Crazy Ride

by Nancy Warren

  “You don’t have a sex life!” the old woman bellowed right back.

  She heard the unmistakable creak of one of the floor boards in the kitchen and knew without turning that Joe was in there. Of course it couldn’t be anyone but Joe. She wouldn’t feel this excruciatingly mortified if it was anyone else.

  There was only one thing to do. She’d act dignified, pretend she didn’t know Joe was in the kitchen, and give him time to get the hell out of there. Then, when she saw him again, the whole thing would be forgotten.

  She grabbed a linen napkin and began polishing the glasses Lydia had brought out. The kitchen floorboard creaked again. And again, and suddenly Joe was stepping through into the dining room.

  Oh, well. He didn’t know what he was eating or seeing when he was on that damn cell phone. The chances were he shut his ears to everything but his business as well.

  She risked a glance, but she didn’t think the unholy amusement in his eyes was caused by his latest chat with the strip mining people. She narrowed her eyes telling him silently but pointedly, Don’t you dare!

  He leaned against the door frame looking so pleased with himself she wanted to kick his shin. “I’m sorry to hear you don’t have a sex life, Em. Anything I can do to help?”

  She put down the shiny glass and turned, hoping she wasn’t blushing. “A gentleman would pretend not to have overheard that.”

  “I don’t suppose gentlemen have much fun.”

  Lydia chuckled and scuttled out of the room with more speed than usual. Traitor.

  He moved closer and she moved back only to find her thighs jammed against her dining room table.

  She glanced up and his eyes were a kind of smoky blue now, and so very intent. His gaze dropped lazily to her mouth and suddenly heat hit low and then spread. “Now, about getting you that sex life,” he said and lowered his mouth.

  Her eyes drifted shut and her lips drifted open.

  “What do you want now?” Joe asked in a voice of supreme irritation. She blinked her eyes open and saw him frowning and looking anything but interested in her.

  She said, “Hey, I didn’t—“ but he cut her off with the wave of a hand and she realized his cell phone had come between them. Again.

  And instead of being backed against a sturdy mahogany table for a steamy kiss, she was watching his back as he walked out of the room, and she was steaming.

  Enough already with the cell phone. And so much for improving her sex life. He wasn’t a sexually exciting man -- Joe Montcrief was a robot and his master was implanted in his ear.

  She stomped back to the kitchen and dug out a thick black marker and a pad of foolscap and wrote in block letters, Dinner will be served at 7 p.m.!

  Then, deciding that sounded petulant and snarky and a business woman running an inn should not be either to her only customer, she rewrote the note, leaving out the exclamation point.

  “Can you take this in to the office and put it in front of Joe’s nose?” Emily asked when Lydia came back holding a glass of wine out like a peace offering.

  “Sure honey. Ah, sorry about earlier.”

  “So am I.”

  “I figured you two would be locked in the bedroom by now the way he was looking at you.” The old woman fanned herself. “I thought your blouse was going to start smoking.”

  “His cell phone is his true love,” Emily said. “He treats me like a servant.”

  Aunt Lydia seemed to go into a short trance. “Love slave,” she said when she came out of it. “Maybe if you dressed up as a love slave. Men have some very peculiar fantasies, dear. Half of your job is tapping in to the right one. I think I still have a costume up in one of the trunks in the attic that—“

  “No.” The one thing guaranteed to put the capper on her day would be to show up in some moth-eaten I Dream of Jeanie costume and have Joe not notice.

  “All right. One thing at a time. I’ll take your young man a glass of wine. Drink yours. It will do you good.”

  Normally, Emily wasn’t much of a drinker, but she was riled enough that she gulped down half the glass. Then licked her lips. “Is this from the case Napoleon sent over for Christmas? It’s bitterer than I remember.”

  “That’s the French for you,” Lydia said.

  Emily sipped again. The wine might be on the bitter side, but it was good. She was on edge, maybe a drink would help her relax, she thought, as she sipped again. The wine might be a shade bitter, but it was growing on her.

