Falling Hard and Fast Read online

  “It didn’t help my concentration any to lie next to you all night, Zoey,”

  Cage mused. “Listening to the soft sound of your breathing. Watching your face while you slept.”

  She stared at him transfixed, as if hypnotized by that low voice.

  “All that in-your-face toughness of yours disappears when you’re sleeping, did you know that?” His voice was husky, the finger he trailed down her cheek feather light. “I’m not the kind of man to spend a lot of time thinking about any one woman, but damned if I can figure a way to get you off my mind.

  “If you want a mystery to solve, Zoey, maybe you can start with that one.”

  FALLING HARD AND FAST

  KYLIE BRANT

  Books by Kylie Brant

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  McLain’s Law #528

  Rancher’s Choice #552

  An Irresistible Man #622

  Guarding Raine #693

  Bringing Benjy Home #735

  Friday’s Child #862

  *Undercover Lover #882

  *Heartbreak Ranch #910

  *Falling Hard and Fast #959

  KYLIE BRANT

  lives with her husband and five children in Iowa. She works full-time as a teacher for learning disabled students. Much of her free time is spent in her role as professional spectator at her kids’ sporting events.

  An avid reader, Kylie enjoys stories of love, mystery and suspense—and she insists on happy endings! When her youngest children, a set of twins, turned four, she decided to try her hand at writing. Now most weekends and all summer she can be found at her computer, spinning her own tales of romance and happily-ever-afters. Kylie invites readers to write to her at P.O. Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616.

  For Tom and Leona, my fairy godparents, with love.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 1

  It was an unlikely place for murder.

  Spanish moss dripped from huge cypress and oak trees along the winding Atchafalaya River, providing cover for the birds calling to each other in the fading afternoon sunlight. A soft blanket of velvety grass rolled toward the edge of the river, giving way to the reddish-brown soil that lined its banks. There was a quiet splash nearby as a sleek young otter slid into the water in search of dinner. The trio of rabbits grazing several yards away froze at the small sound, ears twitching, before returning their attention to the fragrant clover.

  Zoey Prescott lifted the wire-framed Ray•Bans from her face. The tragic death that had taken place here just five days ago had left no scar on this tranquil scene. There was no sinister aura of an unsolved homicide, no lingering sense of evil from the dark soul of a killer. The huge oak straight ahead looked to be a century old. Surely it was the one beneath which Janice Reilly’s naked, battered body had been discovered. Her very dead body.

  Zoey’s writer’s imagination could supply the details that were lacking. It wasn’t hard to understand why the killer had chosen this spot. The wooded area around it provided seclusion. Its distance from town had ensured that there would be no one close by to come to the woman’s aid.

  Daylight painted the area with serenity. At night, though, Zoey thought the place would lose its pastoral quality. The draping moss would be menacing against the inky sky, with only a sliver of moon, and the eyes of night creatures reflecting in the darkness. The sounds of predator and prey would seem even more horrifying to a woman trapped by a madman, her fate even more certain.

  Despite the hot humid air, Zoey felt a chill prickle over her skin. She couldn’t explain why a thirty-second newscast about a murder in rural Louisiana should shatter the writer’s block that had begun to seem as insurmountable as a fortress wall. Why hearing of the incredibly sad end to a young woman’s life should spark the creation of her next novel. Her agent had once joked that there was something a little bit twisted in all murder-mystery writers. Perhaps he was correct.

  She slipped on her sunglasses again. It was time to get back to the small house she’d rented on the outskirts of nearby Charity. Time to return to the unpacking that she’d barely started since arriving that morning. But she tarried for another moment, her gaze fixed upon the giant oak. And before she turned toward her car, she offered up a silent prayer for Janice Reilly.

  A more jaded man might have cursed God for creating sultry Louisiana summers, but Cage Gauthier liked to believe they served a purpose. Leaning against the bar in Jonesy’s, he contemplated the perfect creature being seated at a table nearby. Her brief denim shorts showed miles of spectacular leg and her white tank top outlined curves that had surely been fashioned by angels.

