by Leslie Kelly
The promise of a five-hour, nonstop session of lovemaking.
Impossible. No man could…no matter what Grace Wellington said in her memoir.
After yesterday—and this afternoon—Sabrina had to add a few other possibilities to his repertoire. A friendly nod, a welcoming smile. A twinkle in his eye. Who could have known they’d be just as effective as a deep kiss, a tender caress or a mammoth hard-on at inspiring lustful thoughts?
“Not lust, damn it,” she whispered, rolling over and punching the lumpy pillow. She kept her voice low, knowing there were only three other guests staying at the inn. The last thing she wanted was to arouse her landlord’s curiosity and have him come investigate.
“Oh, great, it’s almost Saturday,” she muttered, wondering whether his nudey thing began at midnight or would be mercifully held at bay until dawn.
If anything could kill her hungry curiosity about Max Taylor, it was thoughts of a nude Al Fitzweather.
Actually, she should easily be able to control any sexual feelings whatsoever. After all, Sabrina didn’t lust. Well, maybe she lusted sometimes—lusted for the kind of sex she read about in racy novels or imagined in her mind’s eye after the end of a movie. Who, for instance, hadn’t pictured Buttercup and Wesley doing the deed in a meadow full of daisies after the end of The Princess Bride?
She’d said that to her mother once, when she was a teenager. For about three seconds, the older woman’s lips had twitched, as if a real laugh was about to spill out. But she’d quickly sucked it back in.
Of all the reasons Sabrina resented her grandfather, that was probably the biggest one. Because he’d stolen her mother’s smile. By making her feel like the death of her husband in a robbery had been God’s judgment for marrying outside her rigid faith, he’d used guilt and heartache to control all their lives. And she hadn’t had the education, money or career prospects to do anything about it.
“I lust, Grandfather,” Sabrina whispered, staring up at the ceiling. “Hear me? Lust, lust, lust! Naked, sweaty sex. Big, hard penises. I think about them all the time!”
Only, she needed to not talk about them out loud right now for fear Mr. Fitzweather would think she was issuing an invitation.
She definitely wasn’t. Not to him—not to anyone. Because Sabrina had never made a habit of lusting after real, live men, not even anyone she’d been dating.
She’d always been able to separate sex out from her other daily requirements. Exercise, mental stimulation, a steady influx of cash, an orgasm or two, mechanically provided, if necessary—Ooh, how wicked, a vibrator—she was surely destined for hell. She hadn’t cared, because the thing had come in handy, particularly after she’d wised up to the kind of man Peter really was and dumped him seven-and-a-half months ago.
Since then, her life had been compartmentalized, planned, normal. No men required. Not crazy—other than her involvement in Allie’s situation. Never unexpected—uh, other than that Allie thing again. But certainly never dangerous or wicked, despite what her grandfather had direly predicted when Sabrina left home at eighteen. Black sheep or not, she’d done a pretty good job of living a “good” life. Being safe, respectable and completely sensible.
At least…until she’d started working on Grace Wellington’s book and had begun to wonder what it would be like to let go of all her inhibitions. To be so caught up in a dark, passionate affair that she’d open herself up to all sorts of kinky possibilities like the ones Grace had described. Threesomes and bondage…pleasure and pain.
The idea had repulsed her. And yet it had somehow aroused her, too.
One thing was certain. She hadn’t been able to put it out of her thoughts—or her dreams. Night after night her mind had filled with sultry images. And by day she’d found herself wondering what it would be like to do something wild with someone who was totally outside polite society. An intoxicatingly wicked bad boy. The kind about whom rock songs were sung and romance novels were written. The kind she’d flirted with back in high school and had brought home once or twice in order to get some kind of action going in their very sedate house.
The Max Taylor kind of bad boy.
Or was he?
Could he really be as bad as all that if he liked to volunteer his spare time working to repair broken-down relics like the Kiddie World carousel? Or exchanging kindly barbs with a sweet, funny old man who told the most wonderful stories of deserts and pirates, harems and spies?
