Falling for the Enemy (Private Pleasures 3)

Ginny hurried toward her front door, stopping mid-stride to balance on one foot and tug the heel strap of her black and white polka-dot high-wedge espadrille more snugly into place. She’d slept a bit later than normal—no surprise after last night—and then wasted some time sulking upon realizing Shaun had stuck to his usual MO and left sometime after she’d drifted off. What had she expected? If she’d wanted him to stick around, she should have at least stayed awake long enough to issue the invitation, but then Ms. Van Hendler might have seen him leaving this morning, and, in all likelihood, he didn’t fancy that any more than she did.

He’d remained amazingly neutral about the mayoral race, but she knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t willingly do something to compromise her. Yes, a small, uncertain, and no-doubt unfair part of her wondered where his loyalties would lie if push ever came to shove, but when he’d looked into her eyes last night and told her she had him—as much as she needed, as long as she needed—she’d let herself hope maybe he intended to stick. She’d let herself hope maybe she wasn’t the only one wishing there might be some way to forge a future, whatever happened with the mayor’s race. She’d let herself hope maybe things were changing for him, too.

And then she’d woken up alone.

She mentally kicked her butt into gear and resumed walking toward the door. None of the hoping and wishing accomplished a damn thing at the moment, but between the sleeping and the sulking and having to walk to church because her car was in impound, she was going to miss the opening hymn.

Her purse sat exactly where she’d left it last night, on the entryway table. She scooped it up, and, out of habit, looked in her wallet to make sure she had her checkbook. Jesus took checks and Uncle Sam allowed the deduction. Win-win. Her cell phone woke up from all the jostling and the screen caught her eye. She hadn’t checked it since she’d passed it to Roger last night through the bars of the holding cell. Now she noticed the security camera icon showed eleven alerts.

Shaun on your doorstep. You and Roger arriving last night. Shaun leaving this morning. Even though she didn’t have time to spare, curiosity got the better of her. She tapped the icon and pulled up the images. And froze. The most recent images were from the store cam, not the porch cam, and clearly showed Justin spray-painting the same obscene graffiti on her salon wall.

“Son-of-a—” She dialed Shaun’s number, for no good reason except she wanted to confirm he saw the same thing she saw. And, okay, she wanted to talk to him, and, spineless as it was, she wanted him to offer to be with her when she called the sheriff to report the matter. After all, last night he’d said—

“Hello Virginia.”

God, he sounded like a flat tire. Worn out and depleted. Whatever happened between them, his days of getting up at two in the morning to drive home were over, she vowed. The man needed a decent night’s sleep. “Hey sugar, have you checked the security camera? Because I did, just now, and—”

“I checked. I saw. I handled it.”

Something was wrong. He sounded wrong. “What do you mean it’s handled? I need to call the sheriffs and show them this video.”

“No you don’t. Don’t call. Don’t drive out there. Don’t go anywhere near the sheriff’s department. Promise me, Virginia. What I need you to do is go on to church.”

“Go to church and let Justin get away with defacing my store for the second time? What the hell, Shaun?”

He responded with a weary sigh. “I took the video over to the house last night, to show Tom, and—”

“You showed Tom? You didn’t think to wake me up and show me, but you showed Tom? Why would you do that?” Her voice rose in pitch with each word, until even she cringed by the end of the question.

“I had my reasons. If you calm down long enough to let me finish, I’ll explain.”

Calm down? The man had betrayed her trust and now told her to calm down? How about an I’m sorry? A cold, hollow ache spread through her chest. “You know what? You can take your reasons and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine. I don’t need an explanation for something this clear. I tried really hard not to put you in any position where you had to choose between Tom and me, but, deep down, I wondered who you’d stand by if you had to take a stand. Sucker that I am I actually thought you might stand by me. Now I don’t have to wonder anymore. I know exactl

y where your loyalties lie. So thanks for that.”

“Virginia, you don’t know a damn thing—”

“I know I’ve had my fill of Buchanans,” she hurled back, and then disconnected, because a sob kept trying to claw its way out of her throat, and she’d be damned if she let his choice reduce her to tears.

A text message immediately dinged. From him. Tears blurred her vision, but she managed to read the words.

Trust me. Please. Just go to church.

Trust him? Never again. As far as the rest, it wasn’t like she had any choice. She wasn’t going to call the sheriff on her own. She put her purse on her shoulder, strode out the door and shut it behind her with a wood-vibrating bang.

But if Roger was at church, she planned to show him the video and ask him to hold her hand while she pressed charges. The Buchanans might be powerful, but they couldn’t buy, barter, or back-scratch their way out of this.

Fifteen minutes later she scooted into the pew beside Melody and Josh, and joined in the last verse of the opening hymn, “The Joy of Forgiveness”. She recognized the back of Tom’s head, occupying his usual spot in the front pew, but neither Justin nor Brandi flanked him. Instead he stood between two dark-suited men she couldn’t place from her vantage point. Was Justin sleeping in after his late night spent menacing society?

She cast a quick glance toward the back of the church, not really surprised to find it empty.

Reverend Carlson motioned for the congregation to be seated, and then, with an uncharacteristically solemn face, approached the pulpit and said into the microphone, “I had a different sermon planned for today, but a member of our flock needs our ear this morning. Please join with me in welcoming Tom Buchanan.”

Melody glanced at her and raised her eyebrows. She shook her head, but inside, she scrambled. What was this about? Did Tom think he could mitigate the backlash of Justin’s behavior by throwing himself on the mercy of the church?

Tom stood and walked the few steps to the podium. When he turned to face the congregation, she nearly fell out of her seat. He looked pale, haggard—like he’d aged into every one of his fifty-some years virtually overnight. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who thought so, because a little wave of concern rustled through the congregation.

This has nothing to do with Justin spray-painting your shop. Somebody’s in the hospital, or the morgue, or…