Sweet Talkin' Lover

by Tracey Livesay

  Grateful for the save, though she was more than able to take care of herself, she wiped her hands down her thighs before crossing her arms over her chest. “Let me guess. If I agree to this fun little game of pinball and win, those small-town deficiencies will go away?”

  His gaze followed her movement and lingered, before he lifted his eyes to meet hers, one corner of his mouth elevating. “We can be a very friendly people.”

  She snorted and motioned to the mass surrounding them. “Yes, I’ve been feeling the amicable vibes.”

  His bark of laughter appeared to shock them both, and for a split second she saw genuine amusement gleaming in his beautiful eyes.

  She tapped a finger against her chin, as if pretending to contemplate his proposal. “How about this: If you win, I’ll make all close decisions in your favor. And if I win, everyone cooperates fully and there’s no issue with missing keys, unavailable workers, or anything else that might happen.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he said, as if a decision had been reached.

  “No, wait—”

  This was ridiculous. Conducting business via a pinball game was the epitome of unprofessional behavior. In fact, acting in such a lax and improper manner was the reason she was in Bradleton carrying out a task that was way beneath her pay grade. She’d indulged him long enough.

  She held up her hand, palm out. “This is cute, but it isn’t the appropriate way to handle—”

  A chorus of jeers and dismissive gestures interrupted her. Seriously? She set her jaw. Why was she trying to play nice? If they didn’t see the absurdity in allowing their mayor to behave this way on their behalf, why should she educate them? They thought they had the upper hand. That she couldn’t possibly know how to play this game.

  He had no idea what he’d gotten them into.

  “So, do we have a deal?”

  He held out his hand and she hesitated, momentarily heeding some sense of self-preservation. Time slowed and the background noise faded until he filled all corners of her vision. Unsure of where to look, she landed on his mouth. Good God! Those lips should be outlawed! Wide, wicked and—next to his lashes—the lushest feature on his face. Heat surged through her as she imagined them pressed against hers.

  Both sets . . .

  She blew out a breath and his nostrils flared. The fingers flexed on his outstretched hand. Right. She swallowed and placed her palm against his, watching as it was engulfed by his long fingers. A thunderbolt of electricity skittered up her arm. His eyes darkened and he swayed toward her.

  This was not good.

  She pulled away, and the sounds of the diner came roaring back, bursting the intimate cocoon they’d briefly created.

  “You’re on.” Dammit! Did she have to sound so breathy?

  Why don’t you just brace against the pinball machine and stick your ass in the air, Caila? It’d be way less obvious.

  He cleared his throat and gestured to the machine. “Ladies first.”

  She started. Had he read her mind? Don’t be silly.

  She strode past him, attempting—and failing miserably!—to ignore the ache of awareness his proximity caused. She finally glanced at the game she’d agreed to play.

  Ooh, classic Star Wars!

  She gestured to the other arcade games nearby. “Are you sure you don’t want to play Pac-Man or Space Invaders?”

  “You’re the big corporation and we’re just the small town.” He splayed both hands on his broad chest, that hackneyed accent reemerging and pouring from him like thick marmalade. “You have all the power. I should at least get a chance to pick the game. Give me all the advantages I can get.”

  “Very well. But since you picked the game, I should decide playing order. I’ll go second.”

  A cacophony of objections and opinions met her declaration. Wyatt raised both hands in the air and gestured to the bystanders, confidence saturating his aura. “Settle down, settle down. I don’t have a problem with her request at all.”

  He slid in front of the machine and inserted a quarter. Synthesized music blared and multicolored lights flickered to life. A stainless steel ball rolled down the right-side shooter alley and he pressed the button on the side to engage the flippers.

  He was good. His style of play was more than competent, and like most players, he jiggled and jostled the machine. She studied those moves, because it was important to see how much give a machine had. The fact that the digital display never flashed “tilt,” and that he never lost his ball meant they must’ve loosened the tilt bob inside the machine to make it less sensitive to movement and allow a rougher mode of play.

