store clutching one. Maybe Joyce was upset because they didn’t have any of the items on it. She wouldn’t put it past Joy.
“Can I help you with anything?” Melanie asked engagingly.
There was a dimple appearing and disappearing in her cheek, as if unable to decide whether to remain, as she smiled at him. Lance Reed watched for a moment in fascination despite himself. A snappy answer to her question, which several of the guys at the firehouse would have easily uttered, played across his mind, never making it to his lips. And with good reason. It was largely unrepeatable.
He took quick measure of the petite blonde who’d blown in his way like a sweet, cool breeze on a warm spring day. Unlike the woman he’d been talking to, she didn’t appear to have a care in the world. She also didn’t seem to be aware of the errors she was guilty of committing. Or, if she was, she didn’t care. He guessed that the latter seemed more likely.
That innocent look on her face was probably purely calculated for effect, he decided. Beneath the wide smile and wider eyes lay a devious mind. Lance Reed was well acquainted with the type. Hell, he’d been engaged to the type.
The blonde opened her mouth. The dimple set up housekeeping, calling forth a twin in her other cheek. She was going to flirt with him, he realized. Well, she could flirt until she was completely out of breath, wiles and charm. It wasn’t going to do her any good. She wasn’t going to talk her way out of a citation. Which would be for her own good. Or at least the public’s.
Certainly liked to stretch things out, didn’t he? Melanie thought. She raised a questioning eyebrow in Joyce’s direction, but Joy looked positively spooked. What was going on here?
“I’m sorry, maybe you didn’t hear me. I said, ‘Could I help you with anything?’ ” Melanie repeated.
“I heard you,” the deep voice rumbled. But before answering her question, Lance checked off several items on his clipboard.
He’d only taken on the job of fire inspector a little less than two months ago, helping out until someone permanent could be hired to take the place of John Kelly, who had just retired. He wore two hats these days, one as a fire inspector and his regular one, that of an arson investigator. It wasn’t easy, juggling the two, but there wasn’t much else to fill his hours the rest of the time since Lauren was permanently out of his life.
Thoughts of Lauren, of the way she had just turned and walked away when he had needed her most, dragged sharp, rusted nails through wounds he’d thought he’d finally managed to cordon off so that they could heal.
Showed how much he knew, Lance thought ruefully, disgusted with himself. His mood was not the best as he focused on the blonde standing before him and tapped the clipboard. “It’s not me you’re going to need to help, Ms. McCloud.”
“Melanie,” she corrected, trying to put him at ease with her smile. Being addressed by her surname put much too formal an edge on things. Tutored by her freespirited mother and equally uninhibited great-aunt, formality was something that had never taken root in Melanie’s life.
From the way the stranger looked, it had obviously not only rooted, but flourished in his. He made her think of a soldier, standing just at the line of battle a moment before going into the fray.
An extremely good-looking soldier, she noted. If Aunt Elaine were still around, she’d have been drooling, Melanie thought fondly. Aunt Elaine had always had an eye for good-looking men. It never waned, not even when she was in the hospital. Melanie liked remembering her that way. Aunt Elaine had flirted with a young intern moments before permanently closing her eyes. She died with a smile on her lips.
“And who is it that I’d need to help?” Melanie asked, wondering if she was going to have to coax every word out of this man’s mouth.
Her voice was low and melodious, Lance thought. He wondered if that was a put-on. Probably. The next moment she’d be batting her lashes at him. It seemed in keeping with the old-fashioned decor in the shop. When he’d first walked in, he’d had to take a minute to adjust. Not his eyes, but his orientation. Crossing the threshold had been like walking in through a time warp. Outside, in the bright California sun, it was the nineties; in here, it was like being thrown headfirst into the early fifties. Or maybe even earlier than that.
Retro wasn’t his thing. It obviously seemed to be hers. There was an old record player in the corner, its spindle laden with a stack of what looked like long-playing albums, the type that had been made when vinyl records were the only kind available. The music floated along the perimeter of his mind, vaguely familiar, even though he thought that wasn’t possible.
It was the theme from an old movie, he realized, before he shut the sound out. Something he’d probably heard as a kid.
He wasn’t here to play “Name that Tune,” Lance reminded himself, he was here to do his job and move on.
“You’re part owner of this store,” Lance nodded at the shop, “aren’t you?”
Just what was this about? Melanie exchanged glances with Joyce, whose lips seemed to have lost the ability to form words.
“Yes.”
Though she had owned all of the inventory before she’d decided to open up the shop, Melanie had insisted that Joyce become equal partners with her. It seemed only fair, seeing how many hours they both put in. Besides, it felt right, and Melanie always went with what felt right. Like her friendship with Joy. Living on the same street, they’d been friends since before kindergarten. Actually, only Joyce had gone to kindergarten. Melanie had remained home, to learn at her mother’s elbow. Her mother’s and Aunt Elaine’s, as well as several tutors her mother had brought in.
Melanie was firmly convinced that she’d learned far more from the two women, about life and surviving as well as the usual subjects, than she ever would have in a school where knowledge was contained within four walls and within the pages of books. Her classroom had been the world in general and the movie set in particular. Or rather, behind the movie set, where drama and magic, make believe and truth played equal parts.
“Then these citations belong to you.” Removing the sheet from the clipboard, Lance handed it to her. It listed five direct violations of the fire code, and he knew he could have given her more.
Melanie glanced down at the sheet, then back up at the man who had given it to her. She shared a little of Joy’s confusion. “You’re a fire inspector?”
“Yes, and your shop, Ms. McCloud, is a fire waiting to happen.” Disapproval was etched on his chiseled, rigid features. Though some might find a place like this charming, Lance didn’t care for small, cluttered places. He liked wide-open spaces. The less people allowed junk to pile up, the less fuel there was for a fire and the less likely it would be for a fire to break out.
With the tip of his pen, Lance pointed toward the four huge boxes that had been delivered this morning. “Do you even realize that you’re blocking an exit with that stack of crates? If there was a fire, someone could be hurt because of your carelessness.”
The delivery man who’d brought in the shipment had looked and sounded as if he was coming down with a cold. Taking pity on him, Melanie had sent him away after he’d dropped off the crates right inside the rear of the shop rather than in the storeroom. Customers had arrived, and she just hadn’t gotten around to putting the crates into the storeroom.
Melanie eyed the inspector. The complaint seemed minor enough to her. Rules, except for the very basic ones, were meant to be a little flexible. Surely he could cut her a little slack. John Kelly always had. A kind, jovial man in his late fifties, the other fire inspector and she had hit it off the first time he’d walked into her shop. But then, he was an old movie buff, and they’d found a great deal to talk about even before he’d discovered that she’d practically grown up in movie studios.
“Yes, but—”
If she thought she could talk her way out of this, she was in for a surprise. He wasn’t a pushover, the way the recently retired inspector had been. Lance