Girls of Summer Read online

  Swiping at a stray tear, Georgie focused on the firefighters and lifted a silent prayer of thanks for their tireless efforts. Her eyes slid shut as she concentrated on being in the presence of God, seeking His comfort in the midst of the chaos surrounding her. With a deep breath, she felt the intangible quality of her heavenly Father’s arms wrap tightly around her. The comfort she longed to feel enveloped her. Oh, Lord, I thank You for all that You have accomplished here tonight. Bringing dozens of people together to rescue a building, seems like such a minor item in the grand design of this world, but I know You have an eternal purpose for this accident. I pray You would forgive my sin of envy and help me to see the wonderful gift of Remy’s and Charlotte’s friendship. I want so desperately to be a part of her life I have a difficult time remembering she had a life bigger than what the two of us could have together. Help me to be grateful for the time we have rather than begrudging the time we don’t. Holy Father, help me to be consumed by You rather than be consumed by need or want. Help me to see You in the midst of the worries of this life. If I am not intended to be a conduit of Your grace to Charlotte, help me see who is in need of knowing Your love and grace. Help me to be a shining light for You to that person so that he or she might come to know You. Thank you so much for loving me in spite of all of my failings and flaws. I pray, Lord, that You might help Charlotte find the same kind of peace that I feel with You. Lord, hear my prayer. With a soft sigh, she opened her eyes to the focus of the interrogation-worthy stare of Special Agent Cade Murphy. “Can I help you?”

  “Were you praying?”

  She shrugged. “It’s only appropriate. God saved my home. A thank you seemed the least I could give.”

  “Firefighters saved your house.”

  “Yes, but who put them there if not God?”

  “Then who started the fire?”

  She paused. Lifting her gaze to his shadowed eyes, she tried to see past the hard exterior of doubt. “Special Agent Murphy, God uses all things, good, bad, and ugly, to His glory.”

  His snorted response shot her hand to her hip. “You don’t believe God is in control?” she asked.

  “Chaos is in control. And all we can do is try to tame it.”

  “Humpf,” she grunted, swiveling away from him.

  He chuckled. Sliding up to her side he bumped her hip with his. “Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  She whipped her head and narrowed her focus. “Trust me, you didn’t hurt my feelings. I have zero skin in this game.”

  He lifted a single eyebrow.

  “What?”

  “Georgiana, I believe you always have skin in the game. You seem like a woman who doesn’t know how to avoid being emotionally invested.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Darlin’, it’s my job to know you.”

  A chill raced up her spine. She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He matched her stance. “I’m a professional profiler. I literally get paid to know you.”

  “Show me.”

  “Show you what?”

  “Profile me, Mr. Big-Shot Special Agent Man.”

  “Mr. Big-Shot Special Agent Man?”

  “Whatever,” she poked him in the arm. “Show me your super-duper profiling skills.”

  “OK,” he said, rubbing his jaw. “You are emotionally available to everyone you meet, but this causes you to be perpetually wounded. You seek approval and comfort from the older women in your life because your mother died at a very young age. You did, and continue to do, nearly everything your father wanted you to do, even when you hate it, such as…let’s say running a baseball team when you hate sports.”

  Her jaw dropped. “I don’t hate baseball. I—”

  He raised his hand, gently pressing his fingers over lips. “You asked. Let me finish. I hate being interrupted.”

  Anger burned in her belly, but she clamped her mouth shut.

  A smirk lifted his lips. “Where was I?”

  She sucked in a breath and tightened her grip on her middle.

  Tilting his head to the side, he said, “Can you take it?”

  She narrowed her focus. “Bring it.”

  He chuckled. “OK. You have a deep unwavering belief in God that drives you, but it also misguides you because you can’t see people are inherently evil. They’ll always hurt you. You desperately want your sister’s approval. You’re intensely creative, but you’ve kept that part of you hidden because it is the one piece of you that you are most afraid to have criticized. You paint because you love the idea of creating a space of warmth and beauty. But you also paint because it allows you to release pent-up anger, resentment, fear, and self-loathing. You want to please your father, and because of that you will continue to deny your creative self to focus on business and baseball, two things you hate.” Shoving his hand in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels. “How’d I do?”

