by Nancy Warren
“I understand,” she said. He was here to wreck her town. Why bother returning to chart the destruction? It was like he’d organized the firing squad but wasn’t going to hang around for the actual execution.
“Well,” he said, still not releasing her, “How about a rain check?”
He had no idea how soon he could be collecting, or that his plans for Beaverton’s destruction were about to be derailed, and him along with them. Before she got too carried away in sexual fantasy, she ought to remind herself that the man making her almost pass out with lust, must know this fertilizer factory would devastate the community.
“Wait until you come back and we’ll see.”
“Emily?” Aunt Lydia’s voice floated down the hall. She pulled out of Joe’s arms, not because the aunts would mind – they’d be delighted – but because she didn’t want anyone thinking she’d seduced Joe to keep him here.
Especially not Joe.
She decided to make a very special breakfast – maybe she’d add French toast to her world famous muffins, or something else with a lot of sweetness in it -- since she anticipated one very grumpy guest.
CHAPTER NINE
In the darkest-before-dawn blackness, Joe flipped the locks on the rental car. As he hoisted his meager baggage into the trunk, he wished he were also bringing along better memories of last night than Mae West’s tuna breath and the way she kept hogging his pillow.
A picture flashed through his mind of Emily with her head thrown back while he feasted on her breasts. Maybe he’d come back this way to see that wild attraction to its logical conclusion; but even as he had the thought he knew he wouldn’t. There’d be other jobs, other women. He couldn’t waste time on lost causes.
Five minutes later he realized he was doing exactly that. If the engine wouldn’t turn over on the first or second or third try, the chances weren’t good for the fifty-second. Cursing the car, the car maker, the rental company, this town, and the guys who’d hired him and sent him here, Joe finally gave up and hauled himself back out of the car.
The inside car lights came on fine, so he didn’t think it was a dead battery. By holding the door open and squinting at a lot of buttons with ridiculous kid’s stick figure drawings on them, he finally found the one that opened the hood of the car.
Back outside. He yanked up the hood and found the pole thing that would anchor it. The light from the security beam cast a vague glow in his direction, enough to see that his engine looked pretty much like every other car engine he’d ever seen. No obviously broken or loose hoses or wires sprang out at him. Not that his hopes had been high.
Since he’d taken advanced calculus in the same time block that automotive maintenance was offered in high school, and he’d never had the sort of home where a junker sat parked in the driveway and a teenaged Joe could pull it apart and tinker, he knew piss-all about cars except who to call if there was a problem.
But in Beaverton at four forty-five in the morning, he didn’t have the faintest idea who to call.
He leaned under the hood and turned every thing that looked like it could be tightened, wiggled a couple of hoses on the premise that it could be some kind of loose connection, then stared at the engine hard for a minute.
Back in the driver’s seat. “Come on,” he whispered under his breath and tried again. The engine made a brave attempt at a roar but once again it didn’t catch.
Flipping open the glove compartment, he hauled out the rental paperwork and called the number on his cell phone. A chirpy recorded voice told him the rental desk at the airport would be open at nine a.m. and if his flight left before that, he could leave the keys in a drop box.
He responded savagely to the sweet-voiced message, even after the system booted him off and there was nothing but a dull buzzing in his ear. The rental company was too Podunk to have an 800 number.
Getting seriously pissed now, he glanced at his watch and contemplated his options.
They weren’t attractive.
His flight left at seven-thirty and if he didn’t get on the road now, he was going to miss that plane. Beaverton didn’t look like it boasted a rental car agency or so much as a single taxi. But what the hell did people do here if they needed a ride? Jump on the back of Napoleon’s horse?
If he waited around to get the car fixed, he was going to miss his plane. Could he wake Emily and ask to borrow her car? Her old Ford didn’t look great and he hated the thought of waking her so early, but he really didn’t have a choice.
Slipping back into the Shady Lady as quietly as he’d slipped out, he ran up the stairs and headed for her room. He hesitated outside, then knocked. He had to knock a second time before he heard a sleepy, “Just a second.”
It was, in fact, not many seconds at all before Emily opened the door and blinked at him. She wore a robe of pale blue cotton that she hadn’t bothered to belt; she hugged it around herself, and the way it clung to her body, he had the sudden conviction that his landlady slept in the nude.
All his circuits jumbled and all he could do was stare into her heavy-lidded somnolent eyes, and want her.
“What is it?” she asked at last.
“Sorry to bother you. My car won’t start. Could I borrow yours to get to the airport? I’ll arrange to have yours returned and the rental picked up. The fools at the rental place are going to pay for this.”
She blinked a few times and lifted a hand as though to push it through her tousled hair. The robe slipped and she hastily resumed her previous pose. “I don’t have enough gas.”
“I could get some.”
“Not before the pumps open at nine,” she explained.
“You mean there’s nowhere to get gas between here and the airport?”
“Not for miles. Didn’t you read the highway signs?”
Of course he hadn’t. When he’d arrived in this place it hadn’t occurred to him he could end up stranded.
“Is there a taxi?”
