All for You Read online

  Zane would’ve stared longer, but his teeth were chattering again. Not that he regretted his impulsive dip in the surprisingly frigid lake. Knowledge gained was never wasted. And a hot kiss from an even hotter blonde added up to a night well spent. What he did regret was not tossing a shirt into his rental car. Or a towel.

  As he dragged his gear from the car, laughter drifted around the building, mixing with the nature sounds he couldn’t identify, but he bet his mysterious ranger could. Zane could easily imagine sitting on the wide lawn that sloped down to the lake next to Casey. Letting her identify frogs and birds and God knows what else that lived on the shore. Watching the stars blink brighter overhead while he figured out the best way to coax another kiss from her. One taste hadn’t been nearly enough. Zane still wanted to find out if the submarine at the bottom of the lake was true lore or mere legend. But he also intended to spend time getting to know the sexy ranger. He couldn’t think of a better way to spend the long, lazy summer nights ahead.

  His flip-flops slapped against the flagstones at the entryway. Zane hoped the noise caught the ear of a bellman, so he could offload the tanks. But it was way past check-in time. He didn’t see anyone at the door snapping to attention. Not that Zane needed the white-glove treatment. All he needed from a hotel, dump or resort, was a bed, cable television and air conditioning to be happy. No fuss. No kow-towing. He’d had to put up with enough of that during the eight endless months he’d spent in Hollywood, watching his book morph into a miniseries. It made him itchy.

  “Dr. Buchanan?” A man with dark hair raised a hand from the depths of the deep green wing chair parked by the fireplace, right across from the gift shop. He wore a crisply ironed shirt with the hotel logo embroidered in burgundy across the pocket.

  “Just Zane,” he corrected. “Somebody with a serious hard-on for titles made my reservation.” Undoubtedly the departmental assistant at the college. They were the real workhorses of higher learning. The people who knew how to get everything done, from ordering a new computer to straightening out room assignments and finding out the real scoop as to why an associate professor had quit with no notice...and how to nab his parking spot before anyone else did. But they were also the protectors of the almighty title. They tossed around the alphabet soup that followed every faculty member’s name with the sanctity of Moses carrying down the Ten Commandments.

  Zane thought it was all bullshit. A bunch of degrees didn’t prove anything except that a person was good at college. Real smarts couldn’t be measured by how many papers you turned in, or how often you got published. The guy who used to cut Zane’s hair, now that was one brilliant dude. Barbershop in the front, tattoo parlor in the back, and a free philosophical lecture with every trim. And he’d never even finished high school.

  The man half rose to shake his hand. “I’m Graydon Locke, manager of Mayhew Manor. How about you sit down and let me buy you a beer?” He gestured to the opposite chair. A frosted glass sat on the end table next to a beer bottle dripping with condensation. Nearby, a bearded man leaned an elbow on the marble mantel. Zane couldn’t tell from his jeans and plain white T-shirt if he was another staff member or just a nosy fellow guest. Not that it mattered. Zane was smart enough to never turn down a free drink. Of course, he was also smart enough to know that a free drink usually came with some sort of a price attached.

  “Can it wait until I run up and put on some clothes?”

  “This will only take a minute.” Locke’s voice had hardened. It sounded a lot less like an invitation, and more like an order. The other man sounded...pissed? Odd. Guess he’d stick around and find out why.

  Zane passed the door to the closed wine shop and dropped the tanks and face mask at the edge of the lobby’s mosaic floor of grapevines at their peak. Patted his trunks to be sure they were dry enough not to ruin the chair, and sat. Noticed that both men, despite their relaxed poses, kept an eagle eye on his every move.

  “Quite the welcoming committee,” Zane said as he twisted off the top and filled his glass. “Do you do this for every guest?”

  “Nope.” The casual, warm smile stayed in place. But the manager’s steel-blue eyes narrowed. “Only the ones who fast talk my employees into lending out expensive and potentially dangerous-in-untrained-hands diving gear.”

