by Leslie Kelly
Sabrina lifted her hand to her throat as she drew in a few slow, deep breaths. Her chest rose and fell with her inhalations and her silky, flimsy dress highlighted the tight nipples topping those delicate breasts beneath the fabric. Max closed his eyes briefly, willing away the tingle in his hands—which would fit so nicely around those soft mounds—and the sudden desperate hunger he felt to taste them.
“Flying, huh?” she finally asked, still sounding breathless. “Flying is what turns you on?”
Max nodded, feeling his heart finally slow down and return to a regular rhythm. “Yeah, Sabrina. Flying. It totally turns me on.”
Sabrina stared at him, then shook her head once—twice—visibly trying to clear it. The warm, lazy lust in her eyes faded away, replaced by a confused uncertainty, then a small frown of regret.
Damn. He didn’t like that confusion and he sure as hell didn’t like the regret.
Finally, her shoulders squaring, she cleared her throat and tipped her chin up. “I have to tell you something. If just a kiss makes me ready to rip my own clothes off on a public street and completely lose control of myself, then there’s one thing I know for sure.”
Clothes ripping off…losing her mind—those were good things. But he could tell by her tone that he wasn’t going to like whatever it was she knew for sure. “What’s that?”
“I’m never going up in a tiny little airplane with you, Max Taylor.”
And without another word, she turned and walked back to the entrance of the tavern.
Max watched her go, not trying to stop her. Noting a slight wobble in her step, he couldn’t prevent a smile. He apparently wasn’t the only one who’d been left weak-kneed by the unexpected heat of their encounter. Judging by her confusion, he wasn’t the only one who’d been left a little stunned by it, either.
“You’re wrong about one thing, angel,” he whispered as he saw her reach for the door handle of the restaurant. She peeked over her shoulder, saw him watching, but ignored him and marched inside.
Laughing softly, Max said, “You are going to fly with me sooner or later.”
THE BUS DIDN’T go all the way to the town of Trouble. Allie hadn’t worried too much about that when she’d boarded it shortly after dawn on Sunday morning in Philadelphia, figuring she’d work it out when she got to the end of the line, twenty miles or so from her destination. She’d grab a taxi or find a local commuter bus or something.
But there didn’t seem to be any taxis or commuter buses in the town of Weldon, Pennsylvania. At least, none she could see as she stood on the curb outside the bus terminal, her small suitcase in one hand, and a dog leash in the other.
Speaking of which…“Butch, no, wait until we get to some grass,” she hissed when she realized the dog was doing his business right on the sidewalk.
Of course, he had been holding it for several hours, so she couldn’t entirely blame him. But she had the feeling he was doing it to mark the area as his own, since a Labrador was loping up the street toward them with a friendly doggy grin.
Butch bared his teeth and growled, bouncing on all fours like a cartoon pup, as if daring the bigger dog to approach his newly claimed territory. The lab gave the poodle a condescending sneer as he and his owner ambled by.
“You’re a big brave boy,” she said, not wanting Butch to feel hurt at having his fierceness so casually dismissed.
“He sure doesn’t act like a specially trained rescue dog,” someone said from behind her.
Allie glanced over her shoulder and saw an elderly woman with short, curly grey hair, who’d been on the bus with her. The woman—dressed in the brightest, loudest purple blouse Allie had ever seen—had been kind, sharing her sweet, juicy grapes during the four-hour trip. Her eyes twinkled with amusement. As if she knew Allie had been lying about Butch’s abilities as a seizure-sensing companion.
“He’s very smart,” Allie insisted, tilting her head up. “Poodles are, you know.”
He probably was smart enough to really be trained to react to medical emergencies. Besides, he looked so adorable in his tiny vest, which identified him as a special assistance dog. Good thing she’d thought to quickly make it last night, once, knowing where Sabrina really was, she had made the decision to come after her.
No way could she leave Butch behind—not only because she had no one to care for him, but also because she was right in the middle of training him as an attack dog. Ever since running into Peter the other night, she’d been working with Sabrina’s pet on one trick: how to bite Peter Prescott right where it counted if he ever showed up again.
