by Nicola Marsh
She clambered onto his lap and wrapped her legs around him, the feel of his rock-hard erection rubbing at her core sending bolts of sensation rocketing through her.
He stilled and she clung to him, her face buried in his shoulder, not willing to stop, not this time.
“Kiss me again—”
“We’ve got company.”
She raised her head, surprised by the laughter in his voice. She’d expected regret, recriminations, and excuses, not the deep rumbles making him shake.
She followed his line of vision and saw Flo’s face pressed against the windowpane, her mouth a perfect O.
“Guess that puts a dampener on things,” he said, his hands clamped around her waist as if he had no intention of letting go. If only.
Sierra slid off his lap and straightened her clothes as Flo dashed across the yard back to her place. Great. The Love grapevine would be working overtime tonight. Not that she cared. Her mind still spun from that scintillating kiss, her body clamoring for more.
“Refill?”
She picked up the coffee pot, torn between dumping the contents on her head in embarrassment and pouring the lot on him for stopping.
“No, thanks. I have to go.”
“Uh-huh.”
Typical. Show a bit of emotion, time to make a run for it. Jeez, guys infuriated her.
“Sorry about the mess. If you show me where the broom is, I’ll clean up.”
“Leave it.” She waved him away, cursing her stupidity for liking him so much, wishing he’d just go.
“Okay. See you later.”
He eased out the back door and she resisted the urge to slam it.
“Damn you, Slick,” she muttered, casting a malevolent glare at the china laying shattered on the floor, hoping her heart wouldn’t soon follow suit.
Flo hobbled as fast as her dodgy ankles could carry her, reaching for her cell phone on the bench top as soon as she entered her kitchen and hitting redial.
Thankfully, Liv answered on the second ring.
Flo lowered her voice. “Can you talk?”
“Sure. What’s with the whispering?”
With her eagerness to impart the news, Flo hadn’t realized how quietly she’d spoken.
She cleared her throat. “Better? Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear. How are you?”
“Fine, but no time for chit-chat now. I’ve got news about Marc and Sierra.”
She imagined Liv sitting up straighter. “Yes?”
“I just saw the two of them in a lip-lock that could’ve set fire to that quaint kitchen of hers.”
“You were spying on them?” Liv sounded horrified rather than pleased.
“’Course not. I’d been over there earlier and left my lighter behind.” She sniggered. “Looked like the two young ones were lighting a few fires of their own by the time I returned.”
Liv chuckled. “Sounds promising. Marc tells me he sees a fair bit of Sierra but I got the impression there was nothing romantic going on.”
Flo snorted and reached for a cigarette before remembering her lighter was in Sierra’s kitchen. “There’s plenty going on from what I saw.”
“That’s good news.”
“Sure is. I’ll keep you posted. How’s that old reprobate Hank treating you these days?”
Liv hesitated for less than a fraction of a second, long enough to rouse Flo’s usually suspicious nature. “Fine, though business keeps him busy. I’ve hardly seen him the last few days. He’s made several day trips to Imperial Valley.”
Flo heard the loneliness in Liv’s voice. If anyone could understand, she could. Look where the emotion had got her, pining after some old fogey who probably wouldn’t give her the time of day when he came into town tomorrow.
Keeping her voice deliberately lighthearted, she said, “Lucky you, getting some breathing space from the old letch. I’d be dancing a jig. Once he slips that wedding band on your finger he’ll have you shackled to that kitchen sink, mark my words.”
As intended, Liv laughed. “At least I won’t be pregnant.”
Flo joined in her friend’s laughter, thankful she’d shared that outlook with Charlie. They both hadn’t wanted kids, a fact most people didn’t understand, but she’d never had a maternal bone in her body and had never regretted her decision.
“Flo, I think Hank’s arrived. Speak to you soon?”
“Sure. Take care, you hear?”
Liv had gone, probably rushing to the arms of her man. If only she could do the same.
