Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.)

by Dixie Browning; Sheri Whitefeather

  Ma’am? “I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Ben Hunter. You ready to tackle the last stretch?”

  Maggie looked at the last stretch of badly graveled path. “I guess.” She was readier for that than she was for her first art lesson. The brochure had described the scenic splendor, which they’d probably be asked to paint. She glanced suspiciously at the misty mountains, the dense forest and the blooming rhododendron. No big deal, she told herself with faux bravado. Splash of blue, splash of green, maybe a streak of pink, and she’d call whatever she created abstract. Who could argue with that? Art was in the eye of the beholder, hadn’t somebody famous said that?

  Looking ahead, she sized up the group on the porch as she panted up the last few yards. She wasn’t particularly surprised to see mostly women. The trouble was, most of them appeared to be middle–aged or older. The only one who looked anywhere near Maggie’s age was the blonde in the bandanna bra, but she’d be perfect as bait if Maggie could convince her to cooperate.

  It would all work out somehow, she assured herself. She would make it work. Mary Rose might be as gullible as a newborn calf, but Maggie wasn’t about to be taken in by any smooth-talking leech with turquoise eyes, sensitive hands and a line that would gag an alligator.

  Or by a cowboy with whiskey-colored eyes, come to that.

  “You okay?” the whiskey-eyed cowboy asked. He paused to wait for her near the rusty wrought iron gate that was half-buried under a jungle of trumpet vine and honeysuckle.

  To avoid looking directly at him, Maggie stared up at the house, which appeared to be somewhat shabby up close. “I’m fine,” she assured him just as her foot slipped on the gravel.

  She staggered, flailed her arms, dropped her toilet kit and managed to regain her balance before tall, dark and devastating could lay a hand on her. When it came to recoveries, she’d had plenty of practice. Graceful, she wasn’t.

  “It’s this darned gravel,” she complained. Hopping on her right foot, she ran a finger between her left shoe and her bare foot to dislodge whatever had stuck there.

  “Here, let me help,” Ben Hunter said, and before she could stop him, he took her foot in his hand and eased a finger between her sole and the platform. “Got it,” he said, brushing out a bit of pea gravel.

  Clinging to the vine-covered gate for balance, Maggie thought, talk about getting off on the wrong foot!

  Before she could catch her breath to thank him, he picked up her bags and set out again, leaving her to follow…or not. She watched as he climbed the steps, strode across to the front door and disappeared inside the house with her luggage.

  “Who put a burr under your saddle?” she muttered. He’d been the one to offer his help, she hadn’t asked him to grab her ankle and run his hands all over her bare foot.

  Nice going, Maggie. You really made a terrific first impression.

  Scowling, Ben dumped the bags just inside the door, hooked his thumbs in his hip pockets and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior light. Where the devil had he parked his brain? Now he had to make another trip down the hill to retrieve the gear he’d left on the ground beside his truck.

  Silly woman. High heels were one thing—Ben appreciated a sexy shoe and a well-turned ankle as much as the next guy—but a woman who had no better sense than to wear something like that on her feet, well, you had to wonder about her, that’s all.

  He looked around for whoever was in charge of this tea party. Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all. He’d done his share of undercover work—been damned good at it, too. That is, he had until he’d stumbled across evidence that not only were more than half the cops on the force crooked as a corkscrew, the rot went all the way up to the mayor’s office—possibly even as far up as Austin. Sick at heart, but not particularly eager to be a dead hero, he’d reported his findings along with documentation to the proper authorities and turned in his badge.

  That was when things had started falling apart, including his relationship with the woman he’d been seeing for nearly a year. Not that it had been serious on either side, but they’d been well matched in bed, and Leah hadn’t seemed to mind his being a cop.

  Then, as if all that weren’t enough, he’d had a call from his grandmother, back east. He hadn’t seen her in years, but he tried to call a couple of times a month and always wired flowers for her birthday and holidays.

  “Benny, I think I might have made a mistake,” she’d confided. That’s when he’d learned that she’d been bilked out of her savings by some eel posing as an artist who had talked her into “investing” in a bunch of overpriced prints, swearing that within five years they would easily triple in value.

