Redstone, Incorporated: The Best Revenge Part 2

Jessa stood up; the stranger must need something in a hurry and was looking for someone to ask, she thought. She stepped to the office doorway just as he reached it.

"What can I help you find?" she asked in her best, helpful-proprietor tone.

For a long moment she found oddly strained, the man said nothing. He seemed to be staring at her, although she couldn't be sure with the dark gla.s.ses. Her gaze was drawn to a three-inch-long scar, thin and white, that ran along his jawbone on the right side. It looked old and rather jagged, as if the injury should have been st.i.tched but wasn't.

"Most folks take those things off inside," her uncle said with a gesture at the sungla.s.ses that obscured the man's eyes.

Jessa winced inwardly, hoping the stranger didn't take offense. Uncle Larry never did quite get the concept of tact with customers.

"Perhaps he needs them, Uncle Larry," she said, thinking he might have an eye problem that also explained the paleness. "Now, what can I help you with?"

The man still said nothing, but he did, after a moment's seeming hesitation, reach up and pull off the sungla.s.ses.

The moment she saw his eyes, Jessa realized why he kept the shades on; it must be embarra.s.sing to have everyone stop dead midsentence the moment you looked at them. Because if she hadn't already finished her sentence, that's what she would have done. Those piercing blue eyes made what had before been merely an interesting face absolutely riveting. It wasn't just the color, although that was striking enough, it was the sense that those eyes had seen more things than any five men, and too many of them not pleasant.

She gave herself a mental shake; she didn't usually fall into fanciful speculation about total strangers. But he was staring at her so intently, and it was giving her an odd feeling. Ordinarily she would have thought it was simply a response to an attractive man, but this was something more. Something different.

"Can I help you?" She made the query again quickly, as much to shake off the odd effects as to get an answer.

He seemed, oddly, to relax slightly. As much as he probably ever did, she thought, judging by the air of tense readiness that seemed to cling to him. After a moment, he shook his head in answer to her question.

"Help you," he said.

She blinked. "Help me?"

He nodded toward the campaign sign in the office window, the only indication in the store that she was running; she didn't like the idea of cluttering up the place with reminders of what most folks in town already knew anyway.

"Make that happen," he said.

She didn't know if was something in the economy of his words or the flat, implacable confidence of his tone, but she knew he was utterly certain he could deliver on that promise.

What she didn't know about this dark, almost ominous stranger was why on earth he would.

Chapter 4.

She hadn't recognized him.

He hadn't expected her to, yet he wouldn't have been surprised if somehow she had. That in itself surprised him, and warned him he'd better keep his guard up here in this place where old, creeping memories were stirring.

But he had recognized her immediately. She hadn't changed all that much, even if it had been twenty years, and she'd been only ten when he'd last seen her. Her hair was the same sunny blond that had tumbled down her back as a girl, although now it was cut short, in a tousled cap that suited her. It made her neck seem even more slender, and bared a delicate nape that belied her strength and made a man want to- He cut off his own ridiculous thought with a jolt of shock. That was a road he had no business even looking at on a map, let alone considering traveling. This was Jessa, for G.o.d's sake, the girl who'd been like a sister to him.

But he couldn't help staring at those eyes, those wide, beautiful eyes the color of the river, and almost as changeable; green in some lights, hazel in others. They were still full of that wisdom, that sanity that had once been the only thing that had kept a struggling boy's head above water. He'd trusted her as much as he'd trusted anyone then, and she had never, ever let him down. And he hadn't found it odd that he trusted a girl almost five years younger than he, he'd only felt grat.i.tude that there was anyone he could trust at all.

His throat tightened involuntarily. It was unsettling to realize that he was feeling...anything. He'd thought himself immune to even the harshest pressure of those memories, so thick and high was the wall he'd built around them.

Higher. Thicker, he told himself. He could do that without even thinking about it. Nothing could be harder than what it had taken to build those walls in the first place; adding to them would be easy, wouldn't distract at all from what he'd come here for. "Fascinating."

The low murmur came from the man leaning against the doorjamb just behind Jessa. St. John flicked him a glance; he'd noticed the man, as he noticed everything, the moment he'd seen movement in the office at the back of the store. But now he placed him; Jessa's uncle, the oft-maligned but unexpectedly insightful Uncle Larry. He was grayer and heavier, but the sparkle was still in his green-gold eyes-Jessa's eyes-and his smile still had that fey sort of look that made people wonder just what he was seeing, and if it was of this world.

He gave that thought a fierce mental stomp; he had no time for such nonsense, let alone any inclination. Angry with himself, and not sure if it was for not being prepared for this, or for a.s.suming he was, his voice was even more clipped than usual.

