The Rule-Breaker Page 8

  Mavis chuckled knowingly, while Shelby peered across the square into the diner window, where Katrina sat alone. A quick scan of the green revealed that Eli had returned to work.

  Shelby shot a scowl at her friend. “That was sneaky.”

  “But effective,” Mavis countered with a knowing smirk. “Why can’t you just admit that you’re attracted to him, that you’ve always been attracted to him?”

  If only it were that simple. That easy. “Because I shouldn’t be,” she admitted, swallowing tightly. “Because I was engaged to his best friend.”

  Mavis tutted sympathetically and laid a hand on her arm. “And those were all valid reasons...until you broke off the engagement,” she said. “But what’s stopping you now? We don’t choose who we’re attracted to any more than we can choose who we love.”

  Shelby watched Eli pull a water gun from his back pocket and tag Colin in the back of the head with a quick squirt, then hurriedly hide the little weapon before Colin could see him. Scowling, the boy looked around, searching for the culprit, then rubbed the back of his head before returning to work. Eli did it again, but couldn’t keep from laughing, which tipped his hand. She watched Colin’s sullen face transform into a big smile—one so like his older brother’s—then watched him laughingly promise what she imagined could only be retribution. It was good to see the boy laugh and judging from the expression on Carl’s face, he definitely agreed.

  “How long have you known?” she asked.

  Mavis blinked. “Known what? That you have feelings for Eli?”

  Shelby sighed and nodded.

  Mavis simply shrugged. “Since you first met him,” she said. “But I have an eye for that sort of thing. My grandmother was a matchmaker, you know. She, too, could spot chemistry. And you and Eli Weston have that in spades. Take it from an old woman,” she said, sounding suddenly tired. “You’re a fool if you squander it.”

  Shelby sighed, torn. “Is that the overactive hormones talking or the benefit of experience?”

  Mavis laughed softly, her eyes twinkling. “Probably both. But it still applies.”

  * * *

  BECAUSE HE’D BEEN ABLE to practically feel Shelby’s gaze boring a hole into the back of his head while he’d lunched with Katrina—gratifying, he had to admit—Eli decided that he should probably walk over to her store and give her an update. Honestly, he was a little surprised that she hadn’t hurried over to the green the instant he’d returned to grill him about it, but the stream of customers in and out of her store must have prevented it.

  He told Carl where he was going, which garnered a pleased smile, then made his way over. He spotted Shelby through the glass door and his heart gave an inexplicable little jump. She smiled when she saw him, her lush lips tilting into a pleased smile as he opened the door and stepped inside. She was behind the counter, ringing up a sale. “This color looks gorgeous on you, Katie,” she said. “I think cherry is definitely your signature shade.”

  Eli smiled as a blushing Katie passed him on her way out the door, then turned, looked at Shelby and arched a brow. “Signature shade?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s the color that looks the best on you, defines your personality. When I put together the rest of Katie’s summer wardrobe, I’ll include a splash of it on every outfit.” She lifted a shoulder. “I’ll bring it in either as part of the fabric or in the accessories—it really doesn’t matter, so long as it’s there—and will add a punch of it to everything so that it becomes her ‘signature shade.’”

  Intrigued, Eli studied her. Today she’d pulled her hair up in a flirty ponytail and secured it with a wide pale pink satin ribbon, dotted with little daisies. Today’s dress was sleeveless, fitted to the waist then flared out in tiny pleats. It, too, was pale pink, like the early dawn he’d witnessed over the lake this morning, and the hem was finished in a pale yellow.

  Ah...

  “Yours is yellow,” he said. Hell, no wonder she reminded him of summer, of warmth.

  She grinned, seemingly pleased that he’d noticed. “Lemon chiffon, to be exact, but yes, definitely yellow. It’s my happy color.”

  He glanced at the pig, who wore a similar bow around her neck and a glittery pink skirt. “Dixie’s, too?”

  Shelby grimaced. “Brown is more her style, but she wears enough of that as it is. Mud,” she clarified at his blank expression.