  Oh. That. Shit. Zane sucked in a breath. Winced. Well, he’d never expected to get off scot free. Zane was a big believer in offering a quick and dirty apology afterward instead of asking for permission first. It saved time in the long run. Cut down on arguments, too. He spread his hands wide. “You caught me.”

  The guy at the fireplace shoved an impatient hand through his dark brown hair. “Before Gray’s brain explodes with worries about insurance liability, just tell us that you know how to dive.”

  Fair question. But he still wanted to find out all the players who’d been lying in wait to give him the third degree. Or rather, not let him get away with his admittedly questionable equipment snatch. “Who’s asking?”

  “Ward Cantrell. Friends with Ella, who owns the joint—” he gestured with his beer to indicate the multiple hallways leading off the lobby to the expanse of the hotel, “—and Gray, who runs it. So you could say I’ve got a vested interest in making sure you don’t die on their watch.”

  “Pretty low bar,” Zane said with a chuckle. They were the safety police. He relaxed, glad that these guys fell more to the worried side of the coin than angry. “But I think I can manage to not drop dead during the six weeks I’m here. Or at least I’ll give it the old college try.”

  “I’ll hold you to it. So can you dive or not?”

  “I can. Fully certified in Advanced Open Water. My wallet’s up in my room, so I can flash you my C-card if you need to see it.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Gray’s whole body unstiffen.

  Zane spotting the air tanks and mask in a corner right after hearing the submarine legend had felt like an engraved invitation to jump-start his quest for information. Yeah, he’d hoped to make it back before anyone else noticed the equipment was missing. Hadn’t spared a thought as to anyone worrying if he’d turn up blue at the bottom of the lake. Whoops. “Sorry, though, if I scared you.”

  “See? Zane’s no idiot. Unlike Justin.” Ward rolled his eyes as he paced the length of the fireplace. “He’s the genius who gave you the equipment without having you sign a liability waiver, or even bothering to ask if you’d ever sucked on so much as a snorkel before. Gray, you should fire his ass.”

  Zane agreed. That kind of trusting naïveté was dangerous. But since he’d taken advantage of it to suit his own purposes, he offered up a paper-thin olive branch. “Don’t be too hard on the guy. He was just trying to keep me happy.”

  “In and of itself, that’s commendable.” Gray took a long, slow pull from his beer. “Justin’s new. The only part of the training that seems to have sunk in is how it’s paramount to keep the guests happy.”

  He remembered having that particular mantra beaten into him during the painful nine months he waited tables in college. The customer was always right, no matter how dumb or drunk they might be. “Gotta say, I don’t see that as a flaw.”

  A half shrug from Gray. “He seems oblivious to the small fact that you can’t make everyone happy all of the time.”

  Ward stroked a hand down his beard. “Justin let a kid in the hot tub without parental supervision.”

  “Not the end of the world. We’ve all done it, right?”

  “The kid was still wearing water wings. But Justin agreed with him that it’d be fun to float in all the bubbles, and snuck him in.” Gray pressed his bottle to his temple, as if trying to ice away a headache. “Our lifeguard broke that little adventure up.”

  * * *

  Yup. Heart in the right place, head in the clouds. Zane had gotten the same impression when it’d taken him about ten seconds to talk Justin into loaning
him the equipment. Equipment Zane knew damn well required more restrictions and hoops to jump through—for safety’s sake alone—than a simple “please.”

  He’d encountered people like that over and over again in his work. Even if Justin did get fired, he should count himself lucky. Because Zane had seen whole families destroyed by similarly sunny dispositions without the counterbalance of common sense. The cults he researched preyed on exactly that type of person.

  “His latest brilliant move was when he poured for a teenager in the tasting room without carding her. Because, and I quote, ‘she was super cute and wanted to try our wine.’”

  “Sounds more like he wanted to get in her pants and make himself happy,” Zane murmured. “How’d you find out about this?”

  “A staffer who actually knows her ass from a hole in the ground, unlike Justin, was working the other end of the bar and stopped her from drinking.”

