Lean Mean Loving Machine

by Sandra Chastain

  “Uh-oh. Did I say I was an expert?” By this time Stacy was beginning to think she ought to explain it was all a joke. She should have established exactly what she’d meant by a vamping. The man who’d turned from the godfather into a character straight out of the Roaring Twenties seemed entirely too pleased with what was happening.

  He was running his fingers through his carefully styled hair, and grinning. “The expertise of the vamping wasn’t a condition of the bet, just the end result. What about a little side wager, to cover the price of the shoes? Double or nothing.”

  Stacy took a quick breath. If there was no money to pay Lonnie, there was certainly not enough to pay for a new pair of shoes. She had to think fast. “I never bet for more than ten bucks. What’d you have in mind?”

  Gavin noticed the little twinge of worry that seemed to nag at the corner of her mouth. He wanted the advantage, but he didn’t feel good about embarrassing her. From what he’d been able to find out in his background check on her, she was just what she appeared to be—open and honest, nothing like her father.

  Gambling was something Gavin did every day of his life, in dealing with people, in making business deals that could earn or lose millions. But in this rattletrap of a wrecker, he was experiencing the pure pleasure of being with a woman who had the courage to be herself. And this time, he was gambling for himself, not some corporation that could afford to lose millions if the deal fell through. Gavin laughed, tightly at first, then more deeply.

  “Hell, I don’t know, we’ll settle on something. Take me to your vamping place, if you’re sure this vehicle will get us there.”

  “It’ll get us there, Gatsby.”

  “Call me Gavin. I don’t think I like the idea of playing Scott and Zelda. Theirs was a rather fatal attraction, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe, but they really lived their lives to the hilt. Don’t you believe in taking a chance?”

  Stacy didn’t know why she was talking about taking chances. She sounded like her father, trying to justify some wild scheme with impossible odds. Certainly she never took real chances, at least she hadn’t until now. She ought to turn around and drive back to the garage. But Lonnie might not have left yet, and she had no intention of letting him off the hook. For the last year he’d tried to match her up with every man from Atlanta to Hiram. Winning this bet, or making him think she’d won, ought to bring all his matchmaking to an end.

  She allowed herself a big grin. Gatsby looked harmless, and she hadn’t been far wrong with her warning about his being strung up. People looked after her, sometimes too well. And with Frankenstein and Dracula at home, Gavin Magadan, whoever he was, wouldn’t be any danger to her. Besides, she had a ballgame to get to, and the only other place she could have taken him—Gene’s Diner, in the middle of Hiram, Georgia—closed at two o’clock. She drove the one block that made up the long ago abandoned downtown of Hiram and took Sudie Road.

  The best thing about her father’s downturn in fortune was his moving away from the city into the little log house he’d built as a weekend getaway by the lake in the woods. At least the property was paid for. He’d called his retreat Last Chance and had erected a log portal announcing its name at the entrance.

  “Last Chance?” Gavin said as they bumped down the gravel road. “Sounds ominous. Are you sure I’m going to be safe?”

  “Absolutely. I never do away with the men I plan to vamp, at least not until afterward.”

  “That’s good. I’d think a woman who wears men’s boxer shorts and undershirts might be taking a chance. Say, you aren’t into kinky games, are you?”

  “Definitely, Gatsby. I wear boxer shorts because they’re comfortable, and I like games.” Stacy turned up a rutted drive to a log house and pulled into its carport. “This is it—Vamp Central.”

  Gavin started to crawl out of the truck, heard menacing growls of warning, and caught sight of two dogs from hell standing guard about two feet away. “Whoa!”

  “Gatsby, I’d like you to meet my roommates. Stay, Frankenstein! Stay, Dracula! Now, you can get out.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind losing the shoes, but the feet go so nicely with the rest of my body.”

  “They won’t move unless I give the command.”

  “And what’s the command? Just so I don’t inadvertently set off a red alert.”

  “I think I’ll keep that little bit of information to myself.” She waited beside her sentries as he exited the truck, then turned into the breezeway that led from the carport to the house.”

