In Bed with the Wild One & In Bed with the Pirate

by Julie Kistler

  Kate rocked back on her heels, like a kid waiting for something. “May I come in?”

  Toby opened the door wide. Kate almost skipped past. With great fanfare, she set the bag on the bed. Gesturing toward it, she announced, “I brought you some clothes.”

  He hoped it wasn’t something with pepperoni all over it. “Thank you.”

  Kate looked around. “So, what have you been doing since I left?”

  “Took up kayaking. Tried my hand at parasailing.” When she flashed him a puzzled look, he felt a stab of guilt. Maybe her hair looked as though she could pick up radio waves from Cleveland, but the real Kate obviously had a gullible streak. “Seriously,” he said, “I wondered how I could woo Mickey and Minnie.”

  Kate paused. “You shouldn’t be left alone too often.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  He offered a small smile. “Mickey and Minnie are the Dobermans.”

  Her blue eyes widened. “You’re kidding!”

  “I’m serious. That’s what I heard them called, anyway.”

  “Who’d name two ferocious beasts Mickey and Minnie?”

  He pretended to ponder that for a moment. “Somebody who had a very bad childhood experience at Disneyland?”

  Kate’s impish grin returned. “Instead of pointy ears, do those Dobermans have big rounded ones?”

  “Hard to tell when you’re running for your life.” He didn’t want to pursue this line of conversation. It would lead to discussing things like Free, her boyfriend-of-the-moment, and Toby’s needing to feign things were hunky-dory between him and Free tomorrow night.

  He had better things to do, like get dressed. He headed toward the bag, but Kate beat him to it. She snatched Pudgie’s Pizza away and held it behind her. “I’m afraid…”

  “Of what? Leftover pizza?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll throttle me when you see what’s in here.”

  4

  “I DON’T THROTTLE. And even if I did, I’d do it in a car.” Car. Firebird. Fireball. Whoever thought up word association had a cruel streak. He motioned toward the bag. “Give me Chubbie.”

  She looked stricken. “I don’t call you ‘Undie.”’

  “I meant the bag.”

  “Oh. Pudgie’s.” She started to hand it over, then hesitated. “I—I should exchange them.” Her eyes were so wide, he could see the white all the way around the blue.

  “Why?” He gestured as though to say What’s the problem? I haven’t tried them on yet. He reached for the bag. She stepped back. “What have you purchased that’s so horrible?”

  “The shirt has no pocket.”

  “I’ll live.” He reached. She stepped back. He blew out an exasperated breath. “Kate, I don’t care about the fricking pocket! I just want to put something on my body other than a red satin comforter or a fuzzy white towel!” He never blew up. But then he’d never been homeless and clothesless before, either. Holding his emotion in check, he said as calmly as possible, “I know you did your best and for that I’m eternally grateful.”

  “You won’t be mad?”

  “No.” If he answered anything else, he’d be wearing a towel for the rest of his life.

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” he lied, stealing her head-bobbing technique to make it seem surer. “Positive. Absolutely. Right now, I’d wear almost anything. I’d wear your mother’s pink-flowered housedress even though we both know pink isn’t my color.”

  Kate’s lips curled into that impish grin that did funny things to his insides. “All right,” she said slowly, drawing the bag out from behind her back. “Guess I’m just being oversensitive.”

  “Yes, I guess you are,” he answered, taking the bag. He reached inside and felt something soft, buttery. He pulled it out. “Black…leather…?”

  Kate fumbled with her hair. “They didn’t have any other kind of pants. I know you said you hated black pants, but I figured black leather pants would be different.”

  “Different all right,” he murmured. “I’ll look like a dominatrix.”

  Was he kidding? No way would anyone confuse him for anything other than an all-male hunk. “North Beach is known for its leather.”

  “North Beach is also the heart of the Beat generation, but that doesn’t mean I need to look like Jack Kerouac.” Kerouac. On The Road. Firebird. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his fingertips in a small circular pattern against his temple. “I’m sorry. You did your best. Black pants aren’t the end of the world.” He needed to chill. Kate had given him shelter, fed him, dressed him. So what if she was a dangerous, car-bombing, Motown-blasting woman? Underneath that color wheel was a heart, a soft and generous woman who reminded him he had a heart, too.

