She's No Angel

by Leslie Kelly

  “Nonsense,” he said as he stepped over and extended his hand to help her up. As if she were a duchess going to tea. “I’m afraid I can never interest Mortimer in perusing my collection as he’s seen all the landmarks depicted in the cards.”

  “Have you also?” she asked, nearly breathless at the thought. Suddenly, she felt all fluttery, weak and light. “Have you truly seen those places, too?”

  Roderick gave a brief, self-deprecating nod. “I have. Yet my interest has never waned.”

  Imagine. This man had been all over the world. He’d seen places like the Taj Mahal and the pyramids of Egypt…. Things Emily had only ever learned about by watching Jeopardy!

  And he wanted to share them with her.

  It was a miracle. A fantasy. A dream. One she didn’t want to end—at least not yet. So although her heart felt ready to explode out of her chest, she nodded in agreement and let him tuck her arm around his. He even patted her hand as he led her out of the room. But she somehow managed to keep her shoes on the floor, rather than a foot in the air.

  Tomorrow she’d go back to being plain, sweet Miss Emily, Trouble’s loneliest and most well-liked spinster. But for now, she was going to play the part of a romance heroine, meekly enjoying the attention of this very attractive, fascinating gentleman. She’d let herself believe for a while that her fantasies might come true. That the night could end with a dashing gentleman pressing an impassioned yet restrained kiss on her lips.

  Deep in her heart, though, she already knew how it would end. In a few hours, she’d be curled under the covers, alone, watching whatever black-and-white double feature she could find on the classic movie channel.

  JENNIFER ENJOYED THE DINNER—a spread of Middle Eastern dishes Mr. Potts and his friend had developed a taste for during their travels. She also enjoyed the company. Ignoring her competitive aunts, she’d had a delightful conversation with Mortimer’s secretary, Allie, who was the most vivacious, lively little thing she’d met in quite some time. Her son, Hank, was utterly adorable, and her boyfriend couldn’t take his eyes off either of them. They were like a Hallmark-movie family, one only found in fiction.

  She enjoyed the drinks. She laughed quite a lot at Mortimer’s jokes. She noticed the way Miss Emily and Mr. Ward kept stealing glances at one another during dinner—after they’d disappeared together for a while during cocktails.

  And yet, she experienced none of it. She could focus on none of it. She could appreciate none of it.

  Because all she could think about was the man sitting beside her, or across from her, or ten stinking feet away from her. The one who’d had his tongue in her mouth and his hands on her butt earlier and his fingers tightly around her heart from the minute they’d met.

  Why on earth did she have to meet a man who fascinated her, attracted her and aroused her now, here, in this backwoods place that she never wanted to see again? Maybe it was because she was in this backwoods place, where nobody had ever heard of her. Least of all him. He could flirt with her and kiss her and feel her up all because he wasn’t thinking, like every other man in the country, that she was hiding a knife behind her back, preparing to stick it between his ribs.

  Though he hadn’t touched her again since they’d been caught by their dinner guests making out like a hooker and her john, Mike had definitely stuck close all evening. Sometimes they’d joined in the conversation going on around them. Sometimes they’d lowered their voices and dropped into more intimate ones of their own. Not about their jobs—because, though she was curious, she didn’t want to tell him what she did. Instead they talked about little things…. The weather. The town. Their relatives. Their homes in New York.

  Intimate as in private, personal. Not sexual.

  Though, being honest, that was okay. They were moving past the “we’re strangers” barrier he’d thrown up between them yesterday. Well past it. And she suspected he no longer doubted her mental stability. He obviously knew her well enough to know she simply had a rather black sense of humor.

  He knew her. That was what it came down to. Just as she felt sure she knew him.

  And that was a double-edged sword. While it might make him drop his objections to something happening between them, all she could think was that it would have been much better if they’d just had sex at the lake yesterday and never spoken to each other again. Because, darn it all, she liked him too much.

