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“Pleasant.”
Grunting, she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. Her nicely curved chest, which curved up even higher with the pressure from her arms. Not quite into stop-your-heart territory, but definitely beyond the wonder-if-they’re-real zone.
Real. Oh, yeah.
He cleared his throat and glanced away.
“They’re in their mid-seventies, one’s already had a hip replacement. Yet they insist on living in these two old mausoleums that could fall down under a strong spring breeze. Neither can drive—”
“They took your car,” he pointed out.
“Neither can drive legally,” she clarified. “Ida Mae had her license, but it was taken away because of her vision. Or the road-rage charges. I can’t remember which.”
Again, she startled a small chuckle out of him. Must be some kind of record. Or maybe it was simply because it was a bright, sunny day, he was far away from the city and he had a long weekend off. He’d probably be laughing at Mutt right about now if he hadn’t stopped to pick up his unexpected passenger…. It didn’t necessarily have to do with the woman herself.
“When they’re not refusing to let workmen in their house to fix things—unless they’re young and good-looking, of course—they’re calling me to bitch about each other.”
“Not exactly a pair of Red Riding Hood’s grannies, huh?”
“Only if Red Riding Hood’s granny owned a shotgun and wanted a wolfskin coat for the winter.”
He heard a note of something in her voice—maybe, though she’d probably hate to admit it, a tiny hint of admiration. As though she couldn’t help liking the ballsiness of the old ladies, even if they drove her crazy. This one didn’t like being thwarted, and her relatives were a big old thorn in her side, but something told him she admired them just the same.
“So, you tried to make them leave their homes?”
She sat up straighter. “I suggested that they move into an assisted-living facility where they could have each other for company and have medical help at the push of a button.”
Sounded reasonable. And while he would never expect such a thing of his grandfather, who had enough money to surround himself with staff and live anywhere he damn well chose, he certainly understood the concept of wanting an elderly relative taken care of. Especially taken care of somewhere other than in the crappy town they were entering. “They disliked the idea so much one of them threatened to kill you?”
“She threatens to kill everybody, including cookie-peddling little girls if they ring her doorbell during The Jerry Springer Show,” Jen muttered, waving an unconcerned hand. Then she glanced at her mangled feet. “I just didn’t expect they’d hate the idea enough to maim me over it.”
That soft, wistful tone in her voice told him a lot, hammering home the fact that despite her groaning about them, she cared about these aunts of hers. Cared about them a lot. And was hurt by what they’d done. “Are you giving up?”
Not answering for a moment, she leaned back in her seat, her chin tilting up and her eyes narrowing. From the other side of the Jeep, Mike could feel the temperature go up a degree or two as she got all hot under the collar, every bit of softness and hurt disappearing. Her muscles went tense, which merely emphasized the smoothness of the skin over those muscles, and the slenderness of her body.
“I never give up when there’s something I want, Mr. Taylor.” Her jaw stiff, she stared out the window. "Never."
ALTHOUGH SHE HAD NEVER BEEN married, Emily Baker liked to think of herself as an expert at love. After all, every expert had to start somewhere, most times by studying rather than doing. And though she’d never done it, heaven knew she’d studied it. Being in love, that is.
She’d been a student of love for years. Ever since she’d been a teenager growing up in the town of Trouble, longing to go see the big wide world but knowing she’d be here until the day she died.
That hadn’t stopped her from dreaming, of course, or from learning all there was to know about love. She’d been a bridesmaid to all her friends, watching their courtships with genuine happiness…and only a little bit of envy. She’d read all the romantic novels she could find and gone to the movie shows whenever a juicy love story was set to appear.
Studying. Never doing.
Fantasizing. Never living.
Longing. Never loving.
It had been a given that she’d never leave this place, not with her being the only daughter of an aging set of parents who’d always needed her. Her younger brother had moved away and built a life of his own, but Emily had stayed, month after month, year after year. Eventually, as she’d known she would, she had ended up alone. Her father had died in the late nineties, her mother following him two years ago. And she’d finally been free of all her responsibilities. Free to finally start to live her own life.
