Mistletoe Justice. Carol J. Post
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single woman in the company, she probably felt like a guppy in a tank full of sharks.
But he wasn’t going to hit on her. And not because she wasn’t attractive. She was. She was short—a good eight or nine inches less than his six feet. Her dark hair reached her shoulders, its soft, silky waves begging to be touched. With those expressive blue eyes that sparkled with life and that spontaneous smile that so often lit her face, she possessed a down-to-earth beauty that had piqued his interest from the get-go.
But he had too much on his plate to think about romance, which was a good thing. His prospects had totally dried up over the past six months. Women weren’t looking for men with baggage, especially in the form of a seven-year-old with a stinkin’ attitude and a smart mouth.
He opened the back doors of the service truck, pulled out a set of wrenches and approached the monster backhoe. He would figure out a way to get to Darci Tucker. Because he had no doubt—Claire didn’t just take off. She finally had her life on track. She liked her job. She loved her son. And she’d found the contentment that had always eluded her. She didn’t walk away from it all. At least not by choice.
If Wiggins was involved, he was good at concealing it. Tucker wasn’t. She had guilt written all over her.
Or maybe that wasn’t guilt. Maybe it was fear—not at him having seen her, but of something much more sinister.
The same fear his sister had felt.
* * *
Sharp white light spilled from the fluorescent fixture overhead, chasing the shadows from Darci’s office. She dropped her purse and a small cooler on the floor of the closet then twisted the wand on the miniblinds. Outside, fog blanketed everything. It was a dreary Tuesday.
But the gloominess wouldn’t last. In another hour, the mist would burn off and the sun would continue its ascent, blazing a path upward in a beautiful blue sky. Florida wasn’t called the Sunshine State for nothing.
She slid into the swivel chair behind her desk. She enjoyed her job. Even though she wasn’t a CPA, her bachelor’s degree in accounting and finance, along with her years running Darci’s Collectibles and Gifts, more than qualified her to be the accounting manager at P. T. Unfortunately, none of her courses had included the chapter on dealing with difficult bosses.
She reached into her in-basket and picked up the stack of time cards piled there. Her first task of the day would be running payroll. Then she would work on the October financial statements, along with her staff meeting report, a job she had hoped to finish last Friday.
Friday. The now-familiar disquiet settled over her, and she swallowed hard. She’d come so close to getting caught. If her phone had rung on her way out, when she was sneaking down the hall...or if Wiggins had looked under her desk...
But he hadn’t. Although he’d stood less than two feet away, he hadn’t known she was there. Thank You, Lord. As long as it stayed that way, everything would be fine.
Unfortunately, the new mechanic had caught her leaving. Even stopped to introduce himself. Conner something. She remembered him, had seen him in the break room several times that week. He was the kind of guy women noticed—green eyes that sparked with restrained humor, honey-colored hair that always looked casually tousled and a bearing that radiated confidence. Yeah, hard to miss.
Hopefully, he wasn’t much of a talker, because if he said anything to Wiggins about seeing her there...
As she began alphabetizing the time cards, worry gnawed at her. Her chances would be better if she hadn’t acted so guilty. Maybe she should just talk to the mechanic and ask him not to tell anyone about seeing her Friday night. But that would make her look even guiltier. No, she’d better keep her mouth shut and pray the mechanic did the same.
She had just finished payroll when a familiar voice drifted down the hall. And she almost dived under her desk again. Jimmy Fuller owned a large commercial construction company and bought aggregate from P. T. He also insisted on hand delivering his checks. It gave him three or four opportunities a month to hit on her.
Footsteps drew closer and Fuller’s athletic frame filled the doorway. With that deep golden tan and sun-bleached hair, he was used to women throwing themselves at him.
“Hello, beautiful.”
She laid the time cards on her desk. Let the other women have him. Those model looks were wasted on her. So were the pickup lines.
“Hello, Mr. Fuller.” She stayed with the formal address. He wasn’t much older than she was, maybe thirty-five to her twenty-six. But she wouldn’t get too chummy with him.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “Come on, Darci. When are you going to start calling me Jimmy?”
“Probably never. I’d only be encouraging bad behavior.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I’m crushed. But I’m not giving up. If I keep coming in here almost every week, I’ll eventually talk you into going out with me.”
“You can tell yourself that if it makes you happy.”
He crossed her office and handed her a windowed envelope with a check inside. “No, what would make me happy is if you finally said yes.”
He started to laugh again, but his laughter turned to coughing. When he was finished, he pulled a cough drop from his pocket. “Excuse me. I’m getting over a bad sore throat. No love ballads today.” He unwrapped the lozenge and put it into his mouth. “I’m just now getting my voice back.”
Realization slammed into her. Fuller had lost his voice. Just like Wiggins’s visitor. She replayed phrases in her mind. The man had a slight Southern accent. So did Fuller. And Fuller had asked her out. Numerous times. Wiggins had said that she’d told him to take a hike. And she had, in so many words.
But did Fuller have feelings for her, like Wiggins claimed? Probably not. With guys like him, love had nothing to do with it. It was all about the thrill of the chase. Once they had what they wanted, the challenge was over and they were soon off on their next adventure.
But what did she know? Having not dated in five years, she was pretty rusty. Fuller was possibly the mystery man. She would try to avoid him. Of course, she’d been doing that for the past five and a half months. Easier said than done.
After Fuller left, she pushed both him and Wiggins from her mind and reached for the mouse. With her October entries made, it was time to print the financial statements. As the sheets fell into her printer tray, she opened the reports folder on her computer. The latest file was the report for September, presented at the October staff meeting.
She drew her brows together. Where was the report she’d created last week? Granted, she hadn’t gotten that far. It was mostly just notes of things she needed to include. But she would rather not have to start over.
Maybe she’d saved it to her local drive instead of clicking through to the server. A few seconds later, she heaved a satisfied sigh. There it was, under My Documents on her C drive...
Right below a folder titled D. Tucker Personal.
What in the world? She hadn’t created that folder. She had no reason to. She didn’t do anything personal at work.
She clicked on the folder and two files appeared. One was labeled Transactions. The other was untitled. They were both created Saturday, 8:58 and 9:01 p.m. She clicked on one, then the other, frowning at the security window that popped up. Both were password protected.
The air whooshed out of her lungs and she flopped back in her chair. There was only one reason for those files to be on her computer. Someone was setting her up.
The man with the raspy voice didn’t want her hurt. But Wiggins didn’t have to hurt her. All he had to do was frame her, making it impossible for her to go to the police without implicating herself.
A weight pressed on her chest, and she struggled in a breath. Burying her head in the sand was no