  He tipped a frosty bottle of beer to his lips. It was hard to get worked up about the climate when it was accompanied by such outstanding advantages. Cage liked to think he was a reasonable man. He was willing to overlook the torrid temperatures, the above-average precipitation and the bone-slicking humidity as long as they continued to produce scantily-clad goddesses.

  “Oh, my blessed mama,” a familiar voice crooned. Tanner Beauchamp fell onto the stool beside him, one hand clutched to his heart. From the direction of his gaze it was apparent that he’d seen the woman. “Who is she, where is she staying and how long must I wait before she jumps my ever-ready bones?”

  Cage answered his questions sequentially. “I don’t know, I don’t know, and I don’t even want to go there.” Setting the half-empty bottle on the bar, he turned to regard his childhood friend. “She’s been here long enough to get the word about Jonesy’s, at any rate.” A couple of miles from town, it wasn’t a place most strangers would seek out on their own. The inside was only slightly more inviting than the shabby exterior. Neon beer signs and fly-specked posters of questionable taste adorned the cracked walls. The bar and the tables were scarred, the air-conditioning uncertain. But the tavern boasted the finest grill in the parish. What Jonesy did to rib eye was enough to make a strong man weep.

  They watched the woman close her menu decisively and order from Lilah, the part-time bartender, part-time waitress. “Wish me luck, buddy.” Tanner straightened and ran his fingers through his dark hair. “That little lady is about to get a megadose of Southern charm and hospitality.”

  Mildly, Cage raised an eyebrow. “You know, I’m thinking you really don’t look her type.”

  “Oh, I’m her type.” Tanner winked. “She just doesn’t know it yet.” Slipping off the barstool, he walked over to the woman’s table, pulled up a free chair and sat down.

  With a twinge of disappointment, Cage reached back and snagged the beer bottle with two fingers. Bringing it to his lips, he drained it and signaled Silas behind the bar to bring him another. It wasn’t unusual for Tanner to take a running start on any pretty face in his sights, but it was unusual for Cage to care one way or another. Since returning to his hometown two years ago, he’d spent more time than he liked to consider sidestepping genteel marriage-minded ladies of the parish. He’d be a liar if he denied he got more than his fair share of attention. Which he enthusiastically returned, but only within careful boundaries.

  Digging a crumpled bill from his pocket, he handed it to Silas, then turned back to assess Tanner’s progress. Things weren’t looking good for his smooth-talking friend. The woman was gazing at him with an expression that no man could misconstrue as friendly. Cage wondered what color her eyes were. From this angle he couldn’t see, bu
t he’d bet they were dark, to match her thick mane of brown hair.

  Things happened very quickly then. She leaned forward and said something to Tanner that had him gaping in response, obviously speechless. Chuckling to himself, Cage leaned back against the bar and raised his beer bottle to his lips. It was amazing, he thought as his friend returned, how a grown man could look so much like a whipped pup slinking away after a scolding.

  “Silas.” Cage motioned the bartender over. “A beer for my disgraced friend here. Something to wash the taste of humiliation from his mouth.”

  Tanner shot him a look laden with irritation and grabbed the beer Silas slid toward him. “Nothing like having an audience watch me get shot down.”

  “You didn’t just get shot down, son, you crashed and burned.” Cage felt remarkably cheerful about the whole thing. The brunette’s list of admirable attributes lengthened as he mentally added her discriminating taste.

  Tanner shrugged and took a long swallow of beer. His ego was too strong to have been dented by the encounter, though there might have been a scratch or two from Cage having witnessed it. “Hard to understand. Most Yankee gals just plain melt away at this stunning package of Southern drawl and handsome looks.”

  “‘Yankee’?” Cage looked over his shoulder, appraising the woman again.

  “Ice-cold Northerner. Must have some defective genetic trait.”

