by Nicola Marsh
The dilapidated door creaked open.
“Hey, kid.” Flo grinned at him and patted her wiry grey curls in an endearing coquettish gesture. “What can I do for you? Need someone to take that rust bucket of yours for a spin?”
He smiled, knowing his instincts had been right regarding the woman in front of him. Though Flo looked like she’d been through the school of hard knocks and graduated with honors, she had a sense of humor that warmed his heart. He rarely laughed these days, rarely had a reason to, so Flo had to be good for his soul.
“I was hoping to park my rust bucket next to yours for a while.”
Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief. “Make that your slippers and you’ve got a deal.”
He chuckled, wondering how many men had run scared from that offer. “Are you propositioning me?”
“You betcha, mate.”
She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively while eyeing him up and down. “On second thoughts, you’re a bit old for me. When I rob the cradle, I’ll do a darn good job of it so you’re safe for now.”
He wiped his brow in an exaggerated gesture of relief, enjoying their banter more by the minute.
“I’d never be able to keep up with you.”
She patted his arm and smiled. “You’re dead right. Now, what’s the real reason you’re standing here with your lips flapping in the wind?”
“Your offer of a room still stand?”
“Sure does. Want to take a look?”
He nodded, knowing he had the opportunity to back out now before this farce went any further. He could be back in LA in an hour, happily ensconced behind his desk at A-Corp exactly where he belonged. Everything would be right with the world and he could put this bizarre little visit out of his mind.
But he couldn’t run. He owed his mom. She’d done the best she could for him.
He wasn’t stupid. If he hadn’t been around she wouldn’t have stayed married to George. He’d heard her say so when he’d hid at the top of the stairs during one of his father’s tirades. George had flung his weight around, his mom had flung the fact if it wasn’t for her precious son she’d have left his sorry ass years ago.
Shouldering guilt was damn difficult and he’d do anything to pay his mom back for the years of self-sacrifice, starting with stopping her from making monstrous mistake number two in the matrimony stakes.
“Follow me.” Flo snagged a set of keys from a hook next to the front door before closing it. “The apartment is over the garage. It isn’t the Taj Mahal but it’s comfortable. How long you planning on staying?”
“About a week.”
He climbed the rickety stairs behind her, concentrating on his feet rather than the sight of Flo’s butt squeezed into tangerine terry toweling.
“Liv must be doing cartwheels,” she said, jiggling a key in the rusty lock. “You’re a good boy to spend some time with her.”
With one last jiggle, a hefty thump from a man-sized hand above the lock and an expletive that would’ve done a sailor proud, the door creaked open.
“Welcome to Casa de Patterson. It’s all yours for as long as you need it.”
He resisted the urge to shut his eyes, took a deep breath and entered the room.
“It’s not much but you should be comfortable here.”
Flo hovered at his elbow while he glanced around, more than a little surprised.
Flo had been stretching the truth when she’d said apartment but this place was ten times better than what he’d expected and a hundred times more appealing than the hearts and flowers crap at the motel he’d gladly vacated.
A queen-size bed stood in one corner of the room, a couch in the other, with a kitchenette to his right and a door he assumed led to the bathroom on his left. Apart from a faint musty odor the place looked clean and welcoming, the white and mint green color scheme extending from the walls to the duvet on the bed, with plump cushions scattered on the couch for good measure.
“This’ll be fine, Flo. Thanks, I appreciate it. What do I owe you?”
“Owe me?”
“For rent.”
She shooed him towards the couch and all but pushed him to sit. “We’ll worry about that later. For now, you take a load off and I’ll rustle up some dinner for you.”
“You don’t have to do that.” He leaped up, fumbling for his car keys.
His mom, who seemed to genuinely like the flamboyant woman, had made a joke about Flo’s home cooking, implying even Ripley wouldn’t touch the stuff. And though his mom couldn’t have known he’d be staying here at Flo’s, he was thankful for the heads-up.
“I’ve got a hankering for some of that Mexican your diner dishes up. I think I’ll eat there tonight.”
Flo sniffed and spun on her heel. “Fine, your loss. The kitchen is stocked with cans and coffee necessities, the bathroom is through there. If you need anything else don’t hesitate to come knocking.”
She paused, sent him a broad wink. “Especially at night.”
He grinned and followed her out the door. “Thanks. I’ll be the model tenant.”
He didn’t understand her muttered, “Not too model, I hope,” as he slid behind the wheel of his Jag and reached for his cell on the front seat.
Now his accommodation was sorted he could start organizing the rest of his stuff. Dialing home, William picked up on the third ring as always.
“The Fairley Residence, William speaking.”
“It’s me.”
“Master Marc. What can I do for you?”
Though he’d hired William Jamieson as his right hand man around the house a few years ago, the sixty year old treated him like a boarding schoolboy most of the time, bullying him, running his life to the nth degree on a daily basis. Marc often wondered how he ever functioned without him.
“I’m spending a week visiting my mom so I need you to pack some clothes, the files on my desk and my laptop and have them ready for me to pick up tomorrow. I’ll drop by and get them on my way through to the office before heading back here.”