It was hard to dislike Max Taylor when Sabrina already adored his wonderfully vibrant grandfather. She’d never—ever—have imagined liking anyone with that title. But Mortimer Potts still made her smile, just picturing him pouring their tea as they’d sat in his colorful tent, chatting about the weather in Borneo and the dangers of the Asian trade routes.
Max had been there, too. Being friendly…and nothing else, despite her best flirting efforts.
That’s how he’d been the entire time. Nothing but helpful and nonaggressive with a woman who had practically thrown herself at him.
“I didn’t really throw myself at him,” she whispered, wishing the bed wasn’t as lumpy as a bag of rocks.
Liar. That movie invitation thing had definitely been throwing herself.
But that was the whole point, the reason she was here in the first place. Talk about stepping outside the safety zone—the one she’d erected around herself once it had become clear that she had to be the responsible adult who handled Allie’s situation. This entire trip was definitely not safe.
Sabrina had come to Trouble to entice Max Taylor into proving his wicked reputation. No, she hadn’t gotten off to the best start, but she had to hand it to herself, she’d recovered rather quickly from the shock of finding out the nice, boy-next-door mechanic was in fact her targeted sex fiend.
Once he’d confirmed his identity, Sabrina had gone into action. She’d thrown off her surprise, pasted on a sultry look and gone all come-hither.
And he’d nearly come and hithered.
The flash of interest in his sparkling green eyes had been unmistakable when she’d given him the kind of look any man would understand. Though he’d quickly squelched it, she’d seen the answering heat.
“I can get him, I can do this,” she whispered, telling herself the reason her heart was pounding was that she might actually be able to pull it off. She might prevent him from interfering with Grace’s book.
Yes. Just the possibility of success…that was the reason she was feeling so wildly excited. Anticipatory.
And not, she reminded herself, because for a moment the man she’d been having secret, wicked fantasies about for months had looked at her as though he wanted her, too.
CHAPTER FIVE
TROUBLE BOASTED two official restaurants still in operation. That didn’t count the sandwiches sold over the counter at the local gas station, or the fast-food joints huddled like predators around the interstate exit a few miles outside town. Two real, sit-down-and-order establishments with chipped plates and bent, tarnished silverware.
Max had dined at both of them over the past two weeks and had decided that the rubbery pancakes at Tootie’s Tavern were moderately more appealing than the slimy eggs at the Trouble Some Café. So, on Saturday morning, knowing his grandfather was safely tucked away in his tent smoking a pipe loaded with something Max probably didn’t want to know about, he decided to head downtown.
He moved quickly. It was ten minutes before nine and he simply couldn’t stand the thought of dining with the cuckoos, all of whom were freshly wound and singing.
One of these days, he was going to get his grandfather to stop winding those clocks. But first, he had to catch him in the act of doing it. Because whenever it came up, the old man vehemently denied any involvement, swearing the ghosts in the house wound the cursed things every night. He even insisted he heard their whispers on occasion, and the creaks of the floorboards as they tiptoed through the halls.
Who knew ghosts had toes?
At least the clocks did
n’t disturb Max’s nights. He’d claimed the highest spot in the house—a turret room on the third floor, which was blessedly devoid of cuckoos. At least it was once Max had taken the single one lurking above the doorway and drop-kicked it under the eaves of the attic.
Apparently he wasn’t the only one to have done so, because the skeletal remains of another clock were already back there, nearly hidden in some puffs of insulation. But it couldn’t have been kicked—it was too big. It was also decorated with the largest carved cuckoo bird he’d ever seen, a mahogany carved creature with spread wings and a long, wickedly sharp beak. Somebody had obviously gone to town on the clock, breaking the rest of the pieces off and scattering them who knows where.
He’d like to do the same thing with all the others in the house, only take them up in his plane and drop-kick them from ten-thousand feet. See if those birdies could really fly. But his grandfather wouldn’t hear of it.
The one drawback to Max’s new room was that it was devoid of heat or air-conditioning. But hot nights spent lying naked atop the sheets praying for a bit of breeze to blow in from the open windows were a small price to pay to escape an hourly mechanical serenade, so he didn’t complain.