  A mixture of warmth pricked with icy fear floated through her. With the exception of her age, hair color, and weight, he’d completely nailed her. How could he know her so well? They met exactly two times, once at the hospital and once tonight. Was he a mind reader? She sucked in a breath. “Not bad. But I do love baseball.”

  He lifted his finger and tilted her chin. “No, you don’t. You’ve just done a great job convincing yourself.” With his light touch, her icy fear melted to a puddle of slush in her belly. Swallowing against the knot in her throat, she opened her mouth.

  “Murph…”

  They both turned at the sound of his partner’s voice.

  Special Agent O’Neal and Mac were walking up the slope.

  Stepping back, Georgie broke the intimate connection. A sudden chill coursed through her frame. Instinctively, she scrubbed her arms to stave off the overwhelming cold.

  “Murph, we should head back to Charleston. The locals have this covered.” O’Neal said with a nod toward a deputy sheriff who was talking to one of the firemen.

  Scooting to stand beside Mac, Georgie sucked in a breath calming her nerves.

  He leaned close. “Everything OK?”

  Unable to push words through the growing knot, she nodded.

  “I’m so sorry about the fire, Miss Dixon.” Special Agent O’Neal offered. “But it sounds as if the firefighters will have you walking around inside to see the internal damage by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You talked to the firemen?” Georgie asked Mac. “Do they know what started the fire?”

  Mac’s brow drew tight. “No. They’ll have an officer from the State Fire Marshal out here first thing in the morning to investigate for arson. No one will be getting into your house for a while, I’m afraid.”

  “Arson?”

  With a gentle squeeze of her shoulder, Mac smiled. “It’s routine. They’ll hopefully be able to dismiss the fire as nothing more than an unfortunate cigarette from a party guest.”

  “I guess that makes sense.” She turned to Murphy and O’Neal. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry your experience at a Colin’s Fancy party was cut short and filled with such drama.” She extended her hand to O’Neal. “I want to wish you a Happy New Year.”

  Releasing the agent’s grip, she swiveled and pasted what she hoped appeared to be genuine smile on her lips. “Special Agent Murphy, Happy New Year to you, too.” Her fingers slipped into his and were quickly enveloped by a long lean grip. Warmth emanated from the connection and the chilly air seemed to sizzle around her.

  He held her hand a moment longer than appropriate forcing her gaze to meet his. “Happy New Year, Georgie,” he whispered. “Please call me Cade. Special Agent Murphy sounds as if you’re my witness or something.”

  She felt the knot in her throat thicken, forcing a matched tone of his whisper to press through her lips. “OK. Cade, Happy New Year.”

  With her hand still in his oversized grip, he lean forward slightly and brushed his lips to her cheek. “It’s traditional for friends to give good wishes with a kiss.
And we are friends, aren’t we, Miss Georgie?”

  A breath puffed from her lips as he stepped back and released her hand. Her whole body was ablaze. She was certain if she looked down, she would see streaking patterns of light streaming across her chest.

  Cade shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded his head to Mac. “Happy New Year, Mr. Taylor. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you soon.”

  Georgie’s gaze locked with the steel green depths of Cade Murphy’s eyes. A soft sigh slipped through her at the tilt of his smile. What would this New Year bring?

  18

  “Remy, I know Mama did this. Or her goons. Somehow I know she’s responsible.” Charlotte sipped warm apple cider, chasing her bitter words with the sweet flavor. Huddled under layers of afghans and comforted by the creak of the back porch swing, she stared into the moonless night, hoping it would settle her zipping mind.

  “Darlin’, you don’t know anything.”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “Bad wiring in a house that used to be a shed?”