Butch was a good little leaper. And he’d gotten really skilled at snatching the two kiwi fruit off the string she’d dangled down the front of a life-size, cardboard stand-up poster of a man. Sometimes he even managed to get them without bringing down the banana, as well.
Not that Allie really cared if Peter’s banana got nipped, too, but she was trying to teach the dog precision in his attack.
“You’re a good boy, Butch, and I’ll get you to some grass, I promise,” she whispered. She was desperate to find some facilities for herself again soon, too, courtesy of the bladder-bashing creature living inside her uterus.
“For a minute, I thought the driver wasn’t going to let him on,” the older woman said, still staring curiously—though not unkindly—at Allie, and the dog.
“You and me both.”
As she’d expected, the bus driver had given her trouble about bringing Giorgio—Butch—along this morning. But with a pair of moist eyes, a shaky hand lifted to her forehead while another went to her belly and a tiny bit of a wobble in her step, Allie had convinced him not to argue with her.
The threat to call the ACLU if he didn’t let her travel with her special assistance animal had helped. So had her asking the man if he really wanted to be driving down the highway with a seven-months’ pregnant woman having a grand mal episode.
Allie was a big fan of Grey’s Anatomy and E.R.
Goodness, how her family would frown if they could see the dark, deceitful path the middle Cavanaugh daughter was traveling these days. Lying, scheming, blackmailing. They probably wouldn’t recognize her.
A tiny bit of her—the old Alicia who’d been a small-town girl fresh to the big city less than a year ago—was bothered about that. The new Allie, who was about to be a mother and had been completely cut off by nearly everyone she’d ever cared about, didn’t give a damn.
“We made it this far,” she whispered. All three of them. Allie, baby and poodle.
Now they just had to make it the rest of the way to the town of Trouble—where her sister had a lot of explaining to do. A whole lot. Like why she’d lied about a book expo. Why she hadn’t been there to stop Allie from doing something stupid like going out and running into Peter.
Why she’d left.
Was Sabrina abandoning her, too?
The older woman bent down and patted Giorgio on the top of his head. Then she offered him a few little bits of a Slim Jim she’d had tucked in her pocket.
Mmm. Slim Jim.
Her mouth watering, Allie wondered if she should go find a restaurant before setting out for Trouble. Seemed like she was always hungry…or the baby was. But her money was limited, and she’d had a sandwich during a fuel-stop just an hour and a half ago. That’d last her for a while.
But mmm…Slim Jim.
“You were very nice to me,” Allie said to the lady when she straightened up. Glancing at the woman’s hands, she wondered if the dog had eaten every bit of the treat or if the meat stick had been part of a two-pack.
“You looked so young, and so tired,” the stranger said.
She was tired. And young. But she wasn’t helpless, and she knew when it was time to own up to her actions. “I’m fine. But I have to be honest with you—he’s not really a seizure dog. I made that up so the driver would let him on the bus.”
One side of the woman’s mouth curled up and her tone was dry as she said, “Well, gee, you
don’t say. Who would ever have imagined that?”
“Obviously not that bus driver,” Allie said, liking the older woman’s friendly smile and hint of sarcasm. She obviously hadn’t been fooled.
“Lucky for you.”
“Lucky for all of us,” she said, rubbing her hand on her big belly.
“Is that real, or a pillow?” the woman asked, her brown eyes twinkling.
“Definitely real. Couldn’t you tell by how often I had to get up to use the facilities on the bus?”
“Yes. I could.” The lady reached a hand out, and for a second Allie tensed, thinking she was going to touch her belly. It was so weird how people felt completely comfortable putting their hands on her body, like she was some fluffy chair at a department store. One of these days, she was going to pat some touchy stranger right back, just to get the rudeness across.
But the woman lightly touched her shoulder instead, as if offering a bit of comfort and support. “My name’s Emily.”
“I’m Alicia.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Emily said. “Now, tell me, dear, is anyone coming to get you?”
