Breakaway. Rochelle Alers
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velvet. Even her voice matched her face. It was low and very sexy.
He blinked. “What did you say?”
Celia smiled, dimples dotting her cheeks like thumb-prints. “I said it all depends on what you want to make.”
“Slaw—it’s a spicy Thai slaw.” Gavin couldn’t believe he was stammering like an awkward adolescent.
“Perhaps you should try the Savoy or Napa cabbage.” Leaning over, she tried reading what was written on Gavin’s index card. “What does your recipe call for?”
Gavin gave her a sheepish grin, revealing a mouth filled with straight white teeth. “I guess I forgot to write down the type of cabbage.”
“You can’t go wrong with the Savoy or Napa.”
“You must be a fabulous cook.”
Her eyebrows flickered. “Why would you say that?”
“You know right off the top of your head which type of cabbage I should use.”
Celia wanted to tell him that if it hadn’t been for Rania she wouldn’t have been able to boil an egg. “It’s just common sense. Asian dishes call for Asian ingredients.”
“Sometimes common sense isn’t that common,” he quipped. “Do you shop here often?”
Eyes narrowing in suspicion, Celia asked, “Not really. Why?” Whenever she’d come to Waynesville for more than a week, she would visit the supermarket to restock her pantry. However, if she’d planned to stay for an extended weekend, then she shopped at the smaller downtown markets and variety stores.
“I need soba noodles, and I’d hoped you would know which aisle they were in.”
“If they do carry them, then you’ll probably find them in the aisle with the other imported products.”
Gavin shook his head. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Celia wanted to tell the gorgeous stranger that either he truly lacked common sense or he’d embarked on a cooking project that exceeded his culinary expertise. “Good luck with your spicy Thai slaw.”
“Thank you for your invaluable assistance.”
Turning back to her shopping cart, she glanced at its contents. She’d selected seasonal fruits, fresh herbs and vegetables. All she needed was dairy and then she would head home.
She pushed her cart away from the produce section slowly, glancing over her shoulder at the delicious-looking man. Her pulse quickened when she saw him standing motionless, staring at her. Raising her hand, she waved, and then turned down another aisle.
Twenty minutes later, she pushed her cart out to the parking lot and transferred her groceries from the cart to the cargo area of the vehicle. As soon as she sat behind the wheel, her eyelids felt heavy. She’d been on the road more than twelve hours. Her plan to clean the house would have to wait. After all, she had tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and the rest of the summer to do all she needed to do before returning to Miami. She hoped when she did return to Miami that she wouldn’t be the same woman who’d left.
Celia unlocked the door to the house she regarded as her sanctuary, a place to heal. What she didn’t want to do was relive the last time she’d come with Yale. Miraculously, they had been able to coordinate four days of vacation and they’d traveled to North Carolina to unwind. Four days stretched into six when a freak snowstorm blanketed the Blue Ridge and Great Smoky Mountains, and they were trapped inside until the roads were cleared. It would be the last time she and Yale would spend time together in what he’d always referred to as “the mountains.”
She deactivated the security system and walked in, wrinkling her nose when she encountered a buildup of heat and muskiness. Within minutes she flicked on lights and opened windows. Clean mountain air swept into the rooms through the screens, quickly dispelling the stale odor. The imprint from the bottom of her running shoes was clearly outlined in the layer of dust covering the wood floors. Yale had chided her for covering the furniture with dustcovers, but the diligence then now saved her hours of housework.
Her intent to clean the house tomorrow had changed when Celia realized the daunting task she couldn’t put off until the next day. It took four trips to her car to bring in her luggage and groceries. She discovered a spurt of energy when she cleaned the refrigerator, vacuumed the floors, dusted furniture, cleaned the bathrooms and made her bed.
The sun had set behind the mountains, taking with it the warmth of the day when Celia sat on the wraparound deck outside her second-floor bedroom, sipping from a mug of steaming coffee. She’d showered, changed into a pair of cotton pajamas and then added a thick cotton pullover and socks to ward off the cooler night air.
Without the bright lights from hotels, towering office and high-rise apartment buildings the stars in the nighttime sky appeared brighter, closer. Closing her eyes, Celia felt a gentle peace sweep over her body. It was as if she’d come to her own private world where she didn’t want for anything. All she had to do was wake up, eat, drink, walk, read, watch television, go to bed and then get up to do it all over again.
Now she understood why people dropped out of society to become recluses. It took too much effort to make it through each day. She’d been trained to save lives. And yet, she’d stood by and watched a boy take the lives of her patient, fiancé and another doctor before he was shot by another boy. What Celia hadn’t been able to grasp was that all of the gang members were sixteen and younger. Instead of hanging out at the mall, flirting with girls or tinkering with cars, they’d carried guns not to protect themselves, but to savagely and arbitrarily take the lives of other human beings.
Now, Celia, don’t get maudlin. The inner voice, the one she called her voice of reason, pulled her back to center and helped her maintain a modicum of stability. She took another deep swallow of coffee and placed the mug on a low table before settling deeper into the cushioned chaise.
She closed her eyes again and moments later succumbed to a dreamless slumber where there were no screams, bullets or tears.
Gavin felt restlessness akin to an itch he wasn’t able to scratch. He’d prepared the slaw, and the results were even better than he’d expected. He’d also prepared a three-bean salad, grilled chicken and sweet tea.
Leaving the government-registered SUV parked in the garage, he’d set out on foot to familiarize himself with the surrounding countryside. His brother was out there, hiding in the mountains and/or forest from a group of ruthless men and women who were ordered to kill him on sight.
Gavin hadn’t seen or spoken to his brother in more than two years. Raymond Prentice had been so deep undercover that if he hadn’t recognized his eyes, Gavin wouldn’t have known who he was. Ray could change his appearance by losing or gaining copious amounts of weight. He would shave his head, grow his hair, beard and affect different accents. Although the wounded gun-shop owner had given law enforcement officials an accurate description of Raymond Prentice, the technicians at the Bureau had subtly altered the mug shot to disguise the undercover agent’s features.
Born Orlando Wells, he’d become Gavin’s foster brother when Gavin’s mother took him in after he’d been placed in her care by a fellow social worker. Orlando didn’t remember his drug-addicted parents, and at nine hadn’t shed a tear when told of their deaths from an overdose of crack cocaine. Malvina Faulkner legally adopted Orlando and after college and a stint as a Navy SEAL, he was recruited by the ATF. Orlando Wells Faulkner had become Raymond Prentice and anyone they wanted him to be.
His younger brother had always been a risk taker, and if Orlando survived this undercover mission, Gavin would do everything within his power to convince him to leave the ATF. Their mother’s greatest fear was that after burying her husband, who’d died in the line of duty, she would also bury one or both of her sons. The elder Faulkner, a former Vietnam War Green Beret, joined the Bureau as an undercover agent. He’d infiltrated a radical group in the early 1980s, but lost his life during a confrontation between group members and the police.
Gavin