Bobbie blew out a puff of air. “Yes, but we were talking about Beau and Jimbo.”
“Do I think he’s capable of killing someone, or do I think he killed Jimbo? Those are two totally different things, you know.”
“Mavis.”
“I can’t think of a single reason why he’d kill Jimbo now, but then I’m biased because I’m sleeping with the guy. And I’m married to him.”
Bobbie raised a brow. “And because he owns The Cooked Goose?”
Mavis met her glare for stare. “He owns the building. I own the business.”
“But you pay him rent.”
“In a manner of speaking.” It was clear just what manner that was. “A mutually satisfying agreement.”
Bobbie didn’t want to know about Mavis’s sex life. “You’re not being very helpful.”
“All right. You want helpful? I’ll give you helpful. I think he and Jimbo might have patched things up before long.”
“What?” Oh, now that was very interesting.
“I saw Jimbo go down there a couple of times. And Beau hasn’t called him a dickhead asshole in a few weeks.”
“He called him a dickhead today.”
“But did he call him a dickhead asshole?”
“No.”
“That’s what I’m saying, he’s dropped the number of epithets strung together.”
Bobbie slowly smiled. “So if Jimbo and Beau were patching things up, maybe Cookie—”
Mavis jammed her hands over her ears. “Don’t say that name.”
“Then maybe the witch was worried about Jimbo cutting his brother back in after she’d cut him out.”
“I never did like her,” Mavis tacitly agreed.
“Did you tell Brax this?”
“No. And I’m not going to. I’m not getting involved.” She shook her finger at Bobbie. “And you ought to heed the same warning. People don’t like outsiders stirring stuff up.”
“But I’m not an outsider. I work at The Cooked Goose.”
“You only think you aren’t an outsider.”
Oh. Well. That couldn’t be true, could it? No. Maybe? She’d better be careful.
Chapter Fifteen
“Let’s go to the Rowdy Tavern for dinner,” Bobbie said later in Nick’s kitchen.
“Together?”
Something about the panicked flash of Nick’s eyebrows almost to the top of his forehead set Bobbie off. “Well, of course. Isn’t that what ‘let’s’ means? As in us, plural.”
He took the mocha she’d brought him, wrapping his long fingers around the mug. “Forget it.”
Bobbie stared openmouthed. “But—”
“No.”
She put her hands on her hips, snagging his attention. The man was so easy. “I want to listen to gossip at the Rowdy Tavern. I’ve heard everything I’m going to hear at The Cooked Goose. The Chalet is too expensive. That leaves the Rowdy Tavern.”
“All right, you go. I’ll wait here. You can bring me back a steak sandwich.” He sipped the coffee, watching her over the rim and trying to keep his expression neutral. But she knew her mochas were to die for.
“You want a steak sandwich, you have to come with me.”
He put the drained mug on the kitchen table. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
“No one’s going to tell you a thing with me around. They’re not even going to stop at the table. And if there’s any gossiping going on, it will be about the fact that you’re with me.”
“Why shouldn’t I be with you?” She crossed her eyes. “Oh, you mean that whole ridiculous serial-killer thing. You need to get over that. It sort of leaves you with a chip on your shoulder. Nobody thinks you’re a serial killer. Not really.”
Nick crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the counter, regarding her until the scrutiny became just a little irritating. Heat crept up her neck.
“All right, we’ll go. But they don’t like your questions, and they won’t approve of your being with me. So don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Half an hour later, a buxom waitress encased in too tight jeans led them to a wooden booth back by the bathrooms. Bobbie glanced at Nick to see if he was watching the waitress’s rear-end, then sighed with relief to discover he wasn’t.
She took the side facing the room, and Nick ordered them both a beer. He didn’t ask her permission. Bobbie was of a dual mind about that. She liked proprietary, hated controlling. She decided Nick was just trying to make some sort of weird guy point since she’d twisted his arm to get him here.
“See, there wasn’t any great hush when you walked in.”
He cocked his head over his beer. “How can you tell over the music?”
