by Leslie Kelly
Her nice new Italian leather suitcase—one of the few things she’d upgraded after her recent financial upswing—lay half-open. A splotch of pink fabric, visible from the road, said her new silk dress had been yanked off a hanger and shoved inside. And if she wasn’t mistaken, that was the strap of her new Cole Haan sling backs sticking out of the obviously broken zipper.
Okay. She’d upgraded her shoes, too.
“Think they want me to leave?” Sarcasm dripped from her words as Mike Taylor pulled into the driveway she’d directed him to.
He followed her stare and whistled. “Yeah. I think so.” Then, getting a good look at the houses, added, “Good God, someone actually lives here? I thought these places were abandoned the first time I came to town.”
Weary, and not wanting to get out and fight the battle lying ahead, Jen leaned back in the car seat and closed her eyes.
He obviously noticed, and sighed. “You want me to drive you around the block a couple of times before you get out?”
It was as if he’d read her thoughts and the offer tempted her. She’d listened for a note of sarcasm in that gruff voice, but instead heard only a quiet resignation. As if he’d accepted the possibility of being stuck with her for a few more minutes and, despite not liking the idea, was willing to help her out for a little while longer.
How very nice.
And how very strange that suddenly some unexpected moisture stung the corners of her eyes. Moisture. As in tears.
Jen never cried…almost never. Yeah, yeah, she’d cried when Sirius Black had died in the Harry Potter books, but she sure never cried at stupid, sappy movies like Titanic or The Lake House. So why, for heaven’s sake, had tears appeared in her eyes just because a man was being grudgingly considerate?
It had to be because of the lousy day she’d had. On top of the lousy week she’d had. On top of the lousy month of hate mail and nasty phone calls she’d had.
Bad timing and exhaustion, that was why she was being such a girl. During her visit with the aunts, she’d spent half her time shuffling them to their doctors appointments and their hair appointments. When not chauffeuring them, she’d been cleaning their carpets, washing their linens, scrubbing their dirty kitchens—all because they refused to let her pay a “stranger” to come in and do housework. Not to mention the fact that her feet were bloody and raw. Good Lord, it was a wonder she hadn’t bawled like a baby when she’d seen her ruined Cole Haans.
Those were the real reasons for the tears. Definitely.
Not this guy. Not his gruff consideration. Not his reluctant niceness. Not.
“You okay?”
Squeezing her eyes tight one last time, to ensure no moisture escaped from them, she nodded. “Yeah,” she said as she finally lifted her lids, blinking rapidly, making sure she’d gotten herself under control.
Moisture gone? Check. Crisis averted? Check. Battle about to begin?
Most definitely.
THOUGH HIS UNEXPECTED passenger insisted she would be all right and that he could leave, Mike just couldn’t do it. Maybe it was the way she winced when she saw all her things littering the ground beside her car. Maybe it was because of her threats—and her visible anger that had returned in the past few moments. Maybe it was because of the rawness of her bloody feet, about which he still felt guilty as hell…. He’d known when he’d first spotted her that they had to be sore from walking on the gravel and he still hadn’t offered to help her to the Jeep.
Whatever the reason, he couldn’t watch her get out, then drive away. Not without making sure she was okay first. And making sure she didn’t commit a murder.
So after she thanked him and then basically told him he could go, he muttered, “Hold on a minute.” Without an explanation, he got out, walked around to the passenger side door and opened it. “Stay here.”
She stared up at him, as if trying to figure out whether he’d just discovered he wanted to play gentleman, or if he had something else in mind. He did have something else in mind. Namely her blistered, bloody feet.
Striding over to her suitcase, he unzipped it, trying to avoid tearing the dress sticking out of it. When he felt its silkiness between his rough fingers, he half wished he hadn’t bothered. Because it reminded him altogether too much of the silky fabric the woman was wearing underneath her dress.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She started to get out.
