Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evie Page 3

  He was gorgeous, and he’d saved her life, and she was being carried in his arms and he hadn’t rolled his eyes and made some joke about the strain on his back or anything. She felt her heart rate speed up a little more, and suddenly realized she didn’t know who he was.

  A man like this would certainly have a good name, something as solid and heroic as he was. Eric or Alexander or Christopher or Nicholas. He would not have a name like Orville or Albert or Maurice or Uriah.

  “I’m Evie Randall,” she said softly.

  “I know.”

  When he didn’t say anything else, she said, “And you are?”

  Her rescuer locked gazes with her again and gave her a quick smile. Oh yes. He had a beautiful mouth.

  And then he opened it and said, “Galloway. Max Galloway.”

  Max gazed down on the face of the woman he’d just rescued.

  It was an odd thing, holding a woman he barely knew in his arms. He felt heroic, like he’d saved the fair damsel from the dragon, except this damsel was sopping wet and smelled like three-day-old bait.

  Her long hair was a muddy tangle and lay sort of flopped over one eye. She was sporting bruises on her cheek, a scratch on her brow, and her lip was swollen. While it was too dark to see the color of her eyes, the sudden scowl on her face was plain as day.

  She slipped her arms from around his neck in a ridiculous effort to pull away from him. He was holding her, for Christ’s sake. Just how far did she think she could get?

  “I see my reputation has preceded me,” he smirked.

  “I can walk,” she said. “Put me down.”

  The herniated frog impression was not particularly commanding. Her voice was toast, she looked like she’d been dragged though a kelp bed behind a speedboat, she smelled like a swamp rat, and was bleeding all over him. Any man in his right mind would be desperate to put her down.

  “No,” he said.

  “I feel thick,” she lisped.

  “Sick?”

  “Yeth.”

  “I thought I told you not to talk,” he said. “It’s hard to take an injured woman seriously who looks like Guttersnipe Raggedy Ann and sounds like a puddy tat.”

  She glared up at him.

  “Sorry,” he growled. “I’m having a bad day.”

  “You’re having…” She waited a beat, then said thickly, “Let me tell you about a bad day, mithter.”

  Why was he so damned aggravated with her? She hadn’t done a thing wrong, except nearly get herself killed. But she was safe now, thanks to him. So why did he feel like somebody’d just shoved a burr under his attitude?

  He began walking back up the path, Evie Randall’s body tight to his chest. His strides ate up the ground as he headed toward the massive porch encircling the north side of the mansion. Edmunds moved to the front, illuminating the way with the beams of both flashlights.

  Evie slowly slipped her arms around his neck again, and smiled. As they neared the house, the porch lights winked on, flooding her face with amber light.

  He looked down into her eyes, and his brain stopped functioning. Her eyes were blue. Blue like a hot summer sky or a cold mountain lake. Blue so pure, it seemed he could see every thought whirling around inside her brain. She lowered sooty lashes. Her pale cheeks flushed.

  “Thank you for your help,” she lisped softly. “I wath thcared thtiff until you came along.”

  “Scared stiff.”

  She nodded, then laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  “Yeah,” he growled. “Well, like I said, don’t talk.”

  Inwardly, he cringed. He was no knight in shining armor, and just because he’d climbed down into that damn pit didn’t mean a thing.

  He shifted her weight in his arms. Her muscles were firm, her bones delicate but sturdy. Okay, she was no Victoria’s Secret model, but she sure had curves in all the right places.

  Damn Girl Scout.

  Jesus, she’d fallen all the way to the bottom of that cavern and had clawed herself halfway back to the top before he and the butler found her. She was lucky the fall hadn’t killed her outright. It took guts and determination to do what she’d done.

  He gave himself a mental smack. She was just a woman bent on survival. That was all. The comfortable heft of her in his arms didn’t mean she was anybody special. The feel of her breasts smooshed against his chest, the curve of her butt against his belly, were very nice, but it didn’t mean a wedding band, a mortgage, and a couple of kids. Sexual attraction could be had any day of the week. His body would get over it. Eventually.