  Eli felt his eyes widen and he chuckled. “Oh, right.”

  The phone rang. She winced, then shot him an apologetic glance. “I’ll only be a minute. You’ll wait, right?” she asked so anxiously his conscience pricked. His self-preservation tactics had hurt her more than he’d realized.

  He nodded, then cast an appreciative glance around the inside of her shop while she took the call. It was so...Shelby. Bright, whimsical and organized. Racks and racks of her handmade custom designs filled the space. Lots of different colors and textures, dresses, tops, pants, scarves and the like. Dozens of vintage mirrors and heavy frames filled with old sewing patterns lined the walls. Shades she’d obviously designed herself hung from various bulb lights around the room, offering color as well as light. Pouffe chairs and footstools outfitted a single corner, presumably where beleaguered shoppers waited to try things on.

  Shelby was more than just good at what she did—she was passionate about it. Every detail, down to the old wooden thread spools which served as cabinet door knobs, told him so.

  “Sorry about that,” she said as she replaced the receiver. “Madeline Martin lost a button and needs a replacement.”

  “This is really something,” he said with a significant glance around the room. “I’m impressed.”

  “Thanks,” she said, her eyes warming with pride. “It’s been a lot of work, but it’s worth it.”

  “I can tell.” He heard voices coming from the back, then the whine of a sewing machine. He lifted a brow.

  “My elves,” she teased. “In addition to myself and Mavis, I’ve got three full-time seamstresses. I’m putting together an online store, so I’m trying to get some stock built up before we launch.”

  Eli smiled. “Going global, huh?”

  She laughed nervously. “That’s the plan. I want to serve a bigger audience,” she said. “But I don’t want to grow so much that I can’t do things the way that I want them done. I know all of my clients, have a personal relationship with them. I don’t want that to change to the point that I lose what makes me different.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I don’t just design and make clothes—I put together an entire style based on age, body type, a signature color and personal preferences. Granted I do quite a bit of off-the-rack stuff—universal designs—but ultimately, my custom clothing is what makes my services so unique. Typically, it’s a service only the wealthy enjoy, so I try to keep things affordable.”

  He could certainly see that simply based on her own clothes. He’d never seen another woman dress as well as Shelby did. She had a firm grasp of what looked good on her and capitalized on that information by tailoring every stitch of clothing on her body. Even her underwear, Micah had once mentioned.

  The idea made his groin tighten.

  “Well,” she prodded, propping her elbows on the counter. “I couldn’t help but notice that Katrina cornered you this morning.”

  One would hope, since she’d been staring at them, Eli thought, smothering a smile. He nodded. “She did. And you were right, she’s definitely digging. I’ve agreed to go by her place this evening so that we can talk a bit more in private.”

  Shelby stilled, her eyes flashing. “You what?”

  He’d anticipated that little development going over like a lead balloon, but he hadn’t anticipated how much he’d enjoy her reaction. “It’s necessary, Shelby,” he said, leaning against the counter. “She thinks she’s got something and I have to know what that something is. I can’t let her keep digging around. If she asks too many questions, the Hollands are going to hear about it and that’s
the last damned thing we want, right?”

  The adorably mulish set of her jaw didn’t change, but her eyes grew less wary, resigned. “Right,” she agreed. “I just don’t trust her. And I hate that she’s doing this, that she’s using Micah’s death to torment me and potentially hurt Carl and Sally.”

  Torment her? By flirting with him? Is that what she meant? Or was it something else? She hates me, she’d said, he remembered now. Because of Micah? Eli wondered. Probably. No doubt because Shelby always had what Katrina wanted.

  And if Katrina suspected Shelby wanted him...

  Flattered, he squashed a grin. No wonder Shelby looked ready to pull her hair out. “I’ll only stay long enough to get the information we need,” he said, hoping to mollify her.

  “And then you’re coming directly to my house, right?” A line emerged between her brows. “Or do you think you should come to mine first, so that you can see the letters, perhaps look for some evidence of involvement at Katrina’s?”

