by Jill Shalvis
Her perky little butt was poised on one of the counter stools while she ate…he walked closer…a burger and onion rings. A bacon burger with Swiss.
Cold rage at Pete’s double-dealing clenched Rod’s gut. Still not quite believing. Suspecting some twisted joke, Rod met Mary-Beth’s eyes. She shifted them sideways to the redhead.
Shit!
Okay, deep breath here. He could hardly yank her lovely butt off the stool and slug her one. His mama had taught him better than that, but dammit, what did she think she was doing claiming his bar as her own? Might as well find out.
Giving Mary-Beth a warning glance to stay cool, he took the stool nearest Madame Bar Snatcher. “Hey there, Mary-Beth. How about pulling me a nice cold beer.”
“I’m sorry. Excuse me,” the redhead said and moved her pocket book, giving him a glimpse of deep, green eyes before she turned back to her onion rings, cut one in four, stabbed it with the fork and chewed carefully.
Snob and prissy wasn’t in it! Nice boobs though. Not that it was likely to do him any good. Her hair was something else though: the color of new pennies, and cut short in a mass of curls. He itched to reach out and let a strand of hair curl over his fingers. Pity it came with a bar snatcher attached.
“Here you are, Rod.” Mary-Beth set his glass down with a thud…and a smirk. “Anything else I can get you?”
“I’m fine thanks. This is just what I need.”
She rolled her eyes and proceeded to refill Miss Prissy’s ice water. What exactly Mary-Beth had done to earn that wide, smile he’d like to know, but it did enable him to catch Miss Prissy’s eye.
“Howdy!”
“Good afternoon,” she replied, with a little nod.
“Enjoying Silver Gulch?” he asked before she had a chance to chop up another onion ring.
She paused as if weighing up whether to snub him or not. “It’s interesting. Smaller than I imagined but…” She gave him the oddest look as her mouth twitched at the corner. “Definitely fascinating.”
“Here on a visit or just passing through town?” He asked, nicely casual, as he lifted his glass and took a drink
She smiled, almost chuckled, her green eyes crinkling at the corners as she looked him in the eye. “I’ll be staying, Mr Carter.”
Rod almost spluttered his Hefeweizen all over himself and the counter. He grabbed his handkerchief and wiped his mouth, thanking heaven he didn’t have beer running out of his nose. Damn her! Damn the smug little smirk on her pretty face! And double damn Mary-Beth for setting him up like this!
“It wasn’t Mary-Beth, so don’t give her the evil eye like that.”
Reads minds does she? “How did you know who I was?”
“An educated guess, Mr Carter. Gabe Rankin told me your name. Minutes after I identify myself to Mary-Beth you appear off the street where you were chatting. How many Rods are there in a town this size?” While he digested that, she held out a slim, long-fingered hand. “I’m Juliet French. My grandfather left me this building and the business.”
“We’ll see about that!”
He felt her green eyes watching him as he stormed out. Gabe Rankin had some explaining to do.
After twenty minutes cooling his heels to see Gabe and an acrimonious ten minutes face-to-face, Rod learned old man Maddock had done him dirty and given away the Rooster from under his feet.
“We had a deal!” Rod protested.
“I know you did,” Gabe replied, shaking his head. “He knew it too. Said he had only three parcels of property and they had to go to his granddaughters. Said he’d make it right with you.”
But the old codger had upended his fishing boat before he could. “So what now? I get kicked out after building up the business?”
“Now, calm down, Rod,” Gabe went on. “It’s not too bad. Part of the agreement was Mizz French keep on all the employees.” So he was an employee now, was he? “If you ask me, she’ll not hang around long, whatever she’s saying right now. You mark my words, give it a couple of months and she’ll be back in London and you’ll be running the Rooster just like always.”
Not quite like always. He’d no longer be working for himself but prissy Mizz French. “What if I just quit?” There was an idea!
Gabe waved his hands palms outermost and shook his head. “Now don’t you start making hasty decisions, Rod. Why not bide your time and see how things go? The Rooster wouldn’t be the same without you.” It wouldn’t be anything without him and Gabe damn well knew it. “You just hold on a week or two. See how things work out between you and Miss French.”
Fat lot of help Gabe was.
Rod was even more steamed when he walked back into the Rooster, ready to hash out a few details with the new owner.
Who wasn’t there.
Neither was Mary-Beth. Lucas, the cook, was standing in at the bar. Where the hell were they? Off doing each other’s hair? And he’d been stupid enough to think Mary-Beth was on his side.
“Don’t look so sour, boss,” Lucas said.
“Where the hell is Mary-Beth? She’s got two more hours of her shift.”
“She took the new owner on the tour. Say, is she really old man Maddock’s granddaughter?”
“Yes, Rod, we were wondering that.” Old Maude and her cronies swooped on him like the furies. “Is it true? And Pete left her the Rooster. How nice!”
It wasn’t nice and it got worse. Two days later, Juliet French had settled in. There was no stopping her.
She could have stayed in the comparative comfort of Sally Jones’s B&B, or even the Hunting Lodge just outside town, but Miss French insisted on moving in. Since the other apartments were boarded up and uninhabitable, she moved into his. After a night on the lumpy sofa, she drove into Pebble Creek and the next morning, carpets and furniture were delivered and she spent the afternoon hanging drapes and unpacking as she staked her claim on one of the empty rooms. His final objection that there was only one functioning bathroom was met with a bland smile and the unblinking assurance not to worry, she promised not to use his razor to shave her legs.
A weaker man would have given up.
Rod Carter braced for survival. He’d outlast Juliet French and be a gentleman about it.
Don’t miss this sneak peek at
Shannon McKenna’s
HOT NIGHT
coming in October 2006 from Brava…
A bby was floating. The sensual heft of Zan’s black leather jacket felt wonderful over her shoulders, even though it hung halfway down her thighs.
