She gave him a dreamy, half-lidded look reserved for Justin Bieber, if you were under the age of fifteen, or the prospect of sultry southern nights spent on satin sheets if you were over the age of consent. The bulge in his pants indicated they both clearly met his age requirement.
Bad idea, really bad idea. Repeat after me, you learned your lesson when Cookie Beaumont came sniffing around.
Bobbie licked her lips, and his dick twitched. Apparently he hadn’t learned his lesson.
“Stop that.”
Her eyes widened. “Stop what?”
She stared at him, all innocence and sweet green eyes. Funny thing, he wasn’t sure she had a clue what she was doing to him. “I’m not going to the Accordion Festival.”
“Aw, come on. You might find everyone will start liking you when they figure out you’re just a normal kinda guy.”
He ignored the insult of being considered normal. “Do I look like I care if any of them like me?”
She pursed her lips, considered him a moment, as if she couldn’t believe he didn’t give a damn. He was about to reiterate when she conceded. “All right, then settle for surprising people. They’d never expect it. You’d drive them crazy.”
Especially Eugenia Meade, who’d planned the whole thing right down to headlining the Linz Minyon Band from Milwaukee and snookering Cookie Beaumont into decorating. Bobbie’s eyes sparkled with excitement at the prospect. Suddenly Nick saw exactly what Janey Dillings and Patsy Bell Sapp saw. The man who’d left her had to be freaking insane to kick the brilliance of that smile out of his life forever. Not to mention his bed.
“When is your divorce final?”
She clutched the bowl of pasta to her stomach as if he’d punched her. “Warren is working on all that stuff.”
He squashed the rumble of remorse over wounding her. He needed to know. “You don’t really want a divorce, do you?”
She took a deep breath, her chest straining the stretchy sweater material, then said, “It’s the height of bad manners to stay where you’re plainly not wanted.” Her eyes opened wide as she made the connection between divorce and standing on his porch. “So, I guess my coming over here is the height of bad manners after you’ve plainly told me to go away.” Then she shrugged, smiled, and held out the bowl one last time. “You can have it anyway. No strings attached. From one outcast to another.”
The woman had an uncanny sense of word use, picking just the right ones to reach inside and twist a man’s heart. Nick didn’t take the dish from her hands. Instead, he found himself giving her, what was for him, an apology. “Actually, the first time, I told you to come over whenever you got the itch. Bad manners on my part to take back the invitation the next day.”
Jesus Christ, he could have gotten rid of her if he’d just taken the dish and closed the door. What the hell was wrong with him? His gaze fell to her firm breasts beneath the sweater. And he knew damn well what was wrong with him.
Bobbie arched a pretty brow. “I totally agree.”
He could only hope she’d agree to anything. “You aren’t an outcast by any means. Cottonmouth loves you, if the gossip I’ve heard is reliable.” Shut your mouth before you actually beg her to come inside. What was he trying to do, make her feel better or something?
“Let me put it another way. You’re the outcast. I was cast out.” Then, smiling, she shook her fist in the air. “And darn proud of it, too.”
Only an optimist could smile like that after getting the heave-ho. Or a psychotic. Since he was pretty sure optimists were a figment of someone’s imagination, he opted for psychotic.
And there was that old proverb, better to keep the psychotics out of your house. Hadn’t Jung or someone said that? He pushed the door fully open. “Wanna come in and wash out your lasagna dish so you can take it back home?”
Idiot. He felt like banging his head against the door as she took him up on the invitation.
* * * * *
Bobbie didn’t find any frying pans with human livers on the stove. Not that she would have known a human liver from any other kind of liver. Nick had washed out the lasagna dish despite what he’d said. And he’d shared the pasta salad with her. He was even a sort of accomplished host. He provided napkins in the form of folded paper towels, and sat her at the kitchen table instead of making her eat over the sink.
His skill at conversation, though, could use some help.
“Do you know Beau down at the garage?”
“Yeah.”
