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She watched him until he disappeared from sight and then sagged against the door. Her finger throbbed, and her body was hot, on edge. She knew there was no way to avoid Hudson Blackwell. He would show up at her home
or hunt her down.
She should be pissed, and yet she wasn’t. Sure, there was anger there, but there was something else. Something that thrived on all that electricity in the air. It was a strange exhilaration, and she kind of liked the way it made her feel.
She should be concerned, and yet, as she closed the office door behind her and made her way back to the bar, it wasn’t so much concern that she felt. It was almost like…anticipation. But that would be crazy. She pushed all thoughts of Hudson to the back of her mind and headed home. It was the wrong thing to do, letting Hudson back in. And in her short life, it was one of many wrong choices.
Rebecca Draper was in trouble; she just didn’t know it yet.
Chapter 13
The next morning found Hudson downtown, sitting in his truck, gaze fixed on a large building that took up the entire southeast block. Several windows looked down over the busy town center, the black trim that boxed them in, crisp and clean looking against the aged gray stone. The surface had been recently sandblasted, and the windows were new. The plaque above the double doors was large and bold, featuring gold lettering encased in black granite.
Blackwell Holdings.
Hudson slid down in his seat and watched a bunch of leaves whip across his windshield, pushed by a gust of wind that shook his truck. The sky was overcast, a dull, gray start to a cool, and what promised to be a wet, fall day. Across the street, he spied a woman opening one of the many boutiques that filled the downtown core. Tall and thin, with white-gold curls and a sharp profile that was unmistakable. Mrs. Martin. She was older and a little slower, but it was definitely her. She’d been in business as long as Hudson could remember. She fiddled with her key, let herself in, and a moment later, the OPEN sign was face out. For just a second, she looked his way, eyes lingering on the truck, before she disappeared from view.
God, his mother had loved that boutique, almost as much as Hudson had hated being dragged into it. He smiled at the thought, a small, wistful sort of thing, and closed his eyes. The sun filtering in through the window made him warm and lazy.
“Hudson Zachariah Blackwell. Get your butt in that chair and don’t move until I tell you.”
Hudson froze.
“If I ever see you peeking up a lady’s skirt again, well, mister, it will be the last time. Trust me on that.”
“But, Mom.” Embarrassed, Hudson glanced over to Mrs. Martin, the rest of his retort dying at the look of disapproval on the woman’s face.
“Women are not objects, Hudson. And when I say that, I mean the girls your age as well. They should always be treated with the same respect you show me.”
He snuck a peek at Mrs. Martin. The woman looked at him as if he’d committed some sort of crime. His mother marched into the changing room, and Hudson was pretty sure the fact she spent a good half hour in there was her way of turning the screw. ’Cause really, after all that, she didn’t buy anything. Not even the pink shirt with the white lace.
Geez. It was a stupid mannequin. And he didn’t even like girls. What was the big deal?
Hudson sighed and climbed from his truck. He stepped onto the sidewalk and gazed up at the building that carried his family name. The Blackwells had been in the area since the early 1800s, though the Blackwell money was both Southern and old. His grandfather many times removed had come to the area to take advantage of the lumber boom, and Blackwell Holdings was born. Lumber gave it life, but diversification into construction, railways, and roads filled the family coffers.
Today, Blackwell Holdings included banks and investment firms, though the bulk of its money came from the construction empire built over the last couple of centuries. An empire with no prince to take over the helm, because sadly, he and his brothers were the last of their line and none of them was interested.
Hudson felt the weight of that hit him hard, and with a curse, he swiveled around and headed in the other direction. Sam Waters could wait.
He’d never wanted any part of the business, though in truth his father had made it easy enough for him to turn his back on the family legacy. Frowning darkly, he strode down the sidewalk, shoulders hunched against the wind as the first drops of rain splattered on the pavement in front of him. He crossed at the light, and before he knew it, he was inside Coffee Corner, a mug of hot java in his hand, a double-chocolate donut in the other, and sitting in a seat at the counter.
The place was busy and boasted a mix of local business owners as well as a good number of retired folk. Hudson nodded to several of them but made no effort to start up a conversation. He wasn’t in the mood to talk and sipped his coffee in silence, glancing at the door now and again when the bell jingled, signaling a new arrival.
The owners were either new, or the Nelsons had hired staff to run the place, because he didn’t recognize the middle-aged man behind the counter or the woman who worked alongside him. The other guy, though, the one who was sweeping up in the corner and moved in a peculiar way, that one tugged at Hudson’s memory. Though the heavy beard and long hair did a lot to disguise his features, something about him was familiar. He was roughly six foot, with wide shoulders and long, lean legs. His faded blue sweatshirt was frayed, and his jeans had seen better days, but they were clean.
“Harry doesn’t like to be stared at.”
Hudson yanked his head back and found crystal-clear blue eyes on him. “What was that?”
The woman behind the counter frowned as she wiped up crumbs. She leaned on the counter, her gaze direct, and nodded at the man mopping the floor. “Harry doesn’t like to be stared at.”
Harry.
Hudson glanced at the man again. Now that he was turned, Hudson could see the writing on the back of the sweatshirt. Crystal Lake Cannons. Football.
“Harry Anderson?” Couldn’t be.
“You know him?” the woman asked, taking his empty plate and depositing it under the counter.
