Chapter One

When Churchill McKenzie stared down the business end of a sawed-off shotgun she swore that if she got out of that mess alive she’d get herself back to Savannah as fast as possible and never leave as long as she lived . . . which she hoped was more than the next two minutes.

She meant that three weeks ago in Atlantic City, when the Jersey boys paid her a visit because she’d been asking too many questions about her ’56 Chevy Bel Air that they just happened to borrow permanently, and she hadn’t changed her mind. She was done with back alleys, big guns, badasses and black pinstripe suits.

Except—why was there always an except in her life— there she was again, standing in another back alley with Savannah’s number one badass, Cal Davis. She knew the bad part firsthand because she’d had him thrown in jail three years ago. She knew the ass part because they did the deed on her twenty-first birthday in the back of his ’67 red Mustang convertible.

“When did you get out?” Dumb thing to say to someone who hated her guts. You’d think since she was a librarian she’d have a better opening line. Faulkner would, Dickens would, Crichton not so much.

Cal folded his arms and gave her an f-you look. “When did you get back?”

She could say I asked you first but Cal didn’t look like the kind of guy who needed to be messed with. Even in the dim light casting his face in shadows he looked pissed. Cal always looked pissed . . . except for that twenty minutes in the back of his Mustang. “I came home last week. I was in Jersey. Librarian, in the ancient history section.”

“And here you are again,” he sighed. “Whose life are you out to screw up tonight?”

“I was cutting through the alley on my way to your grandmother’s.” That warranted a bit of an arched brow. “Miss Ellie asked me to stop by and sit for a spell.”

Cal took her arm. “I’m coming along. You show up and things go right to hell. Miss Ellie doesn’t need that. None of us need that.”

Churchill didn’t budge. “I don’t believe you were invited.”

“I don’t believe I give a damn.”

But instead of leaving, he backed her against the side of a concrete block garage in the alley. Cupping her chin, he tilted her face to his then straightened her glasses, uncertainty in his eyes. They were more ice than the smoky blue she remembered. He was leaner, harder, tougher, and he’d been plenty tough before. Rhett Butler does Savannah.

“You have a scar on your chin.”

“You have gray hair.”

“Jerzee is a scary place.”

He deliberately tucked a strand of her hair behind her right ear. To Churchill, that was about the sexiest thing a guy could do to a girl . . . other than rip both their clothes off and jump in the backseat of a Mustang.

“And here you are, Ace, back in Savannah, meaning I’m the one who should be scared.” Before she had time to consider that he still called her Ace or that she wanted the clothes-ripping more than the hair-tucking, he kissed her. It was one of those terrific spontaneous kisses that scared the spit out of her because she was on fire for the bad boy again!

His lips devoured hers. He tasted like good sipping whiskey, delicious sex, and forbidden fruit. If an apple fell from the sky and a snake appeared she wouldn’t have been surprised.

“How can someone be a librarian and be such a pain in the butt?” His mouth breathed the words against hers, sending heat clear to her toes and frying her brain. “It’s the name. It’s made you different. Churchill.”

“I’m a British statesman with jowls?”

“You think too much, ask too many questions, and wind up in the middle of shit storms.”

She pushed him away. “Okay, time out. That’s it. I didn’t stumble into that car theft ring in Jersey on purpose. They took my Chevy Bel-Air that Uncle Frank gave to me. The police said there was no hope of ever getting it back so I asked around. Suddenly there were men in pinstripe suits and black fedoras. For the record I didn’t send you to prison, you sent yourself. You did the stealing. I just happened to be a witness.”

“So many shit storms in so little time.”

“Coincidences.”

“Not when your name’s Churchill.” Sirens sounded. Not the kind in her brain that said run, this guy’s nothing but trouble, but real ones of the red and blue flashing lights variety from a police cruiser rounding the corner. The car squealed to a stop in front of her and Cal, catching them both in the glare of headlights and police strobes.

“Davis,” the police officer barked as he got out of the cruiser. “We want to talk to you down at the station.”

Even in the dark she could see Cal’s eyes narrow, his hands fist at his sides. “Do I need my lawyer?”

“Where were you tonight?”

“With me,” Churchill blurted. “Least for the last fifteen minutes.” Mentally he’d been with her for the last nine years. “We were—”

“I was at Willie’s down on River Street. I’m heading back here to get my car. Ask the bartender.”

The officer yanked open the back door of the cruiser. “Get in while we check it out.”

“What’s this about, Dempsey?”

“My being a cop and you being a no-good asshole who steals money meant for some poor old folks here in town. You haven’t changed since high school.”

“And you’re still a prick in elevator shoes except now you’re hiding behind a badge instead of your daddy, the principal.”

