Killer Kisses

by Sharon Buchbinder

  She knew all about the cosmetic and structural issues at the inn, having already invested five hundred dollars for a top to bottom inspection. Replaced a mere ten years before, the roof was still in good shape, as was the foundation. However, everything in between and surrounding the Inn was a different story. From peeling paint and rotting interior wood floors to overgrown gardens, the old gal was going to be a major labor of love.

  Genie had fallen head over heels for the Inn the first day she sat in the job interview with the owner. At the end of the meeting, her new boss had told her that she had a good feeling about Genie and her future in the hospitality industry. Little did her supervisor know that one day the girl in front of her would come back to claim the Inn as her own. She smiled at the thought—then gnawed at her bottom lip when the butterflies of worry crowded out those of excitement.

  If only Mom and Dad were still alive. Five years had passed, but she missed both of them every single day. Mom had taken care of everyone; so much so that she never took care of herself. When she found out she had uterine cancer, the disease had spread so far and so fast, she survived only six months. Dad died six months later of a broken heart. They left everything to Genie, including the home she still lived in. She wiped a tear off her cheek. She could really use their advice, financial or otherwise.

  Always supportive, Mom would have asked, “Will it make you happy?”

  Always cautious, Dad would have asked, “Do you have an exit strategy, if it doesn’t work out?”

  Would it make her happy? Her life revolved around preparing and presenting food and—much to her chagrin—her waistline showed it. Tasting went along with cooking. How could anyone trust a skinny chef? Her education from the world’s premier culinary college culminated in a Bachelor’s of Professional Studies in Culinary Arts. A Culinary Institute of America, or CIA, graduate was always looking for an opportunity to be the head chef. Having her own restaurant would make her downright delirious with joy. Genie burned to find a showcase for her unique blend of French-Asian dishes which some likened to those of Roy Yamaguchi and Alan Wong. Given a chance, she knew she’d make it in New York—or Vegas.

  Exit plan? Worst-case scenario, she’d go bankrupt and have to return to some other executive chef’s kitchen as a Sous-chef. Her stomach knotted at the thought of working for yet another temperamental bête noir. The last one had thrown a large iron skillet at her. Lucky, she’d learned to dodge his temper tantrums—and pots and pans. The dent left in the wall was evidence enough that it was time to leave before that bad boss killed her.

  What she really needed to find was someone with hotel management expertise. With Cornell’s School of Hotel Administration within geographic striking distance, she expected to find a hungry young man or woman willing to start on the ground floor of the historic inn’s renaissance. Once she had the title to the property in her hand, then she’d make a call to the career center and post a job description. She had to make this work. If she couldn’t make a go of it with the inn, she’d lose everything—lock, stock, and cooking pot.

  The living room clock cuckooed eight times. Her heart sped up. Almost time to go and she wasn’t even dressed. Good thing she’d picked out her outfit for the auction the night before. She dashed to the bathroom and showered quickly. As she wiped off the mirror, a face surrounded by long ringlets of copper colored hair emerged from the fog. She aimed the hairdryer at the remaining mist and worked at pulling her unruly curls back in a ponytail. Or should she wear it down? After all it was an auction, not a kitchen. There was no hazard of hair falling in the food.

  What the heck. It was a day for taking chances. She let her hair down, and began to work on her makeup. The woman at the cosmetic counter had assured her that the color palette in her hand complemented her blue eyes and freckled complexion. At this moment in time, Genie wasn’t sure the bronze and blue shades were right, but she plunged on feeling daring and somewhat dangerous. The hardest part was yet to come.

  Her new black suit and cobalt blue blouse awaited her in the closet. She’d been dieting, trying to lose the pesky fifteen pounds that followed her around like a faithful dog. The moment of truth was at hand. She took a deep breath and put on the blouse. Holy crap. How had she not noticed the low-cut neckline before today? Had the saleslady been holding the blouse up when she looked in the mirror? The skirt was a tad tighter than she had hoped it would be. Dammit. At least it zipped. She put on the jacket and faced the mirror.

  Great. Sweet Charity meets Wall Street.

  The clock cuckooed nine times. She slammed the closet door, stomped into the living room, and glared at the annoying timepiece. “Shut up, you stupid bird!” Maybe it’s time to rip the cuckoo out of the clock.

