One Hot Second

by Stacy Gail

  “What’s that?” The old man had a face that could have stopped traffic, and not in a good way. He looked like a bitter crab apple that had been left to shrivel in the sun. It scrunched all the more in irritation as he fiddled with an earpiece she hadn’t noticed. “I turn my damn hearing aids off when I don’t want to be bothered. You must’ve hit that bell hard enough to break it for me to hear it.”

  “Oh.” His accusatory glare made her glance at the brass dome to make sure it was still in one piece. Reassured that her bionic bell-whacking powers hadn’t turned it into useless scrap, Parker tried for a cordial smile. “Now that I do have your attention, all’s well that ends well. I have a reservation under—”

  “What? Are you mumbling on purpose? You are, aren’t you?”

  Annoyance tried to wriggle its way to the fore. Ruthlessly she pushed it back down where it belonged, and focused on pouring more cordiality into her smile. “I have a reservation under the name Parker Radclyffe. I’m staying here for the month of June through the—”

  “Well, that sounds a bit high and mighty. The fact is, I haven’t decided whether or not you’re going to stay here, now have I?”

  That did it. Cordiality could suck it. “Let’s get something straight right now,” she snarled, and the way his eyes widened at the dangerous sound told her he heard her just fine. “If you think for one second I’m going to be cowed by any harassment from one of the mayor’s minions, you obviously don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  “Minions...”

  “I don’t know or care if Weems set you loose on me because I got in her face, or because she doesn’t want Thorne Mansion resurrected, or if this is just how she gets her kicks. Whatever she’s up to, unleashing you to trip me up is laughable. Thorne Mansion will be rebuilt, no matter how many flunkies she throws at me. You might want to tell her that the next time she lets you off the leash to do her dirty work.”

  The man’s eyes boggled. “Leash? Weems? Me?”

  “Oh, and one other thing. Tell her that if she really wants to impress me, she should find a spine and face me herself, rather than hide behind one of her puppets. I’ve dealt with sultans, kings, queens and prime ministers. If she believes she’s a force to be reckoned with, she can kiss my freckled ass, and so can you.”

  For a second the man’s mouth opened and closed with no sound coming out, much like a landed grouper. When his voice surfaced at last in the form of a roar, she almost wished it hadn’t. “By damn, do you think I look like anyone’s dog on a leash, you hotheaded little brat?”

  “I don’t know, are you?”

  “Hell’s bells, if that uptight witch ever came close to me with a leash I’m sure I’d be tempted to wrap it around her scrawny neck!”

  Whoops. “Then why were you hassling me about getting a room?”

  “Because that’s how I get my fun!” Then he did a quick double-take. “Wait. Did you say you got in Weems’s face?”

  “Of course I did.” Since she didn’t know whether to feel angry or idiotic, Parker crossed her arms with a huff. “I don’t suffer fools gladly, and she was being foolish. Now I’ve probably made an enemy.” She eyed him warily. “Or two.”

  “Well, you do have a temper on you.”

  “So do you.” Then she relaxed her stance enough to lift a shoulder. “Needless to say, I’m like fifty-year-old dynamite. Play with me and I’m guaranteed to blow up.”

  “You don’t say.” He grimaced, and it was a spectacular thing to witness. She could only hope he didn’t grimace too often. “Maybe I should know better than to toy with a redhead. Before my hair turned white, it was as red as yours. Hell, we’re probably related somewhere down along the line, considering the tendency to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  If she was destined to look as crabby as this old guy, investing in heavy-duty anti-aging cream and anger-management classes was in her immediate future. “If you want, we can start over and I can walk in again. Or, if you don’t think you can handle having a hothead like me around for several weeks, let me know. I can head out for San Antonio and find a room there. God knows a tourist town like that will have enough ticky-tacky hotels to stay in.”

  “Ring the bell again.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “What are you, deaf? Ring the damn bell again.”

  She gave the bell a smack.

