BARELY MISTAKEN

by Jennifer Labrecque

  "What are you doing? You're not going to cut the grass are you?" Beth took a step back. "You've got that look."

  "No, I'm not mowing the lawn. And I've got what look?" She opened the gas can.

  "That same look you had right before you decked Bennie at the senior class picnic. That same look when you signed up to jump out of that plane."

  Beth hadn't approved of her skydiving. Olivia doused her former front door, now in the middle of her backyard, with gasoline, running a small trail of gas out into the grass. She turned to Beth and extended her hand, palm up. "Can I borrow that lighter?"

  "Is 'no' an option?"

  Olivia waggled her fingers. Beth reluctantly handed it over.

  One flick, a short race down the trail and flames engulfed the door in a tremendous whoosh. Bright orange flames skittered across the surface in a macabre dance, throwing off a warming heat. The fire snapped and crackled across the painted wood.

  "Wow!" Beth breathed next to her. "I can't believe you really did it."

  Olivia swiped her hands together in satisfaction. She would chalk last night and Luke Rutledge up to one huge mistake and move on. Her life could return to its nice even keel.

  Just as soon as she got through Adam, Luke and the party this afternoon.

  * * *

  5

  « ^ »

  Luke blasted down the tree-lined, quarter-mile stretch of River Oaks's driveway, savoring the last seconds of the wind stinging against his face and the roar of his bike. He eased off the gas and killed the engine, parking on the concrete slab behind Adam's car instead of inside the garage. Until last night, when Olivia had usurped the position, riding his bike had been a pleasure second to none.

  He kicked the stand into place and got off, hanging his helmet over the handlebar. Early afternoon sun glinted off the low-slung chrome and black metal. His truck was a piece of crap, but his bike was a beauty. He pulled out a thin cigar and lit it. As he dropped the lighter back into his pocket, Adam rounded the garage corner.

  "I can't believe you drove my car and wore my costume. No one drives my car." He buffed an imaginary spot on the Beemer's trunk. "And I was saving that costume."

  Luke didn't ask how Adam knew he'd been to the party. It had never been his intent to keep it a secret. Apparently his little brother was far more concerned about his car and costume than his girlfriend. "Your car needs a tune-up and the pants were too tight." Luke narrowed his eyes and grinned around his cigar. "But I liked the sword and the eyepatch."

  "How'd you know I wasn't going to the party?"

  Adam might be a whiner, but he wasn't stupid. Luke shrugged as he unstrapped Grandma Pearl's present from the back of his bike.

  "I didn't. But it seemed like the pirate thing to do." He'd done enough wild and crazy things earlier in his life, he knew his explanation would wash. Despite his success, he'd set his course. No one in his family, or the town for that matter, expected rational behavior from him.

  "Well, you could've asked."

  "But that wouldn't have been very piratelike, would it?"

  Adam assumed a telling nonchalance. "Did you talk to anyone at the party last night while you were me?"

  Like your contact? "A couple of people."

  Adam slicked back his already slicked hair. "Really? Who?"

  "Some guy dressed like a marshmallow. And Henrietta Williams tried to set you up with Candy."

  "You didn't…"

  Damn. He should have. "Nah. You're safe."

  "Anyone else?"

  "Just Olivia." He kept his voice neutral and watched Adam's face for any hint of tenderness or caring.

  No such animal crossed Adam's features. "Oh, yeah. Olivia."

  "So, what's up with you and Olivia? Since when have you gone slumming, bro?" Luke baited him, watching for Adam's reaction. Personally, if anyone referred to Olivia as slumming, brother or not, he'd rearrange a few body parts for them.

  "We've been dating a few weeks. I believe I've been a good influence on Olivia." Adam picked a piece of lint off his starched button-down with the hoity-toity designer logo on the pocket. "Although her family's beyond hope." Adam's snobbery was palpable.

  "I was surprised. She doesn't seem your type," Luke pressed.

  "She's a whole lot more appealing when you realize her family's sitting on a prime piece of real estate." Adam smirked.

  Bingo. "So is it the land or the lady?"

  "Maybe it's a package deal."

  "Since when is the Cooper place prime real estate?"