  Besides, any friend of Heyworth’s was no friend of Max Galloway’s. End of story. After what Heyworth had done to his family, anybody who sided with the bastard was on his personal Enemies List, and that included the slightly sumptuous, gutsy as hell Evie Randall.

  As Max climbed the porch steps, Edmunds swung open the French doors, their ancient hinges squealing against the effort. Carrying Evie into the parlor, he carefully set her on a tan brocade sofa.

  Edmunds made a hasty exit, then reappeared with a first aid kit and a blanket. Behind him, a young woman carried a water pitcher, glasses, and a clean washcloth.

  “This is Lorna Whitney,” Edmunds said quickly as the woman set the tray on the end table. “Lorna, this is Detective Max Galloway of the Olympia Police Department.”

  Lorna seemed a bit confused, then nodded a greeting and stepped back. Her brown eyes filled with concern when she got a good look at Evie. “What on earth…”

  Evie blinked up at Max, her summer blue eyes clouded with pain. Turning to Edmunds, he said, “When I arrived today, I saw a big Hatteras in the boathouse. How many knots does that son of a bitch make?”

  They made the trip across the bay to the hospital in Port Henry on the sixty-five-foot luxury yacht Heyworth had kept to ferry guests to and from the island. By the time Max got Evie back to Mayhem, the sun had just begun creeping up behind the mansion, casting the elegant lines of the house in dark silhouette.

  The news had been good—no concussion, nothing broken, just cuts and bruises that should heal quickly, and a headache, a little rest, and some painkillers would alleviate.

  Despite her protests, Max carried Evie to her bedroom, then asked Edmunds to have his things moved to the room adjacent to hers. If she hadn’t been woozy from painkillers, he was certain she would have put up a helluva fight—which he may even have enjoyed under different circumstances.

  He left Evie with Lorna, who would help her bathe, wash her hair, and settle her in for some much needed sleep. Heading swiftly down the hallway, his footfalls absorbed by the thick rust-colored carpet, he shoved his hands in his pockets, ignoring the fine landscapes and pieces of art lining the walls of the long corridor. His mind was on that barn floor, the rotted wood, and how it had nearly cost a young woman her life.

  As he approached the barn, the llamas in the pen raised their heads and blinked at him, then moved forward to investigate. He walked past them, opened the barn door, and shut it quickly so they wouldn’t follow him inside.

  Approaching the gaping chasm, he bent on one knee and felt around the jutting boards that had remained in place. He reached out and picked up a bent nail.

  In the back of his mind a red flag began to wave wildly. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He’d been a cop long enough to know when his instincts were trying to tell him something, and right now they were rocking and rolling too loudly to ignore.

  The nail made a dull ping as he tossed it onto the floor. He rubbed his chin. No rotten wood, no inferior planking. This wasn’t an accident he was looking at.

  It was a trap.

  Chapter 3

  Dear Diary:

  Last night i dreamed that i was a beaudiful princess and lived in a really big and pretty castle and rode on a wite horse with red and gold ribbons tied in her long flowing hair. And the prince from the next kingdom saw me and fell madly in love with me and asked me to marry him and i said Yes! because he was so
handsome and nice, it was a very good dream but i don’t think it will happen though. Well, maybe.

  Evangeline—age 9

  There was a term for people who became giddy after facing death and surviving. PTS? Post-traumatic silliness? No, that wasn’t it. Evie gazed at her reflection in the steamy bathroom mirror and beamed, thrilled to be alive, whatever the term for it was.

  She turned her head to the right. Slight bruise on the jaw, little cut on the forehead, swollen lip. Not bad. But her tongue was sore as hell where she’d bitten it.

  Six silver swans, she thought. Say it.

  “Thix thilver thwanz,” she said. Forget it. Sylvester the cat on pain medication. Her vocabulary would have to be confined to non-S words until that tongue healed up a bit.

  She brushed her hair and twisted it into a loose braid, idly wondering if Max Galloway liked redheads, then gave herself a mental shake.

  Why should she care what Max Galloway thought? He was the avowed enemy of a man she had loved. They were, therefore, adversaries by default.

