Live and Let Love

Shane’s reactions and behavior around her puzzled Willow. He persisted in pursuing her, and yet there wasn’t any sexual chemistry between them. None on her part and only halfhearted, feigned attraction on his. As odd as it sounded, it was almost as if he was acting a part.

  Maybe Shane was trying to force himself to move on from Crystal’s death by latching onto Willow. Maybe he thought their similar backgrounds of loss made them compatible. But it was a lost cause.

  Willow was highly intuitive. And she knew chemistry when she saw it and, more important, when she felt it. There was no reason for Shane to be jealous and care whether she spoke with Con or not. And yet something about the way Shane acted, almost as if he was looking for her to make a move of some kind on Aldo’s cousin, made her back off and go underground.

  During her, she hoped, clandestine surveillance of Con she’d noticed a couple of interesting things. One, she’d seen him by one of Aldo’s metal roosters pocketing a rock. For luck? Con didn’t seem like the rock-hound type. And two, no matter how much the ladies wanted to watch him strut his stuff, he didn’t want to dance. He kept trying to buy his way out of it. So, of course, she was going to make certain he danced until he dropped. And it wasn’t the ladies’ need for eye candy that motivated her.

  You could tell a lot about a person by how good- or bad-naturedly they reacted under pressure or to a situation they found embarrassing. And how they took being ribbed. She’d know by how Con handled himself in the competition whether he was a man worth getting to know better. Or whether he’d never measure up to Jack.

  Shane stood next to her, rocking on the balls of his feet nervously.

  “You’re right. Lettie’s going to make you dance,” she said to him, teasing. “I don’t think she dreamed up this competition just to get back at Bob for last year. I think she just wants to see you shake your booty.”

  He shook his head, looking decidedly unappreciative of Lettie’s desires. He pointed to Willow’s tickets. “And you’re planning to buy me out of this?”

  She eyed him doubtfully. “Do you really think I can outspend Lettie? She’s the wealthiest person here.” Willow grinned. “Sorry, but I think you’re in.”

  Con came into the building with Aldo. As they walked past her, an old, familiar feeling washed over her—the prickly glow and sense of danger that used to surround Jack. The hairs on her arms stood up, fueled by her earlier sense of foreboding. If she’d had a pinch of salt, she would have thrown it over her shoulder just then.

  Instead, she studied Con. He was everything Willow liked in a man—broad shoulders, wavy dark hair, and a confident stance. She could see why he was Shiloh’s old-man crush, though he was anything but old. Probably not a day over thirty-five. Jack’s age, if he’d lived.

  Dressed in a soft black V-neck sweater that practically screamed to be stroked as it strained across his shoulders, cashmere probably, casual mahogany-brown slacks rolled to the ankles, secured with a black-and-white-patterned belt, supple leather black shoes, sans socks, he looked very much in his prime. And way too sophisticated and city slick for Orchard Bluff. The opposite of the way Jack dressed. He wouldn’t have been caught dead in such a totally metro outfit. But somehow, on Con, it worked.

  A large digital timer was counting down the final minutes until eight. With two minutes to go, Lettie went to the podium at the head of the room, banged a gavel, grabbed a cordless mic, and called the room to order. “All right, citizens of Orchard Bluff, the hour of reckoning is almost upon us. Bob White, this is payback for that diabolical bench-building challenge last year.” She pointed over her back.

  Behind her stood a large whiteboard with a tally of the votes. Bob White was in first place, Shane in second, two other local men in places three and four, and Con was in fifth by just five votes.

  “Bob, I see the good ladies have made sure you’re going to be dancing,” Lettie said.

  The crowd laughed.

  Willow hoped her stash of vote tickets, and a perfectly timed casting of them, would ensure Con danced. He stood just a few feet away from her, rummaging through his pockets. She had a hard time not staring at him. He was so easy on the eyes.

  Lettie led the crowd in a countdown. “Ten, nine—”

  “Wait!” Con dashed to the podium, waving a bill around.

  “A man who likes to flash his cash for charity.” Lettie clapped. “Stop the timer. What can I do for you, Con?”

  “Ten bucks says I’m out.” Con held it out to Lettie with a big grin on his face.

