A choked laugh broke up in Mick’s throat. “A gay ghost who sexually harasses its guests?”
Sarah Jane cocked her head and lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I’m only repeating what I’ve heard. I personally have no experience with Byron, but he’s legendary in our little town. Clara actually enjoys that he’s there, says it gives the B&B a marketing edge. She’s got a whole section of her Web site dedicated to Byron sightings. Has anything out of the ordinary happened to you?” she needled.
An odd look passed over his face, then he blinked. “No,” he said.
Sarah Jane chewed the inside of her cheek and wasn’t at all convinced. “Well, Clara’s trying to get one of those paranormal programs to do a documentary on the B&B--says it’ll be good for business--so if you do experience anything odd, be sure and let her know.”
He darted her a droll look. “You mean if I feel a cold hand grab my ass, or something like that?”
Sarah Jane grinned. “Exactly. A cold hand on your ass would definitely qualify. Actually, the most common thing that’s been reported is a strong scent of aftershave in the air when none has been used.”
That odd look again. “I’ll be sure and let her know.”
Sarah Jane pulled away from the curb and tooled around town and, living up to her role as official tour guide, showcased a few points of interest. “That’s Mabel’s,” she said. “Best place in town to get a true southern meal, but don’t you ever tell Clara I said that. Mabel and Clara have got a food feud that makes the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s look like amateurs.” She chuckled darkly. “And Mabel might be an old-fashioned name, but she’s far from it. She teaches feng-shui and beginning computer classes at the senior center and holds a black belt in karate.” She pointed to a little crooked building across the street. “There’s Buck’s Barber Shop. He’s been in business since he was sixteen. He’s seventy-five, still has a steady hand, and still uses a straight-edge razor to complete a shave.”
Smiling, Mick nodded. “Sounds like my kind of man.”
She felt her lips twitch. “You use a straight edge razor to shave?”
“No,” he admitted, pushing a hand through those messy chocolate waves. “I use disposable, but you have to admire a man who still kicks it old school, right?”
“This is a small town, Mick. Old school around here is pretty much the only school.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Mick argued. “Clara’s got wi-fi.”
Sarah Jane nodded once and chewed the inside of her cheek. “You’re right. She does. But only because it’s almost impossible for her to keep up celebrity gossip otherwise.”
He quirked a brow. “Clara’s addicted to celebrity gossip?”
“And she’s been known to surf a little porn.”
Mick’s face blanked and he stared at her. “You’re yanking my chain.”
Smiling, Sarah Jane shook her head. “Mason had to fix her computer and found a little girl-on-girl action on there.”
His eyes widened further. “So she’s--“
“Either that or she stumbled on it by mistake. She’s never married, though--to my knowledge, never even dated--so my bet is on the former.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mick said, staring at the passing landscape as they drove further out of town. “So much for small towns being boring.”
“And you thought all we had to offer was the Fried Pie Festival.”
He frowned. “When is that exactly?”
“It kicks off next Friday afternoon.”
“On the town square, right?”
“Right. Booths will go in on the Thursday before. It’s quite a spectacle, actually.”
“How so?”
Sarah Jane merely grinned. “You’ll see. Okay,” she said. “I’ve shown you interesting and odd. Are you ready for weird?”
Mick gave his head a small shake and an endearingly sexy smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Something about that half-grin more than turned her on--it made an odd fluttering bubble warmly in her chest. “I don’t know,” he said. “Am I?”
Sarah Jane gestured past his shoulder. “Look there.”
A surprised chuckle erupted from his throat. “A tee pee? In Georgia?”
“That’s not just any tee pee,” Sarah Jane explained. She turned into the long drive that lead out to Carl’s new abode. “It’s an authentic hand-painted tee pee in the Sioux Indian style.” Sarah Jane smiled. “Squatting Buck will be happy to tell you all about it.”
“Has he always lived in a tee pee?”
