All of Me Read online

  By lunchtime, Jillian had a list as long as her arm of things that needed repairing in the house, and she’d only made it through the downstairs kitchen, living area, and bathroom. She hadn’t even ventured into the bedrooms upstairs.

  Feeling overwhelmed, she plunked down onto the couch and stared glumly at her surroundings. What had she gotten herself into?

  This behavior wasn’t like her. She wasn’t impulsive or spontaneous. So why had she thrown everything away and just moved up here on a whim? In retrospect, it was quite stupid. Especially since she might not even have a legal claim to the house. What in God’s name had she been thinking?

  What? Why? Because her life in Houston had stopped working. She’d needed a change and needed it badly. But she hadn’t bargained on feeling so … so … What did she feel?

  Jillian sighed. Well, there was nothing to do but make the best of the situation. She’d clean the house, that was a first step. And she’d start by throwing away the piles and piles of magazines and newspapers stacked all around the living room. Apparently Tucker Manning was something of a pack rat.

  She rummaged through the kitchen, found black plastic garbage bags, and returned to the living room. She picked up a stack of magazines. Architectural Digest mostly. She tossed them into the garbage bag and then reached for another handful.

  Her gaze fell on the cover. There was a picture of Tuck looking quite debonair in a tuxedo. He was winking, arms folded across his chest, biceps bulging at the seams of his suit, a sly grin on his face.

  The caption read manning magic.

  This was the scruffy naked bum she’d found sleeping on the couch in her house?

  Unbelievable.

  Correction. It’s not officially your house yet.

  Fascinated to uncover this new information, she sat cross-legged on the floor and flipped to the page with the article about the brilliant young architect the media had dubbed the “Magic Man.” He designed classrooms so conducive to learning that test scores and grades shot up in students who attended classes in a Manning school.

  The article heaped praise on his talent, citing him as one of the most influential young architects of his generation. There were detailed photographs of the learning centers he designed and pictures of his exclusive Manhattan loft. According to the piece, he dated starlets and heiresses and traveled the world.

  Why had he given it all up to live like a vagrant in Blake’s summerhouse? Yes, he’d lost a wife, but that was two years ago. Why hadn’t he gone back to his former life?

  Jillian flipped back to the cover and saw the magazine had come out four years earlier.

  “Wow, you’re a lot more complicated than appearances led me to believe, Tucker Manning,” she muttered.

  “And you’re a lot snoopier than you look,” growled Tuck from the living room archway.

  Startled, Jillian let out an “Eeep” and tossed the magazine in the air.

  Glowering, Tuck “Magic Man” Manning marched across the living room and scooped up the magazine from the fireplace hearth where it had landed. “Mind your own damn business. And keep your hands off my magazines.”

  “Why are you so testy?”

  “Um … let’s see. I have some strange woman claiming to have inherited my house. You think that has anything to do with my sour mood?”

  “So get another place and leave this one to me. According to that magazine, you’re rolling in dough.”

  “Not anymore,” he snapped.

  “Went bankrupt, did you?”

  “What part of ‘mind your own business’ do you not understand?”

  “So you’re the Magic Man.”

  “Don’t go there.”

  “Imagine,” she teased. “I’ve seen the Magic Man in his BVDs.”

  He snorted. “Only because you were breaking and entering.”

  “Door was open, no breaking involved. I was merely entering. And in case you’ve forgotten, I was operating on the assumption that it was my house.”

  “As if you’d let me forget that.”

  “What happened to the tux?”

  “Huh?”

  “The tux you were wearing on the magazine cover. What happened to it?” she asked.

  “I sent it out to have it cleaned along with my Rolls-Royce.”

  “What would Architectural Digest say if they knew how truly crabby the Magic Man could be. Not so magical after all.”

  He chuffed out his breath. “I’m not that guy anymore, so can we just drop the whole thing?”

  “Aw, but we were just getting to know each other.”

  “You’re a smart-ass, aren’t you?”

  She batted her eyelashes. “Thanks for noticing.”

