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

by Jasmine Haynes

  She let him go, then got off a final shot before he made it down the path. “Why were you even here in the first place?”

  Because she was funny and said the unexpected. Because she didn’t seem to care about the mistakes he’d made. Because she was a little damaged, a little vulnerable, and something about that called to him.

  “Hell if I know” was all he said.

  If it really had been just sex he wanted, he’d have been the one begging her to let him in her house. There was only one sensible choice here, run like hell.

  * * * * *

  A sleepless night and morning light made him realize he had to prove himself strong, even if only in his own eyes. That was the reason Nick opened the door to her at just shy of nine o’clock on Sunday. To prove he could resist temptation.

  “I take it you’re here for ‘just sex.’” He was sure she wouldn’t pick up the challenge, not after last night.

  Bobbie smiled, lips an invitingly hot shade of dark cherry. “I’m here to invite you to church.”

  “Church?” He let his gaze roam over her from head to toe. Her black dress two inches too short for Sunday best and her heels two inches too tall, she’d tried to minimize the cocktail-evening-out effect with a pink cardigan sweater. The sweater too small to button over her breasts, one could easily see the bodice of the dress was nipple tight. And she did have a pair of succulent nipples. Tempting, but resistible.

  “It’s the only dress I have besides the one I wore last night.” She tugged at the hem, barely bending to do so.

  “Very nice. But the earrings are a bit much.” A turquoise Indian pattern, they dangled to just below her ears.

  She grabbed her ears, making him want to slick his tongue along the sensitive shell. “Should I take them off?”

  “No. It’s a big no-no to have bare ears at church.” As if he’d know a damn thing about it.

  “You think so?”

  She’d scandalize the congregation. But Brax would like the ensemble, and Brax was a churchgoer, even if only because he thought it was expected of a sheriff. The thought irritated enough for Nick to say, “You better run along or you’ll be late.”

  “Come with me.”

  “No.”

  She put her hands on her hips, causing the dress to rise an inch up her thigh. “It isn’t polite to give an unequivocal no. You’re supposed to make an excuse I can beat down.”

  He stroked his unshaven chin, looked down at his paint-splattered shirt and jeans. He had plenty of excuses, none she could beat down. “Did we not have that conversation last night about how I’m only interested in sex and I’m not interested in women on the divorce rebound?”

  The MacAffees pulled out of their drive, staring as their car rolled past. Bobbie didn’t notice. “I slept on it, and now I only remember that you kissed me.”

  “You kissed me.”

  “All right, I started it, but you kissed me back.”

  “Then I pushed you away.”

  She puffed out a little breath of air, tapped the fingers of one hand on her hip. “Eenie-meenie-minie-mo.”

  Now what part of that did not make a single bit of sense? “What?”

  “I was just wondering how many times a girl should let herself get turned down before she considers option two?”

  That made him think of Brax, irritating him again. “Is that a rhetorical question or do you expect an answer?”

  “Rhetorical. I’ve already made up my mind.” She held up her hand, lifting fingers as she counted. “One, two, three, four, five.” The hand dropped to her hip once more. “We’ve hit five already. That’s enough. Option two, here I come.”

  Option two. Brax. Whom she had a date with tonight, if Mr. Fry was right. “Wait a minute.”

  She waved. “As you said, I’m going to be late.”

  He grabbed her arm before she could take a second step away. “So be a little late.”

  Annoyance that she’d turn to Brax was the only reason he pulled her through the door, into his hallway, and into his arms.

  She gave a muffled little Oh! as he planted one right on her kisser. She tasted of her usual cinnamon and mocha. He parted her lips with his tongue and sunk in. Ah. The scent of her—spice, sweet apple shampoo, and hungry woman—went right to his gut, and all of sudden, he had to have his hands on her. He found her breasts, her nipples tight in his palm. With a slight little answering “ooh,” she tangled her fingers in his hair.

  So nice, the idea of just laying her down on the cool hardwood floor. His hands left her breasts, drifting south to her hem with the idea of finding her thighs. When he did, he stroked, the feel of firm flesh stoking his boiler. He moved from her lips to her throat, tasting her like candy. He maneuvered beneath her skirt to squeeze her butt before his fingers touched the elastic waist of her nylons.