Bobbie waited for more, but nothing was forthcoming. She probed further. “Why doesn’t he sell that place and start somewhere else?”
“It’s his home.”
Daintily spearing and chewing two more bits of curly pasta and an artichoke heart, she waited. Again, nothing. Air drifting in through the open back door caressed her cheeks like warm fingers. She imagined that’s how his touch would feel. The spicy tang of the salad dressing exploded in her mouth. That’s how he’d taste. Swallowing, she pushed on. “Is Beau a little...off?”
Nick spooned more pasta into his bowl. “No. He’s right on.”
What did that mean? “So, is there anything else you want to tell me about him?”
He put down his fork and gave her the full benefit of a dark-eyed stare. “No.”
“Don’t you want to gossip?”
“I don’t gossip. I am gossip.” Said like a king, with a diabolical grin that made her pulse rat-a-tat.
“So I guess that means you don’t want to tell me anything about the mayor either?”
He raised a brow, and she knew there were all sorts of juicy things he could reveal. But he wouldn’t.
She tried another route. Compliments. “I love your kitchen.”
He looked down at the linoleum. Probably once a rusty redbrick simulation, it was now faded and peeling back in the corners where it met the cabinets. Bleach stains spotted the Formica countertops and paint blotches ornamented the porcelain sink. The harvest gold stove and refrigerator, entering the house sometime in the early seventies, were probably here unto death.
He gave her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.
“It reminds me of when I was a kid.” Her mouth watered with the memory of jam tarts and chocolate chip cookies baked in her mother’s harvest gold oven. She’d been a jubilant eater, licking the last of the chocolate smears from the corners of her mouth in a last ditch effort to keep the flavor on her tongue as long as possible. Heaven was a man tasting of chocolate.
He looked at what she saw. “Yeah, well this is the kitchen from when I was a kid.”
“You’re not thinking of remodeling it, are you?” A shiver of regret swept through her.
“How could I replace it? They don’t make harvest gold anymore.”
Her initial intent for invading the serial killer’s home had been merely a reward for enduring the Cookie Monster. But here was an added bonus she’d never even dreamed of. If she wanted to remember her mother before Alzheimer’s claimed her life, all she had to do was bask in Nick’s kitchen.
There was so much she wanted to know about him. But she wouldn’t make the mistake of asking about Mary Alice Turner. Not after yesterday’s reaction. “Can I see your paintings?”
He choked on his last pasta swirl, then coughed. “No.”
“Oh.” She chewed on her bottom lip. His gaze dropped. “Why not?” she asked.
“Because.”
He was one tough nut to crack. Their bowls were empty, as was the dish she’d brought the pasta in. The polite thing to do, as her mother always told her, was not to overstay her welcome. But Roberta had been the mannerly child. Bobbie would stay until Nick threw her out.
He drummed his fingers on the table. Long elegant fingers, much as she imagined an artist’s to be. He probably did lots of things well with those dexterous fingers. Her face heated with all the possibilities.
“I don’t paint clowns,” he said finally, almost as if the prolonged silence had drawn the admission from him. “I have ne
ver painted clowns. And I will never paint clowns.”
Bobbie soaked up the fact. She’d decided days ago that Cottonmouth was wrong about him, but it was nice to confirm he was no John Wayne Gacy. Now, though, she longed for more information. “What do you paint then?”
“Sci-fi fantasy.” He shrugged, maybe a little too carelessly. “For book covers and calendars. Posters.”
“Like Conan the Barbarian stuff?” With near-naked women battling dragons and taming warriors with rippling, muscled thighs the size of tree trunks.
Where had she seen something like that? Recently, too.
“That’s part of it,” he said.
Bobbie shivered. Some of that stuff could be quite...erotic.
She pushed her bowl to the side, crossed her forearms on the table, the notion of Nick’s erotic art luring her closer.
His gaze buried itself in her cleavage. Her nipples tingled against her lacy bra.
“Can I see your book covers?” He would keep copies of them, wouldn’t he?
“No.”
