The Keeper Read online

  But still just a man. And those were supposed to be off-limits, at least until she figured out just what it was exactly she wanted in one and how to recognize it.

  He chewed the inside of his cheek as if to hide a smile. “Not that I’m aware of, no.”

  “Sorry, Livvie,” Mariette told her with a wince. “He’s not a giant.”

  Livvie looked unconvinced, but beamed up at him regardless. “It’s all right,” she said, smiling shyly. “I like him anyway.”

  Seemingly charmed, he extended his hand to her. “I’m Jack,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Livvie giggled delightedly and fingered the Hello Kitty necklace around her throat. “You’re nice.” She leaned over to Mariette and whispered loudly in her ear—loud was Livvie’s only volume—“He’s a gold.”

  Jack’s expression became puzzled, but he didn’t question it. Livvie said she saw people in colors and was forever telling Mariette which color various people were. She even kept a small color wheel in her apron pocket so that she could easily locate the right shade. Mariette, she’d said, was a lavender. Charlie, a fuchsia. If memory served, Jack was her first gold. Interesting…

  Mariette wasn’t surprised that Livvie could so clearly see auras. She was as pure of heart as it was possible to be and Mariette liked to think that the gift had been given to her as a means of protection, a way to recognize the good from the bad, and had even seen the girl retreat away from those whose “color” wasn’t right.

  Would that her mother had had the same sort of gift.

  At any rate, Jack Martin had passed her “Livvie test” and that said something about him. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they reacted to someone different from themselves and Livvie was about as different from Jack Martin as it was possible to be. She was small and round-faced with the short fingers and lower IQ that marked her as a person with Down syndrome.

  The majority of Mariette’s customers treated Livvie with the sort of care and respect someone with the purest heart deserved—children, in particular, were drawn to her—and anyone who didn’t treat her well wasn’t anyone who was welcome in her shop.

  Born to a mother with Down’s who’d been taken advantage of by a male caregiver, Mariette had a unique connection to the condition and had been employing workers with Down’s since she first opened her doors four years ago.

  If she’d learned anything from her mother it had been that everyone—no matter how different—wanted to be needed, to be useful, to have a bit of independence. There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t miss her and not a day that went by that she didn’t want to hurt the father who’d abused her trusting spirit.

  Bastard.

  He’d served eighteen months for what he’d done to her mother and then promptly fled the state. Mariette kept tabs on him, though, and directed every new employer to his sex-offender status. She inwardly grinned. He never kept a job for very long. He struggled and, though it might be small of her, she thought it was fitting. He deserved that and a lot worse if you asked her.

  The idea that his evil blood actually ran in her veins was something she’d struggled with for years, at times even making her physically ill. But her mother’s was there, too, and Mariette liked to think that her mom’s especially good blood had somehow canceled out that of her father’s. Weird? Yes. But she’d never been destined for normal.

  Normal was boring.

  Her gaze drifted fondly over her dear helper and she smiled. Livvie had been with her for several months now and was doing remarkably well. She loved manning the case and adored sweeping. She helped with the birthday parties and refilled drinks and every tip that went into the jar was hers to keep. Which was just as well since the bulk of her check went to fund her Hello Kitty obsession. Her most recent purchase was the watch that encircled her wrist.

  “Can I get you something?” Mariette asked Jack, gesturing to the display case.

  He hesitated.

  “He has a fondness for carrot cake,” Charlie interjected slyly.

  Mariette shot him a droll look and selected the cupcake in question. It had been her aunt’s recipe—and was one of her favorites, as well. Oh, hell. Who was she kidding? Everything in this shop was her favorite, otherwise she didn’t take the time to make or stock it. Food was a passionate business and if she couldn’t get excited about it—if it didn’t make her palate sing—then she didn’t bother. Better to have fewer phenomenal items on her menu than dozens of mediocre ones.

  Also something she’d learned from her Aunt Marianne, who’d not only helped raise her, but had taught her to bake, as well. Some of her fondest memories were in the kitchen with her aunt and her mom, cracking eggs, stirring batter, the scent of vanilla in the air.

  She popped the dessert onto a little antique plate along with a linen napkin and handed it to him. Seconds later Livvie had put a glass of tea in his hand. She’d added two lemons and a cherry, which told Mariette just how much Livvie thought of him. She only put cherries in the drinks of her favorite people. He nodded approvingly at her and shot her a wink, making her giggle with pleasure once more.

  His blue gaze shifted to Mariette and that direct regard made her more than a little light-headed. “Is there somewhere we can talk?” he asked, lifting a golden brow. “I’ve got a few questions.”

  Mariette took a bracing breath and prepared herself for imminent humiliation. She couldn’t imagine anything more mortifying than telling this man about her butter problems.

  MARIETTE LEVINE WAS NOT at all what he’d expected, Jack thought broodingly as he followed her back to the kitchen. Actually, he hadn’t really given any thought to what she might be like, so that wasn’t precisely true. But—his gaze drifted over her petite curvy frame, lingering on her especially ripe heart-shaped ass—this woman wouldn’t have been it.

