An Unlikely Match

“Most people have.”

Claire leaned forward and rested her elbows on her desk. “Would you mind answering one question for me, Mr….?”

“Hogan. Jack Hogan.”

Mr. Perfect-Posture relaxed his stance just enough to reveal that he was actually made of bones and cartilage like the rest of humanity and wasn’t a concoction of metal and screws. It was a good sign that he wasn’t a robot controlled by a computer a thousand miles away. “Sure. Ask your question,” he said.

“Why would Archie Anderson buy Dolphin Run? For that matter, why is he interested in Heron Point at all?”

Jack Hogan rolled one squared-off shoulder. “Let’s just say his motives are personal. All I know is that he’s going to reopen it.”

“You’re not surprised?”

“Sure. I must admit that when we started investigating your town, I didn’t discover any of the usual incentives that generally pique Mr. Anderson’s interest.”

“You mean he isn’t ordinarily drawn to decaying old fishing resorts that haven’t housed guests in over forty years?”

There was that hint of a smile again. Claire found herself strangely drawn to it and imagining what a full-fledged grin might look like on Jack Hogan’s face.

“Something like that,” he said. “But I only work for the man. I don’t make his investment decisions.”

“What do you do…exactly?” she asked.

“I’m head of security for Anderson Enterprises. It’s my job to scrutinize the community and make whatever adjustments I feel are necessary to insure Mr. Anderson’s safety and well-being once he arrives.”

“Adjustments?” It was a strange word to use. “You don’t think your boss will be safe in Heron Point?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Hogan said. “I haven’t been here long enough to determine whether he will be or not. But Archie Anderson is a very wealthy man as well as a prudent one. He’s well aware that the world is full of opportunists and crackpots. He leaves it up to me to ferret them out and defuse situations before they happen.”

Crackpots? Claire cupped a hand over her mouth. Now would probably not be a good time to laugh at Jack Hogan’s implied image of her town. He saw Heron Point as a hotbed of potential dangers? His boss might suffer from a sunburn while he was here or perhaps break a tooth on a clam shell, but Claire doubted that any more serious problems would occur during his stay.

But, on the other hand, maybe Hogan was right about one observation he’d made. Now that Claire thought about her neighbors, she figured Archie Anderson’s security expert could uncover a few crackpots in Heron Point, though Claire liked to think of them as merely odd. She lowered her hand and gave Hogan her most serious look. “So what exactly do you want from me?” she asked.

“Cooperation. I’ll be checking things out around town, looking at your communications systems, your police protection, medical facilities, the types of businesses you have here. I might run a few background checks on the people who live here.”

Suddenly Mr. Hogan wasn’t the least bit amusing. Claire stood up and came around the desk. “Now, wait a minute….”

He stared down at her from a height advantage made worse by her flat-soled Birkenstock sandals. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I’m starting to think so. I won’t have you investigating our citizens, Mr. Hogan. We didn’t ask for you to come here, and—”

He smiled, for the first time showing a line of even, white teeth. “Believe me, Madam Mayor, once Archie Anderson makes his mark on this community, you’ll be glad we did. If anyone can put this little town on the map, it’s Anderson.”

A slow sizzle began deep inside her. How dare Hogan patronize her by telling her how she was going to feel! She took a step closer to him and glared up into a pair of storm-gray eyes that refused to blink.

“We already are on the map, Mr. Hogan,” she said. “Maybe that little dot on the Gulf of Mexico is insignificant to you. Maybe you think we’ve been sitting here for a hundred years waiting for a developer to come in and make an Archie Anderson swan out of this ugly duckling little town, but you’re wrong. You do not have my permission to investigate anyone—”

“I don’t need your permission, Miss…”

“It’s Mrs.” She delivered the correction with an unnecessary and totally self-gratifying hint of defiance to her voice.

“Fine. Mrs. Betancourt. I don’t require your permission or your husband’s to do my job.” He snapped his sunglasses over his eyes. “I happen to be very competent at what I do, and I know all the ways of doing it. I don’t need to sit in this office with your blessing and go through listings of county files to find out who lives here.” His lip twitched up again in the suggestion of a smile. “I was hoping we could work together, however.”

“Don’t push me, Mr. Hogan,” she said. “I normally get along with everyone, but you could turn out to be the exception.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and glanced at his watch. “I’m due at the realty office in a few minutes.”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

“It’s a small town.”

He turned away from her and walked toward the exit. He was no sooner out the door than Patty Barnes clutched her hands to her chest and said, “Wow. What a hottie.”

Lucy, starry-eyed and grinning, nodded her head in agreement.

Claire scowled at them. “Ladies, please! Shouldn’t you be at the realty office dotting some i’s on that contract?”

Her voice grabbed their attention as if she’d wakened them from a trance. They hurried out of the office. And Claire picked up the phone again. Only now she’d forgotten who she’d intended to call.

THE GREEN DOOR CAFÉ was known for its sweet raspberry iced tea, conch fritters and fried grouper. And to the locals, for its eccentric, good-hearted, clairvoyant waitress, Petula Deering. Aunt Pet claimed to be able to read minds and see into the future, which sometimes annoyed the heck out of Claire. It also scared her half to death, because, on occasion, Aunt Pet got lucky and guessed right.

Her wild platinum hair tamed into a single long braid, Aunt Pet floated over to Claire’s table in her ankle-length, earth-toned caftan. The beads on her wrists jingled delicately as she deposited a chicken-salad platter in front of her niece. Claire recommended the seafood specialties at the Green Door Café to everyone she met, but since she was allergic to shellfish, she had to take her own word for its delectability.

Petula scanned the usual midweek clientele in the café and said, “Good, everybody’s been served.” She sat at the table across from Claire, spilled a few grains of salt on the vinyl tablecloth and attempted to stand the shaker on one of its hexagonal edges. Pretending to be absorbed in her task, she said, “I heard all about your visitor this morning, Claire. Including that he works for Archie Anderson, and that he’s handsome as the dickens.”

Claire scooped a mixture of raisins and chicken onto her fork. “I don’t know if that last part’s accurate…or particularly important.”

The shaker stood at lopsided attention, balanced on one single speck of salt. “He’s not handsome?”

“I didn’t say that. He’s, well, moderately good-looking I guess.” Claire lifted the fork to her mouth. “Frankly, Aunt Pet, I had a hard time seeing past his overbearing attitude.”

Petula sat back and studied her niece in that way she had when she was drawing conclusions based on biased and often inaccurate information. “If I know you, Claire, you probably gave him as good as you got.”

Claire took a sip of iced tea. “I tried. Hogan can do whatever he wants at Dolphin Run, but I can’t let him think he can come into town and order everyone else around.”

“True, but did you let him think that you were available?”

Claire dropped her fork on the side of her plate. “What? Of course not. Why would I let him think that?”

Petula righted the salt shaker and twirled it around in her hands. “Because you are available, and because Patty Barnes said she didn’t see a wedding ring on his finger.”

Claire scoffed. “Patty was staring so hard at the man she would have noticed if he had a freckle on that finger.”

Petula poked at a wrinkle in the tablecloth. “Well, he is the first new guy in town since Sam Jenkins moved in to open the bicycle rental shop.”

“Sam Jenkins is nineteen years old, Aunt Pet.” Determined to steer this conversation in another direction, Claire said, “Besides, I’m not interested in any new men in the community for the reason you’re suggesting.”