Darn it. She’d never been forward, couldn’t have imagined it would be this difficult. But being Bobbie, rather than Roberta, she persisted. “Can I see the rest of the house?” She mentally crossed her fingers and hoped for something other than another “no.”
“Why?”
Well, that was better. Sort of. “Because.”
He snorted and leaned over his bowl, then raised his hands in defeat. “Just the living room. Not upstairs.”
Which was probably where he did his painting and kept all his book covers. Hidden away from prying eyes.
“Great.” She grabbed their bowls, skipped over to the sink and rinsed them. She’d work her way upstairs later.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a pain in the ass?” The slight curve of his mouth kept the insult out of the question.
“Just you.” She dried her hands on the towel hanging from the refrigerator door. The fabric was surprisingly clean. “I’ve learned if you don’t ask for what you want, you don’t get it.”
Though sometimes when you did ask, ad nauseam, you didn’t get it either. So, she would not ask for sex. She’d maneuver him into asking for it, pleading for it.
When she turned, he stood in her way. Her nose almost bumped his shoulder. His voice rumbled over her. “What is it you really want?”
Gosh, he was tall. And he smelled good, an indefinable something. A spicy, tingly aftershave maybe? Shampoo? Definitely eau de male of the good variety, not the bad.
“And the answer is?”
She’d been sniffing him and forgetting his question. Which, now that he reminded her, made her face burn, with a mixture of embarrassment and overactive sexual imagination. Go ahead, Bobbie, ask for what you want. Not yet. She had to make him realize how badly he wanted her first. “To make a new friend.”
Didn’t that sound totally lame. The best she could do on the spur of the moment when what she really wanted to do was climb his body until she could wrap her legs around his waist.
He looked down at her, his eyes narrowed, then he shook his head. He didn’t believe the friends thing either. He took her hand in his big, hot, and pleasantly rough one—which raised her temperature at least two degrees—then dragged her across the front hall and into his living room.
The drawn drapes turned the contents of the room into hideous shapes. He flipped a light, banishing the monsters. In their place stood a plaid couch, its fabric looking scratchy to the touch, and a vinyl recliner still imprinted with the shape of a man’s bottom. A very big bottom.
“Was your dad a big guy?”
Following the direction of her gaze, he dropped her hand, leaving her suddenly cold. “Yeah, a big guy. And he liked baseball. Never missed a game”—he pointed to the impression—“from that chair. In front of that TV.”
Impossible to tell what he felt from either his tone or his shuttered eyes. The TV wasn’t much newer than Mrs. Porter’s, but at least the screen was larger than a postage stamp. It was old enough to still have a VCR built into it. The beaten-down shag carpet might have been brown, then again, it might have been a dirty gold to match the kitchen appliances. Behind the TV, bookshelves lined the wall, filled with hardbacks, paperbacks, DVDs, and old videotapes.
A dazzling idea lit up her brain. “Do you have any of your own movies?”
“My movies?”
“You know, the P-O-R-N stuff.”
He dropped his head in his hands and proceeded to run his fingers through his hair. He groaned in disgust. The sound tripped along her spine like lust.
“It was not a porn film.”
“But I heard—”
He lifted his head. “You heard wrong. It started out as a regular movie with some hot sex scenes. But the director cut most of the dialogue and added someone else’s private parts in my scenes—” He snapped his mouth closed. Red tinged his cheeks.
Gosh, he was embarrassed. “It’s okay,” she said, as her mind flooded with images of his privates. “You can tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell. Are you done in here?” He pointed. “The front door’s that way.”
Oooh, touchy subject. Hands clenched at his sides, jaw working, he was clearly pissed with himself for offering even that miniscule explanation.
“And there’s only one?” she persisted.
He kept his lips firmly together, probably to avoid risking any further juicy tidbits slipping out.
“Well, I knew there was more to the story than just the gossip. But why does everyone think you made a career out of it?”
His lips turned white with the effort at silence.
