by Leslie Kelly
“I never said she was the landlady. And you never asked.” Chuckling, he leaned back in his seat, kicking his feet out in front of him and crossing his hands behind his head. “Hope you don’t leave panty hose and women’s crap all over the bathroom.”
“You’re a dead man.”
Mick shrugged, reached over and picked up the new hand of cards that Ty had dealt. The other guys just watched. Considering how wildly unpredictable Caroline had been in the old days, he couldn’t have warned them what they might expect. She could turn and stalk out, not even giving him a chance to laugh and tell her he’d arranged for her to stay at Sophie’s place…and that he’d give her back every penny of her rent.
Or she could pick up the nearest object—even the shoe off her foot—and lob it at his head.
Instead, she shocked even him. Shrugging off the suit jacket in a smooth, feminine move that made her silky blouse pull tight against her curvy body, she kicked off her shoes and strode over.
“Deal me in.”
IN HER SMALL room in her brother’s rectory, Hester Tomlinson sat on her narrow bed. She stared at her black-and-white television as a commercial for Killing Time in a Small Town came on. She recognized the street scene, seeing familiar buildings as a man’s voice talked about bucolic small-town life.
“Some heavenly place,” she said with a snort.
The fellow doing the voice-over made Derryville sound like some Norman Rockwell painting. It wasn’t, as Hester knew better than anyone. “This town has secrets,” she mumbled, keeping her voice quiet since Bob was praying in the next room.
Praying for her, most likely, as he’d undoubtedly done every day of the nine hundred and sixty-two days since she’d come to live under his roof. Not that she was counting or anything.
She’d been doing some praying of her own lately. She prayed for practical things. A decent steak for once. A big fat emerald necklace that would look much too gaudy for a God-fearing woman.
And she prayed for more secrets. For the power that came with those secrets. For the money that came with the power of those secrets. Yes, indeed, she knew all about secrets, how to spot them, how to figure them out and how to benefit from them.
Hester considered herself a fine judge of character, in spite of her brief lapse in figuring out what was going on with that trashy Winchester girl. “Spiteful, ungrateful little wretch.”
The idea that Sophie Winchester had said what she’d said…had done what she’d done…had given Hester more than a few sleepless nights lately. Because if she could so completely misread a mealymouthed girl like that, what else might she have overlooked going on right beneath her nose here in Derryville?
A lot. Perhaps a profitable amount.
All that seemed somehow unimportant now. She turned her eyes to the TV again, unable to stop the dart of fear that made her quiver in her 3X cotton high-necked Sears nightie—the one she’d had to order from the catalogue since this lousy little town didn’t even have a decent department store. One more example that she was the queen fly on a dung heap.
But it was better than being queen of nothing.
Coming here to live with her younger brother after his spineless wife had died three years ago had given Hester something she’d never had before. Status. Respect. A position of authority. She wanted to keep it. So the minute she’d heard TV people were coming to town, she’d begun to panic. Bob had worried, too. The two of them had done what they could—him preaching in the pulpit, and her working the more insidious gossip lines.
It had happened anyway, thanks mostly to those Winchesters. That was one family even the powerful standing of the first lady of the local church couldn’t touch, as Sophie Winchester had already proved. No matter what Hester had done to spread rumors about the girl living in sin with the police chief, the thrown mud had slid off her like butter off Teflon.
Sometimes there was no justice. Sophie got away with her disrespect. Her brother Mick…well, he was fine to look at, Hester wasn’t too old to note that. But he was a sinner. One had only to look at him, at the way he smiled at women, at the way he wore his pants and the way he walked. Wicked.
Not that it mattered, because now the town was going to be filling up with wicked people. Those Hollywood types, with their prying eyes and their prying cameras. People who liked to learn secrets, just like Hester.
What if one of these sneaky newcomers, by remote chance, recognized her? It seemed doubtful. She’d changed in the past thirty years, Lord knew. But it wasn’t impossible.
