An Offer He Cant Refuse - By Christie Ridgway Page 0,43

following Tea, her mother, and sisters as they moved about their own neighborhood.

And that final, frightening and destructive search of the house by the FBI. "I remember exactly how it was."

Bianca took in a deliberate breath. "Still, I want to warn you, cara."

More shivers raced down Tea's back. "Can we talk about this another time, Mom?" Another century, when they were both old and gray and the memories and the fears had finally faded away. "I have to get to work and then I have this big... uh, thing tonight." She'd walk across hot coals, or even date Johnny Magee to avoid the direction this conversation was taking.

Her mother drew closer and brushed her palm over Tea's hair, the soothing gesture in contrast to her scary next words. "Men will be coming into town."

"Men?" It was hard to swallow the dry lump in her throat. "What kind of men?"

"You know the kind I mean. They'll be coming here soon, and over the next few months, to curry favor with your grandfather, to cement old alliances, to create new ones. They'll be searching for vulnerabilities in the family and looking for ways to take power."

Will they be looking for the book again? Tea pictured its soft, glossy cover and could almost smell the faint scent of the apricot rose pressed between its pages. The book's secrets were sixteen years old, but she doubted their ugliness had diminished. If it came to light, those who had borrowed money, gambled illegally, or had been blackmailed for their peccadilloes would still be embarrassed or exposed.

And others would be implicated.

Her mother brushed her hand over Tea's hair again. "Watch your back, cam" she whispered.

The glass behind Tea had been warmed by her body heat, so there was no reason to shudder. But she did anyway, and again, when she found the gaze of Silver Crewcut was trained their way once more.

"What about him, Mom?" she said, her eyes flickering over her mother's shoulder. Was it happening already? Was this one of the men her mother was warning her about?

That non-Botoxed frown appeared again between Bianca's eyebrows. "Him? You mean the man who checked in last night?"

"He's staring at us."

Her mother shook her head, smiling a little. "He's a construction manager from Colorado Springs. We don't need to see snakes under every rock."

But Tea would feel them around her now, she just knew it, in every dark car that slid around her street corner, in every dark Italian eye that looked her way, in the dark shadows of her very own bedroom.

The opportunity to get out of her house tonight suddenly seemed like manna from heaven.

"The spa has a tennis racket I can borrow, right?" she asked.

Her mother nodded. "Of course."

"And some tennis-y type outfit in the boutique?"

Another nod.

"Not to mention my usual deep discount?"

Her mother laughed and Tea liked the sound of it. Not that she felt like joining in. But at least she was giving herself something else to think about beyond the Caruso problem tonight.

Johnny.

Funny, how in the space of one short conversation, he'd become the least dangerous man in her life.
Chapter Thirteen
"The Tender Trap" Frank Sinatra This is Sinatra! (1956)

At Johnny's knock on her door, Tea swiped up her purse and the borrowed tennis racket. Then, in the same movement, she opened the door and tried walking past him, already on the way to his car. She was that eager to get out of her house.

"Wait, wait, wait." Johnny caught her by the shoulders and pushed her gently back inside. "I made a mistake about the time. We're not in a rush, actually we're a little early."

The door closing behind him did nothing to calm her jumpy nerves. Tomorrow she'd be better, but today her mother's warning had lurked in her mind. All morning and afternoon she'd imagined villains staked at her corner or stalking past her windows. "I don't mind being early," she said.

He smiled. "You might want to be dressed."

She glanced down at herself - at herself in her enveloping mauve chenille bathrobe - and flushed. It wasn't that she wasn't already dressed for tennis, but the teeny tiny outfit she'd brought home from the spa's boutique might as well have been constructed of wet tissue paper then molded to her skin. The first puff of breeze and the skirt would flutter up to reveal built in "shorts" that hit her legs at hot-pants level. She'd slapped her bathrobe over the getup before too many glimpses of her nothing-left-to-the-imagination figure