders as he wound the scarf around her neck. Wondering if he’d stay at her place instead of going home was premature. Ill-advised. Just plain asking for trouble. The half hour she’d spent with him so far had been more fun than every date she’d been on in the last six mo
nths. Wishing for more—the touching, kissing, pulse-pounding, blissful kind of more—would lead to nothing but disaster. It was just her luck, or lack of it, lately. No use denying it.

  But as she let him take her hand and lead her through the crowd toward the back of the bar, she couldn’t help imagining what he would look like without the heavy sweater and the faded jeans. What his hands would feel like on her bare skin, instead of the still-damp fabric of her shirt. What his mouth would taste like on hers.

  And when he rested his hand on the small of her back, letting his words shiver against her neck as he asked if she wanted her cheeseburger medium or well, she decided that maybe, just maybe, her karma was finally turning around.

  Three

  “Who knew Shiraz and cheeseburgers would be a perfect match? We should alert Gourmet.”

  Will snorted and reached over with one finger to catch a bead of ketchup on Lanie’s lower lip. “I don’t think you’re allowed to use the word ‘cheeseburger’ in that magazine. But I’m glad you like it. Rick knows his way around a grill.”

  They’d waited in the back hall while his friend rushed through a takeout order, and then Will had given Lanie a piggyback ride to her car, the plastic bag of cheeseburgers and fries hanging from her wrist, and those ridiculous, entirely feminine shoes dangling from her feet.

  It was still snowing, hard and fast, and the wind was wet with it, but they’d laughed all the way down the street. And he’d needed that more than he’d realized. Lanie Burke was nothing like the women he knew in Churchville, and that was a very good thing.

  Staring at her across the coffee table, where they’d opened the Styrofoam takeout containers in front of the fire he’d built in her borrowed cottage, he wasn’t exactly sure what she was, but at the moment he didn’t care. There were a couple of options, among them hopelessly impulsive, in love with danger, and just plain flaky, but none of those descriptions fit right. He could have been a serial killer, for all she knew, or at the very least a not-so-nice guy who was just hoping to score.