  “You’re not getting paint on my dress, are you?”

  Her hands were no longer in his hair, but on his shoulders.

  His mind was still on getting to her panties. “Huh?”

  “I don’t have anything else to wear to church. And I am going to church.”

  Cold rushed down his back. He pulled away. “Is this some sort of payback for last night? Turn me on, then turn me down?”

  She blinked. “You started it. And if you want to know the truth, I’m not sure what just happened.” She pulled her lip between her teeth a moment. “I think I got scared.”

  He pushed a hand through his hair. Christ, neither of them knew what the hell they wanted. One minute he told himself to run, the next he was kissing her. And Brax had nothing to do with it. He’d forgotten about the sheriff the moment he put his mouth on hers.

  “Well, then you better run along, little girl, or else the MacAffees will tell everyone you missed church because you were in bed with the serial killer.”

  What the hell, did it matter who was doing the running as long as one of them was?

  * * * * *

  Goodness, her cheeks burned. Through the hymns, the prayers, and the sermon, both sets of cheeks flamed. Now her bottom hurt on the hard bench, and she wondered when Reverend Elliot would stop threatening the congregation with the hand of God smiting them down for the horrible sins they’d committed in their hearts this past week.

  Bobbie didn’t even want to think about the sins of her heart.

  She’d woken this morning only with the intention of going to church to see if Cookie was there with her husband. After all, everyone in small towns went to church on Sunday. Bobbie just wanted to scope things out, see how Cookie was with the rest of Cottonmouth’s citizens, catch her out in some really big sin. One besides adultery with Warren. She’d gotten carried away then by the idea of killing two birds with one stone, show up the Cookie Monster for what she really was and show Nick for what he really was, too. A gentleman.

  After all, last night he could have dragged her by her hair into the house and had his wicked way with her. He hadn’t, because she was going through a slightly difficult time with the divorce and all. Wasn’t that considerate?

  That’s where her sin came into it. She’d let him put his hands up her skirt, and she really hadn’t wanted him to stop. The worst was that it hadn’t a thing to do with proving anything to Warren. It wasn’t about feeling desired and attractive at the ripe old age of forty. It was, plainly and simply, about wanting Nick’s hands up her skirt, taking off her nylons and her panties, then... That must be some sort of sin. Especially right before going to church.

  “Let us bow our heads and pray.”

  The sermon was over. Thank God. That was one prayer answered.

  Maybe she just had cold feet. Warren had always said she had feet like a corpse. But somehow, planning to jump in bed with Nick was entirely different than actually making the jump. She had a queasy he-wants-me-but-what-do-I-do-with-him-now feeling.

  The service was over, the parishioners filing out, waiting at the entrance to shake hands with the minister. Bobbie joined the line beside Patsy Bell
Sapp.

  “My dear, it’s so nice to see you here.” The words mere politeness, Patsy stared at her dress.

  Bobbie smoothed her hands over the front of the skirt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have anything else to wear.”

  Patsy brightened at the news that Bobbie’s attire wasn’t an intentional affront. “We can fix you right up at the church thrift store. We’ve got some wonderful used clothing.”

  Did she look impoverished? “That’s very nice.”

  “We’re open Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from one till four.”

  Bobbie put a hand to her mouth. “Gosh, I’ll be working.”

  “Down at The Cooked Goose.” Patsy said it with her nose tilted in the air. “I’ve heard. Well, I’ll be glad to pick something out for you. What’s your size?”

  The line inched forward. Bobbie’s stomach plunged. Her size? She didn’t want to think about her size, even if she had lost a little weight since Warren left. That thought made her stomach fall right down to her toes.

  Now Patsy wanted to pick out clothes for her. Did everyone think she dressed like a tramp?

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll find the perfect thing.”

  The thought struck terror into her heart. Bobbie had visions of red blazers and A-line skirts like Patsy favored. She’d actually be expected to wear whatever the realtor picked out. “Thank you.”

  The queue for the minister was now only five deep. All through the sermon, Nick had occupied her thoughts. Patsy’s presence beside her served to remind her that her original intention for going to his house this morning had been gaining him acceptance via the church route. Maybe she could still do it even without him at her side.

