“Why’re you nervous?”
“Because . . . because . . . because you’re dangerous. And I have a hard time believing your revenge plan involved anything as benign as a male stripper.”
“Make no mistake, George is not benign. He is an eighty-five-year-old committed professional and brings his gun. Well, he brings both his guns.”
She huffed and fought her smile admirably, her cheeks staining with a hint of pink. Jenn’s eyes finally lifted and held mine. “I see what you’re doing, you’re trying to get me to let my guard down.”
“Yes. Yes, I am. How am I supposed to help you if you don’t trust me?”
“How am I supposed to trust you when you have a long, established record of underhanded dealings and manipulations?”
Astute woman is . . . very astute. But I was running thin on patience.
“Listen, woman. Do you want my help or not? Because, as far as your well-being is concerned, I’m as gentle as a toothless, blind bunny rabbit.”
“You are no such thing,” she contradicted, chuckling in spite of herself—like she was both amused and frustrated—and I noted her hands were finally steady. “You know things about everybody. Everybody. You’ve gathered information and held it over people’s heads, forcing them do what you’ve wanted for years. In fact, I bet you know something about my family that could tear our world apart.”
I was careful to keep my expression even, because Jennifer was completely correct.
Her daddy had been having an affair with Elena Wilkinson, the high school secretary, for years. I’d had suspicions for a time, so I’d audited the advanced placement calculus class as a cover, until I could confirm the sordid truth. Kip Sylvester was a heartless and vapid excuse for a human being who only cared about himself.
Whether his wife realized this or not, I couldn’t say. But I did know that if Diane Donner-Sylvester ever found out about her husband’s cheating, she’d divorce him in a heartbeat. And he’d lose everything, because that woman made more money in a month than he made in a year.
I had no current plans to leverage the information, but I probably would. Eventually.
Jennifer wasn’t finished. “You’ll keep it a secret, so long as it serves your purpose. And that makes you dangerous, like a viper ready to strike. I think my caution is justified.”
“Fine. I’m dangerous. I know things.” I shrugged. “But you need to trust that I’m not dangerous to you. I can’t help you if you’re going to be jumpy Jennifer all the time.”
She hesitated, picked up the spoon again, and then said, “You’re right. I can’t be jumpy Jennifer and I’ll have to find a way to relax around you.”
The way she said “relax” made it sound like a herculean task.
“Jenn—”
“I’ll work on it.” She frowned, tilted her chin up, looking harassed and strangely cute.
Yes, cute. Jennifer looked cute. The woman’s features were aesthetically pleasing, especially without those fuzzy caterpillars on her eyelids. I would rate her as very pretty at present. I could toss her to the likes of officers Dale and Evans. Clearly, both men had been enchanted with her at the jam session. But very pretty wasn’t going to help much or take her very far without a backbone.
“Fine. You work on it, and I’ll work on you.”
Her cheeks colored a deeper shade of pink and she nibbled on her bottom lip. Eventually, she cleared her throat and dipped her chin to her chest.
I leaned forward on the counter, resting my weight on my elbows and forearms so I could see her face. When she dipped her chin, the rim of the hat hid her features. I would need to take it off.
“Did you do your homework?” I asked, noticing that her hat had Japanese characters on it.
“I did.” Abandoning her spoon and wiping her hands on the apron, she crossed to a burlap bag resting on a shelf by the back door. Jenn withdrew a folded piece of paper and turned toward me. She held it outstretched between us.
I glanced from her to the list, then back, endeavoring to ignore the compulsion to examine her odd irises. I wanted her to relax, not feel self-conscious.
But they provoked me. Scientifically speaking, her eye color was an impossibility.
They’re contact lenses.
Despite my intentions to the contrary, I held her eyes just a hair’s breadth too long, searching for the telltale ridges of her contacts. I saw none. Just violet eyes that shouldn’t have been possible.
She studied me, looking worried; the hand holding the paper dropped. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I frowned, disliking how this woman’s eye color upset the natural order of the universe. “You read the list.”
“Okay.” Her gaze moved between mine before dropping to the paper. She unfolded it, cleared her throat, then read, “Um, number one: gardening in overalls.”
“Gardening in overalls.”
“That’s right.” She nodded jerkily, lifting her chin and crossing her arms over her chest, like she expected me to argue.