Safe in Noah's Arms Page 17

  This place, though, was magical. A lump settled in her throat, something akin to nostalgia, which was insane. She didn’t do nostalgia. Sentimentality was for schmucks. She was no fool. She didn’t fall for that stuff.

  Even so, she imagined this street at Christmastime covered with snow and all the shops boasting twinkling lights. Even someone as hardened as she was could melt at the sight of that.

  I want.

  She shook herself out of her daydream. Time to move on with her life.

  The guy she’d met the other day, the one who’d thought she was Monica, loped toward her.

  “Hey,” he said, stopping in front of her.

  “Hey, yourself. You ready to meet properly today? I’m Marcie Green. Or, more accurately, Accord.” She stuck her hand out to shake his, refusing to be ignored or put off this time. She might not be the town’s royalty like her sister was, but she was just as deserving of respect.

  He shook her hand. “Noah Cameron. I’m sorry about how I treated you the other day. I’m not usually like that. I was in shock.”

  “I understand. Everyone in this town wants to protect my sister. I get that.” How would it feel to have that kind of loyalty? The lack of it left her lonely and blue. Donna, in her odd way, had been loyal, but her decisions had been self-serving. It would have been kinder to have brought Marcie home after her mother died.

  She stepped away from thoughts of Donna, trying to shake off her anger.

  “Small towns are like that,” Noah said. “We tend to watch out for each other.”

  She liked this guy right away, liked his offbeat clothes and red ponytail.

  “I hope to be a member of this town for a while. It wasn’t my fault that I never was.” The tiniest note of self-pity crept into her voice. Darn. She never allowed herself that emotion, let alone shared it with someone else. It was a sign of how these huge changes were affecting her.

  His expression softened. “Yeah. I heard the whole story.”

  He did? Through rumors? From her sister? What exactly did he know?

  “I’m sorry things were handled the way they were.” Sunlight made the red of his hair pop like fire. She should find beads that color to use for a bracelet or, even better, a necklace.

  “I’m not sure I would’ve taken that approach to the problem,” he went on, “but I can’t judge.”

  Neither did she, but she wasn’t ready to let anyone completely off the hook yet, not when her parents’ decision had given her a nomadic, hand-to-mouth existence of which she was sick to death. The anger she felt was toxic. She was working hard to let it go, but in her fallible humanness, she clung to her wrath because she had nothing to replace it with yet.

  She changed the subject. “What happened to your arm?”

  “It, um...”

  He looked troubled by her question, uneasy. She wondered what that was about.

  “I’m sure I’ll see you around town.” Without answering, he brushed past her and unlocked the door of the army surplus store.

  She could go for this guy. Tall, hard and lean, and attractive in an offbeat hippie way.

  He had good bones, too, and she wasn’t talking about how handsome he was despite the beard that hid half of his face. She could tell the guy was an open book, with a strong sense of decency and morality.

  She liked the weird vibe she got from him, the dichotomy of intensity and friendliness. Intelligence was super sexy and, boy, the guy had that in spades.

  I want.

  She was drawn to him. Maybe this town would work out for her on a few levels.

  Continuing down the street until she reached the shop called The Palette, where Monica worked, she stepped inside.

  A bell over the door chimed. The air inside the gallery was cool. Colorful paintings adorned neutral walls. Gorgeous, sensual sculptures filled the space. Nice.

  She liked art. Why wouldn’t she? She considered herself an artist.

  Monica stepped out of the office dressed in a linen shift finer than anything Marcie had ever owned. That it wasn’t Marcie’s style didn’t matter. That it cost a fortune did.

  Marcie wanted.

  “We need to talk,” she said without preamble.

  “I’m working.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You weren’t working yesterday. I know because I came here to see you. You were avoiding me.”

  Another woman, also expensively dressed, stepped out of the office, glanced at Marcie and then turned her attention to Monica.

  “It’s okay. Go. Grab a coffee with your sister.”

  “Olivia, I already took yesterday off. I don’t want to shirk my duties.”

  The woman touched Monica’s arm. “These are unusual circumstances. I can make allowances. Go.”

  Monica didn’t look happy, but she stepped back into the office and returned, hitching a purse over her shoulder.

  “Come on,” she said, her voice toneless as she led Marcie out of the gallery.

  In the coffee shop, Marcie chose a cinnamon bun at Monica’s urging because, apparently, they were the best on earth. Yeah, right. Small-town provincialism. She also got a coffee to go.

  For herself, Monica ordered just a coffee. “My treat.” She paid for everything.

  Damn straight she should. She’d had it easy all her life. On the heels of that thought, Marcie relented. If Donna hadn’t stolen her away, she would have grown up the same way.

  They sat on a bench on Main Street, Marcie checking out her sister from the corner of her eye, this strange person to whom she was related. Had she ever wished for a sister, she would have chosen someone more hip, more cool, not this uptight, conservative disappointment.

  At the same time, Monica was checking her out, but was pretty blatant about it.

