Love Me Sweet (A Bell Harbor Novel)

by Brogan, Tracy

  In the last four weeks, Delaney’s name had become every late-night comedian’s favorite punch line.

  Melody’s voice over the phone was determined and calm. “We can sue him, Lane. The lawyers are looking into it. Tony thinks we have a strong case.”

  “No!” Delaney gasped. She opened a drawer, looking for a corkscrew. That wine wasn’t going to open itself. “I don’t want Tony the lawyer looking into it. I don’t want to go to court. That will only keep this in the news that much longer.”

  “So you’re just going to do nothing but sit on your ass inside some igloo in Michigan? That’s crazy.”

  “No, I’m not just sitting on my ass. I’ve decided to use this time to better myself.”

  “Better yourself?” If disbelief had a ringtone, it sounded just like that.

  Delaney’s jaw tightened. “Yes, I had a lot of time to think about things while I was driving across the country, and I realized I don’t know how to do much other than accessorize. So, if I’m going to have all this time to myself, I should make the most of it, maybe try to develop some skills that are outside of my comfort zone.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, for starters, I’m learning how to knit.”

  Melody’s burst of laughter was not encouraging. “Knitting? That’s outside your comfort zone, you crazy risk taker?”

  “Shut up. You’re missing my point. I just want to try some new things, and maybe find a way to offer something useful and tangible to the world. I found a place online where I can donate knitted baby hats for newborns.”

  Delaney could have run a 5K in the time it took for her sister to respond.

  “You’re knitting . . . baby hats?”

  “Yes.”

  “Girl, you have lost your frickin’ mind. I’m calling Mom’s psychiatrist.”

  “I haven’t lost my mind. Maybe I’ve finally found it, and now I understand that I should be doing something to contribute to the greater good.”

  Her sister’s laughter turned into a sniff of impatience. “OK, then. How about you contribute to the greater good of our family and come home? We need you here. You’re the best one on the show.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Of course I’m not the best one.” Was she? The best one?

  “Yes you are, Lane. You’re the funniest and we need you or the ratings will tank.”

  “Did Mom tell you to say that?” Delaney loved her parents, but emotional manipulation was Ginsu sharp at the Masterson household, and this television show had brought out their most desperate qualities. Everyone but her seemed determined to stake their claim in the public’s consciousness.

  “No, she didn’t,” Melody answered. “This is coming from me. So just think about that, OK? This isn’t just about you. It’s about the whole family.”

  The whole family? Really? How had things turned so topsy-turvy that the whole family was relying on her? The ditzy baby of the family? The one with the sex tape? Her father was Jesse Masterson, eighties pop icon with three platinum records to his name. Her mother was Nicole Westgate, a Victoria’s Secret model turned luxury-soap maker, and Delaney’s sisters were both better looking and far more stylish than she was. They didn’t need her to make Pop Rocks a successful show. She just wanted to go back to being anonymous. But she had signed a contract. Her failure to show up for filming could impact them all.

  She pulled open another drawer. Corkscrew. Corkscrew. Please let there be a corkscrew.

  “OK, I’ll keep that in mind, Mel. But in the meantime, promise not to tell anyone where I am? Please? I need this time.”

  Melody’s sigh was emphatic. “Fine. And for what it’s worth, if I see Boyd Hampton on the street, I’m going kick him in the groin so hard his nuts pop out of his nostrils.”

  Delaney’s laughter was loud inside the diminutive kitchen. She’d needed that laugh. “Please do, and then ask him why the hell he did this to me after all this time. I haven’t seen him in five years.”

  “Well, that’s no mystery. He did it because your fame is exploding. He wants his slice of your fifteen minutes, and the tabloids probably offered him a ridiculous amount of money for that tape. But you know, if you went on TV, you could ask him yourself. I’m sure he’ll be watching.”

