by Leslie Kelly
Beside her, more cash changed hands. So this was how a dead town got its kicks.
Miss Ivy, Sabrina assumed, was the one with her head twisted behind her like a giraffe doing the limbo, tugged into that position by the hand wound in her silvery curls. Sabrina wasn’t certain how she was going to get her opponent to let go—until she saw the hatpin appear in her fingers. When it disappeared into the fleshy arm holding her down, the other woman shrieked and rolled off the one called Miss Ivy.
“Is anyone going to put a stop to this?” she asked, shaking her head but unable to look away. It was like watching an episode of Fear Factor—a little embarrassing, at times disgusting, but fascinating nonetheless.
Feeling a hand on her arm, she glanced over and saw a resigned-looking young woman whose empty eyes matched those of so many other people’s here in Trouble.
“Honestly, it’s best to let them get it out of their systems here and now, where there are people around to take care of them if they get hurt.”
Sabrina couldn’t believe it. Nobody was going to dive in to tear the two women apart before they murdered each other. Or broke a few hips.
“Grandfather, what did you do?” Max asked, his voice low. The two of them were close enough for Sabrina to overhear, and she immediately focused her attention on Mortimer Potts.
A suspicious smile lurked on his lips. He didn’t appear at all displeased to have two women fighting over him. She somehow suspected his playboy grandson would have had the same reaction.
But would the mechanic? The man who had just admitted one of his deepest fears was this very scenario?
She honestly didn’t know.
Potts was wearing normal street clothes today. A bit overdressed in his old-fashioned seersucker suit, but not as remarkable as he’d been in his sheikh mode. “I didn’t do anything, my boy, not a thing. I am completely at a loss here. An innocent bystander, I assure you.”
“Yeah, right,” Max snapped. “Let’s get out of here before they come after you.”
Mortimer didn’t budge. “I’m quite sincere. I was merely taking a stroll with Miss Ivy, and invited her to come to tea. When her sister arrived, I asked her to join us, and suddenly they were, well, engaged in fisticuffs.”
The elderly gentleman looked at the two women, whose legs were entangled as they moved from slapping to wrestling. Both of them wore dresses, now stained and filthy with dirt and grass. Their new strategy of trying to pin one another had caused those dresses to ride up to the waist, revealing the seams of two matching pairs of support hose.
Sabrina had to admit, the skinnier one had nice legs.
Mortimer obviously noticed, too, because an unmistakable spark of interest appeared in his eyes.
The dog. Must run in the family.
“That is enough!” someone shouted.
The crowd seemed to melt back as a beefy, round man in a too-tight postal uniform pushed his way toward the center of the ring. “Miss Ivy, Miss Ida, you two should be ashamed of yourselves. You promised after the incident at the church carnival that this would never happen again.”
The women stopped rolling, though the smaller one did get in one more sharp-knuckled punch to the other’s hip.
“And you, you’re a lunatic and a disgrace,” the newcomer said, swinging around to face Mortimer, his tone dripping with malevolence. “Haven’t you done enough damage here without inciting riots? Why don’t you just go away and leave us in peace before you ruin everything?”
For the first time since she’d met him, Sabrina saw Mortimer Potts caught off guard. His mouth dropped open, but he said nothing. She’d swear that was hurt in his eyes, genuine dismay that someone so obviously disliked him.
A wave of anger rolled through her body until her temples pounded, and Sabrina suddenly understood the appeal of a little bitch-slapping. Though she had no idea where the protective instincts came from since she’d known Mr. Potts for only a short time, she wanted to reach out and smack this hateful-sounding stranger right across his jowly face. She settled for smacking him with some righteous indignation. “Why don’t you,” she said, pointing her index finger at his pendulous belly, “stick to getting these two back in their cages and leave this gentleman alone?”
Beside her, she heard Max make a sound that was half laugh, half cough. “It’s all right, I’ll handle this,” he whispered, flashing her an amused but grateful smile.