She shook her head.
“A bus?”
Another head shake.
“Is there any person in this town I could pay to drive me to the airport?” His whisper took on a frantic note.
Once more she shook her head. She didn’t even have to stop and think first.
“Well, shit. The rental agency doesn’t open until nine. And there probably isn’t another plane out until tomorrow.” He felt furious, and stupid and helpless, all of which he hated. “Now what am I supposed to do?”
“Put the coffee on?” she suggested. “I’ll get dressed and then I’ll make you some breakfast.”
He jingled the thoroughly useless rental car keys in his pocket. “Who runs the local garage? Or do you have a mechanic in Beaverton?”
“We do. His name is Gregory Randolph.”
“Where does he live?”
“You can’t wake him up at this hour,” she said, aghast. Her sleep befuddled brain hadn’t caught on to the fact that he’d already woken her, proving it could be done.
“I’ll make it worth his while,” he said.
She shook her head at him as though he were missing something important. Well, she was right. If he couldn’t get the bloody car on the road he was missing his plane out of here.
“Give me his number.”
“He won’t answer the phone in the middle of the night. I know this guy.”
He made her give him the directions he needed, then headed back down the stairs for a dawn-streaked plod downtown.
Emily made her special French toast. It was important to prepare a breakfast that was going to help calm an irate man while, at the same time, not raising his suspicions that she’d known all along he’d be joining them for breakfast.
While she was cutting thick slices of her home-made cinnamon raisin bread, the phone rang and she picked it up.
“The Shady Lady,” she said, having learned at a tourism seminar that she should always answer the phone as though a valuable customer was on the line, even when she knew that it was Gre
g Randolph calling.
“He just left,” said Gregory, not bothering to identify himself. “I feel almost bad taking his money to fix a problem I caused myself.”
“I saw you tow his car away. Did he try to get you to drive him to the airport?”
“Yeah. I told him I’ve got too many jobs today, and that no one else in town could drive him either.”
“I know how you feel; I hate to charge him for another night’s accommodation.”
“We’ll live with ourselves somehow.”
She laughed. “I guess. Is he on his way back here?” She glanced out the window in case Joe should appear walking down her front path.
“No. After I told him I had to order in the part and it will take at least a week, he went off to see if he could hire a plane.”
“Oh, no.” It hadn’t occurred to her that he wouldn’t wait for the next commercial flight out, which was tomorrow. “What did you do? Send him to Al Roper?”
“What would I do that for? Al’s got the air ambulance. That’s a good plane. I sent him over to Jem Bradley.”
Her nerveless hands dropped a piece of bread into the egg mixture so it splashed over the side of the green pottery mixing bowl. She barely noticed. “You told Joe he’d have to ride in a crop duster?”
“Frankly, I think he’s ready to rent a pogo stick to get out of here.”
“I’ve got to get hold of Jem and make sure he thinks of an excuse not to take Joe up.”
“Already taken care of. Jem got a bad case of the flu right after I called.”
“Oh, here comes Joe now. I’ll talk to you later.”
Joe strode toward the B&B in the purposeful, straight-on way he did everything. If he was irate, he wasn’t showing it from his outward demeanor he seemed the same as always. Focused, efficient. Sexy as hell. She wasn’t thrilled at the way all her female bits stood up and cheered at the sight of him. She understood perfectly, of course, the complex chemical and physiological patterns of attraction and arousal, but she did not love that they were happening around this man who’d gone from being the most interesting man she’d met in years to her adversary.
She’d have to have a talk with her girls.
CHAPTER TEN
Joe headed toward the Shady Lady and then, as he glanced toward where his rental had sat – as though it might magically be sitting there, running, a few things fell into place all at once.
An impression from last night of somebody moving out there which he’d assumed was one of the town crazies. His brain too lust fogged to care. Then the strange pile-up of coincidences today, how nobody could possibly help him get out of town.
He had no idea why the good people of Beaverton wanted him to stay. Probably it was the only way they ever got new residents – to hold them against their will until they were deranged too.
On impulse, he pulled out his cell, stopped in a spot on the gravel path that smelled of some sweet flower. He moved to a more manly spot, found the number for Changing Gears and called.
“Changing Gears, Merle speaking.”
“This is Joe Montcrief.”
“The Ducati, right?”
Joe did business with a lot of people. A memory like that? From a guy who sounded like he’d been a Deadhead by way of Woodstock was phenomenal. “That’s right.”
“That’s a nice little crotch rocket right there.”
He winced slightly. Not exactly how he wanted to think of his next ride. “Look. I’ve got a problem. I’m stuck in Beaverton, Oregon. Is there any way somebody could bring me the bike?”
The guy didn’t miss a beat. “Have to truck it to you.”
“I know.”
There was a sound like the man was sucking on his teeth.
“You planning to use it to ride away from Beaverton?”
What a strange question. “Ride it all the way back to New York? Of course not. Looks like I'm stuck here a few days and be nice to have my own ride. Lots of open road.”
“You gotta ride this baby like you stole it.”
He grinned. “Exactly.”