  Delaney yanked open the final drawer. Yes! A corkscrew. “Nice try, Mel. I’m not going to talk about this in public. Ever. Not ever in the whole future of everness.” She could not feel more decisive about anything in her life. And she needed to end this phone call, because opening the wine required both hands. “Listen, I really do have to go because my landlord is upstairs fixing the shower and I want to go see what’s taking him so long. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

  They said their final good-byes and Delaney poured herself a glass of merlot—into a jelly jar, because that’s what she’d found in the cupboard. Sometimes function was more important than style.

  Upstairs, the water continued to run and Carl had begun to sing. Loudly. Well, actually sing was kind of a strong word. Caterwauling was more accurate. Like he was trying to wash a wounded pelican down the drain. An unpleasant sound. How long did it take to swap out a faulty showerhead, anyway? She splashed a little more wine into her jelly jar and brought it with her to the stairs.

  A sock lay on the first step. Another one five steps higher. Carl certainly had made himself at home. At the top of the creaky steps was a heap of something beige that most definitely had not been there when she’d left. She picked it up, careful not to spill wine on it.

  It was a sweater, one of those thick cable-knit sweaters that only fishermen wore. A queasy sort of churning started low in her gut. Something here wasn’t right. She dropped the sweater back onto the shag carpet and took another few steps, pausing outside the bathroom.

  The shower ran. Carl caterwauled.

  But . . . the caterwauling . . . gurgled. And the water didn’t sound as if it was spraying right down the drain. It sounded . . . like . . . like splashing.

  Splashing?

  Delaney put her hand on the wooden door and gave it a nudge. It opened a few inches and bumped up against something heavy. She nudged harder and spied a big black duffel bag sitting on the floor. With a final shove, the door flew open. And so did her mouth.

  She hadn’t meant to scream so loud.

  Heck, she hadn’t meant to scream at all, but that crazy old dude wasn’t fixing her shower. That crazy old dude was in her shower! What the hell? The jelly jar slipped from her shocked fingers and shattered against the black-and-white tile floor, splintering into a thousand sparkly fragments. Wine spewed. Her scream echoed off the baby-blue walls, then so did his.

  He yelled back, in obvious surprise, and flailed around behind the frosted glass, arms reaching, body twisting.

  Delaney snatched up her pink blow-dryer from the counter and pointed it like a gun. The shower door flew open with a clang of glass and metal. And there stood a man.

  A totally naked, totally shocked man.

  Brandishing a loofah on a stick.

  “What the hell?” he shouted. “Who are you?”

  “Who am I?” she screeched. “Who do you think I am, you crazy fuck? What the hell are you doing in my shower?”

  Her pulse beat like bongos, erratic and hollow. He was a big guy. A big naked guy, muscular and dripping wet. Her eyes dropped down. She couldn’t help it.

  Carl was not at all what she expected. Donna Beckett must have a whole lotta something fabulous hiding under that manatee sweatshirt because this guy was hot. And half Donna’s age.

  “Hey!” he shouted, following her gaze. He dropped the loofah and grabbed a paperback novel from the top of the toilet tank. He opened it and covered himself. Sudsy water ran down his arm. “Who are you?”

  “I’m De . . . Elaine. Elaine Masters.” Her cheeks burned hot, and not from the steam he’d built up in tha
t shower. She forced her eyes back to his. “I’m your tenant.”

  “My . . . my what?” He brushed a bubble of shampoo away from his hazel eyes with a nicely muscled forearm.

  “I moved in a few days ago. Didn’t Donna tell you?”

  He was staring at her as if she were a rabid dog in need of outmaneuvering, but at the mention of Donna’s name, a look of subtle comprehension seemed to pass over him. “Donna rented this place to you?”

  “Yes.”

  Crazy Naked Man had the nerve to offer up a chuckle and a hint of lazy smile. He swiped more water away from his face with one hand while holding the book firmly in place with the other. That was her book. She’d just about gotten to the good part and now the pages were drenched and pressed up against his . . . hiccup.

