Sweet as Sugar, Hot as Spice

by Kimberly Raye

  “Call me Jake,” the girl said.

  “Your name’s not Jake. It’s Betsy Mae. It’s a family name,” he told Eve. “My grandmother’s on my dad’s side.”

  “One I fully intend to change,” Jake informed Eve, “along with my hair color and these horrible clothes.” She motioned to the pink button-down polo shirt, khaki shorts, and loafers that she wore. “Just as soon as I reach legal age, make my first million, and leave this lame town behind.” At Eve’s questioning look, she added, “I’m going to be a rap artist.” A dimple cut into the side of Betsy’s cheek and her eyes crinkled just like her older brother’s when she smiled.

  “She’s going to be a lawyer,” Linc said, and Betsy’s expression turned to a frown.

  “I think I’d prefer rap artist to lawyer, myself.” Linc gave Eve a look that said You’re not helping matters. “It sounds more exciting.”

  “Exactly,” Betsy declared. “I know I don’t exactly look like the rap type, but that’s my folks’ fault. I’ve got some good jams. My real name is Betsy ’cause my folks are really lame, but that’s all irrelevant when it comes to money and fame.” Her smile faded into a frown. “I’m still working on that one.”

  Eve wanted to tell her that no amount of work would save that particular rhyme, but Betsy looked so hopeful that she heard herself say, “Sounds like you’re on the right track.”

  “Thanks.”

  “This is Eve,” Linc told Betsy. “My wife.”

  Betsy’s eyes widened and her cheeks turned an even darker shade of red underneath the three inches or so of makeup she had caked on. “Then it is true.” Surprise turned to guarded skepticism as she turned on Eve. “I saw it on the news this morning, but I didn’t believe it. You’re not at all my brother’s type. You’re nothing like the women my brother used to date.”

  “That’s the point,” Linc told her.

  Betsy glanced at her brother before turning back to Eve. A knowing look dawned in her eyes. “Mom and Dad are so going to freak. They heard about it, too, but they’re convinced it’s a rumor.”

  “Did they see any pictures?”

  Betsy shook her head. “I don’t think so. But even if they did, they wouldn’t believe them. I didn’t believe them.” She shook her head. “You’re really not my brother’s type.”

  Actually she was exactly his type now, and she was fast discovering that Linc just might be her type, after all.

  Before Eve could dwell on the thought, Betsy’s voice drew her attention. “So you live in L.A.?” the girl asked as they started toward the parking lot.

  “For the past eight years.”

  “L.A. is the heart of the hip-hop scene. I’m going to live in L.A. someday.”

  The girl looked so determined that Eve couldn’t help but smile. Particularly because she’d said and thought the same thing herself all those years ago.

  “Keep telling yourself that and you will.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. It’s all about focus.”

  Hello? Can we practice what we preach?

  She was trying, but Linc wasn’t making it very easy. When they reached the parking lot several yards away and stopped in front of a black Lincoln Navigator, she turned on him. “You’re killing me, you know that?”

  Linc shrugged. “What? You don’t like my SUV?”

  “Yes, I like it. It’s tasteful without being pretentious. That’s the point.”

  He gave her a knowing grin. “I’ve got a yellow Hummer with naked lady mud flaps and a rebel flag painted on the back bumper if that helps.”

  “It would if you were telling the truth. You’re not, are you?”

  “I do have a Hummer, but it’s white. No mud flaps or rebel flag.”

  “It figures.”

  Chapter 9

  Eve quickly discovered the cure for a bad case of lust—an obnoxious grandmother.

  One minute Eve was fantasizing about getting down and dirty with Linc. The next, she was sitting on the veranda of a monstrous antebellum home, sipping a mint julep with Lucille Abigail Schmidt-Adams, and praying for a Valium.

  “. . . Your mother voted to do away with the entire program,” Lucille Abigail Schmidt-Adams said, her rose-colored lips pursed in a frown, “which left me no choice but to stand up for what’s right.”

  “Meaning you tactfully pointed out all of the reasons the Cinnamon Bake-Off should be preserved?” Linc asked as he took a long gulp of his drink and grinned at the old woman sitting in the white wicker rocker opposite him.