  “Rem, no matter how much I’ve complained about my accommodations, you and I both know the guesthouse was modernized to meet the dreams of the best designers on the planet. Every amenity exists, or existed, in those four walls. Most people in this country would think they won the lottery if they called the guest house home.”

  “OK, so not bad wiring. Maybe one of the guests or a staffer wandered out there and dropped a cigarette? You know how stiff Savvy can be about smoking near the main house.”

  “It was Mama, Remy. She’s so mad at me. I could feel it when I saw her. She would never have set foot in South Carolina if I hadn’t taken her name off of the accounts. She needs money, and when Stasi needs something she will stop at nothing to make her needs a reality. I can’t believe she’s behind the accident...”

  “You mean the bomb that could have killed you? The explosion that happened to coincide with Anastasia’s removal from direct access to your bank accounts. You mean that accident?”

  Charlotte waved her hand, ignoring the fear laced worry that grew every time she heard the word bomb. “Maybe, I don’t want to believe it. But tonight she could have hurt someone else. She could’ve hurt Georgie. I’m afraid she won’t stop until I’m no longer a problem. And I brought you into the middle of this. Remy, what if she does something to hurt you? I would never forgive myself.”

  “Sugar, you know I’m too charming to be at risk. And I could’ve stepped back the instant I knew what was not quite what. This is my choice. So hush with all those worries. I love you. I would do anything for you.”

  “Even put yourself in the crosshairs of a crazy Russian-American socialite desperate for money?”

  “Even that. Friendship runs deep.”

  “Friendship runs deep. I love you too, Remy.” She kissed his cheek.

  “OK, enough of the gooey.” He twisted to face her on the swing. “For argument sake, let’s say you’re right, and Stasi or one of her lovely associates set the fire. Don’t you think it’s about time to get the authorities involved? They’re clearly suspicious of something or they wouldn’t have come to your office before it blew up.”

  “The office didn’t blow up, just my car.”

  “Details.”

  “Details are important. Missing the details is how I ended up in this mess. If it wasn’t for you…” A tear streaked down her cheek, burning a warm path.

  “Aww, sugarplum. Don’t worry. We’ll figure out your crazy money-laundering momma and her whacky drug lord, bomb-making friends. Every family has problems. Yours just might be a little extra special.”

  “Do you really think I should say something to the FBI?”

  “Yes.”

  Remy and Charlotte turned at the deep timbre of Mac Taylor’s voice.

  How long had he been listening to them? What did he know? “Mac, this is a private conversation,” Charlotte said.

  “I think we’re beyond private conversations, Charlie. Your car was blown up and now your house, a home you share with your sister, was set on fire. What are you not telling me?”

  “On that note, I need to find my momma and make sure she has a ride home. Happy New Year, darlin’.” Remy leaned forward and kissed Charlotte on the cheek. “I’ll talk with you tomorrow.”

  The echo of Remy’s wingtips trailed in his wake.

  Tugging the blankets under her chin, Charlotte stared into the dark and smoldering night, unable to make out the firemen she knew were still ensuring no embers might reignite and cause further destruction. She wondered if she could hire them to tamp down the rapidly spreading blaze she called her life. The flames were so hot, she wasn’t prepared to discuss the chaos of her dysfunctional life with anyone, let alone perfect Mac Taylor and his broad-shouldered, confidence-oozing self. His weight dropped the swing two inches as he sat beside her, yet she resisted turning to him.

  “Give me a dollar.”

  “What?” She shifted to face him.

  “Give me a dollar. Hire me as your lawyer.”

  “I’m in a cocktail dress on the back porch wrapped in a pile of blankets because my house almost caught on fire. Not a dollar bill in sight.”

  “Very well.” He stretched his palm out to her. “We’ll do this the old fashioned way. Take my hand.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m about to become your attorney.”

  “Taylor, did you inhale too much smoke? You’re already my attorney.”