Mortimer’s room was on the second level, and his snores were loud enough to block out any sound with fewer decibels than a freight train. Not that even a train could wake him, because he had to be nearly unconscious during the few hours of rest he got. Max didn’t know how the old man functioned on the little sleep he could eek out after furtively winding the clocks every night.
He’d actually counted. There were twenty-six, not counting the two murdered ones in the attic. This Wilhelm Stuttgardt, the former owner of the house—and of the Stuttgardt Cuckoo Clock Company—had really liked his products. Or else he’d had one sick and twisted enjoyment of self-torture.
When Max pulled his rented car into the parking lot behind the tavern and saw the blonde entering the restaurant ahead of him, he decided he must like self-torture, too.
If he were wise, he’d back up and drive away. Steering clear of Sabrina was the smart course of action, since the woman made him stupid with want. And since he couldn’t be entirely sure of who she was and what she was doing here.
He had to avoid her, not only because of the book, but also because, if she truly was some angel of mercy who might free his family of this town, he needed to make sure he didn’t do anything to piss her off.
As much as he liked women, Max did have a tendency to piss them off.
But something wouldn’t let him leave. The thought of the clocks, perhaps. The growl in his stomach that would not be quieted by slimy eggs. Or camel tongue.
Or maybe the realization that he hadn’t gotten Sabrina’s address and phone number—for when all his troubles—and Trouble—were behind him.
Entering the tavern, he responded with a smile and a nod to several greetings from some of the townspeople he’d met. A lot of residents viewed his grandfather as Santa Claus, come to deliver presents. Which, he supposed, made him an elf.
“Morning, Mr. Taylor,” said a man standing at the counter, waiting to pay his check.
He quickly recognized him as the chief of police, Joe Bennigan, and not just because of the uniform. The chief had been out to check on Mortimer a few times before Max had come to town, as if worrying the older man could hurt himself in that desolate old place all alone.
Max hadn’t forgotten, and he’d genuinely appreciated it. “Good morning, Chief.”
“How’s your grandpa?” He smiled a little. “Hear he decided to do some backyard camping.”
Max sighed. “Yeah.”
The chief clapped his hand on Max’s shoulder. “Hey, don’t worry about it, son. He gave a few hours’ work to some men who haven’t had any in a while.”
“That’s right,” said someone sitting at the counter—a skinny, fortyish guy in a flannel shirt with ripped-off sleeves.
Beside him, another man, lean and younger, but having that same fatalistic, tired demeanor that seemed common in everyone here in Trouble, nodded. “Good morning’s pay and your grandfather’s a real fine storyteller.” He started to laugh, the sound creaky and dry, like he wasn’t used to doing it too often these days. “I’d like to visit a country that still has harems.”
A waitress behind the counter snorted. “You wouldn’t know what to do with one woman, if you ever managed to get one.” She smirked as she slammed a plate down on the counter.
“Why don’t you let me show you how wrong you are one’a these Friday nights instead sitting in your place watching let’s-all-hate-men movies on Lifetime?”
The man was trying to pick the waitress up, and she practically simpered in response. Max’s jaw dropped at the realization that actual flirtatious banter was taking place right here at the tavern. Compared to the dark-and-dour groaning he’d heard nonstop when he’d arrived, this was practically like an episode of Friends.
Maybe the town really was changing. Perhaps his grandfather’s arrival had been a shot of water on a parched flower—well, a parched, scraggly weed.
“Good to see you, Taylor,” the chief said as he walked toward the door.
“Tell your grandpa hello and thanks again,” added one of the tent workers, the other one nodding his agreement.
Murmuring his goodbyes, Max added three more converts to the Mortimer-is-good side of the equation. But judging by the glares, not everyone was convinced. There were definitely those who weren’t happy to have had their town “sold out from under them” to some rich investor.
