Under His Skin (Ranger Security Book 1)

by Rhonda Russell

  Fine. She’d play along.

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing a little time on my table couldn’t fix,” she said. “You’d be amazed how much good a little oil and a deep tissue massage can do.”

  Gratifyingly, a little of the satisfaction clinging to his smile dimmed.

  “I like to heat the oil up,” she went on. “Get it really hot so that it slides more easily across the skin.”

  He swallowed, the muscles working along his neck, and his jaw went a little slack.

  “Peppermint is my favorite,” Lila interjected, returning to the living room, her arms laden with more tea and cake. “It smells good and it tingles.”

  Sophie chewed the inside of her cheek to keep her smile from widening any further.

  Jeb’s eyes twinkled and he hummed under his breath. “Indeed. I’m tingling now just thinking about it.”

  She was, too. In inappropriate places. Right here in Lila’s living room. When she was supposed to be avoiding him and catching a thief. All-righty then.

  Time to go.

  ###

  Jeb watched her go and felt his shoulders shake with a chuckle. Sophie O’Brien had been doing her dead level best to avoid him since the first time she’d clapped eyes on him. From her hasty retreat from the diner night before last, to the book she’d pretended to read to keep from looking at him yesterday at lunch—her performance might have been more convincing if she’d remembered to turn the page, he thought drolly—to, as early as this morning, seeing him on the street and purposely changing directions.

  Though irritating—as his prime suspect, it was imperative that he talk to her—it had been endlessly entertaining. She had the most expressive, animated face he’d ever seen. Take this morning, for instance. When she’d looked up and noticed him coming in her direction, both her eyes and her mouth had rounded—though he knew it was impossible, he could have sworn he heard her swear—then she’d stopped short and wheeled in the other direction. And it wasn’t even a good short stop, like a “Darn, I must have forgotten something and I need to go back and get it.” It was more like a dreaded, “Oh, hell, there he is again.”

  Initially, her reaction had baffled him. Women, on the whole, didn’t purposely avoid him. Quite honestly, it was ordinarily the other way around. Though Jeb liked getting laid as much as any man— probably more so than some—he’d never let his appetite for sex get in the way of being selective. When he chose a woman to bed, several key factors came into play. In addition to him finding her attractive, she had to be smart, self-sufficient, healthy—he didn’t want any diseases, thank you very much, and a condom wasn’t foolproof—and, equally important, she’d have no expectations of a permanent relationship.

  If and when he ever decided to settle down, he was just old-fashioned enough to want to do things the same way his parents had. His father had always said that he’d known by the end of his first date with his mother that he was going to marry her. Jeb didn’t necessarily expect that kind of fanciful certainty, but he liked to think he knew his own mind well enough to know when he’d found the right girl.

  Presently, he wasn’t looking for a girl—right or otherwise, though admittedly, Sophie O’Brien was proving to be much more intriguing than was strictly professional—he was looking for a thief. Barging uninvited into Lila’s this morning was the closest he’d managed to get to her and that was only by happy coincidence. He’d seen her bicycle outside, an aqua blue retro number with a wicker basket attached to the front and his anticipation had spiked with victory.

  She’d bolted from her chair as though she’d been hit with a cattle prod upon seeing him, then had started immediately gathering her things, preparing to escape once again. It had been horribly rude to block the door, but as a momentary trap it had worked beautifully.

  Right up until he’d started flirting with her—he couldn’t have been any more shocked if he’d started speaking Swahili—and then, in another turn of unpredictable events, she’d started flirting back. After avoiding him like the plague.

  It boggled the mind.

  And spoke directly to his groin.

  Nothing a little time on her table couldn’t cure, indeed. Her soft hands, hot oil... He’d gotten the sudden mental image of her naked body riding him on that table, both of them slick with tingling oil and he’d gone rock hard.

  And that wasn’t even the most significant reaction.

