However, neither she nor any other red-blooded female with a pulse could not, would not overlook the puffy clear blisters covering every visible inch of his pale skin.
"Hmmm.” Recee tapped a long nail against her lips. “What the hell? This could be fun.” With a careless shrug, she flipped the deadbolts, deactivated the house alarm and patted her back pockets, ensuring that no matter how harmless she thought him, she'd still be able to defend herself if needed. The knives added to her sense of security. Some people called her strange, psycho or just plain dangerous because Recee refused to leave home without her precious knives. Screw ‘em, she thought with a vague satisfaction. The only opinions that mattered were those of her friends. And they were okay with every part of her crazy.
Satisfied by the feel of the sharp blades, she pulled the heavy mahogany door open, pleased when the well-oiled hinges made not a sound. “Thomas, what a surprise!” Recee plastered a smile on her face and stepped between the male and her one-of-a-kind nineteenth-century front door. Thomas she could easily replace. The door had taken her three years to track down.
A shaking manicured finger pointed straight at her nose. “Don't you dare, Recee Williams!” Thomas Morehouse, respected attorney, churchgoer at the Southern Baptist Cross of Christ Church and all-around charming country club gentleman, shrieked into her face. “You ignorant, bloated cow, I could kill you for this."
Spittle sprayed across her chin and nose. Recee calmly un-tucked her T-shirt, wiped the nasty fluid off her face and slid her palms into the back pockets of her jeans. As easily as if they'd met at Avalon Country Club, she rocked back on her heels, looked Thomas up and down, head to toe and swallowed a laugh.
Once those words would have had the power to break her, crumble her very foundation, but she'd remade herself since then. The person she was now knew this man and his lame insults couldn't touch or harm her in any way. She batted the painful words away with easy practice. Unwittingly, her parents had started teaching her very young how to absorb blows or ignore them.
Then again, considering he looked like a freak show of his own maybe he shouldn't start throwing stones around his glass house. He looked like a hideous B movie monster escaped from a film set. Damn if that didn't make her proud.
"See,” she mentally lectured her absent friends, “I can find ways to solve my problems that don't involve violence or knives."
"Why, Thomas Morehouse.” Recee slid one hand out of her pocket and covered her heart in the perfect imitation of Innocent Southern Belle. “I can't imagine what you are talking about? Has something happened?"
He took a threatening step in her direction. Recee cocked her hip, lifted a brow and slipped out a knife. Years of practice with the lethally sharp blade showed as she flipped it easily in the air, then slid it back into her pocket.
Thomas stopped dead in his tracks. For a split second, fear flashed through his perfect WASP-blue eyes. “I know what you did!” He pointed to his face, neck, hands and whatever uncovered skin he could. “This is all your fault. I want you to tell me how you did it before I find someone to break that devil-born neck of yours."
She hadn't had this much fun in ages, not since she and her friends had taken a little trip south of the border. She'd become bored waiting in the first class lounge and went to mingle with the other airport travellers. Was it really her fault she kept switching people's bags? She really was doing them a favour. Who knew when a crazy terrorist or a bored southern woman would strike? People really should keep better track of their belongings.
Thomas’ shouts escalated, forcing Recee to turn back to the problem at hand.
"I'll sue you for every cent you have. I'll drain you personally, blackball you professionally and then when you've got nothing left and your ass is on the street, I'll buy this ridiculous money pit tribute to the past and burn it to the ground. You couldn't make it in your parents’ world so you take your anger, jealousy and resentment out on those of us who do fit in. What kind of freak show are you? You think I wanted to ask you out? Hell, my reputation suffered every time someone I knew saw me dragging your wide load around. That's why I always wanted to stay here. So no one would know how low a Morehouse had gone to please a client."
Recee had been taught that ladies never cursed, spat, hit or put on lipstick in public, but how much of a lady had she turned out to be? Besides, the dimwit wasn't insulting her honour or anything stupid like that. The moron was threatening her beloved house. The house she'd put not just her money in, but her time, attention and, sometimes, her blood. The house was the only physical reminder she had of the people who had once loved her.
