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She walked on. Dahlia Hair and Nails. Hmm. Hard to tell, but selling Caitlyn on another stylist would be a real challenge. Apparently the owner, Lila, was Caitlyn’s mother’s best friend.
She paused on the sidewalk outside Beverly’s Closet, ostensibly admiring the ivy topiaries and spring-mix flowers in oversized planters flanking the glass door. She realized she was nervous. As the mother of the bride, Beverly had been part of the preplanning with Natalie and Caitlyn, and Natalie liked the older woman, but she was suddenly self-consciously aware that Beverly was also the mother of Natalie’s new object of full-blown lust.
And like it or not, Beau hadn’t just slipped into that spot, he’d commandeered it. Dear god, even when he was being manipulative and arrogant and every other unpleasant adjective she could throw his way, damn him to hell, he tripped her trigger.
And that was highly, impossibly problematic. He was everything she didn’t want in a man, wasn’t he? Relationships weren’t supposed to shake you up and make you feel unsettled and as if you were too much for your own skin. And that was an equally crazy thought. What she and Beau had wasn’t even close to a relationship. It was a…she didn’t even know what it was. Wanting to strip a man naked and work her way up, or down, his body didn’t qualify as a relationship.
As if that wasn’t the craziest thing. She shrugged away the silly thought and stepped into Beverly’s Closet.
At the tinkle of the bell, Beverly looked up from where she was plumping a cushion in an armchair upholstered in apple-green velvet. “Can I help you…” Recognition kicked in. “Natalie, it’s so good to see you again. Come on in, sugar.” Beverly’s genuine smile encompassed her. Somewhere in her midfifties, with porcelain skin, moss-green eyes and shoulder-length hair dyed a soft, flattering shade of blond, Caitlyn’s mother struck Natalie as the quintessential middle-aged Southern beauty.
Beverly hugged her, engulfing her in a cloud of perfume. “What a nice surprise. Well, not a total surprise because Milton called and explained the ruined outfit.” A delicate blush tinged Beverly’s porcelain cheeks.
“Milton?” Natalie didn’t know anyone named Milton.
“Milton Lewis.”
Lewis? That sounded familiar but it wouldn’t click into place. And obviously she still looked perplexed.
“Beau’s crew chief.”
Right. “Oh. That Mr. Lewis.” Natalie laughed. She’d really liked Scooter, née Milton, Lewis. “I didn’t think his mother named him Scooter.”
Beverly rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you ever heard to call a grown man? He picked up that name in high school when he and my late husband started tinkering with cars. Since Milton was the shortest, he’d scoot underneath the car to work on it.”
Natalie personally preferred Scooter to Milton, but she kept her own counsel. She’d quickly learned in this business when to hold her tongue. Well, most of the time. When she was around Beau, however, she didn’t manage nearly as well. “Hmm.” She, however, found Beverly’s blush sweet. “So, Mr. Lewis called you?”
Color rose in the older woman’s cheeks again. “To tell me you might come by.”
“Uh-huh,” Natalie responded with a knowing smile. Beverly was a beautiful woman and, well, bottom line, Scooter or Milton or whatever they called him was a man.
Another delicate stain of pink blossomed. “We talked for a while. I think he’s lonely since Emma Jean died.”
“And I think you’re a beautiful woman.”
“Well…why…thank you. That’s what he said, too,” Beverly told her in a sudden rush. She buried her hands in her face momentarily and then looked up, equal measures of excitement and mortification in her green eyes. “Oh, Lord, he asked me to go to dinner.”
Natalie had the distinct impression she’d just wandered into something intensely personal but was enough of a stranger to qualify as a confidante. And for whatever reason, people seemed to confide in her. “What did you say?”
“I said I’d let him know.”
Absence of a flat-out no meant yes. “Do you want to go?”
Beverly fluttered her hand nervously along her hairline. “I don’t know…it’s been so long…What if he tries to kiss me when he brings me home?”
Natalie pushed aside the memory of Beau’s mouth on her lips and breast that seemed seared into her brain. This wasn’t about her and this woman’s son. Regardless, her entire body went on red alert and her nipples stood at attention. She was pretty damn sure she was wearing her own blush now. “Do you want him to?”