“Will Jamieson, watch out,” she muttered, as she searched the dresser drawers for matches, desperately craving a cigarette while she contemplated her plan to impress the old fool.
Marc stared out the windscreen and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. It had been one hell of a day, starting with Rob’s phone call about the Tech file highlighting his ongoing dilemma, followed by his caveman behavior in Sierra’s kitchen, culminating in the meeting with the PI he’d hired to investigate Hank Stevens.
Yeah, one helluva day and it wasn’t over yet. What next?
He’d hired a local investigator figuring he’d get the information on his mom’s fiancé quicker that way. Finders-Keepers were great for prying into financial affairs of companies he wanted to acquire but he’d thought a delicate operation of this kind would be better handled locally.
He’d been wrong. Eric Grayson appeared competent but he hadn’t come up with the goods yet and Marc didn’t have much time left; only a few days to find some scrap of dirt he could use to convince his mom she was making a huge mistake in marrying Hank.
As far as he could see, the farmer was genuine. In fact, the more he got to know him, the more impressed he was. Yet, Marc couldn’t ignore the niggle of doubt in his gut. Something wasn’t right.
He’d closed some dicey business deals by listening to his gut instinct, taking chances when guys around him thought he was nuts. Now, the same gut feeling was telling him Hank Stevens had a secret, something with the potential to tear his mom apart and he’d be damned if he stood by and let it happen no matter how much he liked the guy.
A rap on his side window wrenched his attention back to the present and he stabbed at the open button. Speak of the devil.
“You okay?” Hank leaned against the car and peered in the window. “I’ve been in the general store awhile, saw your car parked out here before I went in.”
“Fine thanks.”
Yet another thing he’d never get used to in this town, the way everyone knew your business. It would’ve riled him when he first arrived but he’d mellowed. With his impending departure next weekend, he could afford to be magnanimous. “How are you?”
“Not bad. Just picking up a few things your mom wanted. Why don’t you come for dinner? She’d love to see you.”
Marc glanced at his watch, not really caring what the time was. He didn’t have any place to be, he couldn’t concentrate on business while Love Byte was on A-Corp’s hit list and sitting in the little apartment over Flo’s garage was too close to Sierra.
He’d be tempted to head over there and finish what he’d started earlier, a dumb move despite his libido roaring go for it.
The closer the timeline to finalizing the Tech file, the further he backed away, hating to get too close for fear of hurting her when the truth came out.
And it would. It was only a matter of when: when he told her, when he decided what the hell he was going to do, when he stopped mulling every possible solution where he could seal the deal and get the girl too.
“Unless you have something else to do?”
Hank wore a strange expression, his steady stare probing, trying to read his mind. Ridiculous. Probably his own guilt at having the farmer investigated playing tricks on him.
Why should he feel guilty? He wasn’t trying to ruin the man, just protect his mom, something he should’ve done years earlier.
“Dinner sounds good.”
Hank nodded. “Excellent. Give
s me a chance to open a bottle of cognac I’ve been saving, if your mom doesn’t mind. I’m hoping you’re a connoisseur?”
“I can be persuaded.”
Damn it, why did the farmer have to be so nice? He genuinely liked Hank, an educated, gentle man with good taste. Not to mention caring enough about his mom to consider whether drinking around her would be okay.
Was his gut instinct wrong this time? His protectiveness tainting his opinion? It didn’t take a genius to decipher his over protectiveness stemmed from guilt, a constant, nagging guilt for not being there for his mom during her nightmare marriage to George.
He’d never understood why she’d stuck by George all those years after he’d grown up, had lost respect for her because of it, had preferred to ignore his parents and look out for himself. He’d missed the signs of his mom’s drinking by shutting off, had never forgiven himself for finally acknowledging the truth of her downward spiral when he’d walked in on her lying unconscious in a pool of vomit.
