The Women of Bayberry Cove. Cynthia Thomason

loading area, the apparent end of the tour. “You’re right there, Miss Duncan. You got any young ’uns yourself?”

      “No, not yet. Got to find me a good man first,” she said with a flippant tone she figured Justin wouldn’t notice even though his narrowed eyes were giving her a close scrutiny.

      “From where I’m standing,” he said, “there’s probably a few fellas in this town who wouldn’t mind applying for that job. You staying here long?”

      “As long as it takes,” she answered. “Now, if I can just ask you a few more questions…”

      TWENTY MINUTES and at least as many questions later, Wesley walked around from the passenger side of the Jeep, climbed behind the wheel and slammed his door. He was angry. He’d been had. Duped. Plain and simple. This woman who’d professed with a saccharine smile to love candles had taken him on a merry chase.

      He stared across the space between them and scowled. Fiddling with the contents of her shoulder bag, Louise pretended not to notice his emotional state. Or maybe she really didn’t notice, and that was probably worse. One thing was certain. This lady, with her sexy dress, her high-heeled sandals and a body that practically made him drool, cared as much about seeing candles made as she would digging oysters out of the muck of Currituck Sound.

      He started the engine, thrust the gear shift into reverse and backed out of the parking space, spitting gravel from his rear tires. And then, because that was childish and stupid, he reined in his anger and put the Jeep through its gears until they were retracing their tracks to town at a safe speed.

      But he’d gotten her attention. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her arch her eyebrows in question. “Something wrong, Commander?” she said.

      He clenched his teeth, tightening his jaw muscles. “What were you doing back there?”

      She concentrated on her purse again. “What do you mean?”

      “I mean that you grilled Beauclaire like he was in front of a congressional hearing.”

      “I did no such thing,” she said. “I was merely trying to learn as much about candles—”

      “Let’s cut through the scum and get to the clean water underneath,” he said. “What are you up to, Counselor? And why did you feel it was necessary to involve me?”

      Her shoulders sagged as she sighed deeply. “You already are involved, Wesley,” she said. “You live here. You worked there. Nearly everyone in this town is involved to some degree.”

      “In what, Louise? Do you see some sort of conspiracy that no one else has noticed in the last thirty years?”

      “No, not a conspiracy.” She emitted a most unladylike snort. “That almost makes it worse. What’s happening at the candle factory is out in the open for all the world to see…and ignore!”