He produced an odd smirk and said, “Oh, yeah? Well, maybe one day you’ll come home and that key chain will be holding the key to your brand-new Lexus, which will be sitting out front, and you can get rid of that piece of shit you call a car. You’re too pretty to be drivin’ a car like that anyhow.” Gerrall’s smirk expanded into an all-out grin. “Whad’ya think of that?”
Candy laughed a little uncomfortably. There had been something vaguely threatening about the way he’d spoken. But the guy just kept grinning. She placed the key chain on the desktop and said her good-nights.
The days at the diner went by quickly, and Candy found herself truly enjoying her work. She ran the register and takeout counter at breakfast, helped with kitchen prep during late morning, then worked as both counter server and cashier at lunch. It didn’t take long before she’d figured out how the regulars took their coffee, how they wanted their burgers cooked, and what kind of salad dressing they preferred. She made six more lunch delivery runs to the Bigler municipal complex, but only two of those were to Turner’s office, and she called ahead to arrange for Bitsy to collect the money and meet her in the lobby. Candy claimed it was necessary because she couldn’t be away from the counter for more than a few minutes. The real reason was so she wouldn’t run into Turner.
She didn’t necessarily like the arrangement. She missed Turner, truth be told. She missed his soft, hazel eyes and his remarkable mouth, and the way his hips moved when he walked, all loose and relaxed and sensual. Damn. She’d never seen a man move like he did! Then there was the way he chuckled low and husky from down in his chest. And of course she missed the way he got all flummoxed and started fidgeting after she kissed him—or he kissed her.
So hell, yes, it was best she didn’t run into Turner Halliday. She had enough to worry about. Her first paycheck didn’t come until the end of her first two weeks, which meant she was borrowing against her wages just to put gas in that huge wreck of a car. By the end of the first week, she already owed Lenny thirty-two dollars. But what really ticked her off was that she’d been forced to start rationing her mascara, applying only a single coat each morning. When business was slow, Candy sometimes found herself daydreaming about all the options that would be available to her in the health and beauty aisle of the Piggly Wiggly on payday. Which would she choose? Maybelline? Cover Girl? Revlon?
So it wouldn’t be Dior or Lancôme—who cared? Anything was preferable to living without mascara of some sort. The idea was alarming. The last time Candy had been in public without mascara had been in the eighth grade.
On Thursday afternoon of her second week, Candy clocked out after her shift, tossed her apron in the dirty linen hamper near the back door, and went in search of Lenny. She found him bent over in the walk-in pantry, mumbling to himself as he pushed around commercial-sized condiment containers on shelves.
“Looking for something?”
He shook his head slowly and sighed. “I forgot to reorder pimentos. I cannot believe I forgot the pimentos.” He straightened and stared at Candy with a perplexed look on his face. He threw up his hands. “I’ve been makin’ grilled pimento and cheese sandwiches for thirty damn years and this has never happened before. I must be losin’ my mind. Pretty soon I’m going to forget to order the damn white bread!”
She quickly scanned the pantry shelves and smiled. “Third row from the top, to your right.”
Lenny whipped his head around and grabbed the giant-sized plastic jar, his grin spreading from ear to ear. “You’re all right, girl.”
Candy took advantage of her opportunity. “I have a favor to ask,” she said.
“Honey, whatever it is, the answer is yes. You need more gas money?”
She shook her head. “No, but thank you. I’d like to use your kitchen and baking supplies to make a cake for my mother’s bridge club tonight. I’ll reimburse you when I get my first check. Would you mind?”
Lenny paused, the jar of pimentos cradled in his arms. He considered it for a moment and said, “I don’t see no reason why not, and no need to pay me back. You go have yourself some fun.”
So for the next three hours, Candy did just that. It was like remembering the steps of a lost dance or seeing an old friend after a long time away. The remembered steps rose out of nowhere. The love was right below the surface.
First, she pulled potential ingredients and set everything out on the countertop. After a few minutes of study, she decided she had everything she needed for one of her all-time favorites—a praline turtle cake—the very cake Lenny had mentioned the day she came looking for a job. The thought of that made her smile. She went in search of parchment paper, and when she found some, Candy knew it was on.
