Crazy Ride

by Nancy Warren

  He bit back a wiseass comeback. She looked like the sort who might take back his dinner if he gave her any lip, so he stuck to a safe, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Once she’d set two plates of steaming meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas in front of them he was glad he’d played nice. Emily was right, he decided after the first bite. The meatloaf was terrific.

  The townspeople he wasn’t so sure about.

  He didn’t end up telling her about the business, telling her honestly that he didn’t want to set up false hopes in a town where the economy was clearly far from booming. “But I’m here for two reasons.”

  “Okay,” she said, sipping her bubbling water. “What’s the second reason?”

  “You’re close to a town called Harleyville.”

  “That’s right. Drs. Harley and Beaver were colleagues of a sort. I believe they consulted on difficult cases and both had a strong interest in alternative medicine.”

  He nodded, though in fact this was news to him. “You may be famous for your giant beaver, but Harleyville boasts the greatest motorcycle store in the world.”

  She made a face. “Harleyville? Motorcycles? Seriously?”

  He made a tsking sound. “Remember what you said about rushing to judment there Ms. Sargent. The town was already named when Changing Gears opened their doors. And they don’t only sell Harleys. In fact, I’m after a Ducati.” He was after it the way an Olympic athlete was after gold.

  “A Ducati?”

  “Yep. A 1990 Ducati 888 SP2. They are extremely hard to find and Changing Gears has one. If I get time while I’m here, I’ll go take a look at it.”

  “So you’ve always dreamed of owning a motorbike?”

  In fact, he had a garage devoted to his motorcycle collection. He owned one for every day of the week. This one would add an eighth day to his week. All collector edition, high end bikes. Because he didn’t have a lot of time to fool around and when he did, he liked to fool around in style. He could go on and on about top mileage speeds and stopping times and pedigree but he didn’t want to be a bore.

  “If I buy the bike, maybe I’ll take you for a ride.”

  Those big eyes contemplated him. “Maybe you will.”

  “Every person who came in to Ernie’s tonight stopped to talk to you,” Joe said as they walked back to The Shady Lady.

  “This is a pretty small town. Everyone knows everyone else.”

  “Right. I get that, but you are something special. You make people feel comfortable.” In fact, he suddenly realized, she’d be a great asset to making the deal happen. She was obviously well-respected in the town and he’d sensed that she was a power player, if Beaverton had such a thing.

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “Also, you are a killer pool player.”

  He was treated to a mischievous grin. “I hope I didn’t bankrupt you.”

  “That six bucks is going to hurt. No question.”

  The quiet was almost eerie to a guy who’d spent the last seven years living in Manhattan. Without the sirens, the non-stop traffic, the yelling, cursing and general noise of a big, crowded city, his eardrums seemed to be searching out something. Anything. Soon he would believe he’d gone deaf.

  He heard something at last, and only by straining his out-of-practice hearing. The rustle of undergrowth, so slight as to be almost unheard. The sound of their footsteps on the gravel shoulder beside the road that led to her place. For the first time in a very long while he could actually hear himself breathe.

  Before he’d had time to get used to how much he was enjoying a quiet walk with this cookie-baking pool shark, they’d arrived back at the Shady Lady.

  “Thank you for dinner,” she said when they got to the door, letting him know that the date stopped here.

  “Let’s not go in quite yet,” he said. Once they were inside that door, she was the innkeeper once more and he was a guest. Out here they were still a man and a woman on their first date and he hadn’t said half the things he’d wanted to, hadn’t asked her any of the million things he wanted to know about her town and her life.

  Because he couldn’t help himself, he reached out and picked up a lock of her hair, letting it sift through his fingertips. She didn’t try to stop him, or rush inside, but a certain wariness entered her eyes.

  “When do we get started?” he asked.

  “Started on what?”

  “On your program to cure my sexual problems.”

  She didn’t blush or fluster as he’d half thought she might, she simply raised one skeptical eyebrow. “What are your sexual problems?”

