Heart of Dixie Page 3

  “Thanks, mister,” she whispered, her voice smoky and sensuous as she pressed the handkerchief into his hand. “It’s awfully sweet of you to understand. Understanding is sure a rare quality in a man.”

  Jake sat back, feeling slightly dazed and amazed by the power of her charm.

  “Anyway, you can see how we’d be leery,” she said. “Folks hereabouts never did take much to strangers coming in asking all kinds of questions.”

  “That’s kind of an unusual attitude for a tourist town, isn’t it?”

  “To be perfectly honest, we don’t do very well in that respect,” she confessed. She put the truck in gear and started once again for town. “Folks tend to like the fancier places like Myrtle Beach. We get our regulars, but that’s about all.”

  She shot him a curious glance. “So, if you’re not a reporter, what kind of a writer are you?”

  “I’m a mystery writer,” he said, hating the fact that the line tasted like a lie. “At least I will be as soon as I get a chance to revise my book and sell it.”

  “A mystery writer?” Dixie gave him a bright guileless smile. “That’s great! And what do you mean ‘will be’? If you’re working on a book then you’re a writer whether you’ve sold it or not, and don’t let anybody tell you different. It’s the effort that counts, not somebody else’s idea of what you ought to be called.”

  Jake stared at her, a little taken aback by her homespun wisdom, and even more surprised by how it went straight to his heart, sticking in a vulnerable corner he would have preferred to ignore. He liked to think of himself as a tough professional, able to handle the ups and downs of the writing business with aplomb. The truth was, his failure to sell his manuscript had chipped the rock of his self-confidence. Dixie’s words soothed that small hidden hurt.

  They wheeled into Eldon’s Gas and Go, and Jake’s attention was diverted to other matters. His heart flopped over and fell dead into the pit of his stomach as he looked around.

  The place was not what anyone would have called state of the art. At least not since the days of Harry Truman. The gas pumps were antiques, the kind with the big glass bubble on top. They bore a greater resemblance to the robots in third-rate science fiction movies from the fifties than they did to the gas pumps he was used to seeing. The garage would have given Andre a migraine. It was a dark, dirty-looking, cavernous place—a far cry from the spic-and-span environment his Porsche was used to. The walls and shelves were crammed with every imaginable kind of car part, all of them black with grease. And all of it was housed in a wood frame building that looked as if it had survived one too many hurricanes.

  “Don’t let appearances fool you, Mr. Gannon,” Dixie said with just the perfect edge of disappointment and censure in her voice. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

  Jake winced. “No, I’m sure it’s a fine place,” he said, not quite managing to sound convinced. “It’s just that being from the city, I’m more accustomed to…”

  “Perfection?” she queried dryly.

  He thought there was a note of bitterness in her voice and he looked at her, but she was already halfway out of the truck.

  She left the Porsche dangling from the back of the tow truck, saying it would be less of a temptation to anyone who might get a wild hair and try to take it for a spin. Jake suffered a cold flash at the thought, momentarily forgetting that the car wasn’t capable of going anywhere anyway. He followed Dixie into the station office.

  “I’ll just jot a note for Eldon,” she said, rummaging for paper and pen through the debris strewn across the counter. He identified pieces of mail, credit card receipts, candy wrappers, dirty rags, and spark plugs among the litter.

  Jake had to jam his hands in his pockets to resist the urge to straighten things. He had had orderliness bred into him by a Marine father and a CPA mother, and was still a firm believer of “a place for everything and everything in its place.” The sight of a mess the magnitude of this one tended to make him feel vaguely ill. He watched with a kind of horrified awe as Dixie finally unearthed a dirty scratch pad and a ballpoint pen that looked as if it had been chewed on by voracious rodents. With the pen held between the first and middle fingers of her left hand, she bent to compose her note.

  “How long do you think it’ll take him to fix it once he gets back?” Jake asked, absently noting the strange way she held the pen.

  “Hard to say.” She scribbled the last of her missive, signed it with a flourish, then lifted her head to give Jake a long look and a shrug. “Could take five minutes. Could take five days. Could take longer if you’ve blown—”

  He held up a hand to cut her off. “Please, don’t say it again,” he said through his teeth. “I don’t think I could stand to hear you say it again.”