She set the oven to 350 degrees, then buttered the bottom of three round cake pans, cutting the parchment to fit about an inch up the side of each pan. She heated up a saucepan on Lenny’s large gas stove and tossed in more butter, brown sugar, and sweetened condensed milk. Once that was the perfect temperature—hot but not boiling—she poured three equal portions of the mixture into each cake pan and sprinkled with a handful of chopped pecans, setting it aside to cool.
Next, Candy used Lenny’s stand mixer to create the cake batter, mixing flour, cocoa, and granulated sugar with baking powder, baking soda, and a pinch of salt. To that she added eggs, sour cream, oil, vanilla, vinegar, and hot water, mixing everything together on low speed. When the batter was smooth and silky, she divided it evenly into the three cake pans, using a spatula to get every dribble.
Once she had the pans baking in the center rack of the large oven, she began to wash the bowls and utensils. It was then, her hands wrist-deep in the hot suds, that she realized how happy she suddenly felt, how her soul felt lighter somehow.
By the time she began making the fudge layer and the chocolate frosting, Candy was humming and dancing around the kitchen, her nostrils alive with the richness of her imagination. She laughed to herself. She smiled. She spun around a few times with delight. She couldn’t wait to see the look on the ladies’ faces when they took a bite out of this triple-layered nirvana. After all, they were accustomed to cardboard and wallpaper paste.
The oven timer hadn’t rung out yet, but she could tell by the scent in the air that the cakes were baked to perfection. She removed the pans from the oven and placed them on a wire rack, sticking a toothpick in the center of each to be sure. She had to admit feeling the teeniest bit smug when she discovered she’d been right.
“Uh-huh,” she whispered to herself. “Guess the girl’s still got it.” Then she broke into her version of the happy dance.
After the pans cooled for ten minutes, Candy ran a knife around the edges and carefully turned each layer out onto a cooling rack. She removed the parchment with caution, doing her best not to skin off any cake in the process. Once that step was complete, Candy found herself compelled to stand there for a moment, hand over heart, taking in the praline-infused flawlessness of each fluffy chocolate circle.
About a half hour later, she was in the middle of drizzling melted chocolate over the thick layer of pecan frosting, when Lenny burst through the kitchen swinging door.
“That looks…” He gasped, staggering backward.
“You okay, Lenny?”
“Is that … help me, Lord! Is that a praline turtle cake?”
Candy smiled. “I’ll bring you back a piece if there’s any left.”
“The hell with that, honey!” Lenny smacked his thigh and laughed. “You should be baking these for me. If that cake tastes anywhere near as good as the one you made back in school, I could charge damn near three dollars a slice for it, maybe even three-fifty.”
“You think?” Candy said, smiling to herself as she dropped the frosting knife in the soapy water. A slice of this cake would sell for at least twice that in Tampa, she knew.
“Hell, yeah.” Lenny patted her on the shoulder. “And, by the way, I’m giving you a raise.”
She spun around, slack-jawed. “Seriously?”
<
br /> “Yup. You’re a natural at customer service and I haven’t seen one error on the cash register tapes yet. Plus you found those pimentos for me. You keep this up and I just might make you assistant manager.”
Candy felt herself bust out into a huge smile, and suddenly, it occurred to her how long it had been since she’d heard encouraging news—about anything. True, being assistant manager at a worn-out hillbilly diner wasn’t exactly her dream career, but it was at least a step in the right direction. She had to fight to keep from blubbering.
Lenny looked alarmed. “Hey, now,” he said, sucking in his gut and standing straighter. “Don’t go doin’ none of that. I can’t handle crying females.”
Candy shook her head. “I won’t. I promise. I’m fine.” She turned away quickly, rinsed her hands in the big sink, and pulled herself together. When she turned around again, she couldn’t help it—she gave Lenny a tight, fast hug. “Thank you so much. I have to get going, but tonight, why don’t you make a list of some of the desserts you’d like to offer and we’ll talk about ingredient costs tomorrow.”