  “I’ve got one big one.” He let his fingertips trail across her cheek and stepped in closer. “I want to make love to my landlady,” he said softly.

  “That’s not a problem,” she corrected. “It’s an urge.”

  “It will be an awful problem if she turns me down.”

  “Good night, Joe,” she said and walked away.

  “Wait. What about my problem?”

  “Dr. Beaver was eccentric, certainly, but he did a lot of good. You should treat him with a little more respect. And me. I’m his great-granddaughter.”

  Oh, great. No wonder she’d been so uppity about the way he’d referred to the revered Doc and his ‘sanitarium’. In the middle of trying to get the woman into bed, he’d gone and insulted her grandpa. Nice move.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Dr. Eager Beaver was her grand dad? Wow.

  “Now you do,” she said with a smile and took another step away from him.

  He didn’t want her to go in; out here the air was soft and scented with all that flowery stuff from her garden. There was moonlight tipping leaves with silver and gilding the rustic wooden bench near where they were standing. A woman who created such a romantic setting must be a sucker for it, and yet he hadn’t even had a chance to kiss her yet. Nor would he if he didn’t think of something fast. She took another step away from him.

  There was only one thing he could think of to make her stay. “Look, the truth is I do have a … an intimate problem.”

  “I’ll bet.” Sarcasm dripped off her tongue, but she did turn back, he noted. “You can’t figure out how to have four women at once? The gals throw themselves at you so often you’re exhausted? You’re so big you—”

  “I can’t sleep when a woman’s in bed beside me.”

  Shit! Why had he gone and blabbed that? What the hell was the matter with him? He heard his own feet shifting on the gravel and dropped his gaze to a dark leafy bush he wouldn’t have recognized in broad daylight, never mind nighttime.

  She took a step toward him and moonlight made silver flutters of her hair. She looked like a mermaid emerging from the sea, the water sluicing off her body.

  “Is this some foolish attempt to get me into bed, because I’m not falling for it.”

  “No.” He blew out a breath wondering why the hell he’d blurted that out. “It’s a stupid thing, but it’s true.”

  “Why are you telling me?”

  “Hell if I know. I didn’t want you thinking I was making fun of you. I don’t want you going inside with the impression that I’m an asshole.” There was something about her that made him tell the truth. “And maybe I’m wondering, since the good doctor’s blood runs in your veins, whether you might have some ideas?”

  She must have believed him for she took a seat on the wooden bench and motioned for him to join her. As he sat down, she turned to him. “Is this recent or has it always been true?”

  “Always. When I was younger I liked to make love all night anyway, so who cared? Now, if I’m at a woman’s house I end up making lame excuses about an early meeting, which always pisses them off, or lying there awake all night. It’s not so bad if they sleep over at my place; at least I can go watch TV or get some work done.”

  She looked at him, as he imagined a caring shrink would, if she were practicing outside and at night. “Have you ever seen anyone about this problem?”

 
“No. It’s not a problem. It’s a quirk.”

  “It’s a problem if you ever want a permanent relationship. You’re what, thirty-five or six?”

  “I’m thirty-two.” Okay, so he was tired and he worked too hard, no wonder he looked older than his years.

  “All right.” A tiny furrow developed between her brows and he knew he had her full attention. But why the hell hadn’t he made something up? Why tell this attractive stranger something that would make her think at least twice before jumping into bed with him?

  Why tell her something he’d never told another soul?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Emily gazed into the silver-gray eyes of the man she’d had dinner with tonight. Her first date in nine months and she picked a man so terrified of women, intimacy, or God knew what that he couldn’t relax enough to sleep.

  And wouldn’t her poor old grandfather be rolling in his grave if he knew that his progeny had turned out such a failure? If he knew that the woman who’d grown up on his theories of sexual release and emotional partnering as essential to mental health spent most of her time with retired Intimate Healers?

  But, on the bright side, she had no trouble sleeping.