  “Of course.” Grandma Lucy was a small but regal woman, her snow-white hair piled on top of her head in an old-fashioned updo. She wore a rose-colored pantsuit and smelled of Chanel No. 5. An expensive-looking strand of pearls hung around her thin neck. Small, gold-rimmed glasses, anchored by a gold chain, sat low on her nose. She flicked open the fan that sat in her lap and waved it at her face. A small white dog fidgeted on her lap.

  “You called her a lunatic and a communist,” Betsy added as she retrieved a petit four from a silver serving tray and settled on a matching wicker love seat, her legs folded up under her. Large flowerpots overflowing with leafy green ferns and lush flowers sat here and there. The scent of jasmine filled the air.

  “I had to stand up for myself,” Grandma Lucy went on. “Susanna is out to get me. She always has been.” Grandma Lucy pointed her fan at Linc. “Why, she told your father that I need to be in the old geezers’ home. Can you imagine that? Me? In a nursing home?”

  “It’s too scary for words.”

  “Exactly. I would be petrified in a place like that.”

  “I was thinking about the other residents.” Linc grinned and Betsy giggled and Grandma Lucy simply shook her head, as if to say What am I going to do with you? before turning to Eve.

  “Thankfully, my son had the courage to stand up for me,” Grandma Lucy went on. “He told Susanna—Lord love him—that he would put me in no such place, because I’m of sounder mind than her mother’s aunt Tallulah, who’s older than Jesus. That put a wasp up her wazoo, let me tell you. Now she’s even more hell-bent on doing away with the whole event, and for no other reason than the fact that my recipe’s been walking away with the gold ribbon going on thirty years now. Everybody knows Susanna’s against the Bake-Off because she hates me.”

  “Mom doesn’t hate you,” Betsy said. “She just thinks the Bake-Off money could be better spent. We need more day-care facilities.”

  “More? Why, this town can’t fill up the one day care that it has.”

  “That’s because Janice Phelps is an elitist snob who charges way too much for graham crackers and grape drink,” Linc said. “She’s too expensive for the average day care and too expensive for the average workingman. That’s why one of the first things Craig plans to do is to propose two brand-new facilities and allocate several thousand dollars of his own money to help fund them.”

  “Craig?” Grandma Lucy looked puzzled. “Craig who?”

  “The man running for mayor.”

  “You’re running for mayor, dear.”

  “The man running against me. The man who’s likely to win.”

  “Nonsense. You’re going to win. It’s a consensus among my bridge club, and we’ve accurately predicted the winner since 1932.”

  “That’s because you always predict an Adams and it’s always been an Adams, or a candidate handpicked by the Adamses.”

  “A grand tradition that you’re going to continue, dear. Your first act as mayor could be to make Janice lower her rates. Then there would be no need to do away with the Bake-Off.”

  “It doesn’t work that way, Grandmother.”

  “Of course it does. We’re Adamses. We can make it work that way. Why, your mother could put the pressure on Janice herself—they belong to the same garden club—but she won’t, because she’s trying to ruin my life and take my livelihood from me. Meanwhile, I’ve done nothing from the get-go but welcome her with open arms into this family.”


  “You spilled cranberry juice on her wedding dress right before the ceremony.”

  “I wasn’t anywhere near her dress.” At Linc’s knowing look, she added, “And even if I was—which I most definitely was not—you would think she would have let it go by now.”

  “And you left her name off the Christmas cards last year. And the year before that. And the year before that.”

  “I’m an old woman. I can’t be expected to remember everything. So tell me, Eve”—she peered at Eve through her thick bifocals as if she still couldn’t quite see—“what is it that you do for a living?”

  “I make sex videos.”

  “Six videos?” She hugged the white ball of fluff sitting on her lap. He licked at her cheek and wagged his tail. “What’s a six video?”

  “Sex videos,” Eve said again. “As in s-e-x.” The smile faded from Lucille’s face. Where Eve’s appearance hadn’t been enough to really shock the old woman since she could hardly see, despite her glasses, Eve’s comment did the trick.

