She's No Angel

by Leslie Kelly

  Perfect. A man hater. That explained why she’d been so prickly at first. But she’d warmed up, he reminded himself. She’d been funny and sarcastic. Good-natured. Even a little emotional, if he hadn’t been mistaken about the suspicious shine in her eyes yesterday.

  Then she’d been charming and sassy this morning. And at the lake? Unbelievably—heart-stoppingly—sensual.

  A complex woman, that one.

  “A few fellows haven’t gotten the joke,” Mortimer said, though Mike had almost stopped listening. “She started getting threats after appearing on one of those national morning talk shows and being interviewed in the Times book section.”

  He tensed. “Threats?”

  “Hate mail, that sort of thing,” Mortimer said with an airy wave of his hand. But he soon frowned. Almost as if speaking to himself, he mumbled, “The phone calls on her unlisted number are worrisome because whoever it is must know where she lives.”

  That got his attention. He didn’t know which shocked him more—that she was famous enough to appear on one of those gabby, coffee-and-goofy-weather-guy-laden talk shows. Or that someone had actually stalked and threatened her.

  He definitely knew which bothered him more. Damned if he could stand the thought of anyone hurting her. The cop in him stiffened at the thought. The man who’d had her in his arms an hour ago absolutely seethed at it.

  “But, no worries, I’m sure,” Grandfather said, “I imagine it’ll all blow over soon. Surely no one would follow her here to Trouble.” Turning again, he walked through the open doorway, saying over his shoulder, “Now, why don’t you go get cleaned up before Roderick yells at us both for dirtying the floor?”

  Mike slowly did as his grandfather asked. He showered, got cleaned up and dressed. But throughout every minute his mind remained on Jen.

  She was from a family that was entirely bad news. She was potentially dangerous…physically, when it came to her aunts. Even more, she posed a danger to him emotionally. Because he already wanted her way too much for his own peace of mind.

  So he needed to stay away from her. Period. End of story.

  Which wasn’t going to be easy since he fully intended to make sure no stalking nut job laid a stinking hand on her.

  FOR THE LIFE OF HER, JEN COULD not understand why Aunt Ida Mae was being so nice. After what had happened at the fire hall, she’d expected her to be anything but. Yet for some reason, the old woman had been ridiculously friendly, smiling enough to crack her face since Jen had gotten back to the house yesterday afternoon.

  Taking an ice-cold shower in an effort to cool off both physically and mentally, Jen had kept an eye out for an electric hair dryer to come flying into the tub. She’d dried off carefully, too, wondering if Ida Mae had put a snake or a poisonous spider in the towel. After all, why else would her aunt be nice to her, except to get her to let her guard down so she could whammy her again? Even Ivy had come over, in one of her sunny phases, all soft and genteel as if she’d stepped out of a Tennessee Williams novel.

  Jen had been watchful and jumpy all evening, wondering what they were up to. It was like being in a haunted house only the undead zombies were real. And their names were Ida Mae and Ivy.

  The surreal quality of the evening had been complete when the two sisters had insisted on pulling out a photo album to coo over pictures of Jen’s father, Ivan—their adored baby brother—when he was a boy. From the stories her father told, the two of them had left Trouble shortly after their own father had died and had seldom visited, so she didn’t completely buy this beloved older sister crap. But they put on a good show.

  That didn’t mean Jen was letting down her guard. She’d gone to bed certain the ceiling was going to cave in because they’d placed a pile of cinder blocks over her bed. But somehow, she’d survived the night. Not that she’d slept. Everything had been so normal, it had scared the hell out of her, leaving her restless and anxious.

  Or maybe that had just been her thoughts about Mike Taylor. What he’d looked like without his shirt. What he’d felt like without his shirt. The way he’d tasted. Lord have mercy.

  She’d eventually drifted off, and when she’d woken up safe and sound this morning, she’d almost felt guilty. She half regretted her pessimism toward the aunts, because they truly seemed to have calmed down about things and wanted to make amends. Throughout the previous day, nobody had brought up the “misunderstandings” and Jen hadn’t said the words assisted-living center once. Everybody had been so nice, they might almost have been a normal family having a normal visit.

