by Leslie Kelly
Allie wished it hadn’t hurt to see his handsome face and experience that familiar rush of want she’d felt from the minute she’d met him on campus at Tyler College. Back when she’d had no idea the man had, until recently, been her sister’s colleague—and boyfriend—and was carrying a grudge wider than an elephant’s butt.
What an absolute idiot she’d been to fall for his line. Easy pickings. And, oh, had he picked her over. Flirted with her, teased her, made her feel like a beautiful woman instead of an awkward, small-town girl.
Made her fall in love.
Then he’d dropped her flat. Not even sticking around to see just how much of an impression he’d left behind. A seven- or eight-pound one, she suspected.
Not even twenty-one and she had already disgraced her family, lost her scholarship to her Christian college and been forced to quit her job, move out of the dorm and crash with her big sister. No money. No insurance. No future.
All of that was worse than stretch marks. Or even hemorrhoids.
“Here lies Alicia Cavanaugh,” she whispered. “Her grave marked with nothing but a great big L. For Loser.”
Tears welled up again but this time they wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t have been able to stop them if she tried, not even for chocolate. Not for Hershey’s. Or Dove. Or Godiva. Or even those crunchy See’s toffee candies.
“Mmm…toffee,” she whispered through a hiccupping little sob.
Not having the toffee candies made her cry harder. Not even thoughts of how much she was going to love her baby boy or girl and how good a mother she was going to make helped.
Because Peter was threatening to take that away from her, too. Once he’d recovered from his shock last night, he informed her that there was no way he was paying child support. And that she might end up paying it to him because he could decide to sue for custody, and since she was an immature college dropout barely out of her teens, he would probably get it.
What if he was right?
He didn’t want to raise this baby, she knew it. He was being hateful. That expression of amusement in his eyes, as he’d informed her he had to think about it first and would be in touch, said it all.
He didn’t want to be a father. He just wanted to be cruel, which seemed to be what he did best.
“I have to tell Sabrina. She’ll know what to do.”
This wasn’t something she could share over a cell phone, however. She needed to see her big sister face-to-face. Which might prove tricky, since Sabrina hadn’t told her where she was going.
Fortunately, however, Allie knew a secret about Jane, Sabrina’s secretary at Liberty Books—a secret Peter Pecker had revealed during their last phone call so many months ago. He’d told her about his affair with Jane, hoping she’d tell Sabrina…and hurt her some more. Allie had kept it to herself. Until now.
Allie wasn’t fond of blackmail, but she’d learned a lot of hard lessons at the school of Peter. Jane would know where Sabrina was, and Allie had ammunition against Jane.
Now, it appeared, was a very good time to use it.
“WHAT ON EARTH is that?”
Hearing the shock in Sabrina’s voice as they reached the top of the hill beside his grandfather’s new home, Max steeled himself to explain. His own first closeup view of the house had been much the same.
The three-story mausoleum had been built about a hundred years ago and it wore every one of those years on its face. With missing tile shingles on the roof, shutters that couldn’t be closed dangling outside most of the windows, peeling layers of varying colors of paint, and a sagging porch that had begun to separate from the front door—requiring a little hop to go inside—the place was silently begging for a wrecking ball.
Max was loudly begging for one.
Especially to maim, kill and annihilate the clocks. The former occupant had apparently owned a clock factory and had liked to sample the wares. Blue ones, red ones, open-billed ones…cuckoos with glittering emerald eyes and shiny black ones, with carefully detailed feathers or fake-looking plastic talons. With open wings or military epaulets or garland wreaths dangling from their beaks.
Two dozen of them, at least, though it seemed more like a thousand. The noise was enough to make a man lose his mind.
And the clocks weren’t the beginning and the end of the insanity, oh, no. The inside of the house was, itself, a crazy maze, with oddly shaped rooms, doors that opened to interior brick walls, chimneys rising from no fireplaces. Like it had been built little by little—piece by piece—with no thought given to the finished product.