“Really? You’ll make cakes for me?”
“I’ll think about it, Lenny.” Candy grabbed her purse and tossed her apron in the hamper. “I’m still a little out of practice. I’m slow. But I could start with one or two cakes at a time and see how it goes, okay?”
“Shee-it, that’s one or two cakes more than I got on the menu right now. Besides, it’s high time I jazzed things up around here.”
Lenny gallantly carried the cake to the car, taking great care to balance the cutting board as he walked. He gently placed it on the floor of the passenger seat. “Baking has never been my fore-tay.” He lowered his voice to emphasize the gravity of his statement. “As you probably noticed, I save my skill for the grill.”
* * *
The feel of all that silky blond hair brushing against his chest was too much to take. Turner felt his spine arch and his hips lift off the bed and he knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer—and this was before her lips had gotten anywhere near his cock! What the hell was he going to do once he felt her mouth on him, all silky and wet and sweet and wrapped around the swollen head of his dick?
Right. Like he was going to last three seconds once that occurred.
He clenched his eyes shut with the immense pleasure of anticipation. Candy’s lips and tongue began to snake down his solar plexus, leaving juicy little kisses all over his skin, moving lower, so close to his navel now, and—oh, oh,—she just stuck the tip of her delicate tongue into his belly button and he was afraid he was going to blow right there.
Fuck! How was a man supposed to survive this? How was a man who hadn’t made love to a woman in over four fuckin’ years supposed to maintain his dignity in this situation? How much longer could he possibly hold on?
He let his eyes open. He was so close. “Stop, baby. Please,” he heard himself whisper. “I’m about to explode.”
But she simply smiled up at him. Oh, damn. He shouldn’t have opened his eyes. The visual was too much to deal with. Candy’s big blue gaze sparkled and teased as her silky, full breasts hovered over his body. Her hard pink nipples just grazed his skin. Her thighs spread wide as she straddled his calves. Oh! Her little pink tongue just darted out of her lips! Any second now and he would feel the exquisite torture of that sweet tongue, flicking and licking at him … and then her lips would open … and she would welcome him inside her hot little mouth … so vulnerable … so wet … so fucking incredible—
“Sheriff?”
Turner rocketed up from a deep place, yanked from an abyss of rapture and shoved into—what the hell was this? He blinked at his too-bright office, his hard desk, his worried-looking secretary.
Reality. This was reality.
He became aware that a sheet of paper was stuck to his damp cheek, and he ripped it off impatiently.
“I think you were asleep.”
“No. Not at all,” he lied, pressing the heels of his hands into his burning eyes. What had he just been dreaming? Oh, right—Candy Carmichael was about to give him the blow job of his life. Not to be confused with the other dreams he’d been having lately—like the one where Candy lay beneath him with her legs open, begging to be penetrated, or the one where she was crawling up the bed on all fours wearing nothing but a see-through macramé thong and a smile.
Turner dropped his hands and stared at Bitsy, who had by now assumed her customary position, arms crossed over her chest and lips tight. He knew damn well what was coming.
“You’re working too many hours,” she said. “You’re going to make yourself sick. You need some kind of life, Sheriff. It’s not normal for a healthy young man to do nothing but work. I think you were even having a nightmare this time. It sounded like an arson or a bomb threat or some other terrible scenario unfolding in your exhausted mind.”
Silently, Turner thanked God that his hulking, gunmetal-gray desk blocked Bitsy’s view of anything below his waist. Talk about a nightmare. “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Why in the world would you say that?”
Bitsy clicked her tongue. “Because you kept saying, ‘Stop, please stop,’ and then you were moaning, warning people that something was going to ‘explode!’”
“You must have misunderstood.”
Bitsy rolled her eyes.
“Really. I was only resting for a minute.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, Kelly O’Connor is here and wants to see you. And Sheriff…” Bitsy tapped her finger against her own cheek. “There’s still just a smidgen of drool just above your—”
“Thanks.” Turner grabbed a tissue and made no attempt to hide his annoyance. “Bitsy, would you mind—”
“Coffee’s already on,” she said. “Should I send Special Agent O’Connor in?”
