Some Like It Hot

by Susan Andersen

  “Who’s Wade, and why on earth did he do that?”

  “Wade Nelson.” Tasha tipped her chin in the direction of the woman who’d jumped up. “He and Mindy were married once upon a time.”

  “But Wade has issues, and one day she finally had her fill of them and kicked him out,” Jenny said, picking up the story. “Eventually she and Curt Neff started going out, and a year or so later they got married. Wade refuses to accept that it’s over between him and his ex-wife.”

  The man was still loudly haranguing the ex-wife’s husband. “You’d think they’d be furious, but I don’t hear them saying anything to him in return.” She wanted to turn around to see, but her manners-count upbringing deemed it best not to gawk at them again.

  “They learned through hard experience that ignoring him is best all around,” Jenny said. “I don’t know if I could keep my mouth shut as well as they have, though. That has to be hard.”

  “Seriously hard. How long have they been doing it?”

  “Seven years.”

  An incredulous laugh escaped her. “Are you bamming me? They’ve been apart seven years and he still thinks—what?—that she’ll come back to him? When he acts like that?”

  “She and Curt have been married seven years,” the petite brunette corrected. “Mindy and Wade have been divorced damn near nine now. But you’ve got the basic idea right. He simply won’t admit she’s never coming back.”

  Sunlight flooded the front end of the bar for an instant as the door to the street opened; then the room regained its usual atmospheric dimness once again when it slowly closed behind the new arrival. A no-nonsense voice Harper would know anywhere said, “Let’s go, Wade.”

  Like a compass needle seeking true north, she swung around to watch Max Bradshaw stride up to the bar. He wore his usual uniform of knotted-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life black tie over a khaki shirt with shoulder epaulets. A gold-toned badge was pinned to his chest, and gold, black and green shield-shaped patches, each sporting a spread-winged eagle and the Razor Bay Sheriff’s Office designation, decorated his shirt’s sleeves above the hems that bisected the solid mounds of his biceps.

  His jeans, soft and worn almost white at the seams, might have seemed incongruous with the crisp professionalism of his upper torso if not for the black web utility belt that bristled with the tools of his trade—including a deadly-serious-looking gun. Or perhaps it was his no-nonsense, you-don’t-even-wanna-mess-with-me attitude that so efficiently negated any slacker-dude vibe the near-shabby jeans might have otherwise suggested.

  She watched him put a big hand on Wade’s shoulder—and shivered, remembering how crazy-aware she’d been of it hovering just above her own back when he’d escorted her to her cabin from the hot tub. “Let’s go,” he said again.

  Wade shook him off so abruptly that he himself staggered—then glared at Max as if it were his fault. “Why the hell don’t you take him in,” he demanded, jutting a petulant chin in Curt’s direction.

  Max reached out to steady him before the other man lost his balance entirely and replied evenly, “Because the call I got said Mindy and Curt were just sitting here minding their own business when you showed up and made a scene. Since I’ve been called out dozens of times to deal with this exact same situation, I have no reason to question the information.” He gave the other man a level look. “Now, you can come with me peaceably, or I can drag your ass out of here in cuffs. It’s your choice, Wade.”

  “Fine.” Tugging the neckline of his stained T-shirt away from his Adam’s apple, Wade twisted his chin, stretching it first to the left, then to the right. “Whatever.” And he shambled toward the door, with Max’s hand planted between his shoulder blades to guide him whenever he hesitated.

  At the door Max reached around Wade to pull it open. Sunshine splashed into the room again. Then the two men stepped out into the afternoon and disappeared from view as the door swung shut behind them.

  Blowing out a quiet breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding, Harper turned back to her companions. “I am simply amazed no one has snapped that man up.”

  “Who?” Jenny asked. She blinked then, and sat a little straighter. “Max?”

  “Yeah. Oh, I know he’s not the most sociable guy in the universe, but he’s big, he’s built, and God knows the man is competent at everything he does. I find that seriously sexy.” Seeing her new friends gaping at her, she stilled. “Come on. I can’t be the only woman in town who finds him attractive.”