They’d reached the end of the boardwalk, where the lights began to fade. Beyond the boardwalk, the warehouse district began. They’d walked the whole boardwalk, talking and laughing, and at some point, their hands had swung together and sort of just…stuck. Warmth seeking warmth. Her hand tingled joyfully in his grip.
The worst had happened. Aside from his sex appeal, she simply liked him. She liked the way he laughed, his turn of phrase, his ironic sense of humor. He was smart, honest, earthy, funny. Maybe, just maybe, she could trust herself this time.
Their strolling slowed to a stop at the end of the boardwalk.
“Should we, ah, walk back to your van?” she ventured.
“This is where I live,” he told her.
She looked around. “Here? But this isn’t a residential district.”
“Not yet,” he said. “It will be soon. See that building over there? It used to be a factory of some kind, in the twenties, I think. The top floor, with the big arched windows, that’s my place.”
There was just enough light to make out the silent question in his eyes. She exhaled slowly. “Are you going to invite me up, or what?”
“You know damn well that you’re invited,” he said. “More than invited. I’ll get down on my knees and beg, if you want me to.”
The full moon appeared in a window of scudding clouds, then disappeared again. “It wouldn’t be smart,” she said. “I don’t know you.”
“I’ll teach you,” he offer
ed. “Crash course in Zan Duncan. What do you want to know? Hobbies, pet peeves, favorite leisure activities?”
She would put it to the test of her preliminary checklist, and make her decision based on that. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “Let me guess. You’re a martial arts expert, right?”
“Uh, yeah. Aikido is my favorite discipline. I like kung fu, too.”
She nodded, stomach clenching. There it was, the first black mark on the no-no’s checklist. Though it was hardly fair to disqualify him for that, since he’d saved her butt with those skills the night before.
So that one didn’t count. On to the next no-no. “Do you have a motorcycle?”
He looked puzzled. “Several of them. Why? Want to go for a ride?”
Abby’s heart sank. “No. One last question. Do you own guns?”
Zan’s face stiffened. “Wait. Are these trick questions?”
“You do, don’t you?” she persisted.
“My late father was a cop.” His voice had gone hard. “I have his service Beretta. And I have a hunting rifle. Why? Are you going to talk yourself out of being with me because of superficial shit like that?”
Abby’s laugh felt brittle. “Superficial. That’s Abby Maitland.”
“No, it is not,” he said. “That’s not Abby Maitland at all.”
“You don’t know the first thing about me, Zan.”
“Yes, I do.” His dimple quivered. “I know first things, second things, third things. You’ve got piss-poor taste in boyfriends, to start.”
Abby was stung. “Those guys were not my boyfriends! I didn’t even know them! I’ve just had a run of bad luck lately!”
“Your luck is about to change, Abby.” His voice was low and velvety. “I know a lot about you. I know how to get into your apartment. How to turn your cat into a noodle. The magnets on your fridge, the view from your window. Your perfume. I could find you blindfolded in a room full of strangers.” His fingers penetrated the veil of her hair, his forefinger stroking the back of her neck with controlled gentleness. “And I learn fast. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll know lots more.”
“Oh,” she breathed. His hand slid through her hair, settled on her shoulder. The delicious heat burned her, right through his jacket.
“I know you’ve got at least two of those expensive dresses that drive guys nuts. And I bet you’ve got more than two. You’ve got a whole closet full of hot little outfits like that. Right?” He cupped her jaw, turning her head until she was looking into his fathomless eyes.
Her heart hammered. “I’ve got a…a pretty nice wardrobe, yes.”
“I’d like to see them.” His voice was sensual. “Someday maybe you can model them all for me. In the privacy of your bedroom.”
“Zan—”
“I love it when you say my name,” he said. “I love your voice. Your accent. Based on your taste in dresses, I’m willing to bet that you like fancy, expensive lingerie, too. Am I right? Tell me I’m right.”
“Time out,” she said, breathless. “Let’s not go there.”
“Oh, but we’ve already arrived.” His breath was warm against her throat. “Locksmiths are detail maniacs. Look at the palm of your hand, for instance. Here, let me see.” He lifted her hand into the light from the nearest of the street-lamps. “Behold, your destiny.”
It was silly and irrational, but it made her self-conscious to have him look at the lines on her hand. As if he actually could look right into her mind. Past, future, fears, mistakes, desires, all laid out for anyone smart and sensitive enough to decode it. “Zan. Give me my hand back.”
“Not yet. Oh…wow. Check this out,” he whispered.
“What?” she demanded.
He shook his head, with mock gravity and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “It’s too soon to say what I see. I don’t want to scare you off.”
“Oh, please,” she said unsteadily. “You are so full of it.”
“And you’re so scared. Why? I’m a righteous dude. Good as gold.” He stroked her wrist. “Ever try cracking a safe without drilling it? It’s a string of numbers that never ends. Hour after hour, detail after detail. That’s concentration.” He pressed his lips against her knuckles.
“What does concentration have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with everything. That’s what I want to do to you, Abby. Concentrate, intensely, minutely. Hour after hour, detail after detail. Until I crack all the codes, find all the keys to your secret places. Until I’m so deep inside ya…” His lips kissed their way up her wrist “…. that we’re a single being.”
She leaned against him, and let him cradle her in his strong arms. His warm lips coaxed her into opening to the gentle, sensual exploration of his tongue. “Come up with me,” he whispered. “Please.”
She nodded. Zan’s arm circled her waist, fitting her body against his. It felt so right. No awkwardness, no stumbling, all smooth. Perfect.
BRAVA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2006 by Jill Shalvis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Brava and the B logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN 0-7582-2097-9