Straightening a row of hangers that didn’t need straightening, Beverly avoided eye contact. “It’s not that. I haven’t…It’s been…Monroe, Beau and Caitlyn’s daddy, died sixteen years ago and I haven’t seen—” she glanced up meaningfully “—anyone since then.”
Seen? Natalie’s curiosity and confusion must have shone in her face.
“My children needed me and I was all torn up inside, and then when Caitlyn was older, I thought it was still best not to date and it’s just gotten to be a habit. What if I don’t remember how to kiss? And what will my children think? What would you think if your mother was about to start dating?”
She’d never thought about it. She took a second to consider, unwilling to throw out a glib response to something that was obviously so important to Beverly. “I think if my dad died I wouldn’t want my mother to be lonely. I think your kids will feel the same. Maybe not at first…but they’ll come around. Well, I think Caitlyn’s so wrapped up in the engagement and wedding and love in general that she’ll be right onboard.”
Beverly nodded. “I think you’re right. I’m more worried about Beau. He stepped right in as man of the family when Monroe passed.” The tension in the set of Beverly’s shoulders eased. Apparently she was more comfortable discussing her son and the past, even if it was a difficult time, than a future date and potential kiss with Scooter. “Lord, he was only sixteen but he finished school and worked in the evenings and on the weekends and we made ends meet. I cleaned houses to keep our heads above water but Beau’s the reason I have this business and the house I’m in now.” There was no denying the admiration and mother’s pride shining in her eyes. “That boy has worked his tail off to provide a home and this business for me and he’s made sure Caitlyn never wanted for anything she truly needed. He became a man at sixteen.”
Something warm and dangerous flip-flopped inside Natalie. In retrospect, she supposed she’d heard bits and pieces of this story from her sister, Shelby, but had not really paid much attention. She didn’t want to think of Beau as a man who mentored Tim, his now-fatherless pit-crew member, or busted his young butt to keep a roof over his mother’s and sister’s heads. That all ran counter to dismissing him as just another hot, albeit arrogant, guy. She realized, rather lamely, that a somewhat expectant silence had stretched between them.
“I can see why you’re proud of him. Hopefully he’ll be okay with you going out with Scoot—I mean, Milton.”
Beverly beamed, as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “He’ll just have to be, won’t he?”
“And don’t worry that you won’t remember how to kiss. It’s probably been a while for him, as well. Y’all can remember together.”
Another blush, but somehow this looked more like a blush of expectation than embarrassment. She nodded, her eyes sparkling. “So, we need to outfit you because that son of mine was hard to track down.” She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I know he’s busy but I taught him better manners than that. Exactly what got ruined?”
“Just a blouse and a jacket. That should cover it.”
“Did the jacket go with a suit?” Beverly quirked a salon-arched brow.
“Well, yes.”
She shook her head, clearly annoyed with the son she’d just venerated. “He knows better.” Her eyes gleamed as she nodded. “An entire suit and blouse. I raised him better than that.”
Natalie almost felt sorry for Beau Stillwell. And then she thought about him dragging her out to Belle Terre as if she didn’t have anything better to do than his bidding on a construction project and offered Beverly her brightest smile.
Chapter 7
NATALIE PULLED INTO the circular drive fronting Belle Terre and parked her minivan next to Beau’s truck. She drew a deep, steadying breath. She was being ridiculous. It was just his lousy truck—granted, she’d had a heck of a good time in that front seat as recently as last night—and her heart was galloping in her chest. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from a quick glimpse in the rearview mirror to check hair and makeup. No mascara smears, no oily spots on her face—blotting papers were a beautiful thing—and her lip gloss was fine. She smoothed down a spot where her hair was sticking up. Good to go.
She climbed out of the car and approached the house. It was imposing and, if she was totally honest, a little scary. While beautiful, there was an air of melancholy about it, but then again, how many generations had loved, lived, cried and died here? How could a place that had once held people in captivity as slaves to a master know anything but melancholy, despite the laughter that must have spilled from the shuttered windows that opened to the soaring, columned porch?