And that was the only thing in the world that scared Miss Hester Tomlinson.
Exposure.
CHAPTER FIVE
CAROLINE HAD LEARNED how to play poker from her Uncle Louie, who was almost as much of a no-gooder as her own father. Uncle Louie had finally settled down and married Aunt Luanne; they were now affectionately called Loulou by everyone who knew them. He’d become a perfectly content husband, unlike her father, who was living someplace in Florida with his third wife.
One thing was sure. Uncle Louie had been a good teacher, beating Caroline out of every last penny in her piggy bank whenever he came to visit.
Thank you, Uncle Louie. She just loved being able to kick ass at cards. One ass, in particular. Mick’s.
“Hell, Caroline, if I’d known you were a card shark I would’ve charged you higher rent,” he muttered as he threw down another hand in disgust two hours later.
She shot him a disbelieving look, amazed that he had the nerve to bring up the subject of rent and renters. That conversation was coming, no doubt about it. But not now, not in front of witnesses who could be used to testify against her in the trial: the one she anticipated after she killed the guy.
She sipped at her now very watery scotch on the rocks, staring at her cards and humming the Alias theme under her breath. Kick-butt woman. That was appropriate tonight. Because she was going to kick Mick’s butt all over the place once they were alone.
But it’s such a nice butt.
No. No thinking of how Mick had looked while naked in his office a few weeks ago. Even as she ordered herself to get him out of her head, however, she knew she’d be unable to do it. The picture of Mick had remained in her brain every minute of every day since she’d seen him again.
The other men in the room were wonderfully good-natured about losing their money to her. Which was a good thing, since two of them were going to be extras on Killing Time in a Small Town. Finally, when the eleven o’clock news came on in the background, the one named Eddie leaned back in his chair and gave an exaggerated stretch. “Workday for me tomorrow.”
Yes, it was, even for her. Unfortunately, she still had no idea where she was going to sleep tonight. But it was worth it to see the way Mick was squirming, wondering when she was going to erupt, and how she would handle her rooming situation.
She knew the answer to both questions: when they were alone, and, at the rent-by-the-hour no-tell motel out by the interstate.
“It was grand, boys,” she said as she accepted her pile of money and tossed her final hand toward Mick. “I think I’ve earned back a week’s worth of the rent this snake slimed out of me.”
Mick sipped his water. She’d noted he’d switched to nonalcoholic drinks after Caro had announced she was staying. Probably for the same reason Caro had nursed just one scotch all evening. She needed all her wits about her. Not so much for the game, because Mick’s friends, while they might have been all-stars on the baseball field, really stank at cards. But no, she needed to keep clearheaded to deal with Mick once they were alone.
Which looked like it was going to be very soon.
“Night, Caroline,” Eddie, a thick-waisted Italian guy with a shaggy mustache, said.
“It’s Caro,” she murmured.
“Like the pancake syrup?”
She shot Mick a glare as she heard him chuckle.
“Welcome to town,” said Eddie’s brother, Ty, who looked just like him except for the absence of about forty
pounds. She liked Ty. He hadn’t tried to suck up to her by letting her win the first round or two, like the other guys had. He’d gone right for the gut. She liked a man who wasn’t intimidated by a strong woman.
Like Mick. He hadn’t cut her any slack either. It had been a real pleasure to cut his jacks-over-eights full house out from under him with a royal flush.
If only he didn’t look so darn cute. So male, so king of his domainish. She couldn’t imagine why she had ever thought this house belonged to the nice old lady—his mother, for heaven’s sake. Because while it was old, and tastefully decorated with antiques, it did scream male inhabitant.
The rec room with the completely drool-worthy forty-three-inch flat-screen TV and the five-speaker surround-sound system should have been a tip-off. Little old ladies didn’t usually watch their Matlock or Murder She Wrote reruns in such high-tech surroundings. Caro had just been too deep in lust with the TV setup to question it.
