Men Out of Uniform: 6 Book Omnibus

by Rhonda Russell

  “The same way it went last time and the time before that. Horribly.” She cranked the ignition, then backed away from the curb and headed toward the Milton Plantation, sadly another old beauty destined for demolition. Sure the floor was falling in and it was a structural nightmare, but it was still worth saving. Or at least it was to her. Frankly, she couldn’t afford to properly keep it from being torn down, but if she could save a few pieces--a mantle here, a door there, a bit of molding--then she’d at least feel a little better about it. All of its history wouldn’t be lost and a small portion of it would ultimately be repurposed.

  “He still can’t find it?” Mason said, outrage lining his young peach-fuzzed, freckled face. The boy was determined to grow a beard, though why he’d want one was a mystery to Sarah Jane. Particularly in this heat, she thought, turning the air conditioning up another notch. “You know he’s lying, don’t you?” Mason told her. “I don’t know why you won’t let me help you. I could beat the whereabouts of your father’s will out of him, I know I could.” His fuzzy chin jutted out belligerently.

  Sarah Jane stifled the smile that immediately rose to her lips. Frankly, she thought she had a better chance of beating the whereabouts of her father’s will out of Cecil Simmons than Mason did. Her gaze slid to her one and only employee.

  Short, thick through the middle, with scrawny arms and even scrawnier legs, with thin and wispy strawberry-blonde hair, sadly, Mason put her in mind of a poorly proportioned scarecrow. It was really a pity that a person’s outside didn’t always match was what inside because, were that the case, Mason would be a brilliant hottie with a loyal heart. She inwardly smiled. He was certainly devoted to her, and she could thank a single act of kindness and her hot temper for that.

  Being different anywhere was difficult, but being different in a little town like Monarch Grove, Georgia really took courage. Unlike most of the kids his age, Mason wasn’t into sports, pop culture and trendy music. At nineteen, he was a Trekkie with a soft ear for jazz and preferred reading sci-fi novels to playing video games.

  On the night she’d come to his rescue, he’d been showing his newest eBay find, a vintage Borg talking head lunchbox, to a couple of equally unique friends at Mabel’s Diner, when a group of so-called cool kids snatched the lunchbox out of Mason’s hands and proceeded to play keep-away with it. Sarah Jane had stepped in, reclaimed his lunchbox, then roundly reamed them out.

  Mason had shown up at her workshop behind her house the next day and he’d been with her ever since. He’d redesigned her Web site, installed better business software and updated her computer, organized her office and her time, and generally kept her on task. She didn’t know what she’d do once he finished college and moved on, but she supposed she’d just have to cross that bridge when she came to it.

  Furthermore, if she were going to drag anyone into this mess with her, then it would be her long-time best friend, Tina Martinese. She and Tina had been friends since the cradle. Born a couple of days apart to families who were best friends, she and Tina had literally grown up together. Her parents had recently bought an RV and were touring the country, one national park at a time. Though she wasn’t a sister by blood, she was definitely the sister of her heart.

  Petite and curvy, with dark hair and pretty hazel eyes, Tina was fearless, fierce and funny and could cook like nobody’s business. She was also carrying a torch for one of their local boys in blue, Chase Collins. Unfortunately Chase’s fear of commitment was almost as legendary as Tina’s lasagna. Speaking of which, she be enjoying that particular delicacy this evening. But she couldn’t think about that right now.

  Right now she had more pressing matter to attend to.

  Like getting her inheritance back from her money-grubbing slut of a step-mother--Chastity Pigg...Walker. She felt her face rumple with distaste. It still killed her that she shared the same last name with her most hated enemy, one that, gallingly, was her own age. Bad enough that she’d unwittingly shared a high-school boyfriend and later, her father, with her.

  For reasons Sarah Jane had never been able to comprehend, Chastity had always had it in for her. In grade school she’d tormented her about her fat cheeks, her affinity for dirt--she’d never minded if her pants had grass stains--and her penchant for playing tag with the boys as opposed to primping on the playground with the girls.