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “Hmm what?” She canted her head.

  “I can see why you’re not married.”

  Ouch, that was a low blow. Clearly he was getting even with her for the Magic Man teasing. “How do you know I’m not married.”

  “Are you?”

  “No.” She looked away so she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes, and she saw how badly the corners needed dusting. There were so many cobwebs that John Carpenter could set a horror flick in here.

  “Okay, then, let’s go.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Go where?”

  “To the Bluebird.”

  “Bluebird?”

  “What are you? An echo? It’s a café.”

  “What for?”

  “For one thing, it’s lunchtime,” he said. “And I know you haven’t eaten, because there’s no food in the house.”

  “But plenty of beer in the fridge,” she noted.

  “You’ve been going through my things.”

  Jillian hazarded another glance at him. That blue flannel against his olive complexion … well … totally breathtaking. “Hey, you were the one who took off.”

  “The second reason we’re going to the Bluebird is to see Sutter Godfrey. He has lunch there every Sunday.”

  “Sutter Godfrey?”

  “My lawyer.”

  “We’re not bothering the man on his day off, especially when he’s eating a meal. It’ll keep until tomorrow.”

  “No.” Tuck’s eyes flashed darkly. “No, it won’t. I want this thing settled right now. I have a feeling you don’t believe me about the deed.”

  He was right, she didn’t.

  “Let’s go,” he repeated.

  Jillian shrugged into her jacket. “Just to be clear, I’m not going with you because you ordered me to go. I’m hungry.”

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t mistake you for someone who took directions well,” he said.

  “As long as that’s settled.” She flipped her hair out from under the collar of her jacket where it had gotten caught. “What kind of food do they serve at the Bluebird?”

  “It’s a café. They serve café food.”

  “Now who’s the smart-ass?”

  Silence fell and she instantly had a flashback and saw the firm shape of his bare back as it disappeared into the waistband of his undies. Briefly, she closed her eyes and willed the image away.

  “You with me?”

  She opened her eyes and shot him a surreptitious glance. He had long, extravagant eyelashes that were in sharp contrast to the rest of his thoroughly masculine face. Those lashes kept his rugged looks from being too harsh. His lips were full but angular. Her gaze just hung there. Spellbound, she wondered if his lips tasted as good in person as they had in her dream.

  “Are we taking separate cars?” she asked.

  He pulled his keys from his pocket. “I’m driving. You’ve got a U-Haul attached to your Sebring.”

  “Oh yeah.” She’d forgotten about that.

  “What should I do with Mutt?”

  “Bring him along. The Bluebird keeps a leash clip chained to a pole outside for four-legged visitors, along with a water bowl and complimentary dog biscuits.”

  “Wow, imagine. Pet pampe
ring in the wilds of Colorado.”

  “It’s not Antarctica.”

  “The cell phone reception is pretty bad.”

  “Mountains. They’re tall.”

  “Ooh, there’s that smart mouth again.”

  They reached his pickup truck, and he walked around to the passenger side to hold the door open for her. It felt weird, and she realized she couldn’t remember a guy ever opening the car door for her. Surely someone had, but the memory escaped her. A funny, unexpected feeling she couldn’t define swooped through her.

  Hell, he impressed you.

  No, no, she wasn’t impressed; she was just … just what?

  He opened the back of the extended cab and whistled for Mutt, and the dog hopped inside.

  “So,” she said when they were in the car together and headed up Enchantment Lane. “What happened with the big, splashy architectural career?”

  “The topic isn’t open for discussion.”

  “Oookay. How do you make a living these days?”

  He paused for so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer the question, and then finally he said, “Carpenter.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “From the shape the lake house is in? Yeah. How come you didn’t fix it up, if as you claim, Blake deeded the place to you?”

  “I was getting around to it.”

  “Ah,” she said.

  “Ah, what?”

  “The Round-to-It. Bane of homeowners everywhere.”