  Eli frowned. “Do you think Katrina’s involved?”

  Shelby bit her lip consideringly. “My gut says no—it’s not her style—but I don’t think we can we completely rule her out, either.”

  Eli ultimately agreed with Shelby’s opinion. Given the way Katrina was flirting with him—verbal humping, really—she didn’t seem like the kind to do anything in secret. She was off-puttingly...bold.

  “I’ll come by your place first,” he told her.

  “Sounds like you’ll have a busy night,” she remarked tartly, still endearingly perturbed. It was ridiculous how much that pleased him, how much knowing that she was actually jealous made his chest puff with pleasure.

  Eli grinned. “You sure green isn’t your signature color?”

  Color bloomed instantly beneath her cheeks and she looked away, obviously embarrassed. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”

  He thought so. Still smiling, Eli pushed off from the counter and headed for the door. “I’d better get back to work. See you this evening.”

  “I’ll save you a seat,” she said.

  Confused, he turned and arched a brow.

  “At the dinner table,” she clarified. “Sally made me promise to make you feel welcome.”

  His grin broadened. “Do I get to define welcome?”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes. “No.”

  He shrugged, feigning disappointment. “Damn. I knew it was too much to hope for.”

  But he hoped, anyway. And that was more dangerous than the ever-present need hammering through his blood.

  8

  WHEN MAVIS MERIWEATHER had dropped by his office this afternoon and requested a private audience at his house this evening, Les Hastings couldn’t have been any more surprised.

  Women, for the most part, regrettably, didn’t seek his private counsel.

  Born with a speech impediment no amount of therapy had corrected, Les had learned at an early age that listening would serve him better than talking, and that he communicated best via the written word, which was why he’d started The Branches, Willow Haven’s daily newspaper.

  Resigned to a quiet life filled with old jazz, Alfred Hitchcock movies and a personal library that rivaled some of the best in the state, Les had found that a fine tumbler of scotch and a good book could fulfill the majority of his needs.

  Except sex, of course, but that wasn’t something he’d ever had much luck with.

  Women liked to be wooed with pretty words, and a man who couldn’t pronounce his r’s and whose attempts at conversation closely resembled a popular Looney Tunes character who was on a perpetual “wabbit” hunt, didn’t “woo” well. While he didn’t necessarily like it, he’d nevertheless accepted his fate. This was the hand he’d been dealt, so this was the one he was forced to play.

  While he’d occasionally arranged for an escort service on those rare instances when he’d traveled out of town, a recent experience had cut off that particular avenue of fulfillment. He didn’t pay for sex so much as the soft touch of a women’s hand, the feel of a plump breast beneath his palm. Things lots of other men took for granted, could easily find at a roadside dive or hotel bar. For free. He’d tried those avenues, as well, but never with any luck. The instant he spoke, it was over.

  It was terrible, that moment, when he watched interest flee and pity emerge.

  That’s why the escort service had been the perfect solution. He arranged everything online, established some ground rules, kept conversation to a minimum and tipped generously. Did he long for an affectionate touch? Prefer to make love than simply exchange bodily fluids?

  Yes, but he’d given up on that, as well.

  As such, he’d resigned himself to celibacy and even convinced himself that, much like the Benedictine monks of long ago, he’d devote his time and energy to a greater purpose. He’d make knowledge his mistress. He’d take the noble high road.

  And then Mavis had casually dropped by and the floor—not to mention the high road—had disappeared from beneath his feet.

  Because Mavis was...extraordinary.

  A former dancer who’d dated famous baseball players and politicians, Mavis had packed more living into her twenties than most people did in a lifetime. She was one of those women who changed her hair color with her mood, but still managed to look natural. She was tall and curvy, with breasts so luscious they should come with a warning label.

  Hell, she should come with a warning label.

  Her eyes were startlingly blue, the clearest aquamarine, and her bone structure was delicate and fine, like a piece of Limoges porcelain. She wasn’t just beautiful—she was a showstopper. Combine those qualities with an innate sensuality, a razor-sharp wit, a fiendishly clever mind and a command of the English language that would make Shakespeare weep and she became his perfect woman.