  But Max had risked life and limb to rescue her. There was no getting around that, and she didn’t want to appear ungrateful. It was only fitting she find some way to thank him.

  Slipping on a pair of gold minihoops, she wondered if there was a Hallmark card that fit the occasion. The front would read For My Hero in swirly, twirly gold-embossed script. Inside, there’d be some generic, one-size-fits-all sentiment:

  What you did, it was great.

  You really are first rate.

  I was scared, you were strong.

  As to Thomas, you’re dead wrong

  You jerk.

  Okay, so pop poetry wasn’t her strong suit. She donned a summery print blouse and buttoned it,

  then tucked it into her jeans. Since she was going down to the barn after breakfast, she tugged on her old brown muck boots.

  With one last glance in the mirror, she decided this was as good as it was going to get under the circumstances, and headed downstairs.

  As she entered the grand dining room, she was greeted by the heady scent of coffee, and the even headier sight of Max Galloway.

  Oh, damn. She’d hoped to be down tending the llamas before he got up.

  He stood as she approached the table, a coffee mug in one hand and a linen napkin in the other. He was dressed in jeans and an indigo T-shirt, which showed off his athletic build to perfection. Reluctantly, she had to admit that finding a sexy hunk like Detective Max Galloway across the breakfast table in the morning would not be much of a hardship.

  Flicking a glance at her mouth, his hazel eyes glimmered with mischief. “It looks like you stubbed your face.”

  At least I didn’t stub my brain, she thought, but didn’t say because it would have come out “thtubbed,” which would have thounded thtupid.

  “Actually,” he continued, giving her what he probably considered a charming grin, “I think it’s very sexy. The Angelina Jolie look is hot right now.”

  Did he think comparing her to a superthin movie star was going to make her feel better? When she didn’t respond, he tapped his jaw with a finger and said, “Tough to talk?”

  Yeth, you thtupid ath.

  She nodded.

  “How are your bruises?” he asked gently, almost as though he cared. He poured coffee into her cup. “Do they bother you much?”

  Yeth, you thtupid ath.

  She shook her head. The fact was, her left shoulder and hip were badly bruised, deeply purple, and tender as hell. Her muscles were stiff and sore, and she fought the need to limp when she walked.

  Max pursed his lips and tilted his head as though assessing whether she was telling the truth. When his gaze grazed the bruise on her jaw, she thought she saw genuine concern in his eyes. That assumption, however, was shot to hell when he grinned and said, “So what are you going to give me for saving your life?”

  Thomas had been right. Max Galloway didn’t have one compassionate bone in his body. Not in his whole disturbingly perfect body.

  “According to ancient Celtic cultures and the customs of my ancestors,” he said, “I own you now.” Again with the cute grin.

  “The Clan MacOaf, no doubt,” she muttered as she took the seat across from his. Adding cream and sugar to her coffee, she stirred it, then wrapped her hands around the porcelain’s warmth.

  Ignoring her sarcasm, Max sat down and said, “It’s true. My mother was an amateur archaeologist. She did a lot of work in Britain.”

  Is that where she dug you up? she said with a look, then nearly flinched when their gazes locked.

  His eyes were a light hazel green, flecked with gold, brown, and gray. And they were piercing.

  When Max Galloway looked at you, you knew you were being looked at, that he was focused wholly on you and nothing else. It was an intoxicating feeling, and she imagined he’d gotten a lot of women into bed just by flashing those babies, and turning that beautiful mouth into a “come hither and you won’t be sorry” smile.

  She was not impervious to such sexuality, but she wasn’t thtupid, either, which meant she was going to have to work hard at keeping him at an arm’s length. Not because he might want her, but because she was very much afraid she might want him.

  He bit off half a slice of bacon. “I’ve already done a prelim investigation of the barn where you fell, but I’d like you to come with me and answer some questions. Can you walk that far?”

  I can walk anywhere you can, buster. Like a slug, but speed isn’t everything. Okay, so slugs don’t exactly walk, but that’s beside the point.

  She took a sip of coffee and nodded.

