Rachel Gibson - True Confessions

The car rolled slowly past, its tinted windows concealing whoever was inside. Dylan dropped his gaze to the iridescent vanity license plate with the seven blue letters spelling out MZBHAVN. If that wasn’t bad enough, splashed across the top of the plate like a neon kick-me sign was the word “California” painted in red. Dylan hoped like hell the car pulled an illegal U and headed right back out of town.

Instead, the Porsche pulled into a space in front of the Blazer and the engine died. The driver’s door swung open. One turquoise silver-toed Tony Lama hit the pavement and a slender bare arm reached out to grasp the top of the doorframe. Glimmers of light caught on a thin gold watch wrapped around a slim wrist. Then MZBHAVN stood, looking for all the world like she was stepping out of one of those women’s glamour magazines that gave beauty tips.

“Holy shit,” Lewis uttered.

Like her watch, sunlight shimmered like gold in her straight blond hair. From a side part, her glossy hair fell to her shoulders without so much as one unruly wave or curl. The ends so blunt they might have been cut with a carpenter’s level. A pair of black cat’s-eye sunglasses covered her eyes, but couldn’t conceal the arch of her blond brows or her smooth, creamy complexion.

The car door shut, and Dylan watched MZBHAVN walk toward him. There was absolutely no overlooking those full lips. Her dewy red mouth drew his attention like a bee to the brightest flower in the garden, and he wondered if she’d had fat injected into her lips.

The last time Dylan had seen his son’s mother, Julie, she’d had that done, and her lips had just sort of lain there on her face when she talked. Real spooky.

Even if he hadn’t seen the woman’s California plates, and if she were dressed in a potato sack, he’d know she was big-city. It was all in the way she moved, straight forward, with purpose, and in a hurry. Big-city women were always in such a hurry. She looked like she belonged strolling down Rodeo Drive instead of in the Idaho wilderness. A stretchy white tank top covered the full curves of her breasts and a pair of equally tight jeans bonded to her like she was a seal-a-meal.

“Excuse me,” she said as she came to stand by the hood of the Blazer. “I was hoping you might be able to help me.” Her voice was as smooth as the rest of her, but impatient as hell.

“Are you lost, ma’am?” Lewis asked.

She blew out a breath through those deep red lips that on closer inspection appeared to be completely natural. “I’m looking for Timberline Road.”

Dylan touched the brim of his hat with the tip of his forefinger and pushed the Stetson to his hairline. “Are you a friend of Shelly Aberdeen’s?”

“No.”

“Well, now, there isn’t anything out on Timberline but Paul and Shelly Aberdeen’s place.” He took his mirrored sunglasses from his breast pocket and slipped them up the bridge of his nose. Then he folded his arms over his chest, rested his weight on one foot, and lowered his gaze down the slim column of her throat to her full, rounded breasts and smiled. Very nice.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Was he sure? Paul and Shelly had lived in that same house since they’d first got married, about eighteen years ago. He chuckled and raised his gaze to her face once more. “Fairly sure. I was just out there this morning, ma’am.”

“I was told Number Two Timberline was on Timberline Road.”

“Are you sure about that?” Lewis asked as he glanced across the light bar at Dylan.

“Yes,” the woman answered. “I picked up the key from the realtor in Sun Valley, and that’s the address he gave me.”

Just the mention of that house conjured up some wild memories in people’s minds. Dylan had heard the house finally sold to a real estate property manager, and apparently the company had found a sucker.

“Are you sure you want Number Two Timberline?” Lewis clarified, turning his attention to the woman in front of him. “That’s the old Donnelly place.”

“That’s right. I leased it for the next six months.”

Dylan pulled his hat back down his forehead. “No one’s lived there for a while.”

“Really? The realtor never told me that. How long has it been empty?”

Lewis Plummer was a true gentleman, and one of the few people in town who didn’t outright lie to flatlanders. Lewis had also been born and raised in Gospel, where prevarication was considered an art form. He shrugged. “A year or two.”

“Oh, a year or two isn’t too bad if the property has been maintained.”

Maintained, hell. The last time Dylan had been in the Donnelly house, thick dust covered everything-even the bloodstain on the living room floor. MZBHAVN was in for a rude shock.

“Do I just follow this road?” She turned and pointed down Main Street where it curved along the natural outline of Gospel Lake. Her fingernails had that two-tone French manicure that Dylan had always thought was kind of sexy.

