Natural Born Charmer

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “Yeah, sorry.” He propped his foot on the bottom step and took a slug from the bottle. “I needed some change.”

  “Fifty-dollar bills aren’t change.”

  “They are in my world.” He snapped the cap back on.

  “You are so obnoxious! I should have stayed in Knoxville.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  She sauntered down the steps, or at least she hoped it looked like sauntering. “Because I’m praying Jack will come back. Talk about a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I’m almost positive I’ll be able to work up the nerve to ask for his autograph.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll be too busy for that.” He gave her a long, lazy look. “Keeping me satisfied in bed’s going to be a full-time job.”

  The picture that flashed through her mind was so sizzling that he and his bike were halfway to the barn before she got her voice back. “Hey, Dean.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. She shaded her eyes from the sun. “If you’re serious about getting it on again, be sure to give me some advance notice, so I can grab my appointment calendar and block out three minutes.”

  He didn’t laugh. Not that she’d exactly expected him to. But neither had she expected to see the way he looked at her, as if the national anthem had just ended and they were starting a brand-new game.

  A little later, while Blue was cleaning up the kitchen, she heard Dean drive off. April came in dressed in old clothes and lugging a pile of drop cloths. “Apparently Dean didn’t manage to run down the contractor on Friday,” she said, “because no one has shown up this morning, and I’m not sitting around all day waiting for them to get to this kitchen. I have the paint. Want to help?”

  “Sure.”

  They’d barely gotten set up before April disappeared to take another of her mysterious phone calls. When she came back, she put on Gwen Stefani, and by the time Gwen belted out “Hollaback Girl,” it had become apparent that April’s dance skills far exceeded her painting experience, so Blue directed the job.

  As they finished the prep work, they heard a car, and a few minutes later, Jack Patriot ambled in, wearing worn jeans and a tight-fitting SCORCHED T-shirt from his last tour. Blue hadn’t expected him to come back, and she stumbled on nothing. He grabbed her just as she was about to step into the roller pan. April, who’d been doing some X-rated grinds to “Baby Got Back,” immediately stopped dancing. Jack set Blue on her feet. “Any idea what it might take for you to get past this?” he said.

  “I—Yes—I—Oh, God…” She flushed from her roots down. “Sorry. I’m sure a lot of people say they’re your number one fan, but I really am.” She pressed a hand to her hot cheek. “I…well…I had sort of an itinerant childhood, but your songs were always there, no matter where I was or who I was living with.” Now that she’d gotten started, she couldn’t stop herself, even as he drifted toward the coffeepot. “I own every album. All of them, even Outta My Way, which I know the critics trashed, but they’re wrong because it’s wonderful, and ‘Screams’ is one of my favorite songs, like seeing right into my heart the way I was then, and, oh shit, I know I’m babbling like a fool, but in the real world Jack Patriot doesn’t just pop into your life. I mean how is anybody supposed to prepare for this?”

  He stirred in a teaspoon of sugar. “Maybe I could autograph your arm.”

  “Really?”

  He laughed. “No, not really. I don’t think Dean would take it too well.”

  “Oh.” She licked her lips. “I guess not.”

  He tilted his head toward April. “Help us out here.”

  April tossed her hair. “Sleep with him, Blue. That’ll bring you down to earth real fast. He’s a huge disappointment.”

  A slow grin curled the corner of his mouth. “I’ll buy the huge part…”

  April dropped her eyes to his crotch. “There are some things a man can’t buy, no matter how rich he is.”

  He propped one shoulder against the doorjamb and let his eyes play a hot lick down her body. “I still get inspired by sharp-tongued women. Grab a piece of paper for me, April. I feel a song coming on.”

  Sex blistered the air between them. They might be in their fifties, but teenage lust simmered in that kitchen. Blue half expected the walls to start sweating, and she began to ease out of the room, only to stumble on the drop cloth.

  The movement broke the spell, and April turned away. Jack inspected the ceiling where Blue had cut in the paint. “Let me get my stuff unloaded and I’ll help out.”

