Sweet Talkin' Lover

by Tracey Livesay

  Although . . .

  Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to eat at an establishment that boasted the food as the second-best thing it was known for?

  Before she could back out of the door as unobtrusively as she’d entered, a stocky older woman in jeans, a red T-shirt, and a short black waist apron hurried over. “Just you?”

  Since she was alone . . . “I guess so.”

  The waitress glanced around, then pointed to a spot in the middle of a crush on the right side of the counter. “Grab that seat.”

  Caila hefted her bag on her shoulder and made her way to the indicated stool, sliding in between two guys wearing flannel shirts.

  Another waitress placed a glass of water down in front of Caila. “What can I get for you?”

  “Do you have a menu?”

  The woman frowned. “You must be visiting.”

  Caila nodded. “I am.”

  “Please tell me you’re not staying at the motel on the edge of town? It’s not a safe place for a young woman traveling alone.”

  “I’m not.”

  The woman stared at her expectantly. She wanted Caila to tell her where she was staying? Caila almost laughed. A tourist would never do that in Chicago.

  But you’re not in Chicago, remember? You drank too much and thought you were Whitney Houston reincarnated.

  Caila winced, then leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’m staying at one of the B&Bs. Sinclair House.”

  “Oh, that’s only ten minutes from here,” the waitress said, loud enough to neutralize any sort of privacy Caila had tried to retain. “You’ll love it. Gwen is a treasure. Unlike this menu! It’s about as useful as a handbrake on a canoe! Everyone loves Turk’s fried chicken platter. It comes with mashed red potatoes, green beans, and cornbread.”

  Caila would have to run ten miles to account for all of those calories! But her empty belly and watering mouth overrode any “healthy food” protests her mind tried to put forth. “That sounds delicious. I’ll have that.”

  “No problem. You want something to drink or is water enough?”

  Was water enough?

  After the day she’d had? “Do you have a house red?”

  “We do.”

  “I’ll take a glass of that, please.”

  The waitress scribbled her order down on a notepad, then stuck the pencil in the hair above her ear. “My name is Shirley. Holler if you need anything.”

  Caila hung her purse on the hook beneath the counter, bumping into the guy seated on her left. “Sorry.”

  His hard glare sliced through her, and heat suffused her body.

  Calm down, dude, it was an accident. We’re sitting elbow to elbow. It’s not like I was trying to hit you.

  But while her comeback would’ve been automatic in Chicago, she was in a small town in the South where she didn’t know a single soul. And while there were some black people in here, she could count their number on both hands, with a finger or two to spare.

  Swallowing her angry retort, she shifted away from the asshole and thumbed on her phone, intending to check her emails. She’d missed an entire day of work, completely unheard of before today. She wouldn’t be surprised to find her inbox loaded with several hundred new messages.

  “Don’t tell me not to worry! If that plant closes down, the entire town is screwed!”

  She blinked and turned toward the source of the apprehensive statement. A group of men and women stood in the small space next to the video games.

  “So am I! I’ve got three kids to support. I can’t afford to lose my job,” a woman said, running a shaky hand through her short red hair.

  “The plant isn’t closing, Carrie. You will not lose your job.”

  The deep voice with a slight drawl cut through the steady din of the restaurant, stealing her breath with its ability to soothe and arouse. Drawn by an intangible force, she leaned forward to peer around the man seated on her right, attempting to see its owner.

  “What about the Harvest Festival? How are we supposed to celebrate when we’re faced with unemployment?”

  “We celebrate because you still have your jobs and we have each other. This is our town. Our home. I promise you I will get to the bottom of this.”

  There was that voice again!

  When a few people shifted positions, Caila caught a flash of white teeth against a square stubbled jaw and dark tousled hair.

  Moisture flooded her mouth.

  “I recognize that look,” Shirley said, placing the glass of wine down in front of Caila. “I see you’ve noticed Mayor McHottie, Wyatt Bradley.”

  She froze. That was Wyatt Bradley, the man who’d been calling Flair requesting a meeting about the Bradleton plant?

  “Wyatt Bradley is the mayor?”

  D’uh! That’s what Shirley said.

  The odd look Shirley gave her seemed to suggest she concurred with Caila’s thought. “Yes.”

  His messages had been forwarded to her, but she’d set them aside, assuming he was a concerned citizen looking to influence her decision. Had the messages mentioned he was the mayor? She honestly couldn’t remember. Taking into account what she’d seen only half an hour earlier, however, she now understood his attempts to get in front of the problem.

  And she’d ignored him.

  He was probably pissed, which would make him adversarial, but his cooperation could be useful. He knew all the players, could make the introductions. Fuck! She’d screwed up. Big time. How had she missed that detail? Was this what Kendra had meant when she’d questioned the quality of Caila’s frame of mind?

  No! She squashed that doubt before it could take root. She didn’t recall a note that he was the mayor and no one in her position would ever think to connect a caller’s complaint to the one person whose assistance would make her assignment easier.

  Even so, she needed to rectify the situation and there was no time like the present. She took a hefty swallow of wine and swung off her stool.

