Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 12
Booker noticed the dining room crowd had thinned. Roxanna carried a coffee pot from table to table, filling cups, probably taking a fair number of compliments on her cooking. He wondered how a woman with Roxanna’s looks and culinary skill had escaped marriage. He hadn’t seen a ring. Nor had he noticed the telltale ghost of one that marked the newly divorced.
Gary Spiner, leaning back in his chair with a toothpick dangling from his mouth and a greedy expression in his eyes, followed Roxanna’s movements as she circled the room. He’d finished his meal yet seemed to be waiting for something. Maybe a date with the innkeeper for later that night? Booker didn’t feel easy about that.
Not his business, of course, but studying her, he couldn’t deny a stirring inside that had little to do with sex. Not to say his carnal urges had dampened any, but at forty-six, and with a good meal under his belt, he could think with the higher part of his mind. He wondered what’d brought Roxanna to a down-home place like the Masonville Bed and Brunch. Aside from being attractive, substantial nose and all, she appeared to be bright, talented and possibly a good businesswoman. She had the curves and muscle tone of a thirty-year-old, yet a presence and grace that placed her a decade older. In short, she was every man’s dream. Or maybe she fit Booker’s own dream so well he assumed the feeling was universal.
Either way, she intrigued him. He’d like to spend a few hours merely talking to the woman. Except for having to ride home with Emaline, he wasn’t above hanging out until the inn closed and getting to know the innkeeper better. Assuming Roxanna didn’t already have a date.
A family paid their check and trailed toward the door. The innkeeper waved a friendly goodbye, then scooped up a fresh pot of coffee from the sideboard and headed straight to Booker’s table. He stood and pulled out a chair.
“Lady, I’ll bet you could use a cup of that coffee yourself. Sit a spell. I’ll make your rounds with the pot.”
Across the room, Spiner looked like someone had slapped him with a sour dish rag.
“Actually, everybody’s taken care of. Let me grab a cup—”
“No. Now sit.” He guided her into the chair. “I’ll fetch the cup.”
Waiting for her to settle so he could push the chair closer to the table, he caught the scent of her hair, a musky vanilla fragrance. She’d been sweating lightly as she hustled among the tables. Tortoiseshell combs held the heavy tresses away from her face, but a few tendrils had escaped to curl damply around her cheek. Booker resisted a sudden urge to lift the auburn waves and allow circulating air from the ceiling fan to cool her neck. He took the coffee pot. His gaze wandered from her sculpted shoulders to the generous cleavage framed in lace at the neckline of her old-fashioned dress. If the woman had one detail not utterly, delightfully feminine, Booker couldn’t see it.
Crossing the room for the cup, he noticed Emaline and the Sheriff staring at him, wondering, no doubt, what was going on with him and Roxanna. Well, hellfire, let them wonder. He avoided their gaze.
“If there’s such a thing as love at first sight, that was it,” Roxanna said moments later about finding the inn. “I came around the curve at the bottom of the hill, driving my ancient Volvo, and this old granny of a house sat above me. Her rose window sparkled like a new broach. Purple shadows hid all her warts. Even before I saw the For-Sale-By-Owner sign, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life here.”
Booker watched her mouth curve around such words as “before” and couldn’t recall ever seeing anything quite as sensuous. He wanted to keep her talking just to see it again. “Do you come from around here?” he said.
“No, but I grew up in a small town like Masonville. Everybody knows everybody else, and what they don’t know they invent just to have stories to tell. I like small towns.”
“Then you must lead an unblemished life, one that doesn’t attract gossip.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that! I’m sure the folks of Masonville will have a grand time at my expense. They’ll harvest plenty of grist for the gossip mill when they dig into my past. Let them dig. I’ve never done anything I’m ashamed of.”
“Never?” Booker couldn’t make the same statement.
“Maybe I don’t see wrong the way other people do.”
“You mean, if something seems right, you’ll do it, even if others might consider the deed immoral or illegal?”
She smiled, and Booker felt it all the way to his toes.
“Let’s say I’ve been known to exceed a speed limit when the road and the weather were both clear and I felt like traveling.”
Put it that way, Booker figured, and most of the adult population of Texas would agree. Nothing made your foot want to step heavier on the gas pedal than a cross-country highway without a soul in sight. He couldn’t help wondering what other laws she’d be willing to break.
“I saw you traveling pretty fast this morning, on the jogging trail around Turtle Lake.”
“Oh?”
She frowned, and Booker wanted to capture the moment on film. Somehow, he would persuade her to sit for a portrait, posed right here in the dining room with the lace curtains and crystal lamps, maybe sporting a floppy straw sunhat. Thinking about the sun, though, he wondered if the porch outside might be better, sunlight picking out the Titian strands in her auburn hair while the soft shade of a tallow tree deepened her blue eyes—an old-fashioned woman in front of an old-fashioned house. Yet, he could also see her in a snappy business suit, carrying a briefcase… or a black satin gown, with diamonds at her ears and throat.
Suddenly, the gown Booker imagined was made not for the dance floor but the bedroom, and he gulped a swallow of coffee to wet his dry mouth.
“You were running down the road.” Hearing the gruffness of his voice, he cleared it before continuing. “Carrying something—”
“Oh, look, the Kettlesons are leaving. I’ll need to close out their check.” She hurried away in a swirl of green gingham and vanilla musk.
Booker enjoyed the back view for a moment, with a vague notion Roxanna was relieved to be drawn away from any further questions. He noticed Gary Spiner’s sour expression had turned downright hostile. Hunched over his empty plate, Spiner scowled at Booker from under a brow furrowed enough to double as a washboard. For some reason, the man’s hostility lifted Booker spirits.
Deciding it was time to recycle the iced tea he’d consumed, he went in search of the men’s room and found it down a short hallway. On his return, he saw a door to a small office ajar. He glanced in. Several photographs hung on the wall. He couldn’t resist a closer look.
These undoubtedly were the pictures Emaline had alluded to. Booker had to admit there was more of Roxanna here to see. He could understand why the innkeeper had said the townsfolk would gossip. In the nine framed photos, Roxanna wore three different costumes: Cleopatra, an Indian maid—Pocahontas, maybe—and a cowgirl. In several poses she had removed various pieces of clothing. In others only a few glittery triangles kept the innkeeper from being barefoot all over.
Dazzling. Booker couldn’t deny a lusty desire creeping into his loins. Had she displayed these photographs in her private office thinking no one would see them? Or figuring people would find out anyway, and better sooner than later?
In her Cleopatra getup, Roxanna teased a man in the audience with a snake. In her cowgirl boots—and not much else—she’d lassoed a fellow. And in her Pocahontas feathers, she apparently had just plunked a bowstring, skillfully piercing a man’s hat with an arrow.
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