Free Heart of Dixie - Tami Hoag (1) by Tami Hoag Page A

sand dollar a final inspection and tucked it into the pouch of her sweatshirt.

    "Interesting guy," Jake said, amused and astounded, his curiosity about the artist rising now that his protective instincts had gone off red alert.

    "What is that accent?"

    "His father is Greek and his mother is Swedish."

    "An interesting combination, but then I'd say there wasn't much about him that seemed run-of-the-mill." They started up the beach again. He took a big breath of sea air and exhaled. "I thought he was going to try to tear my head off."

    "He looks a little intimidating."

    Jake gave her a look. "Your gun is a little intimidating. He looks like a homicidal maniac on steroids."

    Dixie clucked at him in disapproval. "People aren't always what they look like. A mystery writer ought to know that."

    "Maybe that's why I haven't sold the book yet," Jake said. Once again he wanted to defend himself. After all, he made a living out of delving beneath the surface and bringing to light all the different facets of human beings. But he bit his tongue. He snatched up a small stone and flung it out into the ocean. "What kind of artist is he?"

    "I don't rightly know," Dixie admitted. "He's real superstitious about having folks see his work, and I respect that. I know he paints, but I haven't seen any of it. He comes here every November and leaves in May for who knows where."

    "Maybe he's exploring the possibilities of excessive hair growth as an alternative medium," Jake suggested with a chuckle.

    Dixie made a face at him, suppressing a giggle. "Oh, sure, you like all that hair on a woman, but on a man it's sissy."

    "I wouldn't call it sissy. Not to his face, anyway."

    "What a sexist you are."

    Jake scowled. "I am not."

    "Are so," Dixie declared. "You think women should all be skinny and top-heavy and have lots of hair. You said so."

    Jake raised his hands in disbelief, looking aghast. "I never said such a thing!"

    "I just described your version of the world's most perfect woman," Dixie said shrewdly, kicking herself mentally for being a masochist. "You can't deny it."

    He shook a finger at her. "But I never said all women should look like Devon Stafford. Just that she was an ideal."

    Dixie stopped and turned to face the ocean, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. "An unrealistic ideal."

    "That's your opinion." Jake stood beside her, watching her closely. "I happen to believe people can improve themselves. I read somewhere that Devon Stafford works very hard to maintain her figure."

    "She could afford to. She made a zillion dollars a year. And to make that money she had a trainer come in and work her like a horse three hours a day and maybe she got to eat a rice cake afterward if she did a few extra sit-ups."

    Jake held himself very still. He studied Dixie's expression with a curious light in his eyes. "Could afford to? Made a zillion dollars? Why are you talking in the past tense? She's not dead."

    Dixie dodged his gaze. "Well...no...of course not," she said haltingly. "But she's gone, isn't she? It's past tense if she doesn't do those things anymore."

    "How do you know she doesn't do them anymore?" "You're missing the point," she snapped, still refusing to face him. "The point is for most folks with regular jobs and regular lives and friends and families, it just plain isn't worth it to be slaves to some Hollywood version of what people should look like. I, for one, have better things to do with my time than torture myself with leg lifts. I mean, I may not have the greatest hips, but I have time to take notice of the world around me."

    She moved a couple of steps down the beach and bent to retrieve a beer can that had washed in, giving Jake a clear view of those hips that curved outward like a bell from her waist. They looked just fine to him. In fact, his palms itched to cup those womanly curves. That fast, his blood went racing. One little thought of touching her and he was chomping at the bit, forgetting all about his