  A man had started playing one of the video games and several people had gathered around to watch. The mayor joined them, standing with his back to her.

  And what a back it was . . .

  He wore a midnight blue long-sleeved T-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders and biceps like reunited lovers. The material stretched across a muscled expanse that tapered to slim hips and a very fine ass. He’d rolled the sleeves up to reveal forearms sprinkled with dark hair; one draped along the top of the machine, the other hanging down by his side, long fingers clutching the neck of a sweating bottle of beer.

  Caila swallowed. She identified with that bottle. If those big hands had been holding her, she’d be wet, too.

  Wait, what? She shook her head. Was she losing her mind? She couldn’t have these thoughts about this man!

  Members of the group caught sight of her before he did, their laughter fading as she approached. Inhaling, she shored up her defenses. “Mayor Bradley?”

  His posture stiffened.

  He turned and their eyes met, the intense hazel gaze searing through her. She was a tall woman, and even despite her three-inch heels, he still topped her by several inches. Damn!

  Why couldn’t this have been a Monet situation? He’d look good from far away, but the closer she got, the more the lines and angles of his face would merge into an unappealing mess.

  Ah, the blissful naiveté of wishful thinking.

  In close proximity, his features were carved into a masculine beauty that seemed unreal. High round cheekbones, long straight nose, dimpled chin. Hell, even his lashes were amazing. Cosmetics companies used computer graphics to falsely convince women that using their product would give them his lashes. His dark hair was cut short, the wavy strands enticing her fingers to have a go.

  She struggled to find a reason to resist.

  He was doing some scoping of his own. His eyes traveled southward from the top of her head to the points of her shoes, pausing long moments at certain rest stops in between. She groaned inwardly. Why hadn’
t she taken the time to freshen up after her flight and the long drive? Put on some lip gloss? Mist her face? Something. She buried the urge to smooth her loose hair back into a bun and adjust her clothes. She would not give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

  Unfortunately, her body didn’t feel the need to live up to that declaration. Her heart slammed against her chest, and her nipples hardened against her bra. Thank God for the blazer that covered her thin blouse.

  What in the hell are you doing, Caila?

  This couldn’t be happening. She wasn’t here to insert the hot mayor’s Tab A into her Slot B. She was here to complete her assignment and get back to her life and career in Chicago.

  You’re a very efficient woman. Who says you can’t do it all?

  Oh, shut up!

  At the edges of her vision, a handsome man wearing a law enforcement uniform smiled. “Here we go again.”

  A blond bro-dude, cheeks flushed with either alcohol or excitement, elbowed him. “I wonder if there’s some kind of spell on this town? As soon as an attractive woman crosses the border, she immediately searches out Wyatt.”

  The idea that she was acting like some mayoral groupie was enough to yank her from the sensual trance she’d descended into. She inhaled, willing the action to expel the weird lethargy his presence had caused until she once again felt like herself.

  “I’m Caila Harris. From Endurance Cosmetics.”

  The shiny gloss of interest vanished from his expression. His gaze sharpened, his mouth tightened. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  And so it begins.

  “Miss Harris. Welcome to Bradleton.”

  That voice . . . The audible equivalent of warm caramel.

  The mayor wasn’t the only one who now knew who she was. The information spread through the diner’s crowd until most of them openly stared at her with varying degrees of curiosity and hostility.

  Nope. Not uncomfortable at all.

  “It’s Ms. And thank you,” she said, feeling as popular as a telemarketer calling during dinner. She moved several feet back and shifted her body so she could address the group, since it was clear the conversation had grown to include more than just the two of them.

  Which was probably a good thing.

  “I’d appreciate any cooperation you can give me. Once I get the information I need, I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Why would we do that?” asked the man she’d sat next to at the counter, his words barely hiding his animus. “Everyone knows you’re here to shut down the plant.”

  “I’m here to evaluate the plant. The company decides what to do. Trust me, this isn’t personal.”

  She recognized her blunder the moment the words left her mouth.

  “Trust you? That’ll be the day!”

  “What do you mean it’s ‘not personal’? How are we supposed to support ourselves and our families?”

  A prickle of unease darted through her and she glanced around, disturbed by the menacing stares directed her way. Caila eyed the door and took a cautious step toward it.

  “Everyone, please! Give her a chance to speak.”

  And like a magician waving a wand, Wyatt’s words calmed the crowd’s growing animosity.

  That type of strength and leadership was impressive . . . and sexy as hell.

  “Thank you,” she said, unable to stem the intensity of her attraction to his display of influence.

  “You’re welcome. But—”

  Ugh! Her bud of interest withered on the vine.

  “—they do have a point. What is the plan for Chro-Make?”

  Awe pebbled along her skin. Oh, he was good. Get her on his side with a charming smile and a heroic gesture, then go in for the kill, with swift, surgical precision. Well played, Mr. Mayor. He’d executed the move with an ease that suggested he’d implemented the tactic often. And it had always worked for him.

  Not this time.

  “I can’t answer that.”

  His smile faded and twin lines appeared between his brows. “Why not?”