  “Patsy, I went over to—” What, the serial killer’s house? That would only enflame Patsy. “To Mr. Angel’s house.” Though that seemed too formal. “He’s really not as bad—”

  Patsy latched onto her arm with a talon-like grip. “And you’re still alive. Oh thank God,” she breathed, as if God had performed another miracle.

  “Yes. He was actually sort of civilized.”

  “They say his kind can fit in anywhere. Like Ted Bundy. The boy next door.” Parishioners pressed at their backs; Patsy had failed to move the line forward.

  Bobbie closed the space in front of them, pulling Patsy with her. “I really think you ought to reevaluate this whole serial killer thing. Maybe he’s not—”

  Patsy’s eyes blazed. “Promise you won’t go there again.”

  “He’s not going to kill me,” Bobbie whispered, aware of how voices carried in a chapel. “He’s not going to kill anyone.”

  “You just ask Eugenia Meade. She knows things that’ll raise your hair. She’ll tell you he killed his poor mother with his horrible ways.”

  Meade. Wasn’t that the mayor’s name? “I thought his mother died in a car accident.”

  Patsy’s wrinkles hardened to an implacable mask. “She suffered a broken heart long before that. The accident merely ended her pain.”

  Bobbie knew then that Nick wasn’t battling a ridiculous killer reputation. He faced the very real sentiment that he’d irreparably damaged his mother, most likely over the movie party incident. Bobbie didn’t have a quick fix for that.

  Then Reverend Elliot grasped her hand in both of his and shattered her chance to change Patsy’s mind, if a chance even existed. “Bobbie Jones. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

  Everyone had heard about her. Good or bad? Couldn’t be too bad since the minister didn’t raise an eyebrow at her hastily thrown-together outfit. “You, too, Reverend. It was a moving sermon.”

  Over the reverend’s shoulder, she spotted Cookie wearing a brilliant sky blue hat that shaded her eyes. A very bad word came to mind, worse than bitch. Much worse.

  Bobbie murmured something suitable and unmemorable to the minister, then progressed to the lawn surrounding the steepled church. Moments later, Patsy veered in the opposite direction. Perhaps that was for the best. Nick’s battle would have to wait. Right now, she had her own to face. With the Cookie Monster.

  People milled, the chatter of voices and laughter filling the morning sunshine. A short woman on the pretty side with the expanded hips of a good cook held Harry Bushman’s coat sleeve between thumb and forefinger. Three small children, all under the age of eight, clung to various hands and skirts. The oldest, a girl, bore the oddest likeness to the singer Art Garfunkel. She’d inherited her mother’s curly hair. Deep in conversation with Mayor Meade, Harry’s forehead wrinkled. The pretty wife listened, head tipped to one side, while her hands and gaze constantly marshaled her children and/or Harry. How did mothers do that, all-knowing, all-seeing, as if they had eyes in the back of their heads? Her own mother had been blessed with the same uncanny knack.

  On the other side of the lawn, Janey Dillings waved frantically. The stout man beside her, presumably her headachy husband, resembled a bulldog, short legs, droopy jowls, and no neck. Following the line of his wife’s gaze, his eyes widened at the sight of Bobbie’s overexposed legs. Janey tugged his fleshy arm. He remained planted to the spot like a shrub. Eyes narrowing, Janey ping-ponged between his salacious stare and Bobbie a few yards away. The corner of her mouth lifted. She shook her finger at Bobbie, then uprooted her husband, dragging him to the parking lot.

  Even at that distance, Bobbie had seen the twinkle in Janey’s eye and assumed no hard feelings. Still, Bobbie tugged at her dress just above the hips as if that would somehow make it grow longer. Then she glued on a sparkling smile and circulated.

  She stopped for a chat with Mr. Fry, who reminded her about the prescription she had to pick up, then introduced his wife. Both white-haired and thin, the two could have been made with the same cookie cutter. She met the mayor’s wife, Eugenia, whose nonstop chatter caused Bobbie to ponder how the woman could manage to be thirty pounds overweight. Maybe meals were the only time she quit talking. But the one-way conversation was a good thing; it didn’t give Bobbie a chance to ask any more about Nick’s reputation. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Besides, Mrs. Meade’s exclamation of “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you” warmed away the chill lingering from Bobbie’s Cookie-Monster sighting.