"Won't cut it," he said, gesturing at the discreet sign in the office window.

For an instant she drew back slightly, and he reminded himself this wasn't Redstone, where everyone was used to his ways, and put up with them because he got the job done and made theirs easier. Out here, it just made people uncomfortable.

Except Larry. St. John could feel the older man's gaze on him. He wasn't sure what the man was feeling, but it wasn't discomfort.

And not your problem, he told himself.

"What," Jessa was asking, "won't cut it?"

"Signs. Not a campaign."

She frowned. "I know that. I'm just getting started."

She had no trouble, he noted, following him. But then, she'd always been smart. Smart, quick, clever. And wise. Far beyond her years. Of all things, he remembered that.

"Start right," he said.

"Who are you, one of those Machiavellian men-behind-the-throne types? Because as a speech writer, you'd be a failure."

He had, on occasion, been called exactly that: Machiavellian. But not a flicker of the faint jab of amus.e.m.e.nt he felt-a novelty in itself-made it to the surface.

And then Larry moved, as if he'd come to a decision. He spoke to Jessa, but never took his eyes off St. John.

"I'll be about my business, honey."

St. John, who in turn heard Larry, but never s.h.i.+fted his gaze from Jessa, saw her nod. Easily. Whatever she was feeling, she wasn't afraid of him. He registered the thought with some interest; half of Redstone was afraid of him. He knew that, knew he was part of the Redstone legend, and that speculation was rampant about everything from how and when he and Josh had met to why he was the way he was. He even knew about the betting pool they'd once run. Only the bravest had dared enter, since the goal was to make him laugh.

No one had. So he'd declared himself the winner, claimed the pot, and Josh's pet flight-school scholars.h.i.+p project had gotten a little richer.

Of course, Jessa didn't know who he was, didn't know that a lot of very smart people walked warily around him. Didn't know that she should do the same.

And didn't know she'd just come closer to making him at least chuckle than anyone had in a very long time.

"I'll check in on your mother on my way," Larry added.

"Thanks, Uncle Larry. She's had a tough week."

St. John remembered Naomi Hill. Remembered her kindness to him, her gentleness. Remembered how she had adored her husband and her daughter, yet quietly kept them both on the right path. It had been his first realization that gentleness didn't necessarily equal weakness, a revelation that had only cast his own mother in a sadder light.

He knew, intellectually, that she must still be deep in grief, and he was more than a little surprised when he felt a flicker of physical response to the thought; his chest seemed to tighten a little. Odd, he thought. That didn't happen. It must be the d.a.m.ned memories; she'd been nice to him when most would have ordered the dark, sullen kid he'd been to stay away from their precious, sunny, innocent daughter.

Larry was still watching him as reached the office doorway. "Complete sentences are often overrated, but sometimes useful," he said as he pa.s.sed him.

No, it wouldn't be smart to take Larry Hill too lightly, St. John told himself. For all his eccentricities, the man was perceptive. As was his niece.

Larry's words echoed in his head as he watched the older man leave through a back exit and, St. John guessed, head toward the big, old house across the storage and parking area for the store. For an instant he wondered what it must be like, to live on alone in the house you'd shared for decades with one person.

He yanked his mind back to the matter at hand, wondering why his usually laser focus was faltering.

He could talk in actual sentences, he thought. It couldn't be any tougher than remembering to speak in another language. But he wasn't here to make people comfortable. He was here to stop a fiend in his tracks.

"Want to be mayor or not?"

Jessa studied him for a moment before answering levelly, and almost as bluntly, "Frankly, no."

St. John managed to keep from lifting a brow at her, but his gaze narrowed.

"What I want," Jessa said determinedly, "is to stop a man I don't...trust."

St. John felt a knot deep in his gut, both at her hesitation, and at the word she finally chose. He'd done enough research to know that trust was Albert Alden's primary commodity here in Cedar. His facade of upstanding, pillar of the community was carefully constructed and practically una.s.sailable. "Why?"

The word was out before he could stop it, and it startled him. He never spoke unthinkingly, never let things slip out helplessly. Never.

But Jessa Hill always had been able to get him to talk. When he would talk to no one else, when the simplest of questions seemed dangerous to him, the little slip of a girl he'd first met that day by the river that would eventually be his salvation had always managed to get him to open up. Sometimes about things he'd never spoken of to anyone, before or since.

"Who are you?" she asked, her tone and expression indicating that she thought she was a bit late with the question.

"St. John," he said, knowing a name wasn't what she really wanted. She wanted to know why he, an apparent total stranger, gave a d.a.m.n about a small-town election.