Free. In her seventies…when it was too late.
Somehow, through all the years of watching over others, her own life had slipped by. She’d grown old with the town until now she barely remembered the girl she’d been. The girl who’d daydreamed of winning the heart of Cary Grant. Or the young lady who’d longed to find a big-hearted man who’d want to settle down and share a normal, middle-class life with her. Or even the middle-aged woman who sometimes thought there might be a widower out there who needed someone to help him raise his children.
She was none of those anymore. Her dreams had sparkled like faraway stars in a night sky at different times in her life. And each had eventually flickered out, smothered by the reality of time and age. Those thoughts had long since been put away.
But it didn’t matter so much anymore. Because she didn’t need dreams of her own romance…not when she had so many others to enjoy. When she lost herself in the movies that had become her secret life, she lived every blissful moment, experienced all of the anguish and the joy of falling in love.
Whoever had invented those VCR machines had to be the greatest person on earth. Because ever since her brother had bought their parents one as a Christmas present way back in the eighties, she’d found a world of love and romance that were the closest thing to heaven she’d ever known.
She knew every line from Casablanca, every word to the songs in The Sound of Music. Could ask Rhett Butler where she would go and what she would do if he left her in a perfect Vivien Leigh accent. She had held her breath endless times through the ending of Titanic, praying that this time it would turn out differently.
Romance. Love. Fantasy. All at the flick of a switch.
She used to watch the daytime stories, in addition to her cherished movies, but these days they seemed comprised mostly of intrigue. Or just sex and cheating. Not the “you’re the only one for me, I can’t live without you” tales her soul craved.
Right now, her video collection took up an entire spare bedroom in the house she’d inherited from her mother. Alphabetized and organized by her very own cataloging system, the films were her special secret, always there, behind a closed door. Her private haven from the world.
It was only recently that she’d found reasons to come out of that haven. And the two main ones were, right at this moment, lying on the floor of her living room, sharing one of the most tender, lovely scenes she’d ever personally witnessed.
“He likes you,” said a young woman’s voice, so filled with happiness it made Emily’s heart ache to hear it.
“I like him, too,” was the laughing response as a dark-haired man bounced a sweet baby on his stomach. “He’s perfect, Allie.”
The three of them—man, woman and baby—were sprawled out on the carpet, the strange man having won little Hank over immediately with his warm voice and gentle tickling. They were laughing, touching, loving. Forming the new family Emily had prayed her young friend—and tenant—Allie Cavanaugh would find.
And now she’d found it. The handsome young drifter Allie had fallen so madly in love with earlier this summer had come back for her. He’d been waiting here for her when Allie had gotten home from working at Mr. Potts’s house this afternoon.
Emily had seen him outside, in his car, and had known immediately who he was. She’d been worried at first, knowing how hurt the girl had been by his rejection last month. But when Allie had brought him inside to meet both her and the baby, the gleam of love shining in the man’s startlingly violet eyes had been completely undeniable, especially to an expert like Emily.
Which both thrilled her…and broke her heart. Because it meant one thing: she was going to be alone again. The single mother and her one-year-old son, who’d become Emily’s family since moving into the small upstairs apartment last fall, were now going to be part of someone else’s family. This man’s.
“As it should be,” she murmured, watching from the dining room as she laid out plates for supper.
Before calling them in, she wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her dress. She wouldn’t want the blissfully happy young woman to think for a moment that Emily wasn’t thrilled that, once again, true love had conquered all.
If only it had, just once, done so for Emily.
CHAPTER THREE
“My husband died” is so much simpler to say than “My husband screwed our eighteen-year-old babysitter in the back seat of our Lexus and is now shacking up with her in Laguna Beach while I try to bleed the bastard dry for child support.”
—Why Arsenic Is Better Than Divorce by Jennifer Feeney
THROUGHOUT THE REST of their brief drive into town, Jen’s reluctant rescuer kept the conversation to a bare minimum. Keeping his hands tight on the steering wheel, his jaw remained rock hard, his lips firmly set, making her wonder if she’d imagined the smile she’d seen once or twice since they’d met. He sat up straight, military-like, and with the single exception of the line about her panties, he hadn’t made any effort to flirt with her. Or pick her up. Or even ask for her phone number.
