She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series)

by Jasmine Haynes

  Lobster? Or braised chicken livers? She adored chicken livers, but she’d only ever had them when Warren had a late meeting because he hated the aroma of cooked chicken livers. He said it smelled like...piss. She could hear him now. You want to order something that smells like piss in a five-star restaurant?

  “I’ll take the chicken livers.”

  “Wonderful choice, ma’am.”

  “It is, isn’t it.” Not a question at all, a powerful statement. Her waiter went on his merry way, to the next table.

  Chicken livers or lobster. The concept could actually be applied to the idea of the sheriff or the serial killer. Lobster was flashy and showy and best when dipped in hot butter, sort of like Nick. Chicken livers were less exotic, more of a staple, but they melted deliciously on your tongue when done just right. Sort of like the sheriff. Except for the piss part.

  Eenie-meenie-minie-mo. The sheriff or the serial killer. They were both interested. Weren’t they? Yes, they were—be confident.

  The sparkling wine sizzled down her throat.

  And suddenly stopped halfway down when she saw The Cookie Monster. Bobbie wheezed, swallowed. Cookie Beaumont had ordered the lobster. She laughed; Bobbie imagined it was the off-key tinkle of an out-of-tune piano. Only it wasn’t. It was pretty and sweet. Freaking melodious. And her hair was long and blonde.

  That wasn’t Warren with her.

  Cookie Beaumont was holding Jimbo-from-the-diner’s hand. A bottle of champagne—probably Dom Perignon—cooled in a bucket beside him. A small jewelry case sat on one corner of the table. Cookie flashed an enormous ring under her companion’s nose.

  Bobbie’s waiter brought her chicken livers. They smelled like piss.

  “By the way, who is that happy couple over there?”

  “Why that’s Jim Beaumont and his wife. They come here every year for their wedding anniversary. I think it’s fifteen years this time.”

  Jimbo? Jim Beaumont? His wife? A happy couple?

  The Cookie Monster didn’t look like she was getting ready to ask for a divorce. Not if she wanted to keep eating lobster, drinking Dom Perignon, and wearing rocks the size of Kansas.

  What on earth was Warren thinking?

  * * * * *

  Warren parked his BMW in front of the house next to Roberta’s. He wasn’t sure why the clandestine action, but he felt better doing it.

  She pulled into her driveway only minutes later, slammed her car door, then tottered over on those ridiculously high heels of hers. Roberta hadn’t owned a pair of heels over a sensible two inches. Nor a dress that short or low-cut. And she was gorgeous in both. He’d never thought of her as gorgeous, not since...well, never.

  She signaled him to roll down his window.

  “You really should leave your porch light on when you go out at night.”

  She’d called him half an hour ago, at nine o’clock on a Saturday. And she was dressed to party. Where had she been?

  “My porch is my business, Warren. I want to talk to you.”

  He unlatched his door, started to open it. “Why don’t we talk inside your place?”

  Again, that niggling fear that someone was watching, that someone wouldn’t want him talking to Roberta.

  “You’re not coming in my house.”

  Her eyes widened with something like horror, but there was just the slightest curl to her upper lip, a sharp edge to her tone that sliced him cleanly like a freshly sharpened knife. He’d put it there, anger barely veiled with sarcasm. When Roberta got angry, she was either hurt or afraid. Maybe both this time, hurt for the past, fear of the future. Because of him.

  “In my car then?” A question, but he expected her to fall in line. Roberta always fell in line with whatever he said. At least she had once upon a time.

  He closed his own door. She slammed the passenger side as she climbed in. She started in before the sound of it died away.

  “She isn’t getting a divorce, is she?”

  He didn’t have to ask who. “Roberta, you—”

  “Don’t call me Roberta. My name is Bobbie.”

  “Bobbie...” She didn’t sound like the same woman he’d been married to for fifteen years. Shit. If she wasn’t, it was his own fault. “Bobbie, it’s very complicated.”

  All the while, his mind worked furiously at what was the best way to protect Cookie.

  “You didn’t find it too complicated to say ‘I want a divorce.’ Why does she?”