  Dixie nibbled her lip. “Well…it could take longer. Depends on whether he has to send out for parts or not. You probably guessed Eldon don’t have much call for Porsche parts. Do you have some place you need to be?”

  “I have some…research to tend to.” He sighed and fussed with the cuffs of his shirt, then, unable to stop himself, he reached out and straightened a dusty box of chewing gum on the counter. He was essentially where he needed to be, but he wasn’t going to accomplish much if he was stuck on foot. “Is there a car rental place anywhere around here?”

  “Nope. Eldon might have a loaner for you, though. You’ll have to talk to him. It won’t be a Porsche.”

  Jake flashed her a smile. “I won’t be fussy as long as it can take me where I want to go.”

  “Right,” Dixie muttered under her breath as she watched him adjust the wall calendar so it hung properly. She led the way out. He’d practically broken out in hives at the sight of the station and he probably wanted to go have himself disinfected after having been inside it. The man was a perfectionist deluxe. Sure he wouldn’t mind Eldon’s loaner.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a cab company around here either.”

  “Nope,” she said. “But I’ll give you a lift to the Cottages. I’m headed that way myself.”

  “Thanks. That’d be great.” He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder as she headed toward a battered tan Bronco. “Dixie…”

  Oh, dear, she thought. She turned to him, feeling wobbly and strange. Jake Gannon’s touch went through her like currents of electricity, sizzling down through her breasts, sapping the strength from her knees. She hadn’t counted on his touching her. She hadn’t figured he’d want to. But he was, and even though his touch was casual, it was very strongly reinforcing the fact that she found him too darned attractive.

  You’re in big trouble here, Dixie darling.

  If he tried to kiss her, she wouldn’t be able to fight him off, she thought, swaying slightly toward him. He wasn’t her type and she wasn’t the kind of girl who let strange men kiss her, but there was a limit to her strength. A girl could only resist just so much magnetism, and Jake Gannon had a boatload of it. She leaned into the pressure of his hand on her shoulder and tilted her face up, resigning herself to her fate and wishing she had put on a little lip gloss.

  “Yes, Jake?”

  “I…just want to thank you,” he said, staring down at her upturned face with a curious light in his eyes. “I realize you’re going out of your way to help me.”

  His attention focused on the curve of her mouth, and the jolt of attraction that hit him was as strong as anything he’d ever felt. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her curvy body and plant a kiss on her little bow of a mouth. The way she was looking up at him made him feel overwhelmingly male and strong, yet tender. She drew out the strongest emotions in him with just a look or a word. It was amazing.

  “I don’t want you to think I’m just another crass city dweller,” he mumbled, staring at her lips. “I really do appreciate the effort. You’re a good sport.”

  “Oh,” Dixie said flatly, her foolish hopes deflating like a pricked balloon. Her cheeks colored with embarrassment as she stepped back from him. Of c
ourse he wasn’t going to kiss her. She had grease on her nose and smelled like a diesel engine. It was a wonder he’d even touched her. Not that she’d wanted him to touch her, the blasted, meticulous perfectionist.

  Good sport. Criminy. That was almost as flattering as being described to a blind date as having a nice personality.

  She ground her teeth and mentally argued with herself. What did she want? She couldn’t have her cake and eat it, too. She didn’t want the interest of a perfectionist, no matter how handsome he was, so she should be relieved that he’d called her a good sport, shouldn’t she? The fact that she wasn’t made her as ornery as a wet cat.

  “I mean it,” he went on. “Aside from pulling that gun on me, you’ve been very nice.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she said. “I’ve got a soft heart, is all.”

  That wasn’t all about her that was soft, Jake thought as he watched her move toward his car, hips swaying, rear wiggling in her snug jeans. He shook his head as lust tightened like a knot in his groin. This wasn’t like him at all. His passions were normally sane, civilized, controlled. He wasn’t the type of man who got turned on just by a well-rounded behind in a tight pair of jeans. He was obviously suffering from a kind of temporary insanity induced by the loss of his car.