  “I don’t know what to think of you,” she said, surprising Marcie with her honesty. She hadn’t thought the woman would be so frank. “I haven’t a clue how to deal with this situation.”

  “Me, either,” she replied. “We need to come to terms with things. I’m not going away. For better or worse, we’re now family.”

  She bit into the cinnamon bun. Flavor exploded in her mouth. Okay, so maybe they were good. Beyond good.

  “I thought you were exaggerating. These are incredible.”

  Monica’s small, tight smile bothered her. She wanted to break through the woman’s control, but she didn’t know why. Monica had as much right to be who she was as Marcie did to be who she was.

  “Everything Laura makes is exceptional.” Monica sipped her coffee.

  Marcie gulped hers.

  “Did you really not know about me when you were growing up?” Monica sounded wistful, surprising in a woman who looked all-business.

  “Really.”

  “What was our mother like?”

  “She died when I was really little. I don’t remember her. I pretty much grew up thinking Donna was my mother.”

  “What was she like?”

  There was that wistfulness again. What was she? Mother-fixated?

  “She was a good woman, even if she did hide the truth from me and keep me away from this town.” That now-familiar ball of mixed and confusing, even contradictory, emotions bounced around her tummy.

  Movement in a nearby window caught Marcie’s attention. The lawyer, watching everything. Watching her.

  “Have you met many people in town?” Monica didn’t seem to notice she was being watched.

  Marcie wasn’t sure what her question was about. Did Monica want to know if Marcie had been spreading around their story? Or did she consider it her social duty to introduce Marcie to the town?

  “I’ve met that big tall redhead. Noah? He’s a sexy sip of cool water, isn’t he?”

  Monica stiffened. Why? Her sister leaned fo
rward to sip her coffee so her hair fell in a screen, hiding her face. Oh, wait. Did she like him? Like like him?

  They couldn’t possibly have the same taste in men, could they?

  Strange thing about being a twin... Marcie didn’t want anything from her sister other than her rightful place in the family and the money she deserved, and yet she felt a kinship. Or something. Considering they’d never known each other before, Marcie found that downright eerie.

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “No.” Monica answered too quickly.

  “Who is?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “You’re pretty. You’re well off. Aren’t the men of this town falling all over themselves for you?”

  “I’ve grown up with them.” Again with that tight little lift of her lips. “Maybe they’ll find you more exotic.”

  Marcie stiffened at the implied insult. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Monica frowned. “I didn’t mean to offend you. My intention was to say that I’m too familiar to them and you’re new.”

  Marcie relaxed. “Oh. I see. Maybe.”

  “This is awkward.” Monica stared into her coffee cup.

  “It sure is. I don’t know how to change that.”

  “Me, either.”

  “Everything all right, Monica?” The voice startled both of them. It belonged to the lawyer. Now he stood on the sidewalk in front of them, even better-looking up close, but aiming a hard-edged stare at Marcie.

  The way he placed a hand on Monica’s shoulder was anything but hard. It looked tender. Interesting.

  What Marcie wouldn’t give for someone to touch her with that much respect.

  Monica flattened her other hand against her chest. “John, you scared me.”

  He squeezed her elbow. “Sorry, Monica. You didn’t look happy and I wondered if I could be of assistance.”

  “I’m fine.” When he didn’t look convinced, she said, “Really.”

  “Introduce me to your sister.”

  “The whole town knows?” Monica asked.

  “Everyone’s speculating. It’s natural, considering how much you look like each other.”

  Marcie watched the interplay. Unless she missed her guess, there was nothing romantic going on here. The dude might like Monica, but he didn’t want her. He might respect her, but he didn’t desire her.

  Too bad. Graying hair at his temples gave him a distinguished air, but his dark eyes were sexy as hell. Today was a day for meeting complex men apparently. He might look distinguished and conservative, but there was fire in this guy’s belly.

  She didn’t doubt for a second he’d come outside to rescue Monica. What she couldn’t figure was what he got out of the relationship. Exposure to the mighty Accords?

  His expensive suit said he had plenty of funds, so it wasn’t money. Influence, maybe? Political power?

  When she glanced back up at his face, she found him watching her, gaze perceptive. Her first thought was...he sees me.

  He really sees me. He knows how much I want things.

  She panicked at being so exposed before realizing she had to be imagining things. No one was that insightful.

  Shaken, she crossed her arms to ward off his knowing look. A good girl with exquisite manners, Monica made introductions.

  “I have to get back to work.” Monica dropped her cup into a nearby recycling receptacle. To Marcie, she said, “We’ll talk more,” but she sounded as uncertain as Marcie felt.

  Monica’s careful neutrality presented a challenge to Marcie. Considering how wary Marcie had learned to be with strangers, her personality and Monica’s didn’t bode well for a quick friendship.

  How many times in her life had Marcie lived with uncertainty? Here it was again. The stakes, though, had never been this high.

  “Would you join me in my office?” John Spade might have phrased it as a question, but Marcie knew a command when she heard one. She didn’t respond well to demands.

  She was, however, curious.

