Hot Mail

by Maynard, Janice

  He needed a script for this most treacherous of conversations—call it backup, if you will. Maybe he’d find inspiration in the shower.

  Jane waited until she heard the bathroom door close before she started to breathe normally. She’d awakened minutes before Ethan and was aware of his every move. Moments ago he had slipped from the bed, retrieved clothes from the bureau and closet, and left the bedroom.

  The still-aroused, sexual Jane was deeply disappointed that her newfound lover had made no move to drag her to his side of the bed and have his wicked way with her.

  But the practical Jane squashed all feelings of letdown. Ethan had a job to do, and besides, a man and woman couldn’t spend a full twenty-four hours in bed. Not that she wouldn’t mind testing that hypothesis.

  When the bathroom door opened, letting out a waft of man-scented steam, Jane froze again. Ethan’s shower had been quick. Really quick. He tiptoed silently through the bedroom and out into the hall, presumably on his way to the kitchen for breakfast.

  When the coast was clear, she rolled out of bed with a wince. Odd muscle aches in strange places made her smile. She didn’t rehash any memories at the present. That could wait for later when she had time to savor, time to enjoy and absorb the flashbacks of incredible pleasure.

  Her shower was shorter than Ethan’s. She didn’t want him to come into the bathroom to say goodbye. She wanted to be dressed and prepared for what was bound to be an awkward encounter.

  She had her clothes on, her hair in a ponytail, and her minimal makeup applied in less than five minutes. When she heard the front door open and then shut, she frowned. Surely he wouldn’t have left without speaking to her.

  Cautiously, she peeked into the living room just as Ethan came back into the house. He didn’t have his coat on. Apparently, he’d been out to the mailbox.

  She froze, her heart in her throat. He was flipping through a rather large stack of catalogs and envelopes. The moment he came to her missive, she saw him visibly react. He frowned slightly, looked at his watch, and tucked it unopened in the large pocket of his winter coat.

  Jane forced her feet to move. She entered the room where he stood and folded her arms across her chest as she leaned a hip against the sofa. “Good morning.”

  He looked up, and the flash of hot male appreciation in his eyes soothed her nerves a tiny fraction. His grin made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “Hey, there, gorgeous. I was trying to let you sleep.”

  She clenched her hands, fingernails biting into her skin. “Anything exciting in the mail?”

  He evaded her gaze as he slipped his arms into his coat. “The usual.” His voice was gruff.

  Wow. The jolt of pain left her breathless. He wasn’t going to tell her about the erotic valentine. Clearly he planned to read it in private. Which meant what?

  In the past, her good friend Ethan would probably have opened it, read it aloud, and handed it to her to see if she could help him locate the sender. They would have laughed about it together, studied the syntax and the handwriting to solve the puzzle of the mystery woman.

  But Ethan had tucked her naughty card into his pocket as if it was a note from his lover.

  Which it was. But he didn’t know that. So why was he hiding it? Did he not want her to be jealous? Or was he so intrigued by his mystery admirer that he longed to track her down and sleep with her, too?

  Jane’s stomach tightened with disappointment and the knowledge that her little plot had backfired. How could she give her heart to a man who was keeping secrets from her? A man who was interested in another woman . . .

  Even though she knew his naughty pen pal was not a threat in the truest sense of the word, the fact that Ethan was being clandestine about the note was damning. Good Lord, what a tangle.

  He ran his hands through his hair, smoothing it down where the wind outside had tumbled it. “What do you have planned for the day?” His voice was stilted, awkward.

  She forced herself to relax. “I promised Mr. Benson that I’d cook lunch for him. It’s his birthday. And I’ll bake him a cake while I’m there.”

  Ethan cocked his head, his smile more genuine. “You’re a nice woman, Jane Norman.”

  Nice. Yeah, bloody hoorah. She managed to shrug instead of grimace. “He’s been really good to me. And besides, with all my grandparents gone, I enjoy having him in my life. He’s a sweetheart.”

