He stood to excuse himself but was pinned in place by his mother’s scowl. Something about this house reduced him to the same unsure, borderline desperate-for-approval teenager he’d been when he left. Like a trained lapdog, he sat.
After a particularly loud argument over whether Santa should be in a suit or just wearing the hat and boots for the photo shoot, Sarah glared at her cronies and flipped random pages back and forth looking for something. “Aha.” She yanked the paper out and waved it around as though all the women should envy her mad organizational skills. “We have a firework stand at the firehouse, a week-long kissing booth in the town square, a chicken and beer dance, the auction—” Her list stretched on and on. As she made her way down the page, her voice softened, lost its confidence. “And an–um–ice cream social.”
Jesse rubbed his temples, took a swallow of water, then drummed his fingers on the table. He’d slumped as the social activities “chairperson” droned on and on, but now sat up straight, commanding attention with the crisp tone of his question. “What did you do with the money you make from taxes? From other revenue?” It didn’t really matter. He just wanted them—mostly his mother—to admit her defeat, her stupidity, and her irresponsibility to those who trusted her to lead the town into prosperity.
His mother frowned, her eyes narrow. “We needed a new wedding gazebo.” Her gaze traveled the table, extending an obvious dare to anyone at the table to pose an argument.
“Because there are so many people dying to come to Rangers End for their ceremony?” He drew his eyebrows together. “Mom?” She still looked away. “Mom.” She turned to him. “How many weddings do you have here in a year?” He bit back a smirk.
“That’s what I said,” Mrs. Miller chimed in, mouth full of pastry. She stared down at her plate once again as his mother sent her the famous Megalos stink eye. He’d seen it so many times growing up he’d not been entirely sure his mother could form any other facial expression.
“At least ten,” his mother replied. The sudden chill in the room could have cooled his coffee. “It was shipped in from Paris.”
As he stood to refill his mug, he grinned. No job he’d ever done had been this easy. He could outsmart and outmaneuver these people in his sleep. He just needed to block out everything else and focus on the job at hand. Not the blond. Definitely not the blond.
“With a rounded top and long Spanish lace curtains,” his mother added.
Once he’d returned to his chair, Helen Caron handed him a stack of photos.
He flipped through as though he cared. “It’s lovely.” His word of the day. “Unfortunately, you’re going to need more money than a bachelor auction, a calendar, and a few other tiny events can generate. Do you have anything else in mind?” He met his mother’s gaze. “Maybe raising taxes?”
His mother grimaced. Her constituents would mutiny if she so much as broached that subject. But he could see the wheels turning behind her glittering eyes. Desperate times and all. With a little push, a prod or two in that direction. . . It was definitely an idea worth lobbying, and he mentally patted his own back for coming up with a way to make her go back on the very campaign platform that got her elected. A sliver of regret at the idea of duping his mother slipped in, and he brushed it away with a practiced mental hand.
She sighed, toying with a napkin. “I can’t go at the town for money, and we just don’t have enough in reserve for any bigger events.”
The meeting dragged on for two excruciating hours, zapping his will to live as they argued over ideas they could never afford—everything from a celebrity telethon to a rock concert with one of those hip-thruster bands. Their other big ideas of bake sales and car washes wouldn’t come close to providing the financing needed to purchase the land, but he remained quiet as they kicked “innovative” concepts around.
When he couldn’t take another minute of old biddy bickering, he stood and headed out to the backyard patio, narrowly avoiding eleven pairs of wrinkled hands clenching for a round of cheek pinching, and they weren’t discriminating about which set they aimed for. Clean air mingled with the smell of his mother’s prize-winning begonias. Prize-winning begonias. He rolled his eyes. Yeah, Dorothy. No place like home. She’d obviously never been to Rangers End.
He dropped into a chair and plucked a bloom from one of the potted flowers near his chair. The sooner he got his plan in motion, finished, and got the hell out of town, the better.
And he knew just how to do it.