  The man bowed and offered what he probably thought was a genial smile, but would no doubt have frightened small children. “Good afternoon, welcome to the Lunar. My name is Earl Herff, owner and proprietor of this fine establishment. How may I help you?”

  Parker’s jaw unhinged before her irritation dissolved with a reluctant chuckle. “Hi, I’m Parker Radclyffe, and I think I’m going to like it here.”

  * * *

  For the first time in memory, Chandler parked out front of the Nooner for all the world to see, right next to a rental car that logic told him had to be Parker’s. As he pocketed his keys, he tried to talk himself out of what he was already doing. It wasn’t any of his business where Parker stayed. Beyond paying her fee, she wasn’t his responsibility. As long as she showed up and did the work, he shouldn’t give her another thought.

  But that wasn’t how it was working out. He was more than just thinking about her. With all the images flooding his brain—her fragile white skin dusted with freckles, dark red hair flaming around him like a net in which he wanted to be caught and those pansy blue eyes darkening to midnight with lush desire focused on him... God help him. It was pretty obvious his thoughts were sliding headfirst into fantasizing.

  That should probably bother him, considering he’d hired her to do a job. But she wasn’t an employee in the truest sense. He was the one who needed her to bring Thorne Mansion back, not the other way around. If anything, he was the one who was at her mercy.

  Strangely enough, the mere thought kicked a heady spurt of excitement straight into the flesh that threatened to harden every time he thought about his architect.

  He’d only taken one or two steps before the office door opened and Parker walked out with the meanest curmudgeon who had ever grumped his way into existence, Earl Herff. Chandler’s jaw almost hit the gravel when he saw they were both smiling, with Earl holding the door open for Parker as if he’d been born and bred amongst the landed gentry.

  Well, damn. Somebody should check with the weather service to see if hell had frozen over.

  “Chandler.” The surprise coloring Parker’s tone matched how he felt as he stared at the supremely mismatched duo. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m...” Here to protect you from rabid Earl and Bitterthorn’s version of a den of iniquity. “Just making sure you found the place.”

  “Of course.” With an air of victory, she held up a diamond-shaped plastic key fob that no doubt had been around since the moon landing. “Would you believe Earl’s been kind enough to offer me the Honeymoon Suite for the entire six weeks? Isn’t that amazing?”

  Oh, dear God. “That’s one word for it.”

  “I decorated the room myself.” Looking positively smitten, Earl beamed at Parker. “I put everything in there that I’d want in my home away from home. Mini-fridge, microwave, flat screen TV. Of course, you will have to buy your own food, but there are pamphlets from all the delivery joints around town by the phone, in case you’re feeling peckish.”

  Holy crap. Earl just used the word peckish. Clearly they had fallen into an alternate universe. “Do you have luggage?”

  The older man shot him an evil look. “You dumbass. Do you think she’s going to wear the same clothes for six weeks?”

  So much for the alternate universe theory. “I was going to offer to help her with it.”

  “There’s not a ton to help with, but I’m happy to take you up on it.” With a press of a button, the rental
car’s trunk popped open. “If you’ll get the case, I’ll get my satchel.”

  “I’ll leave you to it.” Again, Earl produced the impossible by smiling at Parker. “You let me know if you need anything, all right? I’m pretty much on-site twenty-four seven.”

  “Since I’ve been alive, that man has never smiled. Never.” Hauling Parker’s single case out of the car and slamming the lid once they were alone, Chandler led the way to what had to be the most notorious spot in all of Bitterthorn—the Nooner’s legendary Honeymoon Suite. “What’d you do, slip him a mickey?”

  “I blew my top, like I did with the mayor. He didn’t care much for the first part, but the second bit tickled him so much I’m now his favorite person. Apparently your fine mayor isn’t universally loved.”

  “Earl Herff doesn’t love anyone.”

  “I doubt that. He’s just misunderstood.”