  In high school, Chastity had taken a different tact--she’d made it a point to horn in on any boy Sarah Jane had ever liked. In most cases it had been more annoying than hurtful, but Senior year, when Chastity had made a move on Luke Anderson--her first real love--and Luke had succumbed, that had stung. Sarah Jane had written him off, of course, because if Luke hadn’t had the brains and wherewithal to stay out of the back of his truck with a sleazy slut like Chastity, then he sure as hell didn’t deserve her and he was an idiot to boot.

  Turns out her father had been an idiot as well.

  An image of his dear face rose in her mind’s eye and a hard lump formed in her throat. God, how she missed him. Missed both of them, but admittedly, the unexpected death of her father had hit her harder. For years after her mother had died--damned breast cancer--George, better known as “Tough” Walker, had remained single. Had insisted that her mother had been the only woman for him. They’d been well-matched, shared the same interests and utterly devoted to one another.

  To say that Sarah Jane had been in shock when her father had started dating Chastity would be an understatement of epic proportions.

  Though she’d voiced a bit of displeasure, Sarah Jane had bitten her tongue and opted to give her father the benefit of the doubt, remembering years of sound decisions and good judgment, of bear hugs and pancake breakfasts. She’d been certain that he’d come to his senses, realize Chastity was a soul-sucking, brainless, manipulative bitch with questionable morals and, in short order, cut her loose.

  Instead, to her shock, shame, embarrassment and horror, he’d done the unthinkable--he’d married her.

  And, while she’d hated Chastity with every fiber of her being, she’d loved her father more. He’d seemed happier than he’d been in years and, though she was relatively certain she could have put a stop to it...how selfish could she be? Her dad had assured her that the house--the one that she, her mother and father had painstakingly restored--would still be hers to do with what she wished--either live in it herself, or sell it and take the proceeds to buy another--along with any other items he knew her mother would have wanted her to have.

  Frankly, the idea of Chastity living in the same house that her parents had shared made Sarah Jane’s flesh creep, but the idea that she could actually keep it...that just set her blood on fire.

  She’d seen her father’s will. She knew what she was supposed to inherit, and in addition to the house, there’d also been a sizable savings account, part of which had been proceeds from her mother’s estate.

  The first month or so after the funeral, Sarah Jane had been too grief stricken to press Chastity about the will and, though she’d hated her, she had gotten the impression that Chastity had genuinely cared for her father. She hadn’t wanted to be unnecessarily cruel and kicking Chastity’s butt to the curb had seemed particularly harsh. But when one month had turned to four and her dear step-mother had decided to buy a new Hummer, then had gotten a tummy tuck, Sarah Jane had decided that the time for being nice was over.

  She’d asked for her father’s pipe. Chastity had told her that it was simply too dear and she just couldn’t bring herself to part with it.

  She’d asked for her mother’s wedding dress--the one that had belonged to her grandmother. Chastity said she’d cleaned out the attic and was certain the dress had gone into the trash. It hadn’t, Sarah Jane had learned later when she’d seen the dress on display at a local historical fair, but at that point she’d decided that merely asking for things wasn’t going to work--it was time to time to take them.

  And that’s when she’d discovered that her father’s will had vanished. Important pap
ers had always been kept in the filing cabinet in his study--the entire file was gone. And not only had it vanished out of the house, but had disappeared from the attorney’s office as well. Coincidence?

  She thought not.

  Sarah Jane had accepted that, in all likelihood, Chastity had done away with the copy which had been locked away in her father’s filing cabinet in his study, but she was holding out hope that Cecil had sense enough not to destroy the original on file with his office. Furthermore, she suspected that he’d locate the will when he and Chastity finished their “business.” Unfortunately, she didn’t have any idea how long that was going to take and meanwhile, Chastity was breezing through her inheritance and keeping precious heirlooms which were rightfully hers.

  And since beating the hell out of her--an altercation which had occurred shortly after she’d discovered the dress Chastity said she’d thrown away at the annual Historical Fair--hadn’t produced the desired results, Sarah Jane had decided that it was time to take a different tact.