  Tuck grunted and ignored that comment, but his eyes were on her. She tried not to notice, but she couldn’t help seeing the interest there. His tousled hair fell sexily over his forehead. Just like in her dream. Nervously, she fingered the bracelet on her wrist.

  Stop looking at him. Stop thinking about him. Find something else to occupy your mind.

  Jillian thought about all that work that needed doing on the house. Thought of his carpentry skills. He couldn’t be all bad. He’d opened the car door for her and brought her dog along on their outing.

  And he’d given her one hell of an orgasm in her dreams. Two orgasms if she was being technical.

  That was reason enough to stay as far away from him as she could manage. But how was she going to do that while he was living in the house she’d inherited?

  Except for the fact that maybe she hadn’t inherited it after all.

  As Tuck pulled into the parking lot of the Bluebird, Jillian had the sudden realization that moving to Colorado might have been one of the dumbest mistakes of her life—even dumber than her ill-fated affair with Alex Fredericks.

  Chapter Seven

  Evie watched Tuck return to the café with Jillian in tow. One look at the woman and she thought, Uh-oh.

  She didn’t understand the uneasiness in her stomach or her sudden mother-bear need to protect her little brother at all costs. All she knew was the interloper looked like Warrior Woman—with her tall imposing height, her sharp dark eyes, and the I-dare-you-to-cross-me set to her shoulders. She was a scrapper, and the last thing Tuck needed was a fight.

  Who was she, and what was she doing with Evie’s baby brother?

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Evie came around the front counter, her gaze sizing up the Amazon.

  The Amazon’s return stare was cool and emotionless.

  Evie narrowed her eyes. “Hey, Tuck. If you’re looking for Ridley again, he went down to Fielder’s Market. We ran out of eggs. Dutch had a mishap with the eggs Benedict.”

  “Nope, we’re here to see Sutter.”

  We’re here? As if they were a couple. Looking for the town’s only lawyer. Something smelled fishy.

  “He’s in the back at his usual table with the usual suspects.” The curiosity was killing her. Apparently Tuck wasn’t going to introduce her. Evie pasted on her best hostess smile, even though she wasn’t feeling the love, and thrust out her hand. “Hi,” she said to the Amazon. “I’m Evie, Tuck’s big sister.”

  The Amazon barely cracked a smile. “Jillian Samuels.” She shook hands like a logger. Firm and strong and serious.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here.”

  “You passing through town?”

  “Evie, could you cut us some slack? We just want to see Sutter,” Tuck said. “Then later we’ll grab some lunch.”

  Evie’s fingers tingled and she jammed her hand into her back pocket. “Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing Sutter can’t handle,” he said, and turned for the back room, Jillian at his heels like a shadow.

  Evie felt a stab of something closely akin to jealousy. For the last two years, she’d essentially been the only woman in her grief-stricken brother’s life. She deserved more info than that. Blast it, she’d changed his diapers and pulled his first baby tooth and taught him how to whistle and snap his fingers. She trailed them to the door of the other room.

  Tuck walked up to Sutter, who was surrounded by his cronies—the town elders—who kept counsel in the Bluebird most days of the week and introduced the old barrister to Jillian.

  Evie cocked her head, trying to eavesdrop on the conversation, but the lunch crowd was booming. The diner hummed with the noise of buzzing voices and clanking silverware and the Hank Williams CD Dutch had stuck on, now playing. “Hey, Good Lookin’.”

  She started to slip farther into the room, but a pair of masculine hands coming to rest on her shoulders stopped her in her tracks.

  “Mind your own business, big sister,” Ridley whispered into her ear.

  Evie stiffened. “Tuck is my business.”

  “He’s a grown man.”

  “A heartbroken grown man.”

  “Still …” Ridley turned her around and pointed her in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Who’s that woman he’s with? Did you know he was seeing someone? How come you didn’t tell me?”

  “I don’t know who she is for sure, but I imagine it’s the temptress.”

  “The who?” Evie jerked her head to stare up at him as he guided her away from the group in the back room.

  Ridley sighed. “Promise me you won’t get upset.”