  “It’s called intelligence.” His tone was absent and the insult lacked sting. Craning his neck, he could just make out a dark blue foreign sedan parked out front. No one in the parish drove a car like that. His mouth kicked up in a slow, lazy grin. No one in the parish parked like that. Illegally.

  Tanner’s eyes widened as Cage slipped from his stool. “You’re going to try your luck?”

  “Nope. Just going to drop her a friendly warning about parking fines. It would be a shame if she were to get on the wrong side of the law while she’s here, wouldn’t it?” Without waiting for a response, he ambled away.

  He stood in front of the brunette for a full minute before she deigned to lift her gaze from the ice cubes doing a slow melt in the glass before her. Not a man to waste an opportunity, he used the time to admire the picture she made. The tank top showed off arms that were toned rather than muscled, and skin the color of rich cream. Her hair was swept back from a finely molded forehead with a slight widow’s peak. Then her eyes met his and a fist squeezed his lungs. Instead of the brown he’d expected, they were a deep moss green. And if they could shoot daggers, he’d be lying at her feet, slashed and bleeding.

  He grinned and hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Evening, ma’am.”

  It took all of three seconds to take his measure. Another small-town Lothario, Zoey concluded, who relied on dimples, charm and boyish good looks to blind the eye and dazzle the senses. She considered herself a gold-plated expert on fast-talking handsome men; experience had taught her just how treacherous they could be.

  Her words, and the feeling behind them, were succinct. “Get lost.”

  “That’d be kinda hard to do.” Cage rubbed his chin reflectively. “See, I grew up in this town. I know it like the back of my hand. I don’t think there’s a spot in the entire parish I’m not familiar with.”

  “And your point is?”

  Patience evident in his voice, he explained, “I couldn’t get lost, ma’am. Not even if I wanted to.”

  Leaning back in her chair, Zoey toyed with her silverware. It really wasn’t difficult to remain unmoved by his banter. All she had to do was look at him and see Alan. Slick, smooth Alan, whose gift for numbers was matched only by his expertise in seduction techniques. The liberties he’d taken with her money had no doubt given him far greater pleasure than those he’d taken with her body. She was woman enough to hate him more for that fact than for his crimes.

  Her voice cool, she asked, “Do you have a problem understanding rejection?”

  Cage cocked his head, as if considering her question. “‘Rejection’? No, ma’am, I’ve been rejected before.”

  “By a woman holding a knife?”

  He glanced at her fingers playing with the steak knife, and his eyes crinkled. “As a matter of fact…” He waited for her gaze to heat and narrow before leaning forward, holding up a bent arm for her to examine. “See this scar?” He tapped a faded white line on the underside of his arm. “That’s where Janey Wilson grazed me with a pocketknife when I was nine.”

  Without thinking, Zoey leaned forward a little to examine the barely discernible wound. “It doesn’t look too lethal.”

  He nearly smiled at the disappointment tinging her words. “No, ma’am, the most lethal wound Janey delivered was here.” His fingers went to the buttons on his shirt, and her eyes widened, shocked.

  “What are you doing?” Her gaze darted from one side to the other before glaring at him. “Quit that!”

  He opened the shirt enough to pull it to the left side, baring the skin molded over a perfectly sculpted pectoral muscle. “See that place right there?”

  She couldn’t find a safe spot to look. She absolutely did not want to know how many of the locals were watching this exchange, and that expanse of golden skin was the last thing she was going to focus on. “I don’t see anything,” she said between clenched teeth. “Button your shirt.”

  “Well, sure, you can’t see it,” he said reasonably. “But Janey Wilson was the first girl to show me how to kiss, and then she up and dumped me for Robbie James Talbot. He had this space between his front teeth, see, and when the wind was just right he could spit half a city block.” He shook his head in remembered admiration. “Now, I ask you, how could I compete with that?”

  She blinked, wondering for the first time if she’d been accosted by a crazy man. “What are you talking about?”

  Solemnly he answered, “Well, ma’am, Janey near about carved up my heart, dumping me the way she did.”