  “I can’t believe I told you that,” he grumbled. In the silvery light it was impossible to see his face clearly, but she had a feeling he was blushing.

  “Hey, it’s good that you shared. That’s the first step in overcoming this…quirk, don’t you think?”

  “Well, it’s hardly going to encourage you to let me make love to you.” The darkness was warm and intimate, like a blanket so she felt tucked up in bed. The scent of roses was heavy in the air.

  She touched his hand. “If it’s any consolation, I wasn’t planning on sleeping with--” She drew a sharp breath and grimaced. “Sorry, poor choice of wording. I mean, I wasn’t planning on having sex with you anyway.”

  He turned his hand palm up and laced his fingers with hers. Little flutters of sensation played over her skin. “Why not?”

  “A lot of reasons. The biggest being that I don’t have sex with my guests.”

  “Okay, give me the smaller reasons.”

  “I’m not interested in casual sex.”

  “Any others?”

  “I think that will do for now.”

  He smiled down at her smugly.

  “What?”

  “You never said you weren’t attracted to me.”

  While she’d been throwing out reasons not to go to bed with the man, he’d moved much closer than she realized. And the hand that had laced with hers had danced its way up her arm, over her shoulder to her upper back.

  The other came to rest at her hip. He was all the way inside her personal space, thank you very much, so near she could feel the heat of him against her, smell the sandalwood soap she kept specially for her guests. If she so much as raised her chin they’d be kissing.

  He took the hand from her hip and slipped it under her jaw. His fingers were smooth but strong and she let him nudge her chin higher, closed her eyes against the starry night and let him kiss her.

  He touched his lips to hers as though she were breakable and had to be handled with care. He didn’t ram his tongue down her throat, but used his lips only, tasting, testing her resiliency, letting her know he could be patient and slow.

  This was nice, she decided. This was very nice. So she softened and leaned in for a moment. The second he felt her compliance, he pulled her against him. He was long, and lean and oh, God, he felt so good.

  Her hands wandered up to touch his chest, which was warm through his T-shirt and pulsing where his heart lay beneath. She hooked her hands around his neck so she could pull him tighter, and then she opened her lips to him.

  As his tongue entered her mouth she felt little fireworks explode in her head. Just a kiss, she told herself. It’s just a kiss. But somehow it felt like more. He wasn’t from around here, he wasn’t the kind of man she usually saw or who made a pass at her. That’s why she was reacting this way, she told herself, but herself wasn’t listening.

  The part of her that was Emmet and Louise’s great-granddaughter took over. She pressed against him, running her hands through hair that felt both soft and a little spiky. Rubbed against him the way Mae West had earlier, thinking it was a purely feline response to want to rub against a desirable man.

  He was exploring her mouth, inciting her to do some exploring of her own; if she weren’t careful she was going to forget all the rules she’d set for herself and do her guest.

  And that, she knew, was a really bad idea. So, she pulled slowly away. “Wow,” she said, licking lips that felt wet and swollen. “I didn’t mean for that to get so out of hand.”

  “Come to bed with me.”

  She shook her head. “I already told you, I can’t.” She smiled up at him. “At least this way you’ll sleep well.” She rose from the bench and turned toward the house.

  “You know that’s not true. There’s already a woman waiting for me in bed.”

  “What?” She stepped back, aghast, and caught her sleeve on the thorny stem of a rose.

  “Mae West,” he said in some amusement as she tried to free her right sleeve using her left hand. Ambidextrous she was not, but she didn’t want to snag the nicest cotton sweater she owned. Fool to have worn it out with Mr. Big City.

  “Damn it,” she muttered as the thorn, instead of retreating, dug deeper and scratched her arm.

  “Here, let me.”

  She didn’t want him handling her, him with his sandalwood smell and intoxicating kisses. Before she could tell him so, however, he took her arm and, with surprising dexterity, freed her from the rose bush.

  “Thanks. Darn thing needs pruning.”