  “Ward, maybe you shouldn’t spill all our dirty secrets to our guest,” Gray suggested in a pointed tone.

  “Maybe I’m hoping it’ll shame you into firing the kid before he does any more damage,” he shot back. “And you know damn well there are no secrets on Seneca Lake.”

  “Do I get a vote?” Zane asked. “Because I’ve never believed anyone reads those comment cards the maids leave. Weighing in might restore my faith in the hotel industry.” Then he rubbed his arms with his hand. Still cold. He’d definitely dig up a wetsuit before going back in that lake. And a change of clothes for after.

  “Of course I’m firing him. He’s a walking liability. So no vote for you. But...” Gray crossed to the gift shop in three long strides, yanked a Mayhew Manor sweatshirt off a hanger and tossed it at Zane. “Put that on. Consider it my first step in restoring your faith in hotels.”

  “Nice touch.” Grateful, he had the fleece-lined softness over his head in seconds. “Does that mean I don’t get to put in my two cents?” As a researcher, a guy whose job revolved around quietly and objectively listening to people, Zane shouldn’t have cared at all about injecting his own opinion. But he did. He frickin’ loved it. Maybe because he had to keep his two cents to himself so often for work. Or maybe just because his curiosity so often turned into butting into people’s lives. He’d never had an opinion he didn’t want to share, given the opportunity.

  “We welcome all input from our guests,” Gray said in the smooth and smarmy tones of a running-for-election politician.

  “Ha! That rang about as true as the post office promising not to raise the price of stamps next year.”

  Ward’s teeth were a flash in his dark beard. “He pegged you, Gray. You talk a good game, but we all know there’s days when you don’t want to hear another damn word from a guest.”

  “Seriously? What did I do to piss you off? Hassling me in front of the paying clientele is not cool.”

  Zane shook his head. “You’re wrong. It is all kinds of awesome. I’m a sociologist by training. Watching interpersonal interaction is always a highlight of my day.”

  Stopping with one hand on the back of his chair, Gray stared at him. “Wait a minute. You’re that Dr. Zane Buchanan?”

  “Which one?” asked Ward with a cocked eyebrow.

  “The famous cult expert with all the books and the television miniseries?”

  Sure, a little notoriety made some things easier in life. Getting bumped up to business class for free came to mind. The honor of giving the keynote speech at a symposium he’d only dreamed of attending as an undergrad. It never made his actual job any easier, however. And Zane was really looking forward to dropping off the radar entirely if he got the job at Hobart.

  “I don’t know about famous. Fame is technically a widespread reputation, and there are plenty of people out there who don’t know a thing about my work. But it’d be inaccurate if I denied being an expert.”

  Ward crossed his ankles and propped his other elbow on the mantel. “You’re famous enough Gray recognized your name. Do you write those expensive hardcovers they sell at airports?”

  It wasn’t the worst description he’d ever heard of his books. Although they were compelling enough to be turned into four straight nights of television, so Zane figured an adequate number of people were at least mildly interested in his in-depth exposés of cults. “Airports and even those big box stores. I’m inescapable. Like the flu.”

  “I read your book.” Gray took his seat again. “One of them, anyway.”

  Yeah, Zane had a healthy enough ego to not resist asking, “Did you like it?”

  “Honestly?” He waited to respond until Zane gave him the go-ahead hand wave. “Not so much. Cults are for lazy people who don’t bother to think for themselves. I don’t have a lot of sympathy for people who get sucked into them.”

  Zane itched to launch into a diatribe about just how wrong Gray’s assumption was. About how he might’ve read the book, but hadn’t absorbed the subtle seduction of groupthink and the longing to belong. Of course, Zane’d learned years ago to confine such lectures to a classroom or a faculty party. So he just sucked on his free beer. Gave a quick peek at the label. The Finger Lakes might be most famous for their wines, but this local brew was excellent, too. Yet another tick mark in the plus column of taking the job at Hobart.

