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“What can I do?” She sighed. “Dayle was what he was. Nothing is going to change that. ”
“Does that mean you’re to blame?” Hoyt asked her heatedly. “You didn’t do it. ”
“But I’m here to blame. ” Janey shrugged. “Grab something from the kitchen to take home to your mother. There’s plenty in there. I’ll see you tomorrow evening. ”
He shook his head and moved to the kitchen. When he left by way of the back doors, Janey locked up behind him, then checked the front doors again as well.
Augusta Hoyt had been ill lately; Janey hoped some of the food that the chef put back in the refrigerator for their lunches the next day would cheer her up. She never came to the restaurant, refused to associate with “the traitor’s daughter. ” Janey was damned lucky everyone else was too nosy and gossipy to feel that way.
But that was a small town for you. Somerset was a tight-knit community. Most everyone knew everyone else, and the controversy only made them more curious. They loved their hometown heroes, and her brother was one of those heroes. As were her cousins. That meant she was “almost” part of the community, therefore not “completely” to blame. She was the one they could snipe at, because Dayle Mackay was no longer there to punish and Natches had captured him, seen him arrested, imprisoned. He was their hero. Janey was their scapegoat.
Small towns were amazingly supportive in some ways. Amazingly cruel in others. And it was home. A home she loved, one she had missed in the years she had been forced to live away from it.
Sighing at the thought, she moved through the dining room and headed to her office.
The restaurant was eerie, too silent. She turned in the middle of the dimly lit room and stared around her.
It had not been as busy as it was ever since she had taken over, but she expected the rush to slacken once the sensationalism wore off. Once the newspapers stopped reporting and the tabloids stopped gossiping. Or would that never happen?
She moved to the hall on the far side of the room and then into her office. Janey closed the door behind her. Pulling the hem of her shirt from the narrow skirt she wore, she kicked off her heels and moved to the small refrigerator that sat in the back corner.
She poured a glass of wine and sat down in the heavy leather chair behind the old scarred desk she had moved into the room.
She pulled out the bottom drawer, slapped a pillow on top of it, and propped up her feet before closing her eyes and sinking into the chair.
She meant to relax; she didn’t mean to feel the ghostly touch of male lips against hers. A dazed memory of a kiss, butterfly soft, probably so he wouldn’t have to touch her too much.
“No. ” She shook her head, lifting herself, her feet thumping to the floor as she rested her elbows on her knees and pushed her fingers through her hair.
She couldn’t let herself think that. It was the only memory she had that wasn’t tainted and somehow dirty. The touch of his lips, warm, gentle. That was what they had been, she told herself. Just gentle. So he wouldn’t hurt her.
And he had held her tight. Prayed, maybe. She could have sworn she had heard a prayer. Or maybe it was a curse.
She sat back in the chair and lifted the wineglass, tipping it to her lips and swallowing a healthy sip. Well, probably more like a drink, she thought as she rubbed at the back of her neck. If she didn’t manage to relax, she would never get to sleep tonight.
She was taking another sip—drink—when a heavy knock landed on the outside door.
Natches. Or one of her cousins. They checked up on her often.
She finished the wine quickly, wiping her lips as she moved around the desk.
“Just because the lights are on doesn’t mean someone’s home. ” She pasted on a fake smile.
It froze on her lips. Because it wasn’t Natches or one of her cousins. It wasn’t even her uncle Ray or the overprotective Faisal.
It was Alex.
He stared down at her, his expression as stoic as always, his brows heavy over his thunderous gray eyes, his brown and dark blond hair a little longer than it had been six months before.
He moved into the office, the slightest limp betraying the wound he had come home with.
“Restaurant’s closed,” she told him, turning to face him, still holding the door open. “Or did you somehow miss the sign in front?” She widened her eyes innocently. “I forgot to put one on the back door, huh? Geez, who knew customers could get turned around that easy. ”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Janey. ” He sighed, running his hand over his short hair. It wasn’t quite a buzz cut anymore, but it was close.
And he was too damned sexy for words. Dark flesh that always looked tanned. Those dark, stormy gray eyes and lashes thick enough to make a woman want to kill for them.
She closed the door. Slowly. Quietly. She wasn’t going to give in to the need to slam it. Robots didn’t slam doors, did they?