  Zoey’s grip tightened unconsciously on the knife. She’d been wrong. He wasn’t like Alan at all. Alan at least had been sane. Unethical, perhaps. An immoral jerk and a poor excuse for a human being. But sane.

  She didn’t want to admit to the relief that flickered through her when he buttoned his shirt. “Very amusing. Perhaps Janey should have adjusted her aim a foot and a half lower.”

  He grinned at that—a brilliant display of perfect white teeth, revealing such good-natured humor that she almost forgot herself and smiled back. Almost. He wasn’t as easily dispatched as his friend, and it wouldn’t do to encourage him. He’d already proved impervious to the defenses she’d meticulously crafted that kept most men at a distance. Her most valuable weapons—a cool steady stare and a cutting tongue—were noticeably ineffectual with him.

  “Ouch. You’ve got a wicked train of thought. I think I’m glad I didn’t know you when I was nine.”

  “You don’t know me now.”

  “Which brings me to the reason I came over here. Cage Gauthier is my name.” She thought, fancifully, that his slow, liquid drawl coated his words like honey. “I’m—”

  “In my way, is what you are.” Lilah pushed by him with a swing of her generous hips and set a salad in front of Zoey. “Don’t even let this one get started, miss,” she advised. “He’s as pesky as a mosquito. Give him the slightest encouragement and his nonsense will be buzzing in your ear all evening.”

  “You’re a hard woman, Lilah. Unforgiving, too,” he added, when she fixed him with a look. “The way you carry a grudge is shameful. I know I promised to marry you when I grew up, but you didn’t wait the way you said you would, either.”

  Lilah arched her brows at him with the familiarity of someone who’d known him all his life. “I’m still waiting, boy. You just haven’t grown up yet.” She let out a hoot at her own joke and Zoey smiled, picking up her fork. As a hint, it failed miserably. Cage didn’t appear to be going anywhere.

  “No respect,” he muttered mournfully, as Lilah bustled back to the kitchen. He winked at Zoey, inviting her to share th
e joke, his lazy, disarming gesture loaded with appeal. She felt the effect of it clear to her fingertips, which, along with her palms, had become inexplicably moist. She resisted the impulse to wipe them on her napkin, and deliberately dropped the temperature in her voice a few degrees.

  “You won’t find any here, either. I’m starving and I’d like to start my dinner. Alone.”

  Damned if that snooty tone of hers didn’t tickle him. She sounded for all the world like she ought to be wearing a jeweled crown and carrying a scepter. He feigned hurt. “And after I came over here to do you a favor.”

  “If you want to do me a favor, disappear.”

  “How about a little advice instead?” He leaned forward to cross his arms on the top of the chair before him, and lowered his voice confidingly. “Next time you come to Jonesy’s you might want to take a closer look at the curbs. The sheriff is an affable sort, but he can’t be expected to overlook flagrant parking violations.”

  “My car isn’t in a no parking area.” She was almost sure of it.

  His tone was rueful. “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid it is. Parked smack-dab in the middle of Jonesy’s loading zone.”

  She turned her attention to her salad with an air of dismissal even he couldn’t ignore. “I’ll take my chances with the sheriff. If I do see him, I’ll also ask about his policy on pest control.”

  The tone was regal, even when she was insulting him. It matched the haughty look on her face, the determined set of her lush lips. He wondered if it was only his imagination that detected a hint of uncertainty softening them.

  “You do that, ma’am.” Amusement laced his words. “I know for a fact that he never misses an opportunity to discuss parish ordinances with a pretty woman.”

  She’d made the right decision in coming to Charity. Zoey leaned back in her desk chair and contemplated the willows weeping in the backyard. The churning in her stomach had reappeared only once since her arrival, and a couple of antacids followed by a record-setting eight uninterrupted hours of sleep had alleviated it. The vicious headaches had abated, and she suspected that if she cut her caffeine intake by half, those, too, would disappear. The thought had her reaching for her cup of coffee. It couldn’t be healthy to make too many changes in her life at once.