“Wait, you need something on your feet,” he said. He quickly examined the first pair of shoes he found, a pair of spike-heeled sandals with a torn strap that had been caught in the suitcase zipper. There was only one way to describe them; they were high-priced, first-class screw-me shoes. Perfect for driving a man crazy with lust, but not for soothing blistered heels. “Definitely not,” he muttered from between clenched teeth.
“My feet?” she said. Her jaw dropped, those expressive eyes growing wide and round. “You’re…”
“I’m getting your damn shoes, would you stay where you are?” he growled, tossing the sexy shoes aside, trying hard not to think about how they’d feel digging into the backs of his legs while he was between hers.
Her mouth snapped shut, but she continued to watch wide-eyed, as if not believing he was poking around in her stuff, trying to find something to protect her feet. The feet he hadn’t given a damn about when he’d first picked her up.
Guilty conscience. That was the only reason he was reaching into the dangerous confines of her luggage, pushing aside all sorts of silky, sexy things that made a sweat break out on his brow. Did the woman not own anything but underwear? How many frigging bra and panty sets did one female require? Blue ones, pink ones…He was losing his mind here. And had she never heard of sneakers?
Finally, feeling the rubbery sole of a flip-flop, he tugged it out, then felt around for the other one. It wasn’t there. “I guess your aunts weren’t really worried about doing a good packing job,” he said as he tossed her the shoe.
“Try that one,” she said, pointing toward a smaller case.
He did as she suggested, unzipping the smaller case. She was right, the other shoe was inside. Thank God.
Tossing it over, he rose and stepped to the Jeep in time to watch her slip the flip-flop on her bare foot. “You’re not taking that with you,” he said, nodding toward the tire iron.
Tilting her head to one side, she stared up at him for a moment, then sighed. “You’re right. I probably shouldn’t.”
“You still feeling violent?”
She stared hard at the screw-me sandals. “Do you know what I paid for those shoes?”
Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been enough to cause the instantaneous reaction in him. “Give me the tire iron.”
“What if I get a flat tire?”
“Call AAA. You’ll have a car with you this time.”
She handed the iron bar over grudgingly, then stepped out of the car, hissing as her weight shifted onto her feet.
“You all right?”
“I’ll be fine.” She was entirely focused on her belongings and her scratched car, staring at them, then at the two old houses. And suddenly her anger appeared to fade again. He could have sworn he saw a tiny, reluctant smile playing around on those full lips of hers. “They are tough old birds, aren’t they?”
“Just don’t wring their necks and stuff them.”
She laughed, as though he’d been teasing her. He supposed he had been…. Where did that come from?
Jen bent over and began picking up her things, shoving them into her bags. Without asking if she wanted him to, Mike began to help her. He avoided anything silky, sticking only to toiletries. Even that was a little dangerous considering he wanted to lift a bottle of creamy lotion to his nose and smell it, to try to figure out whether it had provided the incredible scent wafting from Jennifer’s soft skin.
“Do you want me to come in with you?” he asked, having no idea where the impulse had come from. He could honestly say it wasn’t out of fear that she was going to do anyone
harm—despite her anger, he knew she wasn’t going to hurt her elderly relatives. No, he had made the offer because of that hint of vulnerability he’d seen earlier during their drive. And the touch of humor he was seeing now.
He liked this woman. He sensed he could like her a lot. Considering he already wanted her more than he’d wanted anyone in ages, it was probably a pretty dangerous combination. One that should have sent him running, considering his track record with relationships. As in: two typical losses at the end of long, drawn-out, nine-inning matches. And one total strikeout, complete with a hospital stay for a bullet wound.
“That’s nice of you, but no thanks.”
He still didn’t go. Even with Mutt whining from the back seat, wanting either to get moving or get out, he just stood there, waiting to see if she needed him.
