Scarlet Woman. Gwynne Forster

people had the same character as the town: museum pieces, all show and little substance. If she got involved with Blake, the busybodies would assume they’d been right all along, and if she stayed in Ellicott City, she didn’t see how she could avoid it. He might have the mental toughness of a samurai warrior, but she’d been in his arms, and she knew how badly he wanted her. The next time…For five years, she’d hungered for him, locked him in the privacy of her heart and the recesses of her mind, never revealing to anyone what she felt and how it pained her. And now, he’d transformed her into a hot and passionate woman, a willing lover. She didn’t believe in lying to herself, so she didn’t promise herself she’d resist him.

      Blake stood at the window in his office and looked down on Old Columbia Pike where he could see the top of Melinda’s green Mercury Sable. Why didn’t she drive off? He didn’t want to become involved with her, but he’d had her in his arms, felt her tremors, smelled her heat and tasted her sweetness, and he wouldn’t bet five cents that he wouldn’t touch her again. When a woman wanted him as badly as she did…He swallowed hard. His hands had roamed her body and she’d relished it, had opened herself to him, as uninhibited as a tigress in heat. And he was starved for her.

      “Blake, I’ve been buzzing you,” Irene said, and he turned to see her standing in the doorway between their offices.

      “Oh, thanks. What is it?”

      “Lacy Morgan’s on line one.”

      He swore. “Tell her I emigrated to Alaska.”

      “What? I beg your pardon.”

      What a great idea. “You heard me. Tell her exactly that.”

      “Bu…but…How do I phrase it? I can’t just lie.”

      “Tell her I told you I moved to Alaska.” He snapped his finger. “Oh, yes, and I didn’t leave a forwarding address, a phone number, fax number, or an e-mail address.”

      She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “That is an order, Irene.”

      “Yes, sir…I mean, Blake.”

      His laughter followed her rapidly retreating figure, a cleansing release that he’d needed and needed badly. With luck, Lacy Morgan would consider herself insulted. Now, if he could just straighten out the rest of his life that easily. Not a chance. He grabbed his briefcase, got in his car, and drove to the Patapsco River where the swiftly moving water never failed to soothe him. He looked at the late-day sun, slowly dying, its rays filtering through the leaves of the oak and beech trees that towered in the distance. A light, fresh breeze frolicked against his body, cooling and refreshing it. Pretty soon it would be night and, as on every other night, he’d be all by himself. He took his cell phone out of his briefcase, pulled air through his front teeth, shrugged, and put the phone away. He didn’t want to hear any voice but hers.

      Chapter 3

      “Who is it?” Melinda called downstairs to Ruby when she heard the doorbell.

      “Uh, it’s…Mr…. What did you say your name was?”

      “Humphrey. Jonas Humphrey.”

      “Jonas Humphrey, ma’am.”

      Now, who could that be? She knew Prescott’s few associates, or thought she did. During the last two years, Blake had been their only visitor. But after that bombshell Blake had dropped about her late husband’s finances, she couldn’t be sure about anything concerning Prescott. She kicked off her bedroom shoes, stuck her feet in a pair of loafers, and went downstairs.

      “I don’t think we’ve met, Mr. Humphrey. What can I do for you?”

      “Well, miss—” he looked around, shifting his gaze from place to place as if appraising the room’s appointments “—could we sit down, perhaps? I’d like a soda or anything cold, if you don’t mind.”

      She knew a shifty look when she saw it, and she wasn’t going to be taken in by this interloper. “Would you please tell me why you’re here?” she asked the man. Around forty or forty-five years old, she supposed, he projected self-confidence, though she wouldn’t have credited him with a right to it.

      She leaned against the piano and trailed the fingers of her left hand rapidly over the bass keys in a show of impatience. “Well?”

      He cleared his throat and looked approvingly at the Steinway grand. “I don’t suppose you know it, but my beloved Heddy passed on about six months ago, and I find the burden just too heavy to bear. When your dear father was preaching night before last, it came to me clear as your hand before you that he was leading me straight to you. I own a little shop down at the end of Main Street.” He took a card from his pocket, handed it to her, and she read Humphrey’s Firewood. “It’s not much, but everybody around here needs wood.”

      Where was this leading? “What does all that have to do with me?” she asked him, though she’d begun to guess the answer.

      “Reverend Jones said a woman shouldn’t be alone, that she needs a man’s protection. I’m sure he taught you that from childhood. Well, since we’re both alone, and…well, I thought we might get together. I see you like music. I do, too.” He sat down and crossed his knee, though she remained standing. “I got all the records Sister Rosetta Thorpe and Hank Williams ever made. I had one by Lightnin’ Hopkins, but my dear beloved smashed it one day when she got mad with me. God rest her soul.”

      She’d had enough. More than enough, in fact. “Mr…er…Humphrey, did you say your name was? I am not interested in getting married. Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d excuse me.” She called Ruby. “Would you please let this gentleman out? And, Ruby, don’t let anybody else in here unless you know them.”

      The door closed, and Ruby called up to her. “All right, ma’am. He said he knowed Mr. Rodgers. I’m telling you some of these mens is the biggest liars.”

      Had her father put that man up to proposing to her? She sat down and telephoned him.

      “Jonas Humphrey?” he asked her, a tone of incredulity in his voice. “You mean that thief down on Main Street? Why, he’d steal a cane from a blind man. Of course I didn’t send him over there. You watch out, girl, because they’ll be hearing about that will. Not that it would hurt you to get married. A woman shouldn’t be alone—”

      She’d heard that a hundred times already. “Sorry, Papa, but I have to go. Talk to you again soon.”

      “All right, but you come to prayer meeting tomorrow night.”

      She dressed and rushed to meet Rachel at Side Streets Restaurant. The historic old mill pleased her more than the wonderful seafood served there. Its quaintness gave her a sense of solidness, of permanence. They had barely seated themselves when Ray Sinclair entered with his latest girlfriend. In her single days, she’d been enamored of Ray, but he had ignored her, often seeming to make a point of it. The day he stepped in front of her and got into the taxi she’d called, her affection for him dissipated like chaff in a windstorm. But on this occasion, he seated his date, left her at the table, and walked over to speak with Melinda.

      “Terribly sorry to hear of your great loss, Melinda. If I can do anything to help, just snap your fingers.”

      She leaned back in the booth and spoke with dispassion. “I don’t need anything, Ray. My husband provided well for me and, if he hadn’t, I provide well for myself. Nice seeing you.”

      Rachel’s eyes seemed to have doubled in size. “Why’d you dust him off like that? He’s the most eligible man around here. If that doesn’t beat all—”

      Melinda threw up her hands. “When I had a crush on him before I got married, he flaunted it, showed me as often as he could that he thought himself too good for me. Now he wants to know what he can do for me. I guess he’s been listening to all the gossip, or maybe he’s heard about the will. That poor girl he’s got with him is welcome to him.”

      She’d