  And he’d wanted her—desperately, pathetically—for the past forty years.

  Having known her for that long and having moved in the same social circles for the past several years, Les had spent a good deal of time with Mavis. He couldn’t claim to know her better than anyone else, but he’d observed her enough to think that he knew her better than most.

  And the glint he’d seen in her eye today had been new and keen. It had held an unmistakable interest he’d almost discounted as wishful thinking. Until she’d leaned across his desk—displaying her lovely cleavage to its best advantage—and pressed a kiss against his cheek.

  Mavis Meriweather was flirting with him.

  Either hell had frozen over or the Almighty had decided to pay him an unexpected kindness.

  Regardless, some sort of divine intervention was at work and, as such, he was torn between euphoria and terror.

  The doorbell rang, heralding her arrival. With a bracing breath and one last gulp of alcohol, Les pushed from his chair, made his way to the front entrance and opened the door. He inclined his head and gestured her inside.

  “Goodness, Les,” she said, her gaze darting around his entrance hall. Like his library, it, too, was filled with books. They lined the walls, were stacked casually on tables, supported various vases, spines out, to better display their artistic gilt letters. A stained-glass fixture hung from the ceiling and a worn oriental rug blanketed the floor. “This is beautiful. It’s not at all what I was expecting.”

  He felt his gaze widen, trying to decide if he should be insulted.

  She gasped through a smile, then turned to look at him, her eyes sparkling. He felt that grin all the way to his toes. “Oh, dear, that didn’t come out right, did it? I merely meant that I’m pleasantly surprised. I knew that you were a reader, but this—” She gestured widely, seemingly at a loss for words. “This is incredible.”

  If she was impressed with the foyer, then his library was really going to slay her. He nodded his thanks, ushering her deeper inside the house then pushed a glass-paned pocket door open and followed her through.

  She stopped short, inhaling delightedly. “Oh, my...”

  Having converted the formal liv
ing room and dining room into one long room lined with bookshelves and anchored with fireplaces on each end, Les was especially proud of his space. Littered with antique furniture, old maps and atlases, the room was filled with the things he loved. The classics, of course, an extensive collection of poetry, hundreds of biographies and histories from all over the world, not to mention hundreds—possibly thousands—of fiction novels.

  He watched her wander over to a shelf, peruse the titles offered there. She slid a finger over the spine of Sir Arthur Conan’s Doyle’s A Study in Scarlet.

  She turned to look at him and lifted a brow. She was so pretty it hurt. “A first edition?”

  He nodded, smiled as if it were a no-brainer.

  She grinned. “Of course it is. You founded the Baker Street Boys, didn’t you?” Her forehead wrinkled. “Odd that this book should be bound in blue linen, isn’t it? Scarlet would have been more appropriate.”

  “The UK edition was,” he said, careful to avoid the r’s as usual.

  She smiled at him, her lips curling fondly, and inclined her head.

  Les made his way to the liquor cabinet and gestured to a bottle. “Wine?”

  She winced and shook her head. “Got anything stronger?” she asked hopefully.

  For courage? he wondered. He grinned at her and lifted a cut glass decanter. “Scotch?”

  “That’ll do it,” she told him. She strolled over to an armchair, the leather creaking as she settled in. Dressed in a breezy linen dress the color of cranberries, she looked like Christmas had come early, tart and delicious.

  Mouthwatering.

  Les made his way to where she sat and handed her a glass. Her elegant hand curled around the tumbler and she watched him as she took a drink, her eyes peeking at him over the rim. It was sexy, that look, and he hardened instantly, nearly to the point of pain.

  “You have to be wondering what I’m doing here,” she said, glancing up at him, almost as if she were curious about it, too.

  Les found her gaze and held it, then damned near swayed from shock when a spark of yearning flared in those remarkable blue eyes. “I’ve thought of little else,” he admitted. “What do you need, Mavis?”