  Finally, Ethan moved. He crossed the room and took her face in his hands. “So are you, Jane. So are you.” He kissed her softly, letting his lips linger long enough to rekindle a visceral memory of the night before.

  It was a brief kiss, but it left her breathless.

  He rested his forehead against hers. “We’ll talk about last night. But I can’t right now.”

  She pulled away, feeling the need to protect herself. “We don’t have to. I know men hate stuff like that.”

  He frowned. “I want to. We need to.”

  She shrugged. “If you insist. Would you like me to make dinner for us tonight?”

  “What if I take you out instead? Somewhere nice.”

  “I’d rather stay here.” And have gobs of passionate messy sex. Yikes. Had she said that last part out loud?

  Perhaps not, but Ethan’s amused smile seemed to say he could read her mind. “Well, if you insist. I’d like that a lot.”

  Ethan functioned at work with only half his brain. The other side of his gray matter was engrossed in reliving a night of incredible passion with Jane. The memories were so intense, it was all he could do to keep his boner under control.

  Thank God, it was a quiet Saturday.

  Midmorning he snatched a cup of the sludgelike coffee most of the guys enjoyed, and then he closeted himself in his office with the third mysterious valentine.

  He’d been afraid to open it at home, worried that it might hurt Jane’s feelings. And there was no way under the sun he was going to do that. Their relationship was new and fragile. He couldn’t take the chance that she might misunderstand the provocative mail. If it weren’t for the slim possibility that the sender was someone dangerous, he would have merely tossed the notes as they arrived. But the cop in him had caution ingrained in his DNA.

  He slid his finger beneath the flap and opened the envelope. This particular note wasn’t decorated. But the same beautiful calligraphy flowed across the paper.

  Ethan, my love,

  Last night as I slept

  My heart and soul leapt.

  You were there in my bed,

  Toe-to-toe, head-to-head.

  I felt you so real.

  Your fate is now sealed.

  I’ll not find my rest

  Till our union is blessed.

  My need is intense

  I can’t bear the suspense.

  Will you make me you lover

  And play under the covers?

  I swear you’ll find pleasure

  In a cup without measure.

  Your hard flesh will swell

  As I’ve stories to tell.

  My thighs will spread wide

  You’ll thrust deep inside.

  A gasp and a moan

  Is it yours or my own?

  By the light of the moon

  Please marry me, soon.

  I promise you bliss

  And a wedding night’s kiss.

  Damn, damn, and double damn. He was in deep shit. Some psycho chick wanted to marry him, and he’d already been down that road once.

  He slid the incriminating note beneath the desk calendar in front of him. But the words on the paper danced in his head. Though he was loath to admit it, the woman, whoever she was, had an appealing way with words. That part about thighs and thrusting made him squirm in his chair. Despite the origin of the note, the naughty words made him think of Jane and last night.

  God, he wanted her as much as he had before they ever touched each other.

  He shoved the heels of his hands in his eyes and rubbed. His sleepless night was beginning t
o catch up with him. When he finally emerged from his office and strode back into the fray, Randy Temple was the first person he saw, and the man looked like shit. Oh, hell, that might mean the date with Sherry hadn’t gone well.

  Ethan nodded tersely to the other man. “Mornin’, Randy. Thanks for coming in today. I know it’s not your regular shift.”

  A bleak flash of something in the man’s eyes flickered and disappeared, leaving his expression impassive. “No problem, sir.”

  Ethan realized with a shot of shame that he hadn’t checked on Sherry all week. He’d seen her three times when she catered lunches, but they hadn’t been able to talk about anything personal. And considering the stuff she was dealing with right now—namely Deb’s move to Florida—it might behoove her brother to be a little more intentional about making sure she was okay.

  After lunch and in between crises, he managed to squeeze in a phone call. Sherry didn’t pick up. That was odd. He tried her cell. Still no answer.