  They stripped the Porsche of his personal possessions. Jake was careful to take charge of the box of files on Devon Stafford. It wouldn’t do for Miss La Fontaine to discover the stacks of photographs and reams of notes and articles he had accumulated. Even if she wasn’t related to his quarry there would still be the matter of explaining himself to Dixie and her friends—Smith and Wesson, he thought with a smile. She had a lot of spunk. He couldn’t help but like that. He placed the box on the floor of the Bronco behind the passenger seat and stacked his portable typewriter on top of it.

  “What’s left?” he called to Dixie.

  “Just a couple of weights.”

  “I’ll get those.”

  “No, no, I can manage,” she insisted, adding under her breath, “I’m such a sport, you know.”

  Jake watched as she staggered across the pavement like a wind-up toy gone out of control. A dumbbell weighed down each arm, throwing her off balance in one direction and then another. She hefted the weights into the back seat, breathlessly cursing the founder of the fitness craze. The weights bounced off the hard side of a suitcase and bounded back toward her. She gave a squeal and jumped, just managing to dodge them as they plummeted to the ground. She glared at Jake to keep away and wrestled the dumbbells back inside, then slammed the door before they could leap out at her again.

  “There,” she said, gasping for breath, giving Jake a determined, brittle smile. “I’ve been meaning to pump me some iron. I feel like a new woman. Tomorrow maybe I’ll bench-press a Toyota.”

  Jake bit back a grin. He decided to keep to himself the fact that the dumbbells were only ten-pounders. She could still get to that gun if she really wanted to.

  He went around the nose of the Bronco as Dixie pulled on a battered leather bomber jacket and climbed into the driver’s seat. The front seat was a disaster area, littered with junk-food wrappers, potato chip crumbs, and soda cans. An assortment of cheap bead necklaces hung from the rearview mirror and there was a Garfield doll clinging to a window by suction cups.

  After sweeping debris off the passenger seat, he settled himself, but promptly bolted forward. Cautiously he reached down into the crease of the seat, and came up with a huge purple comb with long, dangerous-looking teeth. Dixie gave a little gasp of pleased surprise as she snatched it away from him.

  “De—I’ve been looking all over for this!”

  “Why? Does your Clydesdale need grooming?” Jake asked dryly.

  Dixie’s bob certainly didn’t look as if it required a comb of that size. But a woman with long, long hair might, he thought, bubbles of excitement fizzing in his chest. He hadn’t missed her little slip of the tongue, either. He was on to something; he could feel it. And pretty little Dixie La Fontaine with her charm and penchant for firearms was the key.

  THREE

  THERE WASN’T MUCH to Mare’s Nest and all of it needed a coat of paint. They drove slowly through the town’s business district, which was comprised of one street. There were maybe half a dozen businesses, most of which had already closed for the day. The two exceptions sat across the street from each other down by the waterfront—Clem’s Seafood Restaurant, Live Bait and Taxidermy Shop, and Leo’s Magnolia Bar.

  “Are you hungry?” Dixie asked. Supper time had come and gone as far as her stomach was concerned and it was on the verge of complaining loudly. Now that it had gotten used to a steady supply of solid food again, it had become very demanding and she saw no reason not to give in to those demands. She had suffered long enough in the name of the perfect figure. Now she had more important things to think about than getting her fanny into a size four spandex miniskirt. Things like watching the sky turn iridescent as the sun pushed its way up over the Atlantic and listening to children playing on the beach.

  She watched Jake eye Clem’s pink neon sign warily.

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to eat seafood at a place that sells live bait?”

  “Oh, you’re okay so long as you don’t order anything deep-fried.”

  “I don’t eat fried food.”

  Figures, Dixie thought sourly, glancing over his gorgeous physique. She’d spotted him straight off. He was a California health nut. He probably drank bottled water from Switzerland and jogged every morning. Not her type at all. She was all through with people who were more worried about their cholesterol count than about their friends.

  Why then did she have to find him so doggone attractive?

  “What about the little café next to the bar?”