Allie sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. The last thing she wanted was to be a burden on this very nice lady. She was tired of being a burden on everyone. But she could use a little help—like, at least, the phone number of the local cab company.
“Not exactly.”
“How far are you going?”
“To a town called Trouble.”
“Well, this is your lucky day, then, isn’t it?” Emily said with a huge smile, which made her cheeks puff out in two rosy circles. She reached over and took the small suitcase out of Allie’s hand, waving off any protest. “I live in Trouble. Just went into the city to do some shopping. Can’t get a decent pair of underwear within fifty miles of here, much less a dress to wear to a wedding.”
Allie’s heart skipped a beat. “Do you have a car? Can you give me a ride?”
The woman shook her head. “Nope, I don’t drive, that’s why I took the bus.”
Allie’s hopes shrank. “Oh.”
“But I might be able to help you with that ride. My nephew—my brother’s boy—is visiting me this week. He’s been staying at my house the last couple of days while I was gone, and he’s coming to pick me up any minute now.”
Allie opened her mouth to reply, unable to believe her good fortune. Before she could get a word out, though, a small sedan pulled up to the curb with a cheery beep of the horn. As she watched, a young, dark-haired man stepped out of the driver’s side.
He had a nice smile. A very nice smile. His wasn’t a particularly handsome face, but a nicely-put-together one. Plus he had an average-height body—that could be on the cover of Sports Illustrated…
Forget it. You’ve had enough experience with men to last a lifetime.
“Here’s my Joey,” the woman said. “Now just hand your things over to him and get yourself all buckled in the back seat. We’ll get you where you’re going. Joey, we’ve got a couple of traveling companions today.”
Joey gave his aunt a surprised look, then Allie a curious one. But it quickly faded when he saw her big stomach, the leash in her hand and, perhaps, the flash of fear on her face.
A nice smile? She didn’t know how she could have thought that. Because the one he flashed at her as he took her suitcase from his aunt was heavenly, complete with dimples.
“Pleased to meet you.”
She was pleased to meet him, too, on top of having met his kind aunt. Things were definitely looking up. Allie couldn’t help feeling better about today, like she’d made the right decision in coming here.
How funny—on Friday, when she’d found out where Sabrina had gone, she’d had a few misgivings about following her. The name of the town had seemed like a bad omen. But really, if Trouble, Pennsylvania, boasted of such lovely, old-fashioned, kind-hearted people, how bad could it be?
CHAPTER EIGHT
TALKING TO A BALD, naked, middle-aged guy about a problem with leaky pipes wasn’t high on Sabrina’s list of favorite things to do. But since the sink in her private bathroom had started leaking this morning, getting water all over the bath mats and threatening to float into the bedroom, she really had no choice.
Why, oh why, couldn’t the thing have broken tomorrow morning, Monday, instead of now, the weekend—his special time. But it hadn’t, which meant she had to track down her landlord immediately.
Eyes front. Chin up. Head back.
She found Mr. Fitzweather in the backyard of the Dewdrop, trimming the tangle of vines that grew on the trellises around the large hot tub. The thick, flowery hedge provided a nice screen for the spa, giving it an air of privacy and the feel of being in a secluded grove. If not for the cheesy-looking, naked cupids dangling fake grapes overhead as they squirted water into the spa through their tiny peepees, it might actually look elegant.
Not that she’d use the thing in a million and a half years. Not unless Mr. Clean and a hundred Merry Maids came and worked on it for a week and the Culligan Man himself declared the water fit to use.
“Um, Mr. Fitzweather?” she said, spying a bare shoulder on the other side of the thick vines. Maybe she’d get lucky and he’d stay there.
He took one step out from behind the trellis.
Damn.
Fortunately, though, he didn’t come any farther, so only his side—a lumpy, rolling flank the color of a dead mullet—remained in her line of sight. “Good morning, Miss Cavanaugh! Beautiful day to be out and about, enjoying the sunshine, don’t you think?”