Beau opened the front door—apparently waiting on her to show up, she noted—and all philosophical and esoteric thought fled in light of her purely physical response to six foot plus of dark-haired, blue-eyed, well-muscled man in jeans, T-shirt and work boots. What had happened to her penchant for suits and ties? Gone. System bypassed in favor of hot and rugged standing with splayed legs in the doorway. Sweet, hot, immediate desire flooded her.
“You’re here,” he said, his dark-lashed eyes sweeping her, touching her in a way that left her breathless.
She marched past him into the foyer. “I am.” She strove to bring some semblance of detachment to the situation. She turned to face him, opting for the direct approach. “Now why don’t you tell me why I’m really here? You could have a high-school kid help you and they’d be more adept at this than me.”
Those eyes flickered over her again and it was a replay of the scene in The Libertine when just one look from Johnny Depp and she was ready to crawl naked across the floor for him. “But you’re the one with the insight into what Caitlyn wants done,” he went on. “And after you—how was it exactly—oh, right, drove me beyond the point of desperate with those kisses…you really didn’t leave me any choice, did you?”
She knew the moment that came out of her mouth she’d regret saying it. And she could only blame her lack of self-control on him. He was the culprit. There was something about him. He got under her skin. Wanting to crawl naked across a floor for him was a perfect case in point. She was good with crawling naked across the floor but not for him. She scrambled for some measure of sanity.
“I shouldn’t have said that. Occasionally, my mouth runs away with me. And about the other, I’ve been thinking—”
He interrupted. “The other?”
She was altogether too, too aware that it was her and him alone in an empty house and to stand about throwing the word kiss or kissing around seemed dangerous territory. Couldn’t they address the issue in a nice civilized roundabout manner? “You know what I mean.”
He closed the front door with a final, resounding click. He approached her with a measured, intent tread, and her pulse hammered. “You’ve got to speak clearly and slowly for us he-man types who are more brawn than brains, sugar.” He held out broad, masculine hands, palms up, as if for her inspection, approval. “These hands have calluses.”
In less than a second, she was imagining the erotic scrape of those calluses against her sensitive nipples, down her body, between her legs. Pathetically, that sent a shiver through her and a rush of liquid warmth between her thighs.
“Kissing.” Brief and to the point, and still the mere mention with him right in front of her left her tingling and aroused because her mind had taken her far, far beyond a mere merging of lips and tongues.
“Oh. That other.” He grinned, an evil, wicked, I’d-like-to-seduce-you-right-out-of-your-panties grin that set her heart knocking against her ribs. He dropped his gaze to her mouth. “I’m all for it.”
Good lord, she’d like to back him up against that door and eat him alive—especially when he looked at her like that. She grasped at the last few threads of sanity, reminding herself she was here to move this wedding forward and not to make out with Caitlyn’s big sexy brother. “Well, I’m not.”
His slow smile slid devastatingly up and down her spine. “Now you’re making me feel inadequate as a man.” Uh-huh. And there really was a Santa Claus. “I could’ve sworn you liked it.”
If ever a man needed taking down a peg or two, she was looking at his wicked sexy self. “It was…” She tilted her head to one side and pretended to search for a description. She deliberately brightened, as if suddenly enlightened. “Adequate.” She was dancing close to the flames again but she couldn’t seem to help it.
“Oh, hell no.” He shook his head. “I have standards and adequate isn’t one of them.” He took a step toward her and his slow, sexy smile spread a sweet heat of anticipation through her. “We’re gonna have to work on this until we’ve passed adequate.”
No, no and no. Kissing him had been like setting a blowtorch to a marshmallow inside her. She’d never been one to hop in bed with a guy, but Beau seemed to knock every aspect of her off course. She had a sinking feeling that a little more kissing, she’d be hard-pressed to keep her legs together and her panties on. And that was an understatement. She was about two seconds from she wasn’t exactly sure what, but it was dangerous.
She stepped back.
“You’ll have to practice with someone else. I’m sure you won’t have any problem locating a partner—” or two or ten, she thought, recalling the two women who’d stopped by post-race “—but it’s not me. No more kissing.”
He frowned in mock consternation, a wicked gleam in his bedroom-blue eyes. “Now that puts me in a downright awkward position, baby girl.”