  Lydia took the metal flask out of the pocket of her house dress and poured a healthy slug into a second glass of wine. She stirred it in with a silver teaspoon and squinted to make sure there was no clouding or sediment to give her away. Nope.

  Carrying the wine carefully, along with the note, she approached the office where Joe was haranguing somebody about something. He was the least restful boy she’d ever known and she only hoped Olive knew what she was doing making him and Emily fall in love. Lydia wasn’t at all sure she wanted this one around permanently. Still, she had to help save the town and if her sacrifice was sharing the Shady Lady with phosphate boy, she supposed she could do it.

  She stuck the note on top of his keyboard, and he nodded. Then she handed him his wine. He pointed to the desktop but she wasn’t born yesterday and if there was one thing she knew about, it was men and one-track minds. Unfortunately, this poor boy’s was all on the wrong track. She hoped his little cocktail would cure him. “Cock-Tail,” she muttered. Now there was a good word.

  What do you get when you pour a lust potion into a glass of wine? Cock-tail. She chuckled silently at her own joke. She’d have to remember to tell Olive.

  Once more, she handed it to him and this time he took it. He kept talking and for a second she thought he’d forget all about the wine and toss it all over the place before he drank any, but as soon as he stopped talking he sipped. She let out her breath and backed out of the room.

  Unbidden, memories flooded her. She’d been a damn good Intimate Healer, and Dr. Emmet’s tonic didn’t have much to do with her success.

  Her tragedy was that most of her clients were there because of problems in their marriage. They were good, decent men and the doctor sent them to her because they couldn’t perform or they couldn’t bring their wives pleasure. She’d taught them so much, saved many a marriage. She wondered if anyone knew how much it cost her to let those sweet men go once they were cured.

  Eddie Parkinson was one such man. Oh, he’d been so tongue tied and shy when she started working with him. Naturally, since he was a married man, there was never any sexual intercourse between them. What she taught was touch. How to pleasure a woman. How to hold back his own pleasure.

  Eddie had blossomed under her and Dr. Emmet’s care and the young husband went on to enjoy a long marriage and several healthy children. He probably had grandchildren now. They’d crossed paths the odd time in the grocery store. Once in a while he and his wife came out for bingo. He always looked at Lydia as though he could see past her exterior to the lonely heart that beat beneath her breasts.

  She’d never, ever broken the rules, but if there was one man she wished she’d had sexual intercourse with all those years ago, it was Eddie.

  His wife had died almost a year ago, and foolish Lydia had hoped he might call one day. She was still waiting.

  When she walked back upstairs to dress for dinner she heard the slosh of liquid from the flask in her pocket. Even after the healthy doses she’d given Emily and Joe, there was plenty left. Probably the stuff didn’t keep.

  This was the last bottle, too. As far as she knew, the formula had died with Dr. Emmet.

  She sighed. If Joe and Emily didn’t fall in love, get married, have a bunch of babies and save this town, she was going to be seriously riled.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  To everyone’s amazement, Joe didn’t miss dinner. He wasn’t even very late. He’d washed up and changed his clothes, like a well-mannered boy should, and when he came into the dining room, he brou
ght his glass with him – with the doctored wine she’d served him half drunk.

  Lydia blinked when he sat down and a wire swung out from is ear. “Have you got a hearing aid? Young fellow like you?”

  “No. It’s my cell phone.” He glanced over at the swing door as he said it.

  “No. Joe,” Emily said, coming in from the kitchen with a platter of steaming roast chicken. “No cell phones at the table.”

  “Give me a break, would you? This client’s all over me.”

  She looked like she was going to snap his head off, which meant words might be exchanged and the last bottle of Dr. Emmet’s tonic might as well get poured down the toilet. Lydia figured those folks that paid a lot of money to have some fancy stallion mount their thoroughbred mare must feel a little the way she did right now. Like she’d do anything to smooth the path.

  “Honey, let Joe have his phone. It’s only us, and he is our guest.” She didn’t of course say, paying guest, but that’s what she implied and Emily knew it. After a moment of firm lip pinching, Emily said, “All right. If you and Aunt Olive don’t mind.”