  She was going to steal them.

  She aimed the truck down the long gravel drive. The Milton Plantation rose up like a tired but beautiful old belle, bringing a smile to her lips. Actually, steal wasn’t exactly the right word. Stealing implied that the stuff had never been hers to start with, but that wasn’t the case. Sarah Jane liked the word “rescue” better. She was going to rescue her things--via a little breaking and entering because her step-monster had changed the locks. Then she planned on slipping into Cecil’s office and doing a thorough search for her father’s so-called misplaced will. She felt a determined smile slid over her lips.

  Clearly he wasn’t looking hard enough.

  “Looks like he’s here already,” Mason remarked.

  “Who? Oh,” Sarah Jane said, spying the olive green SUV parked near the side of the old house. “The Designing Weekly guy.” A blush of pleasure washed through her chest. Talk about a bright spot in an otherwise dismal last few months.

  Sarah Jane had always been a fan of Designing Weekly. A regular subscriber, she pored over her magazine every week, appreciated the articles pertaining to restoration, specifically. The fact that they wanted to do a feature on her and her business was a particular coup. Granted she had a pretty sizable clientele in the greater Atlanta area, but Designing Weekly had distribution all over the United States. She and Mason fully expected business to boom after the article ran and had been getting the website and inventory ready in preparation for the event.

  And the presumed windfall couldn’t come at a better time. Business was good--she wasn’t behind on any bills or anything like that--but her truck had more than 200,000 miles on the engine, her tools were showing their wear, and she didn’t expect her air conditioning unit to make it though this abysmal, wretched, miserable summer. In short, she had a lot of big expenses looming and knowing the money would be there to take care of them was a relief that took an enormous weight off her shoulders.

  Furthermore, money aside, restoration was her passion and anything that furthered her cause, made home-builders more aware of other options, and saved bits and pieces of brilliant architecture was a coup.

  Sarah Jane pulled up alongside the SUV and waved and smiled at the man seated behind the wheel. Due to the tint of the glass, she couldn’t get a good look at him. “What’s his name again?” she asked Mason from the side of her mouth, thankful that he stayed on top of things like that.

  “Mick Chivers. He’s the photographer and he’s in town for the next two weeks. Through next Friday.”

  She knew that. At first she’d thought it was a bit odd for the magazine to send a photographer out to follow her around for two weeks--with the actual reporter to follow--but since she wasn’t in the journalism business, for all she knew, this was the norm. Actually, it would work out quite well. It would take her approximately that time to salvage everything from this old house. He could see the project through from start to finish and document it frame by frame for the piece.

  “He’s staying at Clara’s,” Mason said, gathering his Star Trek thermos, snack bag and MP3 player.

  Sarah Jane chuckled and collected her gear as well. “Where else is there to stay in Monarch Grove?”

  The lone B&B was the only game in town for occasional travelers and did most of its business during the upcoming Fried Pie Festival. Thanks to Tina, it was also the best place to have breakfast, or any other meal for that matter, in her opinion, though Mabel’s Diner was a close second.

  Naturally, she would never say that in Clara’s presence as there was a certain rivalry between the two older women. Mabel and Clara were both members of the Monarch Grove Community Theatre and were constantly vying for the same parts. When Mabel took the lead roll as The Unsinkable Molly Brown in the last production, Clara had actually put on black in mourning of the part, and since then the food war, which had been intense to start with, had increasingly escalated. If Clara was serving chocolate pie for dessert, then Mabel would invariably offer chocolate chocolate pie. The only people who seemed to benefit, were the actual patrons because the food was always fabulous.

  “Think we ought to warn him?” Mason asked.

  Sarah Jane grinned. “About what? Clara’s ever-changing hair color, her penchant for show tunes or Byron?”

  “All of the above,” Mason said, affecting a shudder. “But particularly Byron. He’s a guy, Sarah Jane. Someone should say something.”