That horrific day remained etched in his mind: arriving early to pick up some old college documents, finding the patio sliding door open, calling out repeatedly only to be greeted by silence, an eerie, taut silence that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
He’d known something was wrong the moment he stepped inside the house, the pungent stink of vomit permeating the air as he barged through the family room, the kitchen, before almost stumbling over his mom’s prostate body in the dining room.
Right beside the liquor cabinet. An empty vodka bottle clutched in one hand, an unopened gin bottle in the other.
He’d learned at an early age that tears were wasted. They didn’t make your parents stop fighting, they didn’t make the pain of being called a sissy repeatedly by the one man you wanted respect from go away, and they sure as hell didn’t make your father disappear.
So he’d stopped crying but the second he knelt next to his mom, pried the bottles out of her hands, gently lifted her and carried her to the upstairs bath, the tears were back, angry tears that blinded him, furious tears of recrimination and self-loathing that he’d been too wrapped up in himself to care about his mom.
She’d revived in the bath, her eyes glazed yet desolate and he’d vowed right then to do whatever it took to get her cleaned up.
He hadn’t done much. His mom’s shame had been complete that day; she’d hit the bottom of the bottle and there was only one way out.
He’d helped her pack a few essentials and she’d moved in with him the same day. George had gone ballistic but they hadn’t cared. She’d attended AA meetings regularly, started socializing again and finally smiled, something he hadn’t seen in a long time.
Sober, his mom could take on the world. But what if she was taking on more than she could handle in Hank?
He stared at Hank, hoping his instincts were wrong. If Eric Grayson came up with nothing, he could head back to LA conscience clear. If not…he hated to think of the devastation his mom would face again.
A failed marriage closely followed by a broken engagement would be two emotional upheavals too many, more than she should have to face, more than she could cope with and he’d hate to see her regress to the drunken mess she’d been before leaving George.
“Okey-dokey, I’ll see you at home.” Hank banged the roof of his car twice, stepped away and waved.
Marc saluted in response and started the engine, hoping he was wrong about Hank, ready to help his mom handle the fallout if he wasn’t.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cupid’s Dating Tips for the Enlightened Male
Saying f*@k often doesn’t make a woman want to do it.
“You said this was a make-over session for Flo, not a bridal shower.” Olivia stood on the threshold of Sierra’s bedroom, hands on hips, eyes glistening with suspicious moisture.
Belle and Flo yelled surprise as Sierra gave Olivia a gentle shove into the bedroom.
“It was their idea. I knew you didn’t want a fuss,” Sierra said, not taking responsibility for this event for altruistic reasons.
Her deal with Marc stipulated no planning the wedding. But could she help it if her pushy friends used her house for an impromptu bridal shower?
“Stop flapping your lips and come grab a glass of cider.” Flo thrust a champagne glass filled with nonalcoholic sparkling brew into Olivia’s hand and dragged her over to the mirror. “Sit.”
Olivia surreptitiously swiped at her eyes, her smile tremulous. “Remind me never to trust you three.”
“You can trust us. It’s what’s in those boxes you can’t trust.” Flo winked and nudged Olivia in the ribs. “Personally, I wanted to get you a rolling pin for a present but you know these young girls of today with their new fandangle electrical pleasure devices and balls you shouldn’t put places and—”
“Don’t ruin the surprise,” Belle said, pushing Flo down onto a stool next to Olivia.
Sierra laughed. “Ignore them. Your gifts are safe to open in public.”
“Good.” Olivia gestured at the dresser covered with make-up paraphernalia. “What’s all this?”
The twinkle in Flo’s eyes hadn’t diminished and Sierra wondered if teasing Olivia was a way of hiding her nerves at her pending makeover.
“We knew you wouldn’t go for a male stripper, even though I told these young girls I’d pay for one each. And we couldn’t go to a bar—”
Flo winced, Olivia nodded serenely. “Good point.”
“—So we thought Belle could do your bridal make-up trial while doing my makeover.” Flo squinted into the mirror, pulled back her grey bangs before making a face and sitting back. “Do we girls know how to have fun or what?”