  “Well, I never heard of such a—”

  “So where did you say Mom and Dad are today?” Linc cut in, as if he’d decided to change the subject.

  “Your mother had a Daughters of the Confederacy luncheon, and your father is dealing with several constituents before the Senate session next week.”

  Linc grinned and got to his feet. “I think Eve and I will just take a little ride over and surprise Mom.” He grabbed Eve’s hand and twined his fingers with hers. “News this good shouldn’t have to wait. Besides, we’re pressed for time. Our plane leaves first thing in the morning. What do you say, sunshine?”

  Eve nodded enthusiastically, but not because she was anxious to spread word of their marriage. She wanted off the veranda and into the safe confines of the car where she could retreat to the opposite side of the seat, far, far away from Linc and his long, strong fingers and the warmth of his palm flat against hers. His pulse beat ticked against the inside of her wrist and her heart kicked up a notch.

  “A plane?” Grandma Lucy arched an eyebrow and stared in the vicinity of Linc’s shoulder. “Where are you rushing off to now, dear?”

  “Rockingham, North Carolina.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “The second NASCAR race of the season.”

  “Are you still fiddling with that stuff?”

  Linc stiffened, but Eve didn’t miss the flash of disappointment in his gaze. She had the insane urge to squeeze his hand.

  Instead, she shoved her hand toward Lucille. “Nice to meet you, Grandma.”

  “Um, yes.” Grandma barely touched Eve’s hand, as if she were afraid she might catch something. “Likewise.”

  “Later, Grandma,” Linc said as he tugged Eve toward the walkway.

  “Wait for me,” Betsy blurted out as she jumped to her feet. “I am so not going to miss this.”

  “. . . wraps up the presentation for the new Roosevelt Adams Kiddie Playcare Facility, just one of the many improvement projects slated for development once the mayoral election is over,” said the petite blond woman who stood behind the lectern situated at the head of the large banquet room.

  At fifty-six, Susanna Adams was trim and well-groomed, her shoulder-length hair worn in a bob that framed her round face and softened the wrinkles fanning from the corners of her eyes. She looked every bit the politician’s wife in a blue skirt and jacket, a white blouse, and a red scarf draped around her neck. Several campaign buttons flashed from her lapel.

  “Remember, a vote for Adams is a vote for Adams.” A round of applause erupted and she smiled, her red lips parting to reveal a row of gleaming white teeth. She turned to retrieve her notes and her gaze snagged on Linc, who stood just inside the doorway off to the side of the room.

  Her smile went from polite and practiced to sincere as she turned back to the microphone. “And speaking of the man of the hour, here he is: your next mayor!”

  Linc frowned as dozens of gazes turned toward him and another round of applause erupted. Where was Eve when he really needed her?

  His gaze swiveled to the lobby and the ladies’ room where she’d made a pit stop with Betsy as soon as they’d arrived.

  His mother motioned him up to the lectern, but he waved her off. She frowned for a split second before years of practice kicked in and her polished smile bloomed once again. “We’ll get a few words from Linc once dessert arrives,” she told the audience. “Everyone, please enjoy your lunch.” She switched off the microphone and offered a word here and a pat on the shoulder there to the women seated at the head banquet table as she scooted her way down the row. She made a beeline for Linc just as a handful of waiters burst through the kitchen doors on the opposite side of the room, their trays laden with glazed chicken salads.

  “Thank heavens you’re here,” his mother told him as she rushed up. “Do you know how hard it is to sell an absentee candidate?”

  “You don’t have to sell me, Mom. I can get my own campaign manager.”

  “Nonsense. I’m the most qualified, and your father is willing to share me for the good of the town. Besides, he’s in session right now and it’s not an election year for him. And that’s not the point; you not being here half the time is.” She gave an exasperated shake of her head before flipping open her portfolio and skimming a page of notes. “I’ve just introduced the list of new projects for your platform and gone over each of them. Having you say a few words will cement them in everyone’s mind. I’ve also got good news about the Founder’s Day Celebration.” She beamed at him. “They’ve picked you as the Most Prominent Citizen.”