2
Dammit. Third pair of heels this week she’d snapped. And now, she limped up the manicured sidewalk to her appointment. She rolled her photography equipment in a suitcase that sounded as if a dying cat struggled inside. But it was the best she could come up with to complete her professional persona. After all, she’d told the planning commission she’d done this before.
After she’d finished her shift at Grover’s, walked all nine of Caroline Cardaffi’s dogs, and subbed in for Marco as teacher of the dancercise class at the senior center, she’d started off about twenty minutes late, and that was before she raced home. With every foot slowly gobbled by her aging Pinto, she wished for the sweet ride she’d driven that morning. And now, a broken heel. Again. Perfect.
She launched the lopsided shoes into the creepy, bird-shaped hedges lining the Megalos’s front porch and scurried up the brick steps, the equipment case thudding along behind her. Shit. Another ten minutes behind schedule. The door swung open just as she raised her hand to grab the large brass knocker. Can you say pretentious?
A tall man dressed in a formal black and white tuxedo with tails relieved her of her equipment in a move so smooth, she hardly realized it happened. Ryhan stepped inside and forcibly held a holy shit behind clenched teeth.
A crystal-beaded chandelier sparkled over her head in front of a window too high to provide a view. A marble floor chilled the bottoms of her naked feet but swirled in an artful kaleidoscope of whites and grays. Enough flowers to scent a funeral home sat on a table off to one side and slashed color against the bright white walls. The man who’d anticipated her arrival like a door-opening psychic left her standing in a foyer with entryways on each side and a curved staircase directly in front of her. He’d disappeared before she finished gawking.
She cupped a hand against her mouth. “Hello?”
When no echo bounced back, she frowned. Left or right? She had a fifty-fifty chance. Fortunately, before she made a step in either direction, a woman in a shapeless black and white maid’s uniform hurried past her.
Ryhan raised a hand. “Excuse me?” When the maid continued on her way, Ryhan followed, hoping the maid wasn’t off on an errand for the mistress of the house and leading her in the wrong direction. That was all she needed, some detour that would deduct stars from her customer review.
As she paced the woman’s steps, Ryhan yammered on. “I would have found my own way, but without a trail guide through this place, I probably would have ended up walking into a pool or getting locked in a gardener’s shed. So, not to sound ungrateful, but. . .could we slow down for just one second so I can catch my breath? I mean, I know I’m late, and I hope this doesn’t affect the overall perception of my photographs. And yeah, I know this is only a little calendar, but I spent three college credit hours learning how to get the best picture possible. I really apologize for being tardy”—tardy?—“but Mitzy, Juju’s momma, had a horrible bout of anxiety when we passed Mr. Henrich’s cat sanctuary, and that pesky little bugger slipped her collar right off and hid under Mrs. Archer’s porch. I didn’t realize a two-hundred-pound Saint Bernard. . .” She shook her head. “You’re not listening to me.” She grabbed the back of the woman’s dress. “Are you taking me to the photoshoot?”
“I’m trying.” She tilted her head and glared as she spoke. Patience and housekeeping were apparently mutually exclusive.
Ryhan stepped back, smoothed her dress, and nodded. “Oh, well, then proceed.”
This time, she followed quietly,
wishing she’d asked for a map instead.
As Ryhan entered the room where the shoot was to be held, she stopped. Wow. If she’d had shoes on, she would have come right out of them.
She stepped farther inside and twirled a half turn, gazing up at the painted domed ceiling. Cherubs dressed in diapers played golden harps on swirling clouds. Their glittered wings caught and refracted light into rainbows behind them. She closed her gaping mouth and waved off her awe with a whole-body shake.
Half-dressed men and the assortment of college students she’d hired herself to pose as makeup artists littered most of the square feet of the room. Large enough to probably shelter the entire town square and the next six blocks, the room echoed with chatter. Large columns lined an aisle at the center, and Ryhan made her way into the room.
As she passed a few of the half-dressed men, most of whom she knew from her high school years and her jobs at Grover’s and Kelly’s diner, a harmonized a chorus of “Hey, Ry” and a few overstated winks, punctuated by what she could only call kissy-face, floated in her general direction. Her mouth tightened, and she put a hand over her rumbling stomach.
