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

by Julie Kistler

  Toby shook his head. “No problem. You’ll stand on my shoulders.”

  KATE AND TOBY STOOD in the alley behind his house, looking up at his kitchen window. “You have plants on the ledge,” Kate noted.

  “Herbs. Mainly basil.” He stepped onto a patch of dirt underneath the window and crouched. “Step on my shoulders.”

  “Can’t you crouch down more?”

  “If I had extra breathing room in my pants, yes. But I don’t, so no.”

  Kate needed some extra breathing herself after that comment. “Melanie has some stretchy fuzzy slippers that would go great with your black leather pants and red silk shirt. You could wear those and we could forget this.”

  Toby shot her a look. “I’m not adding fuzzy women’s slippers to this outfit. Because if I did, there are certain parts of San Francisco I could never walk through. Now, get on my—”

  “Shoulders. I know.” Kate gingerly set one sandaled foot on a shoulder.

  Toby raised his hands over his head. “Grab hold,” he commanded.

  Was it her imagination or was he acting more demanding, more…piratelike…since he’d put on these clothes? She put her hands in his, but her foot still on the ground hesitated. What was she doing crawling onto the shoulders of this man? Did she really believe his story, complete with Dobermans named Mickey and Minnie? Maybe this wasn’t even Toby, but a Toby-look-alike who was breaking in to steal, say, money or beads.

  “What are you doing?” he asked gruffly.

  “Thinking.”

  “Care to share your thoughts? Quickly? I want to get this over with.”

  “Maybe you’re not really Toby Mancini,” she said rapidly, “maybe you’re a bead thief.”

  Hunched over, he was quiet for a moment. “That was what you were thinking?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is my house. We’re getting my shoes and my clothes. If I was a mastermind bead thief, I’d do this under the cover of night, with professional tools, not with my next-door neighbor on my shoulders. Issue settled?”

  A convincing argument. “Okay.” In one swift movement, she hoisted her foot and planted it on his shoulder. Her weight was totally on him, every muscle quivering as though she were doing some overall body isometric. Growing up a tomboy, she was used to climbing trees, fences, you name it. But climbing on top of Toby Mancini was suddenly difficult, probably because he made her knees weak. Heck, he made her whole body weak.

  “Hold on.” Toby took a deep breath. She heard him exhale, slowly, like an athlete ready to perform. Or a pirate ready to plunder. “I’m going to stand. Ready?”

  “Ready,” she squeaked.

  As he lifted, she death-gripped his hands while her mouth emitted a prolonged sound, like “Who-o-o-a!” or “Aeee!” or a mixture of both. It was like being in a fast-rising elevator minus the elevator. The next thing Kate knew, she was peering at a basil leaf that tickled her nose. “Now what?” she croaked.

  “First, try and be quiet. Second, lift the window frame.”

  She felt like Teri Garr in that old Mel Brooks film, Young Frankenstein. Put the candle back. “What if the window revolves, takes me with it, and you can’t retrieve me?”

  There was a pause before he spoke. “I wish you had told me you had an overactive imagination before we did this. Trust me, the window doesn’t revolve. Lift the frame before my knees buckle and we end up lying on top of each other again!”

  Was he flirting or yelling? Talk about sending mixed signals.

  “Grab it!”

  “I will,” she snapped. Releasing both his hands, she fell forward and grabbed the bottom of the window frame. With a primal yell, she shoved it upward.

  Thwack! It slammed against the top of the frame. For several seconds, something shuddered. Kate finally realized it was her. Before Toby could yell another instruction, she hurled the top half of her body over the windowsill and its little green plastic containers of herbs. She landed across a large porcelain double sink, one arm in each as though doing a mid air push-up.

  “Are you okay?” she heard Toby yell from outside.

  “Peachy keen,” she croaked, staring at a crack in the bottom of the sink. Clumps of dirt darkened a corner of the right sink, remnants of toppled herbs from her lunge. Grabbing the far edge of the sink, she tried to pull inside the bottom half of her body. Nothing budged. “I think I’m stuck.”

  Strong hands grabbed her thighs. She squealed.