  At least, that was Ben’s interpretation of what Miss Emma had told him. Personally, he didn’t know bad art from good art, but he knew what he liked. What he didn’t like was any creep who preyed on retirees, especially women. And from what he’d been able to find out, this guy Silver had all the earmarks. In his thirteen-year career as a lawman Ben Hunter had nailed any number of scam artists. He figured that even though he no longer wore a badge, he might as well make it one more for good measure.

  He had yet to meet this Silver guy, but he’d studied the picture on the brochure. Big, toothy smile, French headgear, probably to cover a bad comb-over—and a “Trust me” expression.

  Oh, yeah, Ben trusted him, all right. About the length of his own shadow, no farther.

  There was a string of awards listed on the inside of the three-fold brochure, but who was to say the guy hadn’t made them up? The Better Business Bureau didn’t have time to check up on every hit-and-run operator.

  Standing there in the front hall getting his bearings, his thoughts wandered back to the blonde—not the one with the dark roots and the skimpy red top he’d seen out on the porch, but the other one. Miss Independent in the dumb shoes. Shaggy, dark blond hair, thick, pale lashes and a pair of hazel eyes that kept zapping out messages he interpreted as, “Back off, buddy.”

  If he was smart, that was a message he’d do well to heed.

  Two

  If Ben Hunter was an artist, then she had chosen the wrong career, Maggie thought as she signed the roster in the front hall, chose which blanks to fill in and which to leave blank. She picked up her luggage where he’d left it and followed the blonde she had noticed earlier to the room they had both been assigned.

  “Oh, my, is this it?”

  “Cozy might be an understatement.” Suzy James indicated one of three cots in the cramped room off the kitchen. “This one’s mine. You might as well take your pick. Whoever we’re supposed to share with hasn’t shown up yet.”

  Maggie stacked her luggage beside the cot nearest the small window. Dismayed, she looked around.

  “Real bedrooms and bath are on the second floor, but those rooms are all taken. I must’ve been one of the last to sign up.”

  “Me, too,” Maggie admitted, wondering if even the best of intentions was worth a week in this claustrophobic environment. Mary Rose, you owe me, big time.

  While Suzy James perched on the end of her cot and watched, making occasional comments, Maggie unlatched her suitcase and looked for a place to hang the dresses she’d brought.

  “Is this your first workshop?”

  Warily, Maggie laid aside the flowered sun hat she’d just taken out of her suitcase. The crown had been filled with her underwear. “Um…is that a problem? I’m probably not what you’d call experienced.”

  “Hey, we’re here to learn, right?” Suzy stretched her arms over her head. She had the kind of figure Maggie had given up on achieving when she’d reached her twentieth birthday still wearing a size thirty-two A cup bra—that is, when she wore one at all.

  Maggie got out a few packages of the snack food she’d brought along for emergencies and stacked them at one end of the shelf that served as a dressing table. “Help yourself,” she offered. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, mealwise.”

  “Sure, thanks. Um�
�who’s your cowboy?”

  “My cowboy?”

  “Long drink of water with the shoulders and those bedroom eyes. Did y’all come together? I noticed he toted your stuff up the hill.”

  “We just happened to pull into the parking lot at the same time.” Maggie could feel her cheeks growing warm. Her cowboy, indeed. Don’t I wish! “All I know is he said his name was Ben Hunter.”

  At least that was all she knew other than the fact that he had a way of moving that could melt the tires on a tractor-trailer. More than once, following him up the path to the house, she had nearly tripped because instead of watching where she was going, she’d been watching the way he moved.

  She happened to know he had the kind of voice that resonated in places that sound was not supposed to affect. She also knew she’d do well to keep her mind on her mission and not allow herself to be distracted.

  “Have you met Perry Silver yet?” she asked. Seeing no sign of a closet, she folded the dress she’d been holding back into her suitcase. Considering what this week was costing her, was it too much to expect a few coat hangers and maybe a nail or two on the wall?