From some men, she’d think the behavior was just gentlemanly. But she sensed that Mike Taylor, though he’d certainly been good to come to her aid, didn’t much care about things like being a gentleman.
She knew his type. She’d written about his type in her books. He was the dark, sexy, intense brooder who could have a woman on her back with her legs over his strong shoulders within five minutes of meeting her.
Then he’d be gone. On to his next challenge, his next woman in need. The lonesome cowboy or hardened soldier, having satisfied his basic urges and taken care of his little woman, would head back to battle, leaving her behind to clean up whatever messes he’d caused along the way. Typical story…he saves the world, she pays the electric bill.
How many women had written to her about this type of man during her days as the Single in the City columnist at Her Life? How many more had she talked to when writing her books?
Tons. And they all had the same story. The classic Mr. Hot and Deadly might be wickedly good in the bedroom, but he failed in nearly every other aspect of a relationship.
So just have sex with him.
Though the idea came out of nowhere, it certainly did have merit. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had no-strings sex. Being the Single in the City girl, it had almost seemed like her sacred duty to be out there participating in the bar hookup scene on the occasional Saturday night. Of course, that had been many years ago, when she’d been twenty-three, stupid and horny.
Now she was twenty-nine, wise…and still horny.
Being honest, she had to admit the idea of having sex with him had not come out of nowhere. Her body had been intensely aware of him from the moment he’d stopped to pick her up. She’d just been too angry at being ditched to really consider it until now. But how could she not have noticed his hot, masculine smell and the coiled strength of his body? Especially once they were enclosed in the small confines of his Jeep.
He was just about the hottest thing she’d ever seen and Jen had gone past amber straight to red alert right around the time he’d oh-so-casually mumbled that line about silky panties and soft thighs. Even now, minutes later, she had to shift in her seat as his words rolled around in her brain again, the memory of that gruff voice driving all other sound away. The rumble of the engine, the hiss of the air conditioner, the whoosh of the world passing by as they drove through it…
Ceased. To. Exist.
There was just the echo and his low, nearly inaudible breaths. And maybe the thudding of her own heart. Having opened the floodgates in her mind, she was now nearly drowning from the erotic possibilities playing out there.
“You cool enough?” he asked, glancing over at her, as if he could feel the temperature rising with the heat of her thoughts.
Jen quickly nodded, crossing her arms in front of her, where goose bumps suddenly rose.
He noticed. Was there anything he didn’t notice? “Sorry, turn the AC down if you’re too cold.”
“I’m fine,” she muttered, wishing he’d just shut up, stop looking at her, stop noticing everything about her. She needed him to get out of her head so she could figure out what to do about her interest in him.
Because there were definitely some issues preventing her from acting on that interest.
First, she was staying with her crazy aunts who would probably drug Jennifer and steal the man for themselves if she ever did get him into her bed. Second, she was so out of practice with the let’s-get-it-on game that she wasn’t even sure how to tell him she was interested in no-strings sex. And third, he’d shown almost no sign that he was the least bit attracted to her.
That, more than anything, kept her from so much as making a suggestive offer to pay him back for his help. If she’d felt certain her interest was returned, she might have given it a shot. But he hadn’t, other than that one comment about her underwear, which almost seemed not to have happened at all given how reserved he’d been for the rest of the drive.
She was too weary, wary and on guard to risk rejection right now. Especially after having been so soundly rejected by her own relatives less than an hour ago.
Jen knew she was attractive, but men had as often spewed at her as flirted with her lately, especially after her appearance on a national morning show to promote her new book. She’d gotten both creepy propositions and hate mail from men afterward. Those she could usually ignore, but some nasty calls to her unlisted home number she could not. They’d concerned her, which was why this trip to Trouble had been so perfectly timed.
“So,” she said, trying to fill the silence, “your grandfather said he just moved here last year?”