  As his mother would say, “When life throws tomatoes, make a great pasta sauce.”

  Opening his eyes, he donned his most valiant smile. “Just as long as you didn’t get me a matching black-fringed leather vest, I’ll be fine.” He peered into the bag. “Good God Almighty.”

  “That was the only shirt they had, too,” Kate whispered apologetically.

  Toby pulled out the red silk shirt. “Where’d you buy this stuff? Was a flamenco dancer giving a garage sale?” He stared at the clothing clutched in his hands. “Black leather pants and a bloodred shirt. Forget the dominatrix. People will think I’m a gigolo.” He leveled a look at Kate. “Your mother will faint.”

  “She already did. Seven years ago, in this very room.”

  “Another of your captive naked men episodes?”

  Kate’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon! You’re not my captive, you’re my guest. My uninvited guest, might I add. And although Melanie seems to think I traipse around my inn in the midnight hours with naked—or nearly naked—men, I’ll have you know that last night is the wildest episode I’ve ever had with a man!”

  Toby swore her hair stood on end. Staring at those flashing eyes and spiky hair, he mentally reassured himself that his Audi was safely parked in his garage. “Sorry. I’m not captive, just naked. And you’ve been wonderful. Better than wonderful. You’re magnificent. Generous. Skinny.”

  Her eyes sparkled with gratitude. “I’m not skinny.” But the tone of her voice said, “Am I? Really?” She pointed at the Pudgie’s Pizza bag.

  “There’s something else in there?” he asked.

  She bobbed her head yes.

  “Is it red or black?”

  She shook her head no.

  Then there’s hope. “Let’s skip the surprise part and you just tell me what it is.”

  “Well, you don’t have any more…well, you know…” She motioned toward his crotch.

  “Underwear?”

  She bobbed her head again. “Right. Underwear. You only have that red stretchy, clingy pair.” She gulped several breaths as though the room suddenly lacked enough oxygen. “So I got you some more. They’re Raymond’s, Bab’s ex.”

  Toby stared at Kate for a long, solid moment. “Did I miss a U-turn in this conversation? Who’s Bab? Who’s Raymond?”

  “Bab runs Bab’s Barbary Post, the store where I got your clothes. Raymond is her ex-boyfriend. His clothes were on the mannequin, and Bab let me buy them.”

  Toby rubbed his temple again. If he stayed in this conversation too long, he’d wear a patch a skin off his forehead. “I can comprehend wearing hand-me-downs. My younger brothers got mine. But…” Toby eased in a stream of air, willing himself to sound calm. “But I draw the line at wearing this Raymond fellow’s underwear.”

  “No! You got it all wrong. Well, part of it wrong. The pants and shirt are hand-me-downs, okay. But Bab remembered some unopened T-shirts and underwear she’d bought for Raymond before they broke up.” A cloud passed over her face. “Kind of a sad story. Seems Raymond dressed wildly, but was really a boring guy underneath. Laid concrete during the day, watched TV nonstop at night. One evening, when she was talking to Raymond, he pointed the remote at her and pressed the off button. That’s when she
knew it was over.”

  Toby opened his eyes, wondering if he pointed a remote at his own home, could he turn off Mickey and Minnie. Maybe if he pressed again, he’d also turn off Free and her boyfriend-of-the-moment. Maybe that Raymond fellow was onto something.

  “Anyway,” Kate continued, “I mentioned you were only wearing a pair of skimpy, clingy…” She did that breath-gulping thing again. “So Bab offered Raymond’s undies. Her apartment is behind the shop, and she went back and got them.” Kate pointed at the bag. “They’re new. Unused. Factory fresh.”

  Toby dug inside the bottom of the bag and extracted a plastic-wrapped package. “Tiger-striped underwear?”

  “As I said, Raymond liked to dress wildly.” Kate began backing up toward the door. “I should give you your privacy, let you get dressed. I guess after that you’ll be leaving, right?”

  “I’d like to, except I need some shoes.”

  Kate stopped and frowned. “Darn. Forgot to ask if Raymond had any leftover ones.”