  “I said be quiet!” Toby whispered harshly. “Someone will call the police.”

  “Somebody already did,” said a gruff male voice from outside the window. “Mind telling me what’s going on here?”

  Kate stared at the far kitchen wall and the reflection of a flashing blue light on it.

  “Officer, this is my home,” Toby began.

  Kate closed her eyes, wondering if there had ever been a more humiliating moment than this. Her rump hanging out a window like some kind of wall ornament while two men—both in uniform—carried on a discussion.

  She heard Toby saying something about not having any identification on him.

  Great. No ID might mean they’d cuff him and cart him down to the station. And even if she lay really, really still, pretending she was some kind of rump wall hanging, they’d probably want to cuff and book her, too. And how would they do that, considering she was stuck? Would they drag her back out the window? Cuff her feet instead? Despite the dire circumstances, only one thing could make this worse.

  “Kath-e-rine Corr-i-gan, what is goin’ on here?”

  Worse just arrived. Kate dropped her forehead against the cool sink bottom, imagining Melanie, her hands on her mauve-flowered hips, conversing with Kate’s blue-clad behind as though it might answer.

  “I can explain, Mrs. Corrigan,” Toby said. “I left my things inside, so Kate was helping me break in—I mean, get back in.”

  “Do you know these people, ma’am?” the policeman asked.

  “I believe that caboose belongs to my daughter. And this man is a gigolo.”

  Kate groaned, the sound echoing somewhere deep inside the sink drain.

  “I can vouch for him, officer. That’s Toby Mancini, our neighbor,” said a woman’s familiar voice.

  Verna to the rescue. They wouldn’t go to jail. They could steal Toby’s stuff and call it a day.

  “Toby accidentally locked himself out,” Verna continued. “So Kate—she’s the proprietor of Beau’s Bed-and-Breakfast next door—is helping him get back into his house so he can retrieve his keys. That bottom belongs to Kate.”

  There was a long silence. Kate closed her eyes, knowing deep in her heart they had all turned and were looking at her bottom. She hoped beyond hope that these weren’t the pair of pants with the threadbare hole above the back pocket.

  “Katherine,” said Melanie, “you really should learn to sew. Then you can repair holes in your clothing.”

  So it was that pair. God, take me now.

  “All right,” said the voice Kate now recognized as the police officer. “Just had to check. You folks have a nice day.”

  Several long, humiliating moments later, Kate opened her eyes. There were no more flashing blue lights against the far wall. After Verna said something about smelling brownies burning, it grew abnormally quiet outside.

  “Did everyone leave me?” Kate asked the silence. When no one answered, she wailed, “Oh, fine! Everyone goes to save the brownies and leaves me behind! And not just me behind, but my behind behind, too!”

  “I’m not saving brownies,” Toby said. “I’m still here.”

  “And I’m still stuck,” she said, trying to sound grown-up despite her previous wailing.

  “So I see.”

  She didn’t want to think of that hole. Or what color underwear she wore today. “Give me a push.”

  “Promise not to squeal again? We don’t want someone else calling the police.”

  “Promise.”

  She’d hardly finished saying the word
before his hands gripped her thighs. She hadn’t realized how large his hands were. Or how hot. Big, hot hands. Her mind reeled with the possibilities.

  “Ready?”

  She gulped a breath of air. “Ready,” she whispered.

  Toby pushed gently. With the momentum, she grabbed the edge of the sink and scooted her legs through the window. “I’m in!” she chirped, half-sitting on the edge of the sink. With a hop, she landed on the green-and-white-checkered linoleum floor.

  “Open the front door,” Toby called from outside.

  She looked around the spacious kitchen. This house was old, probably built in the same era as her home after the 1906 earthquake, during the years when people rebuilt this area in a variety of Edwardian, Anne, and other styles. Hers was Queen Anne. His was Edwardian. And whereas her kitchen had one swinging door to the main hallway, his had two doors, both shut.

  “Which door?”

  “In front of you, to the left.”

  “And Mickey and Minnie are gone, right.”

  “Right.”

