Beam for Jimbo, beam for Brax. They both nodded agreement, though Brax did take a step back, assessing. Cookie’s nostrils flared, then settled. She couldn’t argue unless she wanted to appear churlish.
Peripherally, movement caught Bobbie’s eye. The mayor and his wife, marching to the Beaumont’s group like ants to a picnic.
“Cookie, you darling woman, Wylie just wanted to check how the decorations for the festival were coming.” Eugenia Meade didn’t wait for her husband, leaving him several steps behind. “You did such a wonderful job last year, we just know it’s going to be even better. When’s the committee meeting?” Cookie’s mouth worked like a fish, but Mrs. Meade didn’t take a breath. “Not that we’re checking up on you, dear. But Patsy said she’d hadn’t heard from you.”
Another of Bobbie’s brilliant plans sprouted fully formed. “I’d be glad to help out, Mrs. Meade.”
Cookie sputtered, her blue eyes flinty. “We have quite enough helpers.”
Eugenia squeezed the Cookie Monster’s arm. “Oh, dear, we can always use another hand.”
Bobbie tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Beaumont, I’d love to help. It would be so much...fun.”
Eugenia waved a hand. “Oh, you can call her Cookie, Bobbie, everyone does.”
Cookie slapped the mayor’s wife with a cold look, then hit Bobbie with the same. “I thought you worked down at that diner,” she snapped.
“I do, but for such a momentous event, I’m sure Mavis will let me go for whatever time you need.” Mavis would have a fit, but Bobbie would deal with that later.
“Well, that’s all settled.” Eugenia clapped her hands. “Now, Cookie dear, you just let us all know when the meeting is, and we’ll be there with rings on our fingers and bells on our toes.” The mayor’s wife was off, pulling her husband with her like a tornado sweeping away everything in its path.
Perhaps sensing Cookie’s ire, Jimbo soothed his hand down her back. “Isn’t that great, hon? Less work for you.”
Cookie merely growled low in her throat.
Bobbie gave her a truly magnificent smile. “Won’t this be great, Cookie?” She’d make the woman’s life hell for the two weeks before the Accordion Festival.
Cookie shrugged off her husband’s touch, then, with a malignant glower for Bobbie, she said, “Sweetie”—all saccharine and yucky—“we better leave if we don’t want to be late for brunch. Brax, are you coming?”
Bobbie was clearly not invited.
So she put her hand on Brax’s arm and held him. Cookie’s turn to glare at her fingers clutching the lawman’s biceps. “Oh Brax, before you go, I have to ask about a rumor I’ve heard.”
He raised a sandy brow.
“Mr. Fry said you and I had a date tonight. But gee,” she mocked, putting a finger to her non-existent dimple, “I haven’t heard a thing about it.”
Big gambit here. Sheriff Braxton could shoot her down out of the sky, and the Cookie Monster would win a jillion points. Bobbie didn’t care. In battle, you had to take major risks.
Brax moved only his eyes, from Cookie and back to Bobbie. “Seems I do recall mentioning to someone, can’t remember who, that I thought you’d like the steaks out at the Rowdy Tavern.”
Jimbo tucked Cookie under his arm and whispered in her ear, causing the horse-like nostril flare again. Wonder if she knows how bad that looks? Not. Another point to Bobbie.
“Well, isn’t that sweet of you.” Bobbie batted her lashes. “The Rowdy Tavern. You people really do have a way with restaurant names around here.”
“Brax, we’re going to be late. They won’t hold our reservation, you know.” Cookie clutched his other arm, and Bobbie immediately let go of the sheriff, not wanting the tug of war over him to get physical. She’d lose all her points with that.
“Honey, they’ll hold our reservation until I call and tell ’em not to. Brax can meet us there. Bobbie, how about you? There’s always room for one more. Brax can drive you.”
Bobbie smiled at Jimbo and his wonderful little invitation. She could hang all over Brax and send Cookie into orbit. Cookie, however, was shooting acid-tipped bullets, if that look meant anything. The longer she spent under that glare, the greater the chance Bobbie could lose her momentum.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” She spread her hands in the air. “Tons of errands, you know.”