  Lettie leaned across the podium with a big grin. “More money for charity! Oh, but this is bad, very bad, for Clint. This puts him in fifth place. Clint, where are you? Start digging in your pockets for the animal shelter or you’ll be dancing.”

  “Not so fast!” Willow’s heart raced as she seized her opportunity and stepped forward. “Twenty dollars for the animal shelter and twenty-four votes for Con.”

  The stunned look on Con’s face was worth every penny. As if she were a traitor. And yet he was amused at the same time. The curl of his good-natured grin almost stopped her heart—it was so strikingly like Jack’s.

  “Clint, you owe Willow one for this, you old codger. I expect to see you in her shop buying a pound of candy for your wife.” Lettie banged the gavel. “Start the timer. Five, four, three, two, one!”

  The buzzer sounded. The crowd cheered.

  “Zero!” Lettie turned to Con. “We’re good sports. And we play fair, especially when we’re trying to raise as much money as possible for a good cause. Before I pronounce your sentence, do you have any more money you’d like to donate to get out of dancing?”

  Con pulled his pockets inside out and shook his head, hamming it up shamelessly. “Hey, Aldo, help me out? Lend me a few?”

  “I’ll throw in another twenty.” Aldo grinned.

  Con relaxed and did a victory punch in the air. “Yes! Family.”

  Aldo waved a bill around. “To make sure he dances.”

  Con stopped in his tracks and his face fell. The crowd roared.

  “Anyone else have an opinion they’d like to throw some cash at?” Lettie looked around the group of growers.

  “Ten for keeping him in!” someone else called out.

  “I’ll go five!”

  “I have twenty tickets that say he’s dancing,” Sheryl the mail carrier said. “And I want to see a tush push!”

  Con made a comical shocked face and slapped his hands on his butt as if he was tucking it in and keeping it firmly in place. “A what?”

  Bob White came up, slapped Con on the back, and stuck his butt out. “It’s a country line dance move, city boy.”

  “That is not what I’m talking about!” Sheryl called back. “Pull that big old butt in, Bob. Don’t listen to him, Con. Nora will show you how it’s done.”

  Lettie banged her gavel. “Con, it’s official—you’re dancing! The rest of you boys, get on up here.”

  Shane handed his drink to Willow. “Hang on to this for me. I’ll be back for a victory drink.”

  Con, Shane, Bob, and the two others made their way to the front of the podium, looking sheepish and uncomfortable.

  “There are only a few rules,” Lettie said when they were assembled. “No intentionally bad dancing. Some of you may not be light on your feet, but you’re going to have to try. This is for charity and we expect you men to fight to win.

  “If our judge taps you, you’re out. The decision of the judge is final. No arguing. Got it?”

  The men pretended to grumble but nodded their agreement.

  “Good. Unlike the men last year”—Lettie gave Bob a stern look that got a good laugh—”who gave no instructions to the ladies, we women have risen above and brought in an expert to show you boys how it’s done. Our very own Nora Renner has taught country line dancing for twenty years. Follow her and you shouldn’t have any problems.

  “Where’s Roger, our disc jockey?” Lettie looked around. “There he is.” Lettie smiled at him. “Nora? R
eady?”

  Nora stepped out to the front of the crowd and took a small bow.

  “Take it away.” Lettie clapped and stepped away from the podium.

  * * *

  Jack loved to dance. Yeah, it was a bit embarrassing to be a big, bad assassin who liked to trip the light fantastic. But what could he say? He considered dancing an athletic endeavor. He felt Willow watching him as Nora gave the men brief lessons on how to dance the tush push, Cotton Eyed Joe, and the Cowboy Boogie. Jack didn’t need lessons, but Con probably did.

  The men lined up, Jack and Bob in the front row and the three others in the back, with Nora at the front, back to them, calling out steps and leading.

  Jack was debating whether he should throw the competition and get out when a blow to the back of his right knee with a steel-toed boot from behind took his breath away and nearly felled him. His leg immediately went numb.

  Damn, Jack thought, fighting to stay on his feet. A direct hit to gallbladder point 31.