  Mortified that she would even think of destroying a memento her father gave her mother more than three decades ago, she whispered, “Sorry. I didn’t really mean it. I’m just nervous.” She thought she saw a glint in the old bird’s eyes, but no, it was the tears in hers.

  Time to go. Even though she wasn’t Roman Catholic, she didn’t want to take any chances today, of all days, and said a quick prayer to Saint Lawrence, the patron saint of chefs. She stopped mid-jog to the front door. Maybe Saint Rita, the patron saint of impossible dreams would be a better choice. On the other hand, why not pray to Saint Cayetano? After all wasn’t she just about to take the biggest risk in her entire forty plus years of life? Surely, the patron saint of gamblers would hear her plea and help her get the winning bid—with money to spare.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ~*~

  Beth Heade paced the gloomy foyer of the Summerville Inn and for the tenth time that morning rearranged the brochures on the registration desk. Pausing to admire her reflection in the ceiling to floor mirror, she fluffed her short blonde hair, and touched up her blood-red lipstick. After a quick glance around the room to be sure she was alone, Beth reached into her bra and lifted her breasts for better display. She could have bought a friggin’ townhouse with the money she spent on plastic surgery. For the price she paid, the girls deserved to be up and out on a silver platter.

  Where the hell is Dick? He’d better not stand her up today. She needed him there to jack up the crowd into a bidding war. Not that she wanted the dump. She shuddered at the thought. Reeking of old cigars and older mold, the place gave her the creeps and made her itch. Dammit. She was breaking out in hives just being here. A car door slammed shut.

  “Well, about time you got here,” she called.

  But the man who stomped into the front door wasn’t Dick—in fact she wasn’t sure he was even human. Short, dark, and hirsute with knuckles practically scraping the ground, the Neanderthal walked up to her and breathed garlic into her face. No, he could not seriously be thinking about buying the inn. He had to be lost, in search of a bar—or the zoo. She took a deep breath and gave her best sales person welcome. “Can I help you?”

  He ignored her extended hand. “Yeah. I’m here to buy dis place.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Dis here is an auction, right?”

  “Well, um, yes, yes it is,” she stammered. Oh, my gawd. This gorilla is a buyer? She snapped out of her stupor and into sales mode. “Please take this brochure and feel free to wander around. The Summerville Inn is over a hundred years old and has a great history. F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife, Zelda, summered here—”

  “Zip it.”

  “Pardon me?” A warm flush ran up her neck and face, her sang froid threatening to reach the boiling point.

  “I don’t give a shit ’bout no Xena. When I want you to talk, I’ll rattle your cage.”

  Suppressing the urge to tell the Neanderthal off, Beth’s mouth snapped shut. Where was Dick? If she ever needed the Summerville Chief of Police at her side, this was the day.

  As if on cue, Dick’s voice boomed into the foyer. “Honey, I’m home.” He bounded in the front door, dressed in a custom suit looking more like he was about to go to work on Wall Street, not on the SPD. “Ah,
Tony, I see you found the place.” He clapped the stocky man on the back. “Take a tour, it’s gonna be all yours soon.”

  Tony’s close-set eyes darted around the foyer and sitting area. “Dis place come wid a terlet?”

  It took a moment for Beth to translate his request. “Yes, the men’s room is down the hall, on the left.”

  As Tony shambled away, Beth grabbed her husband’s arm and hissed at him. “Dis? Dem? Terlet? What kind of beast is he? And how do you know him?”

  “Hey, you know what they say about judging a book by its cover,” Dick chided. “Tony’s got a lot of loot. After he sets up shop here, he’ll be making generous donations to our favorite charity—us.”

  Horrified at the possibilities, she demanded, “And what exactly do you do in return for your new found friend?”

  Dick glanced around, then gave her a wink. “SPD will give him, shall we say— certain considerations.”

  “And what is his business?”

  “This and that.”

  “You have reached new lows—which I didn’t think was possible.” Dizzy with rage, Beth could barely speak. “My realtor’s license is not going on the line for your latest scam. Everything that happens today goes by the book.”

  “Beth, c’mon, you gotta work with me.”

  Dick tried to wheedle her, but just then car doors slammed shut and a man’s voice called out, “Hello? Anyone here?”

  A throaty woman’s voice responded. “I think we need to go inside. I doubt they’ll have the auction out here.”

  Footsteps clomped up the stairs. A Nicholas Cage look-alike entered first, blinking rapidly to adjust to the gloom. Well hello, handsome. Beth shot a glance at her buffoon of a husband, now deep in a huddle with the returned gorilla, and made a mental comparison. Dick was coming up short.