  Lazily kicking at the foot of Gray’s chair, Ward asked, “If you don’t care about cults, then why’d you shell out the twenty-five bucks for it?”

  “I read it during a blizzard. I was stuck in some crap chain hotel in Montana with no internet or cable. Your book edged out my only other choices; the Gideon Bible in the nightstand drawer and a public television treatise on fly fishing. But now when I think of cults, it just takes me back to the day and a half I subsisted on vending machine sandwiches and peanut butter crackers huddled under the covers.”

  The less than enthusiastic review didn’t bother Zane. At least Gray had finished it. Frankly, edging out the Bible was still a win. “Well, I appreciate your contribution to my retirement fund. And your honesty. I’d rather know upfront that you don’t want me to yak on for two hours on a subject that bores you to tears. There’s enough interesting stuff in the world we can find something else to talk about. Like why your friend Ward here is apparently pissed at you. Because I still want to know.”

  “Why do you care?”

  Because not knowing would drive him nuts. Because his rampant curiosity woke him up at two in the morning as his mind twisted over possibilities for every unanswered tidbit he’d crossed paths with that day. “I want to know about everything.”

  “Good enough.” Ward straightened up and pointed a sharp, accusing finger straight at Gray. “My buddy here sold me out. Told Ella she could have her engagement party at my distillery.”

  The perks of this little town were flying at him left and right. “You make booze?”

  “Vodka, whiskey and gin. Right from the grapevines grown here in the Finger Lakes. Come by anytime for a taste.”

  “You’d better believe I will.”

  Gray’s eyebrows drew together into a straight line of confusion. “Ella’s one of your best friends. It gets business in your doors. Where’s the bad?”

  “Piper’s planning it.”

  “Yeah—she’s the maid of honor. So what?”

  “So...” Ward shook his head. Then dropped it back to stare up at the carved grape clusters on the ceiling molding. “It’s complicated.”

  Now that he was warm, Zane could sit here all night listening to these two reveal themselves. Their lives weren’t as twisted and dark as cultists’, but they were equally fascinating. Of course, Zane found almost everything fascinating. He could get distracted by wondering why dragonfly tails formed a heart when mating, and lose a whole afternoon on entomology just for the heck of it.

  “Forget cults. Now I’m tempted to write a whole book on the steamy, complicated
lives of small town America.”

  Ward snorted. “Already been done.”

  Gray added a groan. “About forty volumes worth.”

  Zane swiveled his head, gaze bopping from one man to the other. “I don’t get it.”

  “You’ll think it’s crazy, but this town’s got its own wacky tradition that keeps track of everyone’s life.”

  Dropping his head, Ward glared from beneath half-raised lids. Like he didn’t want to bother arguing about this for the hundredth time, but couldn’t let it pass. “Us natives prefer to call it quirky and charming,” he said in a slow drawl.

  “Whatever. They’ve got this mailbox on the edge of the lake with a journal. People write in it, about their problems, about life. And then the town answers.”

  Zane tapped his thigh. “In the journal?”

  “Yeah. All anonymous. The car salesman who wonders if he should leave his wife for a version ten years younger two towns over? The guy’s very own wife might answer back in the journal, and neither of them would know. Everyone weighs in on everyone else. And it’s been going on for more than fifty years. So yeah, our seamy underbelly’s already been exposed.”

  Zane’s jaw dropped. To a sociologist, a story like that was better than Santa’s entire sack. He didn’t just want to read these journals. He wanted to pore over them. Study them. Dive into them just like he had the lake an hour ago. “That’s fascinating.”

  “That’s one word for it. I prefer to stick with nutso. Or, to get all technical for Dr. Buchanan’s benefit, clinically insane.”

  “Takes one to know one. Gray used the journal to ask Ella to marry him.”

  Gray shrugged. “Desperate times called for desperate measures.”

  “You’ve got that right.” Zane jumped at every chance to share his random swath of knowledge. “A man stuck in the desert will drink his own piss.”