  Though he seldom laughed and it seemed to pain him to smile, he had a wickedly quick sense of humor and had her chuckling more than once. Particularly when talking about her aunts. He’d told her they reminded him of a female variation of the two old geezers from The Muppet Show, Statler and Waldorf. Ever since she’d been mentally hearing them cackle, “It was short…I loved it!”

  That wasn’t as bad as what he might have called them. Especially after Miss Baker had made an unfortunate reference to the murder of Aunt Ivy’s first husband. God, it was a wonder the man hadn’t gone back to thinking Jen was psycho, given her family’s history.

  “Having a good time?” Mike asked as the two of them met by the patio door to join everyone else for what Mortimer called his “little surprise” after dinner. The others had gone ahead outside, but Mike had waited for her while she’d made a quick visit to the restroom. She was glad she’d taken the time to swipe a tube of lipstick across her lips and dab some perfume on her pulse points. Because he noticed. He noticed everything about her, that dark-eyed stare both assessing and appreciative. She’d have sworn he leaned in the tiniest bit and inhaled deeply, absorbing her scent. Though that could, she supposed, have been wishful thinking.

  She wondered if he was an artist…. He seemed to have the quiet, intense personality of one, and he was constantly watching. Never taking his focus off the people around him. Especially her. If only he’d put his hands back on her sometime soon so she wouldn’t have to do naughty things to herself under the covers at Aunt Ida Mae’s house. Again.

  But there was no way a man that powerful could be an artist. Maybe Allie’s boyfriend—he was tall and lean, dreamy with those violet eyes and that intriguing voice. But Mike? He was like a brick wall in comparison. Not quite as tall but twice as powerful. A man who could break a person in half with his bare hands…and then use them to turn a woman into a puddle of liquid want.

  “Jen? Are you enjoying yourself?”

  She shook off her distracted musings. “Yes. I never imagined I’d enjoy such unusual foods.”

  “Be thankful you were spared the camel tongue. It was a staple when we were growing up.”

  She chuckled, assuming he was kidding, then realized he was not. She knew from her aunts that he had been raised by his grandfather. But she wanted to know more—more about what had created him, and what made him tick now. “Sounds like you had quite an upbringing.”

  “It was normal 8:00 p.m. sitcom stuff when I was young,” he said with a shrug as he took her arm to lead her outside.

  “And then you lost your parents,” she murmured.

  His fingers tightened a bit. “I didn’t lose them. They were both killed. My father by a ground-to-air missile, my mother by a disease.”

  Oh, God. Her heart ached and she immediately regretted bringing up something so painful. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  Wishing she’d kept her big stupid mouth shut, she tried to backpedal. “But you have a grandfather who adores you. And his friend who obviously loves you like a father as well. It sounds as though they shared quite a past together, even though they seem like exact opposites.”

  “Roderick is Bert to Mortimer’s Ernie.”

  She chuckled.

  “They work so well together because they balance each other out. Rod is all down-to-earth common sense. Grandpa is…not.”

  That, she definitely agreed with. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so…colorful.”

  “I know you weren’t going to say eccentric,” he murmured as he steered her over to the railing of the patio, wh
ich overlooked the expansive lawn. Everyone else had gathered out on the grass, sitting in chairs or on blankets Mortimer and Roderick had placed in advance. “Because I think your relatives have cornered the market on eccentricity. Does your aunt Ivy realize the twentieth century ended several years ago?”

  “I haven’t had the heart to tell her.”

  “I don’t think she’d believe you, anyway.”

  “Probably not.”

  They fell silent, making no effort to speak, or to draw apart. He still had his hand on her arm, and they remained where they were, not joining the others. Jen couldn’t help thinking about the intense embrace they’d shared earlier. What it had meant—whether he’d been affected by it as she had.

  And when it was going to be repeated.

  Judging by his physical response, she had no doubt he’d been every bit as affected. Even now, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel the long, hard ridge of his arousal pressed against her pelvis. The memory made her grow warm and wet all over again. “Mike, we haven’t talked about, uh…”

  “Your tire iron?”