“Er...no. That’s the funny part. Carl lived in a ninety-sixties brick rancher complete with a deck and carport right up until a fateful trip to the Smokey Mountains last fall when he discovered the Indian portion of his German heritage.” She smiled. “He found his tribe, was bestowed an Indian name by the elders and he returned home wearing lots of feathers, bones and turquoise and decided to ‘return to his roots.’”
Mick grunted, seemingly amazed.
“Unfortunately, his marriage didn’t survive the regression and he and Gladys parted ways a few months ago. Gladys kept the house and furnishings and Carl took their generator, all their camping supplies and the truck.”
Wearing a bewildered your-bull-shitting-me smile, Mick turned to look at her. “Does Squatting Buck have a job?”
Sarah Jane nodded. “He does. He’s the bank manager at our local Savings and Loan.”
Mick snorted. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or appalled.”
She shifted into park and grabbed the jar of preserves she’d brought for Carl. “My offering for his time,” she explained at Mick’s raised brow.
He inclined his head. “One question. Where does he bathe?”
“He works out at the gym every morning and showers there.”
Mick just shook his head. “I’ve heard of going green, but this... This is just unbelievable.”
“I thought we agreed that it’s weird?”
Mick whistled low under his breath as Carl emerged from the tee pee in his loin cloth. A bone and turquoise chocker encircled his neck and a feather dangled from a short stubby braid in his ever-lengthening light blonde hair. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “We’ve definitely arrived at weird.”
Sarah Jane slid out of the truck and called a greeting to Carl. “Good evening, Squatting Buck. How’re you doing?”
“Blessed with a cool breeze, Warrior Bleeding Heart,” Carl replied, wrapping her in a warm, slightly sweaty hug.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, handing him the preserves, “but I brought a friend along with me.”
“Certainly not,” Carl told her. Morphing smoothly into bank manners, he extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, young man. Any friend of Sarah Jane’s is a friend of mine.”
“Mick Chivers,” he said, shaking Carl’s hand. He glanced at the tee pee. “This is an interesting set-up you’ve got here.”
“Hardly conventional, I know, but intensely freeing. Popular thought is that I’m having a midlife crisis or that I’m crazy, but I ignore the naysayers. No mortgage, no bills. Just me and my thoughts, and a better ability to listen to the land.”
Sarah Jane wondered how he heard it over the Braves baseball game she heard blaring from the radio inside, but wisely kept that little thought to herself.
Carl gestured toward his leather and canvas home. “Would you like to see the inside? It’s quite remarkable, actually.”
Mick nodded, seemingly intrigued despite himself. “If you’re sure it’s not an inconvenience.”
“Not at all, not at all,” Carl told him. “Come on in.”
“Warrior Bleeding Heart?” Mick asked from the side of his mouth as they ventured inside the tee pee.
Damn, Sarah Jane thought. She’d hoped he’d missed that. “It’s not an official Indian name like Carl’s--tribal elders bestow those and it’s actually a great honor to get one,” she explained. “But Carl thinks it fits and I appreciate the gesture.”
His vo
ice dropped low. “Are you a warrior, Sarah Jane?”
She felt a wry smile curl her lips. “I think that’s just a noble way of saying I’ve got a nasty temper.”
Mick turned and studied her intently for a minute and the unexpected scrutiny made her stomach fill with fizzy air. She saw admiration and respect, longing and the briefest shadow of what looked curiously like regret in those twin blue pools. He slid the pad of his along her chin, snatching the breath from her lungs. “Depends on who that temper is directed at and for what reason, doesn’t it, Warrior Bleeding Heart?” And with that parting comment, he ducked inside.
For the first time in her life, Sarah Jane wished she owned some sort of clairvoyant talent because she’d give anything to know just exactly what was going through Mick’s mind at that moment.
As for what was going through hers...more of that lunatic get-her-heart broken wishful thinking chockfull of if-onlys and a commingled breath, a racing heart and naked skin.
His...and hers.