  “What kind of dogs are they?” he asked, keeping as close as he could to her.

  “Rottweilers. They belonged to my father. They’re my protection.”

  “I don’t guess you get many visitors.”

  “No, I don’t.” She could have said that he was the first man she’d ever brought to her hideaway. But that would have called for explanations, and she simply didn’t have any, not for Gavin, or for herself.

  Through the trees Gavin could see the diamond-studded water of a lake in the late-afternoon sunlight. Quiet, he thought, and safe. There were no street sounds, no people, no noise. She unlocked the back door and stepped inside, assuming that he would follow. He did.

  So did Frankenstein and Dracula, carefully, menacingly, on silent feet.

  She led him through a corridor into the combination kitchen and great room, then into a small room beyond which was obviously some kind of office or, on second look, a studio. From the bookshelf behind a desk she took a dictionary and opened it, running one finger down the listings.

  “Here it is, vamp—a noun, short for vampire: a woman who uses her charm or wiles to seduce and exploit men. Vamp, verb: to practice seductive wiles. Well, I guess that’s pretty clear.”

  “What, that you’re going to seduce me, or drink my blood?”

  “That depends on your conditions for the wager. Sit, Gatsby. Let’s negotiate.”

  She walked back into the main room, pulled a maple captain’s chair out from behind a round table stacked with paperback books. “Sit.”

  He complied. “Do I need a stenographer to take down the terms?”

  “No, but a polygraph operator to test your honesty might be in order.”

  “Now, do I look like a crook?”

  “No. Yes. Maybe. What does a crook look like, Gatsby?”

  “The ones I deal with wear double-breasted suits and Italian shoes.”

  “The crooks in my horror novels have swarthy skin, big noses and carry semi-automatic weapons. And they belong to the Family. Like the Godfather.”

  “Then I’m safe. My only family is my mother and my aunt. My mother has silver hair and wears pearls, and my aunt … my aunt is a little harder to describe. Let’s just say she is sixty-six and dresses like she’s eighteen. Aunt Jane considers herself my mother’s caretaker.”

  “Oh no, Jane? Baby Jane?”

  He looked at the woman sitting across from him with a horrified expression on her face. “Baby?” He caught sight of the stack of Stephen King and Dean Koontz novels on the table. “Jane? Oh, as in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? Are you a horror movie fan?”

  “Sure. Next best thing to baseball. Where do you think I learned my vamping techniques?” Slowly and deliberately, Stacy moistened her lips with her tongue.

  Then it hit him. Short for vampire. Frankenstein and Dracula. The woman hadn’t been kidding. For just a moment he reacted to the crazy, illogical idea that she thought she was a vampire. He stood up, pushing his chair away from the table.

  “Hell!”

  Stacy groaned and sprang to her feet. “No, don’t say that!”

  From the hall came the ferocious growls of her protectors. He looked up as the first dog bared its teeth and lunged.

  The dog’s feet hit his chest. Gavin felt a hot tongue on his face just as his head hit the floor and the lights went out. He was dead. He’d been killed by two shades from hell. And all he’d wanted to do was buy Stacy Lanham’s garage.


  Two

  Her handsome stranger was going to be licked to death before her eyes—either that or she’d be sued for harassment, lose the garage, and be forced to take up vamping full-time.

  With a rottweiler planted on either side of his chest, slurping merrily, Gavin Magadan wasn’t going anywhere, and Stacy felt safe in leaving her captive long enough to get an ampule of ammonia from the wrecker’s first-aid kit.

  She should have stopped the gag back at the garage. She’d gone along with the bet, intent on forcing Lonnie to confess on the spot. He hadn’t. Then she’d expected the man in the white pants to explain himself. But he hadn’t. Then she’d decided that Lonnie was probably trailing along behind them, ready to collect the minute that Gatsby signaled her failure.

  Instead, Gavin Magadan had inadvertently given a signal to her dogs, the one signal the dogs would automatically obey, no matter who gave the command. And he’d been the victim of their response.