  “Because she’s already made up her mind!” An angry voice from the crowd.

  A chorus of agreement sounded from the horde.

  Caila winced. Had she made a mistake approaching the mayor in this informal setting? Another miscalculation on her part?

  Wyatt raised his hand. “Calm down. This isn’t helping. Mi—Ms. Harris isn’t our enemy.”

  “Says you.”

  He shot the utterer of that retort a sharp look before turning to face her. “I apologize. Please understand that we’re a small community. We take care of each other. And having someone from the city come down here and threaten the livelihood of a third of us is, well, quite upsetting.”

  “I haven’t made up my mind or made any decisions.”

  And she hadn’t. She was only getting information for Endurance. Any decision they made based on that information had nothing to do with her.

  But if it did, would this behavior help their cause? Maybe if the town spent more time working and less time hanging at the neighborhood hot spot being rude to visitors, she wouldn’t be here “threatening their livelihood.” Nevertheless—

  “I apologize as well. The local diner isn’t the best place to have this discussion. I only wanted to introduce myself.”

  And alleviate any damage she might have caused by not returning Wyatt Bradley’s phone calls. But now she could see that coming over was an even bigger mistake.

  And a rookie move.

  Swallowing, but determined not to give away any of her inner turmoil, she fortified her posture. “Anyway, I’m sorry for interrupting your discussion. Have a good evening.”

  There was no way she could eat here now. She’d tell Shirley to bag it for her and—

  “Wait!”

  The mayor’s exclamation, verging on desperation, delayed her retreat. He drew closer and lowered his voice. “That wasn’t our best look, but, as you can see, we’re feeling a little powerless here. Maybe there’s a way you can help us to gain a little control? Feel like we have a hand in our own fate?”

  What? No! That wasn’t part of her agenda. She needed to stick to the business at hand. She didn’t have time for this.

  “It might help with the cooperation,” he added.

  “I can’t stress enough how important your performance on this assignment is.”

  Kendra’s words. This task was do-or-die.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  He smiled wryly, slid a quick look at the crowd, then stepped back and raised his voice. “How about a game of pinball?”

  She frowned. That was the last thing she’d expected. “Pinball?”

  His half shrug was easy and confident. “A quick, friendly game. Highest score after . . . three minutes wins.”

  Looking around, she was surprised at the nodding heads and bright looks suddenly gracing the faces in the crowd.

  Were they all nuts?

  “And the point of this would be?”

  “If I win, you stay and enjoy a few days of Bradleton’s Southern hospitality. Then when you go back to Endurance, you’ll have no problem recommending they keep the plant open.”

  He’d said “if,” but his tone dripped with “when.”

  Smug bastard.

  It didn’t matter, but she was curious. “And if I win?”

  He spread his arms wide, his expression magnanimous. “Full cooperation.”

  Her brows flew northward.

  During her time at Endurance, she’d been privy to some unusual negotiation suggestions. There was the Nashville music executive who’d wanted to hold their brand pitch meeting in his private hotel suite, wearing onesie pajamas he’d provide . . . at eleven o’clock at night. Then there was the regional sales distributor for a major chemical company who’d suggested they meet at a flea market beforehand to strengthen their haggling skills as a way to ensure a “top-notch round of bargaining.”

  But she’d never participated in a transaction where someone b
et something so important on the outcome of something so trivial.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You really think it’s in your town’s best interests to rest their fate on the outcome of a game?”

  “It’s not a game of chance. It’s a game of skill. And I have complete confidence in mine.”

  His tone was innocuous, but his eyes burned with the unspoken message—

  He had complete confidence in ALL of his skills.

  Heat pulsed between her thighs.

  Caila pursed her lips. “Why would I agree to those terms? Do I look like some young coed who’ll be mesmerized by your smile?”

  “You think I’m mesmerizing?” he asked, his honeyed, husky drawl sending shivers down her spine.

  She ignored his question. “This is between my company and the people who run the factory. I can do my job with or without your cooperation.”

  “I beg to differ, Ms. Harris. We’re a small, intimate town and we don’t have the amenities you may find in the big city,” he said, adding extra syllables to “amenities” as his delicious drawl morphed into a cartoonish Southern accent that was a cross between Foghorn Leghorn and Kyra Sedgwick from The Closer. “Sometimes, things happen. Keys are lost and you can’t get inside the building.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s what locksmiths are for.”

  “Sometimes they’re booked and can’t get there.”

  “Then I’ll call the police.”

  “Oh, you mean like Dan?” Wyatt tipped his head toward the man in the uniform she’d noticed earlier. “Let me introduce you to Bradleton’s chief of police and my best friend since we were boys.”

  Dan tapped two fingers to his forehead in a salute.

  “And I’m Vince Randall,” said the blond guy who’d been talking to Dan earlier. He grabbed her hand and cradled it between his moist palms. “I’m the councilman from Ward One and the owner of the car dealership on the southern edge of town.”

  Wyatt’s mouth firmed into a thin line. He glared at Vince and pulled her hand free but remained silent.