Feeling a hand slip into hers, she glanced down. Mortimer’s fingers were wrapped around her own, and he squeezed them lightly, expressing his silent thanks. And also, she suspected, telling her to let Max deal with it.
It wasn’t easy to do, but she knew, deep down, that Max wouldn’t allow anyone to get away with hurting Mortimer, so she forced herself to relax. But she still stayed close to the old man.
Strange. She’d only known these two a few days, yet right now, she felt they were a threesome facing down an enemy army. Or a crowd of superstitious, torch-bearing villagers ready to burn out the strangers.
Max stepped closer to the obnoxious man, who was about his height but probably outweighed him by forty pounds due to his chunkiness. Not that it seemed to matter. The man shuffled back a couple of inches and his belligerent expression faded a bit.
Though Max’s face appeared calm and relaxed, as usual, there was a spark of energy that practically made his words snap and sizzle. “Say one more vicious word to my grandfather and I’ll break you in half. Got it?”
A few people nearby must have overheard. A flurry of whispers—and a few laughs—told Sabrina a great deal about how this mean-spirited bully was thought of in the town of Trouble. Gave her a little hope for the humanity of the rest of them.
One fiftyish woman, an ash-blonde who’d been eating in the tavern when Sabrina arrived, put her hand on the man’s arm and pulled him back, obviously a lot stronger than her slim appearance would indicate. She was also tough, glaring the postman into silence. “Don’t you have mail to deliver, Dean Wilson?” Turning to Max’s grandfather, she murmured, “I’m so very sorry, Mr. Potts. You mustn’t think we all share those sentiments.”
Mortimer waved a hand unconcernedly. “That’s quite all right, Madame Mayor.” He smiled pleasantly, though a hint of mischief made his blue eyes gleam. “Madness comes in many forms, not the least of which is pure mean-spiritedness.”
Ooh. Score one for the old man.
“Cages?” one of the women on the ground suddenly asked, her voice shrill. “Did she say cages?”
The exclamation diffused the situation going on above the lady’s head. The chunky-legged one—who’d apparently just figured out Sabrina’s implication from a few moments before—looked up at her with an expression of offended surprise. It really didn’t go well with the rest of the woman’s appearance, since she was sitting in the dirt with one sleeve ripped off her dress to reveal a two-inch-wide bra strap, her granny panties peeking out from the waistband of her support hose, grass in her hair, a scratch on her arm and a big smudge of dirt on her cheek.
Disreputable, to say the least.
“Did you imply my sister is an animal?” the other Feeney sister asked, sounding every bit as affronted. Ladylike—as if she’d found an ant in her soup.
Sabrina couldn’t believe it. The two women looked like they were about to turn on her now.
“Ladies,” Max said as he pushed past the obnoxious postal worker, who was probably grateful for the interruption, since it allowed him to back down yet save face. “Please let me help you up. And do forgive my friend, she is as protective of my grandfather as I am. I’m sure you understand.”
He leaned over and offered each of the women a hand, carefully pulling them to their feet then stepping between them. “I don’t know what caused this misunderstanding, but it appears to be all over now.” Glancing at the crowd, he waved them off. “Nothing more to see, everyone can just move on.”
The two old ladies shifted, straightened, smoothed and sighed. But they didn’t touch each ot
her. And the crowd, for some unfathomable reason, obeyed. Max never even looked away from the old sisters, obviously fully expecting everyone to do as he had asked, not for a moment doubting they would.
Sabrina could only watch, more interested in the man than she’d ever been before. Because in the span of a half hour, he’d revealed so much about himself. Including depths and quirks of his personality that Sabrina would never have expected.
His uncertainties. His fierce protectiveness. His charm. His skill as a mediator.
Which left her wondering one thing—where, exactly, did the womanizing playboy fit into the mix?
CHAPTER SEVEN
A SHORT TIME LATER, Max stood with Sabrina in the parking lot of the tavern, watching as his grandfather left to escort the Feeney sisters home. If not for the crushed hat with the broken feather on one sister’s head, the broken heel on the shoe of the other and the torn, stained dresses, one might never have known the two old ladies had been trying to rip each other’s throats out ten minutes ago.