CHAPTER 7
“Should I be offended that he didn’t give me an Indian name?” Mick asked as they pulled out of Carl’s driveway.
Though he couldn’t argue with the “weird” assessment, he also had to admit he’d come away with a bit of respect for the guy. He’d voluntarily made a huge change in his life and had embraced it with the sort of furor that seemed to be a dying breed. He could honestly say he didn’t know anybody who would willingly give up running water--most notably a toilet--electricity and climate control.
In the interest of health concerns, Carl did have a small dorm-sized refrigerator and a hot plate, but most of his meals were cooked outside over an open flame. That part of Squatting Buck’s existence really appealed to a lone caveman gene still lurking in Mick’s domesticated DNA, but he imagined he’d grow weary of it pretty damned quick. Carl had already survived a winter out here--quite comfortably, he’d said--and seemed to be doing fine during this broiling summer.
“No, you shouldn’t be offended. It’s not like he’s tossing names out to every person that he meets,” she teased.
Mick felt a grin roll across his lips. “Are you trying to say that Carl thinks your special?”
Actually, it was painfully obvious that Carl thought she was special. He’d asked her about her work and her animals, and made a point to tell her to let him know if she needed anything. He also mentioned, as covertly as possible, that her step-mother had made a sizable withdrawal for a down-payment on a vacation home. The worried frown which had wrinkled her brow had been echoed in his mind, but the determined chew-nails-and-spit bullets look immediately following had made him want to chuckle with pride. Why? Who the hell knew? And at this point he was tired of trying to make sense of his motivation.
Sarah Jane Walker was something else. The heart, the spirit, the sense of humor and the work ethic were an amazing combination, one he found increasingly hard to resist. Then there was the whole matter of her making him want to back her up against a wall and take her until her eyes rolled back in her head. Then take her again until his did.
This driving need, this utter desperation and increasing lack of control--touching her was a mistake because it had only made things worse--was something so new and unique and foreign Mick was finding himself slowing sinking in a pit of sexual hell where she was his only hope for survival. He couldn’t look at her without feeling it, an increasingly insistent pull which affected both his groin, and more disturbingly, a soft spot in his chest.
Frankly, Mick didn’t have any idea how much money was in her father’s accounts--what she stood to inherit--though he probably should make it a point to find out. At any rate, he knew it had to be a pretty hefty nest-egg, otherwise Chastity could hardly afford to pay for their services, nor would she have gone to the trouble to hire them to keep Sarah Jane from finding the will. He’d seen the agreement, knew his cut, and knew the surveillance wasn’t cheap.
Furthermore, if Sarah Jane had a prayer of keeping the remainder for herself or getting any of the other money back, she’d better act fast, otherwise he had a sneaking suspicion there wouldn’t be anything left. Maybe that had been part of the purpose as well, Mick thought, senses going on point. Maybe Chastity hadn’t been happy with her part and had every intention of depleting the accounts before Sarah Jane could find and probate the will.
“Can I help it if I’m a special snowflake?” she asked, batting her lashes at him playfully, dragging his thoughts back to the conversation at hand.
He grunted, amused. “No more than you can help that you’re full of shit, I guess.”
“Hey,” she said, feigning outrage. “My Indian name is Warrior Bleeding Heart not Princess Full of Shit.” Her speculative gaze raked over him, sizing him up and his dick literally stood to attention, as though she’d stroked him with more than her gaze. “You definitely need an Indian name,” she said. “And before you leave town, I’m going to come up with one for you.”
So long as it wasn’t Little Limp Dick, he wouldn’t object. He pulled a negligent shrug. “Knock yourself out, sweetheart. I don’t mind.” He paused. “How did Carl wind up with Squatting Buck. It’s a bit...” Mick struggled to find the right word.
“Ignoble,” Sarah Jane supplied, toffee eyes twinkling.
Mick grinned. “That would be it, yes. I wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure if it would be polite. My Indian etiquette is pretty nonexistent.”