  “You know how to paint?” Blue said.

  “My dad was a carpenter. I did a lot of construction work when I was a kid.”

  “I’m going to check on Riley.” April pushed past him and headed for the side door.

  Blue gulped. She was getting ready to paint a kitchen with Jack Patriot. Her life got more bizarre by the minute.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Dean got back that afternoon, he discovered Jack and April silently painting opposite walls of his kitchen while Coldplay blared in the background. Bright yellow paint splattered April from head to toe, but Jack had only a few smears on his hands. Until yesterday, Dean had never seen the two of them together. Now they were painting his fucking kitchen.

  He stalked off to find Blue. On the way, he pulled out his BlackBerry to check his messages. April had sent the latest ten minutes ago.

  We only have a gallon of yellow paint left. Go buy more.

  He found Blue in the dining room, working on the ceiling. She looked like a pocket-size Bo Peep with a paint roller in her hand. Her splattered green T-shirt hung nearly to her hips, covering up the trim body she was determined to hide from him. Not for long, however. He jabbed his thumb toward the kitchen. “What’s going on in there?”

  “Exactly what it looks like.” The plastic drop cloth rustled under her feet as she moved a few steps to the side. “Fortunately, Jack knows his way around a paintbrush, but I’ve had to watch April like a hawk.”

  “Why didn’t you stop them?”

  “Until that wedding ring is on my finger, I don’t have any real authority here.” She set down the roller and studied the longest wall. “April wants me to paint a mural.”

  She didn’t sound happy about it, but he liked the idea of Blue painting a mural a hell of a lot better than he liked having his parents painting his kitchen. It would also keep her in place for a while longer. “I’ll have my PR people send you a dozen of my best action shots,” he said. “You can pick the most flattering.”

  She smiled as he’d hoped, but then the furrow between her eyebrows crept deeper. “I don’t do landscapes anymore.”

  “Too bad.” He opened his wallet and pulled out two hundred dollars in cash. “Here’s the hundred dollars I borrowed plus the other hundred from that ill-advised bet. I believe in clearing up my debts.”

  As he expected, she didn’t leap to take the money but studied it instead.

  “A deal’s a deal,” he said, all innocence. “You earned it.” When she still didn’t take it, he slipped the bills into the pocket of her saggy T-shirt, lingering only a moment longer than necessary. She might not have a whole lot there, but she had enough for him. Now all he needed was unlimited access.

  “A deal with the devil,” she said glumly. He concealed his triumph as she retrieved the money, stared at it for a moment, then shoved it into his pocket, unfortunately without lingering at all. “Give this to a charity that keeps women off the streets.”

  Poor Beav. He could have told her when he placed the bet that her scruples would keep her from holding on to the cash, but he hadn’t made All Pro by being stupid. “Well, if you’re sure.”

  She turned back to peruse the walls. “If you think I could unfold some groundbreaking artistic vision in here, you’d be in for a big disappointment. My landscapes are beyond ordinary.”

  “As long as you don’t paint anything too girly, I’d be happy. No ballet dancers or old-time ladies carrying around umbrellas. And nothing with dead rabbits lying on
plates.”

  “No worries there. Ballet dancers and dead rabbits would be way too innovative for me.” She turned away. “Life’s too short. I’m not doing it.”

  Now that she’d planted the idea in his head, he wasn’t ready to set it aside, but he’d wait a while before he pressed her. “Where’s my dog?”

  She kneaded her shoulder, working out a kink. “I believe your manly companion Puffy is having a picnic in the backyard with Riley.”

  He pretended to be leaving but turned around just before he got to the hallway. “I should have remembered to tell you this, especially when I know how anxious you are to get those doors back on. Before I left for Chicago, I paid a visit to the man who’s refinishing them. He lives in the next county—out of boycott range—so I was able to convince him to speed things along. They’ll be done any day now.”

  Her eyes flashed. “You bribed him.”

  “Merely an incentive bonus.”

  “Life sure is easier when you’re rich.”

  “And a natural born charmer. Don’t forget that part.”