  "It's all in who you know."

  Luke grunted. If he showed too much interest, Adam might clam up.

  "What did you and Olivia talk about last night? You know, she doesn't particularly like you."

  He was already very clear on that point. "Thanks for making sure I knew. We didn't talk too much." No, they'd been far too busy with other things. "We danced one dance. She was ready to leave and I followed her home to make sure she got there okay."

  "I'm not surprised she wanted to leave early. I'm sure she was disappointed when she found out it was you instead of me."

  "She was definitely surprised. And she seemed to have a fever." The devil inside prompted him.

  A frown creased Adam's forehead—annoyance, not concern. "I hope she can make it today." Luke silently thanked his brother for laying to rest any vestige of doubt that he'd wronged Olivia by coming between her and Adam. Adam wasn't fit for her to wipe her feet on. "Was she feeling better when you left?"

  "She didn't say."

  "I really wanted her to come today." The note of exasperation in his voice was reinforced by another frown.

  "I'm sure she'd hate to inconvenience you by being sick." Adam seemed oblivious to the sarcasm.

  "You're right. I've got some paperwork to finish before the party or I'd go check on her. Hey, could you … never mind. I won't ask you to go. You know, she doesn't like you."

  Nah. That wasn't true. According to Lady Olivia herself, she hated him. He reminded himself once again of that thin line…

  * * *

  She hated Luke Rutledge.

  Olivia reluctantly crossed the wide expanse of immaculately kept lawn that stretched between the tree-lined driveway and the massive double front doors of the Rutledge home. Under normal, rational circumstances, she would be dancing across the grass … well, probably not dancing but pretty darned excited at being invited to Grande Dame Pearl Rutledge's birthday celebration. Mais non. Thanks to Luke, she'd prefer facing down a firing squad. Nothing quite like an incredible night with the wrong brother to throw a spanner in the works.

  As she reached for the lion-head door knocker, the door swung open. "Welcome to River Oaks," the uniformed doorman intoned.

  Olivia bit back a snort of laughter at the sight of her second cousin, once removed, decked out in a butler's uniform. "Hi, Ralphie."

  "Hey, Olivia." Ralph smoothed a hand over his black jacket. "Pretty nice outfit, huh? You working the party too?"

  After a fashion, but she didn't think that's what Ralphie meant. She hefted the gift-wrapped box. "I'm a guest."

  Ralph looked as if she'd declared a UFO sighting. "Here? At River Oaks?"

  "No, at Lorraine Kendall's. I just showed up here, instead. Of course here at River Oaks," she snapped, feeling more like a freak by the second. She immediately felt contrite. It wasn't Ralphie's fault she didn't belong here. It wasn't his fault that it was much more natural for her family members and herself to attend a River Oaks party as staff rather than guest. It wasn't his fault she'd had two hours of sleep. Nor was it his fault she'd spent those two hours dreaming about breaking in her new bed with Luke. "I'm sorry, Ralphie. I'm tired and grumpy." And essentially losing her mind.

  "No prob. I know how your side of the family can get." To make up for being a grump, she let his comment pass. "The party's down the hall, first ballroom on the right."

  First ballroom? There was more than one? Olivia stepped into the pink, marbled foyer with its
soaring ceiling resplendent with plasterwork. Twin staircases with ornately carved mahogany banisters polished to a mirror finish curved gracefully to the second floor. How many times, as a little boy, had Luke slid down that banister? This is where Luke … and Adam … had grown up.

  "Watch out. The punch in the silver bowl is spiked. You definitely want the one in the clear glass bowl." Ralphie's whisper echoed in the cavernous room.

  Light reflecting off the massive chandelier's hundreds of prisms dazzled and distracted her. Not even a hint of duct tape holding anything together here. She could definitely relate to the fish out of water. "Uh, thanks, Ralphie."

  Five minutes. She just had to make it through the next five minutes, ten minutes tops. She'd drop off the gift, wish Mrs. Rutledge many happy returns, make some excuse to Adam and be on her way.

  Ralphie nudged her toward the hall beneath the twin staircases. A group crowded a doorway from which spilled all the sounds of a tasteful party in progress—laughter, muted music, the odd clink of glasses. "Last I heard, no one in there bites." His reassuring smile revealed a missing eyetooth.