  That bizarre yank behind his naval had given another significant pull, the balls of his feet had vibrated and a powerful bolt of heat struck his already tortured groin. Coupled with the irrational sexual attraction, he’d been hit with an even more illogical urge to protect her. From what? Who the hell knew? But the inclination to stand between her and harm’s way was undeniable. There was something distinctly vulnerable lurking in that warm, chocolate gaze, a hidden hurt she couldn’t fully conceal. He had no idea what had triggered the notion, but it was there all the same and, since he’d decided to never again disregard his gut instincts, clearly more intel on her was needed.

  He made a mental note to ask Charlie to dig a little deeper into her background. The preliminary report he’d received on her revealed that she was financially secure, having inherited a farm from her grandmother and running her own successful business. He’d spotted her soaps and lotions in the General Store—Wisteria Grove Farms—and had been impressed with the simple packaging and product.

  According to her website, her soaps were all organic and handmade and any scents were derived from essential oils. Completely natural. It was impressive.

  Judging from the soft-looking silky glow of her skin—up close he’d been better able to appreciate it—she undoubtedly used her own products. He’d never made particular note of a woman’s skin before, but Sophie’s was especially luminous. It seemed to shine as though illuminated through some sort of inner light, one that he was unaccountably drawn to.

  Had she not been his only suspect—though intuition told him she was not his thief—her avoiding him would have probably been best for both of them, Jeb thought grimly. For whatever reason, he suspected Sophie O’Brien—or better still, his mind-bogglingly severe reaction to her—was a game-changer.

  And didn’t have the time nor the inclination to play.

  Gratifyingly, though, he thought he’d isolated why she’d been so determined to avoid him and it was the same reason he’d been so curious about her—good old-fashioned sexual attraction.

  While her mind had been formulating a retreat, her body had been betraying her. Those lovely eyes had darkened further as her pupils had dilated and the rapid pulse hammering at the base of her equally lovely neck were hard and fast clues to what was really going on with her. Add to the fact that she’d swallowed several times—dry mouth, another sign—and had been covertly checking him out... It was a no-brainer.

  Evidently—for reasons as fascinating as she was, ones he would have to learn—she didn’t want to be attracted to him. Jeb grimaced.

  He felt her pain.

  And, courtesy of Ranger Security and the job he had to do, he grimly suspected that they were both about to get even more uncomfortable. He was here for the duration and staying away from her was out of the question.

  Because, even if she wasn’t the thief, he didn’t think he was going to be able to help himself.

  Chapter 4

  “Ah, there you are,” Cora said happily, peering through the wrought iron gate. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” She frowned. “What are you doing out here? You know this is Marjorie’s private Garden of Contemplation. She’ll pop a blood vessel if she finds you out here.”

  “I got special permission,” Sophie told her. Cora’s carefully drawn on brows furrowed thoughtfully. “I’d never thought to ask.” Looking more than a little intrigued, she lifted the latch and took a tentative step into Marjorie’s forbidden area as though she were trespassing on holy ground. She glanced around, taking in the water garden, flowering plants, shrubs and bird feeders. Wate
r gurgled from a nearby fountain and the tinkling of wind chimes sounded on the breeze.

  “Wow, this is nice,” Cora murmured. “So quiet, so peaceful.”

  Yes, it was. Or it had been, Sophie thought with

  a rueful sigh. Much as she loved Cora, Sophie had hidden away here because she’d wanted to be alone. Due to a last minute cancellation—Jeanie Wilson’s vertigo was acting up again—she had an hour between appointments and it wasn’t like she could just dash home and come right back. Wisteria Grove was a thirty-minute drive from Twilight Acres. She’d no sooner get there than she’d have to turn around and come right back.

  Better to cool her heels here and wait, but considering the fact that Jeb—when had she started thinking of him as Jeb instead of Foy’s Grandson?— managed to magically friggin appear everywhere she went, citing a headache, she’d prevailed upon Marjorie to let her use the garden. If he was going to flirt with her—and she was going to stupidly flirt back—then, clearly, hiding was her only option. She snorted inwardly. Work the knots out, indeed.

  Her whole body had become a knot after that little exchange.