It was hotter than Johnny Depp out here. Even though she’d just come outside, her brow already dripped sweat. Still, she wasn’t going to argue with a fat, naked man holding a pair of hedge clippers. “Yes, wonderful.”
“Ah, one moment, let me get this one,” he said.
Sabrina’s hope that the man would remain mostly hidden deserted her. Al Fitzweather stepped completely out from behind the green screen and leaned up on tiptoe to snip at one protruding vine.
Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
“That’s better. Now, what can I do for you?”
She stared directly into his round face. If a sexual or suggestive expression had been there, she would have stormed off and taken her chances with Norman Bates up at the hotel on the hill. But there wasn’t. The middle-aged man just appeared friendly and completely comfortable.
She was about as comfortable as a pair of spike-heeled shoes. But she swallowed away her anxiety and pretended she was talking to a fully clothed, normal person. “I’m having a problem in my room,” she explained. “I think one of the pipes broke, because there’s water all over the bathroom floor.”
Mr. Fitzweather frowned in disapproval. “Did you flush anything…unseemly?”
Eww. This coming from the small-town exhibitionist. “No. It appears to be coming from the sink beneath the cabinet.”
“Did you wash anything unseemly down the drain?”
Okay, the man was a fruitcake. What, exactly, did he imagine she’d shoved into the tiny drain opening, her drug stash? “Nothing unseemly, I assure you. I turned off the valves under the sink, so the leaking has stopped, but I assumed you’d want to take care of it before the standing water causes any damage.”
He waved a hand, obviously forgetting the pair of clippers clutched in it. Sabrina took a quick step back to avoid having an ear cut off. He didn’t seem concerned about cutting anything else off.
“Very well, I’ll deal with it later. I’ve a lot of work to do just now. The ladies Garden Club is coming over to view my hedges this morning, and I must get ready.”
Hmm. A ladies garden club. Seemed to Sabrina that getting ready for such an event might include tidying up, making cucumber sandwiches.
Putting on some damn clothes.
But before she could say anything—not that she knew what to say, other than, Gee, you going to leave your Wee Willie Winkie out when you welcome the mayor?—s
he heard someone calling from the side gate.
“Sabrina? You back there?”
She recognized the voice. Max.
If she’d thought she was hot and steamy before, that was nothing compared to how she felt now. A rush of heat washed over her and her face probably turned as red as Mr. Fitzweather’s shiny bald head.
She couldn’t face Max. Not after what had happened yesterday. Not after she’d totally blown her chance to do exactly what she’d come here to do—seduce the man into some serious misbehavior—by practically running away after a little kiss.
Okay, it hadn’t been little, she had to admit that much, at least to herself. It had been huge. Enormous. A galaxy of a kiss.
Sabrina had had a few lovers—even one or two good ones. But she’d never been involved with a fabulous kisser.
Max Taylor was one fabulous kisser.
Just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of tenderness. Not too dry, not too wet. The way he’d slid his hands in her hair and cupped her face had made her shiver. A lot of men liked to squeeze the breath out of the woman they were kissing as if physical control would be a turn-on. But that simple curl of Max’s hand around her jaw had been much more sexy and possessive than any full-frontal embrace Sabrina had ever experienced.
She’d loved the stroke of his tongue, the pressure of his lips, the maple sweetness of his breath. Then there was his huge…oh, Lord, she was getting all shaky merely thinking about it.
“Is that someone calling you?” Mr. Fitzweather said.
Okay, she could pretend it wasn’t and stand here trying to look everywhere but at the Fitzweather family stones, or she could remember why she’d come to town and march over to the gate to greet Max Taylor.
He was infinitely more appealing in every way, even if her so-called mission was not. She didn’t know exactly when the idea had become so unappealing to her. It had always sounded stupid to think she could fool a playboy into trying to seduce her and show his true colors. But now, since she’d started getting to know Max, she honestly had to question everything she thought she knew about him. Could he be the absolutely amazing lover Grace Wellington had written about? Yes. No question about it. That kiss yesterday had confirmed it for her beyond all doubt.