“That’s right,” he answered. From behind his mirrored glasses, he slid his gaze to the natural curves of her slim hips and thighs, down her long legs to her feet. One corner of his mouth turned up, and he fought to keep from laughing outright at the peacocks painted on her silver-toed boots. He’d never seen anything like them this side of a rodeo queen. “Keep driving about four miles until you come to a big white house with petunias in the window boxes and a swing set in the yard.”

“I love petunias.”

“Uh-huh. Turn left at the house with the petunias. The Donnelly place is right across the street. You can’t miss it.”

“I was told the house was gray and brown. Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s how I’d describe it. What do you think, Lewis?”

“Yep. It’s brown and gray, all right.”

“Great. Thanks for your help.” She turned to leave, but Dylan’s next question stopped her.

“You’re welcome, Ms.-?”

She stared at him for a prolonged moment before she answered, “Spencer.”

“Welcome to Gospel, Ms. Spencer. I’m Sheriff Taber and this is Deputy Plummer.” She said nothing and he asked, “What are you planning to do out there on Timberline Road?” Dylan figured everyone had a right to privacy, but he also figured he had the right to ask.

“Nothing.”

“You lease a house for six months and you plan to do nothing?”

“That’s right. Gospel seemed like a nice place to vacation.”

Dylan had a doubt or two about her statement. Women who drove fancy sports cars and wore designer jeans vacationed in “nice” places with room service and pool boys, like Club Med, not in the wilderness of Idaho. Hell, the closest thing Gospel had to a spa was the Peterman’s hot tub.

“Did the realtor mention old Sheriff Donnelly?” Lewis asked.

“Who?” Her brows scrunched together and dipped below the bridge of her sunglasses. She tapped an impatient hand three times on her thigh before she said, “Well, thank you, gentlemen, for your help.” Then she turned on her fancy boots and marched back to her sports car.

“Do you believe her?” Lewis wanted to know.

“That she’s here on vacation?” Dylan shrugged. He didn’t care what she did as long as she stayed out of trouble.

“She doesn’t look like a backpacker.”

Dylan’s gaze settled on her behind in those tight jeans. “Nope.” The thing about trouble was, it always had a way of showing itself sooner or later. No reason to go looking for it when he had better things to do.

“Makes you wonder why a woman like her leased that old house,” Lewis said as Ms. Spencer opened her car door and climbed inside. “I haven’t seen anything like her in a long time. Maybe never.”

“You don’t get out of Pearl County enough.” Dylan slid behind the wheel of the Blazer and shut the door. He shoved the key in the ignition and watched the Porsche drive away.

“Did you get a load of those Tony Lamas?” Lewis asked as he got into the passenger seat.

“Couldn’t miss those boots.” Once Lewis shut his door, Dylan put the vehicle into drive and pulled away from the curb. “She won’t last six minutes, let alone six months.”

“Do you want to bet?”

“Even you aren’t that big a sucker, Lewis.” Dylan cranked the wheel and headed out of town. “She’s going to take one look at the old Donnelly place and keep right on driving.”

“Maybe, but I got a ten in my wallet that says she lasts a week.”

Dylan thought of MZBHAVN strolling toward him, all smooth and shiny and expensive. “You’re on, my friend.”

BLOODTHIRSTY BATS ATTACK UNSUSPECTING WOMAN

Hope Spencer shut the car door behind her, folded her arms beneath her breasts, and leaned her behind against her silver Porsche. White-hot sun beat down from an endless blue sky, immediately baking her bare shoulders and the part in her hair. Not so much as a hint of a breeze touched her face or penetrated the cotton-and-Lycra tank sticking to her skin. The steady buzz of insects joined the whine of a my-man-done-me-wrong country song drifting from the lone house across the gravel road.

Hope’s gaze narrowed and her Ray Bans slid down the bridge of her nose. Number Two Timberline was brown and gray, all right. Brown where the gray paint had peeled away.

The house looked like something out of Psycho and absolutely nothing like the “summer home” she’d been led to expect. True, the “grounds” had been recently mowed. A twenty-foot perimeter around the house and a trail to the beach had been chopped down and cleared of waist-high weeds and wildflowers. From where she stood, the lake appeared a mix of light and dark greens. Sun collided with shadow and bounced off ripples as if bits of tinfoil floated on the surface. An aluminum fishing boat was tied to the sandy shore, rocking with the swell of gentle waves.