Her temper ignited like a match to a fourth of July fireworks exhibit. Recee backed Thomas into a dark corner of her front porch while making a mental note to install extra security lighting because she was crazy like that, then repeatedly drilled her finger into his scrawny, linen-covered chest.
"You listen to me, Thomas Morehouse, upstanding attorney-at-law. You come after me with so much as a sneeze and I'll bring you to your knees.” She waved an arm to encompass his blister- and boil-covered chest. “You think this is bad, you haven't seen anything yet. You can't touch my business or me and you know it. I'll bury you before you set foot in my house. And, honey, I do know where to hide the bodies. Plus, I'll invite my friends over for a wiener roast. You'll be the guest of honour.” She couldn't help smirking at him.
Like all bullies, Thomas cowered when confronted. Instead of striking her back verbally or physically, he whined. Recee wanted to slap him for that insult alone. Good gracious granola, why had she ever gone out with such a twit in the first place?
Oh yeah, her damn friends. Favours like this had her wondering if she needed said friendships.
"But why, Recee? I thought we had something special going on."
Recee snorted. “The only thing we had special was we both enjoyed looking at you. Guess that's over now. Besides did you or did you not just call my ass fat and my presence lowering to your reputation?"
Tears leaked from his watery blue eyes as a trail of snot ran from his perfect patrician nose. Ugh. Did the man not have one ounce of testosterone in his body? “You did this to me because I'm a little vain and wanted to keep my standing in the community?"
Rolling her eyes, Recee prayed to her Nana for patience. “Calling you a little vain is like calling Hurricane Ike a little wind. No, I didn't do this because you're too stupid to live. Though you are.” She hadn't planned on telling him, but what the hell? Maybe the white bread boy would learn a lesson. She sincerely doubted it, but Nana always had said that second chances were God's little blessings.
"Listen up, Tom-tom. If you're going to screw around on someone try to be a little less obvious about it next time. I had three people calling me on the phone before you even made it to your hotel room. And for goodness’ sake, your secretary? Really, you couldn't be more imaginative than that?"
"Executive assistant,” Thomas corrected in his more normal tone. “Roy's a great assistant. I'd be lost without him."
A snort escaped her mouth before she could control it. “Yeah, I saw exactly what he was assisting you with. Though to be honest I've never seen a vibrator that huge with polka dots. If we weren't sworn enemies I'd ask where you got it. Briley's bridal shower is coming up and I'd love to see her face when she opened that gift. Come to think of it, Carter would get a kick out of it too, right before he took it apart then put it back together as a can opener."
"Recee!"
"What?"
"Could this, for once, not be about you?"
"Hey, you came banging on my door, which if you cracked or injured in any way I'll take it out of your ass, at zero-dark-thirty at night, screaming at me. How is any of this my fault?” Really, some people had the manners of road kill.
Thomas’ perfectly cut hair slipped over one eye, giving him the appearance of a mischievous boy. She hated that look on any man. Made her feel like a dirty old woman trolling for high school
kids.
"I wouldn't be here if you hadn't done this to me.” He pointed to his swollen, blister-covered face. “How the hell do I explain this to my clients, to my family, to my church?"
"Really, Thomas, if you aren't prepared to pay then you'd better not play."
"What the fuck did you do to me, Recee? I did you a favour and this is how you repay me?"
Recee stepped in to cut off that thought before it could feed his ego any more. “A favour? Honey, the only favour going on here involved your mouth and Roy Retreat's personal assets. However, I am pretty sure you can kiss Ethan and Noah's business goodbye."
"You fat, sloppy, ugly, no-talent bitch. Tell me what the hell you did and how before I lose control of my temper and give in to the urge to strangle you, but I doubt my hands would fit around that thick neck of yours."