  Then, a few minutes ago, she’d figured it all out.

  “You mean Mr. Potts called yesterday and invited us all over for a dinner party this evening?” Jen asked, in as innocent a voice as she could manage. Meanwhile, in her head, she was thinking, You sly devils.

  “Why yes, that’s right,” Ida Mae said, her tone so offhand, anyone who didn’t know her might think she didn’t care a bit.

  “A party, how charming,” Ivy added.

  Ida Mae and Ivy were sitting across from her at Ida Mae’s kitchen table, sipping weak coffee and munching on burned toast. You’d think for two women raised in a small town by a mother who was, supposedly, fabulous in the kitchen, they’d have learned a little something about cooking. The only thing they made really well, though, were their special cookies and spiced tea. And Jen knew enough about the aunts to not even think about consuming those. One never knew what spices were in the tea…or what ingredients were in the cookies. When in one of her moods, Ivy had been known to reminisce about her knowledge of poison.

  She was joking, right? She had to be joking.

  Or…maybe not. The stories of Ivy’s involvement in the early rock-and-roll scene indicated she’d been a wild woman of high passions once upon a time. With lovers and scandals and, possibly, murder in her past. The kind of woman who, despite her age, had fit right into Jen’s books about how crazy a man could make a woman. Crazy enough to kill.

  Ivy’s wild life had even helped inspire Jen to write her most recent book, about how much better it was to be widowed than divorced. Her aunt’s first husband had apparently been a real slimeball. Ivy’s own diaries as well as articles, correspondence and photographs had proved that.

  The research Jen had done when working on her book had turned up a lot on Leo Cantone and his socialite wife. Archived articles and interviews showed Ivy had once been quite famous. Her husband had been connected to everyone in the music business—some he’d represented, many he’d ripped off. The man had been almost universally hated before he’d been murdered.

  Even by his wife, judging by Ivy’s journals.

  Speaking of which, she couldn’t believe Ivy had so calmly accepted that Jen hadn’t brought her knitting box back with her this trip.

  Usually Ivy clung to that box as if someone was trying to cut off one of her limbs. All Jen could figure was that the elderly woman had really liked being included in the book, even though her identity had been shielded. Didn’t matter—Ivy knew the truth, and in her mind, the rest of the world had probably spent the past few months trying to figure out who the glamorous music producer’s wife had been.

  Whatever the case, Jen didn’t completely write off her concerns about Ivy. Just like a woman didn’t write off the hair standing up on the back of her neck when she walked to her car alone at night. The chances that something would happen were slim…but you never knew.

  The problem was, she constantly kept you off guard. Ivy could be charming. And even fun…as she’d sometimes been when she’d grabbed Jen’s hands and danced her around the room. The old woman had taught Jen the twist when she was twelve…then she’d threatened to toss her in the garbage heap if she didn’t go away.

  Scary. The woman could turn on a dime. Hadn’t something like that happened less than thirty minutes ago? Ivy had been humming a top-twenty pop tune from the eighties. Jen had joined right in, the two of them singing a duet as they’d made coffee, just like a normal family.
Afterward, Ivy had giggled and smiled at her.

  Then wham. A shadow had crossed the woman’s face and she’d angrily demanded to know how Jen knew her special song. As if she were the only person in the world who could have known the words to a tune that probably played once a day on every oldies music station in the country.

  She was strange. Unpredictable. And judging from the research Jen had done into her aunt’s history, possibly dangerous.

  But now she was merely excited. “Isn’t that lovely?” Ivy said, clapping her hands together. “Imagine, a party at the home of the wealthiest man in town. And the handsomest.”

  Ida Mae stared her into silence. “He knows you’re here, Jennifer, and he most especially wants you to come with us, to celebrate his grandson’s visit.”

  Aha. That explained it. Mr. Potts was their McDreamy and McSteamy from Grey’s Anatomy, all rolled into one, and he had invited them to his house. But he wanted Jen there, too.