“Too bad.” Jimbo started guiding his wife around the rhododendron bush. “Honey, sweetie pie, let’s leave them to work out that rumor.”
“Nice to meet you,” Bobbie called. Ooh, bonus points for getting the last word. Her mind was a jumble of points. Had she won? She needed her calculator badly.
“What the hell was that all about?”
Oh, yes, the sheriff. “I don’t think she likes me.”
“I don’t think you like her. Question is why?”
Uh-oh. The only way out of this was to bait him with something else. Besides, she really wouldn’t win the skirmish if she didn’t get the sheriff to confirm a date. Even if Cookie wasn’t there to bear witness, she’d hear about it. This wasn’t about a contest between the sheriff and the serial killer. It was about riling the Cookie Monster.
“Actually the question is whether you want to take me to the Rowdy Tavern for steaks or if you just thought I should try them on my own.”
He gave a soft almost-snort, then smiled. “You know I’m going to figure out what you’re up to one way or the other.”
Suddenly, she didn’t care. Cookie was Warren’s secret to keep. If Brax figured it out, so be it. And she liked being bold, even if it did scare the bejeesus out of her. “Over dinner?”
He shook his head at her, still smiling. He had a nice smile, not overly toothy, just a little cheeky. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Hmm, there was the matter of juggling the sheriff and the serial killer. She didn’t want to pit them one against the other. Bold she could be for a few minutes at a time, but confident for the long haul? She wasn’t so sure about that. “I’ll meet you at the tavern at seven.”
One brow quirked, then he backed away, turned, and finally shot back over his shoulder with, “You will tell all.”
“Sounds like a challenge, Sheriff. Don’t take any bets against me.” She was flirting, so was he. A little ooh-la-la quiver jumbled her tummy. “Don’t be late for brunch.”
He gave her a thumbs up, then, still shaking his head, crossed the parking lot to a big black SUV.
Ah, woman power. She’d won, yes, she had. She’d confirmed something extremely valuable, too, in the process.
Cookie lied to Warren about Jimbo. That lovable guy didn’t punch her around, not with all those honeys and sweeties flying out of his mouth. Cookie Beaumont was no frightened, battered wife. She was a woman who had her husband wrapped around her little finger like a big red bow. Bobbie would bet a lifetime supply of the best mochas on that.
Cookie had secrets. Bobbie was going to expose every one of them for the whole town to see. No matter what Warren wanted.
Chapter Eight
“Warren, you’ve got to stop her.”
Cookie shivered in his arms even as he stroked her shoulders soothingly. She shouldn’t have risked coming to his office. She should have met him at the fishing lodge like usual. Damn Roberta for scaring Cookie this much. “I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s what you said before. But she—” Cookie sucked in a breath, then hiccuped after her recent tears.
“I won’t let anything bad happen to you, I swear it.” He raised her face, her makeup still flawless despite her weeping. Kissing her cheeks dry, he couldn’t help himself from moving on to her lips. Just a taste, one taste.
“What if someone comes?” she whispered.
He should have worried, but with her in his arms, nothing else mattered. “The door’s locked. I’ve closed the blinds. And no one’s coming to my office on a Sunday afternoon.”
He didn’t follow that up with the fact that he didn’t hav
e any clients yet. His lack of clientele would only scare Cookie more. Security was important to her. She’d already been frightened enough to sneak in through his back door.
He coaxed her lips open with his tongue. She sighed, moaned, squirmed against him, her fingers flexing on his shoulders. God, how she wanted him, needed him. It had never been like this with Roberta. He’d never felt consumed, on fire, uncontrollable. He’d only ever felt that with Cookie, now, so much more than a mere high school attraction.