  Wondering if he was doing the right thing, he buzzed the receptionist and asked her to track down Temple.

  The younger man was in his office immediately. “Sir?” His face was shadowed, his eyes dull.

  Ethan was standing, and he leaned forward to sign something on his desk, breaking eye contact. “My sister is not answering her phone. Would you mind dropping by and making sure she’s okay?”

  When Ethan finally looked up, Randy was staring at him, his mouth slightly open. And then he frowned. “Not sure that’s a good idea, sir. She doesn’t want to see me.”

  Ethan would have given a thousand dollars not to have this conversation, but his sister’s happiness was very important to him. And he had a hunch that Randy Temple might be just the medicine she needed. Ethan had watched Sherry react to the man, and her body language was a dead giveaway. She was fascinated . . . wary but fascinated.

  Ethan sighed. “If you’re really interested, give her time. She’s been way too hard on herself over the years. I’m not sure that she believes she deserves to be happy.”

  “That’s a load of horseshit, sir, if you’ll pardon my French.”

  Ethan managed a grin. “Well, we’re on the same page there.” He took a key off his ring and handed it to Randy. “Don’t barge in. Be discreet. But my gut tells me something is wrong, and I’ve learned to trust it.”

  “Understood, sir. I’ll let you know what I find out.” He was gone before Ethan could say thank you.

  Jane was glad she had Mr. Benson as a distraction. The cleanup at her shop and the possible fallout from her night with Ethan were too much to think about without her head exploding.

  So she practiced the time-honored art of avoidance.

  Mr. Benson shouted for her to come in when she rang the bell this time. She found him ensconced in his favorite recliner in front of the fireplace, a small wool coverlet over his legs.

  She pulled up the footstool and took his hands. “A bad day?”

  He managed to look chipper, despite his apparent discomfort. “They’ve got rain in the forecast. Does it to me every time. But don’t you fret. I’m fine. Been looking forward to this all week.”

  He had a photograph album in his lap, so she leaned forward curiously. “What are you looking at?”

  He turned the pages so she could see them, his smile wry. “Just some family photos.”

  He didn’t have to explain. She knew that his three children and his assorted relatives were a disappointment to him. But she could also see the love in his eyes as he pointed them out to her and named them one by one. Despite their shortcomings and the lack of love and attention they had given the old man, he clearly still cared for them.

  She thought she recognized one of the boys. “Isn’t this the young man I saw painting your house?”

  He nodded. “That’s my great-nephew, Dougie. I’m happy to say the lad has an entrepreneurial spirit. I suppose he might actually make something of himself.”

  After flipping through the final few pages, Jane closed the album and put it aside. She stood and kissed his forehead. “Why don’t you close your eyes for a bit? And I’ll get busy with our lunch.”

  She threw the cake together and put it in the oven. Then she started on the meal. It was never easy to work in someone else’s kitchen, but Mr. Benson’s wife, long dead, must have been an awesome cook. Her shelves and cupboards were fully stocked with all the right pans and gadgets.

  Mr. Benson had gleefully chosen the menu for today’s birthday feast. At his request, Jane was preparing chipped beef on toast, fried green tomatoes, and candied apples. It might not be the most healthful or aesthetic menu, but for the dear old man, she would fix fried bologna if it would make him happy.

  They ate in the kitchen nook. Mr. Benson liked to watch his bird feeders, particularly in winter. Jane was heartened to see him take small second helpings of everything. Sometimes his appetite was nonexistent, and she worried about his health. There was really no one who checked on him regularly except Jane.

  While the cake cooled, they played a few hands of gin rummy. Then Jane iced the applesauce cake and cleaned up the kitchen while Mr. Benson watched his soap. At three she popped a couple of candles in the caramel icing and carried it into the living room.

  Although she was no singer, she made it through “Happy Birthday” without incident. Mr. Benson blew out the candles and beamed like a kid as she sliced each of them a piece of cake and served it on delicate china dessert plates.