  "Let's hope you're right." Still she stood rooted to the spot, feeling gauche and decidedly out of place.

  "I believe you've asked everybody in there at one time or another for money for that library of yours. They ain't no different now than they were then."

  "I believe you're right." She was being utterly ridiculous. She'd already spent two minutes standing around dithering when she could have been fulfilling her social obligation, bringing her two minutes closer to leaving. Olivia squared her shoulders, called in every measure of courage she possessed, and marched down the hall.

  Ballroom number one. Open double doors. A five-piece ensemble playing dinner music. A parquet dance floor. A table running the length of one wall laden with what was probably a mouthwatering assortment of food if one wasn't nauseous with nerves. About one hundred and fifty or so of Dame Rutledge's closest friends and family standing about in clustered groups. It looked as if she'd found the right place.

  She slipped into the room. Maybe she'd get lucky and not even see Luke.

  But then again, maybe not. Because there he was, looking every inch the reprobate. Her stomach flip-flopped at the sight of him. Long legs encased in worn jeans, black T-shirt hugging his muscular back, his hair carelessly pulled back, similar to his pirate's style last night. A gold earring glinted in one ear. He looked lean, hard and dangerous.

  Impossible. Ridiculous. He stood across the room milling with groups of people, but she swore she could smell his masculine scent. Her response was unnervingly Pavlovian as a shiver chased down her spine, stirring an ache deep inside. At that instant, he turned and looked directly at her, as if she'd beckoned him.

  "How about a glass of punch, little lady?" a friendly voice offered.

  From across the room, Luke's eyes swept her from head to toe and back again, a crooked smile lifting one corner of his mouth. Her body reacted as if he'd flipped a switch and turned her on. His look warmed her from the inside out.

  She swallowed hard, her mouth dry, her pulse racing. She turned to find a vaguely familiar man beside her, just a few inches taller than herself, sporting a waxed handlebar mustache. "Jack Rutledge, at your service." He offered a stiff bow from the waist. "But I'd be honored if you'd call me Uncle Jack."

  "Olivia Cooper. Pleased to meet you. And, yes, a glass of punch would be great." Luke glanced from her to the door and back again, a wicked grin on his face. The clear bowl had the rum kick, didn't it? Good lord, how could she think clearly with him conjuring up memories of the door and the two of them… "From the silver bowl, if you don't mind."

  Two seconds before she'd felt relatively in control. She'd deliberately selected an outfit that didn't call attention to herself. A long navy skirt—no slits up the sides—navy flats, a gray twinset and pearls. But with just one look and a lazy smile from Luke, she felt downright sexy. With the slightest shift the silk and angora blend of her sweater caressed her skin, teasing against suddenly sensitive flesh. What had a minute ago been a sensible navy skirt, now slid sensuously against her thighs and teased against her buttocks.

  She fought the urge to flee. Last night had been an anomaly, an aberration. A mixture of magic brought on by the costume and the moon. How in the world could she feel sexy covered head to toe in waning daylight in the middle of an octogenarian birthday party?

  "Here you are, miss." Uncle Jack held out a medium-sized glass filled with pink punch.

  She took the proffered drink and sucked down half the punch at once. Cool and refreshing, it tingled against her tongue as if it contained an extra bottle of effervescent ginger ale. Yum-o. She killed the rest of the cup. "Thank you. I was thirstier than I realized. That's refreshing."

  "They've got bigger glasses, if you're still thirsty." Uncle Jack appeared eager to fetch more.

  It was so nice to find someone who was … well, so nice. Unlike Luke, who was so annoying, duplicitous, unsettling, arousing… "Only if you're having one as well."

  Uncle Jack hoisted his glass and drained it in a single swallow. "I'll be back in a jiffy."

  Olivia smiled her appreciation and found a wall to hold up. Often it was nice to fade into the background—never a difficult task for her—and watch the world around her.