  He winced. Is that how he’d said it? That cold and callous? No, it was just her interpretation.

  “Her situation is different.” Maybe the truth would make Roberta feel empathy. Right. But it was all he had.

  “I’m sure it is. She didn’t have an adoring partner sitting in front of the computer for six months, night after night, addressing envelopes, licking stamps, taking the letters down to the post office instead of trusting the mail lady, thinking this would solve all the problems.” She took a deep breath as if there was so much more inside that had yet to burst out. Held seconds longer than he could have held his own, she finally let it wheeze out like the air from a balloon.

  She had done all that for him. Roberta had always been a good hand holder. But...why hadn’t she fought for him?

  The reason no longer mattered, hadn’t from the moment he’d found Cookie again. “Will you please let me explain?”

  Her jaw flexed, her lips thinned, then finally, “What does she want from you, Warren?”

  Not that it was really any of Roberta’s business. Yes, he’d done what he’d done to her, but once done, the rest of it had nothing to do with her.

  “As I was saying, her situation’s very complicated. Her husband—”

  “Jimbo. At least call him by his name while you steal his wife.”

  God, she was angry. Roberta would never boil over, but she was on a slow simmer that could eventually sear his ass if he wasn’t careful. Even if he deserved it.

  “Jimbo has a temper,” he told her.

  “That sweet old guy?”

  “It’s just a facade, Rober—” She gave him the eye, and he cut himself off. “Everybody loves Jimbo, but at home, he’s not such a sweet guy.”

  “You’re saying he beats her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Warren, I don’t mean to be cruel.” She gave him a long look. “But you’re stupid. I saw them at The Chalet tonight, and she”—said like something the cat dragged in—“was the furthest thing from unhappy I’ve ever seen. He’d given her this huge diamond rock, and she was holding it to the light, this way and that way, looking at all the different refractions. It was pathetic.”

  “It’s an act she has to put on. He gets...upset if she doesn’t show the proper respect for the things he gives her.” Cocooned in the dark car, he felt safe telling her these things.

  “She’s got you snowed. Did she tell you how she threatened me the other day?”

  Warren sighed. He didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to have to defend Cookie or his decision. “She told me you threatened her.”

  “That bitch.” There wasn’t the slightest hesitation in the use of the word. Nor a hint of apology since she was talking about the woman he intended to marry as soon as he could.

  Good politics not to mention her new penchant for bad language, though. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it the way you think.”

  “She told me to quit messing with her plans or she would make sure you didn’t give me a dime.”

  Roberta just didn’t understand that Cookie was afraid. It wasn’t really a threat. “You know you get fifty percent.”

  “I should get the one hundred thousand off the top of the house sale because we used my inheritance from my mother to pay off the mortgage.” Another deep breath, then she cleared her throat. “But I’m sure you’ll be fair, Warren.”

  She was right about the money. He’d already taken it into account. But it wasn’t like Roberta to harp on it. Two months ago, she’d have trusted him.

  “Abo
ut Cookie. She needs me, Rob—Bobbie.”

  Roberta’s nostrils flared. Maybe she was closer to the boil than he’d thought.

  Warren stoically persevered. “Her husband’s erratic. She says he’s impotent and he beats her up when he can’t...” He waved his hands in the air ineffectually.

  “Can’t get it up?”

  “Yes.” Her tone made bile rise in Warren’s throat. He hadn’t exactly been impotent, not like Jim Beaumont; it was the drugs. His psychiatrist said so. But there was always that little voice in the back of his head—one that sounded like Roberta—saying yeah, but what about before the drugs?

  He’d never meant to hurt her. How had things gotten so complicated? All he’d wanted to do was find himself, rid himself of the anxiety. Instead he’d created a mess.

  “Go on.” It was a go-on-if-you-dare tone.

  He did go on. He had to keep his original goal in mind, to protect Cookie. “He takes his failings out on her physically.”

  “Warren, this is the biggest load of—”

  He put his hand on her arm. He had one last card to play. He could only hope it worked.