Grandfather loved it—right down to the last cuckoo and threadbare rug. No big surprise.
Max supposed that with a few million dollars, the cast and crew of Trading Spaces and that wrecking ball, it could be made into something inhabitable.
“I guess you’re wondering about the house.” But as Max followed Sabrina’s stare, he realized she was not looking at the building. She was looking at the enormous structure beside the building. The one he hadn’t noticed until right now, probably because his brain was used to blocking out the more impossible sights a life with Mortimer Potts often provided.
He closed his eyes briefly, but, unfortunately, the mirage hadn’t disappeared when he reopened them.
Rising from the tangled brush, brambles and honeysuckle vines—which had grown from beyond their original perimeter against the falling-down stone fence to encroach all the way to the side patio—was a monstrosity. A gigantic thing, swaying in the light morning breeze.
Standing twenty feet high and covering most of the side yard, it was an enormous mass of colors all swirled together on a billowy fabric. A tent…but not a garden variety camping-in-the-backyard one. This was like something out of an old Arabian Nights film. Emblazoned with brilliant splashes of red, green and gold, the thing stood like an enormous jewel beneath the bright summer sky.
“Damn.”
Mortimer was in one of his Middle East moods again. His grandfather had spent a number of years in Egypt after the Second World War. He liked to claim he’d been granted an honorary sheikhdom from a Bedouin tribe with which he’d spent one winter, cut off from the rest of the world in a secret, sand-battered camp.
As with many of Mortimer’s stories, Max wasn’t certain if this one was true or not. All Max knew was that whenever Morty had walked like an Egyptian, he and his brothers had been stuck drinking goat’s milk and eating camel tongue.
“Is there a circus in town?”
There was almost always a circus in town when his grandfather was around. And the memory of all those circuses, all those towns—all that adventure—made him smile, despite his fears that the potential investor was about to be scared off. Any sane woman would be.
Especially if Mortimer came out brandishing his sword.
“Not a circus. But there could be animals.”
She merely gaped.
“I don’t think there would be any dangerous ones,” he quickly added. “Though you can never be entirely sure. He did once rescue a tiger headed for the dinner table of some sick, twisted millionaire.”
“He? Are you talking about Mr. Potts?” she asked, her eyes wide, as if she wasn’t sure if he was pulling her leg.
He wasn’t. Though he’d like to, if it meant he actually got to touch one of those long, beautiful legs.
“Es salaam aleikom!”
He tore his attention off Sabrina Cavanaugh’s slender thighs and braced himself for introductions. This could be tricky.
“What did he say?”
“That’s hello. I think. Though he could be offering you some camel tongue,” Max muttered. Then he fell silent, watching Sabrina absorb Mortimer Potts.
A mane of thick white hair blew around his grandfather’s shoulders, which were still strong and straight despite his age. His face was smooth, nearly unwrinkled, but dark and leathery after years in the blazing sun of Africa or South America. Even from several feet away, his blue eyes shone brilliantly—alight with intelligenc
e and a genuine love of life—as he approached. His steps were firm, his legs never hinting that they’d been walking the earth for eight decades. Or that they suffered terribly with arthritis.
Clothed in a traditional long, white tunic with a red sleeveless coat draped over it, and a colorful cloth resting lightly on top of his hair, he looked just like the Bedouin sheikh he imagined himself to be. The garb flowed around his tall, lanky form, each gust of wind molding it against his skinny legs.
Max sent up a quick prayer that Mortimer was wearing something underneath this time.
Sabrina stared, saying nothing, not even when his grandfather reached her side. She looked stunned—as robbed of speech as if her prissy poodle Giorgio had started singing “Like A Virgin.”
He understood the reaction. His grandfather was a little…startling, at first. But he was not truly crazy—just a bit eccentric.
And he was definitely not laughable.
In fact, if she laughed at him, he’d let her find her own damn way back to town and she could take her money with her.