  “You sure?” he said. “I’m more than willing to carry you again, if it would help.” He popped the rest of the bacon in his mouth, which quirked up on one end.

  He was trying to charm her? What was that all about? Did he think they had some special bond because he’d rescued her?

  Shaking her head, she tucked into her eggs and bacon, spooning strawberry preserves on a toasted English muffin. She ate carefully to avoid hurting her tongue, and relished every bite, letting the warm food energize her. A day and a half of sleep had worked wonders in helping her body mend, but the food would help even more.

  She polished off her orange juice, set her napkin down, then rose to leave. Before she could get far, however, Max was around the table, beside her, his palm under her elbow.

  “You doing okay?” His eyes narrowed as he assessed her. “Honest. You look a little pale. Maybe I should go get one of the llamas and you can ride it.”

  She scowled at him. “Can’t ride," she said, talking out of the side of her mouth that didn’t hurt.

  “Why not? They look big and fat and strong to me.”

  Shaking her head, she said, “All wool. Too thin. No riding. Blockhead.” Then she clamped her mouth shut.

  “What was that last part there?” he challenged. “It sounded like you called me a blockhead.”

  She widened her eyes innocently and blinked, giving him a Who me? look.

  It took only a few minutes to reach the barn. Cool morning air wafting up from the water kept the temperature down and felt good against Evie’s skin. As they approached, the llamas turned in their direction, each fuzzy snout curved into a placid smile.

  “That black one,” Max said. “That’s Fernando, right? Lily is the white one and Lorenzo is the spotted one?”

  “Fernando, dark brown,” Evie corrected. “Truly black llama… rare.”

  The llamas. Her babies, her family, her closest confidants. They had been her saving grace since the day she’d come to Mayhem Manor and Thomas had told her the llamas would be her responsibility. There had been different llamas on the island back then, but Fernando and his son Lorenzo were descendants of the original herd. Lily had been purchased a few years ago and was Lorenzo’s dam.

  Gesturing toward Fernando, Max said, “He’s kind of cute, in a giant, alien, dust-mop sort of way.” He opened the gate and walked through ahead of Evie,
but the llamas only blinked at him with quiet curiosity. As a group, they moved forward to inspect him, and he let them. He reached out and stroked Fernando’s coat. “He’s soft. Do you clip them like sheep?”

  “Yeth.”

  “That so? Tell me more.” He gave her the cockeyed grin that had probably gotten him everything he’d ever wanted all his life.

  She looked into his eyes and it occurred to her that if Max Galloway were a product on a grocery store shelf, he’d be labeled “SEX APPEAL!” in big red letters, under which would read: Surgeon General’s Warning: Proximity to this product hazardous to your virtue. Women have been known to ignore logic and rip off their clothes when coming into contact with this product. Can cause rash, nervous stomach, thundering palpitations. Has been known to break hearts into itty-bitty pieces.

  “I see those wheels turning,” he chided. “What are you thinking right now?”

  Evie lifted her chin. “None of your beethwaxth.”

  Max’s gaze dropped to her mouth. “That’s adorable. Thay it again.”

  She set her jaw and gave him her haughtiest glare.

  And he gave her back a smile that would melt the polar caps.

  “Okay, then,” he challenged. “Try ‘suffering succotash.’ ”

  What do you think I am, a performing theal?

  When she didn’t respond, he said, “Better yet, skip the succotash. Say something worthwhile. Say… ‘sex.’ ”

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed.

  “Ah, c’mon,” he coaxed, moving forward a step. “That’s got to be a tough one. Give it a try.”

  His gaze locked on hers. Sparks, nearly visible to the naked eye, flared between them. He was seducing her, plain and simple. Or trying to. She knew it. He knew it. He’d issued a challenge. The succotash was in her court.

  She pursed her lips. Okay, hot shot, she thought. Two can play at this game.

  Starting at his boots, she slowly lifted her gaze. She lingered when she reached his crotch, trying desperately not to blink and blush. Button fly. A bit on the bulging side, she thought. Boxers or briefs? Mmm, Briefs. Definitely. And tight.