  “No, your tire iron,” she countered, unable to help it. He’d known where she was headed, he’d just chosen to avoid the topic. Well, he couldn’t very well avoid it now that she’d mentioned the iron in his trousers.

  His chest started to shake and he tilted his head back to look up at the starry night sky. The humidity of yesterday had finally given up, providing the air with a hint of cool relief. A breeze even blew gently across her body, lifting her hair and pressing her dress tightly against her hips and thighs.

  “How in the name of God you can make me laugh when I’m trying so hard not to, is something I’d really like to know.”

  She hadn’t actually heard a laugh. But she felt pretty sure his chest had moved. Of course, it was so big and muscular, it might have moved with his regular breaths. But she’d take what she could get. “That laugh of yours doesn’t get much use, huh?”

  “While yours is on constant standby.”

  She shrugged. “What can I say? If you can’t laugh at life—and yourself—what on earth can you laugh at?”

  “Your books,” he said.

  Oh. Her books. Damn. He knew about them. “How did you…”

  “Mortimer lent me one of them. I had no idea who you were until he told me. Your writing is caustic and abrasive and outrageous. Just like you.”

  Frowning, she asked, “Was that a compliment?”

  “Yes,” he said, staring her in the eye as if to make sure she knew he meant it. “It was. I liked it a lot. Are you working on another one?”

  “Working is a relative term. I should be, since my deadline is moving in like a storm cloud on the horizon. But I’ve been a little distracted with the aunts.”

  “I can see why,” he said. “I’ll look forward to reading it.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not running in the opposite direction, or reaching for a weapon, like every other man in the country.”

  Though they weren’t touching, they were separated only by a sliver of night air, so she felt it when his whole body went stiff. An aura of tension oozed out of him, his voice hardening as he asked, “Men have threatened you?”

  “I live in New York City. I get threatened by cab drivers every day of the week.”

  “Who doesn’t? But you know that’s not what I meant. What’s been going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  He turned to face her, his hand gripping her elbow. “Is there someone you’re scared of?”

  “My dentist. That bastard has torture tools that would have made Oliver North talk.”

  His hand tightened as he let out a half laugh, half groan. “Will you be serious?”

  “No. I won’t,” she murmured, looking up at him in the moonlight and falling so deep into those dark eyes of his that she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to swim her way to the surface. “There’s only one thing I want to be serious about and that’s the conversation we had yesterday.”

  He let go of her arm. “Oh?”

  Swallowing, she pushed on. “Do you still think I’m a nut?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah.”

  Great.

  “But you’re growing on me.”

  He was…Was he teasing her? Looking intently at his face, she saw his lips tugging up at the corners, and suddenly he gave it up altogether, flashing one of those brilliant smiles she’d only ever seen once or twice since she’d known him.

  Out came the dimple.

  Away went her very last doubt.

  Reaching up to twine her fingers in his hair, she pulled him toward her. “We’re not strangers anymore, either.”

  “We haven’t been strangers since the minute we met,” he admitted. “That doesn’t mean…”

  “Yeah, Mike. It does.” Not giving him a chance to stop her, she pulled his mouth to hers for a warm, wet kiss.

  Sighing as she tasted his warm tongue, she silently invited him deeper. Into her mouth. Into her body. It somehow didn’t matter that their friends and family were a few yards away on the lawn. Especially not when Mike lifted those big, rough hands, cupped her face, then slid them into her hair. It almost immediately fell out of its twist to land softly on her shoulders. He twined his fingers in her curls, holding her head, tilting her so he could go deeper.

  Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she was sure she saw stars. Purple ones. Red ones. Blue ones. Then she realized she was seeing Mortimer’s “surprise.” He had arranged for a fireworks display and right now, dozens of them were shooting skyward, bathing the whole yard in brilliant sparkles of color. With her lips still pressed to Mike’s, she had to smile in pure joy at the sight, as she always had as a kid.