“I don’t think he would have had a problem with it. Carl’s last name is Hirsh, which is German for ‘Buck.’ He wanted something that would reflect that heritage as well.”
Mick nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. But why ‘Squatting’? Why not ‘Running’ or ‘Walking’ or, hell, even ‘Sitting’...something a bit more dignified. Do bucks even squat?” he wondered aloud, frowning. Honestly, he’d never watched a deer do his business, but couldn’t imagine one squatting to get the job done.
Chuckling softly under her breath, Sarah Jane shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know why the tribal elders chose ‘Squatting’, but I’m sure it has some sort of significance.”
Mick grimaced. “I think I would have had to protest and ask for another one.”
Another strangled laugh emerged from her throat. “I’m not up on Indian etiquette either, but I don’t b-believe that’s an o-option.”
He paused and turned to look at her. “You’re laughing at me.”
“Sorry,” she said, her voice cracking with suppressed laughter. “I can’t seem to help myself.” She cleared her throat. “So I take it you don’t want the word ‘squatting’ to be any part of the Indian name I give you?”
His lips twitched and he nodded. “That would be an excellent assumption.”
Still smiling, Sarah Jane merely made a humming noise in her throat. The late evening sun poured out its pretty rays, spreading them in an orange, pink and purple display across the horizon. Rather than using the AC, she’d powered down her window, causing her loose hair to whirl around her face, occasionally clinging to her eyelashes and mouth. She’d abandoned the sunglasses and looked relaxed and content, at peace with her world.
Curiously, though he definitely wasn’t at peace with his world and raging attraction aside, he felt an odd kind of peace with her, specifically. He’d noticed it this afternoon after he’d returned from taking Mason home. It had just been the two of them in that old house, music playing from her portable radio, dust motes dancing through the hot summer air...
Despite her initial protestations, he’d set his camera aside and picked up a hammer and, for the first time since the Carson Wells incident, he’d felt more alive--more himself--than he had in months. Whether it was her company or the work or a combination of both, he couldn’t be sure.
He just knew that it had felt...right.
Though he hated that Mason was sick, it wouldn’t hurt Mick’s feelings in the least if the man didn’t show up for work tomorrow. Or even the next day. Or the next. Egocentric? Maybe. But he wan
ted selfishly wanted to explore this newfound well-being and he could hardly do that if Mason was there in his assistant capacity.
Furthermore, though it was the height of idiocy, he wanted to be alone with Sarah Jane. He wanted the opportunity to get to know her better, and not just in the physical sense, which was an ever-present goal hanging in the back of his head, chugging along his veins and swirling in his loins. His fingers literally itched to touch her skin, to feel the silken softness of her cheek against the palm of his hand, to taste her mouth and her neck and the delicate tips of her breasts.
Though he would like to blame this supernatural attraction on the fact that she was supposed to be off-limits--and even recognized that it no doubt added to her appeal on his hell-raiser level--Mick knew there was more to it than that. He was a man, after all, and was no stranger to his baser needs. He’d been attracted to lots of women before and frankly, had had most of them. He’d always been goal-oriented and, when he’d set his mind on something--or someone--he typically developed tunnel-vision until he’d accomplished his goal. That very focused tenacity had ultimately been his downfall, had ended his military career, Mick thought, swallowing.
At any rate, whatever this was with Sarah Jane--this unshakable, driving had-to-have-her need--he knew it was more than just regular old garden variety lust.
It was more.
It involved curiosity and intrigue and affection and God help him, feelings.
He couldn’t name them, of course, and wouldn’t if he could. But he couldn’t deny them all the same...which was going to make ignoring them all the more difficult.
Sarah Jane hung a left onto a long tree-lined drive--the very one he’d watched her disappear down yesterday evening--plunging the cab of the truck into cool semi-darkness. Mick peered out the window, but couldn’t see anything for all the trees.
Men Out of Uniform: 6 Book Omnibus Page 70