Women often needed him. His brothers thought he liked that. Hell, maybe they were right. Maybe he did have some basic urge to take care of people who couldn’t take care of themselves, quite often attractive women. He had the feeling anybody who wanted to be a cop had the basic urge to protect. And, in his line of work—particularly when working vice—he met a lot of women who’d been abused or taken advantage of. By pimps, dealers, hustlers. There was always somebody in need.
Maybe this woman wasn’t like any he’d met on the streets of New York. She was, however, still in need, whether she knew it or not. Even if all she needed was for someone to make sure she had a pair of shoes on her feet.
He wasn’t abandoning her. Not yet.
“I’m going to be fine,” she said with a resolute nod. “Obviously I have a lot to say to my aunts….”
“Are you sure you can say it without a weapon in hand?”
“My tongue has been registered as a lethal weapon in a couple of states.”
There was a suitable comeback to that, he was quite sure. And it would have rolled out of his brother Max’s mouth immediately. But Mike wasn’t wired that way, to grab any opening a woman provided and charm his way through it. No. Instead, he kept his reactions deep inside, schooled in giving no one an advantage by revealing his thoughts. Especially like the ones flooding his mind right now…the heated images of what her tongue was capable of doing. Wicked things. Amazing things.
She glanced at the house. “I feel like I’m heading into the lion’s den.” Her face was a little pink. Probably from her stroll in the sunshine—not a subtle admission that she knew what had been going through his mind. And certainly not that her thoughts had echoed his.
“Have any idea what you’re going to say?”
“Not exactly. They don’t understand,” she said, not looking very sure who she was trying to convince more, herself or him. “I need to make them see that I’m talking about The Love Boat on land for seniors. Not the nasty, run-down home for the indigent that they’re picturing.”
“Sounds reasonable.” And it did. To him. A twenty-seven-year-old single male living in a small house in Queens. If he were the one being asked to leave his home and move into a sterile “retirement community”? Well…he wasn’t so sure.
“Thank you, Mr. Taylor. I really do appreciate you stopping, but I can handle this on my own now.”
He stared into her face, noting the blueness of her eyes, a contrast to the stormy gray they were when she was angry. She looked calm…resolute. Able to take on any challenge. He suspected her relatives would have more trouble on their hands with a determined Jennifer Feeney than with an enraged one. Because something told him this woman didn’t give up when there was something she wanted. Ever.
Oh. Right. She’d told him exactly that, hadn’t she?
“Goodbye,” she said, putting out her hand to shake his. She didn’t suggest they see one another again, didn’t offer her phone number or ask for his. And since he already knew she didn’t give up on anything she wanted, there was only one conclusion he could reach: she didn’t want him. The attraction was purely one-sided.
That, it seemed, was the end of that. The interesting interlude was over and he’d never see Jennifer Feeney again. By her choice. He wondered why the thought bothered him so much, considering he’d known her all of an hour.
Left with no other option, he put out his hand. Ignoring the cool softness of her skin against his, he said, “Good luck. Don’t kill anyone.”
Without another word, he got in his Jeep, and drove away.
RIGHT AFTER SHE’D BEEN DROPPED off in the driveway by Mr. Hunky-but-aloof, Jen calmly finished picking up all her things. Well, pretty calmly, considering how painful it was to see the mangled shoes and broken luggage. If her parents had been around to hear the words coming out of her mouth, they would have regretted wasting their money on her parochial-school education.
Somehow, she put aside her anger and managed to repack. Though she suspected Ida Mae and Ivy were watching from their windows, no matter how many times she looked toward them, she never caught as much as a twitch of a curtain.
That didn’t mean anything. The old structures were so dark inside—as forbidding and unwelcoming as a pair of caves—either of the aunts could have been standing behind an uncurtained window, studying her every move. Her gaze would never have been able to penetrate the murky recesses of the houses to see them. But she could see them in her mind. Arming themselves in case she came in. Or praying to the gods of mean old ladies for her to get in her car and drive away, never to bother them again.
Fat chance. Not giving up, not giving up, not giving up.