  Trulove Café had a sign so old it had gone out of fashion once and come back in. There were ruffled chintz curtains at the windows and a sign that said “Welcome,” but the lights were off. “Closed,” Dixie said. “They’re only open for breakfast and dinner.”

  Jake glanced at his watch. “It’s dinner time by me.”

  “Not around here it isn’t. Dinner is at noon. Supper is at night and the Trulove sisters don’t do supper. It interferes with them watching Wheel of Fortune. Besides, they’re in their eighties. They go to bed at eight-thirty.”

  She turned into the unpaved lot in front of the bar and parked next to a dull red pickup that looked as if it had been rolled and then beaten with tire irons. “Leo will fix us some sandwiches. It’s more than you’re going to get at the Cottages.”

  “No room service?”

  Dixie gave him a pained smile and shook her head. Room service. She wasn’t going to touch that with a ten-foot pole. Her hormones had all kinds of room service in mind concerning Jake Gannon, but it was probably best not to broach the subject.

  They entered the Magnolia Bar to a small chorus of “Hey, Dixie,” followed by a pregnant silence, during which all eyes were momentarily glued to Jake. The bar was dimly lit and smelled of cigarette smoke and beer. The bare wooden floor was littered with peanut shells. A marlin hung over the bar—an example of Clem’s fine hand at taxidermy. Three men were seated on vinyl-upholstered, chrome-legged stools at the bar; two elderly ladies occupied a small, round table near the big-screen TV. The booths along the far wall were empty.

  Dixie made a general introduction as she hauled herself up onto a bar stool and motioned for Jake to do the same. “Hey, everybody, this here’s Jake Gannon from California. His car broke down and he’ll be here till Eldon gets it fixed.”

  There were general murmurs of sympathy from the men as a deodorant commercial played on TV. Dixie pointed to each person and gave Jake a name. Bubby Bristol, Joe Dell Ward, Leo Vencour, the proprietor of the establishment. The Trulove sisters, Cora May and Divine, prim Southern ladies with flowered dresses and small clouds of cotton-candy hair. They all nodded pleasantly to Jake. The instant the program came back on, however, their attention went imme
diately to it.

  A man with buck teeth and a bad toupee was spinning the big wheel. He hit $1,500 and called for an L. The crowd at the bar shouted for him to spin again, but after some debate and a verbal prodding from Pat Sajak, the man announced he was going to solve the puzzle. This brought on groans and boos from the patrons of the Magnolia Bar.

  “Guy’s dumber than a red brick!”

  “He left double R’s and triple M’s!”

  The two white-haired ladies blew loud raspberries.

  Dixie frowned at them all. “Hey, now, maybe the fella needs that fifteen hundred to get braces for his kid and he didn’t dare spin again for fear he’d hit bankrupt and lose it all and his kid would have to go around looking like a big old nutria rat for the rest of his life. Y’all don’t know the kind of pressures he might be under.”

  Halfhearted grumblings of “I guess so” came from the crowd. They all frowned, eyes downcast into their beer mugs.

  Jake gave Dixie a curious look, a half-smile turning up the right side of his mouth. The sassy tow truck driving lady had a heart like a marshmallow. For some reason that idea pleased him enormously. He wanted to kiss her again. She made an annoyed face at him and thrust a plastic-coated menu into his hands.

  Leo roused himself from his seat and went behind the bar to take their orders. He was a tall, lean man in his sixties with slicked back thin gray hair and a face like a bloodhound. “What’ll y’all have tonight, then, folks?” he drawled, adding extra syllables to each word.

  “I’ll have the usual, Leo,” Dixie said with a smile.

  Jake glanced up from his menu with a dubious look. “Is the turkey on white bread?”

  Leo beamed. “White as snow.”

  Jake grimaced a little, drawing a startled frown from the bartender. “Are the tomatoes organically grown?”

  Leo’s brow furrowed. “They’re grown in the dirt if that’s what you mean.”

  Dixie rolled her eyes. “They’re grown in Macy Vencour’s greenhouse and the worst thing she puts on them is stale beer.”