God, she was certifiably losing her mind because she found his baby girl incredibly sexy. “How is that awkward? Awkward is carrying on when we’re supposed to be working.”
He reached out and tilted her chin up with his fingertip. One touch—just his fingertip against her skin rendered her breathless. “I suppose I need clarification…Surprised you with that fancy word, didn’t I? Do I go with this or do I kiss you when you ask me to?”
She pushed his hand away. “That’s easy to answer…because I won’t be asking.”
“Right. You do like to take matters into your own hands.” For one moment she was mortified that he knew he’d inspired her to fire up her vibrator last night. Then she realized he was referring to her showing up at the racetrack on Friday evening. “Then, for clarity’s sake, just so I don’t get into trouble—when you kiss me again, is it okay to kiss you back?”
She didn’t miss his when rather than if. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Let me spell it out for you. No kissing. None. You’re not kissing me. I’m not kissing you. I’m not asking. I’m not doing. Nada.” Good. She’d sounded resolute. Strong. No hint there that she desperately wanted to taste him, touch him, and likewise feel his hands and his mouth on various and sundry parts of her.
Another one of those looks that tightened every cell in her body into acute, aching awareness that she was a woman. “That’s too bad. Just kissed is a good look on you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Breathe. She needed to remember to breathe…and not kiss him…or take her clothes off. Work. Renovation. The matter at hand. “Now, to borrow one of your phrases, we’re burning daylight. What do you need for me to do?”
“Since you just told me it’s off-limits—” his glance zeroed in and lingered on her mouth, and the wanton fire inside her flamed a little hotter, higher, brighter “—I guess we’ll skip to the second item on the list.” A tsunami of turn-on assaulted her. One look. One moment of innuendo and she was wet, her nipples were hard and her clit ached.
“I need you to get on your knees…” He paused deliberately, and it was a small wonder she didn’t spontaneously combust at the implication of her on her knees, his fly undone, his dick in her mouth. At this point he could probably talk her through an orgasm…which had never happened before but seemed totally one hundred percent plausible right here and now.
“…to scrape paint off the baseboards.”
So much for her orgasm.
HE WAS HOISTED on his own petard, as his Grandpa Stillwell had been fond of saying. Beau had deliberately saddled Natalie with the most menial, uncomfortable task at hand. However, he hadn’t counted on the effect of her on her knees, bending over, her tight, round ass thrust in the air.
“You know, if you make your stroke a little longer and smoother, it’ll be better for you. Slow it down a little, baby girl, or you’re going to wear yourself out before you even get started.”
She looked back over her shoulder at him and he’d asked for it, he’d taken it there, but it was such a sexual look it slammed him in the gut.
Her cell phone went off in her purse, shattering the moment. She scrambled to get up off the floor, and he automatically scooped up her purse and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she said, her fingers glancing against his ever so briefly, but still rousing.
“You’re welcome.” Dammit to hell, every time they touched it was as if someone had yanked a rug out from under his feet.
She pulled out the phone and answered. “Hi, Mom…No, it’s fine…I’m just working…I know…Right…Maybe sometime next week…No, I don’t want Miguel to think I don’t love him…No, I know it’s important that he knows he’s important to me.”
Who in the hell was Miguel? And why’d her mother have to remind her that he needed to know he was important and that she loved him? He’d assumed, based on their conversation and the way she’d kissed him, there was no boyfriend in the picture.
“I’m just busy,” she said.
Ignoring Beau, Natalie knelt down again and started scraping, propping the phone between her ear and her shoulder. Beau heard her mother’s voice faintly over the line. He couldn’t hear her words but he picked up on the gently remonstrative tone. He had no difficulty in discerning a Southern mama guilt trip, having been on the receiving end several times, most of the time for good reason.
“Look, Mom, I hate to cut this short but I see my appointment parking their car up front and I don’t want to be on the phone when they walk in.” The next part came out in a rush. “I’ll see you next week. Love you.”