  The sequence of events should have been funny. It wasn’t. He’d hit his head and passed out. His clothes could be replaced, but a busted skull might not be so easily fixed.

  Breaking the ammonia ampule beneath his nose, Stacy was rewarded with a groan and the startled look of green eyes that, when opened, probed like those of a Starship Android.

  “What?” He pushed himself to his elbows, grabbing the back of his head as an obvious rack of pain brought a frown to his face. “Get those creatures away from me.”

  “Frankenstein! Dracula! Sit!”

  Both dogs promptly obeyed, their bodies trembling in barely contained restraint, as if they knew very well that they’d performed their assigned duties satisfactorily and were waiting for their reward.

  “Good boys! Are you hurt, Mr. Magadan?”

  “I don’t think so, but if this is a sample of your vamping technique, I don’t think I can sign your certification of completion.” He felt his neck with his fingertips, then blanched sheepishly as he realized what he was doing.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about all this. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I just wanted to scare Lonnie, once and for all. Where is he?”

  Gavin let out half a breath, then held the rest as he took a good look at the woman hovering over him. All kidding aside, those same brandy-color eyes were stormy with real concern. A silver coin on a chain nestled in the crease between her breasts drew his eyes to the soft curves of her body. Her skin had the warm, blush color of one who spent a lot of time outdoors. And the woman actually had muscles, nice, curvy muscles that seemed perfect in her curvy body. Whatever she ate, she didn’t skimp on meals. He decided that he’d never properly appreciated sleeveless ribbed undershirts. He’d never even worn undershirts, though he might have to change his mind.

  “I don’t know anything about Lonnie coming here.”

  “Don’t kid me, Magadan. If it wasn’t Lonnie, then who did put you up to this?”

  Stacy was beginning to have doubts about the man she’d started off calling Gatsby. He really didn’t look like one of the jaded rich that the nickname implied. He looked alive and intense, ready to take on the world, or, perhaps her, after what her dogs had done to him. In short, he looked bad.

  Maybe the lick on his head had addled him. Maybe he really didn’t know Lonnie. Maybe she’d truly opened herself up to a lawsuit. And she’d worried about something simple like replacing a pair of ruined white leather Loafers.

  “If I had to put the blame for this on anybody,” he finally said, “it would be my aunt, who is certainly going to be held accountable for the headache I have, not to mention possible broken ribs and whatever other injuries this ‘lick’ attack may have caused.”

  His aunt? Baby Jane? The man was definitely spacey. “Do you think you can get up?”

  “Will the hounds from”—Gavin caught himself, remembering the last time he’d used that word—“Hades allow it?”

  “They won’t move until I give the proper command. Are you certain you’re all right? You look a little pale, and I’m not sure you’re thinking right. Maybe I ought to call a doctor.”

  Gavin decided that she might be right. It was the lick on his head that was making him have irrational thoughts about vampires and sunshine, instead of getting on with the task at hand—buying a seedy, run-down, small-town garage.

  Stacy Lanham stood and held out her hand. From his position on the floor, the view of her legs was even more arresting than the close-up of the silver coin. His gaze started at her scruffy running shoes and swept upward, ending once more at the portion of her undershirt under which the coin had disappeared.

  Gavin quickly took his captor’s hand and came to his feet, viewing with dismay the multiple sets of black paw prints across his shirt.

  Stacy let out a deep sigh. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to replace everything you’re wearing.”

  “Is that standard vamping procedure?”

  “Vamping? I’m very sorry. Vamping you was just a joke. I really don’t know anything about vamping. I was just trying to teach Lonnie a lesson.”

  “By knocking me out and destroying my clothes?”

  “No, by making Lonnie back off about my working in the garage. If you really don’t know Lonnie, Mr. Magadan, I’ve made an awful mistake. If you’ll go upstairs and take off your clothes, I’ll throw them in the washer and clean them for you. It’s the least I can do.”