  Chandler shot her a dubious look before stopping at the last door on the far end of the Nooner’s east wing. “I guess I can’t dispute that, since you seem to have discovered the secret to making Earl act almost human. And the fact that he’s given you his closely guarded Honeymoon Suite...” He shook his head as she slipped the old-fashioned key into the lock. “Would you believe I’ve always wanted to see what this room was like?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never been to the Nooner.”

  “Everyone’s been to the Nooner. They just don’t cop to it.”

  She snorted and got the reluctant door handle to work. “Then I salute you for your bravery. What’s so special about the Honeymoon Suite?”

  “That’s what we’re about to find out.” The door swung open with a squeak. “Oh...God.”

  A laugh escaped her as she crossed the threshold. “I’ll bet that phrase has been said in here more times than in any church. Will you look at this place?”

  Chandler was looking. But he was having one helluva time believing.

  Red. That was the first thing his brain was capable of registering. Almost all the walls were shiny red, and it took him a while to realize that shine came from satiny red fabric in which the walls were covered. The one wall that wasn’t covered in red satin was behind the king-sized bed. That wall was covered in the same wild zebra pattern as the bed itself, from pillows and bolsters, to the comforter and linens. It would have made his eyes bleed if it weren’t for the tufted heart-shaped red headboard breaking up all that black-and-white animal print. Determinedly locking his jaw so it wouldn’t hit the floor, he ventured into the room only to stop dead when his feet sank into what he thought was some kind of fur. Black shag carpeting stretched wall-to-wall, smelling of rug shampoo, and he finally understood why Earl so rarely rented out this room. It had to cost a pretty penny to make sure it was as spotlessly clean as the OCD codger insisted everything in the Nooner had to be. Then again, considering what service the no-tell motel provided the community, an obsession with cleanliness was probably a good thing.

  He knew one thing. If a room could have theme music, the theme of the Nooner’s Honeymoon Suite would have sounded something like bow-chica wow-wow.

  “Whoa. Magic Fingers.” Parker dived into her satchel and came up with a quarter. There was a metallic clink, an ominous thunk, and suddenly the zebra-print mattress was juking all over the place with a noise that rivaled a stampede. “Ha! Isn’t that the coolest thing ever?”

  “You can’t stay here.” The statement was out before he knew he was going to speak. But when he heard his words, he nodded in agreement with himself. “This is...not suitable for you to stay here for one night, much less six weeks.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” The wild hum of the vibrating bed made it almost impossible to think clearly, so he looked away to a tasteful arrangement of pillows on a faux polar bear rug...and bit back a groan. “That wedge pillow has leather ankle and wrist straps on it.”

  “And there’s body glitter, flavored lube and a rainbow of condoms in the hospitality basket. That doesn’t mean I can’t stay here.” She opened the nightstand’s drawer. Instead of a Gideon Bible, she pulled out a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs. “Hot diggety, take a gander at these babies. What do you think these are supposed to attach to? I don’t see anything on the headboard, do you?”

  “I’m serious.” The languid heaviness pooling in his sex had him gritting his teeth in diligently denied arousal, and a feverish heat flashed over his skin until he half-feared he glowed with it. All sorts of inventive uses for those fuzzy cuffs clogged his brain while he stood there pretending to play it cool. And damn it, her grin of delighted fascination wasn’t helping. “I’ll get you a hotel room down on the Riverwalk in San Antonio. I’ll make sure it’s across from the Alamo so you can go into raptures over the musket-ball holes that can still be seen in the walls.”

  “I’ll see all that eventually, so don’t even think about moving me.”

  “This place is...” A temple dedicated to fucking. Not making love. Not tender intimacy. Fucking. “Not appropriate.”

  “Trust me, this room is way better than some of the places I’ve been forced to set up camp in. In Russia, I slept in a barn for two months while re-creating a palatial dacha, a summer home of an old aristocratic family. It had been burned down during the Bolshevik Revolution even worse than Thorne Mansion. Then there were those memorable six weeks in Crete. I slept outside while rebuilding a century-old olive oil factory, and I was awakened every morning by a kiss from an amorous donkey. He was a real ass.” She twirled the cuffs around her finger. “You can laugh any time now. That was a joke.”