  There are points on the body that if struck properly can kill a person instantly. Striking others, like gallbladder point 31, causes temporary paralysis. As a karate expert, Jack knew them all. Unfortunately, so did his opponent.

  It took a master to hit 31 with paralyzing precision. And an expert to stay on his feet once struck. The Rooster had caught Jack off guard. This time.

  Game on, Jack thought, resisting the urge to fight back and wishing he weren’t under orders not to assassinate in public. So the Rooster was trying to draw him out before a crowd, was he?

  Jack preferred a good, fair fight. Which was one reason he’d spiked the Rooster’s drink. Any minute now that XTC would start taking effect. Then it would be game over for the Rooster.

  While Jack waited for his drug to do its magic, there was only one sure way to live through the evening—swallow his pride and get out of this damned dance-off. He pointed to his newly bum leg and limped toward the sidelines, imploring the judge, a local woman, a friend of Lettie’s whose name he didn’t know, “Hey, I’m about to die in here.”

  The crowd booed and yelled at him to stay in.

  “Con Russo!” Lettie’s stern voice boomed like the wrath of God over the loudspeakers. Or, more accurately, like his angry mother’s. “Stop hamming it up and trying to worm your way out of dancing. That was just a light tap. No more being a baby. The men in this town do not wimp out.” She shook her head condemningly. “Do I have to repeat the rules? No intentionally bad dancing. This is a fight to the death.”

  She didn’t know how accurate she was.

  Lettie held the mic close. “Now man up! Get back in there, and stay in, until the judge tells you to get out.”

  Man up? That was a low blow. No one told Jack to man up or questioned his courage. If he weren’t undercover, he’d show them what a real man could do with a well-placed karate chop.

  A cheer rose from the crowd. The judge smiled and shrugged, looking like, What can I do?

  So that’s the way it’s going to be. The judge is just a figurehead to do Lettie’s bidding.

  “Sorry about that, buddy,” Shane said without the slightest hint of contrition in his voice. “My bad. I’m not much of a dancer.” He flashed Jack a victorious look, as if he was relishing the thought of delivering a lethal deathblow in the next set.

  Jack felt like a boat that was dead in the water. Dead on the dance floor—oh, the indignity. “One more move like that and I won’t have a leg to stand on.”

  The crowd laughed.

  “That’s the spirit. Apology accepted,” Lettie answered for Jack. “Can’t fault a man for not being an expert dancer, can we, ladies?”

  The ladies shrieked. Someone whistled.

  Jack decided in that instant that Con was usually a good dancer, when he had two functioning legs, who picked up moves quickly. It fit with Con’s metro image, so what the hell? Jack was running with it. Well, as well as he could with one limp leg. For now, he was going to have to heavily compensate with some splashy arm movements and butt-wiggling boogies. Until his leg woke up, his footwork was going to suck. He only hoped he was lithe enough to dodge the Rooster’s blows.

  Jack had to drive Kennett and get him to dance harder. The more he exercised, the faster the drug would flow through his system, and he’d topple off his feet to his defeat.

  Next to Jack, even with two good legs, Bob was struggling to keep up. The judge tapped Bob on the shoulder.

  “Bob, you’re out!” Lettie said into the microphone. “Get off the floor.”

  Bob looked stunned. “What? I didn’t even hit anyone like Shane did. And the music hasn’t even started. We’re still learning the steps. Don’t I get a second chance, too? I want that TV.”

  “The game began the minute you took the floor. You’re simply not as pretty as Shane, Bob.”

  Bob pointed at Jack. “But Con’s a hop-along casualty! He’s dragging one leg. Let me stay in for him.”

  Jack shrugged like a good sport, rotated his hips, doing a sensual boogie move, and took a step toward the edge of the dance floor. “Good idea.”

  “Not so fast, Con.” Lettie’s mic squealed with feedback and everyone jumped. “We all know how eager you are to get out of this. But you can’t fake your way out with the old bum-leg trick.

  “It’s time to take this to a vote. That was a pretty hot boogie, even one legged. What do you think, ladies? Is Con still in?”

  The ladies whistled. “Con’s in. Bob, you’re still out. No arguing. The crowd’s decision is final.”

  Bob left the floor with semi-good grace, grumbling only slightly. “That TV would have been awfully nice in my study.”