  “Nah. He’ll find out soon enough on his own.” Sarah Jane felt her lips twitch. No doubt Mick Chivers would be hearing Clara’s warbly, off-pitch and tone-deaf rendition of Give My Regards to Broadway this evening. The poor man. As for the Byron, the B&B’s resident ghost, how exactly did one warn a person about a homosexual spook?

  Pasting a smile onto her face, she opened the door and stepped out of her truck. The hot August sun beat down on the top of her head, the humid air instantly bathed her skin in sticky heat and, though she wore a pair of pricey sunglasses, she still felt herself squint. Dimly she heard the click of another door, the resounding ding-ding-ding issuing from his SUV. She heard the crunch of gravel beneath a booted foot, then he emerged from behind the windshield and suddenly that persistent ding-ding-ding noise took on another meaning completely.

  The breath--what little of it the stifling temperature hadn’t robbed from her lungs--caught in her throat and held. A single strip of gooseflesh raced down her spine, then up again and settled in the back of her neck, making her scalp tingle. Her palms dampened, her mouth parched and a buzz of sexual adrenaline raced through her body, igniting her nipples, and concentrated in a tornado of swirling sensation directly below her naval.

  Sarah Jane was twenty-eight years old, had been sexually active for eight of those years, and had never--never--seen a man and literally quivered so hard she felt her insides vibrate.

  Unaccustomed to not being completely in control of herself and her being, Sarah Jane told herself that her quickie breakfast didn’t agree with her and that she was probably getting sick.

  That had to be it. Really.

  Furthermore, Mick Chivers didn’t look like any photographer she’d ever seen--he seemed too big, too vibrant for such a patient occupation. Though he was roughly a car-length from where her feet had rooted to the driveway, and he hadn’t so much as moved once he’d seen her, she could feel the restlessness--the sheer energy--rolling off of him in waves. She could sense it in every line of his six-and-a-half-foot plus, magnificently proportioned body. Fancied she could even see it swirling around him.

  Danger, wickedness, irreverence.

  Instinct told her that if she played chicken with this guy, she’d definitely lose. The devil in her instantly recognized the devil in him, and the knowledge equally terrified and thrilled her. He had that fearlessness, that reckless edge that was at once compelling and sexy. He put her in mind of a wild mustang--proud and untamable, but beautiful and...lonely? she though, struck with the curious but unmistakable temptation to comfort him. From
what? Who knew? But she couldn’t deny the feeling, the intrinsic knowledge that this guy was an island unto himself.

  And at the moment, even liked it that way.

  A cool khaki linen shirt stretched over a pair of mouth-wateringly wide shoulders and the short-sleeves revealed arms that were muscled and well-honed. He might spend a little time in the gym, but for whatever reason, Sarah Jane got the impression that hard work had put the majority of those muscles into place rather than a daily exercise regimen.

  Brown hair, the shade of melting chocolate, lay in messy irreverent waves on top of his head, and a jaw chiseled as though straight from the hand of Michelangelo rounded out a face that was too masculine to be called pretty, but was gorgeous all the same. Wide, firm but full lips casually drifted into a smile, one that held just the slightest hint of wicked arrogance, causing a deep dimple to emerge in the smooth hollow of his right cheek. A tremble eddied through her midsection and she longed to see his eyes, which, like hers, were hidden behind a pair of dark shades.

  He strode around the hood of his car, camera bag over his shoulder and met her next to her truck, then extended his hand. Huge, calloused, with blunt-tipped fingers and masculine veins. In a word, wonderful. Strong. Sensual. You could tell a lot about a person by their hands, Sarah Jane thought dimly, as she slipped her palm against his. Another little shock of sensation bolted through her and she smiled, deciding to pretend it didn’t happen. What the hell? It had worked for Scarlet O’Hara, hadn’t it?

  “Mick Chivers,” he said, his voice a raspy baritone that sizzled along her nerve endings and induced the irrational urge to weep. Or worse, giggle. Was it too much to hope for that he’d sound like Mickey Mouse sucking helium?