“Sure. Why the hell not?” Turner closed his eyes for a split second and took a deep breath. He needed to switch gears, and fast. At least with Kelly O’Connor about to stroll into his office he knew his hard-on wasn’t long for this world.
“You look like shit on a stick, Sheriff,” O’Connor said, shutting the door behind her and taking a seat across from Turner.
“How kind of you, Agent O’Connor.”
She chuckled. “What can I say? Charm shoots out of my ass pretty much twenty-four-seven whenever I’m out this way.”
“And don’t think we haven’t noticed.”
“You all right?”
Turner sat up straighter. Was there more drool on his cheek? Another piece of paper stuck to his skin? He quickly rubbed his hand over his face. “Of course I’m all right. Why do you ask?”
O’Connor scanned him as thoroughly as possible, even craning her neck to see over the desk. She raised an eyebrow. “You’re kind of glazed over.”
“Glazed?”
“You know, out of it. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you were strung out on a woman.”
His breath caught. He tried to laugh. Instead, all he managed to do was sound like he was choking.
“None of my business, obviously.” O’Connor leaned an elbow on the desktop and wagged a dark eyebrow at him. “All I know is that whoever she is, I hate the lucky blond bimbo. Should have been me, but, hey, turns out I’m not your type. Turns out you prefer busty, blue-eyed, coffee shop babes, so what’s a skinny chick with a black belt in jujitsu to do?”
Turner was used to Kelly O’Connor by now. He’d worked with her on a dozen cases over the last five years, and had put up with her good-natured ribbing for much of that. But last year she began hitting on him so hard that even a distracted widower would have to sit up and take notice. Turner never regretted the way he handled the situation. He’d been quick, honest, and so blunt that there could never be the tiniest bit of confusion about how he felt. It was the only way to deal with O’Connor. And she’d taken it well—never bothered him since. He figured that same approach would be effective now, as well.
“I’m not interested in discussing this. What can I do for you
today?”
O’Connor grinned at him. “I’m here to talk about the busty, blue-eyed coffee shop babe.”
Turner felt himself frown in confusion. It almost seemed like O’Connor wasn’t joking. “Excuse me?”
“Turns out you aren’t the only one strung out on that girl. You’ve got competition—Gerrall Spivey’s got himself some big plans for Miss Candace Carmichael.”
Turner nearly shot out of his desk chair. Every muscle fiber in his body began to twitch. It was all he could do not to lose his cool with O’Connor. “Want to tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”
“Sure.” She stood up and began moseying around his office, surveying his bulletin board, peering at the family pictures on the walls, fingering a few wanted posters. Whatever she was up to, she was enjoying it way too much. “Dante’s field notes report that Gerrall’s in love,” she said. “Apparently, all he does is talk about this girl, Candy, and how he’s seducing her with gifts and plans to marry her. I thought you should know, in case you didn’t already.”
Turner felt his jaw unhinge as he continued to stare at O’Connor. Not a damn thing about what she’d just said had found footing in his brain. It didn’t make a lick of sense.
She quickly turned toward him, catching his openmouthed stare. “You didn’t know! Hot damn!”
“What the fu—” Turner stopped himself. He regrouped. “Okay. Let’s start over. What did you just say about Gerrall Spivey and Candy?”
O’Connor chuckled. “Want me to talk slower?”
Turner was suddenly in no mood for O’Connor’s bullshit. His displeasure must have been broadcast on his face because she held up her hands in a defensive gesture and began to give him the information without further delay.
“Right. So Cabrera’s field notes indicate Gerrall Spivey has recently become obsessed with a woman staying with her mother at Cherokee Pines. That woman is Candace Carmichael. We checked her out, of course, and discovered she’s the very same Candace Carmichael who delivered our lunch last week to your conference room, an incident I recall in great detail due to the fact that every man in the room lost at least a hundred IQ points the second she walked in.”
I Want Candy Page 10