  “Right.” But it was no joke that the flash of those cuffs twirling around her finger was the most hypnotic thing he’d ever seen. It was ridiculously easy, picturing himself fastening the fuzzy restraints around her wrists behind her back. They’d be the only thing she’d wear as he pushed her facedown onto that zebra bed, ass up so he could reach around the front to stroke her cleft while embedding himself as far as he could into her depths. Her cries would be muffled as she bit the sheets in a delirium of pleasure... “Are there any keys to those?”

  Um.” She poked around in the drawer. “Not that I can see. Yikes, can you imagine how embarrassing it would be to call in a locksmith for a situation like that?”

  He could imagine one hell of a lot, much to the throbbing discomfort in his pants. “Are you sure you don’t want to be moved? San Antonio is only twenty-eight miles away.”

  “Positive.” Consigning the cuffs to their drawer, she dropped her satchel on a table. “For the next six weeks or so, the Nooner is my comfy, cozy home.”

  Six weeks. He’d have to live in a cold shower if he had any hope of keeping his hands off the woman who was essentially under his employ for that amount of time.

  Chapter Three

  For some mad reason, Parker had assumed mid-morning would be cooler. Texas, however, seemed determined to live up to its reputation as a sun-baked oven. The shade thrown off by the live oak—studded town square where she sat offered meager relief. She did her best to ignore the sweat on her nape beneath her hair by focusing on her tablet, making a mosaic of the pictures she’d taken of the site she’d covered in a nylon rope grid earlier that morning. Now that the tedious cataloguing of every inch was complete, she’d put a call in to the specialized demolition crew she’d located out of Austin to come in to clear out the unstable, skeletal remains of the once-great Italianate mini-castle. An Italianate castle that was an elegant treasure planted inexplicably in the middle of nowhere.

  Funny how that description reminded her of Chandler Thorne.

  Behind her sunglasses, her brows drew together. Had there ever been a time when she’d been so singularly aware of another human being? The moment when she’d finally laid eyes on her new client was tattooed on her memory, as if it had been one of those earth-shaking, life-altering historical events people
spoke about in hushed tones decades later. If she lived to be a hundred she had no doubt she’d still remember exactly what he was wearing and how his hand had felt against hers.

  There was nothing about him that she didn’t like. Rugged looks that made any woman do a double-take, a worldly manner that nevertheless managed to fit right in with the rustic backdrop of a folksy small town and an ardent appreciation for a building that wasn’t just a building, but a statement of who and what his ancestors were. By hiring her to restore the mansion, he’d shown he understood that history wasn’t a discarded thing that had no relevance in today’s world. It had value to him.

  Nobody understood that better than her.

  Not for the first time Parker wondered if her fascination with buildings and their history stemmed from her rootless existence. She’d been the epitome of an army brat; roots were an alien concept as her family’s nomadic life bounced from Alaska to Saudi Arabia, from Fort Benning in Georgia to Okinawa in Japan. Friends had come and gone like cars on a freeway. Nothing too personal, nothing lasting. She’d never needed that, at least in people.

  But as she’d grown, she’d become obsessed with the history of the people whose lives she flitted through, and the solidity of the structures they left behind not just as monuments, but as basic proof that they had once been there. That they had lived, and they’d fought like hell to sink the roots that she’d never had, thus ensuring the growth of something great—a family, a community, a kingdom or a manifest destiny.

  Was it any wonder she wanted to make sure those roots lived on?

  “Miss? Are you all right? Your face is awfully red.”

  Parker’s head shot up. She found a petite, middle-aged blonde woman standing no more than a few feet away from where she sat on a bench, regarding her with concern. Automatically she put a hand to her cheek and sighed at the heat radiating from it. “This Texas weather is something else again. I’m starting to doubt my decision to forego spending the summer in the Loire Valley reconstructing an eighteenth-century chateau.”