  “Upset? What’s there to get upset about?” She twisted from Ridley’s masculine grip.

  “Remember the night I put him in the sweat lodge?”

  Evie didn’t like the sound of this. “Uh-huh… .”

  “Well, your brother had a vision.”

  “A vision, huh?”

  “In the vision he was visited by a temptress.”

  “Meaning?”

  Her big husband nodded his head toward the back room. “Meaning she’s his destiny, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to change it.”

  SUTTER GODFREY was holding court.

  The elderly lawyer sat in a wheelchair at the head of the table, dressed in a blue seersucker suit straight out of the 1940s, complete with a blue and white polka-dot bow tie.

  He was a thin man, with a thick flush of white hair and a dapper Charlie Chaplin mustache. He had to be pushing eighty downhill. He was surrounded by five other men, four of whom were in his age group and dressed in the usual hunter regalia—camouflage clothes, down vests, and orange baseball caps. A couple of them looked to be of Native American ancestry. The fifth appeared to be a decade younger than the rest of the bunch. He had on jeans, a starched button-down white shirt, and a gray tweed jacket.

  The minute Sutter spied Jillian, his pale blue eyes lit up. “Scoot over, Bonner, Carl, and let the young people have a seat.”

  She and Tuck took the quickly vacated positions to Sutter’s right; “Sutter,” Tuck said, “This is Jillian Samuels. Jillian, Sutter Godfrey.”

  “It’s rare for Salvation to be graced with the charm and beauty of one so refined as you,” Sutter drawled in a deep South Carolina accent.

  Her bullshit meter clicked rapidly. “You have a gift for flattery, Mr. Godfrey. A handy talent for a lawyer.”

  “Let me introduce my assoc
iates.” Sutter went around the table naming off the men. The guy in the tweed jacket was Salvation’s only practicing physician, Dr. Bonner Couts. The two Native Americans, Tom Red Deer and Sam Soap, were the elders of their tribes. One was a retired mechanic, the other a still-practicing accountant. The remaining two men were Carl Fielder and Dub Bennet, town counsel members and local merchants. Carl owned Fielder’s Market, and Dub ran a hunting and fishing guide service.

  They might be fading into old age, but it was clear that this group still held a lot of power in the community.

  “So what might I do for you and this lovely lady, Tucker?” Sutter took a sip of coffee, eying them over the rim of his cup as he waited.

  “Could you please confirm for Ms. Samuels that Blake Townsend deeded me his lake house?”

  Jillian clenched her hands in her lap. She didn’t want to know why her throat suddenly squeezed so tight she could barely breathe.

  Sutter pursed his lips and set down his cup. “I do recall having that conversation with Blake, yes, indeed.”

  Tuck exhaled audibly. “So you filed the deed?”

  “Hmm.” Sutter paused. “I do believe so, yes. But as you recall, that was about the time I took a nasty fall down the steps of the Peabody Mansion and broke my right hip.”

  “I recall.”

  Sutter nodded as if that explained everything.

  “So you have a copy of the deed on file in your office?” Jillian asked.

  “Most likely,” Sutter drawled. The guy spoke as if a simple yes or no would kill him.

  “I’m the executor of Blake’s will. Is it possible to get a copy for the probate?”

  “Surely, my dear.” He smiled. “Anything for a beautiful lady.”

  “That would be helpful, thank you.”

  “Of course,” he went on, “you’ll have to go find it for yourself. I can no longer climb the stairs to my office.”

  “You don’t have an assistant?”

  “Sadly, my previous assistant took up with the wrong kind of fellow, found herself in a family way, and left town in shame.”

  “What about a computer? Don’t you have electronic files?”

  Sutter shook his head. “I never learned to use those infernal machines. My assistant had one, but I have no idea what she did on it.”

  Good grief, had she been jettisoned back to 1950? If she turned around, would she see Sheriff Andy Taylor and Deputy Barney Fife walk through the door? Would Aunt Bee come rushing in with a homemade apple pie? Would Opie tag along, fishing pole cocked over his shoulder?