He had a point. It made eavesdropping a tad difficult. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. Besides, she didn’t even know anyone here. Except...
Though he’d eaten lunch at Mavis’s, Mr. Johnson had also masterminded a dinner break from the soda fountain. Mr. Migglethorpe had vacated his barber pole for the evening. If the pseudo-woman with him was his wife, he’d robbed the cradle. Would anyone be dumb enough to take their little nymphet mistress out to dinner where everyone could see them? Had to be the wife. Oh, of course, it could be his daughter.
On the far side of the bank of tables, Mr. Fry stared at Bobbie over the top of his menu. His wife, his white-haired clone except for gender, mimed his over-the-menu gawk. Bobbie fluttered her fingers at them both. The man’s eyes dropped immediately, and the menu rose four inches to cover his eyebrows. That was odd.
“Okay, so you want to know what I learned today?”
“Nothing?” Nick ventured.
Bobbie smirked. “Very funny.” She remained undeterred. She leaned closer, as if the blare of the too-loud music couldn’t effectively cover her salacious comments. “Jimbo cut his brother Beau out of their business and left him living in that garage.”
“I could have told you that.”
She compressed her lips. “So, why didn’t you?”
He shrugged and dug into the steak sandwich their waitress had just dumped on the table, dumped being the operative word. Bobbie had to ask for ketchup twice.
“There also may have been quite a few people in town who felt their family-owned businesses were in jeopardy.”
Nick just kept chewing.
Tangy barbecue sauce twanged in Bobbie’s mouth. She answered for him, voice deep in imitation. “I guess, Bobbie, that means an awful lot of people actually had a motive to kill Jimbo.”
He swallowed. “That isn’t motive. It’s business. Harry was pissed, doesn’t mean he’d have taken a shovel to Jimbo’s cranium.”
“Harry Bushman?”
Mouth filled with another bite of sandwich, he nodded. A smear of steak sauce daubed the side of his mouth. After swallowing, he gave it a man-size lick. Oh my God. She almost forgot what they’d been talking about. She almost forgot her own name.
Oh, yeah, they were discussing Harry Bushman. “That was the first time I actually saw her, in Harry’s store.”
“Her?”
“Cookie.”
“You’re wrong. She wouldn’t be caught dead in Harry’s. Too much polyester.”
Well, that is what Bobbie had first thought. “No, it was her. And she did buy something because she was carrying a little bag. Afterwards, she came out and gave me a...talking to about leaving Warren alone.”
Nick lifted his beer, took a long pull. “Did you hear the slightest rumor about Cookie herself today?”
Bobbie drew a pattern on the tabletop with her finger. “No.”
“If your husband confessed to killing Jimbo, he damn sure didn’t do it to cover up for someone’s rent problem. He came to town for Cookie, and she’s the only one he’d confess for. If he did kill Jimbo”—Nick held up a hand when she would have jumped in—“hear me out. If he did kill him, the only person he’d have done it for is Cookie. Anything else is bullshit. So, the only thing we rea
lly know is that your husband thinks Cookie did it, and he’s willing to risk his life to protect her.”
Bobbie sat back, half her barbecue sandwich untouched. Nick’s argument left her feeling helpless. No one was talking about Cookie. She couldn’t seem to get a straight answer, couldn’t even unobtrusively overhear one.
But he was right, Warren wouldn’t have confessed for anyone but Cookie. So where on earth was Bobbie going to get the evidence when no one was talking?
Nick threw some bills on the table and stood. “Are you ready?”
The whole thing had been a bust. In fact, the whole day had been a bust. “Thanks for dinner.”
She smiled at everyone as she passed. Mr. Johnson. Mr. Migglethorpe with the young...whatever. Mr. Fry and his wife.
Bobbie stopped. It was impolite to move on without saying a few words, especially since the druggist had tried to be so helpful. “Mr. Fry, I really want to thank you again for—”
His wife’s face faded to a sickly shade. Oh my God, she wasn’t choking on a chicken bone, was she?