  “Um...yeah, you kind of are,” Tasha said. Then she shook her head. “That is, he is an attractive man. He’s built like nobody’s business.”

  “And he’s got a killer smile,” Jenny contributed. “But he’s kind of stingy with it.”

  “And like you said,” the strawberry blonde concluded, “he’s not exactly Mister Social.”

  Jenny snorted agreement, and Tasha looked at Harper. “Max is just so sober and intense. Not to mention disinterested—and I guess between all of that, it scares women off. Because now that you mention it, I can’t say I’ve seen him with a particular woman since he came back to town.”

  Harper planted her chin on her fist. “For some reason Max and Razor Bay are linked in my mind. Where did he come back from?” It was all she could do not to squirm in her seat. For the first time since she’d taken over the job of assessing grant applicants for Sunday’s Child, she felt a hint of shame for pretending ignorance. God knows she’d thoroughly studied the foundation-generated dossiers on every Cedar Village board member.

  Still, she had a job to do. And much as it bothered her to be duplicitous with Tasha and Jenny, her friends would likely find it odd if she didn’t show an interest.

  “He spent years in the Marines—mostly in war-torn countries.” Tasha gave her head an impatient shake, her curls quivering with the motion. “But he’s been back for years, and as I said, I can’t think of a woman he’s ever paid special attention to. Not that I don’t see him talking to different ones occasionally, but it’s usually more like they’re talking to him and he’s mostly just listening. I don’t recall ever seeing him look as though he were with one of them, ya know?” She looked at Jenny. “Can you think of anyone?”

  “Nope. I can’t put him with anyone, either. Which is odd, when you think about it. Because I know he’s kind of a lone wolf and all, but there’s sure as hell nothing asexual about him.”

  “No shit,” Harper murmured.

  Jenny grinned at her. “Oh, good, you do swear.”

  She tilted her head slightly to study her friend. “And that’s a good thing?”

  “It’s not good or bad—well, unless you’re one of those high school boys who can’t seem to string a sentence together without saying some variation of fuck every other word. It’s just that most everybody does to some extent, but since we’ve met, you’ve just been so damn...perfect.”

  “I have not!”

  “Yeah, you kind of have,” Tasha said. “You have gorgeous manners, amazing posture—did you go through childhood balancing books on your head or something?—and you always dress exactly right for the occasion. Plus, you sound educated and—let’s face it—rich girl when you speak.”

  “Yes,” Jenny agreed. “For an American, your accent is not quite but very nearly British sounding.”

  She smiled. “Okay, I’ll cop to that one. Because we moved so much as kids, my brother, Kai, and I often had tutors. And when we did stay in one place long enough to go to a local school, as with our tutors, the English spoken and taught there leaned heavily toward the Queen’s version. I’ve been told I kind of retained the cadence, if not the actual accent.” She took a swig of her beer, then shook her head. “I’m nobody’s rich girl, though. My grandparents on my father’s side are quite well-to-do, and my dad did okay for himself as well, although he didn’t attain their income bracket. But me, personally? Not even close.”

  “Ah, but you’re talking to a couple of girls from the wrong side of the tracks,” Tas
ha said cheerfully. A man passing behind her bumped her chair, and she hopped it in a little closer to the table. “Well, Jenny actually started out on the right side, but circumstances dumped her in my part of town when she was sixteen.” She flashed Harper an easy whatta-ya-gonna-do smile. “So we’re easily impressed.”

  Her laid-back acceptance made Harper realize their assessment of her wasn’t a you’re-not-one-of-us judgment; it was simply a recitation of their impressions. She took a sip of her beer and leaned back in her chair. “I spent a good deal more time with adults than kids my own age growing up, so I suppose I don’t sound quite like your average American thirty-year-old. But I can start swearing up a storm if you want.”

  They both flashed her unrepentant grins, and she grinned right back.

  Then she sobered and gave them a curious look. “Razor Bay is small, and I haven’t seen an overabundance of hot guys our age in the short time I’ve been here. So, weren’t either of you ever even a little tempted by Max? I thought teenage girls were fascinated by the broody Heathcliff/Vampire Edward type.”