Max, Morgan and Mike could laugh with the old man as much as they wanted. But heaven help anyone who laughed at him.
If, however, she saw the man Max and his brothers saw—as she’d seen the beauty in the carousel—he might fall in love and propose. Not marriage—God, no. But…something.
Probably something indecent.
“You’ve arrived just in time. I’ll have my manservant fetch my pipe. Come smoke with me.”
Max frowned. “You know you can’t do that anymore.”
“What do the doctors know?”
“I’m not talking about your health, I’m talking about the stuff you put in that pipe. It’s illegal in most countries, especially this one.”
Mortimer rolled his eyes.
“And,” Max added, “you don’t have a manservant anymore. Roderick spent one night with those clocks and hightailed it back to New York, remember?”
His grandfather waved an airy hand, completely unconcerned by such banal things as his health, flighty butlers with superiority complexes, or his stature as a law-abiding citizen. That last part was questionable, anyway.
“Did you put that thing up yourself?” Max asked, unable to figure out how Grandfather could have gotten this whole Middle Eastern scenario set up in the few hours since he’d left. Grandfather wasn’t, after all, a seventy-year-old anymore.
Shaking his head, Mortimer explained. “Hired a few of the townies for the morning.”
Oh, joy. Word was likely spreading already. Our new town patriarch is a wingnut. Hide the good china, stash the children and lock up the virgins.
“Now, tell me, who have we here?” Grandfather asked. A smile that could only be described as wolfish appeared on the old man’s face, and a recognizable, flirtatious twinkle appeared in his eyes. Twenty years dropped off his age. Someone who didn’t know him would peg him as a man of sixty. A virile one.
Oh, did Max ever want to be his grandfather when he was that old!
“My name is Sabrina Cavanaugh,” she said, sticking out her hand and smiling at the old man. She appeared friendly, admiring.
Grandfather had a way with women. And judging by the light in his eyes, he’d noticed that this particular woman had a smile that could bring a man to his knees. Even aged arthritic ones.
“I am—”
“Mortimer Potts,” Max interjected, nipping the long sheikh title in the bud.
Grandfather offered him a slight, condescending smirk. “I suppose that will do for now.”
Max watched closely as Mortimer and the newcomer took stock of each other. His grandfather was, as always, regal and proud in his eccentricity. And so far, Sabrina wasn’t running. In fact, she looked intrigued. The same way she’d looked at the carousel.
He knew he was going to like this woman.
“Mr. Potts, I am not a smoker, but I would very much like to see inside that tent. I’ve often wondered what they’re like.”
“They’re so comfortable. Mountains of pillows, cool, silk draperies. Quite the thing for this dry, desert climate.”
Not batting an eye, she offered him her arm. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“Good. Then I’ll brew us some tea.”
Max cleared his throat and shot the old man a warning glance, knowing Mortimer sometimes liked to get creative with what he put in his tea. “No weird spices.”
Sabrina shook her head. “Oh, I’m so disappointed.”
Great, just what Grandfather needed, a partner in crime. But Max knew how to scare the woman into behaving. “And none of that aphrodisiac powder, either.”
This time she kept her mouth shut.
Grandfather rolled his eyes. “My grandson can be tiresomely pedestrian at times. Too bad, he really needs to stop that. He has such promise, you know, being the most like me.”
And that truth terrified him almost as much as it excited him. To think he might really be like his grandfather…it was also another reason Max was glad he no longer drank. Because, even sober, he could probably have far too much fun with the idea if he let himself go with it.
Sabrina nodded her agreement. “He’s very…” Then her words trailed off as she looked back and forth between the two of them. “Grandson?”
Mortimer nodded. So did Max.
The color disappeared out of the blonde’s face so fast it was as if someone had doused her with a giant puff of talcum powder. Her mouth hung open, working a bit, but no sound came out. She stared at both of them, looking genuinely stunned, then began to shake her head.