  By three thirty, she began winding things down. She knew if she left, her elderly host would probably take a nap, and besides, she had promised to cook for Ethan as well, so she had to get cracking.

  Mr. Benson reached for her hand and urged her into an armchair when she returned from putting the cake away and washing the last few dishes. She was pleased that there were plenty of leftovers. He’d be eating well for at least another meal or two.

  At his urging, she subsided into a comfy seat, pleasantly tired. “You don’t look a day over sixty,” she teased, expecting him to respond to her humor.

  His face was serious. “I want to talk to you, my dear.”

  She leaned forward. “Of course.”

  His hands trembled as he grasped the arms of his recliner. “This business with your building has worried me. I’d be devastated if anything happened to you.”

  She smiled reassuringly. “The police are working on the case. I’m fine, I promise. It appears to be nothing more than malicious mischief.”

  He wasn’t placated. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to be living there alone.”

  Her heart sank. Surely he wasn’t planning to evict her. “I love my apartment,” she said slowly, not sure what he was after.

  “I’m getting old,” he said baldly.

  She didn’t want to say it, but he’d passed “old” about a decade ago, and gone straight on to ancient.

  He ignored her silence. “I’m afraid I’ll be at the point soon where I won’t be able to handle all my business interests. Tell me, Jane, have you thought about your future?”

  Sheesh. She wasn’t ready for this. She gnawed her lower lip. “Well, I do wonder from time to time if Paper Pleasures is a longtime venture. I enjoy it. But occasionally I think about going back to school . . . maybe finishing up a four-year degree. Why do you ask?”

  He frowned. “If I sell the building, I worry about what will happen to you.”

  She swallowed her instinctive protest. “Of course you need to do what is right for you. I’ll be fine. I have lots of options.”

  He leaned his head against the back of his chair and looked exhausted suddenly. “You need to have a husband and babies,” he mumbled, his expression morose. “Don’t know what the men in this town are thinking.”

  She managed a smile. “Twenty-first-century women can take care of themselves, Mr. Benson. We’re tough.”

  He snorted. “You can do or be whatever the devil you want to. I’m not disputing that. But it’s hard to curl up at night
with a ledger book. I may have one foot in the grave, but I know what it’s like to love someone, and I know what life is like alone.”

  For a brief moment, their eyes met, and she saw in his faded gaze every bit of the grief he had carried around for twenty years since his beloved wife had died.

  Her throat tightened and she blinked back tears. “I do love someone,” she said impulsively. “But I don’t know if he loves me.”

  Mr. Benson’s eyes narrowed. “Have you told him? I thought you modern gals didn’t sit back and wait on men to do the whole romance thing.”

  She laughed unsteadily. “Let’s just say I’ve put out some feelers. Things are progressing, but nothing is certain yet.”

  Last night was too new to discuss even in cloaked terms. So she changed the subject. “If you make the decision to liquidate your real estate assets, don’t you dare worry about me. You have to do what is best for you. Life is full of changes, and sometimes it does all of us good to face a bit of a shake-up.”

  He played with the fringe on his blanket, his gnarled arthritic fingers restless on the soft plaid. “Well, then, I’ll tell you this. My plan is to make a decision by the first of the summer. That will give you plenty of time to see if you want to keep the shop open, or if you want to take a new direction.”

  She nodded. “That seems fair. But in the meantime, you have to promise me not to worry. I’m a big girl. I have plenty of opportunities. And no matter what happens, we’ll still be friends.”

  As she drove back to the supermarket to buy a second round of groceries—this time to prepare a meal for Ethan—her mind spun in circles. If this thing with Ethan didn’t work out, she’d probably move away from Statlerville long before the summer. So whatever Mr. Benton did or didn’t do with his property would be irrelevant.

  Her heart quivered as she tried to imagine saying goodbye to the man and the home she loved.