“Oh yeah, you don’t care what everyone thinks.” She angled her head and chewed her lower lip, giving the matter great thought. “I could tell them for you.”
Words finally burst out. “Keep your mouth shut.”
“You’re really determined to make sure they don’t like you.”
“They can all go fu—” He stopped and glared at her, his pupils dilated. “Screw them all.”
Why did he pretend he didn’t care when it was obvious he did? A great deal. Maybe she could spread the word unobtrusively, like telling Mavis and letting the news sift through Cottonmouth. By tomorrow, he’d have a whole new reputation.
“Don’t even think it.”
She raised innocent brows. “Think what?”
“Whatever. You’re scary when you think.”
It was kind of nice that he thought he knew her so well. She turned and gazed at the rows of movies. He’d told her to get out, but...he didn’t mean it.
With the dim lighting, she shouldn’t have been able to pick out the DVD. But the name on the spine was short, in white letters against black.
“Oh my God, you have Laura.” She rushed to the shelf, fell to her knees beside the DVD of her most favorite movie in the whole world. She turned to him. “1944. Best picture. Gene Tierney, Dana Andrews.”
He was silent a beat or two. “It’s amateurish.”
She gaped at him. “Amateurish? It’s Otto Preminger’s masterpiece. The dialogue is superb. Clifton Webb is sublimely urbane and sarcastic.” She traced the name with her finger, but restrained herself from hugging the movie to her chest. “It’s so utterly romantic.”
His gaze moved from her face to her finger stroking the case. His eyes seemed to get darker. “My dad must have bought it.”
Liar, liar pants on fire. “What’s your favorite part?”
He held a breath, and she knew he was going to lie to her. She put her hand behind her back and crossed her fingers for real this time.
He shifted uncomfortably. “The part where he’s getting drunk and looking at her portrait.”
Oh my God. “And he knows she’s dead, and he’s falling in love with a fantasy he can never have.”
She could still remember the first time she’d seen the movie, on late night TV when she was sixteen. She’d been right up there on that precipice with Dana Andrews. No
t knowing the truth yet. It was a sensation you could never recapture, only remember and savor.
Nick stared at her as if he’d fallen off the cliff, too.
His Adam’s apple slid along his throat. Three steps closer, he towered over her. She was still on her knees. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak.
Beneath the porn star/serial killer facade lurked a closet sentimentalist.
She would have thrown herself at him.
If the darn doorbell hadn’t rung right at that very moment.
Chapter Five
His ears were ringing. Nick slapped his hand to the side of his head to make it stop. It didn’t work.
“Aren’t you going to answer the door?”
Bobbie was still on her knees in front of him. His head reeled with images of the things she could do to him in that position. The last thing on his mind was answering the door.
All he said was, “No one ever comes to my door.”
“I did.”
Shell-shocked, light-headed, he could barely recall the movie she was so entranced with. Celluloid figures flavored scenes with a hint of mystery, of the impossible, the unattainable. But Bobbie herself had made the hairs along his arms rise to attention. The zealous light in her eyes beguiled him. Her unquenchable faith in him, despite all the stories, seduced him.
He could tell her anything; she would believe. It was a heady power he held in his hands. Beyond sex. Beyond mere physical desire. Beyond the feel of her skin, the firmness of her breasts, and the gasp of her breath.
She was the fantasy portrait he could fall headlong for.
Shit. He didn’t indulge in romantic fantasies. He preferred wet dreams, down and dirty, totally emotionless. With none of the mystical, idyllic stuff of her favorite movie. Or his own paintings.
What he wanted from her was sex. Plain and simple.
The ringing started in his ears again. It was the doorbell.
“You want me to get it?”
“I’ll get it.” Probably a Jehovah’s Witness. Mind-blowing, body-morphing, sinful thoughts scrambling his brain, his only desire was to get rid of whoever it was as fast as possible. One glance at the too-snug fit of his jeans, they’d be running for the nearest sanctuary before he even told them to get lost.
She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series) Page 7