  “Not yet. They say he usually comes in late so he can make this grand entrance.”

  “Then I guess we’ll know when he gets here.” Maggie had taken to thinking of him as Perry the Paragon after hearing Mary Rose carry on about everything from the length of his eyelashes to the shape of his fingernails.

  Stepping into the adjoining half bath, she set out her toilet articles and then washed her hands. “What now?” she asked, drying off on the towel she’d brought from home.

  “We go back out and mingle, I guess. Dibs on the cowboy if you don’t want him.”

  “Help yourself.” Maggie had an idea the cowboy would have something to say about that. Besides, she would much rather Suzy James drew a bead on Perry Silver.

  That might have to wait, though. First she needed to explain about Mary Rose and how she was hoping to catch Silver making a play for some other woman, using the same tired old line, so that her friend might wake up before it was too late. Maggie wasn’t a meddler, but it was hardly meddling, she rationalized, to expose the truth to spare a friend from future heartbreak.

  A dozen or so people had gathered on the deep porch that surrounded three sides of the house. Maggie had intended to join them, but Suzy nodded to the roster where everyone was supposed to sign in and list a few vital statistics. Maggie had put down Clemmons as her hometown and journalist as her occupation. Suzy had listed East Bend and student. Most of the others had put down Retired under occupation.

  Ben Hunter had evidently signed in while she’d been unpacking. He’d given Texas as his home address and security as his occupation. “Not real free with details, is he?” Maggie murmured.

  “Security,” Suzy said thoughtfully. “Wonder what kind of security. Maybe border patrol. He doesn’t say where in Texas, but it could be near the border.”

  “Probably a security guard at a shopping mall,” Maggie retorted. She didn’t think so, though. He hadn’t developed that sexy, loose-limbed walk pounding the terrazzo in some fancy-schmancy shopper’s heaven. If she didn’t watch out, he was going to prove a major distraction.

  “Are you really a journalist?” Suzy indicated Maggie’s entry on the roster.

  “Well…sort of. That is, I write a weekly column.”

  “Oh, wow, that must be exciting. Which paper, the Journal Sentinel?”

  Maggie hated to name the small weekly rag she actually worked for, but she was nothing if not honest. “Just the Suburban Record so far. I write the ‘Ask Miss Maggie’ column.” She waited to see if Suzy had ever heard of it. “You wouldn’t believe some of the letters I get.”

  “No kidding? So tell me…” Her voice trailed off as she looked over Maggie’s shoulder.

  Maggie turned to find herself ensnared by a pair of honey-brown eyes. Ben Hunter said, “I see you’re still wearing those shoes.”

  “I see you’re still wearing those cowboy boots. They must have rubber soles, the way you sneak up on people.” She closed her eyes and muttered, “Sorry. That was rude.”

  “It’s kind of noisy in here.” Evidently he hadn’t taken offense. “You might want to wear something a little more sensible when you go outside. Not much level ground around here, and what there is is rocky.”

  Maggie’s eyes flashed a warning. She had heard similar warnings all her life. Don’t climb up on that table, Margaret Lee. Don’t run up the stairs! Watch your step, sugar—oops!

  Her entire life had been filled with “oopses,” but that didn’t mean she was going to change the way she dressed just because some whiskey-eyed cowboy didn’t like her style.

  Suzy looked from one to the other like a spectator at a tennis match. “Hey, I’m wearing flip-flops,” she said brightly.

  Both Ben and Maggie ignored her. Maggie tried to come up with a smart comeback, but before she could think of anything really clever, Ben turned away to join a group of senior citizens.

  One of whom, Maggie noticed with interest, wore her pink hair in a single braid along with gold ear hoops, black tights, a peasant blouse and cross-trainers. “Now there,” she said softly to Suzy, “is my idea of what an artist should look like.”

  So saying, she turned, tripped over a pair of big feet and flung out her arms. The elderly gentleman whose feet had been in her way said, “Steady there, little lady.”