“You’re in Love, Sir?”
He heard the shock in William’s well-modulated tone, not surprising considering his butler-cum-housekeeper had born the brunt of his ranting when he’d received the email from his mom informing him of her whereabouts and what she was up to.
“That’s right.”
He couldn’t get over how ludicrous that sounded. How could anyone call a town Love let alone want to live here?
“Very good, Master Marc. I’ll have everything ready for you.”
“Thanks. See you tomorrow.”
He rang off, William taking the news of his impending layover in Love a hell of a lot better than Rob would.
Wrapping up the Tech file and grabbing the number one spot in the state had been his entire focus for as long as he could remember. Not that his absence would change how they did business. He could work from home if needed with his PC, fax and phone. However, Rob had a habit of getting angsty the closer it came to securing major acquisitions and would rely on him more and more in the final stages.
Tough, this couldn’t be helped. For once in his life he was putting family first and the business could run itself.
Besides, the Tech file wasn’t signed, sealed and delivered yet, not since he’d discovered Sierra’s company on his hit list. He’d never been torn like this. Business or pleasure? Damned if he knew.
“Another hot date tonight?”
Sierra’s head snapped up, unfortunate considering the three Margaritas she’d guzzled while contemplating her infuriating crush on this very guy.
“What are you doing here?”
She glared at Marc, wishing he didn’t have to look so damn good all the time. Her heart never thudded and her pulse never raced, supposed reactions for any heroine worth her weight in those romance novels Belle read, yet here she was, in dire danger of suffering both reactions.
She could’ve sworn when she left the farm this afternoon it would’ve been the last she’d see of Ci
ty Boy. Despite agreeing to her bet she would’ve laid money he’d head back to LA anyway. Yet here he was sauntering into the Love Shack as if he owned the place and giving her grief to boot.
He leaned over, the cocky smile that drove her crazy firmly in place.
“Is that any way to greet your new neighbor?”
“Huh?”
That Tequila packed a stronger punch than anticipated. She could’ve sworn Marc said he was her new neighbor. Impossible, as the Parnells were firmly entrenched and Flo had no intention of moving.
Flo…the garage…hell no…
He sensed the exact moment realization struck, his grin broadening as he tapped the tip of her nose.
“That’s right, Angel Face. I’ll be popping in for sugar every opportunity I get.”
Angel Face?
She’d been called worse: scarecrow, red-red-wet-the-bed back in school and Bluey in some strange Aussie way Flo had of naming things for opposite characteristics. Angel Face was cute. She could live with cute. What she couldn’t live with was him next door.
She waved him away. “I should warn you I keep the rat poison mighty close to the sugar and you never know when I might mix up the two.”
He chuckled as his gaze slid over her, heating her body in a second as she silently applauded her choice of outfit tonight: black satin halter top, matching bootleg pants and enough makeup to hide her dusting of freckles yet look like she wasn’t wearing any. Understated elegance, much appreciated if the look in his eyes was an indication.
“I’ll bear that in mind. By the way, what are you going to give me for a housewarming gift?”
His gaze dropped to her lips and she had a fair idea what he had in mind. If it was anything like that cataclysmic kiss they’d shared last night she’d give him a present he’d never forget.
“You’re only staying a week, not moving in so sorry, no gift.”
“You’re a hard woman.”
“And you’re a pain in the ass. Why don’t you leave me to eat in peace?”
He straightened, drawing her attention to his impressive height. She’d always gone for tall guys, liking the feeling protected thing when she snuggled into their arms. Silly, for a woman who prided herself on her spider killing and light bulb changing abilities.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question’s that?”
She knew exactly what she’d avoided answering in the stupid hope a small part of him could actually be jealous if he thought she had a hot date.
He shrugged. “Fine, play coy. I’ll get it out of Flo when she gets home.”
“Since when are you two so chummy? I thought you hated this place and everyone in it.”
“Flo’s good value. Besides, she’s my landlady, I have to be nice.”
“Always the ulterior motive, huh?”
His smile faded, something akin to guilt shifting in the dark depths of his eyes, instantly piquing her curiosity. She hadn’t pegged him for the shifty type; then again, how well did she really know him? Apart from how he liked his coffee, how he protected his mom, how he kissed…
“Not always.”
“If you’re trying to flirt with me, you’re going to have to do a damn sight better than that, Slick.”
“All in good time, Angel Face, all in good time. Besides, can’t stick around long. I’m grabbing a bite to eat and heading to bed. I’ve got an early start in the morning.”
“Let me guess. The friendly neighbor thing was just a routine and you’re actually running scared, right?”
“Wrong. I’m driving to LA tomorrow to pick up some essentials. Don’t pine, though. I’ll be back knocking on your door for a cup of sugar in no time.”
“Lucky me.”
“You could get luckier.”
Coming from any other guy, a line like that would’ve sounded sleazy. From City Boy, it sounded like the best invitation she’d had in ages.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come with me.”
“To LA?”
He chuckled, a rich sound that washed over her, slaying her quicker than any line ever could.
“It’s LA, not Mars. Come on, live a little.”