The rest of the house had held similar hints. From the paneled office with the cherry desk—which she’d originally thought might have belonged to the nonland-lady’s late husband—to the overstuffed leather furniture in the living room, she should have expected this. Well, not this. Not Mick. But she should have at least considered the possibility that the woman she’d met was not the owner of the house.
When they were finally alone, Mick walked over to plop on the recliner facing the TV. Following him, Caro found the remote and clicked the off switch. Nothing happened. Spying another remote, she grabbed that one and tried again. Still nothing. “Do you not have batteries in this town?”
He didn’t even look around. “The little one’s for the stereo. The silver one for the CD player. The fat black one works the DVD and the really long one runs everything else.”
Great. A remote-inept roommate. “Ever heard of universal?” she asked, digging into the sofa cushions for the long “everything else” one.
Mick wasn’t helping. “Can never figure out how to get the damn things to work. The one time I tried it, it kept turning on my coffeepot. I thought I’d end up burning my house down.”
She saw a nearly hidden smile. “You’re so full of it.”
“And so are you. You know damn well you’re not planning on staying here. Why didn’t you slap my face and walk out the minute you realized what I’d done to you?”
He gave her one of those lopsided, cocky grins, as if daring her to get close enough to slap his face. She didn’t take the dare. Stepping close to Mick would make her hand itch to do something far removed from slapping.
She already wanted to touch him. Had wanted to touch him since that first moment in his office. But that was a dangerous, slippery road, one she couldn’t afford to travel. She took one tiny, nearly imperceptible step back.
“So tell me,” he said, apparently not noticing the sudden flush in her cheeks, “why haven’t you left yet?”
She crossed her arms in front of her chest, still standing over him. “Where, exactly, do you suggest I go?”
“So you definitely don’t want to be roomies?”
“Not even if you’ve turned into Tom Hanks from Bosom Buddies.”
He rolled his eyes. “Still living life as a sitcom, huh?”
She glanced around the dirty room, which still held a hazy cloud of smoke and a strong smell of liquor. “Still living life as a frat boy, hmm?”
He chuckled. “Christ, how did I survive eight years without hearing those smart-ass comebacks?”
That made her catch her breath, and Mick instantly seemed sorry to have said it. He stared at her, their eyes meeting and exchanging a long, unspoken conversation. Where has the time gone? Where have you been? How has life treated you? What brought us together and what was it, really, that tore us apart?
None of the questions were asked. Much less answered.
Instead, Caroline voiced another one. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you set me up like this?” She instantly regretted it, especially when she heard the note of vulnerability in her own voice. Dammit, she’d pulled off strong and in-control all evening. Why’d she have to go and turn into a girl now when they were alone?
He met her stare unflinchingly. “Because I was mad at you and I was being a mean-spirited shit.” He rose from his chair and stepped closer, sending prickles of awareness throughout her body. “I’m sorry.”
Mick had never been a liar—as someone who reveled in his badness, why would he ever need to be? So Caro knew he was telling the truth now.
“I was going to tell you earlier—before you thoroughly trounced me at cards—that I’ve arranged for you to have Sophie’s house. It’s vacant. And I’ll give you back all your rent money.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t live in Sophie’s house.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Caroline, is a clean, vacant, pretty little house worse than living here with someone you despise?”
She thought about it. He looked slightly insulted that it took her so long to answer, probably because he’d been angling for a protestation that she didn’t despise him. He wasn’t getting one.
“I can’t live in Sophie’s house, Mick, because of my allergies.”
He quirked up one brow.
“Cats. Remember?”
“What about them?”
“I’m allergic.”
“The house has been thoroughly cleaned.”
