Could the two events be more than coincidence? When had the Lafoote hotel business started? Did that coincide with Carl’s behavioral changes Maggie had described? Were the two connected, and how?
He was thinking like a cop and treating Carl’s outburst like a crime. Hell, he was far better at solving felonies than mediating marital squabbles. At least usually. The now-familiar stab of guilt reminded him why he’d left Cottonmouth.
Brax turned back to the original cause for alarm. “So Lafoote thinks you sabotaged him and he’s pissed.”
Carl snorted. “Yeah. I don’t know why I let it get to me back there.”
Brax knew. Lafoote had implied that Carl was a loser in front of an overcrowded room full of men Carl probably played with regularly. Any man would be pissed. The near rage in his eyes, though, had been unsettling.
That hadn’t been because of the hotel. Something deeper was brewing. Brax was willing to bet Carl himself didn’t consciously know the reason. He’d fought with Maggie, then he’d gone ballistic when Lafoote had intimated he was a loser. The implication was clear. Carl thought of himself as a loser, Maggie exacerbated the situation, and Lafoote tapped into it either as a lucky hit or because he was adept at exploiting weaknesses.
Sometimes a man would do just about anything to prove he wasn’t a failure.
That was the frightening part.
“Carl, things are getting out of hand. You and Maggie need to sit down and talk over your problems.”
“I’ve tried.”
“No, you haven’t. You leave early, you’re gone all day, and when you’re home, you closet yourself in your trailer.” Christ. He sounded like a woman nattering at her husband.
“I’ve got important things to do.”
“Nothing’s more important than your marriage and your wife.” He should have listened to that advice before his own marriage had gone belly-up. “I’m not trying to butt in.”
“Yes, you are.”
“All right, I’m butting in because I care about Maggie’s happiness.”
“Brax, it’s not—”
Brax cocked his head and skewered Carl with a sideways look. “I’ll tell Mom you said the F-word.”
Carl turned. Brax heard a snort. Then a real chuckle. Finally, Carl’s voice rose to a falsetto note. “Oh, please, please, Brax, don’t do that.”
“Then ask my sister out on a date tomorrow night. Talk everything through.”
Carl threw up his hands. “All right, fine. You win.”
“And don’t take her to a burger joint.”
“What kind of loser do you think I am?” Carl laughed, then stopped as if he heard his own words. In a subdued tone, he added, “I’ll take her some place real nice. For steak. We haven’t had a good steak in years.” Carl turned in his seat once more. “Hate to leave you all alone, buddy.”
Brax smiled. “Don’t worry. Just do your duty by my sister.”
Besides, Brax didn’t intend to spend the evening alone.
Chapter Seven
As she entered the Manor’s small dining room on Tuesday afternoon, Simone smoothed her navy polka dot skirt. She always dressed up for the monthly tea party. The ladies appreciated it.
Our Manor of the Ladies was clear on the other side of town from The Chicken Coop. Though no fancy resort for rich oldsters, it was at least a real building, with sand-blasted siding, neat walkways, and a magnificent view of the desert wonderland. Currently, the most magnificent view was in the dining room itself.
A familiar hunky blond sheriff sat next to Agnes. Not that she had a thing for sheriffs.
She had a thing for Brax.
Looking at the back of Brax’s head, Simone’s heart beat a little faster and a nice shot of warmth started in her chest, then spread to her extremities. Silly to get so worked up over the back of a man’s head. Or his broad shoulders. Not to mention his muscled arms.
The chair next to Brax was empty. They—all the ladies plus Maggie, Chloe, and Della—had made sure of that, Simone knew. She checked her watch. Two-thirty. She wasn’t late, they were all early. Two round tables that usually seated four had been pushed together at the back of the room by the open windows. A flowered paper tablecloth was set with teaspoons, a variety of paper napkins, plates of fragrant baked goods, two teapots, and mismatched china cups the ladies foraged from various Bullhead thrift stores and garage sales. The colorful array was rather enchanting.