  “My pleasure.” He didn’t let her go, but raised her wrist to his lips and kissed it. His lips left an imprint of sensation. If she reacted that strongly to a kiss on the wrist, imagine what he could do to the rest of her.

  Unfortunately, at the moment she couldn’t think of anything else.

  Mineral deposits. Why hadn’t he told Emily he was here looking at a project that could bring prosperity to this backwater? While Joe stared at the ceiling, wishing he had Emily rather than Mae West curled up beside him, he tried to feel good about saving this crazy town. Apart from being pretty, the area was an economic no-show, except for some penny-ante farming and a dab of tourism. However, scratch the surface, almost literally, and you hit phosphate. And phosphate was critical to the worldwide agribusinesses and other industries. He was here to put together a deal to mine the phosphate that was abundant in the area.

  What his clients, the Gellman brothers, also wanted, was a likely spot to build a plant. The old sanitarium seemed ideal. The building appeared solid; it was in a private location and so far behind in taxes that it had been foreclosed on. He was certain he could negotiate a bargain price. He’d even been initially optimistic that there was an employable workforce in the area.

  Now that he’d met some of the townspeople, he wasn’t so sure. However, he’d barely started exploring the surrounding towns so maybe he’d find there were plenty of normal, employable people in and around Beaverton. It was possible.

  He’d be here a few days, and in that time he decided it was also possible that he might encourage Emily to soften her policy on sexual relations with the guests.

  Trying to ignore the snoring in his ear and the tuna breath wafting over his face, he finally slept.

  Joe was the only guest at breakfast when he strolled into the dining room a few minutes before seven, not totally to his surprise since he seemed to be the only guest in the Shady Lady. In fact, the way people had stared at him last night, he seemed to be the only unfamiliar face in town. He sat at the dining table, where a carafe of mouth-wateringly fresh coffee sat, with a folded newspaper beside it.

  He poured his first cup of caffeine and flipped open the paper – The Beaverton Bugle.

  What they were bugling about here in Beaverton was a little different th
an what he read most days in the Times or the Wall Street Journal.

  “It’s good to know that Mrs. Parton’s twins were safely delivered,” he said as he heard the door that separated kitchen from dining room swing open behind him.

  “They were high risk,” Emily said.

  “Yes,” he agreed, folding the paper and putting it aside. “I know. Also that she was in labor for fourteen hours, that her husband Reg cut the umbilical cords, and added together the babies don’t weigh as much as one of Farmer John’s squealing baby porkers, born the same day. Though not, I hope, at the same facility.”

  Emily wore a blue half-apron this morning, with some little flowers embroidered on it, but her denim sleeveless shirt and tight jeans reminded him of the luscious body he’d held in his arms last night.

  He couldn’t look at her and not remember the intense kiss they’d shared, and from the way a delicate pink washed over her cheeks when their gazes met, she was obviously thinking the same thing.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”

  Why had he told her that stupid thing? “I did fine until Mae West walked across my head on her way to the window.”

  “Oh, no.” Her eyes were even bluer when she wore blue, he noticed. He couldn’t wait to kiss her again, and a lot more. “Were you able to get back to sleep?”

  “I had to get up anyway to open the window. It wasn’t wide enough for her. I bet she outweighs Farmer John’s porkers.”

  “I can keep her out of your room if she bothers you.”

  “No. It’s okay. I got some work done.”

  As she leaned over him to offer a one page printed menu, he caught the scent of nutmeg and the yeasty scent of fresh baked bread.

  He ignored the menu. “Just the coffee and toast, thanks.”

  She looked so disappointed, he checked out the menu even though he wasn’t hungry. And suddenly his appetite roared to life.

  “Okay, maybe I’ll have the omelet to go with the toast,” he said. She looked so pleased he was glad he’d changed his mind. Gladder still when he tasted her cooking. The omelet was big and fluffy, packed with cheese and mushrooms and fresh herbs that he bet she’d picked mere minutes ago.