“Yeah. Okay. I can be there in a few hours.”
“Seriously? You can be here today?”
“Yeah.” Like it was no biggie.
“All right.”
Joe’s day hadn’t started will, but he had a feeling it was going to improve.
Joe stalked into the Shady Lady and his irritation eased even further. It was so quiet here, so peaceful. He breathed old house smells with an odd sense of nostalgia, since he’d believed he’d never again smell the unique combination of aged wood, beeswax furniture polish, the faded rose smell of potpourri.
As he walked down the hall in search of Emily, he welcomed the much fresher and extremely enticing smell of breakfast coming from the kitchen.
He put down his bag and headed for the kitchen. He paused at the swing door and listened. She was singing along to the radio. And if he wasn’t mistaken, that was a Beach Boys song. For some reason, his sour mood lifted even more. He knocked and then hearing a “come on in,” pushed through. And there she was.
He shouldn’t be glad to see her. He didn’t want to be glad to see her. She’d thrown herself at him last night and then refused to see their attraction through to its logical conclusion. She was a sexually exciting woman who had, for some reason he couldn’t figure out, denied them both one of life’s great pleasures. If he were on his way to New York right now it wouldn’t matter, but he was back here in her kitchen and about to spend another night under her roof. Was he in for more frustration or the promise of pleasure that hummed between them every time they came near each other?
She wore another grandmother apron today, and under it were a pair of denim cutoffs and a yellow and green sleeveless blouse. Her hair was tied back with a yellow scarf. She looked as cheerful as a spring flower and her smile was as warm as a June afternoon.
“Hi. I hope you like French toast. It’s my special recipe.”
He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “How did you know I’d be back?”
“Gregory Randolph called. He said he’d call later when he knows for sure what’s wrong.”
Joe felt his frown settle. “The rental company should take care of it.”
“Oh, they will. Don’t worry.” Her back was facing him so he couldn’t tell how she felt about spending another night under the same roof. She sounded a bit strained, though.
“I sure didn’t get far.” Not only in leaving Beaverton but in scoring with the town’s hottest woman.
While he stood there, puzzled and slightly miffed, she flipped French toast with expert ease sending a hiss of fragrance into the air. Cinnamon, nutmeg mixed with other more subtle scents he couldn’t identify and suddenly his taste buds were singing the Hallelujah Chorus.
“Sorry about your car.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed a tired hand across his face. “I guess I’m stuck here another night.” Realizing belatedly how crass that sounded, he quickly said, “I mean, no disrespect to you or your very fine inn but--”
She laughed. “You haven’t had coffee yet, have you?”
“I guess it’s obvious.”
“Coffee’s fresh in the carafe.”
“Emily, walking into this kitchen is the best thing that’s happened to me today.”
“Well, it’s only seven-fifteen. Who knows what delights are still in store?”
While the French toast sizzled, and before he could help himself to coffee, she sidestepped to the stainless thermal jug and poured him a mug. She picked up a carton of milk and added some to the coffee, slid open a drawer in which stainless sparkled like sterling and grabbed a spoon, stirred the brew and handed him the mug.
“You remembered how I like my coffee.” Efficiency like that impressed the hell out of him. Left him feeling absurdly flattered, too. She’d taken the trouble to memorize how he liked his coffee. Maybe she did that for every guest who walked through the doors of The Shady Lady, but he preferred to th
ink he was special.
She smiled absently at him and opened the big wall oven and removed an empty plate.
“Sure that’s cooked?” he said.
She rolled her eyes at his lame morning humor, but he didn’t care. He was – okay, not glad to be here – he ought to be getting ready to take off about now. He should be writing up his notes and figuring out what still needed doing on the Beaverton deal. And, for another client, he needed to start putting some effort into finding a spa location to rival Baden-Baden. But right now, in the fragrant kitchen with a woman who was like home, the way Dom Perignon is like wine, he couldn’t hang onto his irritation.
Then she eased two slices of perfect French toast onto the plate. “Your breakfast is ready if you’d like to go into the dining room.”
“Where’s your breakfast?”
“I’ll have something later.”
“Eat with me,” he said, wondering what he was doing.
She blinked at him. “I usually eat in the kitchen.”
“Great. I’ll eat in here too. It’s weird being in the big dining room all by myself.” He looked around. “And besides, I like it in here. It feels like home.”
“Your home is like this?”
“No. Not my home.” In fact, not like any place he’d ever lived. “I mean like some Hallmark movie of the week version of home. Home, with a capital H as in Home Sweet Home.”
“Oh. That sounds like a compliment.”
“Yes.” He took the plate from her and placed it on the big round oak table by the window. Outside she’d hung a hummingbird feeder and a little guy was out there now, stabbing at the red plastic flower to reach the sugar water.
“But you’re a guest.”
“I know. We guests get ridiculous whims. Deal.”
While she stood there, obviously thrown off her stride, he went round her to where he’d seen her open the cutlery drawer and pulled out knives and forks for two.
“Placemats and napkins are in the next drawer down,” she said automatically.