  “He wasn’t around when Tash and I were in high school, and when he did come home we were both way more interested in improving our futures. So the idea of him as potential dating material never even occurred to us in our impressionable years. Besides, I like guys who make me laugh,” Jenny said.

  Tasha nodded. “Same here. And Max just isn’t my type.”

  Harper studied her. “What is?”

  The strawberry blonde grinned. “I like ’em tall, charming and fun,” she said slowly. The words had no sooner left her lips, however, than her gray-blue eyes darkened as if a thick cloud had suddenly blown across the sun. And her mouth, with its exotically fuller-than-its-counterpart upper lip, tightened. She made an erasing motion. “No, I take that back—I’ve sworn off a type. I have awful taste in men.”

  “No, you don’t,” Jenny said firmly. “You had awful taste once. One time, Tash.”

  “Well, considering that one time landed my ass in a Bahamian jail,” Tasha retorted coolly, “I think it’s probably enough, don’t you?”

  Hello! Harper straightened. That sounded wildly intriguing. But one look at the rigid set of Tasha’s shoulders—not to mention the other woman’s blind-eyed attention to the wineglass in her hand—and Harper knew better than to pursue the conversational bomb that had just rolled onto the table between them. Not even the crystal green and blue waters of the canal at low tide were clearer than the vibe Tasha was putting out that she’d spoken unthinkingly—and this was not a subject she cared to discuss.

  So Harper gave the other woman a cocky smile to lighten the mood. “I guess this means my Hunky Deputy and The Handcuffs fantasy is all mine, then, yeah?”

  Her new friends laughed, and the tension that had hovered like a noxious mist over their table for a moment dissipated. “Oh, yeah.” Tasha gave her a lopsided smile. “Which is not to say I don’t wish you the best with it.”

  “Absolutely,” Jenny agreed. “And should it ever come true for you...well. We expect details.”

  “Lots and lots of details,” Tasha said. “Because Jenny’s right. Max is far from asexual, and I for one would love to know if he’s one of those tell-a-girl-exactly-what-he-wants-from-her-in-bed kind of guys.”

  Harper stilled. Oh, hell. Like her imagination wasn’t active enough.

  That was the last image she needed planted in her brain.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MAX STOOD IN front of the open refrigerator Saturday morning, absentmindedly scratching his stomach above the cutoffs he’d pulled on when he’d rolled out of bed. When it came to breakfast choices, there wasn’t a lot to select from. The fridge was empty except for a few cans of Coke, fewer bottles of Bud, a lonely, nearly gone quart of milk that might or might not still be drinkable and an assortment of condiments that ran heavily on the mustard and pepper sauce side.

  He could always throw on a shirt and some flip-flops and go to the Sunset Café to get himself a big plate of the Fisherman’s special, he supposed. And in truth, bacon and eggs and hash browns, with a side of toast and jam sounded awfully damn good right about now.

  But if he scrounged something up here, he could get an earlier start on the home improvement project he’d been planning for his next day off.

  Which was today.

  “Screw it.” He reached for the milk carton, inverted the fold to the pour position and sniffed. What the hell. It didn’t smell sour, exactly, so he kicked the fridge door shut and grabbed a bowl, a spoon and a box of Froot Loops from the cupboard. He carried everything over to the table, where he shoved aside a stack of unopened mail with the bottom of the milk carton, then unloaded the rest of his haul onto the tabletop. He turned back to give the coffeemaker, sitting cold and silent on the counter, a considering look. Then with a shrug, he returned to the fridge to grab himself a can of Coke. “Breakfast of champions.”

  He popped the tab on his way back to the table. As he took a long gulp, he hooked a bare foot beneath the stretcher separating the chair’s back legs to tow it away from the table. Taking his seat, he poured cereal in the bowl, topped it off with milk, then picked up his spoon and dug in.