That included the big, frowning guy sitting at the far end of the counter, who delivered the mail. Dean something or other. The man was constantly scowling and muttering. Probably trying to come up with a way to keep Mortimer Potts’s money while getting rid of Mortimer Potts.
“Good morning, Mr. Taylor,” a pleasant voice said.
Max immediately recognized Ann Newman, the well-dressed, ash-blond woman who nodded at him from her seat. The newly elected mayor had reportedly been the one who’d come up with the idea of selling Trouble’s assets to try to save the town. Max didn’t know the whole story, but he’d learned a few tidbits about Trouble’s history from his grandfather.
Apparently one of the former mayors had been a real piece of work. A thieving one who’d used the town’s bank accounts as his own personal petty cash fund, embezzling money over a period of years, a little at a time, so no one knew what was happening until it was too late.
He’d paid for it, though. The man—Stuttgardt—had been murdered five years ago. Right in his house…the one where Max was currently residing.
“Good morning, Mayor,” he said to Mrs. Newman. The woman had been kind to his grandfather, and had been the first to take Max on a tour when he arrived. “Nice to see you.”
The other woman seated with her at the table stiffened ever so slightly, ignoring him completely. She, obviously, was from the other camp—the camp still resentful of Mortimer Potts’s intrusion into their lives.
From the whispers he’d heard, the town officials had promised a “foreign” investor would bail them out of the mess their town had become following the embezzlement scandal, and not even bother to show up to check on his investment. Free money from an oil-rich sheikh or a land-rich duke.
If only Mortimer had been in his poor, lonesome cowboy mode when the ad had come across his desk.
Max couldn’t imagine anyone had fallen for that b.s. in this day and age. But his grandfather had shown him the ad and he’d read the thinly veiled plea for free money himself. It might as well have said, Calling all princes—since there are so many of you out there—give us your cash, then go away.
“Hey there, honey pie,” he heard. “I was hoping you’d come in today—pancakes are on special. I know how much you like them!”
Looking up, he hid a grimace as the owner of the establishment, Tootie herself, waddled over to greet him.
Tootie was about sixty in years and two-sixty
in weight. Given her raw humor and her reputation as a belcher, he honestly didn’t want to know where she’d gotten her nickname. He somehow suspected it was not from some old TV show.
“Set your cute ass anyplace you want,” she added as she grabbed Max’s arm and tugged it close to her body for a pseudo hug. Since her mammoth breasts occupied a position from just under her second chin to her waistband, he had the feeling he was being molested in some way. But he could merely be paranoid, not yet having gotten over the Mrs. Coltrane incident.
Managing a tight smile, he retrieved his arm and beelined for a booth in the far corner, where he could see the back of a blond head. Max knew exactly where he wanted to set his cute ass, and it was in the seat across from Sabrina Cavanaugh.
“Morning,” he said as he slid into the booth, glad he’d remembered to wear jeans this morning, rather than nicer pants. The first time he’d come here, his good trousers had gotten snagged on a ragged tear in the faux leather seat. And since there wasn’t a single seat in this place that wasn’t ripped and oozing with fluffy, grayish chair guts, he’d decided to never wear good clothes here again.
Sabrina apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. Her filmy, flowered sundress—which tied around her neck, revealing soft-looking, slender shoulders and long, slim arms—probably wasn’t much protection against the scratches. But the selfish s.o.b. in him couldn’t bring himself to care, because she looked so utterly beautiful.
“Mind if I join you?”
Sabrina’s eyes widened, as did her mouth, and she slowly shook her head. “No, not at all.”
“Coffee,” he said to the waitress, who he thought was called Scoot. He figured she was somehow connected to Tootie—daughter, granddaughter, former cellmate. Something.
“Is this your first time here?” he asked when Sabrina didn’t make any effort to initiate a conversation.
She shook her head. “I had dinner here Thursday night, when I first arrived.”
“Dinner. Impressive. I haven’t gone beyond a BLT for lunch.”
“Well, my host at the B&B offered me the use of his kitchen, as well as breakfast, so I’ve been eating in.” She shuddered lightly. “But today’s Saturday.”