  In the first place, Mariette sounded like an old-fashioned name, so he’d imagined a more mature woman. Oh, hell, who was he kidding? He’d thought she’d be old. Which was ridiculous, really. Not all bakeries were owned by plump grandmas in floral aprons, though for reasons that escaped him that was the image that had leapt immediately to mind.

  He estimated this particular baker to be in her mid- to late-twenties. In the second place… Well, there wasn’t really a second place, though logic told him there should have been. And a third and a fourth and a fifth, for that matter. Furthermore, he felt as though he should have been warned, but couldn’t come up with a logical reason for that, either.

  What would they have said? Oh, by the way, Mariette’s young and hot with the most unusual gray eyes you’ll ever see? That long mink-colored hair will incite the urge to wrap it around your fist and drag her up against you? And her mouth… Jack swallowed thickly. A much fuller lower lip, a distinct bow in the upper and a perpetual tilt at the corner that suggested she was always enjoying a private joke. It was sinfully sensual nestled between her pert little nose and small pointy chin.

  She wasn’t merely pretty or beautiful—though those adjectives would apply, as well—but there was something more there. Something much more substantial and compelling, and the bizarre tightening in his chest that had occurred when her gaze had met his had been nothing short of terrifying.

  Jack wasn’t accustomed to being afraid of anything other than failure, so discovering that a woman could incite the feeling was a bit unsettling.

  Honestly, when she’d risen up from behind that counter he couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d been hit between the eyes with a two-by-four. He’d damned-near staggered.

  From a single look.

  Like a tsunami running headlong into a hurricane.

  If he had any brains at all he’d turn around and leave, Jack thought. He’d walk right back up the block to Ranger Security and tell them that they needed to put someone
else on this particular case, to give him another one. But short of a natural disaster metaphor, how in the hell could he explain his reasoning?

  How could he tell them that she made his gut clench and his dick hard? That intuition told him he was headed into uncharted emotional and sexual territory and, weak as it might sound, he wasn’t altogether certain he’d be able to control himself? That something about her scared the hell out of him? A girl?

  How galling.

  He couldn’t tell them that, dammit. He needed this job, had to make it work. He couldn’t bail on the first damned assignment.

  And as much as he was compelled to flee, there was an opposite force equally as strong that was drawing him toward her, intriguing him, transfixing him, and between the two he was stuck, immobile and powerless.

  Another punch of fear landed in his gut.

  Mariette gestured toward a small table, indicating a seat and she took the one opposite. A couple of women worked at a large stainless-steel table drizzling icing over pastries and the scent of yeast and sugar hung in the air, reminding him of Christmastime at home, when his mother made her famous cinnamon rolls. Every surface gleamed beneath the large, overhead lights. An old wooden ladder outfitted with metal hooks was suspended from the ceiling and held a variety of pots and tongs of varying degrees and sizes.

  A peg board had been anchored to one long wall and held dozens of bowls, measuring cups, couplings and icing tips. Fresh flowers sat in old, blue Mason jars on the back windowsill and yet another board—this one a dry erase with what he could only assume were orders—took up another wall. The space was small—narrow like the building—but had been maximized with state-of-the-art appliances and sheer ingenuity.

  He was impressed and said as much. “This is a great setup,” he told her.

  Seemingly pleased, she smiled and tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear. “It was a lot of trial and error in the beginning, but I think I’ve finally got everything organized in the most efficient manner.”

  He took a bite of his cupcake and savored the spices against his tongue. It was moist and flavorful, and the icing was perfect—not too sweet, with just the right cream cheese to sugar ratio. Not everyone got that part right, but she’d mastered it.

  “And you live upstairs?”

  She nodded, swept an imaginary crumb from the table. “I do. I keep long hours and economically, it just made more sense.” A wry grin curled her lips. “I’ve got one mortgage as opposed to two.”

  Definitely savvy. Sexy, smart and she could cook, too. He hoped to hell he discovered a flaw soon. A hairy mole or a snorting laugh. Anything to derail this horribly inconvenient attraction.

  “And when did you notice that someone was stealing your butter? When did the Butter Bandit first strike?”

  Looking adorably mortified, she blushed prettily, a wash of bright pink beneath creamy skin. “Three days ago,” she said. “At first I just thought one of the girls—possibly Livvie—had moved it from one part of the walk-in to the other. It’s a big space and I keep it well stocked. I only use organic products and everything has to be fresh, otherwise the quality isn’t up to par.”

  He could certainly taste the difference. “But it hadn’t been moved?”

  She shook her head. “No. And more than half of it had been taken.”

  “And how much is half?”

  She chewed the inside of her cheek, speculating. “Roughly thirty pounds.”

  Jack felt his eyes widen. “Thirty pounds?”

  She laughed, the sound husky and melodic. Definitely not a snorter, then. Damn.

  “I typically use between sixty and seventy pounds of butter a week.” She gestured to five-gallon lidded buckets beneath the main work station. “That’s flour and sugar. And that smaller fridge against the wall? That one holds nothing but eggs.”

  Good Lord. He’d had no idea. Of course, since he’d never made any sort of dessert in his life that didn’t come out of a box and require that he add only water, why would he?