  Smiling weakly, Maggie didn’t bother to tell him she was a congenital tripper. Everything from potholes to campaign posters. If she’d heard the words, “Look where you’re going” once, she’d heard them a million times. Once she’d even skidded on grains of rice while she was backing up to take a picture and landed on her keester in front of an entire wedding party. Graceful, she wasn’t, but after twenty-seven years she had learned to live with her shortcomings.

  What was it with women and their crazy shoes? Ben wondered as he edged through the crowd, sizing up the likely candidates for Silver’s pitch. He’d seen women dance all night on ice-pick heels and then limp for days. Somebody should’ve warned her that on anything rougher than a dance floor, stability was more important than style.

  On impulse, he worked his way past a gaggle of gray-heads until he was standing behind her again. Leaning over, he said softly, “You ready to rumble?”

  Startled, Maggie Riley spun around. He grinned. “Ready to commit art, that is.”

  “That’s what I came here for,” she said defensively.

  “Right. Me, too.”

  The way she looked him over, from the toe of his good-luck boots to the scar on his chin, compliments of a dirtbag armed with a beer bottle, Ben got the idea she was somewhat skeptical about his artistic abilities.

  Smart lady. Granted, he was working at a slight disadvantage here, but having once gone undercover with a ring of transvestites who were drugging and robbing businessmen at a restaurateur’s convention, he’d considered playing the role of an art student a cinch.

  Besides, under the mattress of the room he was sharing with a retired biology teacher was a newly purchased book entitled Watercolor Painting in Ten Easy Lessons. He intended to have at least one of those lessons under his belt by the time the first class was called to order.

  “I heard somebody say the maestro’s supposed to be here for supper,” Suzy James whispered as they found a small table with their names on it a few hours later. “Oh, hell, they’ve put us right next to the kitchen again. Who do they think I am, Cinderella?”

  “At least the food should be hotter.” Maggie glanced around the dining room. She made a point of not looking at Ben Hunter, but evidently she wasn’t fooling anyone.

  Suzy said soulfully, “Is that prime stuff, or what?”

  Maggie shrugged. “Good-looking men are always so vain.” As if she had firsthand experience. On a scale of one to ten, she was about a four. The best she could hope for was another four—at most, a five.

  “So he likes mirrors. I
can live with that. I’m not into kinky, understand, but a few mirrors are okay, right?”

  Just then there was a stir out in the hall. Both women glanced up expectantly. Suzy whispered, “They say Perry always makes this grand entrance, like, ‘Tah-dah, here I am, folks, in all my glory!’”

  “You don’t sound too impressed. Why’d you sign up for his workshop?”

  “Because it was either that or spend another summer working for Daddy in his lumberyard. He’s been trying for years to get me interested in taking over the office, but I ask you—a lumberyard?”

  “I know what you mean. My father sells insurance and I’m his only offspring. I’m not about to follow in his footsteps, though.” Not that he’d ever asked her to.

  “I guess not, when you’re already a journalist.”

  “A columnist,” Maggie said modestly. Her gaze strayed again to the other side of the dining room, where tall, dark and delicious was frowning. And wouldn’t you know it? The man even had a gorgeous frown. Move over, Hugh Jackman. Not for the first time, Maggie told herself that Ben Hunter could easily become a major distraction if she allowed herself to be distracted.

  Service was slow. Maggie said, “After seeing the rest of the accommodations I’m surprised we weren’t asked to serve ourselves.”

  “That starts tomorrow. First night’s supposed to be special because not everyone gets here in time to pitch in. Didn’t you read the fine print in the brochure?”

  Maggie had a tendency to skim over fine print. Besides, she’d been too busy studying the picture of Perry the Silver-plated Paragon. “Only enough to know that one week cost an arm and a leg, and you have to bring your own art supplies and linens.”

  A grim-faced woman slapped two cups of coffee onto the table. Maggie had wanted iced tea, but she wasn’t about to make waves, not on the first night.

  Suzy murmured, “Judging from the stir out in the hall, I think you-know-who’s about to make his entrance. If you’ve never seen him before, don’t be taken in by his looks.”