  For a brief moment, she allowed herself to think he’d extended the invitation at Mike’s request, because of what had happened yesterday at the lake. However, she knew that couldn’t be the case. Ida Mae had been nice to her from the minute she’d gotten back yesterday…before Mike could even have spoken to his grandfather. The call had to have come in earlier. Otherwise, she figured, her stuff would have been all over the driveway again.

  “We-ell…” she said, drawing out the tone as if regretting her refusal, “I really had planned to leave this afternoon. It’s a long drive to the city.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, child,” Ida Mae said.

  Ivy was more direct. “You can’t leave. Mr. Potts wants you there. You’ll ruin everything.”

  She managed an innocent look. “What do you mean by that?”

  Ida Mae glared at her sister and Ivy picked up a piece of toast and shoved it in her mouth. Her jaw and scrawny neck worked frantically as she chewed, stuffing more crumbly bread between her lips to prevent herself from saying another word.

  “Now, dear,” Ida Mae said, her tone mild, “we haven’t had a moment to be social since you got here last week.”

  “Maybe because you keep dumping me in the middle of nowhere and stealing my car,” Jen murmured as she lifted her coffee mug.

  Ida Mae shrugged. “Oh, that.”

  Yeah. That.

  “You know, I am afraid we might have overreacted. You did say you were merely making a suggestion, isn’t that right?”

  Jen put down her mug and met Ida Mae’s hard stare. “Yes. That’s exactly what I said, and I meant it. So you didn’t have to physically abuse me.”

  “Abuse,” Ivy muttered. “Such a strange child.”

  “Silly misunderstandings,” Ida Mae insisted.

  Jen wished she’d had somebody to place a bet with on that explanation. She’d known that was what they’d say. “Uh-huh. Right.”

  “And now that we understand one another, perhaps it would be best for you to remain in Trouble for a day or two, in case we have any questions regarding the brochures you gave us. We will give them our fullest consideration.”

  How someone could have so much bullshit in their mouth and not choke on it amazed Jen. It was all she could do not to laugh. Ida Mae behaved as if this whole conversation had nothing to do with the fact that they wanted something from her.

  “So, what do you think? Will you stay and explain more to us about this ‘luxury resort for seniors’ as you call it?”

  Luxury resort might be stretching it a bit. So maybe Ida Mae wasn’t the only one capable of spitting out bullshit.

  “And then we can all go to the nice party this evening?” Ivy piped in, almost bouncing in her chair with excitement. “I have the loveliest new hat I can wear and I’m sure Ida Mae can find something to hide those fat legs.”

  Ida Mae came up out of her chair and leaned over her sister. “Take that back, you bald-headed—”

  “Ahem.” Jen wiped her mouth with her napkin, not wanting to see these two go at each other, even if it meant they left her alone. “I suppose I could delay my return home for another day.”

  But a party at Mike’s grandfather’s house. Could she really do that? Even to keep the peace and get her way with the aunts? After what had happened…The way he’d pulled away, then dumped her in the driveway. Was she up to it?

  “And we’ll all go to the party?” Ivy asked, her soft tone completely contradicted by the sparkle of interest in her eyes.

  She sounded like a little girl who wanted to wear her best dress and visit her favorite playmates. Innocent. Vulnerable. Childlike. The Ivy who’d sometimes twirl around her parlor, talking to invisible friends and the ghosts of long-dead lovers. Who’d smile and flirt with imaginary beaux and had filled Jen’s head with the images of her wild and exciting youth.

  What a woman she must have been.

  “Yes,” Jen said, not even sure why she was agreeing. Was it just to placate her relatives so they’d consider her offer? To have the chance to see Mike one more time?

  Or maybe, strange as the possibility seemed, simply to make an old woman happy?

  Honestly, she didn’t know. She only knew that for the rest of the day, while she helped her aunts wash and press their best dresses, loaning Ivy a pair of gold earrings she knew she’d never see again, she began to feel a fluttering in her stomach. And as she picked out something of her own to wear—torn between a sweet yellow silk number and a bitch-red dress cut down to there and up to here, she thought about what he’d said in the car.