If he only knew. She’d spent more than her fair share of time in la-la land while at college and though she loved the city’s hip vibe the anonymity of the place scared her.
She’d spent a lifetime getting over her feelings of abandonment thanks to her lowlife father and Love gave her a sense of belonging she’d never found elsewhere. LA may be flash, exciting and larger than life, give her quirky, cozy and sedate Love any day.
She took a sip of mineral water and feigned a nonchalance she didn’t feel. If sparks flew whenever they got within two feet of each other, how would she survive confined in his car?
“I have to wash my hair tomorrow.”
He tucked a strand behind her ear, brushing her cheek and sending heat slamming through her body.
“Do it tonight.”
“I’ve got work to do,” she blurted, trying to ignore the urge to grab his hand and shove a fistful of her hair into it.
“Save it for Monday.”
“I’m allergic to cats.”
He frowned. “And?”
“You drive a Jaguar.”
She grinned and chalked up one in the air.
“Stop, you’re killing me.” He held his sides and faked a laugh. “So, how about it?”
Sundays were for chilling, walking Ripley, reading the newspapers and sipping lattes in her back yard under the old oak tree she loved to climb as a kid. However, chilling would be the furthest thing from her mind if stuck making small talk with City Boy for the day. Yet she found herself nodding anyway.
“Sure, why not? It’ll give me some time to set you straight where Hank’s concerned.”
He winced. “I’ll make up my own mind where that fortune-hunter—” He paused as she sent him a look that would’ve felled a lesser male and cleared his throat before continuing, “—mom’s friend is concerned. Let’s make a deal. No talk of families tomorrow.”
Interesting. She thought his invitation could’ve been another attempt to get inside info from her, yet he didn’t want to bring up the topic?
“For someone who thought I was a pain in the ass when you met me, I’m surprised you want to waste your precious Sunday with me. What gives?”
He shook his head, an action he seemed to do a heck of a lot of around her.
“It’s an hour’s drive give or take each way, probably longer with all the Sunday drivers out. Can’t a guy make a little friendly chitchat for a few hours without being interrogated?”
She should be happy he wanted to spend time with her, should be downright ecstatic he enjoyed the sparks they created as much as she did.
But she didn’t trust him. The men she’d known always had an ulterior motive and if her initial instincts about Marc were correct he had an agenda like the rest of them. In which case keeping him nice and close would be the smart thing to do. And sleeping with the enemy could be the dumbest.
“Okay, Slick, we’ll play it your way. I’ll be the perfect little travel companion. What time do we leave?”
“Ten suit?”
“Just peachy.”
Her mobile rang, the funky rendition of Love is in the Air eliciting a smirk and a raised eyebrow from Marc.
She shooed him away, surprised when she saw her mom on Caller ID.
Dolores never called. She preferred communicating the old fashioned way, with lengthy letters arriving infrequently. Mom blamed the Nepalese postal service, she blamed her mom’s lackadaisical approach to everything in life, including corresponding with her only child.
“Everything okay?”
She nodded, hit the answer button, struck by a sudden thought this couldn’t be good.
Marc picked up on her vibe because he sat opposite, his expression serious, his gaze focused on her.
“Hey Mom, how are
you?”
A long pause, followed by static. “Mom?”
More annoying crackling, followed by eerie silence. “Jeez, these bloody phone lines—”
“Sierra? Is that you, munchkin?
Sierra exhaled in relief, unaware she’d been holding her breath. “I’m over four foot these days.”
“You’ll always be my munchkin.”
The line cleared and while hearing her mom’s familiar endearment left her warm and fuzzy, she also picked up the edge in her tone, an uncharacteristic sadness hovering where there was only ever lightness and joy.
A born optimist, Dolores Kent let nothing get her down, even a dead-beat husband who’d abandoned them both.
“What’s up, Mom?”
This time, the lengthy pause wasn’t technical as she heard her mom’s heartfelt sigh.
“I’ve got bad news, munchkin.”
Fear ricocheted through her and for some inexplicable reason having Marc slide into the booth next to her lent her courage.
“Your father died.”
The lump of trepidation in her throat dissolved, anger replacing alarm.
“Dammit, Mom, you had me worried for a minute. I thought something serious had happened.”
“Aren’t you the teensiest bit upset? He was your father—”
“He wasn’t my father.”
Marc’s arm tightened around her shoulders, solid, reassuring and she resisted the urge to disconnect, fling the cell back in her bag and bury her head in the comforting crook of his arm.
“I thought you had a right to know.”
A right? Sierra had tried to assert her rights once: the right to unconditional love, the right to both parents, the right to a daddy who tucked her in at night, sang lullabies and would be there in the morning.
Rights meant jack.
Dolores cleared her throat. “Do you want to know what happened?”
“I suppose you’ll tell me anyway.”
Sierra’s sulky huff sounded childish but she didn’t give a damn. She was entitled to a bout of immaturity considering daddy dearest had done it his whole life.
What sort of a man abandoned his wife, his daughter, and never cared enough to follow up?
A weak, spineless, no-hoper and she’d given up pining for him a long time ago.