  Nora taught them a turn. Jack had to grab his right leg and swing it around manually. Which got a big laugh from the crowd. He was aiming for the Rooster’s crotch. Everyone knows a blow to the jewels will take a man down. Sadly, Jack’s aim was off and the bastard jumped out of the way. Next time, Jack would have to make an adjustment to his swing.

  The two other men turned the wrong direction and were tapped out of the competition. But Kennett, that big ox, was still on his feet. Jack should have known someone with Russian ancestry, with their notorious tolerance for alcohol, would have developed a resistance to drugs as well.

  “Looks like we just have two nice-looking young men left to compete.” Lettie winked. “Wonder how that happened?”

  More laughter.

  “All right, you two,” Lettie said. “Move in closer together. This looks like it’s going to be a head-to-head competition. We’re going to need to see you side-by-side to choose a winner. Remember—style points matter. I think it’s time we put those moves to music. Nora?”

  “We’ll start with an easy one, gentlemen. Cotton Eyed Joe.” Nora motioned for Roger to start the music and counted down the beat as the song began. “Five, six. Five, six, seven, eight!”

  Kennett came out swinging, literally swinging, his arms at Jack’s neck, aiming for the lethal pressure points there. Jack leaned back on his good leg just in time. Kennett missed jabbing him directly in bladder point 10, a knockout point, by that much.

  “Someone’s exuberant!” Lettie called out as Jack kept up with Nora only by doing a one-legged hop and moving his limp leg around by grabbing it with one hand and dragging it around. “Shane’s winning points with his extreme arm movements.”

  “Quarter turn to the right!” Nora called.

  Shane swung around, doing a karate kick. Jack ducked just in time to miss taking one to the head.

  “A little less leg next time,” Nora said.

  “If I had any less leg,” Con said, “I’d be on the floor.”

  The crowd laughed.

  “I was talking to Shane, Con. Just follow my lead.” Nora led them in a stomp, stomp, stomp move.

  Jack’s was more of a stomp, drag, stomp.

  Kennett ignored her instructions. He swung around again, going freestyle, jabbing and parrying with Jack, going at his weak side, looking to hit the n
earest lethal point as Jack limped around like a pirate dragging a wooden leg.

  The crowd laughed at his antics, unaware Kennett was trying to kill him before their eyes. Jack couldn’t fight back unless he wanted to kill the Rooster outright in front of everyone. Which was against orders. Besides, Jack didn’t need an inquiry. And he most especially did not need Willow to see him kill someone.

  Roger the DJ was quick to jump on Kennett’s change-up of the dance routine. He switched up the music, and before Jack knew what was what he was dragging his leg through the Cowboy Boogie to “Footloose.”

  The good thing about the Cowboy Boogie—there was a lot of boogie, rotating hips, in it. Jack rolled his hips like a Chippendales dancer and seized full advantage, making the ladies scream and forget about his lack of footwork. Style points for him.

  But the “Footloose” song lyrics drove him crazy, calling out his name, Jack, seemingly every other line. He had enough on his mind without having a song scream out who he really was. He should have heeded the song’s warning and gotten back. But being him, he ignored it.

  Now, not only was his leg numb and, of course, the Rooster was still trying to kill him, but his feet were killing him, too. Those damned Italian leather loafers had rubbed his heels raw. They weren’t meant for dancing, especially sockless. Each move was torture, giving him another blister that stung. So when the song directed it, he kicked off his Sunday shoes in time to the music. Oh yeah, and one might have been intentionally flung at Kennett’s head.

  The Rooster dodged it and looked at Jack with murder in his eyes.

  Jack felt a tingle in his leg and grinned back. A real tingle, as in his leg was waking up. Finally. Time to take this competition up a notch and strike when his opponent least expected it.

  The Rooster launched a full attack, stomping across the floor in his steel-toed boots in time to the music, aiming directly for the vulnerable bare toes of Jack’s gimpy leg. When was Jack’s home-cooked XTC going to kick in? He knew he should have made it stronger. As in lethal.

  As Kennett danced toward Jack, Jack looked around for help, like the judge. But she’d left the dance floor. This was now clearly a free-for-all.