  “That’s okay. They’d probably be purple-tipped silver-gilded cowboy boots. Actually, I was thinking you could help me break into my house.”

  “Break in? Where are Free and…?” Kate clamped shut her mouth.

  “I saw them—with the dogs—leave about an hour ago. Probably to her favorite breakfast spot, Columbus Café—which means they’ll be gone for at least another hour. I figure we can sneak in the kitchen window, which is never locked, get my shoes and some more clothes, my keys, then plan our next move.”

  “Our next move? When did I become your accomplice?”

  “When you robbed Raymond of his clothes.” Okay, it was a far-flung reason, but Toby was accustomed to saying some outrageous things while negotiating a deal.

  She paused, seemingly lost in thought. “No,” she answered slowly, her eyes twinkling mischievously, “it must have been after you agreed to help me get Melanie back to South Carolina.”

  “I never agreed to that.”

  She arched one eyebrow. “Let’s see…you need to pull off some dinner tomorrow night? Seems you’ll be needing more than just a little breaking in. You need a matchmaker to help patch it up with Free so you can be back in your house and entertain your boss who’s going to offer you a promotion—if your home life appears normal.”

  She was good. “Why do you want your mother to go back to South Carolina? You seem to miss the fact that she’s here for you.”

  “That’s what Verna says,” Kate murmured, looking perplexed. She gave her head a shake. “I’ll leave so you can get dressed.” And with that, Kate strode out of the room, walking forward instead of backward.

  “GOOD MORN—GOOD LORD!” Melanie’s cheeks stained to a perfect pastel pink.

  Kate followed the line of her mother’s vision to the staircase. She almost blurted “Good Lord” too, except she’d lost the power of speech.

  Toby stood in the middle of the staircase, looking like the swashbuckler of her dreams. The tight black leather pants encased his legs closer than skin around a sausage. Kate’s gaze roamed up his molded calves to his muscled thighs. She skimmed over the bulge, trying not to dwell on its tiger-striped secret, her gaze finally landing on the deep vee in the flowing red silk shirt. Within the confines of that vee was the carpet of butterscotch hair, swirls and whorls of it, a regular chest-hair mob scene.

  Melanie snorted, or tried to. Maybe she was simply having trouble breathing. “Young man,” she said hoarsely, “you seem to have forgotten somethin’.”

  A knife between his teeth? A sword in his hand? Kate’s mind went into overdrive, like a hormone-crazed hamster on a treadmill.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Toby answered, “I don’t have my shoes.”

  Kate’s gaze swept down to Toby’s bare feet. From this distance, it was difficult to tell if the masculine tufts of hair on his big toes were butterscotch-colored as well.

  “Do they call these summer colors in San Francisco?” Melanie asked, obviously breathing better because the familiar you’re-not-dressed-properly tone was back.

  “It appears so,” Toby answered, continuing down the staircase. Was it Kate’s imagination or did Toby walk differently dressed in those clothes? He truly moved like a panther. It took the molded leather to reveal the stealthy, muscle-rippling steps of a hunter on the prowl.

  Plundering.

  He stopped at the bottom of the steps. “You look lovely this morning, Mrs. Corrigan.”

  Lord. Even his voice had a predator’s warning growl. For the second time in her life, Kate watched her mother blush. “Why, thank you,” she oozed, her Southern accent suddenly stronger than black-strap molasses.

  Kate pursed her lips so as not to say something she’d regret like “suck-up.”

  “You look nice too, Kate,” Toby said.

  She tried to glare at him, but it was difficult when heat flooded her cheeks and her heart was racing. “Why, thank you,” she said, hearing the same black-strap molasses in her own voice. Impossible! Things were getting out of control. Toby wasn’t Toby any longer. Where before she’d caught glimpses of the pirate, she now saw the sinewy, plundering, sex-starved, marauding swashbuckler in the flesh.

  And, in her imagination, she was his woman, the object of this pirate’s fiery passion. And what would a pirate’s woman say at this magical moment? “Want some coffee?” Kate squeaked, hitching her head toward the kitchen.

  He obviously caught her head-hitch because he politely excused himself and headed toward the kitchen.