  “She can’t ask for a divorce, Roberta. He’ll kill her before he’ll let her go.”

  Chapter Seven

  Her stomach hurt so bad, Bobbie just wanted to lay down amongst the flowers and shrivel like last season’s blooms. Maybe the chicken livers had been bad. Okay, okay, it wasn’t the chicken livers. Organ meat didn’t make you want to cry. It didn’t wrap itself around your chest and squeeze like a python. It didn’t sit on your head and pound like a woodpecker. Not unless it was that good old human heart organ.

  The Cookie Monster needed Warren to protect her from her husband. Hah. Total doo-doo. Didn’t the way Bobbie had needed him count for anything? Godammit. She stamped her foot on the gravel, a sharp pain shooting from her heel straight to her offending heart organ. Now Warren had her cussing like a sailor and hurting herself in the process.

  What did the woman want from Warren? Bobbie was sure she had some nefarious plan in mind. Why else had the husband stealer threatened the dumped wife who’d suddenly shown up to throw a proverbial monkey wrench in the works?

  “I’m going to find out what she really wants if it’s the last thing I do,” Bobbie whispered. Gosh, didn’t that sound like an embittered, abandoned wife. Maybe. Regardless, Cookie had an ulterior motive, and Bobbie would discover what it was.

  “Buck up.” Another whispered encouragement as she climbed her porch steps, heels tapping on the wood. The porch swing creaked in the breeze. Except there was no breeze, the air hanging inert and hot in the night. Suffocating.

  “Who you talking to, Bobbie?”

  She almost screamed, as if Nick really was a serial killer. “What are you doing skulking in the dark?”

  “I’m not skulking. I’m waiting for you.”

  Warren was right, she should have left a light on. Nick waited on the porch, a hulk in the shadows surrounded by the flowered trellis. She had the urge to high-tail it back to her car and drive away. She didn’t have the energy to face him now.

  Okay, focus on the plan. Jeez, she’d forgotten the plan. Oh yeah, show Warren exactly what he threw away through osmosis—i.e., other men making love to her. And here was this prime candidate just waiting for her.

  Warren was five minutes ago; Nick was now. She clutched her purse to her chest, took a deep calming breath. It succeeded only in elevating her heart rate.

  She pasted on a smile, wondering about her lipstick. “So, what brings you here?” There, that was better, nice and bright.

  “I taped a couple of Buffy episodes off cable for you.”

  She finally noticed the box in his hands. “Well, how sweet. But I don’t have a VCR.” Instead, she’d brought the all-important espresso machine and a DVD player.

  “I have a VCR.” Obviously.

  Interesting. A semi-invitation. Enough to make her forget all about Warren and The Cookie Monster? Almost. “I’d love to watch them sometime.” Now?

  “Nice dress you’re wearing.”

  Okay, not now. “Oh, this old rag.” She’d almost forgotten how she was dressed, except for the pinch of her shoes and the ache they caused in her ankles. “I haven’t worn it in ages.”

  It was new, at least to her, bought at a consignment store. Part of the plan to make Warren see her. He hadn’t even noticed. Emotion rose up and grabbed her by the throat. Bad thoughts getting away with her again. She concentrated on Nick’s voice, a pleasant growl she felt along her bare arms.

  “Why not?”

  Why hadn’t Warren noticed her dress? Because he was too busy being needed by the Cookie Monster. “He really isn’t into what a woman wears.”

  Nick tipped his head, his brows together in one long line. “Who?”

  God. He hadn’t been asking about Warren. He’d been asking why she hadn’t worn the dress in ages. Stupid. “Uh, sorry, nobody.”

  His eyes were dark pools without benefit of light. “Out with your husband?”

  His words resurrected the anger, at her idiocy for mistaking Nick’s question, at Warren...for just being alive. “Ex. He’s my ex. And I wasn’t out with him.” Nick must have been watching the whole time. How had he known it was Warren? Duh, he’d probably heard the yelling. “We were discussing...property rights.”

  Nick raised his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry for asking.”