  At any rate, the director had relented, albeit reluctantly, then purposely shut the curtains across the French doors which led into her office. Honestly, Sophie thought. She hadn’t been interested in spying on her—at least not right now, anyway—she’d just wanted a few minutes to herself, particularly after this morning’s run in with the handsome irritant. She glanced at Cora and swallowed a sigh.

  An effort in futility, it would seem.

  Seemingly enchanted, Cora flitted from bloom to bloom like a starstruck butterfly. “She must really have the touch,” she said. “Some of these roses are temperamental. And rare,” she said bending down to peer more closely at one bush. She straightened, then turned to Sophie and smiled. “No wonder she won’t let anyone back here. I wouldn’t either, if I was her.”

  “You said you were looking for me?” Sophie prompted.

  Cora’s eyes rounded. “Oh, right. Yes,” she said, beaming. “Guess what we’re having tomorrow night?”

  She couldn’t begin to imagine, but a sense of dread had descended all the same. “I don’t know. What?”

  “A dance!” Cora enthused. “Marjorie has given her approval and the party planning committee is on top of everything. Good food, good wine, and dancing. We’re calling it the Fall Ball.”

  Uh-oh. She had a feeling she knew where this was heading. The community was notorious for hosting themed parties, which she’d always been able to avoid by playing the old I-don’t-have-any- thing-to-wear-card, but that excuse was likely wearing thin. “I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.” “I’m sure you will, too, because you’re coming.” Sophie winced regretfully. “Sorry, I can’t. I’m busy tomorrow night.”

  Cora scowled at her. “Watching reruns of The Office doesn’t make you busy, Sophie.”

  That was a matter of opinion, but as it happened. .. “I hadn’t planned on watching reruns of The Office.”

  “Watching old episodes of All Creatures Great and Small doesn’t make you busy either.”

  Dammit, she should have known better than to tell Cora about those. “But they make me happy,” she countered. “And that’s what’s important.”

  “Piffle. You can watch those any time.”

  “That may be true, but—” She hesitated, feigning disappointment. “—I wouldn’t have anything to wear. No formal gowns lurking in the back of my closest, I’m afraid.”

  Cora’s smile became uncomfortably triumphant. “No worries, dear. I’ve already bought you a dress.” She blinked, stunned. “What? When?”

  “Two actually, so you’ll be able to choose which one you like the best. Betty is on standby to do any alterations, so I want you to scoot over to her house before you leave this afternoon. You’re finished with appointments at three—I checked with Curtis—so you don’t have to rush home to the farm. Betty says it’ll only take a few minutes.” She stood. “I’ve got shoes and accessories for both dresses as well, so once you’ve made your choice then let me know. You can get ready at my place,” she said. “I’ll help you with your hair and make-up.”

  Sophie’s head was whirling. Two dresses? Shoes and accessories? Hair and make-up? And she still hadn’t answered her question. “When did you buy me these dresses?”

  “Immediately after the last time you wriggled out of coming to one of our parties,” she said archly. Her gaze softened and she laid a hand atop hers. “I promised your grandmother that I would look after you, dear, and I take my promises seriously.” Sophie swallowed, touched. She knew and she appreciated it, she really did. But she failed to understand how coming to a dance where she wouldn’t have a single person—in her generation, at least—to dance with fell into the “looking after her category.” Not that she expected—

  Sophie stilled as realization dawned and her gaze swung to Cora’s. Oh, but she would have someone to dance with, wouldn’t she?

  Foy’s cursed Grandson—Jeb.

  Which was no doubt why Cora and her Band of Merry Matchmakers were going to such great lengths to host a ball, for pity’s sake, at such short notice. Oh, for the love of all that was holy, she thought, equally mortified and horrified. She felt like the good-hearted but homely friend who was always tragically looked over in those teen-targeted made-for-TV movies. It was a good message for a high school girl, but pretty damned pathetic at her age. Disgusted, she glanced at Cora, who looked innocently back at her.