Oh, Lord. Twenty-thousand hits and half of those probably belong to these bozos.
“Hey.” Even her voice shook.
She stood on the receiving end of more salacious gazes than she cared to count and guessed they’d all become big RickTube subscribers over the last few hours. “Shit.”
“You’re late.” Susan Megalos took a pointed look at her diamond-encrusted Cartier watch.
“I had a thing that threw my whole day off.” Stolen car, sex video, canine rebellion, broken heel. Issues.
“I assume this thing involves your shoes?” An air that haughty could only be passed from generation to generation. It wasn’t something a girl could learn. Ryhan had spent a few years in high school trying.
She studied her chipped toenail polish and frowned. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, I suppose there is something to be said for the fact you threw them in my hedges. Although, I’m not quite sure what it says.”
Not much, judging by the mayor’s tone. Ryhan accepted the heels from the man in the suit who’d opened the door and had somehow—probably secret passages built into the walls—beaten Ryhan into the room. “I’m so sorry.” Ryhan looked down at the shoes, and with no other choice, stuffed one in each of the front pockets of her skirt.
She clasped her hands to stop the shaking and bit her lip. The money from this gig would pay this month’s rent, and she would have a little room to breathe. Punching the mayor in her surgically enhanced nose might cost her the job and leave her homeless. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and glared at the woman’s back.
“And you missed the town planning meeting this morning.”
Any more disapproval and Ryhan might actually have rolled into a ball of shame.
“I’m sorry. I had a—”
“Thing. Yes, those seem popular this morning.” Susan Megalos’s frown dug deeper lines into her face. “Shall we get to work?” Ryhan followed her across the room to where the backdrop was positioned. Good lord, that woman’s hair. Ryhan wondered what category of hurricane or strength of poking it would take to mess that coif from its teased 1960s perfection to something a little more mussed and comfortable looking. She fisted a handful of pocket lining to keep from testing the poke hypothesis. Throughout the afternoon, eleven old biddies stood flanking Ryhan.
“Turn Mr. January to the left so we can see his bum. That’s a thong diaper for a reason.”
“Should Mr. March take off the shirt? He has such lovely chest hair.”
“Mr. May! Mr. May! Lick your lips!”
And Ryhan’s favorite: “They should all thrust at the same time so we can get a better view of their packages, don’t you think?”
She ignored as much as she could, but when the group actually did the thrust, she snapped that shot then got straight back to business. After another half-hour of rearranging for the group picture, Ryhan stepped back and, with her finger pointed in the air, tapped out the months of the year.
The concept of sex selling wasn’t wasted on these folks. Cupid, Santa, and a pilgrim with a beheaded stuffed turkey all stood in a huddle, and not a shirt or pair of pants between them. A leprechaun and a shirtless pumpkin who looked like a round, spray-tanned version of a pear stood shoveling in carbs at the refreshment table. A few others still sat in chairs brushing back hair they didn’t have or having makeup that wouldn’t help applied.
She counted once, then again. “There are only eleven. And what the hell is he supposed to be?” She pointed to a man wearing only what looked like deflated grapes glued strategically to hide most of his endowments.
Mrs. Jacobi stepped forward. “September is national blueberry month. It was all we could think of.”
“So those are blueberries?” Not prunes or raisins.
Mrs. Miller stepped forward, nodding proudly. “We hot waxed them on.”
Ryhan cocked her head to the side and clucked her tongue to prevent a retort as to her opinion of their blueberries. After recounting the men, she said again, “Still only eleven.”
Mrs. Megalos raised a hand and smoothed her forehead. “That Harris boy ran off to Hawaii with his horrid little boyfriend.” She spat the words as though taking them as a personal affront. “He couldn’t wait one day to leave even though we’re missing Mr. July. Now, who’ll hold the sparklers?”