He nodded.
When he didn’t say anything, she reached in and tried to pull a few more teeth…er, words…out of his mouth. “I thought most people chose to move away from Trouble. My father certainly did. He took off right after high school and never looked back.”
“My grandfather’s not most people.”
“I noticed.”
He glanced over, as if to see if she was being snarky. She wasn’t. She had noticed what an intriguing man Mr. Potts was. And if she didn’t want to drag her two aunts out of town so badly, she would probably have liked to get to know him better.
Apparently seeing the lack of criticism in her expression, he admitted, “He bought the town last year.”
Jen’s jaw dropped. “Bought?”
“Most of it,” he clarified. “I guess due to some mismanagement and embezzlement, the place was on the verge of bankruptcy. Or extinction. So they advertised for an investor—” he sighed “—and Grandfather answered the call.”
She didn’t know people could buy entire towns, unless they made $20 million a movie or were dictators of small countries.
He shrugged. “The place is getting back on its feet.”
Not that Jen would have noticed.
“He sold them back their municipal buildings—at a loss.”
“Not much of a businessman?”
Mike laughed—for real this time—a low, lazy sound that sent shivers of awareness bursting through her. Seeing him genuinely amused, complete with the flash of a dimple in his cheek, nearly melted her into a puddle on the seat. Lord, the man was handsome.
He quickly stopped laughing, as if surprised by his own reaction. “He doesn’t give a damn about business, but Grandfather inherited Midas’s fingers because there’s nothing he touches that doesn’t turn to gold.”
They were passing a dilapidated old shopping center, obviously abandoned for years, with weeds growing up through the cracks in the parking lot. The boards on the windows were either completely obscured by graffiti or else falling off altogether. Jen glanced at it, then back at him.
“Don’t say it,” he said. “My brothers and I have been working on him to unload this place since the day he bought it.”
Mr. Potts had mentioned grandsons—plural. She just hadn’t been able to wrap her mind around the idea that there could be more than one man this sexy in Trouble. “Well, it seems we both have elderly relatives we’d like to get away from this place.”
“I think your job is going to be tougher than mine. Grandfather will find something else to distract him. A gold mine for sale in Nevada…a desert island up for auction. Something.”
“He sounds wonderful,” she murmured, meaning it.
Mike looked over, flashed that devastating—but scarce—smile, and nodded. “He is.”
Jen suddenly wanted to keep driving. To bypass the aunts’ houses and keep riding around in this Jeep with the smelly dog in the back and the wind whistling by the closed windows. Where she could get this guy to smile at her, and maybe even laugh again. And make more comments about her soft thighs.
But suddenly, they reached their destination and she realized how right he’d been. His task definitely seemed easier than hers. Because her aunts obviously hadn’t had a change of heart about moving.
Their feelings were underscored by what was awaiting Jen in Ida Mae’s driveway. When they pulled up in front of the house, Jen spotted her car, pointed out toward the road, the driver’s side door standing open. A big scratch marred the passenger one.
“Son of a bitch,” she muttered under her breath.
A tic started in her temple. It quickly turned into a pounding when she noticed the rest of the things on the ground, beside the car. Her makeup case lay open in the dirt, a new bottle of foundation and a tube of toothpaste—without a cap—beside it. She suspected the shiny, glisteny liquid winding a snail-like trail from the case to the grass beyond it had been caused by the expensive shampoo she’d picked up at a Manhattan salon.
Her nice new Italian leather suitcase—one of the few things she’d upgraded after her recent financial upswing—lay half-open. A splotch of pink fabric, visible from the road, said her new silk dress had been yanked off a hanger and shoved inside. And if she wasn’t mistaken, that was the strap of her new Cole Haan sling backs sticking out of the obviously broken zipper.
Okay. She’d upgraded her shoes, too.
“Think they want me to leave?” Sarcasm dripped from her words as Mike Taylor pulled into the driveway she’d directed him to.
He followed her stare and whistled. “Yeah. I think so.” Then, getting a good look at the houses, added, “Good God, someone actually lives here? I thought these places were abandoned the first time I came to town.”