  Mavis was a conspicuous absence; probably down at The Cooked Goose, which was open every day from six a.m. till ten p.m. Beau was a no-show, too. He probably didn’t own a suit. And of course, Warren had never been a churchgoer. He should have had the sense to realize church was the perfect place to get to know people, especially when he’d just started his business in town.

  Then again, he probably hadn’t wanted to see Cookie with Jimbo in tow. Which forced Bobbie’s gaze once again to that patch of lawn near the rhododendrons.

  Her breath stuck in her throat as if she’d swallowed a chicken bone. Cookie’s hand rested on Sheriff Braxton’s arm, her French-manicured nails elegant against his dark suit, the great rock of a ring shimmering in a rainbow of color. Her laughter rose above the chatter like wind chimes tinkling in the wind. Her long, blonde hair glittered in the sunlight. The hem of her chiffon dress fluttered about her perfect calves. Jimbo slapped the sheriff’s back, Cookie squeezed the beefcake biceps, and Sheriff Braxton broke into a smile at something the lovely Cookie said.

  Yuk. Something burst inside Bobbie’s head, a blood vessel, the biggest one. Red tinged her vision. Her world narrowed to those nails on the sheriff’s arm. A proprietary grip. Confident in her ownership, in her power.

  How dare that woman put her hands on the sheriff? She was married. She had Warren. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair. She had everything: a rich husband, gorgeous clothes, long hair, a flat stomach, a butt that hadn’t dropped and probably never would.

  Cookie was the enemy. And this was war.

  Bobbie stalked, her heels sinking into the deep grass like quicksand. She bounced up on her toes, feeling her dress ride higher on her thighs. She didn’t care. She had good thighs. Nick had liked her thighs. And Mr. Fry thought she had a date tonight w
ith Brax.

  Cookie tossed her head, her hair gleaming. Smile, beam, laugh. Bobbie wanted to rip those shining locks out by the roots. At that moment, her feelings for Cookie had nothing to do with Warren. This was about woman power.

  “Hi, Jimbo, Brax.” Perfect voice, light, airy, a hint of delight. Though Bobbie did have a uniform thing, the sheriff looked scrumptious in a charcoal suit.

  Like the parting of the Red Sea, the two men moved to include her, forcing Cookie to drop her hand from Brax’s arm. Good, very good.

  Brax gave her a “hey” and a crooked smile, coming to rest closer to Bobbie than Cookie. The woman’s contact lens-enhanced blue eyes narrowed, crow’s feet clawing at the corners.

  Bobbie stuck out her hand. “I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Roberta Jones Spivey.” She said it for the dig, not caring if Jimbo or the sheriff wanted to call her on it. Neither did. “Everyone calls me Bobbie, though.”

  Cookie looked at the extended hand, then at the way Brax’s eyes shifted down to Bobbie’s chest. Her lips compressed into two thin lines. She took Bobbie’s hand only because she had to. Double points to Bobbie Jones, one for Cookie’s capitulation and one for Brax’s scrutiny of her legs and breasts.

  “This is my wife, Cookie,” Jimbo announced, since Cookie hadn’t introduced herself. Maybe her lips were frozen together.

  Bobbie gave Jimbo a beam that included everyone in the small, cozy little group. “Your wife. How lovely. Jimbo and I met down at The Cooked Goose.”

  Cookie finally had to answer or appear rude. Another point to Bobbie. “I’ve told Jimbo how bad all that cholesterol is for him, but he just keeps on going down to that...place.” A point to Cookie for the diminishing pause.

  “Ah honey, you know Mavis needs me down there every day. It’s good for business.” Jimbo put his big arm around Cookie’s fragile-looking frame and almost yanked her off her high heels.

  “You aren’t responsible for helping that woman’s business.”

  Hmm, something there in the tone. Cookie didn’t like Jimbo seeing Mavis, or maybe she just didn’t like Mavis. Bobbie poked whatever little wound festered there. “Mavis has been so sweet and welcoming since I came to town. Don’t you just love her?”