  But thirty pounds of butter? Who in the hell would steal thirty pounds of butter? To what purpose? For what possible use?

  And they’d come back for more and attacked her for it.

  “Who supplies your butter?” Jack wanted to know. It seemed like the best place to start. Perhaps there was something special about Mariette’s butter. Maybe it was made from goat’s milk or only harvested during the full moon. Maybe it was intentional butter, much like that Intentional Chocolate he’d gotten in a care package from his mother last year. Supposedly, it had been infused with good intentions by experienced meditators. Enchanted butter, he thought, tamping down the absurdity of the situation. He’d be damned if he knew.

  But it was his job to find out, he reminded himself.

  “Jefferson’s Dairy just north of Marietta,” she told him. “They furnish my eggs and milk, as well.”

  Jack nodded and pushed up from his chair, determined to get started. The sooner he figured this out the better. Besides, one of the ladies had fired up a mixer and the whine was wreaking hell with his hearing aid. For the most part, the little miracle piece could almost make him forget that he needed it at all, but then a certain sound would set it off and he’d be reminded all over again. For the most part, he’d learned to cope with the “disability”—and knew that he’d gotten off easy in comparison to most other war-sustained injuries—but it was still jarring, nonetheless. An instant reminder of what he’d lost, an automatic, haunting flashback to Johnson’s desperate face. He gave himself a mental shake, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

  The bleeding, bedamned Butter Bandit.

  The dairy sounded as good as any place to begin. “I’m sure that Payne has called them already, but I want to go out there and do a little poking around.”

  She stood, as well. “Of course.”

  “What time do you close?”

  “Six.”

  He nodded once. “Then I’ll be back at six.”

  A fleeting look of irritation and panic raced across her fine features so fast he was almost inclined to believe he’d imagined it.

  But he hadn’t. For whatever reason—insanity, probably—that gave him an irrational burst of pleasure. The whole misery-loved-company bit? he wondered. Or was it something else? Was the idea of rattling her cage the way she was rattling his the culprit? He inwardly smiled.

  It was fair, if nothing else, Jack decided.

  A thought struck. “Did you get any sort of look at the guy at all before he threw the dough roller?”

  The mere thought of it—of her being hurt—brought on the instant urge to hit something. Preferably the asshole who threw the dough roller at her. What the hell was wrong with people anyway? Jack thought.

  She smiled sadly and shook her head. “He was tall and skinny,” she said. “He was wearing a hoodie and it was dark. I—”

  “No worries,” he told her. “I’ll get him.”

  And when he did he was going to think of new and unusual ways to use that damned dough roller on him.

  3

  BOBBY RAY BISHOP KEPT his head down and his ball cap pulled low as he made his way past Mariette Levine’s bakery, but darted a quick look through the shop window all the same. The little slow girl was there, as usual. She never failed to give him a hug when he came by with a delivery—he relished those hugs because they were the only ones he ever got. He hadn’t been given a pat on the head, much less a hug, since he was eight, so it had been a shock at first, but a pleasant one. No sign of Mariette, but another woman with shoulder-length dark hair whom he’d never seen before was behind the counter. His heart kicked into a faster rhythm.

  A new person working in Mariette’s place?

  Shit, shit, shit. His hands began to shake. He must h
ave hurt her bad, Bobby Ray thought. Could have even killed her.

  He hurried past and rounded the corner, then leaned against the wall of the next building and pulled long, deep breaths into his seizing lungs. Panic and nausea clawed their way up his throat and his nose poured snot, which he dashed away with the back of his hand. He felt tears burn the backs of his lids and blinked them away, determined not to cry. When had crying ever done him any good anyway? Just earned him a backhand against the face or a knock upside the head.

  Or worse.

  I ain’t raisin’ no sissy boy, his father had always said. You gonna cry, then I’ll give you something to cry about.

  And he had.

  God help him, what was he going to do? He’d been sleeping in his car for days, moving from one place to another to stay at least a step ahead of Uncle Mackie. He snorted. Uncle Mackie wasn’t his real uncle, of course. He probably wasn’t anyone’s uncle at all, but the name had come up at some point or another and stuck, and now it had the power to make him quiver with fear and practically piss himself.

  Bobby Ray had lived in fear most of his life and he was sick to death of it.

  Uncle Mackie was a bookie and, after a few ill-advised bets plus interest plus whatever “fee” Mackie decided he owed, Bobby Ray was into him for four grand.

  It might as well be a million.

  He didn’t make enough at the dairy to come anywhere near that amount and didn’t have anything of value to sell. At nineteen he had a beat-up fifteen-year-old Buick with a salvage title, and lived in a pay-by-the-week motel room. Better than foster care, which he’d ultimately aged out of, thank God, but certainly not the high life, either.

  He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt and looked enviously at passersby with their fancy clothes, smartphones and gold watches. He’d bet none of these people had a clue about how people like him lived. Eating microwave mac and cheese every night for dinner, waiting for an empty dryer with a few minutes left on the timer at the Laundromat so that he could afford clean clothes.