  She and Mike were going to spend an evening together. A nice get-to-know-you evening, which meant they really wouldn’t be strangers. And her aunts were on their best behavior, so the three of them would appear like nice, normal, non-nutty women.

  So, not strangers. Not nutty. What, from his list of no-no’s, would Mike have left to worry about?

  She began to hum the same tune she’d been singing with Ivy that morning, wondering how the woman came up with her strange notions. Such as that she’d been the inspiration for a love song more popular than the theme from The Bodyguard.

  Oh, to live in a fantasy world of the past, if only in your mind. It wasn’t such a bad way to spend the final years of a long and exciting life, now was it? Compared to the quiet sadness of the world in which Ivy lived now, Jen didn’t blame her aunt one bit for retreating into dreamland now and again.

  A fantasy world…Was that what she was living in when she thought about what might happen tonight? How crazy was it to think Mike would look at her across a crowded room at the dinner party, lose all doubt, stop second-guessing the intense attraction they were both feeling…and do something about it?

  Crazy or not, it was worth a shot.

  With that in mind, Jen got ready, knowing tonight she would do whatever she could to get Mike Taylor to stop seeing her as a woman to avoid. And instead acknowledge her as the woman he wanted to go to bed with. She could start with her dress.

  So, decision made. Bitch-red it was.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  You ever wonder why a boy is so close to his mother? It’s because she’s the only woman in the world who will wipe his face, kiss his ass, laugh at his penis jokes and think he’s the most handsome man on the face of the earth. Well, until the day he gets married and his wife feels that way.

  That lasts about 18 hours.

  —I Love You, I Want You, Get Out by Jennifer Feeney

  SHE WAS DRESSED FOR SIN.

  When Mike caught sight of Jen walking into the house with her two elderly aunts, he nearly fell down the rest of the stairs. He’d been coming from his room, having changed out of his jeans and put on the only nice pair of slacks he’d brought with him. Mortimer seemed so damned excited about this stupid dinner party, Mike hadn’t been able to refuse.

  He’d been looking forward to it for one reason: so he’d have the chance to put the fear of God into those two Feeney women, making sure they never tried to kidnap his grandfather again.

  Not because
of their niece. Not a chance.

  Then he saw Jen standing in the foyer. All his certainty fled faster than a drug dealer who spied a marked cop car.

  She wore a glittering red number that was cut low in the front, lower in the back and was short enough to fall about five inches south of heaven.

  He should have told his grandfather to forget the whole evening. It had been hard enough to think about not having her when he pictured her in that wet skirt and top yesterday. Seeing her tonight—dressed like a woman created straight out of a man’s fantasy playbook? He might as well just call ahead to the torture chamber and have them light up the fires. Because having made the decision that he was only going to get involved with her enough to make sure she was physically safe, looking and not touching was going to be the worst kind of torture imaginable.

  So touch!

  It couldn’t happen. For several reasons, beyond the fact that she wasn’t his type. She was related to people who made the Osbournes look like an average family. There was also the fact that his grandfather already adored her. Mortimer was trying to set them up, no doubt about it. But Mortimer would kill him if Mike stuck to his get-to-know, do-and-go routine when it came to women.

  Then again, he probably wouldn’t need to kill him—this particular woman seemed perfectly capable of it all on her own. She sure had the balls for it. Especially judging by her book, which he’d started reading last night. His grandfather had given him a copy of it, cautioning him to read it in the humorous light in which it was intended and not take it seriously.

  If anybody took the book seriously, Jennifer Feeney would probably be in jail. Because the whole thing was about why women wanted to murder their husbands…and how they got away with it. It was also very well written. And very funny.

  The moment he’d realized he could be in big trouble was when he’d acknowledged that—despite their short relationship and what he’d said to her in the car about them being strangers—he already knew her well. Better than women he’d dated for months. He could hear her voice speaking every word she’d written, and could predict the tone she’d use and the expressions on her face.