When, she wondered, had it become a crime to offer to pay a fortune to put up your relatives in a pricey, lovely retirement village where they could be waited on, kept fed and entertained, with lots of elderly single men to keep them occupied?
She simply had to explain—had to make them see.
Once she’d picked up all her things, she carried them to Ida Mae’s porch and reached for the doorknob. It was, for the first time she could ever recall, locked.
Pounding on the door, she cupped her hands around her eyes and tried to peer through the dirty inset glass. About all she could make out were the tiny dead bugs stuck between the window and the door frame. “Aunt Ida Mae? Come on, open up, we need to talk about this,” she yelled before pounding again.
A full minute went past. No Ida Mae. No Ivy. But from somewhere above, she heard the squeak of a window. Quickly backing off the porch, down the front steps, she looked up just in time to see a toothbrush come sailing through the air.
It was hers. And it landed in the dirt.
Jen gritted her teeth as the window slammed shut. “I’m not leaving,” she shouted, glaring at the second story of the house.
The window slowly groaned open again.
“Aunt Ida Mae?”
This time, her hairbrush was sent flying. It landed in a patch of mud a few feet away from the toothbrush.
“This is war,” she muttered, marching back up to the porch and trying the windows to the parlor. Though they didn’t budge, she wasn’t about to give up, and made her way around the entire perimeter of the house. Knowing the old woman wasn’t too concerned about security in this small, quiet town, she tried every single window, certain Ida Mae wouldn’t have locked them all since she’d ditched Jen in the middle of nowhere.
“Damn,” she muttered, trying the last one, to no avail.
Still not giving up, she went next door to Ivy’s monstrosity, only to discover the same thing. “They’re pretty serious,” she whispered, still not sure whether to scream and pound on the door or laugh at how darned determined they were.
The warped back porches of both houses nearly touched each other, and the two sisters went back and forth constantly, never trying to keep each other out. If Ida Mae had locked her door against Ivy, her sister would likely have taken offense and burned her house down.
Some would speculate that it wasn’t the first time.
Despite being a Feeney, Jen was not an arsonist. “But I am capable of a little breaking and entering,” she murmured. Especially
because she paid the bills on these two houses.
Eyeing a small window into Ida Mae’s laundry room, she gave it some serious thought. It was already dingy and cracked, and would be just big enough for her to squeeze through.
Well, maybe. Given her recent love affair with two guys named Ben and Jerry, who’d substituted for any real man in Jen’s life, she had some serious hip action going on and she suspected some in the hood would say she had back. But she still suspected she could push herself through and pop out the other side like a cork emerging from a bottle.
Only to land on her head on the washing machine and bleed to death because, given her mood, Aunt Ida Mae wouldn’t lift a hand to call 9-1-1, if they even had such a thing in this town.
Okay. No breaking and entering.
She couldn’t force her way in, and she knew the best thing to do when dealing with the Feeney sisters was to outwit them. Or outwait them. So, deciding to make them think they’d succeeded, and, hopefully, let down their guard, she went around front, got her stuff and threw it into the trunk of her car.
“Put away your weapons, start celebrating,” she whispered as she started the car. “Just unlock a door.”
As she drove off, watching the houses in her rearview mirror, she waited for one of the women to come out on her porch and do an end-zone happy dance. Jen couldn’t watch for long, however, because she hadn’t gone a single mile when the car’s engine started to sputter. Quickly glancing at the gas gauge and seeing it firmly below the E, she groaned. “Oh, no, you did not!”
But they had. The two maniacal old women had gone on a joy ride and emptied her tank. And for the second time that day, Jen found herself stranded, thanks to the wicked Feeney sisters.
CHAPTER FOUR
When Napoleon dumped Josephine, don’t you think she was dying to run around saying, “That thing about a man’s height and his length…it’s true, it’s true!”
—I Want You, I Love You, Get Out by Jennifer Feeney