  He ate fast, and as soon as he scraped up a lone Froot Loop and the last of the milk from his bowl, he climbed to his feet again. Taking everything back to the kitchen, he poured the little bit of milk still left in the carton down the drain and dumped the empty container, along with his bowl, spoon and can, into the sink to deal with later. Then he located an old pair of beat-up running shoes, shoved his feet into them and went out to the garage to gather his ladder and tools. He didn’t want to spend his entire day off working, so the sooner he got started, the sooner he could get in a little beach time.

  He worked steadily and had just finished applying a peroxide-based cleaner to the last of the cedar shakes on the north side of his house and was up on the ladder scraping mildew out of the grooves of the affected shingles when he heard car tires crunching up the drive. Curious, he tossed the scraper onto the ladder’s shelf, jumped to the ground and strode toward the corner nearest the driveway. He didn’t get much in the way of company.

  Or, okay, any as a rule.

  Rounding the corner, he was in time to see his half brother climbing out of his fancy-ass Benz BlueTEC. Pleasure splintered through him, a recent sensation that caught him by surprise every time he saw Jake.

  He gave himself a shake. It was hardly an oddity that he was not yet accustomed to the new direction their relationship had taken. God knew they’d spent a helluva lot more time being enemies than friends.

  “Hey,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I figured the only way I’d ever get to see your place was to invite myself.” Pulling his sunglasses down his nose, Jake gave him an unhurried once-over. “You’ve sure as shit never issued one.”

  “Yeah.” Max rolled his shoulders guiltily. “Sorry about that. Most of the group I used to run with were either gone or on the wrong side of the law when I got back to town, so I guess I’m out of the habit of inviting people to drop by.”

  “Jesus, dude, don’t you have any friends?”

  “I have friends,” he said defensively. “Most of them are marines, though, so we’re scattered all over the place. But I have a couple of guys I shoot pool with at The Anchor or share an occasional beer with around town.” But, okay, didn’t really see otherwise.

  Then he went on the offensive, since everyone knew that was the best defense. “And what the hell, Jake—you’re one to talk. I haven’t exactly seen you overrun with buddies, yourself.”

  Jake grunted and shoved his shades back up. “Gotta point.” He turned away to check out Max’s place.

  Max would’ve sworn he wasn’t a jumpy kind of guy. But when Jake took his sweet time surveying the house and its surrounding land, he found himself damn near twitching by the time his brother finally turned back.

  Jake gave him an imperturbable look. “This i
s moderately cool.”

  “It’s hella cool,” Max corrected but then grinned. Because given the way they insulted each other on a regular basis, in Jake-speak “moderately cool” was a downright endorsement. It was pretty lame to be so thrilled by his brother’s approval, but even in his wildest, what-kinda-trouble-can-I-get-into-now days, he’d never tried to lie to himself.

  And that meant he had to acknowledge he pretty much was...well, maybe not thrilled, exactly, since that was for little kids and chicks. But pleased.

  It struck him that he no longer thought of Jake as his half sibling—the guy was finally, simply, his brother in his mind. And, yeah, he was pleased that Jake liked his place. So sue him.

  He’d stick a needle in his eye before he’d admit as much out loud—especially to Jake—but what he’d long wanted more than anything else in the world was a guy version of the white-picket-fence life. Right down to a loving wife who would put him first. Because that...well. That was something he could only imagine.

  He’d never come first in anyone’s life.

  And he’d like kids, too, one day. He would never do what his father had—he’d sacrifice his right testicle before he’d cheat on his wife or abandon any kid of his.

  Not that his lofty principles were of immediate concern, he acknowledged wryly, seeing as he was nowhere near attaining that dream—and didn’t know if he ever would. A guy had to actually put himself out there to meet women. But he had this house. It was a first step. And, hell, maybe he’d take that second step one of these days as well, and head into Silverdale some Saturday night to spend a couple of hours at The Voodoo Lounge. He liked to dance, and it was a decent place to meet like-minded women.

  And even if he didn’t meet The One, at worst he might get laid. He sure as hell wouldn’t mind that.

  It had been a while.

  He merely shrugged now, however, and got his head back in the conversation. They’d been talking about his house, not his less-than-titillating sex life. “I’ve been working on it. The place was a train wreck when I bought it, but she’s got excellent bones and someday I think she’ll be a beauty.”