He didn't have an answer prepared for that. And that realization shook him. He, St. John, the master of planning, thinking ahead and antic.i.p.ating problems hadn't planned for this simple thing. Had he gotten lax, too far removed from the days when that kind of thinking was the only thing that could save him?

As soon as he thought it, he knew that wasn't true. He did that kind of thinking every day. It was what made him useful-invaluable, Josh said-at Redstone.

Which left him with a conclusion he didn't care for.

"Is there a first name that goes with that?" she asked.

"No."

She lifted a brow and waited silently.

"Not one I use," he muttered, with more effort than he cared to admit.

"Okay, Mr. No-first-name-I-use St. John, I repeat, who are you? And why do you care who's mayor of Cedar? We're only a blip on our own county's radar, and not even that beyond."

"Reasons," he said.

"I can't afford a...consultant, or whatever it is you are."

"No charge." He saw suspicion flood her eyes. "Until it's won," he added. He'd have to figure that out later, he thought.

"And if I lose?"

"No charge."

"How do I know you're not just some plant working for Alden?" she asked, showing more patience with his clipped answers than most outside Redstone.

She had always been that, he thought, patient. But, as with her mother, not weak. He'd never forget the first time he'd glimpsed her fierceness, when he'd shown up at the place they met, the little clearing at the bend of the river, sporting new bruises. She'd been beyond upset, she'd been furious, and quite ready to fight for him. He'd never admitted to her who was responsible, although he knew she'd suspected even then. A reasonable suspicion, since it was common knowledge his mother didn't have the courage to swat a fly.

But she'd found the courage to end it....

He shoved back the thought. He was furious with himself. He should have thought of this, should have had a believable answer ready.

"Don't," he finally answered. "But listen. And win."

This guy, Jessa thought, has more energy than I ever thought of having. And smarts, as her father used to say.

Although she'd never gotten a satisfactory answer to...well, to most of her questions, there was no denying this guy knew his stuff. In the hour and a half they'd spent here in the office, he'd come up with more ideas than she had in the week since she'd reluctantly joined this circus.

Using online ads targeted at Internet-savvy residents, and print ads in the weekly community newspaper for those who preferred that medium, she would likely have gotten to on her own. But offering an interview to the radio station in neighboring River Mill, the bigger town twenty miles up the road, wouldn't have occurred to her. The station drew a large audience from Cedar, and an interview for free was much better than paying for a ton of ad time. Nor would sponsoring the local high school's academic decathlon team's trip to the state champions.h.i.+ps have occurred to her, or providing a special trophy cup at the county fair rodeo compet.i.tion, in her own favored event of barrel racing.

Neither, he pointed out in that sometimes tricky to follow, extremely abbreviated way, could be put down solely to her campaigning; she'd been involved in both the decathlon and the rodeo during her schooldays in Cedar.

"And just how did you know that?" she had asked.

"Homework," he said.

Meaning he'd done his, she'd quickly figured out. Which brought her back to that same old question: Why? But she didn't ask again, already knowing she'd get the same, nearly useless answer.

She was looking at the back of the envelope that sat propped up against the equipment catalog on the table she'd cleared for them to work on. Clearing the desk in here was not an option. She was so behind already, after just a week of this silly campaign stuff, she didn't know how she was going to manage both and still keep an eye on her mom. Thank goodness Uncle Larry was stepping in more there.

The logo St. John had come up with, in about twenty seconds and a few quick strokes with a pen, was striking and effective. And she had to admit the slogan he'd added, about keeping Cedar in good hands, had a lot more punch than simply "vote for me" in its various incarnations.

"What is it that you do, when you're not meddling in small-town mayoral campaigns?"

"I...facilitate."

"I'll bet," she said wryly, thinking it sounded vaguely nefarious. Not that she had anything against that if it would beat Alden. And obviously, he was very good at it. But she wondered just who he facilitated for. Wondered if she should be more worried about that than she was. Wondered if she was foolish enough to let the fact that she was strangely fascinated by this man cloud her judgment. Wondered if- "-that picture."

Yanked out of her thoughts, she looked up to see he was gesturing at the framed photograph on the opposite wall, behind what had been-and in her mind still was-her father's desk. She didn't remember the day it was taken-she'd been barely five-but it was unmistakably herself. Her then long, blond hair was held back with a headband, as she looked up with utter adoration at the man who held her hand as they stood in front of Stanton's Cafe on Broadway, a grand name for the two-lane main road of Cedar, which was even less grand than those twenty-five years ago.

As always, the image of her father, so tall and strong in that picture, made her throat tighten and her eyes brim.

"Connection. Use it."

She blinked rapidly, then, as the sense of what he was saying got through to her, she turned to look at him. "What?"

"Flyer. That picture."