“You don’t get it,” she replied, breathing an exasperated sigh as she dropped to the sofa and waited for him to sit opposite her. After he did, she continued. “I have major allergies. Those few minutes I spent in her house nearly made me break out in hives. No matter how much it’s cleaned, unless the place has been HEPA-vacuumed and recarpeted, I can’t spend more than a half hour in there or I’ll end up in the hospital.”
He looked stymied. “Have you always been allergic to cats?”
She nodded, crossing her arms. “Don’t you remember Coolie? My hairless? I had pictures of him all over my dorm room.”
Mick frowned. “I always thought he was a rat.”
She picked up a pillow and threw it at him.
“So, Sophie’s place is out.” He looked sheepish. “Damn, I really am sorry.”
Caro recognized the look. Mick was a notorious prankster, a joke-player, but whenever one of his harmless pranks turned out to be a little less than harmless, he’d always been the first to apologize and try to make things right.
She didn’t let him off the hook that easily. “You should be.”
Mick leaned forward and dropped his elbows onto his jean-clad knees. Caro followed his every movement with her eyes, wondering why eight years hadn’t been enough to make Mick Winchester look old and unattractive. She didn’t know that eighty years could.
He might still be a ruthless prankster, but he had definitely changed physically. Seeing him naked that morning a few weeks ago had proved that. Seeing him now, in his threadbare, stone-washed jeans and tight cotton T-shirt reminded her again.
As a young college guy he’d been a long, lean stud. Now he was thicker, filled out, bulkier and harder, with the kind of solid, muscular arms that said he did more than work in an office all day. His face had matured, too, losing its cute boyishness and gaining a heart-stopping male maturity that a lot of guys in Hollywood would have loved to have. But that grin, and that twinkle in his vivid green eyes was the same.
She drew in a shuddery sigh, forcing herself to pull her attention off his body and back on his rotten practical joke. “I guess I’d better get out of here.”
He instantly stood. “Where are you going?”
“I plan to go stay at the motel on the interstate for the night, even if I do have to pay by the hour.”
“You can’t.”
For a second, she thought Mick was being protective. Then he added, “The county fair is in town this week and that place is sold out.”
So much for tender and considerate. She scowled. “This is your fault.”
He nodded. “
I know. So I guess you’re going to have to live with Day-Glo green. I think that’s the only rental one of your Hollywood buddies didn’t snatch up, so that’s your only choice. I’ll call the owner right now.” He gave her another apologetic look. “And I’ll pick up the rent.”
Her only choice? Not quite. Before she had a second to think about it, she replied, “I do have a lease, you know.”
He just stared.
“You rented me a room in your house and money exchanged hands. You can’t throw me out.”
This time his jaw dropped. “You can’t really live here.”
“Why can’t I? I’m legally entitled.” Knowing that Mick was appalled at the idea of having her under his roof for four weeks made Caro start to appreciate the merits of her impetuous idea. The more she thought about it, the more she liked it. “I have been looking forward to a nice, quiet room in this lovely old house, and you rented it to me. Unless you want the studio to sue for breach of contract.”
He thrust his hands through his thick, wavy hair, sending a few strands sticking out in a boyish tumble. For an insane moment, she thought about walking over and straightening it. Her fingertips rubbed against each other as if remembering the feel of that hair against her skin.
“This is impossible.”
Crossing her arms and feigning a calm she really didn’t feel, she leaned back into the couch, making herself right at home. “You made this bed.” She let a Cheshire cat grin cross her lips. “Now I get to sleep in it.”
MICK FINALLY AGREED that Caroline could spend the night, at least one night, while they figured out what to do. Caroline kept insisting, right up until the minute she shut the door to the spare room in his face, that she was staying put for the length of her lease.
“Staying put, my ass,” he said as he stood in the hall staring at the closed door. A door—such a minor thing standing between him and Caroline. Not even half a continent had been enough to get her out of his brain for the past eight years.
“Your tattooed ass!” he heard from within the room.
He muttered a quieter curse, but as he walked away, Mick was unable to resist breaking into a smile.