  At one point she noticed the police chief studying her, his brow furrowed, and she worried she’d given away her familiarity. So she stepped back, bit her lip, and shook her head, hoping her “anxiety” would ease his concerns. For good measure, she added several looks of longing.

  Although that part wasn’t a hardship. The man was an orgasm generator in motion, the muscles in his back and triceps flexing as he played the game. He twisted his hips and thrust his pelvis and she had to quickly look away, redirecting her gaze and her mind before images of those same movements in a more private location were permanently seared on her brain.

  Her attraction was dampened slightly by the lack of aggression in his play. He didn’t take advantage of multiple ball plays or fight to save balls that landed in the alley, all clues that seemed to suggest he believed she wasn’t a match for him. He’d never leave those points on the table unless he thought she’d never get close to his score.

  “Time!” Dan called.

  Twenty-nine million, seven hundred and fifty thousand, one hundred forty.

  “That’s how you do it!” A voice in the crowd.

  The mayor stepped away from the machine and handed her a quarter, his fingers grazing her palm. “Your turn.”

  The hairs on her arm stood at attention. She shivered.

  Shake it off, Caila!

  She approached the machine and stared at the back glass showing the classic Star Wars image, where Leia isn’t portrayed as the capable person she is, but rather as a sexpot, in the gold, metal Jedi bikini.

  And of course, no people of color.

  Not even Lando? C’mon!

  She squared her shoulders and tested the flipper buttons. The crowd still buzzed with sounds of excitement and anticipation, but in her periphery she noticed the police chief whisper to the mayor and nod in her direction.

  So he hadn’t bought her besotted act? Too late now.

  She straightened and kicked off her shoes, lowering her height by several inches, but, more importantly, giving her a stable base to work from.

  “Don’t know why you’re getting comfortable, honey. This won’t take long,” that same inebriated male voice from earlier said.

  She flipped a smile in the direction of the condescending words as she slid the quarter into the slot. “You’re absolutely right.”

  And she proceeded to kick ass. At first, the crowd was jovial, high on their presumed win and her humiliation. She could tell when people figured out it wasn’t going the way they’d anticipated.

  It got quieter.

  She knew the mayor had picked pinball because he thought she wouldn’t know how to play. He’d assumed, based on her gender, her race, or both, that the closest she’d ever gotten to a pinball machine was seeing one in a movie. And honestly, that probably wasn’t an unfair expectation to have.

  What he didn’t know, and what she didn’t feel inclined to tell him, was she knew pinball games very well. She didn’t have a lot of experience on this particular game; she’d played it only once before. But she’d had thousands of hours on the pinball machine at the Sav-Mart while Pop-Pop shot the breeze and played cards with his friends.

  Pop-Pop . . .

  Unshed tears stung her eyes, blurred the flashing lights before her.

  No! No! You will not do this! Not here. Not in front of these people!

  The grief was stil
l too raw to acknowledge, let alone accept, so she welcomed the anger instead. Let it rush through her, burning any gossamer-thin threads of attraction starting to form. Reminding her of her purpose here. What she was sent to do.

  Mayor McHottie thought he’d had the upper hand. That he’d make her look like a fool in front of the community, teach her a lesson, and send her cowed city ass home.

  Well, fuck him!

  He’d made a mistake, as sure as cornbread goes with greens or the sun rises over the meadow or whatever down-home, Southern-spun platitude they said here.

  And he’d pay.

  Seconds later, she passed his score. The mood had shifted by then, the whistles, laughter, and clapping having given way to lowered heads and even lower grumbles, though she did notice more feminine voices calling out encouragement and support. Her last shot had rebounded weakly and her ball was trending straight down the middle. She could’ve been a good sport and let the ball die.

  Game over.

  But she needed to make her point. She nudged the machine with her hip, causing the ball to hit a rubber post, ricochet off another post, and head back into the main area.