  When he slowly pulled away, she murmured, “For a second there I thought I was seeing stars.”

  “For a second there, I think we both did.”

  That thick-throated admission was so unexpected coming from this man. It erased her lingering concerns that she was alone in wanting more. He wanted her. Oh, yes, he did, judging by the storminess in his eyes, which caught and reflected the bursting fireworks, giving them a devilish red glint.

  “Take me home,” she ordered.

  “To New York?”

  She immediately remembered she had no home to go to around here. And she wouldn’t, not until tomorrow. Though she wondered how she’d stand it, she knew she had to wait. “There’s a hotel right off the interstate,” she said, almost desperate to have him hard and naked between her legs. Especially certain parts of him, like the massive erection that seemed to press from the V of her thighs all the way up to her middle. “I’ll tell the aunts I have to leave earlier than I’d planned tomorrow and meet you there.”

  He hesitated for a second. But only a second. “Ten.”

  “Ten,” she replied, almost giddy at the idea that in a little less than twelve hours she’d finally have him. It didn’t matter that they had almost nothing in common, that he was all wrong for her and she all wrong for him. Because the excitement they brought out in each other was entirely, totally right.

  THAT CERTAINTY and her excitement carried her through the next thirteen hours, until eleven o’clock the next morning. At that point, sitting in the room she’d rented at the seedy no-tell motel—trying to ignore the stained carpet and mildewed bathroom—she was no longer able to avoid the truth.

  The son of a bitch had stood her up.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Men have no imagination. They use guns. Every woman knows it’s much more satisfying to dig her cheating bastard husband’s heart out with a rusty nail file.

  —Why Arsenic Is Better Than Divorce, by Jennifer Feeney

  BUSY DEALING WITH the emergency evidentiary hearing that had drawn him back to New York unexpectedly Monday morning, Mike didn’t notice right away that he hadn’t heard from Jennifer Feeney. Not one word.

  He realized it Friday evening as he returned to his small house in Queens. It had been another grueling day
on the witness stand, being grilled by a defense attorney on a mission to get a bunch of evidence thrown out. As if Mike was going to let anything happen to undermine the drug case on which he’d spent a year of his life, and had been forced into a transfer over.

  Fat chance.

  He’d been completely unshakable on the stand and fortunately the judge had seen the truth. The defense motion to suppress the results of a search had been denied, and Mike had breathed easily for the first time in days. Meanwhile the defense attorney and his rich club-owner client, Ricky Stahl, had looked ready to kill somebody. Probably him. Because Mike’s testimony and that search were critical to the case.

  Stahl’s malice didn’t bother him. Any thug hated being brought down by an undercover cop who’d worked his way into his organization. Ricky was just another pig, pushing his junk on the spoiled young kids who partied in his clubs every weekend. Kids with more money than common sense, who were too anxious to go along and be accepted by their rich, jaded peers.

  The whole thing had been so dirty it still made him feel as if he needed a shower.

  But for now, it was done, at least until the trial started in a month’s time. He’d performed his job well on the stand and knew he’d do it again in front of a jury. In the meantime, he was anxious to get back to work on some of the cold cases he’d been looking at, including the 1995 double murder of a teenage brother and sister shot in their own basement. That one had been hard to work—the parents still hadn’t gotten over the horrific loss.

  He wanted to solve the case for their sake, and also because the inconsistencies in the witness statements had been driving him nuts since he’d first opened the file a month ago. He’d brought the thing home, planning to do some work over the weekend, glad he was getting back to some kind of normal routine after the trip to Trouble and the work week spent at the courthouse.

  But he couldn’t get entirely back to normal because he now wanted his routine to include Jennifer Feeney. Who hadn’t called.

  Heading into the kitchen, he checked his answering machine. No red flashing light indicated a message. Just as there’d been no messages from her on his cell phone.