  “OK, sweetheart, we seem to have a little situation here,” Naked Man said, “but let me finish this shower, and as soon as I’m dried off we can straighten everything out, OK? Put the blow-dryer down before you electrocute us both.”

  Sweetheart? Her ire officially surpassed her surprise and she forgot about her ruined book. “Don’t you OK sweetheart me, you jackass. Get out now or I call the police.” That was a lie. She couldn’t call the police. If she did, her name would be front and center in the news again. Not to mention that little matter of a fraudulent signature on her lease. But he didn’t need to know that.

  “I’m soapy,” he said impatiently, as if that should explain everything.

  She waved the blow-dryer, aiming at his chest. That very fine chest. “I don’t care if you’re Dopey, Sneezy, and Doc. Your wife rented this place to me and you need to get out of my shower.”

  She thought there might be dimples under that scruffy facial hair. Hard to tell, though, because that little bit of smirk was now gone.

  “Donna’s not my wife. She’s my mother. And this house isn’t hers to rent. It’s mine.”

  Eight thousand miles. That’s how far Grant had traveled to get to this shower.

  Seventy-two hours ago he’d been in the hot, sticky jungle having an even hotter, stickier argument with Blake Rockstone—his idiot boss who was none too happy to hear that his coproducer and director of photography was quitting in the middle of a shoot, but maybe Blake should have thought of that before stealing Grant’s girl. The fight ended in a stalemate with Blake threatening to sue him for breach of contract. Too bad Grant couldn’t countersue Blake just for being a douche bag.

  After that, Grant had boarded a rickety plane of questionable flight-preparedness in Pampanga, and spent the next horrendous twenty-four hours sardined between two Japanese businessmen, one who snored and drooled like a Saint Bernard, and one who wanted to rest his bald head on Grant’s shoulder.

  Twelve hours ago he’d landed in Chicago only to discover his flight to Bell Harbor was canceled because of a blizzard. He managed to score a ride home with a church group generous enough to offer him a spot on their school bus, and spent the final leg of his journey being Saved. So right about now, all he wanted was a long, hot shower and a long, deep sleep.

  Meaning that whoever this pissed-off brunette was, whatever deal she’d arranged with his flaky mother, they could talk about it after he’d scrubbed the jungle from his skin and rinsed the shampoo from his hair.

  “What do you mean it belongs to you? It can’t belong to you. I just rented it,” said the girl, aiming that pink blow-dryer right at his heart.

  If he wasn’t so damn exhausted, he might find that funny. She was holding the thing as if it would protect her. It was a blow-dryer! He nodded at it. “What do you plan to do with that thing, honey? Style me to death?”

  “That’s it. I’m calling the police.” She took a step backward, one foot landing in the hallway.

  “Wait! Wait. Just wait a second.” The knot of tension he’d carried for days, which had only just begun to wear away, came back with a blunt blow to the sternum. That’s all he needed. The police showing up here before his family even knew he was home. He’d meant to call ahead, but he’d kind of wanted to surprise them. Plus phone reception being what it was over the Pacific Ocean, he hadn’t bothered to try. All things considered, that may have been an oversight on his part. “Please let me rinse off, OK? Calling the cops will just waste everybody’s time, and if Mickey Pinkerton is still the sheriff, he won’t make it out here until Tuesday anyway.”

  “Then I’m calling your mother.”

  “No!” His voice came out in a burst and the girl’s big blue eyes went bigger still. “Look, please, don’t call my mother. Just. Wait. OK? I’m at a serious disadvantage here, don’t you think? So if you could demonstrate just a little bit of patience, I’d really appreciate that. No one in my family told me they’d rented my house. I thought my brother was living here.”

  “That’s pretty hard to believe.” She backed up farther as if preparing to bolt.

  “I’ve been out of the country. And my mother is . . . unreliable.” That was the nicest way he could think of to say his mother was a walking disaster in a polyester tracksuit. She was unpredictable, shortsighted, and lacked both impulse control and problem-solving skills. He loved her, of course. She was still his mother, but he’d figured out it was a lot easier to love her if he hardly ever saw her.

