Roni had thought Patricia was a wonderful player, but now she hoped her friend was pro material. She wanted to see someone beat the socks off the cool blonde, who seemed perfection personified. Maybe someday she would beat her, Roni mused, wondering how much golf lessons cost.
Glancing at Adam, who observed them with a slight frown on his handsome face, she hoped he didn’t realize she was seething from something very akin to jealousy. She didn’t like the feeling at all.
Roni lined up the borrowed driver behind the ball, eyed the flag on the pole at the last hole, then gave it her all. She observed as the ball went shooting off into the rough, hit, then, to her surprise, rolled onto the green. The far edge of the green, yes, but on the green, and this was only her second shot.
Geena—the cool, the skillful, the beautiful—drove straight down the fairway and landed in the middle of the green. Scott and Adam followed, then the foursome climbed in the golf cart and went to play the eighteenth hole.
Geena had played beyond her game, or so she said, and had given Adam a run for his money on the lovely course, coming in only two points behind him. Scott was ten points behind and obviously disgruntled about it. He was probably off his game due to having to play after her.
Her own score was so terrible, Roni saw no need to add it up. She’d lost two balls in the trees and two in water traps. Three times she’d had to pick up and move on without getting the stupid ball in the hole because other people were waiting for the green.
Adam’s handicap was nineteen. A handicap less than ten was considered close to pro status, so Geena had known that Roni had been talking through her hat when she’d claimed Patricia was in the five to six range.
Nothing like making a fool of oneself. She hadn’t been so humiliated since first grade when she’d forgotten the lines to the poem she’d written for Uncle Nick and he’d been in the audience to witness her failure.
“This is a difficult green,” Geena announced.
“Tell me about it,” Roni muttered.
Since she was the farthest from the hole, she walked to the edge of the green, stood at a tilt because the rough slanted downward there and, hardly glancing at the hole, gave the ball a whack with the putter Adam handed her. Three more whacks and she was done, even if she missed every time, she consoled her bruised ego.
The ball rolled merrily with the slope of the green. It was going to miss the hole. She pasted her cheeriest smile on her face. Stoic was her middle name.
Just then the ball swerved to the right. In a long graceful arc, it spiraled over the short grass in a tightening circle. To her amazement, it disappeared.
“A birdie,” Geena said. “I don’t believe it.”
Roni couldn’t believe it, either. She walked over to the hole and peered inside. The ball was there.
“Good going,” Adam said when she lifted it out of the cup. His eyes were filled with laughter.
She grinned at him, her world right once more. On this buoyant note, Roni made it through the casual dinner and the teasing she took over her score that evening.
During the evening meal, listening to Adam talk business with the Mastersons, she picked up on the fact that the family thought Adam was in some kind of communications leasing business, just as he’d said at breakfast. She also learned that Greg Williams was the chief financial officer of their company.
With a sudden sense of horror, it occurred to her that she might have blown Adam’s cover on his current case. She had to speak to him. Right away.
Roni paced the floor. Finally, at half past eleven, she heard Geena’s voice, then Adam’s, as they ascended the stairs. She eased her door open ever so little and noted which rooms they entered. As she’d suspected, their rooms were side by side, across the hall from hers and Scott’s.
At midnight, she figured everyone was in bed and asleep. Except Adam. She could see a sliver of light under his door. She tiptoed across the hall and silently turned the knob.
Adam, dressed in a sweat suit, sat in an easy chair, his feet on the matching ottoman, a book open on his lap. His eyes met hers, their frosty hue not very welcoming.
She slipped inside and closed the door. “I need to talk to you,” she whispered.
He nodded, but didn’t get up. His gaze swept over her satin pajamas, which were dark blue with a paisley print border in gold on the sleeves and legs.
Going to him, she perched on the edge of the ottoman and leaned close. “You remember a week ago Friday I was at the restaurant with Patricia and you were with—”
“GregWilliams,” Adam interrupted rather impatiently.
“Yes, well, you told him you and my cousin had worked on a couple of projects and that we had met at his wedding. Remember?”
He nodded.
“Then last night you mentioned Zack and Honey. I told Geena my cousin was a deputy sheriff—”
“Ah, yes, when you were comparing bloodlines.”
She flushed at the sarcastic tone and wished she hadn’t let her baser emotions get the better of her. “I don’t think Geena caught on,” she said contritely.
“Would it have mattered to you if she had?”
Roni peered into his unfriendly gaze. “Not then,” she admitted, “but now I’m truly sorry. I was envious, just for a moment, of all she had.”
The silence was brief, but intense.
“What, Little Bits, does she have that you haven’t got, tenfold?”
His voice was still stern, but other emotions—tenderness? sympathy? concern?—flicked through his eyes and were quickly hidden. She wondered if they were for her or for the confident Geena.
“Golfing skills,” she lamented.
He smiled slightly, and the tension eased. She grinned, then became serious. “Anyway, Mr. Masterson mentioned Greg Williams was with CTC,” she said in a barely audible voice.
“What bothers you about that?” Adam asked.
“I may have blown your cover.” She pinched pleats into the satin material of her pajamas while she considered the ramifications. “If Geena knows my cousin is a cop and Greg knows you’ve worked with him and they get to talking and all this comes out, then they may suspect you’re a cop.”
“I see.”
She stared at her nervous fingers and forced them to stop creasing the material. “I feel just wretched.”
His low laughter brought her head up. “I knew I was in for trouble when you fell on my table that day like a warning from heaven. I don’t know how I thought I could avoid you.” He laughed again. “Or your meddling.”
His resigned exasperation hurt, but she had no time for self-pity at the present. “Are you making fun of me?” she demanded. It certainly didn’t seem as if he was taking her all that seriously.
“No,” he denied, but he was smiling. “Next time you see Greg, flirt with him. Maybe he’ll tell you what he’s up to.”
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