  “Yeah, baby!” she crooned.

  That move earned her a special three-ball bonus round, which she proceeded to play out until a voice called, “Time!”

  Thirty-five million, forty thousand, one hundred points.

  Yes! She shimmied her shoulders and hips, her heart beating faster than a sprinting cheetah. She shot a triumphant look over her shoulder, expecting to find him irritated and annoyed, his bruised ego on display. Instead, admiration and respect beamed from the mayor’s gaze, and then his handsome features froze into an inscrutable mask.

  Before she could take a moment to decipher that look—and the way it made her feel—a hand landed on her shoulder and spun her around.

  Shirley smiled. “Good for you, sweetie! I love Wyatt, but it never hurts for that boy to be taken down a peg or two.” She held Caila’s purse in one hand and her dinner in a to-go container in the other. “Thought you’d probably enjoy it better once you got settled in at Gwen’s.”

  Judging by the hostile undercurrent she was sensing, Shirley had a point. Caila may have been prideful, but she wasn’t stupid.

  “Thanks.” Caila slid her feet into her heels and took the items the other woman held out to her.

  The mayor’s face was still devoid of expression. “You played me.”

  His voice was low and dark, and it made her wish he’d insert the preposition “with” into that sentence and make it a question.

  “Don’t even try it. This ‘quick and friendly’ game was rigged from the beginning.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a huff. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a long day of travel. I’ll be at the plant bright and early in the morning. Please tell the manager I’ll expect total cooperation from everyone.”

  She took several steps and, still riding the high of her victory, added, “And thanks for the trip down memory lane.”

  Chapter Five

  Of all the idiotic, foolhardy, and undisciplined things she could’ve done! What was wrong with her?

  Caila braced her arms against the roof of her car and dropped her head, trying to calm her racing heart after her mad dash from the diner.

  All she’d wanted to do was introduce herself to the mayor, apologize for not returning his calls and suggest a time for a brief meeting when she could get the information she needed. Communicate clearly, build trust, and maintain professionalism, some of the first skills she’d learned about project management.

  Instead she’d visually undressed him, bet the success of her assignment on the outcome of a pinball game, and then embarrassed him at said game in front of his friends and constituents.

  Maybe she needed a refresher course on what those core skills actually meant.

  She supposed she could blame it on exhaustion . . . and shock at meeting Wyatt Bradley. She never would’ve expected to find a man who looked like that living in a place like this. Not that she’d thought about what the men who lived here looked like, just that she’d expect to find someone like him living—Ugh, he was even affecting her thought processes!

  She straightened from the car. Shake it off, she told herself, literally moving her limbs like a rag doll. Anyone who happened by would think she was possessed. Religiously. Demonically. Pharmaceutically.

  Her reaction to him was a complication she couldn’t afford. Despite her earlier bravado inside the restaurant, she thanked her lucky stars the wager ended in her favor. Nothing like that could happen again. Not if she wanted to save her professional career.

  And there was nothing she wanted more.

  She’d stumbled slightly in her climb to the top. She could’ve been facing a terrifying free fall, each rung she’d already attained flying past in an uncontrolled descent. Instead, she’d been offered a lifeline. A second chance. She intended to take full advantage of it. She’d get the information she needed for Endurance to justify pulling the contract, draft her report to the board, and get the hell out of Dodge.

  In the meantime, with the plant closed and her eat-in dining plans scrapped, there was nothing left to do but check in at Sinclair House. While Bradleton might possess a lot of aesthetic charm and a gorgeous mayor, it did not have a Four Seasons or a Ritz-Carlton. Hell, she would’ve taken a Holiday Inn Express! But unless she’d planned to drive two hours back and forth to Richmond each day or spend the next few days in the no-tell motel off the highway that Shirley had mentioned, she’d had to make do with one of the town’s many bed-and-breakfasts.

