Falling For Gracie. Susan Mallery

seen him?”

      Gracie hesitated. She didn’t know how to say she had without spilling Alexis’s private business.

      “You have!” Jill leaned forward. “I want to know everything. Start at the beginning and talk slowly.”

      Gracie sighed and picked up a chip. She turned it over then bit into it. “You can’t say anything,” she told her friend when she’d chewed and swallowed. “I was checking out something for Alexis and no, I can’t tell you what.”

      “So you ran into him at the store or something?”

      “Not exactly. I was sort of lurking around his house.”

      Jill’s brown eyes widened. “You have to be kidding. You were spying on him?”

      “No. I was spying on someone else. But he caught me and it was horrible and awkward and I think he’s going to be getting a restraining order against me.”

      Jill grabbed a chip. “What did you think? Isn’t he still amazing looking?”

      “Oh, yeah. Dark, brooding, dangerous.”

      “Sexy,” Jill added. “I love the earring. I tried to talk Mac into getting one, but he’s pretty much ignoring me on that.”

      “I’ll admit the earring is appealing.”

      “And his butt. The man has a fabulous butt.”

      “I didn’t get a chance to check it out, but I’ll put it on my to-do list.”

      Jill threw the chip across the table. “Oh, please. Don’t get all superior with me. We’re talking about Riley. I refuse to believe you can stand in the same room as him and not feel something.”

      “I felt humiliation and a burning desire to be somewhere else.”

      “That’s not what I mean. Come on, Gracie. There had to be some attraction between you.”

      No way she would admit to that, Gracie thought. Too dangerous with the potential to make her look far too foolish. Plus it would be all one-sided. “He’s firmly in my past where he will stay. Do you think I’m proud of what I did to him? I hate that everyone remembers it and talks about it. The last thing I’m willing to do is fuel the fire. What’s he doing here, anyway? And running for mayor? What’s up with that?”

      Jill straightened. “I can only discuss things that are public knowledge.”

      Gracie stared at her friend. She was careful to keep her lips pressed together so her mouth didn’t hang open, but she was pretty sure her eyes had bugged out.

      “You’re his lawyer?”

      “I’m handling some things for him.”

      Gracie didn’t know what to say. “How long will he be in town?”

      “That depends.”

      “You’re not being the least bit helpful.” Gracie took a sip of her drink. “Do you know why he’s running for mayor?”

      “Yes.”

      “Are you going to tell me?”

      “No.”

      “You’re not very much fun, you know that?”

      Jill grabbed a chip. “I know. I just can’t.” Her expression turned wicked. “But if you see him the next time you’re spying at his house, you could ask him yourself.”

      “Not even for money. I don’t want to have anything to do with Riley ever again. The humiliation would be too great.”

      “Fair enough. As long as you’re sure he’s not the one.”

      Gracie looked at her and laughed. “If he’s the one, I’m converting to Catholicism and taking my vows.”

      * * *

      FRANKLIN YARDLEY LIKED WATCHES. He had an impressive collection he stored in a custom-made drawer in his dresser. Every morning after picking out a suit and tie, he carefully chose the watch he would wear for the day. Omegas were his favorite, but he had three Rolexes because everyone expected a man in his position to wear one.

      “It’s all about perception,” he reminded himself as he glanced down at the Omega partially concealed by the cuff of his monogrammed cotton shirt.

      Still, he wasn’t interested in a watch for himself today. He turned the page of the jewelry store catalogue and paused when he saw the display of ladies’ watches. No, he was shopping for a very special someone.

      A simple but elegant Movado caught his eye.

      “Perfect.”

      It was fancy enough to impress the lady in question, but not so flashy as to call attention to itself.

      He made a note of the jewelry store and then checked his calendar. He would need a day or so to get the twelve hundred dollars he would need to buy the watch. It wasn’t as if he could put it on his credit card. Sandra, his wife, might never have worked a day in her life, but she kept track of every single penny. Somehow he’d assumed the daughter of a self-made millionaire wouldn’t care about things like budgets and spending, but Sandra did. She believed that since the wealth in their marriage came from her, she had the only say on how it was spent.

      Still, after twenty-eight years of marriage, Frank had made his peace with her tight purse strings and had figured out more than one way around them.

      She often commented on his nice things, the ones she hadn’t bought for him, but he never explained, not even when she told him to his face she didn’t trust him. He didn’t particularly care what she thought—she would never leave and she looked good at parties. It was more than enough.

      Frank slipped the catalogue into his leather Tumi briefcase, then unlocked the desk’s bottom drawer. Under the city seal and several other important documents was the checkbook for the account especially set aside for the mayor’s discretionary funds. Frank liked to think of it as his private play money. He tucked the checkbook next to the catalogue and pushed the buzzer that would summon his assistant.

      The door to his private office opened and Holly walked in. Tall, blond, raised in San Diego and all of twenty-four, she had the perfect pretty looks of a third-generation surfing family. But behind those big blue eyes and high cheekbones was a brain of extraordinary sharpness.

      “I have the figures you requested,” she said as she put a folder on his desk.

      Hers was the figure that interested him the most. He imagined how pleased she would be when he gave her the watch later this week.

      “It’s not good,” she added. “Riley Whitefield is gaining in the polls. People are starting to listen to his message.” She frowned slightly, drawing her perfect eyebrows together. “They’re saying we should discuss the issues more. I think you should give a few more speeches.”

      He adored everything about her. The way she talked, the way she worried, the way she said “we” as if they were a team.

      “What issues do you consider most relevant?” he asked.

      Delight widened her eyes. “You really want my opinion?”

      “Of course. You’re my connection with the good citizens of Los Lobos. They’ll tell you things they would never tell me.”

      “I hadn’t thought of that. I guess being the mayor sort of separates you from everyone.”

      “Why don’t you close the door and we’ll brainstorm some topics,” he suggested.

      She did as he requested, then took the seat across from his. “Taxes are always an issue,” she said. “But there aren’t any bond measures on the ballot.”

      “What’s Whitefield discussing?” he asked.

      “Zoning, more money for schools, ways to bring tourists to