As they strolled off, the three of them smiled and chatted lightly, commenting on the mildness of the day and the pleasant chirp of the summer birds nesting in the tops of the dogwood trees lining the street.
These days, Max equated the chirping of birds with the swish of a falling guillotine, but who was he to argue. “This place is certifiable,” he muttered under his breath.
Sabrina simply nodded in silent agreement. Which was when he cursed himself for opening his big mouth. Talk about scaring off any potential buyers—this morning’s activities must surely have done it. First his big lapse in discussing ancient memories that had no business being thought of, much less talked about. Then a fight that nearly rivaled Foreman versus Ali.
“Your grandfather seems to have a way with the ladies. He’s a real bad boy at heart.” She didn’t look at him as she added, “Does that run in the family?”
Oh, if she only knew.
“Can’t really say. My brothers are both single but they’re also workaholics.”
“And you?”
“I’m a choirboy,” he said, not even hesitating. It was scary how easily that lie came to his lips. Her light peal of laughter told him just how much she believed it, too.
And here he thought he’d done such a good job of being the guy any woman would be proud to bring home to the folks. Well, except for that sexual rambling he’d been unable to control when they’d met by the carousel. Since then, however, he’d been on his best behavior.
Pretty much.
But the more he got to know Sabrina Cavanaugh, the more he wondered if the effort was worth it. It almost seemed pointless to continue to pretend to be something he wasn’t. Because if this woman with the big blue eyes and bright blond hair was a reporter for the Globe or the Enquirer, he’d surrender his entire Playboy magazine collection.
Hell, he’d been himself most of the time he’d been with her, anyway. Which was, in itself, strange. He usually didn’t open up to people he’d just met—especially not about things like his own fears and regrets.
She had an unusual effect on him. And for some reason, he found himself wanting to explore it more. Not as much as he wanted to explore the body under that soft-looking dress, of course, but close.
Okay, then, let it go. He could be himself, take the risk. No matter what Grace Wellington’s book might say, he wasn’t that different from any other guy—at least not anymore. Maybe a little more experienced. A little more successful with women. But not heartless, not even during his darkest days when he’d done some pretty stupid shit to try to wash away the humiliation of his divorce.
So why not take her up on the silent invitation she’d made with her eyes yesterday at his grandfather’s house, and see what happened?
Could be risky. Because even if Sabrina wasn’t a reporter, that didn’t mean she hadn’t been sent here as some kind of decoy. Or that someone hired by the publishing company wasn’t lurking around the corner, trying to get some womanizer dirt on him. Trouble could be a hotbed of dishonest, incognito activity. The very idea was so incongruous, he had to chuckle.
“Funny, I can’t picture you as a saintly kid. I somehow see you as the cautionary cartoon bad boy in the young man’s puberty handbook. The one with the cigarette in his hand.”
“Don’t smoke.”
“The beer can, then.”
“Don’t drink, either.”
Her eyes widened. “You really have no vices?”
He smiled. Slowly. Deliberately. “I didn’t say that.”
Oh, would he like to show her what a sinner he could be. Starting by pushing her up against the wall of the restaurant and kissing the taste out of her mouth.
She caught his expression, parted her lips and waved a hand in front of her face, as if fanning herself to cool off.
It wasn’t that hot.
Hell. He’d done it now. The awareness—the heat—was back, drifting between them as if it had physical form. A living entity of awareness and desire that they’d both been dancing around—or hiding from—since the moment they met.
“I happen to have one serious addiction,” he said, keeping his voice low, intimate. Then he stepped closer, until the tips of his shoes nearly touched her pretty pink toenails and he could feel the wispy softness of her dress against his forearm.
“What’s that?” Her words weren’t spoken. They were breathed.
He leaned closer, close enough that he could inhale and almost taste the sweet scent of her perfume and feel the brush of her blond hair against his cheek. Finally, his lips close to her temple, he asked, “You really want to know what turns me on more than anything?”