  Gavin considered the offer, not in the light of clean clothes, but because he had never had such an afternoon. He could see their meeting coming to an abrupt end if he couldn’t find a reason to prolong his stay. Buying Lanham’s Trucking Company and Fleet Garage was taking a backseat to his interest in its owner.

  “Fine,” he agreed as he started up the stairs, trying to remember what he was wearing underneath.

  “Just throw them over the banister,” she called out. “While they’re washing, I’ll find us something to drink and turn on—”

  “Wine and music? Better and better,” Gavin said under his breath.

  “… the game. The Braves are only a game and a half out and they’re playing the Dodgers. Who do you like?”

  “You,” he said, knowing she couldn’t hear. “Your peach-shaped breasts, your long legs, and your shapely bottom—” He fantasized as he removed his trousers and shirt. He was thinking orgy, and she was talking baseball.

  Downstairs, Stacy turned on the television and listened to Ernie Johnson, former member of the broadcasting team who, though retired, came back now and then to fill in. She plundered through the closet in the utility room, looking for her father’s favorite black silk robe. Lucky had called it a dressing gown and had said it made him look sophisticated. It had. If companies had used athletes as models when Lucky Lanham had played ball in the early seventies, he’d have been in the underwear advertisements.

  Smith, the left fielder, got on with a single, and Pendleton got a hit. Stacy stood listening for a moment, holding the robe against her, thinking of the times she’d watched her father move the runners with his long, smooth hitting motion. Gavin’s clothes sailed down from the loft bedroom, bringing her out of her spell of remembering, just as David Justice flew out.

  Stacy held up the robe and considered the man she was about to give it to. At six feet, Lucky Lanham had been a big man, but Gavin was at least four inches taller. The robe might be short, but he could manage until his clothes were dry. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she whirled around, ready to quiet the dogs who were still sitting where she’d left them.

  “I’m—leaving this robe on the stairs,” she started to say, and swallowed her words.

  Stacy looked up. He was wearing nothing but his white shoes and underwear. But his weren’t boxer shorts, and they weren’t casual facsimiles either. Magadan’s underwear was made for X-rated movies, and the body beneath was protesting its constriction with every move he made down the steps.

  “White?” she said without realizing she’d spoken aloud.

  “Sorry, if I’d
known I’d be the object of a vamping, I’d have worn something more—seductive.”

  At that moment a roar of crowd noise spilled out from the television in the great room behind. Stacy groaned. “A man scored. We’re only one down with two innings to go. The manager will probably bring in a closing pitcher to hold them,” Stacy said as if she were giving a play-by-play, all the while forcing her attention away from Gavin’s body.

  She tossed Gavin the robe and turned back to the television. She’d lost track of the outs in the shock of seeing the man’s half-nude body. If the Braves lost their concentration as badly as she had, Lonnie was going to win both bets. Her vamping was no more effective than the Brave’s starting pitcher’s fast ball had been.

  Gavin followed her, came even with the four-footed monsters, and cut his pace, expecting the black sentries to bar his path at any moment. They didn’t. Only their tongues moved simultaneously as he threaded his way between them.

  Stacy started up the washing machine, and the sound rumbled out from a room just beyond the kitchen. She took two cans of soft drinks from the refrigerator and motioned for Gavin to follow as she settled on the floor in front of the television and leaned back against the couch.

  “About my coming to the garage,” Gavin began.

  “Shush!”

  Gavin felt like a fool. He was standing in the woman’s den, wearing nothing but his underwear, and she was actually watching a baseball game with the intensity of a ten-year-old playing an electronic video game. Disgruntled, he slid his arms into the black silk robe and looped the ties at the waist. Not only was he taller, but he was leaner than the man who originally wore this robe.

  “What do you think, Magadan? Will they pitch to Olsen or walk him?”

  “You’re really serious about watching this game.” Gavin walked around the couch and sat down on the floor beside her.

  “Sure, I’ve got two dollars bet on it.”

  “Only two bucks? Doesn’t seem worth the worry.”

  “That’s why I’ll win. I never lose.”