“Sorry, I never did tell you how I knew this old codger, did I?” he said, figuring she was just confused. Maybe puzzled, thinking he’d been keeping his relationship with Mortimer secret for some reason. He hadn’t. Max might think his grandfather a little nutty, but he was in no way ashamed of him.
In fact, he considered Grandfather one of the finest men he’d ever known. Not every man would have taken in three rowdy young grandsons and raised them himself, dragging them around the world with him wherever he went when he could easily have written a few checks and sent them away to expensive schools. He could have washed his hands of them when his daughter and son-in-law died. But he hadn’t. He’d made them his own and he’d made them believe—truly, genuinely believe—that they were loved and safe and secure. And he’d even provided something of a mother figure, with prissy Roderick making them wash behind their ears and finish their peas while Mortimer plotted their next adventure. What more could any kid ask for?
Their upbringing may have been unconventional and eccentric, but the Taylor brothers had had both childhood and family from the moment they were orphaned. All thanks to this man.
Sabrina was still staring, silent, so Max shook off the introspection. “My name’s Taylor. Max Taylor.”
He stuck out his hand for the formal introduction, but the blonde didn’t take it. She simply stared at his fingers, slowly lifting her gaze to his face. Finally—wonderingly—she said the strangest thing.
“As in Bond. James Bond?”
Confused, he simply stared at her, waiting for the punch line. Because he was so focused, it was easy to catch her reaction. Like water bursting through a dam, the blood returned to Sabrina’s face. Her pale cheeks filled with color as rapidly as they had emptied of it. She jerked her chin up and licked her full, pouty lips.
And he saw it. The look. The suggestive, heated, take me expression he’d seen on women’s faces from the minute he’d been both mature enough to inspire it and old enough to understand what it meant.
Unfortunately, at that time, he hadn’t had the third key ingredient—being skilled enough to take advantage of it.
That had changed, though, round about age sixteen. The mother of one of his classmates at his multinational high school in Cairo had helped him develop his…skills. And he’d been utilizing them ever since, more during some periods of his life than others.
For the first time since he’d met
her by the carousel, the blonde was finally looking at him the way he’d wanted her to look at him. The way he’d want any gorgeous, intelligent, witty woman to look at him. Not merely with speculation, interest and friendliness. Not even with attraction and flirtatiousness.
No. Sexy Sabrina’s blue eyes sparkled with excitement. Her breath exited her lips in choppy, audible exhalations. Though she didn’t step away, or come any closer, her whole body slowly moved. Curving sinuously, like a cat stretching in the sun, one shoulder going back, one hip tilting to the side to highlight the indentation of her waist.
Yeah. He knew this look. Her stance, her expression, the heavy-lidded stare exuded one thing: pure, sexual want. A blatant, no-questions-asked invitation to sin.
He didn’t know why he was getting it now, while his elderly grandfather watched wide-eyed with interest, but he had no doubt he was being silently propositioned by the blond stranger. He’d been propositioned by enough women to know.
It was just his damn bad luck that it was an invitation he could not, under any circumstances, accept.
MAX TAYLOR, SABRINA DECIDED late that night when lying alone in her bed at the inn, was a fiend. A sadistic, twisted, manipulative monster. He had to be. How else had he been able to fool her so completely—to make her think he was nothing but a simple small-town mechanic, when, in truth, he was more like an oversexed Dr. Evil?
Addictive. Seductive. Overpoweringly sensual. All while smiling a you-can-trust-me grin and keeping that aw-shucks-ma’am tone in his voice.
“Monster.”
Oh, the man was good. Talented. If they gave out Academy Awards to playboys in disguise, he’d be writing his acceptance speech now.
Because he must have been acting. That sweet, kind, friendly—oh, God, sexy—guy she’d met tinkering with the carousel had to have been a façade. Behind the mask lurked a polished seducer who could lure women down a dark path of eroticism with a touch of his hand, a whisper in the ear.