“Sounds lovely. I’ve never done anything like this before…” The underlying sadness in Olivia’s voice had the rest of them darting frantic glances for anything to distract.
Belle clapped her hands. “First time for everything. Let’s get started or we’ll be here all night.”
Sierra nodded, relieved at the change of subject. Last thing she wanted was Olivia getting maudlin on what should be a fun night. “Good idea. Liv, you want to help me sort these outfits Flo brought while Belle works magic on her first?”
“Sure.” Olivia joined her at the bed and trailed a hand across some of the outfits, raising both eyebrows in the process, as Sierra stifled a laugh. Flo’s mismatched wardrobe was no match for the Beverly Hills elegance Liv favored.
Belle dabbed concealer under Flo’s eyes and smoothed it with a fingertip. “How are the wedding plans coming along?”
“Under control. Flowers are done, garden booked, minister set, reception finalized.” Olivia held up a floral silk muumuu that had seen better days and tossed it onto the discarded pile. “Personally, I’d rather talk about why our friend Flo needs a makeover.”
“So I fancy an old fossil? Big deal.” Flo winced as Belle sponged foundation over her face. “I’d rather talk about young Sierra and her culinary habits.”
Sierra stiffened and shot Flo a filthy look. “This isn’t the time.”
Discussing what had happened with Marc in her kitchen was bad enough, but in front of his mom? No way.
Olivia smiled, her sideways glance sly. “Don’t mind me, dear. This is a girls’ night in. Also happens to be my bridal shower so if there’s girly gossip, by all means…”
Flo guffawed. “From what I saw through that window Sierra’s got loads of gossip.”
“Better add peeping tom to your list of dubious qualities,” Sierra muttered, almost wishing Marc would take a few lessons from his landlady and take a peek through her windows. Might give her a better chance at seducing him because right now she was plain out of ideas.
She’d tried the honest approach; it had precipitated that scintillating kiss. She’d tried the friendly approach; it had got her just that, another friend. Which was fine if he was sticking around and she wanted to do the whole ‘let’s get to know each other as friends first’ routine before moving into a relationship.
However, she didn’t have that luxury.
Marc would be gone at the weekend and that would be the end of it. Sure, she’d see him again at Hank’s wedding but the ‘one night stand for old time’s sake’ wasn’t her style either.
They had more going on than a physical attraction and she wanted to see where it could lead. The stupid thing was he’d admitted how much he liked her, how easily he could become addicted yet he’d pulled back anyway.
She understood his reluctance if it had anything to do with the distance thing. She’d never had a long distance relationship, deeming them unworkable after seeing her clients try and fail, but what if it was more than that?
“Close the blinds next time,” Flo said, flinching as Belle started dabbing blush on her cheeks. “Besides, wasn’t my fault. Hearing all that china breaking, I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
Belle paused mid-stroke, eyebrows shooting heavenwards. “You didn’t tell me about breaking anything. Must’ve been some kiss.”
Sierra darted a glance at Olivia, who gave her an encouraging nod.
Oh, what the hell, nothing remained a secret long in this town and once Marc left and she lost ten pounds through stress-induced fasting, the whole place would know how heartbroken she was.
“On a scale of one to ten? A ginormous twenty.”
Sierra sighed, having replayed it many times. If she’d thought their other kisses had been toe curling, mind-blowing clashes, this one had been powerful enough to make her little pinkies stay bent forever. “Pity he doesn’t want a repeat.”
Flo shook her head as Belle aimed a sweep of a blush brush at her cheekbone, earning a poke in the eye. “Ow! Lordy, this beauty stuff hurts.”
Flo blinked several times, satisfied her eyes were in working order, and continued. “Don’t know what that young man is thinking. If you ask me, he’s too caught up in his work. Up ‘til all hours over the garage, poring over that darn computer of his, rifling through papers when he should be rifling your skirts.”