Rowena, the darling, half rose out of her chair to wave at Simone. “Yoo-hoo, we’re over here.” Not that Simone could have missed the group with only five tables in the otherwise empty dining room. All the ladies of the Manor were invited, but only the usual suspects were in attendance: Rowena, Nonnie, Agnes, and Divine. The four originals.
Rowena had a quaint British accent that had never worn off despite the fact that she’d lived in the U.S. since the war. World War Two, that is. With a charming cap of blue-gray hair and a frilly pink blouse giving her a bosom she didn’t normally have, Rowena looked quite the queen for a day.
Rowena yoo-hooed a second time, to be sure Simone heard.
Della waggled her fingers in greeting, then went back to whispering in Maggie’s ear.
Brax turned, ran his gaze over her white blouse to her filmy skirt, then smiled. Her heart did a little jig when he pulled out the chair next to his and patted it. She could almost feel the pat on her rear end.
Her feet couldn’t move fast enough, and goodness, her hands trembled the tiniest bit as she sat, then scooted the chair forward. His knee brushed her thigh. His hand slid from the back of the chair to her shoulder as he gentlemanly assisted her.
His little caresses were more than enough to whet her appetite. Had she recommended light touching last night when she talked about building anticipation? Or had the man simply discovered the technique on his own?
She was darn near panting by the time he’d unfolded her paper napkin and placed it across her lap, the back of his hand barely skimming over her stomach.
“Sweetie, you look so pretty,” Agnes crooned. Her bright red lipstick had seeped into the lines above her upper lip. She’d be mortified to know, but Simone couldn’t tell her now.
“Doesn’t she look lovely, Brax?” Nonnie added. Though the oldest of the four ladies, she bore the most youthful appearance, her brow smooth, as if she’d practiced all her life not to frown.
“Pretty? Lovely?” Divine piped up. “Men don’t use those words, you idiots. Right, Brax?”
Her face heating, Simone glanced at him. His lips flirted with another smile at their obvious matchmaking.
“What do men say, Brax?” Rowena fluttered her eyelashes coyly.
Chloe flapped her hand at the four elderly ladies. “You’re embarrassing the poor boy. Aren’t they, Brax?”
“No, ma’am. None of you could possibly cause embarrassment. And being in the company of such lovely ladies is an honor,” he added, stressing the adjective.
Goodness, the man was flirting with all of them, giving each in turn a wide smile with lots of shiny white teeth. In unison, they tittered and simpered like prim schoolgirls.
It was the sweetest thing Simone had ever seen a man do. The ladies of the Manor soaked up his compliments as if starving for male attention. Which they probably were, since all were over the age of seventy. Only ladies lived at the Manor, and these ladies adored male attention.
“Ain’t he a doll? Do you know what he did at The Coop the other day?” Chloe beamed.
Simone’s heart skipped a beat and her tummy did a somersault. Brax had been at The Chicken Coop?
Brax coughed, looked pointedly at Chloe, then reached for his water glass.
Chloe didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she ignored his polite warning. “The girls bought this ridiculous robot with a million parts for Chocolate’s nephew, and Brax spent all his time with us putting it together. He didn’t even get a chance to—” Chloe jumped, then glared at Rowena on her right and Agnes on her left, as if they’d
both kicked her under the table.
“It was my pleasure to help out, Chloe,” Brax countered. “A nicer group of ladies I’ve never met.” He smiled that irresistible smile, sweeping the Manor ladies with a look. “Present company excepted, of course.”
Then his hand dropped to the outside of Simone’s thigh, stroking her with his knuckles. She gave him to the count of five, relishing the tingle of his touch, then reached beneath the table and put his hand back where it belonged.
He’d assembled a robot for the chickens. Why he’d gone there in the first place wasn’t her business.
Still, she was terribly glad he hadn’t partaken.
It was time, however, to redirect the conversation. Brax might not be embarrassed. Simone was another story. “Maggie, you look...wonderful.” She hesitated at the last moment because Maggie didn’t look wonderful at all. She looked...haggard.
The blusher on her cheeks appeared almost garish against her pale skin. Bags sagged under her eyes, and a deep frown puckered her forehead as well as her mouth. Unhappy didn’t accurately describe her. Wretched was more like it.