She ended the call and shot Beau a look where he stood propped against the staircase. “Don’t say anything,” she dared. “I know it was a lie, but you don’t know my mother. Once she starts…”
Beau grinned. “You’ve met my mother? I totally understand.” For a moment they both shared a laugh, her expression unguarded. The laughter died and he found himself looking into her motor oil-brown eyes and wanting…more. More than a kiss, more than her naked beneath him—although that would be damn nice. He had a hankering to know Natalie Bridges. What did she do when she wasn’t busy aiding and abetting the attachment of ball and chain? And who the hell was Miguel?
“Who’s Miguel?”
She went back to scraping, following his directive with a slow, smooth rhythm that put him in mind of her hand on his…Hell, who was he kidding? Her simply breathing seemed to put him in mind of her hand—or some equally stimulating body part—on his cock.
“My newest ‘brother.’ My parents foster kids. Miguel arrived last week and I haven’t gotten out to meet him yet. I know. My parents are great, but they’re…different.”
Yeah, he’d be in much better shape to think about her parents than the slide of her smooth, soft hand against his hard…“Where do they live?”
“West of Nashville. They’ve got a farm with a big garden, chickens, ponies, a rambling farm house, and it’s just crazy there.” She shook her head, a sweet smile lifting the corners of her delicious mouth. “Always crazy. I can’t tell you how many times I’d go to bed at night only to wake up and find a new sister in my room the next morning.”
“It sounds—”
She rocked back on her heels, scraper in hand. “Chaotic. Total chaos. I lived for the times I could go to my grandparents’ house. Memaw and I would sit on the porch swing at night and she’d tell me stories.” She radiated a sweetly vulnerable nostalgia that tugged at him. He had an instant image of her as a pigtailed little girl curled up beside her grandmother. “The other kids would go over in twos or threes, but Memaw always insisted that when it was my turn, I was the only one allowed over. She knew I needed that alone time. And it made me feel special.”
He nodded, sharing an understanding from his own childhood. “Nana, my dad’s mother, and my mother got along about like oil and water, but Nana always made banana pudding when I came over. It’s my favorite. She’d make a separate dish just for me and add extra bananas and vanilla wafers to it.” He hadn’t thought about Nana’s pudding in years. He shook his head. “So is Shelby your biological sister or your foster sister?”
She set about scraping again, her hair falling forward in a wavy curtain of brown and red. “Foster.” She pushed her hair aside and slanted a glance his way. “And the answer to the next question that inevitably comes is, I don’t have any biological siblings but I have twenty, well, twenty-one now with Miguel, siblings. And, no, they didn’t all live there at once. The house is usually at full capacity with ten. But most of us come back for holidays and special occasions.” She looked back down. “And they are all great, and I do feel guilty that I haven’t met Miguel yet. You can’t imagine Thanksgiving and Christmas. You’d have to see it to believe it.” Both tenderness and exasperation marked her tone.
Paint flecks peppered her hair. “Are you trying to take me home to meet your mother already?”
Teasing her was too much fun. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity.
She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. “My mother would like you.” Beau preened. “She likes anyone and everyone…regardless of how annoying they are.”
Beau guffawed, his laughter coming from deep in his belly. “Smart-ass.”
She grinned and he felt the same knock-you-on-your-ass sensation he did when he kicked it off the starting line in a race. “I was just saying…”
He wanted her with an intensity that was foreign to him, given he was always the one in control. The mood between them shifted, intensified, thickened. Her eyes widened.
Beau moved toward her, slowly, deliberately. “Do you always mean what you say?”
Had she really meant no more kissing? They both knew what he was asking.
She steadied herself with one hand on the floor and ran the tip of her tongue along the bow of her upper lip. There was no mistaking the flicker of heat in her eyes. “Not…always.”
Green light. He reached down and dragged her up his body and into his arms. Her scent, the feel of her soft curves against his hard angles, the almost imperceptible hitch of her breath…Yes, he’d wanted this all last night, all day today. “Speak now, baby girl, or forever hold your peace if you meant what you said earlier.”
The scraper clattered to the floor and she placed her open palms against his chest, tilting her head back to gaze up at him. “What if Tilson shows up? He did last night.”
He slid his hand up her arm to trace the fine line of her jaw. Her skin felt like velvet against his fingertips. “Tilson won’t show up. Trust me.”
Her eyes darkened and her fingers curled against his chest, sending his inner temperature spiking off the charts. “How do you know?”