  “How could I?” she retorted. “It’s the only thing we have in common.”

  He smiled. “That bedroom door had better fit nice and tight. Just the way I like it.”

  By the time Dean got back from his paint run, it was well after five. The house was quiet, and except for the dining nook, the kitchen had a fresh coat of yellow paint. Jack’s black SUV was missing, so he and Riley must have taken off for dinner. So far today, Dean had managed to avoid all of them, and he intended to keep it that way. He breathed in the smell of fresh paint and new wood. He’d pictured himself owning a home with palm trees and a view of the Pacific, but he loved this farmhouse with its one hundred acres. As soon as he got rid of his houseguests, it would be perfect. Except for Blue. He’d missed her this weekend, and he wasn’t ready for her to go anywhere yet.

  As he set the paint in the kitchen, he heard the shower go on. He retrieved the packages he’d left in his car then went upstairs, where he set the sacks on the floor by his suitcases and gazed toward the bathroom door. Blue’s paint-spattered clothes lay in a puddle on the floor. Only a real pervert would push back that plastic she’d insisted he hang over the door, and nobody had ever accused him of being a pervert. Instead, he’d leave the plastic alone and wait here like the gentleman he was for her to come out.

  Hopefully naked.

  The water stopped. He stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside, a cheesy move, but she liked his chest. He gazed at the fluttering plastic and told himself not to get his hopes up. There was a distinct possibility she’d come out in combat boots and camouflage gear.

  He was in luck. She wore only a white towel hiked up to her armpits. Not nearly as good as naked, but at least he could see her legs. His gaze followed a trickle of water sliding down the inside of one trim thigh.

  “Out!” Looking like a provoked water nymph, she stabbed her finger toward the hallway.

  “My room,” he said.

  “I have dibs.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Possession. Nine-tenths of the law. Out.”

  “I need a shower.”

  She gestured toward the bathroom door. “I promise not to bother you.”

  He ambled closer. “I’m seriously starting to worry about you.” As he drew up next to her, he caught the scent of his favorite shampoo. It smelled better on her. Her wet hair lay against her head, and the flicker in her eyes told him he was making her nervous. Excellent. He gave her a slow once-over. “I mean it, Blue. I’m seriously starting to believe you might be frigid.”

  “Really?”

  He circled her, taking in the soft, damp nape of her neck where her hair parted, the gentle curve of her narrow shoulders. “I don’t know…Have you thought about seeing a sex therapist? Hell, we could go together.”

  She grinned. “I haven’t had a boy try to get into my panties by telling me I was frigid since I was fifteen. I feel like a kid again. No, wait. That’s you.”

  “You’re right.” He touched her shoulder with the tip of his index finger and had the satisfaction of seeing her skin pebble. “Why go to a therapist when we can fix that dysfunction here and now?”

  “The gap. You keep forgetting about that gap we have going. Remember? You, gorgeous and useless? Me, smart and hardworking?”

  “It’s called chemistry.”

  Her derisive snort told him he’d done it again. Instead of keeping his focus on the goal line, he couldn’t resist sparring with her. It was a tactical error he’d never have made if he’d had any actual practice seducing women. Hell. Up until now, just saying hello had been good enough. He frowned. “How about you stop being a wiseass and get ready for our date?”

  “We have a date?”

  He pointed to the sacks. “Pick out any old thing to wear.”

  “You bought me clothes?”

  “You don’t think I’d let you shop for yourself.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a chick.”

  “You might want to ask the Packers defense about that.” It was way past time to remind her who was in charge. He dropped his hands to the waistband of his shorts. “Or maybe you’d like to peek in the shower and see for yourself.” He flipped open the tab.

  Her eyes went right to the goal post. He played with the top of the zipper. She seemed to have a hard time raising her head, and when she finally did, he hit her with the same condescending smile he used on rookies who couldn’t back up their trash talk. Then he stepped into the bathroom.