  Sophie wasn’t buying it. And she sincerely doubted that her well-intentioned but seriously misguided friend had bought those dresses months ago. She’d be willing to bet Cora had called one of the boutiques she liked to frequent and had something appropriate and in Sophie’s size delivered this very afternoon. Renewed misery washed through her. She’d become their pity-project.

  One that was going to be paraded like a prized animal in front of the best-looking, most lethally attractive man she’d ever encountered in her life.

  “Indulge an old woman, would you?” Cora said, smiling softly. “It would mean a lot to me.”

  If she’d issued the I-Could-Die-Tomorrow warning like she typically did when she was trying to get her way, Sophie might have been able to resist. As it was—her cheeks puffed as she exhaled heavily—she couldn’t, because the sentiment was sincere. For whatever reason, Cora was certain Foy’s Grandson was crucial to Sophie’s future happiness. She’d be proven wrong soon enough, so what was the harm in humoring her?

  “All right,” she sighed. “I’ll come.”

  Cora’s lined face lit up. “Excellent, my dear. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

  Sophie sincerely doubted that, but refrained from commenting. Though she didn’t relish the idea of being so obviously pimped out, as it were, the ball would actually give her a chance to do a little more investigating. Though she’d spoken to both Rose- Marie and Lila, she hadn’t been able to catch the other two victims—Pearl McIntosh and Nanette

  Hearst—at home. Pearl had been visiting family in the city and the last time she’d dropped by Nanette’s, she’d been at the salon, getting her weekly set. Neither woman, Sophie was certain, would miss the Fall Ball.

  Neither would Marjorie, for that matter—she’d have to patrol the festivities, make sure none of the rules were being broken—and, while Sophie didn’t suspect the administrator of any wrong-doing, she’d like the opportunity to take a peek into her office, to see how accessible those safe-codes really were. Though she didn’t know at this point where Pearl or Nanette kept their jewelry, both Lila’s and Rose- Marie’s had disappeared from their safes. It was an incriminating common denominator, one that definitely needed investigating. Once the party was in full swing, there was no reason why she couldn’t duck out for a few minutes and do a little poking around.

  Once the alcohol and music really started flowing, none of the seniors would miss her, she was certain. Though she’d deliberately avoided these formal affairs,
she’d been to enough of their other parties to know that inhibitions went by the wayside quickly with this lot. Foy and a couple of his cronies had done their own version of The Full Monty at last month’s British Invasion party—-which Cora had secretly renamed The Twig and Berries Show— and Hortensia Forsythe hadn’t let the fact that she needed a walker keep her from doing a table dance. She shook her head and chuckled at the thought.

  Come to think of it, Foy’s Grandson was in for an eye-opening experience. No point in only one of them being uncomfortable, Sophie thought, marginally cheered. And, while she definitely dreaded going to this ill-conceived dance, a vain little part of her actually looked forward to looking good in front of him for a change. Because if Cora was going to the trouble to pull all this together on her behalf, then no doubt the dress would be spectacular.

  And what girl didn’t dream of having a Cinderella moment?

  ###

  Jeb didn’t know what had surprised Payne more— that he hadn’t gotten any further along on this case than he had, or that he’d had to abandon the cause long enough to come home to retrieve, of all things, his tux.

  “Why on earth would you need a tuxedo at a nursing home?” Guy asked.

  “In the first place, it’s not a nursing home. It’s a retirement village and let me tell you, these people take their retirement seriously,” he said, chuckling darkly. “It’s like Spring Break around that place year round, only better because, unlike most poor teenagers, these folks have the cash to do things up in style. Do you know what they’re planning next month? They’re bringing in a snow machine so that they tube down the south hill of the village,” he said, feeling his eyes widen. “Foy said where Mother Nature couldn’t provide, money and ingenuity could. A snow machine,” he repeated. “To go tubing. Probably while drunk and high. And yesterday they decided to host a ball, which is why I’m here this afternoon picking up my tux. Black tie only, I’m told, or they won’t let me in the door, Foy’s notorious grandson or not.”