Maggie gave her a wan smile.
“She looks like crap,” Divine barked, then added, “Tell us what’s wrong, honeybunch.”
“She had another fight with that bastard Carl,” Della announced, “and she doesn’t want to talk about it.”
So that’s what all the whispering had been about.
“He’s a rotten, no-good bastard.” Maggie might not want to talk about it, but Della certainly did, patting Maggie’s hand and adding, “You’d be so much better off without him.”
Simone felt honor bound to intercede on Carl’s behalf. For Maggie’s sake as well. After all, Carl had ordered that fantasy. He’d paid for it, too, wouldn’t take no for an answer even though Simone didn’t want his money. Making payment showed commitment, a desire to fix things. “He’s trying, Della.”
But why hadn’t he given Maggie the fantasy, acted it out with her? Simone was sure he hadn’t, not yet. Maggie wouldn’t appear so beaten down if he had.
“Trying, schmying,” Della said. “He’s a man. They don’t even know how to begin.” She added a glare for Brax. Della had started picking on Carl recently, but then Della picked on men period.
Not that Della wasn’t a very attractive woman. Somewhere in her midfifties, her hair was still a golden cloud atop her head, and her makeup application was flawless, accenting her high cheekbones. She kept a trim figure, and her attire was always impeccable, usually skirts that reached the knees or slacks with matching blazers, though she did wear jeans for casual occasions. Neatly pressed jeans, minus the faded-wash look.
She was a well-ironed woman, with few wrinkles marring her face and none marring her clothing.
Brax cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should save this discussion for a more private moment.” A good sheriff, he headed off trouble before the tea party degenerated.
With Della, it didn’t work. “Don’t you care that your sister’s miserable?”
Della was fiercely loyal to her friends, and though she’d always known Maggie and Carl as a couple, she naturally took Maggie’s side due to hours spent over coffee and low-fat pastries.
Now she’d turned her fierce loyalty against Maggie’s brother.
“Out of respect, I don’t air my sister’s problems in public.”
“Said like a man who thinks a woman should be seen and not heard. We’re supposed to suffer in silence. Well, this isn’t public. We’re all friends here. We all care about Maggie and we want to help her.” The sun through the window caught the sparkle of moisture in her eye.
Della cared and Della wanted to solve everyone’s problems. She hurt as much as her friends did when something bothered them. Yet sometimes she didn’t know when to stop.
Next to her, Maggie shrank in her seat as if she wanted the earth to swallow her up.
“I said later,” Brax repeated. Simone had to admire that he stood his ground against Della’s ferocity.
Della’s eyes narrowed and her nostrils twitched as if she’d encountered a particularly nasty odor. Simone had seen that look more than once.
Brax didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t a criminal Della was sentencing.
Simone simply had to jump to his defense. “Della, I think—”
Chloe didn’t let her finish. “Shut up, Della. The boy’s right. This isn’t the time or place.”
“But you know she’d be better off without him—”
“Brax said later, and I said shut up.” Chloe sat taller in her chair and glared across the table, almost daring Della to open her mouth again. “I think you ought to apologize to Brax.”
Della’s eyes flashed. Chloe was going a tad too far.
Brax shot the table at large a winning smile. “No apology necessary.” Then he deftly redirected the topic away from his sister. “May I have one of those delicacies?”
“Scones. I made them myself. They let us use the kitchen here, you know,” Rowena popped in, relief in the rapid pace of her quaint British accent. “I’ve always loved baking, but with my chosen profession, I never had much time. Since I came here, why I bake to my heart’s content, don’t I, girls?”
“You should taste her trifle,” Nonnie added. “Delicious.”
“Trifle isn’t baked, you silly woman,” Divine burst in. “It’s custard and whipped cream.”
“Don’t forget the sherry on the ladyfingers,” Agnes trilled. “Rowena always puts extra sherry. It’s simply orgasmic.”