  She followed him inside, waiting while he closed his office door and sat behind his impressive desk. He gestured toward a chair to indicate where she should sit.

  Leaning back in his desk chair, comfortable in his skin, he swiveled gently, watching her like a hawk eyeing a delectable little mouse.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, presenting her with the problem of deciding how much of the truth she wanted to share with this dangerous, too-perceptive man.

  Marcie opted to keep most of her cards close to her chest. She didn’t know him. No need for him to know about things like, well, deep-seated need and desperation.

  “I’ve come to meet my father and my sister.”

  “Meet them? The word on the street that you and Monica were separated at birth is true, then? The story of Karen’s death giving birth to Monica was false?”

  When she didn’t respond, he said, “Care to tell me the rest of the story?”

  “Why? What’s it to you?”

  “I care about Monica. But you... I don’t think you’re anything like her, are you, Marcie?”

  “I hate that name,” she blurted. Geez. Where had that come from? She had never shared that with another soul.

  “What’s wrong with it?” John Spade asked.

  “It’s hopelessly old-fashioned.” She hated herself for how lame she sounded, as though his opinion of her name mattered.

  He shrugged. “It’s a name.” His eyes took her in, lazily. “There are a lot of other things a man can call a woman without using a name of which neither is fond.”

  He watched her with hooded eyes, as though she were prey. She swallowed. “Like what?”

  “Endearments like honey, darling, sweetheart. And those are just the nice things.”

  “And the not so nice?” She shouldn’t encourage him. As charged as it was with sexual innuendo, this conversation was inappropriate on so many levels. She shouldn’t let him draw her into this kind of game.

  “You want to hear the rest? Come out to dinner with me.”

  What? “Why?”

  “Because I don’t use those words in my office.”

  Whew. Okay, was this conversation really happening? The air in the office was too hot. She had to put an end to this.

  “Did you ever use any of those words with my sister, lawyer man?”

  The lazy smile faltered. “No. Not with sweet Monica.”

  “So Monica is first-class while I’m...what? Not worthy of respect?”

  One mocking eyebrow rose. “It depends. Why are you here? Why do I detect a calculating gleam in your eye when you look at Monica? You’re not a nice person, are you?”

  “Not always.” Most emphatically not. She’d had to fight for every scrap in her life.

  “I like that in a woman.” White teeth flashed in a face that was too perfectly tanned, probably from time spent in a tanning bed.

  His nails were buffed, his hands perfect. The man probably got manicures. What woman wanted pampered hands touching her?

  She did. Oh, sweet god, she did.

  Even as buffed and polished as he was, there wasn’t an effeminate bone in the man’s body. Only one word came to mind. Powerful.

  She wanted those hands on her skin, all over her.

  Her glance shifted to his face. He watched her with a crooked grin. He saw into her mind, into her heart. He knew what she wanted and that was dangerous.

  She might want him in her bed, but she wouldn’t take him.

  “Let’s get something straight. I’m every bit as deserving of respect as Monica. She might have come by hers easily because of her birth, but I’ve fought tooth and nail for everything I have. I expect respect.”

  She stood, the backs of h
er legs pushing the chair to bang against the wall, the sound explosive in the still air.

  “Do you know why the gleam in my eye is calculating when I look at Monica? Because I can guess to the penny how much everything she is wearing costs, and that includes makeup and the creams she uses to pamper her skin. I can also calculate how many meals I could have bought with all of that excess.”

  Her voice was every bit as explosive in temper as the banging chair had been.

  John Spade nodded. “Okay. Maybe I’ve misjudged you. I do, however, have one last question. Do you plan to hurt Monica?” He leaned back in his chair and idly twirled a pencil between his fingers, but Marcie knew his question was anything but idle.

  “I grew up with nothing while Monica had everything. Is that fair?”

  “It isn’t, but none of that is Monica’s fault. You should also know that she’s had her share of grief.”

  She hadn’t heard that. Genuinely curious about that cool woman, she asked, “Like what?”

  “Losing her mother in childbirth. Or so she’d been raised to believe. Growing up in that big house alone.”

  “Poor little rich girl?”

  The playful smile fell and John’s mouth became a hard slash across his face.

  “Her husband, the man she dated since her early teens, the love of her life, died in Afghanistan. Yes, she has my sympathy.”

  Okay, that must have been hard.

  “That apartment is probably paid for with widow’s benefits. Which do you think Monica would rather have—the money the army pays her, or her husband back?”

  Compelled by decency to be honest, Marcie said, “You’re right. That must have been hard. I hadn’t heard that.”

  John relaxed. “Monica would never knowingly hurt a soul. She might not be the most exciting person around, but she is unendingly kind. That’s worth a lot.”

  “I guess. This is all new to me. It’s still in shock.”

  “I can see that it would be. The only advice I have is to be careful. Monica’s respected in this town and you are an unknown entity.”

  “But I don’t want to be. I want to belong.” The words were out, her deepest desire hanging in the air like dirty laundry, before she could reel them back in. She didn’t share herself with others. Why on earth would she open up to this stranger?