  Linc smiled. If he didn’t, his folks might suspect that he didn’t want the title and, ultimately, the office of mayor. Then they would surely pick and endorse another candidate, and Craig would lose the election. “I’ve got some good news of my own,” he told his mother.

  “It’s such perfect timing, since Founder’s Day will be the weekend before the election,” she rushed on as if Linc hadn’t said a word. “You’ll be the guest of honor Saturday and Sunday, and I’ve actually booked Margo Sinatra for the Saturday night gala.”

  “Margo Sinatra?”

  “She’s Frank’s cousin three times removed, with just as intoxicating a voice. Why, your grandmother has every record she’s ever released, which means I won’t have to listen to her complain all evening.”

  “Mom, they don’t make records anymore.”

  “That’s beside the point. She’s a star, at least according to the over-sixty set, which accounts for thirty-three and a half percent of the voting population of this town. Which reminds me, we need to come up with something effective for the under-twenty-five set. Maybe you could use your NASCAR connections while you’ve still got them to get some free race tickets to donate to the Baptist Community Church Youth Group. Which brings me to my next bit of news: Reverend Mitchell wasn’t very happy about that whole beer thing you did on the television last week. While I know you’re not declaring any specific religious affiliation so as not to alienate the other church groups in town, we have to do something very special to prove to him that you’re every bit as competent as your father.”

  “Mom,” Linc said, trying to draw her attention.

  “Maybe you could donate a portion of your racing proceeds to the new gymnasium,” she went on. “That way you’ll be making something positive out of all that negative notoriety. That would give a nice spin to this whole NASCAR episode.”

  “Mother.”

  “And you’ll definitely have to send Reverend Mitchell a letter of apology.”

  “Susanna.”

  “Yes, dear?” She glanced up before directing her attention back to the notes.

  “I’m married.”

  “No you’re not, dear. That’s just a rumor I heard on the radio this morning. Now, the letter should say I’m sorry in a nice, sincere way without saying we’re just trying to save—”

  “I’m really married.” He held up his hand and waved the simple gold
band he’d purchased along with Eve’s ring. “Chained for life. Out of the running as Adams’s Most Eligible Bachelor.”

  The surprised look on Susanna’s face slowly morphed into one of pure delight. “That’s wonderful, dear!” She hugged him. “Settling down shows you’re committed and that you support basic family values. Why, it’s just the ticket to winning this— Who’s that?” She pulled back and stared past him at Eve, who was pushing and pulling against a burly security guard who held her firmly by the arm. Betsy stood just to the side, a smile on her face.

  “This is discrimination,” Eve’s raised voice carried the distance to them. “And it’s against the law. You can’t boot me out of here just because I don’t look like a Stepford wife. I know my rights. If you want to pick on someone, you should go after that lady over there with the yellow daisy hat and the white patent-leather pumps. Talk about a crime . . .”

  “Who is that?” Susanna’s mouth drew into a thin line and her eyes narrowed.

  Linc smiled and slid his arm around his mother’s shoulders for an affectionate squeeze. “That’s my wife.”

  “I’ve never seen Mom throw up in public before,” Betsy said later that afternoon as she sat on Linc’s bed. They were at the large home Linc owned, several miles outside Adams. The girl eyed Eve. “That was so priceless.”

  “It was definitely interesting.” Eve pulled a black T-shirt and a neon-blue leather miniskirt from her hanging bag. She draped the outfit on Linc’s bed and rummaged in her suitcase for a pair of black stockings and three-inch stiletto heels. With Betsy in tow, Linc had had no choice but to place Eve’s luggage in his room rather than the nearby guest bedroom. For now. After they took Betsy home and had dinner with Linc’s folks, they would come back to Linc’s place and Eve and her things would move to the next room for the night.

  “Mom’s always so together,” Betsy went on. “Why, I swear she looked on the verge of tears.”

  She had, which had sparked Eve’s guilt. Crazy. It was Linc’s mother, so it should be his guilt. She had her own mother to deal with.