  The brunette looked him up and down once more, her perusal so thorough he felt partially vulnerable and partially turned on. He might have sucked in his gut just then, when her bright gaze slipped over it. She was cute, and she was blushing. He hadn’t seen a woman blush in a very long time. The paperback in his hand twitched and he pressed it against himself a little more firmly. This would be an inopportune moment for an erection.

  She set the blow-dryer down on the white countertop and crossed her arms. “What’s your name?”

  “Grant.”

  Her chin tilted. “Grant what?”

  “Grant Connelly.”

  “Ah-hah!” She scooped up the blow-dryer with both hands and pointed it at his chest again. “That’s not my landlady’s last name! Who are you really?” she demanded. Her face scrunched up in what he could only assume was her meanest expression, but it wasn’t remotely effective. She had the face of a homecoming queen, all sparkly eyed and rosy cheeked. In those tight jeans and big red sweater, and the bouncy ponytail on the top of her head, she was about as menacing as a ladybug.

  He shook his head, once, slowly. “She got remarried. Donna Beckett is my mother’s name. Is that who you rented this house from?”

  The woman paused. Her doubtful expression fell away and she set down the blow-dryer again, gently, with a slight air of embarrassment. “Yes.”

  The surge of adrenaline he’d felt at her entrance burned away, and now Grant was more fatigued than ever. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since finding out about Miranda and Blake, and the last few days of travel had been hell in a bucket. He just wanted to dry off and find a bed. “OK, so can I please finish this shower and talk to you when I have some clothes on?”

  She paused, looking skeptical once more.

  Her gaze slid back to his groin.

  “You’ve ruined my book.” She pressed a thumbnail against her lip, and he silently reminded himself that flaunting his physical state of interest would probably not work in his favor at the moment. But he couldn’t resist. If she was going to keep staring, he’d give her something to look at.

  “This book?” He lifted it chest high and smiled as both of her hands slapped over her eyes with a smack so loud the sound bounced off the walls of the bathroom.

  “Oh my gosh, yes, that book. Never mind. Put it back. Put it back.” She turned away and waved a hand at him, refusing to look.

  Wow. She was a homecoming queen. She would’ve fit right in on that church bus he’d come home on. He looked at the soaking-wet paperback. The cover had a bare-chested man holding up a great big sword. Nothing phallic about that. “The Chieftain?
Hmm, looks racy. Don’t worry. It’ll dry.”

  She gave a single shake of her head. “Trust me. It’s ruined. So . . . I guess . . . I guess I’ll just wait for you in the kitchen. But if you’re not downstairs in ten minutes, I’m calling your mother. And the police.”

  Chapter 3

  DELANEY HEARD HIS FOOTSTEPS ON the stairs a full twenty minutes later. She’d picked up the phone five times to call Donna Beckett since leaving that bathroom, but she hadn’t because he’d asked her not to. She was polite that way, plus she was still hoping to settle this situation calmly and quietly. The fewer people involved in her business, the better. Sure, this guy could be a prison escapee, a drug dealing, car thieving ax murderer, or some kind of deranged sociopath—or all of the above—but his story seemed plausible enough, and he didn’t really look like a deranged sociopath. Not that she had much experience in the deranged sociopath department. Then again, maybe she did. She had grown up in Beverly Hills, after all.

  He came around the corner of the living room dressed in well-worn jeans and a white T-shirt. A swirly tattoo of initials was dark against his bicep. She’d missed seeing that when he was in the shower, what with all his other manly business capturing her attention.

  “Took you long enough,” she said.

  “I had to clean up all the glass. Apparently somebody dropped something in the bathroom.” Without glancing her way, he paused near the thermostat to adjust the dial.

  “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” She picked up the phone again. Maybe she would call his mother.

  Now he looked at her. In this light his eyes weren’t so much hazel as they were green, but either way, they were trained on her, and she wished they weren’t.