Dempsey’s brows pulled into one long furry line over his beady eyes that were getting lost in an angry red face. He touched the holster that held his gun. Churchill hated that more than anything. “We can go and do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s up to you.”

Cal turned to Churchill before climbing in the backseat. “Do me a favor and stay out of my life and stay the hell away from my family. I’m not kidding, Churchill, stay away. You’re nothing but trouble.” The cruiser faded into the night, leaving her with crickets, alley bugs, and singed lips. Cal wanted the kiss but didn’t want anything to do with her. She wanted the kiss but nothing to do with him. Except— there was that word again—singed lips were a long way from nothing.

He told her to stay away from his family and of course that included Miss Ellie. Well too darn bad. She might be Cal’s granny who pretty much raised him, but she was Churchill’s friend, and friends didn’t leave friends sitting alone when they promised to show up for a chat. She cut across the next alley to a garden walkway, a sliver of moon light picking out crape myrtle lining the path. A chinaberry tree protected the screened porch from the blasting Savannah sun and summer jasmine scented the humid August air. In Jersey the overhead expressways kept out the sun and exhaust fumes scented the air.

“Well now,” said a voice behind her. “I’d about given up on our getting together. I figured you buried your nose in some book and got carried away.”

Churchill swung around to see Miss Ellie sitting on a white wrought iron bench. She had on Nike running shoes, pink Capri’s, and a yellow T-shirt displaying a half-eaten Georgia peach and the words BITE ME.

“I didn’t see you.” Which seemed incredulous considering the getup. “Nice shoes.”

Miss Ellie stuck out her Nike’s with Pepto colored trim. “I’m still kicking. ’Course my son and his uppity wife think I’m dumb as a box of rocks because I can’t quote Shakespeare. But then they can’t quote Bono so the way I see it we’re even.” She gave a laugh that was more a cackle. “I hear you got mixed up with the wrong crowd and got yourself thrown out of Jersey. Your mama must be right proud.”

“Margo’s rafting the Amazon. Library work in any form isn’t her idea of high adventure.”

“So now that you’re back, what do you think of a little Low Country adventure? Something to keep you on your toes.”

“I’m all flats and flip-flops these days, Miss Ellie. The adventure gene did not get passed on. Believe me I know that for sure now.”

“So, what about finding out some answers for me? You always were good at finding answers. That’s what makes you so smart. I want you to prove my grandson didn’t belong in jail after all. I want you to fix things right by Cal.”

“Miss Ellie, I was there. I was the one who saw him drive off in his Mustang. I saw Reverend Dodd run out of his big white revival tent in his pristine white you’re-all— doomed-to-hell preaching suit. He was yelling at the top of his lungs that he’d been robbed and Cal was going straight to hell for stealing money from God.”

“I’m here to tell you that if Dodd is God we’re all in a heap of trouble. I don’t care how many Bibles he waves around or what anyone else says, Cal did not take that money. I’ve had three years to think about all this and things just don’t add up the way they should.”

“Cal said he used the twenty-five grand to pay off gambling debts.”

“See, there it is. I taught Cal how to play poker and he could beat the socks off anyone, including me. He works for what he wants, always has. Why steal in the middle of the day? Cal’s way smarter than that. There’s something else I’ve come across that’s got me to thinking that someone else is involved in all this.” She slid a heavy looking skeleton key from her pocket. “Cal gave me his Mustang to drive while he was in the slammer. One day last month I went to the drive-through at that McDonalds over there on Abercorn because they have this young stud working the pay window. I dropped my French fries when my cell phone started to vibrate. Had the thing in my blouse pocket. With all that tingling I thought I was having a heart attack right there under the golden arches. When I cleaned up the fries I found this here key under the seat. Cal said he didn’t recognize it and I didn’t say where I found it but it looks real important.”

“Maybe one of his friends dropped it?”

“Now I ask you, Missy, does this look like the sort of thing one of Cal’s car racing buddies would have? It’s not an engine part or something to pry the top off a beer bottle, but it’s real important looking with all those weird markings.”

Churchill held the key up to the moonlight. “Actually the top does look like a bottle opener. It’s like an upside down U. Omega.”

“You owe me, sweet pea. You wanted to work in a big city and I introduced you to that library fella who has his summer house over on Hilton Head. He still calls me Stacks and he’s not referring to books.” Miss Ellie batted her eyes, fluffed her hair, and arched her chest. “That little nip and tuck last year did wonders. I want you to figure out who Cal’s covering for and why this here key was in his car. I think they’re connected.”

“That’s a pretty big jump, Miss Ellie. What would one have to do with the other?”

“Because they’re two unanswered questions that came up at the same time and both have to do with Cal. No one’s better at finding the answers to questions than you.”