  “Those pants look mighty tight,” Melanie whispered as he walked away. “And that shirt! What kind of man dresses for work looking like that?”

  She didn’t want her mother getting overly enthralled with Toby. After all, she wanted her mother to return home, not become a swashbuckler groupie.

  “He’s a gigolo,” Kate answered crisply before following him into the kitchen.

  Inside, she saw Verna over Toby’s shoulder. Verna was holding a spatula straight up into the air as she stared wide-eyed at Toby. “Coffee’s over there,” she said hoarsely.

  Toby looked around. “Where?”

  “There.” Verna pointed with the spatula toward the coffeepot, which was partially hidden behind a cookie jar. Her eyes, however, stayed glued on Toby. When he moved, her gaze remained frozen on the space where he’d been standing.

  “Are you okay?” Kate whispered to her friend’s glazed expression.

  “Those pants,” Verna whispered. “Mick Jagger, step aside.”

  “Anybody else want coffee?” Toby asked from across the kitchen, pouring himself a cup.

  “No, I drank a superstrength latte earlier,” Kate said. “Strong enough to put hair on my chest.” She and Verna shifted their gazes to Toby’s chest.

  “He certainly doesn’t need one of those,” Verna said under her breath. She raised her voice. “So you’re Toby, the man from Kismet.”

  He smiled. “And you’re…?”

  “Verna, the woman from the kitchen.” The phone that hung on the kitchen wall rang. Verna gave Kate a pointed glance. “It’s your father again. He’s been calling Melanie every five minutes for the past twenty, but she always has me say she’s not here, so I’m not going to answer this time and give the same lame excuse.”

  Kate flashed her friend a what-is-this-about? look, although she really couldn’t concentrate on anything but Toby, who sparked her wildest fantasies just standing in the kitchen.

  Verna shrugged. “She confided to me that she’s claiming her independence. Wants to be a new woman. Seems after your kid brother left home, she felt like Betty Crocker in a vacuum. Those were her exact words. Said something about wanting to retrieve something she’d lost.”

  Betty Crocker in a vacuum? Melanie? This was a new twist for Beaufort’s Best Brownies’ maker. As the phone stopped ringing, it occurred to Kate that she really ought to ponder this new twist in her mother’s character. But there was Toby, sucking up every single facet of her attention.

 
He was leaning casually against the counter. Kate tried not to stare at the curve of thigh muscle underneath the strained leather. “A while back,” he said to Verna, filling up the awkward silence, “weren’t you the one who called about my playing Beethoven too loud?”

  She motioned with the spatula toward Kate. “She made me do it.”

  Kate started to sputter in her defense, but Toby continued talking to Verna. “So you’re the cook?” When she nodded, he added, “Wonderful breakfast.”

  “Why, thank you,” she said on an escape of breath. “Kate and I fantasize about one day expanding this inn so it includes a real restaurant.” She dropped her head and stared at Toby with big, gray glassy eyes.

  Suck-up. Had to be the outfit. Fighting a surge of wildly irrational jealousy that she pretended had to be heartburn, Kate took a giant step and placed herself squarely between Verna and Mr. Meltdown. “We can’t stand around all day drinking coffee. We have less than an hour to plan our break-in,” Kate said loudly. Jeez. She never acted like this, all huffy and dictatorial. All right, maybe occasionally she did, but only when she was telling Verna who to call.

  “Break-in?” Verna asked, back to her normal voice.

  “I need to retrieve some shoes and other things,” Toby said, and took another gulp of coffee.

  “Lou had feet like yours,” Verna said. “Big. But I didn’t keep any of his shoes.” A sad look flickered across her face. Aimlessly smoothing a pleat on her skirt, she said, “So, I guess you didn’t bring keys to your place if you’re needing to break in. How about outside? Any keys hidden in a flower pot or something?”

  “No. But we always leave the back kitchen window open a notch for fresh air. I figure Kate and I can jimmy open the window.”

  Kate frowned. “Isn’t your kitchen about the same level as our kitchen?”

  Toby nodded.

  “We’ll need a ladder to get to that window. Unfortunately, I loaned mine to Mr. Nelson down the street.”