  Blue watched the plastic fall back into place after him. The man was a devil. Her fingers twitched. She wanted to throw off her towel, march in there, and get it on. Dean was her once-in-a-lifetime chance to play with the pros, and if her mother hadn’t chosen this particular time to empty out her bank accounts, Blue might have been able to overcome her aversion to meaningless sex and rationalize a one-time trip to the locker room.

  She kicked aside the sacks, resisting the temptation to peek inside and see what he’d bought. Instead, she pulled on clean jeans and her freshly laundered black muscle shirt. She semidried her hair in the hallway bathroom, snagged it into a ponytail, thought for a moment, then dabbed on some mascara and lip gloss.

  She made her way downstairs to wait for him on the front porch. If they’d been a real couple, she could have sat on the bed and watched him get dressed. And what a glorious sight that would have been. With a sigh of regret, she gazed toward the overgrown pasture. By this time next year, horses would be grazing there, and she wouldn’t be around to see them.

  He was ready in record time, but as he came out on the porch, she spotted a filmy lavender top dangling from his fingers. He passed the garment from one hand to the other, not saying a word, letting it speak for itself. The late afternoon sun caught a sprinkle of tiny silver beads, like bubbles in a froth of lavender sea. The fabric swayed from his fingers like a hypnotist’s watch.

  “The thing is,” he finally said, “you probably don’t have the right bra. I’ve seen girls in clubs with tops like this, and they wear a bra with lacy straps. Maybe a contrasting color. I’m thinkin’ pink would be nice.” He shook his head. “Aw, heck, I’ve embarrassed us both.” Not looking the slightest bit embarrassed, he dangled the lavender confection a few inches closer. “I tried to buy you something with spikes and leather, but, I swear, if there’s an S&M shop around here, I sure as hell couldn’t find it.”

  She’d entered the Garden of Eden, except this time Adam was holding the treacherous apple. “Go away.”

  “If you’re afraid to claim your womanhood, I understand.”

  She was tired, hungry, and feeling more than a little sorry for herself or she wouldn’t have let him bait her. “Fine!” She grabbed the lavender temptation. “But you gave up a Y chromosome to do this!”

  When she got upstairs, she whipped off her muscle shirt and pulled Satan’s garment over her head. A ruffle fell softly at the hem, where it brushe
d the waistband of her jeans. Delicate ribbon ties curled over her shoulders. Her bra straps showed; he’d been right about that. Of course, he’d been right. He was an expert on women’s undergarments. Fortunately, her own bra was pale blue, and although the straps weren’t lace, they weren’t white either, which even she knew would have been an unforgivable fashion faux pas to Mr. Vogue Magazine downstairs.

  “There’s a skirt in one of those sacks,” he called up the stairs, “just in case you’re interested in getting rid of those jeans.”

  Ignoring him, she kicked off her sandals, pulled on her scuffed black biker boots, and headed downstairs.

  “That’s just juvenile,” he said as he took in her footwear.

  “Are you ready to go or not?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman more afraid of being female. When you see that shrink—”

  “Don’t start. It’s my turn to drive.” She held out her hand, palm up, and nearly choked as he passed over the keys without arguing.

  “I understand,” he said. “You need to assert your masculinity.”

  He’d scored way too many verbal hits today, but she was so entranced with the idea of driving the Vanquish that she let this one pass.

  The car performed like a dream. She’d watched him maneuver the paddles on the transmission, and he only winced a couple of times before she got the hang of shifting gears. “Head for town,” he said as they reached the highway. “Before we eat, I want to pay an unfriendly call on Nita Garrison.”

  “Now?”

  “You don’t seriously believe I’m going to let her get away with this? Not my style, Bluebell.”

  “I could be missing something, but I don’t think I’m exactly the best person to go see Nita Garrison with you.”

  “Which is why you’re waiting in the car while I charm the old bat.” Without warning, he reached over and started playing with her earlobe. Her ears were incredibly sensitive, and she nearly drove off the road. Just as she opened her mouth to tell him to keep his hands to himself, he slipped something into the tiny hole. She glanced into the rearview mirror. A purple droplet winked at her.