Brax almost knocked his water tumbler over. He cocked his head and stared at Agnes as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Then he grinned, which Simone determined to mean he’d decided he’d imagined the word. After all, Agnes, her pile of gray hair knotted and confined in a silvery hair net with tiny sparkles of glitter, certainly didn’t look as though she’d say orgasmic. Simone covered her mouth to hide her smile, though it would have been terribly embarrassing if Brax had understood.
He came out with “I’d love to try it sometime.”
“And then there’s her nut torte,” Nonnie added, as if afraid a moment’s lull in conversation might give Della another opportunity to start in on Carl. “It’s made with crushed nuts, no flour or anything. It’s amazing. And there’s—”
“Pass him a scone, Nonnie, before he expires of hunger,” Rowena admonished.
“Ladies first.”
“Oh no, you’re the first man we’ve entertained since Chloe opened the place,” Agnes revealed. “Gentleman callers first.”
“Oh yes, yes. And jam and butter.” The plate of scones rattled against the jam pot as Nonnie passed them to Brax with slightly palsied fingers.
“I can’t wait.” Brax took the offering, but his glance shot speculatively to Chloe.
Our Manor of the Ladies had been Chloe’s brainchild, and she’d funded a goodly portion of it, then chided town dignitaries to raise the additional monies. It had taken almost a year, but finally, the Manor had opened to its first residents, the four women now seated at the table.
“Here’s your tea,” Agnes said, passing the cup. Lukewarm liquid sloshed into the saucer. “And you must have milk and sugar, the way the British drink it. Rowena taught us that.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Brax poured milk, stirred sugar, and spread jam and butter as the ladies tweeted around him like birds.
Maggie surreptitiously swiped at something beneath her eye. Simone ached for her. Della, while caring deeply, wouldn’t understand that her behavior had only made matters worse.
What to do, what to do? She’d find Carl and tell him to let the fantasy work its magic. He should act tonight. Which meant Simone would have to occupy Brax so that Maggie and Carl could be alone.
She’d be forced to invite Brax for another movie. What would he like? The Adventures of Robin Hood with Errol Flynn. Even better, Captain Blood. Yes. Perfect.
“Oh my, would you look at the size of his hands.” Eyes wide, hand over
her mouth, Agnes was agog.
Brax stopped with a bit of scone halfway to his mouth. Then he extended his arm to look at the aforementioned hand. He quirked an eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with my hands?”
“Oh no,” Nonnie chirped.
“They’re so large,” Agnes went on with awe in her voice.
His gaze flashed left to right, from one lady to the other, his question shouted in his glance.
“You know what they say about a man’s hands, don’t you?”
Oh my God. Catastrophe was coming. Simone opened her mouth to divert it just as Brax said, “No, what do they say?”
Agnes let the words burst forth. “Why, that the size of a man’s hands is directly proportional to the size of his penis.”
If he’d been drinking his tea or eating his scone, Simone was sure he’d have spit mouthfuls across the table. As it was, his pupils dilated, and the scone dropped to his plate, landing with a splat, jam side down.
“Is it true?” Nonnie asked with wide-eyed innocence.
Simone’s cheeks flamed. Why, the old jokesters.
“You two stop that right now. My mother always says the tea table isn’t the place for discussing”—Simone searched for an appropriate euphemism and fell back on—“tallywhackers.” Brax was going to think that’s all they talked about in Goldstone.
Agnes hid behind pouring tea for everyone else and passing out the cups as someone—maybe Divine—snickered. Nonnie blinked behind her jeweled cat’s-eye glasses and said, “It isn’t?”
Rowena sampled her scone and pronounced it “Magnificent, if I do say so myself. And, my dear, in our profession, penises are always the first thing we wonder about.”
“Former profession,” Chloe corrected.
Rowena sniffed. “If men realized the virtue of an older, experienced woman, it wouldn’t be former, darling.”
“Here, here.” The ladies clinked cups, china tinkling in the dining room.
Brax had yet to pick up his teacup or his upside-down scone. Now that was a squirrel-in-the-center-of-the-road look if Simone ever saw one.
Divine tapped Maggie’s arm. “You didn’t tell him, honey?”
Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2) Page 9