“Where’s the sheriff?” Mr. Fry barked.
Oh my God, Mrs. Fry was choking. “Should we call the paramedics?”
The man’s white eyebrows rose to meld with his hair. “What are you talking about, young lady?”
“Your wife. Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. And I’d like to know if the sheriff knows that you’re out with...him.” He said the three-letter word as if it were made up of four, the bad four. The look he shot Nick would have flayed animal flesh.
Nick merely gave her a smug I-told-you-so smile.
“No, I don’t think the sheriff knows.” A touch of bewilderment haunted her words. Mr. Fry couldn’t really be upset that she’d had dinner with Nick.
His next words showed that for a lie. Or wishful thinking. “Well, you can be sure he’ll hear about it soon.” He sniffed with disapproval. “And from several sources.”
“Oh.” Was he angry enough to want his condoms back? She tried to reach him once more. “Well, I’m sure he’s got his hands full right now with what happened to Jimbo and all.”
Mr. Fry’s lips curled in a snarl. “He’s got his killer, Ms. Jones. And he doesn’t need anyone running around town asking a bunch of silly questions and stirring people up.”
“No, he certainly doesn’t,” his clone echoed.
Bobbie looked at Nick with a do-you-think-they’re-talking-about-me question in her eye.
Nick, in answer, tugged hard on her hand. Exit stage-left if you want to keep your dignity.
“Well, it was nice talking to you, Mr. Fry.”
Mr. Fry merely harrumphed, as did his wife.
Bobbie let Nick lead her away. She turned back for one last survey of the crowded, overheated, too-loud room. A multitude of beady black eyes scoured her.
Gosh. They really were looking at her as if she’d slept with a serial killer.
* * * * *
“I told you that’s how they’d react.”
“Do not dare say ‘I told you so.’”
“I wouldn’t think of it.” Women liked to meddle, that’s just what they did. But God forbid they should admit to it. Nick had managed to keep his mouth shut the entire drive home. He would have been safe, too, if he hadn’t invited her inside his house. Big mistake. “All I’m saying is that you should leave it alone.”
Bobbie opened her mouth. Nick shushed her with a finger to her lips. “I know you can’t leave Warren to his fate. I’m just saying you need to be more discreet in your inquiries. It’s all over town that you’re stirring things up. People don’t like it.”
Hands on her hips, she backed him up against his living room sofa. “That wasn’t about the questions I asked about Jimbo. It was because I was with you.”
“I’m the serial killer, right? What did you expect them to do? Suddenly decide I’m a good guy? They’ve hated me far longer than you’ve been around. And you aren’t going to get them to change their minds.” Because she was right in his face, he put his nose within an inch of hers. “Besides, Fry thinks you’re two-timing the sheriff.”
She eased back a foot, giving him the full glint of her gaze. “Nobody chooses for me.”
“So, this is about telling Cottonmouth to go to hell.” Shit, he knew this wasn’t really over him, had known that from the moment she’d stepped onto his porch bearing lasagna. He’d hoped, though, that they’d moved beyond her original intention for seeking him out.
“It’s about what I want.” She stabbed a rigid finger to her chest.
He couldn’t help noting the swell of her breast where she touched herself, then he pulled his gaze front and center. “What exactly is it you want, Bobbie?”
She didn’t hesitate or look away. “You.”
“Why? Because of the ten orgasms?” Because it would piss her husband off?
“It was only nine.”
“But you’re itching to make it ten, aren’t you?”
He was suddenly hard in his jeans. Maybe it was her sweet perfume swirling in the hot air. Or maybe it was the way she was willing to go to battle for him, no matter the underlying reason.
She licked her lips deliberately. It got to him the way she knew it would. “Are you?”
Christ, yes. He’d kill to make it ten and more. “I don’t like being used as a weapon in your little war with the mavens of Cottonmouth. Or your husband.”
She took back the foot of space she’d given. The tips of her fingers sank beneath the waistband of his jeans and pulled him closer still. The scent of her lip gloss filled his head. He ached to kiss it off.