Ryhan and Jack Harris had a long-standing bad relationship that stemmed from high school band camp and involved a panty raid, a flute, and a black eye. The calendar wouldn’t miss much by not having him as the hottest month of the year. However. . .
“Sparklers aside, a calendar has twelve months. Twelve men is kind of a requisite number for models.”
“We’ll just leave off December and move everyone up a month.” Eloise Tafferty nodded her head at her own suggestion.
Oh, dear. “Leave off December?”
“But we already rented the Santa suit.” Mrs. Jacobi, the budget-master of the group, teared up. “We can’t really afford to waste that money.”
“Santa suit?”
“And we paid for the fake snow machine.”
“Could we just use one of the men twice?” Mrs. Jacobi looked around the room as though expecting praise for her idea. It wasn’t much, but it was better than having a calendar with only eleven months.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, we can’t. Not unless you can convince one of them to provide an extra date.” Susan’s glare rotated to everyone in the room.
So far, the calendar shoot had been a disaster.
An all-out old lady riot loomed just on the fringe, punctuated by eagle-eyed stares, pursed lips, narrowed lids, and clenched fists. Ryhan held up a hand. “Isn’t there anyone else you can”—badger?—“convince to participate? Being Mr. July is a pretty prestigious placement, what with. . .having thirty-one days and all.” She could think of no other reason why any man in town would submit to this sort of degradation, but as her first paying photography job, she felt obligated not to judge.
“Well, there’s Stanley Garta,” a voice she couldn’t place suggested.
The eighty-year-old owner of the supermarket?
“What about Harry Reasoner?”
Harry had an eyebrow that went from one side of his forehead clear across to the other, ears the size of car doors, and a comb-over of the three hairs he had left sprouting from his scalp. With the extreme lack of available men under the age of sixty in the eleven-hundred or so residents of Rangers End, the calendar faced early extinction.
Wait a minute. Ryhan turned in time for her heart to flutter and her palms to grow damp as her kidnap victim from her visit to Rick’s strolled past the open doorway. “What about him?”
She ran to the hallway. “Hey!” Still sans shoes, her bare feet stung with each reintroduction to the cold floor. When she caught up, she slipped her arm through his a second before he stepped into the bath
room. Breathing in the scent of him—warm and citrusy—she propelled him back to the hallway.
“You.”
“Me.”
She nodded, and it finally became clear how she knew him, or rather, knew of him. And why he looked so comfortable in this mausoleum of a house. Jesse Megalos. While she hadn’t exactly been in high school when he was, she’d heard about him. High school bad boy—explained her attraction—run out of town for some detail she couldn’t quite remember. It didn’t matter. Right now, the town needed her, and she needed him.
“And I am hoping you will do me a favor.” Electricity tingled just under her skin everywhere their bodies touched and a few places they didn’t. She slipped her hand back to her side, rubbing her damp palm down the seat of her skirt.
He held his head back in mock surprise. “Shocking.”
“Well, if you knew me, you would know that it is—shocking, I mean. I never ask people for things.” Her mind purred with other kinds of favors she was dying to ask him. The Ryhan to bad boy heat ratio crept up to dangerous levels. She bit her lip to stay quiet and not regale him with the fantasy playing in her mind at that moment. Him, whipped cream, satin sheets, and for some reason, a fog machine and Santa hat.
Dammit. This was how she got in trouble with Rick. Well, not the Santa hat.
She shook her head, willing her hormones to cease fire.
“No.” His grin caused her heart to skip. “You steal them.”
She bobbed her head from side to side. “I prefer borrowed and, if you don’t mind, I would rather focus on the problem I’m trying to solve right now.” If honest with herself, she would rather focus on the fit of his jeans.
He crossed his arms and stared down the eleven inches between his face and hers. His eyes drew her in. “Which is?” His voice kept her there, staring, biting her tongue to keep from panting.
For the love of God. He’s just a man. You’ve seen one of those before. She needed him to put on a costume and play Mr. July. Nothing more. Her body would just have to get with the program.
Man in Black Page 3