A choking little whimper came from her throat. Her eyes drifted closed and she nodded. “I do.”
He could tell her the truth. Tell her she turned him on, that he’d wanted her since the first second he set eyes on her. Then invite her to his car and drive the twenty miles to the next town, which had a decent hotel. Take her to bed and not let her up until…
Only one thing stopped him. Thoughts of the merger—and the book.
Though it almost killed him, he bit back his initial response and answered her question with a half truth. “Flying. Flying turns me on.”
Her eyes flared wide, in almost visible disappointment. As if she’d been prepared for another answer, and had been considering how to respond to it.
He might have told himself he couldn’t seduce her, but damned if he could refrain any longer from touching her. Because she was so close, because it was such a sultry day, because her skin smelled like strawberries and her lips were so lush, because he wanted to and could no longer fight the urge—he lowered his mouth to hers and stole a kiss.
He took nothing more than she offered, keeping the kiss sweet, soft. A gentle introduction to pleasure. A how-do-you-do and a how-well-we-would-do rolled into one.
She tasted good. He’d known she would. Like spicy, delicious woman. Warm and welcoming.
Sabrina was the one who took things further, tilting her head and parting her lips on his. Her hands crept up his chest until she looped her arms around his neck, pressing her slender, soft body tightly against him.
Max wasn’t about to deny himself the chance to taste her and he offered no resistance when she licked into his mouth. The slide of her tongue against his made the sidewalk roll again. And started that crazy, dizzy sensation in his head.
Each thrust was lazy, seductive. Her body began to sway slightly, brushing against his in an instinctive female dance that had every Y chromosome in his body standing up and begging.
He slid one hand into her hair to cup her head, letting the silkiness trap his fingers. Dropping his other hand to her hip, he caressed her, soaking in the warmth of her body. The halter dress was delightfully accessible and he took full advantage. Exploring her bare back, he trailed his fingers across her waist, savoring the silky skin, delicately brushing his thumb against the tiny protrusions of her spine.
“Max,�
� she moaned into his mouth.
He honestly didn’t know if she was about to say they should stop or beg him not to. Choosing option two, he tugged her closer, splaying his hand across her lower back until his fingertips brushed the curve of her ass.
She whimpered, writhed a little, rocking back against his hand as if wanting more, then pressing forward until her soft thighs outlined his rock-hard sex. Even through her filmy dress and his own pants he could feel the heat of her and knew she was wet, ready and hungry. Tight. Sweet—so sweet. The image of plunging into all that liquid warmth with his cock, his fingers, or his tongue sent every other thought out of his head. There was only want.
Cupping her backside, he tugged her up onto her tiptoes, pulling her closer until she was almost riding him. Her soft breasts were crushed against his chest and her fragrant curls brushed his face. “Fly with me,” he muttered, before capturing her mouth again, sliding his tongue deep the way he wanted to slide into her body. Slowly. Deliberately. Savoring every intimate stroke.
Whimpering, she twined her fingers tightly in his hair and kissed him back. She ground against him, her sighs telling him exactly where his rigid erection was pleasuring her, tormenting them both with the knowledge of how good—how very good—it could be if not for their clothes.
Pulling away to draw in a ragged breath, she whispered, “We shouldn’t…”
“To hell with shouldn’ts.”
Sabrina groaned in surrender and he ate the groan up, not about to let her go, not without another deep thrust of his tongue and hungry exploration of her mouth.
He wanted to continue tasting and exploring her all afternoon, but the loud beeping of a horn reminded him he could not. Remembering they were standing on a public street, Max regretfully ended the encounter, removed his hand from her delightfully curvy butt and stepped back.
Watching her staring at him with a ravenous look in those baby blues, he forced himself to back up even more. He had to, if only to avoid giving in to the temptation to kiss her all over again. Or to push her against the nearest building, yank that dress up and sink his fingers into her hot, creamy crevice to see if she really was as ready as he thought she was. Figuring the customers watching them through the front window of the small grocery store had had enough titillation for the day, he resisted the urge.