Sticks and stones, she thought, dismissing even a touch of the hurt his words might have caused. She was beyond that now. The only approval she needed was her own.
"Hmm, you are looking quite icky and pus-filled.” Nana's voice poked Recee into revealing her simple yet brilliant revenge. Letting out a breath of disappointment—after all, she loved to drag out a good time as much as any woman. “After you and Roy finished, uh, assisting each other, I went by your place, took your supply of lube and added a few ingredients of my own. Then I replaced everything all nice and neat."
She didn't think it possible, but Thomas’ face grew even redder as she spoke.
"You stupid fucking bitch! You could have killed Roy and me. Did that relevant thought ever cross your psychotic, twisted, conscienceless excuse for a brain?"
Psychotic? Really, that was going a little too far. She hadn't been the one who'd cheated in the most trite, predictable way known to man. “I wasn't trying to kill you, Thomas, you idiot. What the hell would I have done with your stupid body? I don't have time for that kind of mess.” She dragged the fresh night air deep into her lungs and desperately hung on to the minute amount of patience she had left. “Besides, I knew it wouldn't kill you or your little assistant either. It's only a little poison oak, poison ivy and stinging nettles."
He dragged a disfigured hand through his hair. “I...can't believe anyone would stoop so low or go so far. You are an embarrassment to the Williams name and legacy. I'm only grateful your parents aren't alive to see you now."
"Me too,” she whispered too low for him to hear. Then in a louder voice, “Thomas, it's time you left. You've made your threats. Let's consider me cowered and fearful of your big manly self and call it a night. I've still got work to do. And I'll bet you've got some really interesting places to scratch."
He turned with great care and walked to the steps before looking back at her. “This isn't over, Recee, not by a long shot. I'll get you in the end."
"Yeah and you'll get my little dog too, huh, my pretty?"
With awkward, hesitant movements Thomas moved to his luxury car. She couldn't help but call out after him. “Hey, Thomas, you might want to check the label of your anti-itch cream."
He lowered himself in the vehicle and it was all she could do to keep the laughter between her lips. Oh, how his ass must be hurting, along with his mouth and other certain more sensitive parts of his anatomy. Since the lube she'd stolen was strictly used in a sexual manner Recee could only imagine the shock on Thomas’ doctor's face when he'd walked in and explained the nature and location of his problems.
Whoever said revenge was best served cold never tried it her style. She grinned.
A car's engine revved. Bright lights flashed, blinding her eyes. She had less than half a second to wonder what the hell Thomas’ car was doing coming closer to her before a tornado smashed into her and lifted off her feet.
The more he listened to the conversation the more Garen worried over his sanity. What man in his right mind would find Recee sexy after hearing her confession? She'd deliberately put stinging nettles and poison ivy and oak into the man's sex lube. How insane was that?
At least now he had an explanation for the man, Thomas Morehouse's, appearance. When he first got out of the car Garen had a bad flashback to his first Night of the Living Dead movie marathon with his cousins. Only after six months could he go to sleep without a light on. The guy stumbling across the well-tended lawn brought back all the scary nightmares with his misshapen face and hands.
Then the door had opened and Recee stood there looking like a fertility goddess come to life. Garen checked his chin to make sure no drool had escaped his mouth. He'd enjoyed listening...okay, eavesdropping on the two. He loved the way Recee stood up for herself and didn't take any of this fancy lawyer's shit.
What he hadn't liked were all the references to her parents and their disapproval. He'd whipped out his pocket notebook and wrote a note to himself to investigate the parents. Returning the slim book to his back pocket, Garen watched the Morehouse man climb into his car. He'd been about ready to call it a night himself when the boil-marked asshole revved the motor and shot the car across the lawn, aiming directly at Recee with the fancy hood ornament leading the charge.
Thanks to years of training and thousands of military dollars, Garen was already in action before his brain finished processing the new information. He sprinted across the lawn, bunched the muscles in his calves and jumped the stairs. He yanked Recee off her feet and rolled them both out of the way just as the best of German engineering slammed into solid concrete stairs.