He’d thrown her hat to the floor minutes before, when he’d pulled her onto the new leather sofa. Cookie devoured him with her mouth. Sensation shot straight down to his crotch. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled herself astride, her full skirt flowing over them. Then her hands were everywhere, working the buttons of his shirt, tugging at his nipples, then reaching down for his belt. Shoving his hands up beneath her dress, he caressed until he found the top of her thigh-high stockings, then the edge of her silk panty. She lifted, and he stroked his fingers across her dampness. She was hot and wet for him. Roberta had never been so quick with a response.
“Warren, oh, Warren.” She hummed against his mouth, her fingers dipping into his slacks and around his swollen penis. He rocked into her grasp.
Sliding down his body, she pulled on his zipper, the harsh rasp of it competing with the groan rising in his throat. Then her mouth was on him. She drew him deep, all the way, until he touched the back of her throat. Ah, God, so good. He buried his hands in her thick hair, winding it around his wrists, trapping her to him.
Roberta had always hesitated. Cookie gave without his asking. His hips pumped as she sucked on him, using her tongue, her lips, her teeth.
“Oh God, Cookie.” She moved faster now, taking him in, sliding him out, burning him up. Stars burst behind his closed lids. Then he was erupting. She drained him, swallowed him. Roberta would have cringed if he’d ever asked her for that.
Cookie kissed his limp, spent flesh, suckled him, rubbed her cheek against him.
“Oh, Warren, I love doing that.”
He loved the way she did it. “I can’t get enough of you, baby.”
Kneeling between his legs, she stared up at him. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I just had to feel close to you.” She hiccuped, tears close to the surface once again. “I’m so scared. Jimbo’s face, after she came over. He suspects something, I know he does.”
“He can’t know. We’ve been so careful. Roberta can’t hurt us, I won’t let her.”
“What does she want, Warren?”
He hesitated. Had he told Roberta too much last night? Was she trying to verify what he’d said?
A single drop of moisture slipped from the corner of Cookie’s eye. “Are you going back to her?”
“Of course not.” Never. Cookie needed him. “But you have to leave your husband. I’ll protect you, I swear, with everything that’s in me.”
“I can’t. You know I can’t. He’ll kill me.” She heaved away from him, threw herself across the end of the sofa, the tears coming in a torrent. After zipping his pants, he curled over her, taking her shoulders in his hands.
“Don’t you trust me, sweetheart?” he whispered against her nape.
“You don’t know what he’s like. But I don’t know what I’d do without you, Warren. If it weren’t for you, I think I’d commit suicide. I’m not sure how much more I can take.” Her body shook with the force of her sobs.
“Baby, please, never say anything like that. I’ve got money. Leave him and we’ll run away together.”
She shoved at him, looked up with stricken eyes. “It’s not about the money.”
“I know that,” he soothed.
“He’ll never let me go. He’s possessive, jealous. Look at what he did to me after she came over to us in the churchyard.” She jerked the top two buttons of her dress free and bared her shoulder. She’d shown him bruises before, but this...he almost gagged. The skin was mottled, red and blue, vessels ruptured, but he could make out clearly what it was. A bite mark. Jimbo had bitten her. He shuddered at the pain she must have felt, the terror.
“He can’t make love to me, but he’s still got to put his mark on me.” She closed her eyes, threw her head over the arm of the sofa, a hand across her face, her suffering evident in the tense lines of her body.
“I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.” His helplessness choked him. He held her, kissed the mark, put her dress to rights. “I can’t do anything if you don’t trust me enough to leave him.”
She drew in a breath, slid down enough so that he could once again see her eyes. This time her mascara had not sustained itself and lay in murky puddles beneath her lashes.
“He’ll hunt me down if I leave him. And nothing you can do will save me.”
He was so afraid she was right. “We can go to the sheriff.”
“Brax won’t lift a finger. He’ll never believe Jimbo is violent.”
“Show him the bite.”
“Jimbo will find an excuse. He’ll say I like sex that way. Or he’ll say he didn’t do it. He’ll find a way to discredit me.”
“I’ll tell the sheriff then.”
She looked at him for a long time, just looked at him, and he saw the futility of that gesture. It would play right into her husband’s hands. Outside, a car passed, a child shouted, another shrieked with laughter, then silence.