  She headed across the kitchen. A few minutes later, she swung open the heavy wooden front door. There stood Toby. That tumbling lock of hair over his brow was starting to give him a bad-boy edge she hadn’t noticed before. Add that red shirt with the sweat-inducing glimpse of chest hair, plus those body-clinging, mind-numbing black leather pants, and Kate suddenly felt another earthquake coming on.

  She sucked in a deep breath and clutched the door-jamb. Had to be a five on the Richter scale.

  Oblivious to her earthshaking experience, Toby walked past her and into the foyer. “We’ve got to move fast. I don’t know how much longer Free is out with…” He didn’t finish the sentence but instead murmured a string of epithets suitable for a double-crossed, back-stabbed pirate.

  “Right,” Kate murmured, closing the door.

  “First, I’ll get my shoes. You clean up the mess in the kitchen.”

  She froze. The earth stopped moving. He expected her to clean up the kitchen?

  Toby reappeared in the foyer, a pair of black corduroy slippers on his feet. “You’re still here?”

  She glanced at his feet. “Slippers?”

  “They’re the only ones the Dobermans didn’t use as chew toys. Found my keys, though, so all is not lost.”

  Okay, she felt bad he was reduced to wearing slippers, and not so bad he was wearing a drop-dead-gorgeous pirate outfit, but she still wasn’t over the other comment.

  “I don’t do kitchens,” she said tersely.

  One butterscotch eyebrow quirked. “Well, I do. You can stay here or join me, because I’ve got to clean up the basil catastrophe—otherwise, Free will know I broke in through the kitchen window. Then she’ll probably change the locks or destroy the place—or both—and I might as well kiss off tomorrow night’s dinner.” He strode purposefully down the hallway.

  Okay, so the guy wasn’t as traditional as her father. Maybe she had overreacted a bit. Walking sheepishly behind him, she noticed photos hung on the walls. In one, a large group of people sat around a table, everyone smiling at the camera. Standing in the back, holding a platter of food, was Toby, grinning.

  She stopped and peered at the photo. He must have been the cook. And obviously he was serving everyone. This guy definitely did kitchens. And she could barely manage to put together a sandwich.

  Shuffling her feet, she headed down the hall, ready to do her kitchen penance.

  “It’s in the bag,” Toby said as she entered. He held up a plastic bag, filled with dirt and basil leaves. “All cleaned up.”

  “You’re fast.”

  “I know kitchens, especially this one.” He looked around, a sadness shadowing his features. “Funny, I used to dream of running a restaurant, but instead I ran this kitchen.” He handed the bag to Kate. “Hold this. I’ll close the window to where it was before.” She watched as he closed it, carefully leaving it open an inch or so. He brushed his hands. “Let’s go out the front door. We’ll toss the baggie in the trash at your place.”

  “Won’t she notice several basil plants are missing?”

  He chuckled, but it lacked humor. “She wouldn’t know her way around this kitchen if I drew her a map. She doesn’t even know what’s in the refrigerator, much less what’s on the window ledge. The only cooking she ever did in this kitchen was with that guy last night.”

  “Cooking?”

  Toby gave his head a shake. “Forget it. Let’s go.”

  He took the bag from her hands—a gentlemanly gesture that seemed second nature to him—and led the way back down the hallway. They were halfway there when Kate heard a jiggling sound on the other side of the front door. She nearly slammed into Toby, who’d abruptly halted.

  “It’s them!” he whispered hoarsely. “Damn.”

  For the first time in her life, Kate wished fervently she’d been born a bead.

  5

  TOBY GRABBED KATE’S HAND and bolted back toward the kitchen. Kate stumbled after him. “We don’t have time to throw ourselves back out the window,” she whispered frantically.

  They hit the green-and-white-checkered linoleum floor. “No window,” he muttered. He yanked Kate sharply to the left toward a door against the side kitchen wall.

  Down the hall, the front door creaked open. A man’s voice. A woman’s giggle.

  Toby pulled Kate to him, her body flush against his. His face was so close she could see flecks of gold in his brown eyes, could count the stubbled hairs along his jaw. He pressed one roughened cheek against hers and whispered huskily into her ear, “Pantry.”