  She scanned the room, eager to look somewhere other than at Luke's darkly handsome face and eyes full of memories and intent. A tight cluster of women stood a few feet away. Her high school nemesis, Amy Murdoch-Carter, held court with her cronies. Olivia noted, with no small measure of satisfaction, that Amy's behind had grown considerably wider since their high school days. In fact, her butt tested the stretchability of her black knit skirt. Olivia might be white trash in Amy's book, but at least Olivia had enough decorum not to appear with her ass threatening to break free of the bonds of interlock confinement.

  "Here we are, my girl. Hell of, er heck of, a line over there." Uncle Jack offered her another cup. He had the nicest, brightest eyes.

  "Thank you, kind sir." Something dangerously close to a giggle escaped her, but Olivia shrugged it off. Uncle Jack put her at ease.

  She glanced toward Luke. He began walking in her direction. Finally, Olivia noticed the man beside him. Adam. Olivia swallowed a double measure of guilt and washed it down with punch. She should've naturally noticed Adam before she noticed Luke. Her eyes should have sought him from the moment she arrived.

  Now, not only were they both at the same party, they were both heading straight for her. Feeling detached and curiously calm, she watched dear, sweet, starched and tailored Adam with his pungent hair gel stroll beside his immoral, tattooed, rogue, sexy … nix sexy, hellion of a brother.

  She drained her cup. Jack plucked it from her fingers. "I'll be right back."

  "I'll be here." She'd definitely wait around for another glass of that. She'd ask Aunt Ruth for the punch recipe because she felt all nice and warm and actually very capable of handling this imminent encounter, albeit slightly unsteady on her feet. Amy Murdoch-Carter glanced over her shoulder at Olivia, a faux smile on her face. Olivia smiled back. Maybe she should wander over and inquire if Amy was involved in a case study testing the bounds of stretchability. Yep, that struck her as just the thing to do.

  Of all the rotten timing! Just as she pushed away from the wall, Adam and Luke arrived.

  "Olivia. I was beginning to get worried." Adam slid an arm around her shoulder, his lips cool as they brushed against her cheek. Beside him, Luke's mouth tightened and his eyes hardened. Olivia managed to shift out of Adam's embrace, repulsed by his touch, the cloying combination of hair gel and cologne, and her own wretched guilt. Adam reached for her hand, his soft banker's fingers smoothing against the back of her hand. "I was afraid you might still be sick. Luke said you had a fever last night."

  Against her better judgment, she glanced at Luke. Devilment and a hint of anger lit the depths of his blue eyes. "Do you remember how hot you were? You were bu
rning up."

  Intense memory. Instant response. Her traitorous body quickened. Yes, she remembered. Everything. His scent. The satisfying feel of him buried deep within her. The taste of him against her tongue. If she wasn't unarmed and it wouldn't cause such a fuss, she'd kill Luke Rutledge.

  "I'm fine now," she assured Adam, shooting daggers Luke's way.

  "I don't know, Olivia, you look rather flushed to me and your eyes are all glittery." Adam turned to Luke. "Is this how she looked last night, when you took her home?"

  Annoyance flashed through her. Adam didn't need to talk about her as if she wasn't there or was some inept child. "I said, I'm fine," she enunciated clearly, her speech a bit more difficult than usual. Maybe she was coming down with something.

  Luke pressed his hard, callused fingers against her forehead. Even that minimal contact set her pulse racing. And her head spinning. Or was that the room spinning?

  "I definitely think your fever is coming back. You're all flushed. And maybe a bit of difficulty breathing." He trailed his fingers across her temple and smoothed the backs of his fingers against her cheek. "You feel hot to me."

  Longing rippled through her, even as heat washed over her. And horrible man that Luke was, he knew it.

  Adam stepped back as if she was a leper. "You might be contagious."

  "Absolutely not."

  "Probably," Luke offered simultaneously.

  "Maybe I should keep my distance, since I'm speaking at the Rotarian luncheon on Monday." Adam took yet another step away and pushed Luke closer. "You, however, have already been exposed, so would you mind looking after her?"

  "I'm overwhelmed by your concern and compassion," Olivia quipped, her irony totally lost on Adam. "But I don't need anyone to take care of me."

  "I think you're hotter than you realize." Luke's voice slid over her like satin sheets on a cool night, smooth and arousing. "And I'm a regular Florence Nightingale."