Her voice dropped to a whisper in the quiet room. “You have to do it.”
He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Do what?”
“Help me.”
“How?” He could only mouth the word.
“Before Jimbo can get rid of me for good”—she blinked back another tear—“you have to get rid of him.”
Jesus H. Christ, she wasn’t talking about murder, was she?
He saw by her wide-eyed terror that she was.
* * * * *
There were several places Bobbie would rather be, like over at Nick’s house watching Buffy reruns, eating popcorn, and figuring out just exactly how far he wanted to go. And how far she was willing to let him go.
But Warren had left a garbled message on her machine, most of which she hadn’t understood. Was he having an anxiety attack? She’d have to convince him to start his Prozac again. That was the only reason she walked over to his office and knocked loudly on his door.
He didn’t answer. A minute ticked by. She had the sudden vivid fantasy of breaking in to find him hanging from his ceiling fan. That had always been one of her greatest fears, coming home from work to find Warren dead. She’d told his psychiatrist that. The woman had sniffed and said Warren wasn’t suicidal, his was a chemical imbalance that drugs would reverse.
But Warren wasn’t on the drugs anymore.
She pounded the wood and called his name. Just when she was ready to run to the sheriff’s office, he yanked the door open, eyes sunken, chin drooping and stubbled, which was kind of hard for a man who was incapable of growing a real beard. It ended up looking like dirt.
“You rang, I came,” she said brightly, to dispel the dark and frightening ceiling-fan image.
“I told you to leave Cookie alone.”
If she wasn’t a lady, she’d have punched him in the nose for scaring her, then for having the Cookie Monster’s name be the first thing on his lips. But she was a lady, so instead she said, “Did she come running to you with some tale about the big bad ex-wife?”
“Rob—Bobbie, you just don’t know how badly this is—” He stopped, looked at her, a brow-wrinkling perusal. “What on earth are you wearing?”
She looked at her crop top and blue leather skirt. She hadn’t worn it for him; it was for her date tonight with the sheriff. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
He looked up and down the street, then grabbed her arm and pulled her inside his waiting room. “Nothing’s wrong with it.” Hah. “I’ve just never seen it before.”
“I threw out everything I had from when we were married and bought
all new.” Just like he’d thrown her out and gotten something new. No, Cookie was old, old news.
Nothing moved but his throat muscles as he swallowed and his eyes as his gaze fell to her bare legs. “We’re still married.”
“On paper only.” There, that was nice and calm. Her heart wasn’t racing because he’d made her angry, or jealous, or evoked any other silly emotion at all. It was just the fear about finding him dead. That was only natural; anyone would feel that. “Aren’t you going to show me your new place?”
Her pleasantness seemed to throw him even further off balance. “Ah, sure, I mean...well...if you’re interested.”
“Of course, I am, Warren.” Sugar and spice and everything nice, she marched through the only other door in the small anteroom.
He’d done well for himself, as he always did. The desk was big and made of some expensive dark wood, a cushy black leather chair pushed beneath it. Oak bookcases and filing cabinets lined the back wall, with his collection of GAAPs and FASBs and tax codes. She’d always hated reading that stuff, hated researching and interpreting. Accounting principles were at least as bad as legalese. Which was probably why he needed that big leather sofa, to find a relaxing position for all the research on clients’ behalves. She would have fallen asleep.
It was a damn sight better working at Mavis’s Cooked Goose. See, there was another advantage.
She flopped down on his leather couch, kicked off her sandals, and pulled her legs beneath her. He watched every move.
She fingered the bottom of her midriff-baring shirt. “You didn’t say if you liked my new clothes.” Testing, testing.
“Ah, sure, yes.” He cleared his throat, then he started to pace, running a hand through his short hair. Oh yes, he liked them.
His polo shirt was buttoned up to the neck, and once or twice his hand fell from his hair to his collar as if he wanted to loosen it. He hadn’t looked at her like that in God knew how long, and the knowledge that her new attire unnerved him now settled like a balm right where her ribs met.
She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series) Page 13