“Jersey lesson number one . . . asking questions shortens life expectancy. I just want to live in Savannah and be a librarian.” Churchill took Miss Ellie’s hands in hers. “This city’s been through pirates, plagues, and no-good Yankee plunders. Old is everywhere. That key is nothing special and maybe Cal did get into a gambling mess. It happens. But he’s paid his dues now. He’s back and he’s safe and can move on with his life. You should too. Let it go, Miss Ellie.”

“You’ve never been a granny. Moving on is something we don’t do well when it comes to protecting our offspring. Besides, I know Cal and I’m thinking deep down you do, too. He’s not a thief—especially taking money that was going to poor folk. I don’t care what you saw.” She marched past her chinaberry tree and into her gray clapboard house, the screen door slamming shut behind her.

So much for paying Miss Ellie back for getting Churchill the Jersey job. For a second she hated Cal for putting Miss Ellie through all that pain and putting Churchill smack-dab in the middle of . . . of a another shit storm.

Well, she was going to avoid that one. Her mama was the adventurer and Churchill was anything but. At times she thought she might be adopted except she had Margo’s blue eyes and long legs.

Churchill headed across the alley and through Orleans Square with the boxwood edge and splashing urn fountain. Lamplight filtered through the live oaks as she passed the James Oglethorpe Founding Fathers Library. Built of Greek revival architecture, complete with stone oblique at the corners, it had a cornerstone of 1862. It was the oldest library in the city and she loved every stone and window in the place. Living next door was perfect.

She took the mossy brick steps up to her apartment that faintly smelled of mocha and cappuccino. Savannah Joe’s Beanery, below, was new but the building was 1854. Old, interesting, historic with original plaster and woodwork. Not ancient but getting there.

It was a good day to end she decided when she got to the top landing and fished for her keys. Miss Ellie was mad at her and Cal made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her. Except—she was getting to hate that word—what about that kiss she couldn’t forget? What about the sex she hadn’t gotten over? There were all kinds—makeup sex, breakup sex, revenge sex. She wanted good-old-days sex, the kind in the back seat of a ‘67 Mustang convertible, with Cal Davis, with both of them naked as peeled apples. How she was going to get over that was the mystery of the ages.

Overhead lights glared off the deserted dirt track as Cal punched the gas, caught the cushion, then slung through the far turn, rear-end sliding, dirt flying, a cloud of exhaust billowing behind. Gas and oil fumes mixing with the odor of scorched rubber filled his lungs while his head throbbed with the roar of the big engine of the Late Model, a one hundred percent pure racing machine. Sweat trickled down his back and front, the fillings of his teeth hurt from the constant jarring, and dirt clung like a second layer of skin. Cal Davis was in heaven . . . till the car pulled right setting up a vibration in the steering wheel. Bad tire? Too tight? Not enough stick for a dirt track? He fought the wheel to keep the car out of a spin and—

“What the fucking hell!” He blinked to make sure he was seeing what he really was seeing and not just a glare of light. It wasn’t a glare. Churchill McKenzie was running onto the track waving her arm at him like a crazy lunatic. Was that a dog on a leash with her? Maybe a small horse? Hard to tell. What were they doing on the track? Holy shit!

Cal lifted his right foot from the gas and eased the brake with his left. More burning rubber fumes and dust invaded the car. Mud Monkey did zero to seventy in under five seconds but stopping was a different matter. “Get off the damn track!” he yelled as he raced by giving her a wide berth so as not to cover her in grime. He knew she couldn’t hear him but he had to do something. “You’re going to get killed.” If he wrecked Otto’s pride and joy, Otto would kill him.

Cal pulled the car into pit alley, then slid feetfirst through the open window. “Are you out of your freaking mind! You could have been hurt.”

“Well, I’m counting on you being a better driver than that,” she yelled back.

Walking toward her he swiped the sweat from his forehead. “This isn’t the parking lot at Macy’s.” The dog of questionable parentage wagged his tail setting the whole back side of his brown body in motion. “Where’d he come from?”

“Jersey,” she panted, out of breath from running. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know why you’re bellowing your head off at me when you’re the one driving around this circle of baked mud like a lunatic.

Did it ever occur to you that you’re going nowhere fast? What is the point?”

“Did it ever occur to you that a lot of those books in that library of yours say pretty much the same damn thing so why have them all sitting around? What is the point?”

Instead of yelling another insult, Churchill’s eyes clouded with worry and she gritted her teeth. “I came to tell you Miss Ellie was in the hospital. She has a broken arm.” Churchill put her hand to her chest to catch her breath, flattening her blouse against nicely rounded breasts, which Cal noticed but shouldn’t be thinking about. He was pissed but when had that ever stopped a man from staring?

“What the hell did you do to her last night?”