  Her original reservation began tomorrow at three, but when she’d decided to arrive a day early, she’d had Diane call and change the booking. Her assistant had been assured they’d have no problems accommodating her tonight, and being here, she now understood why.

  Bradleton wasn’t the tourist capital of Virginia.

  With the wind kicking up, the temperature dropping, and the adrenaline wearing off, Caila couldn’t think of anything in that moment she’d prefer more than a soft, warm bed. She’d be lucky if she managed to eat her dinner before passing out.

  Sinclair House turned out to be a large white colonial with black shutters, four columns, and a wide front porch. A beautiful home that wouldn’t have been out of place plopped down in the middle of several acres of land.

  In fact, from what she’d seen so far, Bradleton appeared to revel in their town’s antiquated style. And though the trees had been lovely and the local shops looked charming, she hadn’t missed the small touches that proclaimed the town’s pride in its Southern heritage. The Battlefield Cafe, the Blue and Gray Truck Depot, the Rebel Brewery.

  Her skin tightened over her bones, and a prickle of disquiet inched up her spine. That unease was one of the reasons she’d left her own small town in Maryland and had never looked back. She didn’t like living in a place that showcased its role in an event that caused the suffering of so many.

  Never mind the constant concerns about her safety.

  Brushing the dark—paranoid?—thoughts aside, she exited the car, grabbing her dinner, purse, and luggage, and hurried up the sidewalk. Golden yellow and vibrant red leaves littered the pathway and fluttered in the breeze, providing an autumnal welcome mat. As she stepped onto the porch, the warm, spiced scents of cinnamon, maple, and apples enveloped her, unconsciously sweeping away her concerns.

  Large ceramic planters and rocking chairs with colorful blankets draped over their backs decorated the wide porch. Caila’s heels clicked on the wooden planks as she passed the rippling Virginia state flag and a white wicker porch swing on her way to the front door.

  Inside, it was as if she’d stepped back in time. She’d have appreciated the dark oak floors, warm sunny walls, and period furnishings even more if it weren’t for the loud music and shrieks of laughter that immediately assaulted her ears.

  What the hell . . .

  “Hello?” she called out.


  Could they even hear her over the commotion? Apparently not, because no one responded. Pursing her lips, she followed the trail of audible breadcrumbs. No one was in the first room she encountered, but, with the exception of the large flat-screen TV on the wall, the receiver, and several speakers, the decor stayed true to the home’s vintage feel. An iPhone sat on top of one of the speakers, connected to it by a cord. This must’ve been the origin of the music.

  She left her briefcase on top of her luggage and went farther down the hall. The second room she stumbled upon revealed the source of the laughter. Two groups of four white women wearing neon feather boas, sparkly top hats, and face masks sat at either end of a long dining room table. In the middle of the table, between each group, sat large serving dishes with salad and pasta, platters filled with cheese, crackers, and desserts and more than half a dozen bottles of wine.

  The women rolled dice, pumped their fists in the air, and high-fived each other. Some made notations on small pieces of paper in front of them. Others sang along to the music and drank liberally from their cups. They were having such a good time, they never noticed her standing in the doorway.

  Was she in the correct place? This was Sinclair House, right? Or—good Lord!—had she walked into a complete stranger’s house? They shot people down here for that type of trespass, didn’t they?

  Caila pressed two fingers to her temples. Exhaustion had given way to a pounding headache that wasn’t helped by the sudden piercing blast of an air horn followed by one woman yelling, “That’s bunco, bitches!” Caila started backing out of the room, intending to recheck her email and compare the address she’d been given with the one on the house, when she bumped into the sideboard by the entryway.

  Her heart stopped and she froze as she found herself the sole recipient of eight confused stares.

  Shit.

  “Can we help you, honey?” asked the woman still holding the air horn aloft.

  “I’m looking for Gwendolyn Sinclair,” Caila said, raising her voice to be heard over Carrie Underwood crooning about a cowboy Casanova.