  Well, as a matter of fact, she did mind. It was going to do them no good at all if the damn fool stallion talked to strangers all through dinner instead of flirting with the nicest thoroughbred mare he was ever likely to come across.

  What on earth was wrong with youngsters these days? Was his cell phone really more important than enjoying the company of a gorgeous young woman? No wonder America’s birth rate was declining and the cell phone population exploding. Lydia shoved the mashed yams on her plate aside to make room for the chicken.

  Emily sat down and picked up her napkin, then made a choking sound.

  “What’s the matter?” Joe asked her, half rising and looking ready to do the Heimlich maneuver.

  “Nothing,” Emily waved him back to his seat, while glaring at Lydia who did her best to look innocent.

  She was a big believer in subliminal messages. Except that sometimes subliminal messages were too subtle and a person was better off with more obvious clues.

  Emily whipped her napkin, still in its napkin ring off the table and stuck it on her lap. Joe, still watching her, looked puzzled until he turned to his own napkin.

  She’d given him the best of the napkin rings. He slipped his starched napkin out and studied the ring for a second, then glanced at Emily who was busy looking at her lap, and then right at Lydia. “These are very interesting napkin rings, Lydia,” he said with the gleam in his eye even an old woman could love.

  “I chose that one specially for you. You can take it with you for later.”

  He glanced at Emily again and said, “Maybe I will.”

  Olive was so busy watching Emily and Joe that when she served herself mashed potatoes she missed her plate and half the potatoes went splat onto the table cloth. Any fool could see she’d spent an hour gussying herself up in her black velvet slacks and the cotton sweater Lydia had knit her for Christmas last year. It was black and white and looked even better on Olive than it had on the woman in the pattern.

  “You look nice, Aunt Olive,” Emily said.

  “Thank you dear. I’m going visiting after dinner.” She looked over at Lydia with a determined expression. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  That woman was as subtle as a cow pie. Lydia had a plan of her own that would help ensure Joe and Emily had the house to themselves, but she didn’t intend to announce it to all and sundry. Well, she hadn’t, now she had no choice. “Thanks but I’m doing some visiting of my own. Pass the potatoes.”

  “That’s nice.” You could tell the woman was dying to ask Lydia where she was going, but didn’t dare in case she’d made it up and was only going to end up watching TV with one of her old friends. French TV if she went to Madame Dior, taped History Channel programs if she went over to Napoleon.

  It didn’t look like all their careful planning to slip the tonic to the two youngsters and then leave them the house to themselves was going to matter a damn. Emily wasn’t happy about the black cord hanging out of Joe’s ear.

  Lydia had almost forgotten what fools men were.

  Then he did a most surprising thing. He removed the ear piece and hooked it down on his belt somewhere. “I’m turning my phone off until after dinner,” he said, and you could tell that it wasn’t easy for him to do that. Emily could see it too. She smiled at him and piled his plate with chicken.

  Oh, that was good. Lydia had watched on one of those sex programs on TV where when people fed each other it was like a mating ritual. Emily was a little stunted in that area, so maybe for her, piling Joe’s plate was her way of telegraphing that she wanted to have sex with him.

  No wonder the girl never seemed to get laid. The way she was loading up the food Joe was probably thinking she wanted to be his Jewish grandmother. Good thing there was plenty more tonic in the flask. Lydia was going to slip them both another belt of the stuff first chance she got.

  They all passed Joe the bowls and dishes and watched him heap his plate so high it was a wonder the table didn’t tip with the weight and dump everything in his lap.

  “I can’t tell you how much I like home cooking. I eat out all the time.”

  “Can’t you cook?” Olive asked. She might be old but she didn’t believe in bringing up lazy sons. She and Lydia had always agreed that if they’d ever had any, their boys would have learned to cook, same as the girls.

  He said, “I can microwave.”

  “Oh, that’s sad.”