Weary, and not wanting to get out and fight the battle lying ahead, Jen leaned back in the car seat and closed her eyes.
He obviously noticed, and sighed. “You want me to drive you around the block a couple of times before you get out?”
It was as if he’d read her thoughts and the offer tempted her. She’d listened for a note of sarcasm in that gruff voice, but instead heard only a quiet resignation. As if he’d accepted the possibility of being stuck with her for a few more minutes and, despite not liking the idea, was willing to help her out for a little while longer.
How very nice.
And how very strange that suddenly some unexpected moisture stung the corners of her eyes. Moisture. As in tears.
Jen never cried…almost never. Yeah, yeah, she’d cried when Sirius Black had died in the Harry Potter books, but she sure never cried at stupid, sappy movies like Titanic or The Lake House. So why, for heaven’s sake, had tears appeared in her eyes just because a man was being grudgingly considerate?
It had to be because of the lousy day she’d had. On top of the lousy week she’d had. On top of the lousy month of hate mail and nasty phone calls she’d had.
Bad timing and exhaustion, that was why she was being such a girl. During her visit with the aunts, she’d spent half her time shuffling them to their doctors appointments and their hair appointments. When not chauffeuring them, she’d been cleaning their carpets, washing their linens, scrubbing their dirty kitchens—all because they refused to let her pay a “stranger” to come in and do housework. Not to mention the fact that her feet were bloody and raw. Good Lord, it was a wonder she hadn’t bawled like a baby when she’d seen her ruined Cole Haans.
Those were the real reasons for the tears. Definitely.
Not this guy. Not his gruff consideration. Not his reluctant niceness. Not.
“You okay?”
Squeezing her eyes tight one last time, to ensure no moisture escaped from them, she nodded. “Yeah,” she said as she finally lifted her lids, blinking rapidly, making sure she’d gotten herself under control.
Moisture gone? Check. Crisis averted? Check. Battle about to begin?
Most definitely.
THOUGH HIS UNEXPECTED passenger insisted she would be all right and that he could leave, Mike just couldn’t do it. Maybe it was the way she winced when she saw all her things littering the ground beside her car. Maybe it was because of her threats—and her visible anger that had returned in the past few moments. Maybe it was because of the rawness of her bloody feet, about which he still felt guilty as hell…. He’d known when he’d first spotted her that they had to be sore from walking on the gravel and he still hadn’t offered to help her to the Jeep.
Whatever the reason, he couldn’t watch her get out, then drive away. Not without making sure she was okay first. And making sure she didn’t commit a murder.
So after she thanked him and then basically told him he could go, he muttered, “Hold on a minute.” Without an explanation, he got out, walked around to the passenger side door and opened it. “Stay here.”
She stared up at him, as if trying to figure out whether he’d just discovered he wanted to play gentleman, or if he had something else in mind. He did have something else in mind. Namely her blistered, bloody feet.
Striding over to her suitcase, he unzipped it, trying to avoid tearing the dress sticking out of it. When he felt its silkiness between his rough fingers, he half wished he hadn’t bothered. Because it reminded him altogether too much of the silky fabric the woman was wearing underneath her dress.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She started to get out.
“Wait, you need something on your feet,” he said. He quickly examined the first pair of shoes he found, a pair of spike-heeled sandals with a torn strap that had been caught in the suitcase zipper. There was only one way to describe them; they were high-priced, first-class screw-me shoes. Perfect for driving a man crazy with lust, but not for soothing blistered heels. “Definitely not,” he muttered from between clenched teeth.
“My feet?” she said. Her jaw dropped, those expressive eyes growing wide and round. “You’re…”
“I’m getting your damn shoes, would you stay where you are?” he growled, tossing the sexy shoes aside, trying hard not to think about how they’d feel digging into the backs of his legs while he was between hers.
Her mouth snapped shut, but she continued to watch wide-eyed, as if not believing he was poking around in her stuff, trying to find something to protect her feet. The feet he hadn’t given a damn about when he’d first picked her up.