Training dictated his actions as he anxiously ran his hands up and down her curvy figure for blood, broken bones and other injuries. No sticky wetness met his palms and Garen let out the breath he'd been holding.
"Get the hell off of me, you tank with legs,” Recee demanded from her prone position on the porch.
"Don't move. I can't tell if there are internal injuries so we'll have to wait for the ambulance to check you over. I'll start with your feet. We can do a methodical check over each area therefore eliminating one bone at a time.” Putting words into action Garen moved down to her feet, clasped one tenderly in hand and wiggled her big toe. How cute were those toes covered in a happy sunny yellow polish? Very sexy now that he thought about—
"Get your hands off me, bugaboo. I don't need medical care. Hell, I didn't need your train impersonation to save me either.” She pulled her delicate foot from his callused palm with ease and jumped to her feet. “Besides, the Joker is getting away while you contemplate your Bat-navel."
The Batman references he understood. Recee was accusing him of letting her would-be murderer drive off. He would allow her to get away with that only once since she didn't know him. “I've already written down his plate numbers, make, model and what I think is a fairly accurate reading of the odometer."
Recee stopped brushing the dirt and dust from her clothes and simply stared at him. Her bee-stung lips opened and closed several times before she managed to speak. “You do all that, huh?"
Garen expected praise for his quick thinking, at the very least a kiss for his foresight and logic. Instead she kicked his shin with her bare foot, then spent the next few seconds hopping up and down cursing him.
"Ouch, crap, shit, damn.” As Granddad would say, Recee looked like a one-legged competitor at a butt-kicking contest. “What do you have, bones made out of steel?"
"I work out. I'm in amazing shape and there's nothing logical to be gained by hitting me while not wearing shoes of any type,” he generously pointed out. Later he would add several items to tomorrow's list to prevent this situation from happening again.
She poked a flower-painted nail in his direction. “You are in such deep shit right now."
Puzzled, he pursed his lips then blew out a breath of frustration. “I saved your life. Copied down and memorised pertinent information that will lead any half-decent law enforcement officer to his arrest and conviction. I don't see how this could possibly get me in deep anything, much less shit. You should be thanking me for my fast reflexes."
Those deep navy, soul-penetrating, e
yes narrowed. The outdoor lights captured only half her delicate face leaving the rest hidden and secreted in shadows. He expected more anger, additional attempts to harm him...even a few bodily threats.
Recee tossed her head back, sable curls flying, and laughed. She laughed so hard she held her sides as tears streaked down her face. Between snorts and gasps, she managed to choke out, “You...saved...my life?"
Uncomfortable, Garen shifted from foot to foot. Obviously she didn't understand what had happened. “The man leaving your house intended to hit you with his car which, you might not have noticed, was travelling at a speed which would have led to you becoming his new hood ornament."
Still gasping and swiping the tears trailing from her eyes, Recee blinked at him. “You are completely serious, aren't you?"
"Yes,"
"Oh, boy..."
"Oh boy, that's all you have to say to me after I very well may have saved your life?” The puzzle that was Recee grew more and more complicated by the second.
"Yeah, thanks for the thought, bugaboo, but you didn't save my life. See those stairs?” She pointed to the ones he'd bypassed in his rush to rescue her.
"Of course I see them."
"Those stairs are made up of rebar, cement and left over pieces of steel from the factory my family owned at one time.” She crossed the porch to tap her foot on the steps. “Nothing is getting through these things. That's why my great-however-manys-grandfather had them made this way. He was a bootlegger in his time as well as being the main source of income with the steel factory. Great-granddaddy didn't take chances, ever. So he built these steps as the first line of defence."
The story made sense in a completely nonsense kind of way especially if Recee's great- granddaddy was anything like she was. The logic train didn't travel all the way around her particular set of tracks.
Romancing Recee Page 3