  He put a bite of food into his mouth and it was like watching someone after their first kiss. He closed his eyes and said, Mmmm.

  In the time it took Olive to cut her chicken pieces tiny enough for her dentures to handle, he’d finished a plate full.

  “Would you like some more?” Emily asked.

  “I shouldn’t,” he said, putting a hand on his belly, “but it’s too good to resist.”

  Lord alive. They’d have eaten that chicken for a couple more days, the three of them. And after Joe piled his plate again, there wasn’t much left but a wishbone.

  When Emily brought out fresh apple pie and ice cream, he really did groan. “You should have warned me there was dessert.”

  “It’s nice to watch someone enjoying my food,” she said. Since Lydia knew what she meant, she didn’t get huffy, just hoped that fool Joe would have the sense to eat a big hunk of the dessert Emily had obviously made him specially.

  He didn’t disappoint. He may have eaten the pie slower, but his obvious pleasure radiated across his face making Lydia wish she were a few years younger. Oh, what she could show that boy.

  Mind you, there was something about him that suggested he had some pretty good moves of his own, and the way he glanced at Emily, he was planning to use them on her.

  Olive and she shared a conspiratorial wink and Olive rose and said, “Why don’t you two go into the parlor? Lydia and I can do the dishes.”

  Emily’s color immediately heightened. “I’m sure Joe wants to get back to his work.”

  He drained the last of his wine. “It’ll keep.”

  “I set fresh candles out, too. All you need to do is light a match.” Oh, that was a good one. Nothing so romantic as candle light.

  “I’ve got some nice brandy,” Emily said, finally getting into the spirit of the thing. She glanced at Joe and her lips tilted. “Napoleon brandy.”

  “Sounds good.” Then he rose and said, “Shall we?” pulling her chair out for her as she stood, just like a head waiter in a fancy restaurant. Lydia was half in love with him herself.

  A sharp nudge in the ribs cured her of that and she obligingly followed Olive into the kitchen.

  “I get the feeling those two are trying to get us alone together,” Joe said, once he’d lit the candles and she’d poured them each a brandy, using the good crystal because, what the hell, it sure didn’t get used very often.

  “An asteroid landing in the back yard would be more subtle. I’m really sorry.”r />
  “Don’t be. I’ve been trying to figure out all day how to get you alone.”

  “When you weren’t wheeling and dealing.”

  “Right.”

  “So, I’d say getting me alone took about what, a nanosecond of your day?”

  “You’re forgetting that I’m an artist at multi-tasking.”

  “I’m pretty sure I know what kind of an artist you are.”

  He laughed and it was the sexiest sound she’d ever heard.

  He wasn’t only good to look at, but his voice had a wonderfully sexy timbre. Voices were important to her, she liked to imagine how they’d sound in the dark rumbling away beside her on the pillow. His would be a definite turn-on.

  She took a sip of her brandy and let it fire-eat its way down to her belly, then put the glass aside. Maybe she’d had more wine than she realized. She felt a little muzzy.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m not much of a drinker is all.”

  “I feel it too.”

  “You do?”

  “A little dizzy? Slightly off balance?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t think it’s the booze. I think it’s this attraction between us that only gets stronger the longer we ignore it.”

  “Maybe we should stop ignoring it, then,” she said.

  “I could not agree more,” he said, and sinking down beside her on the over-stuffed velvet-covered sofa, kissed her.

  Oh, sure he’d kissed her before and it had been great, right up there in the Pantheon of best kisses of her life, but every time there’d been this internal monologue going on in her head. Sleep with him or not sleep with him? Now the dissenting voice was silent. She was all systems go, mentally and physically, and so instead of wasting time intellectualizing the shoulds and shouldn’ts of the situation she was putting all her energy into feeling. And she did feel.

  Pow-pow. The power of his kiss thrilled through her so they moved from the initial polite warming up phase to hot and greedy, open mouths and thrusting tongues at lightning speed. And lighting feel. And lightning everything.

  “I am crazy about you,” he muttered huskily when they broke away to draw breath.