  “I’m Watershed’s attorney. With one shake of the hand, I’ll be your personal attorney and anything you tell me will be privileged.”

  “Anything?” A small burst of hope flickered in her heart.

  “Anything.”

  She lifted her hand from under the mound of blankets and slid her palm towards him. His fingers enveloped hers; his touch heated her better than the weight of a thousand blankets.

  His gaze captured hers. With a gentle squeeze of his hand, he became her confidante. “Tell me. I promise we’ll find a way to fix it.”

  19

  The rhythm of Mac’s encased fists against his heavyweight bag paced with the thud of his rising heart rate. When he’d returned to his row house in the early hours of the New Year, sleep evaded him. A pot of coffee, a thirty-minute session with the bag, and the winding story Charlie had shared with him continued to tear at his soul. Lives destroyed all because of a selfish need for power and unmatched greed. How could a mother treat her only daughter with…

  Whack! Whack! The heavy bag twisted.

  The supposed money laundering Remy uncovered was likely the source of the FBI interest, but with all Charlie had revealed, he couldn’t be too cautious. Maggie, his brother’s fiancée, had an Uncle Jack. Before six this morning, Mac left Maggie’s uncle a message for help. Jack Ramsey and his connections with the government and law enforcement were shrouded in layers of classified files and undisclosed locations, but Mac prayed Jack would know what options they had, both legal and sketching around the edges.

  Behind the din of wall speakers, the shrill of his phone stole his attention. Ripping off his gloves, he answered the call on the second ring.

  “Happy New Year!”

  The singsong of his brother Sean’s and Maggie’s voices floated through the phone. Mac responded in kind, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear. They chattered about the past week and the early stages of wedding planning. Gulping a half a bottle of water in a single swallow, he barely registered the couple’s words in the midst of the happy glow emanating through the phone.

  “Sounds great.” Mac said, when a pause forced his side of the conversation.

  “Hey, Mags,” Sean said. “Why don’t you go wake up Joe? I’m sure he’ll want to wish his big brother a Happy New Year.”

  “All right.” Mac heard Maggie’s soft smile. “I hope this is the most spectacular year for you, Mac.”

  “You too, Maggie-girl.”

  “What’s up?” Sean’s voice came through clear with
the slight edge of his police steel.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jack woke me a little before seven this morning wanting to know why my brother is asking for contacts within the FBI’s organized crime division.”

  Mac heard a screen door slam through the phone.

  “Do you want to explain to me why a corporate lawyer is asking for a contact with the FBI? Why you are calling the closest thing I have to a father-in-law before sunrise and seeking dangerous favors?”

  Releasing a sigh, Mac downed the remainder of his water bottle. “I have a situation. I need some advice. Not a big deal. Jack seemed amiable over Christmas. I didn’t think it would be a big deal. Tell him not to bother.” The crinkle of crushing plastic sliced through Mac’s apartment. He tossed the empty bottle in the recycling bin as he padded to the oversized black leather sofa in his street-facing living room.

  “Organized crime? Two words that always spell big deal.”

  “I didn’t want you to get involved,” he said. Sitting on the couch, he gazed through the wide window with a view of the ballpark lights four blocks in the distance.

  “How’d you think I would stay uninvolved? You called Uncle Jack.”

  Kneading the small space between his neck and shoulder, Mac sighed. “Sean, I shouldn’t have called Jack. I really can’t tell you what’s going on. Attorney-client privilege.”

  “A phrase every cop on the planet hates almost as much as ‘not guilty’.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to chase all the bad guys. I can’t help it if sometimes the bad guys have good lawyers.”

  “Is this one of those times?”

  “Do you think I would represent a criminal?”

  “Is her last name Dixon?”

  “Let it rest.”

  “No. You’re my brother. I love you. You wouldn’t let me deal with all the O’Donnell stuff by myself. I’m not letting you face whatever those Dixon sisters are dragging you into by yourself. Bentley Dixon asked too much of you with those women.”