  Breathe, Bobbie, just breathe. Listen to the crickets. Aren’t they sweet? “Oh, it doesn’t bother me. We’ve still got a few things to settle.”

  “I can see that.” A neutral comment, but said with a hint of sarcasm.

  Now what was that supposed to mean? She was spinning out of control again. “Warren’s not important.”

  “Yeah. I can see that, too.” He made for the edge of the porch. “Gotta go.”

  Go? Just like that? She stepped in his path. “What about the tape?”

  He shoved it into her hands. “I’m sure your ex must have a VCR you can borrow.”

  She felt the slam in her chest. Warren was stealing even this, her serial killer. It wasn’t right. “I’d rather watch it on your machine.”

  “I taped it for you, what more do you want?”

  What more? She wanted him to notice her, that’s what she wanted. She wanted him to stop looking across the street at his house as if it were a refuge. From her. She wanted to stomp her feet, jump up and down, scream and scream and scream until someone paid attention.

  She grabbed his T-shirt, ready to shake him, to rattle his brains in his head. Instead she rose on her toes and fastened her lips firmly to his.

  Mint tingled against her lips, then sparkled in her mouth. Her body quivered from the tips of her breasts to her thighs, everywhere she touched him. She abandoned his shirt to push her hands through his hair, soft, curling around her fingers.

  He put his arms around her, locking her to him, opening his mouth to her assault. Where a moment ago, he was merely stiff, now he turned hard, took over what she’d started. His hand flexed in the material of her dress. His tongue skimmed her lips, then dove in, driving her head back. It was like being devoured by a hungry animal. A zing shot down between her legs when his touch dropped to her bottom and pulled her snug against him, the tape box still in his hands nestled beneath her cheeks. Oh my God, he had a hard-on. For her. She felt warm and creamy on the inside, like chocolate chip cookie dough. Knead me, need me. Now.

  She was absolutely sure he was not thinking about some high school sweetheart named Mary Alice while he was kissing her.

  She pulled her lips away, just enough to ask, “You want to come in?”

  Big mistake. His hardness fled and the stiffness came back. His hands fell away, and he pulled her arms from his neck.

  “No.”

  She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down. God, there was just something totally debilitating about begging to be touched, to be wanted. A lump in her throat, an ache at the back of her
eyes, and a tight band squeezing her chest. With Warren, she’d begged more times than she cared to remember, more times than she could remember. It made her sick to her stomach. She wouldn’t do it this time. “All right.”

  Nick handed her the tape. She dropped it, the clatter coming back to them in a harsh echo. Neither of them bent to pick it up. Across the street, a door banged. Princess started barking.

  Nick wasn’t stupid. She’d kissed him because something her husband did or said in that fifteen minutes they’d sat in his car pissed her off royally. Maybe just being with the guy pissed her off. Women were like that, you couldn’t say or do the right thing. Nick just made the mistake of being on her porch to take the brunt of it.

  He was no stand-in, even if her lips did have the sizzle of champagne and her body fit his like a hot summer night.

  She made a motion to pick up the tape, and he grabbed her arm. “I’ll get it.” He didn’t want her head anywhere down there. He bent, keeping his eyes on her, fished for the tape, found it.

  She hadn’t moved. To get off the porch, he’d have to push her out of the way. He felt one of those difficult, woman-type questions coming on.

  “So, I take it you didn’t like kissing me.”

  Hell, yes, he liked it. She’d spoken just in time, broken the spell, before he’d put his hands up her dress. Might have been no going back then. “I’m only interested in sex. Recently divorced women are usually interested in more than that.”

  She blinked, looked at the tape in his hand, then took a deep breath. Her breasts rose and fell, snagging his attention. “I’m not divorced yet. So ‘just sex’ is fine with me.”

  Not. Though she probably didn’t know that. “I’m saving us from the messy stuff by not getting started in the first place.”

  “You’re a chicken.”

  He laughed, reminiscent of a disgusted snort. “You got that right, lady. You’ve scared me since the day you showed up in my backyard. So, I think it’s the better part of valor to just get off your porch right now.”