  At that moment, she wouldn’t have cared if he’d said, “Panty raid.” Wouldn’t have cared if it was an army marching down the hall toward them. Because she was caught in a bubble of Toby-the-Pirate sensations—the dangerous glint in his eyes, the rough velvet of his voice. The black leather straining over his thighs.

  Another giggle drifted down from the hallway.

  The bubble burst.

  Toby opened the door, steered Kate inside and followed her. She saw shelves, filled with cans and packages, lining the walls before he shut the door with a soft click.

  Kate stared into the darkness, broken only by a sliver of white along the bottom of the door. She eased in a slow breath, taking in the scent of oregano. And another scent, woodsy, outdoors. Toby’s cologne. A little fainter today, but a trace of it still lingered.

  A squeal!

  Kate stiffened, hoping it hadn’t been her again.

  Footsteps hit the linoleum. Scurrying, scrabbling sounds. More giggling.

  “Grrr, I’m going to get you!” A man’s voice.

  “Oh, Tiger! Don’t eat me!”

  Bark! Bark!

  The Dobermans! Kate’s insides did a triple gainer, landing somewhere at the bottom of her stomach in a big belly flop.

  “Tiger, you animal!” That woman’s voice again. Had to be Free. Free and Tiger? They sounded like an animal-activist group.

  More scampering, scurrying.

  Kate glanced at Toby. Even in the shadows she sensed his stiffened posture, straining forward, as though it took every ounce of his will not to blast through the door and stop the love play between his girl and another man.

  “Grrr…”

  “Tiger, stop!”

  Creak. Clatter. Clank.

  What were they doing? Moving furniture? But it sounded like something metal.

  Toby began breathing in lungfuls of air and releasing them forcefully through clenched teeth, whoosh and shh sounds like steam escaping from her grandmother’s old heater. An image not too far off the mark, considering Toby was steamed and he had every right to be! Kate swore she even smelled the sweat on his skin.

  She hadn’t fully realized the depths of Toby Mancini’s passion. Free was messing around on a good man. He was smart, career driven, and maybe best of all, a man of integrity.

  “Watch out for the burner!” Free shrieked. “You’ll set me on fire!”

  Burner?
Could that be what Toby meant when he said he caught his girlfriend cooking on the stove? Kate didn’t know much about psychology, but it didn’t take a Freud to figure out that Free’s “cooking” was meant to burn Toby.

  “Baby,” Tiger said, this time without growling, “I don’t need no burner to set you on fire.”

  In a rush of movement, Toby’s arm shot for the door. Miraculously Kate caught his hand with both her own. They wrestled a little as she strained to hold him back. If she didn’t stop Toby, there’d be more thrashing, burning and screaming than when one of her guests accidentally set fire to her Gone With the Wind room. She had remodeled the room as The Wild One so no other “hot” couples would try to recreate the burning of Atlanta.

  Mid-wrestling, Toby broke loose. His hand fell against a shelf with a whomp.

  Instantly there was scratching and barking at the pantry door. Icy fright washed over Kate. Mickey and Minnie smell us!

  “Something’s in that room,” said Free.

  “What room?” Tiger asked.

  “The one where Mickey and Something are growling, where Toby stores cans of stuff.”

  It’s called a pantry, Kate thought. Toby was right. Free wouldn’t miss any basil plants. It was amazing she knew the metal thing she was “cooking” on was called a stove.

  “Could you check, Tiger?”

  “Check what?”

  “The can room.”

  “Baby, you’re just imagining things. Mickey and Minnie probably smell the food in there.” He snapped his fingers. “Mick. Min. Get away from there.”

  Kate brushed a drop of sweat off her brow. That was a close call.

  “Please,” Free whined. “Check the can room.”

  A huge huff. “Okay, but after that I don’t wanna play kitchen no more. We’re going to the bedroom.”

  Just as Kate was wondering if she could scrunch up her body and fake being a sack of something, Toby snatched a can, set it on the floor, and gently rolled it toward the door.

  As Tiger opened the door, the can rolled out.

  Mickey—or was it Minnie?—barely nosed the can before joining the other Doberman in an eruption of barks and snarls.