“I’ll admit I wanted to show Warren that other men would find me desirable.” Her breath puffed against his lips. “I’ll admit I thought you’d be the perfect candidate.”
Hell, he didn’t want this confession. He wanted what he’d had last night, a woman who needed him. “So, you wanted to get fucked and shove it in your husband’s face?”
She didn’t balk at his crudeness. Instead, her tongue slicked along the seam of his lips. “I thought that’s all you’d be willing to give.”
“That’s all I did give you.”
She shook her head, and her lips caressed his. “No. It was more.”
Way more. For the first time, he’d made love to a woman because she needed it. Last night had been all about her. And he wanted her again, just that way.
“No one’s ever made me feel that desirable, Nick,” she whispered. “That beautiful. That special.”
He’d never really tried to make a woman feel like that. Had never cared enough to. And feeling that way with Bobbie was dangerous.
Hands on her shoulders, he pushed her back. But he couldn’t let go. “Don’t go making it more than it was.”
His harsh breathing, that goddamn bulge in his pants, and his trembling hands put the lie to his words.
“I’m not giving you up,” she whispered, “just because Mr. Fry, or anyone else, didn’t like seeing us together.”
He closed his eyes. God, this woman knew how to use words to get to him, did she ever.
“Nick, will you do one more thing for me?”
“What?” He made it sound as bad tempered as possible.
“Let me make love to you this time.”
He couldn’t help it, he opened his eyes and licked her gloss from his lips, savored it. She took that as a yes and put her fingers to task at his belt. All trace of fight went out of him. He wanted her to make love to him more than he’d ever wanted anything. “What are you going to do?”
Her hand stilled on his zipper. She looked at him, and for the first time since they’d walked through his front door, uncertainty dulled her eyes. Filled her voice. “I want to...ummm...you know.”
“No. I don’t. Tell me.” He wanted to hear her say it.
“I want to make you...ummm...” She bit her lip, then gulped a breath. “I want to make you come in my mouth.”
Holy shit. “Ah, well, gee, okay.�
� He helped her ease the zipper over his cock.
She switched off the lamp on the side table, plunging them into darkness, hiding them from prying eyes. Then she shoved his jeans over his hips and down his legs. He still had his boots on. She bent to unlace them. Nick held his breath.
* * * * *
Oh my God, what am I doing? Bobbie asked herself. What if she couldn’t? What if she wasn’t good enough? She’d never been good enough for Warren. This was the dumbest idea she’d ever had. Of course, she’d been saying that for days now, but each time she told herself it was the last time, she came up with another even more stupid idea.
But oh, she wanted him. Wanted to feel him in her mouth, wanted to taste him, wanted his hands in her hair, wanted him totally out of control. To heck with Cottonmouth.
“You okay down there?”
She looked up. His hands hovered near her head, and his penis bobbed in front of her face. She wanted to cry. Or laugh. “I accidentally made a knot in your lace.”
He reached down, his hair brushing the side of her face, yanked, and the lace broke loose. “All fixed. Need any more help?”
She tugged off one boot and almost fell on her butt. Then she did start laughing, a bit of her tension easing.
“I think you’re trying too hard. Relax, baby.” He finished her task, toeing off the other boot and kicking aside his jeans. Then he flopped back on the sofa. Putting one hand on his enormous erection, he stroked, his eyes dark, his teeth white with a smile. “Now, what was that about making me come in your mouth?”
She parted his legs and wriggled between them. “Aren’t you afraid I might just be saying that so I can bite it off?”
“No, baby, I can tell you’re way too hot for me to want to ruin a good thing.” He took her hand in his and wrapped it around his penis, moving their fingers together, showing her how to squeeze him just right. “Here, like that.” Then he let go, giving himself up to her rhythm. “Shit, that’s good.”
He was saying it because she needed to hear it. Just the way he’d talked to her last night, giving her words because she needed them. She believed them gratefully.
She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series) Page 23