  Her attention shifted to the sound of high heels clicking on the hardwood floor. The woman who came in behind the hunk looked as if she belonged in an executive bordello. With bright red hair cascading over both shoulders and a low-cut blouse that exposed ample cleavage, it took Beth a full minute to realize who the curvaceous sexpot was.

  “Genie King? Is that really you?” Beth adjusted the girls before bounding over to give the other woman a hug. “I didn’t recognize you out of your work clothes.”

  Genie gave Beth an awkward smile. “I cleaned up for the occasion.”

  Beth extended one hand to the handsome man. “Beth Heade, Heade Realty. You are?”

  The man’s slow sexy smile had Beth’s rarely used nether regions tingling. Hubba, hubba. When is Dick’s next business trip?

  “Jim Rawlings. You haven’t changed a bit, Beth.”

  “Oh, my gawd! It’s been so long. What have you been up to?”

  Ignoring Beth’s question, Jim turned to Genie. “You seem familiar—but I can’t place you. Should I know you?”

  ~*~

  Genie felt heat flush up from her breasts to encompass her neck and face. Should he know me? After working together every summer from middle school through high school, she knew everything about Jim Rawlings—where he lived, what car he drove, how many poker games he played a week—to name but a few of his favorite things. Today people would say she was obsessed with him, verging on stalker material. Twenty-four years ago, it was simply called a major crush.

  Her normally throaty voice came out in a tremulous squeak. “You and I worked together here at the Inn. Every summer.”

  “Skinny, little Genie?” Jim stepped back, gave her a long head to toe look over and whistled. “You filled out in all the right places.”

  Heat flared in Genie’s cheeks. He liked her curves? Really?

  Flustered by his intense stare, Genie flailed around for an intelligent thought—and grasped at the first thing that came to mind. “Beth, do we have time to look around one more time before the auction begins?”

  The realtor looked annoyed. “Yes, just be back in fifteen minutes. We start exactly at ten.”

  Pulling a notepad out as she walked, Genie made a beeline to the kitchen.

  “Hold up,” Jim called. “I’ll go with you.”

  As she opened the door of the large gas range, she glanced up at the tall man beside her. A touch of gray at his temples, a scar across his eyebrow and a few laugh lines around his eyes, but other than that he still looked good enough to eat. Urging her inner stalker to slow down, she attempted to act casual and took a deep breath. “The years have been good to you. What brings you back to Summerville?”

  “Long story short, I earned a degree from Cornell’s Hotel School. Worked for major hotel corporations from New York City to Las Vegas. But I wanted my own place and I missed small towns. And you?”

  Momentarily distracted by the ancient behemoth of a refrigerator, she turned and focused on Jim’s question. “I’m a graduate of the CIA. I’ve worked with some top chefs but I want my own kitchen. And I never ever want to be a Sous chef again.”

  Jim’s eyebrows flew up. “Seriously?”

  The short hairy guy stomped into the kitchen. “Hey, youse two love birds, I hate to interrupt dis Hallmark moment, but I’m here to buy dis here place, not go to a reunion. You guys comin’ to dis auction, or not?”

  Genie flushed, snapped her notebook shut and followed the troll out of the kitchen into the foyer.

  Jim was hot on her heels.

  Beth glared at the short hairy man. “I see Tony found you.”

  Genie swore that if looks could have killed, the realtor would have turned the man to stone.

  Beth took a deep breath, and launched into a brisk review. “It’s time to begin the auction. Some ground rules: the reserve price is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars; bidding must be in increments of ten thousand. You must have sufficient cash or a cashier’s check for a deposit—or the entire amount. Everything is due in thirty days. And, the property is sold as is, no guarantees. Got it?”

  Dick grinned at his wife and gave her the thumbs up sign. “Let the games begin.”

  “What do I have for an opening bid?”

  “Two-hunnert-fifty thou.” Tony dug a finger in his ear and pulled out a chunk of earwax.

  Genie suppressed a gag and shouted, “Three-hundred thousand.”

  “Tree-fifty.” Tony winked at Dick. “I got a good feeling about dis. Gonna have me a great casino.”

  Jim stared at Tony. “A casino? Are you out of your mind? This place is a historic treasure. Three-sixty.”

  Tony smirked, stuffed three sticks of gum into his mouth, and dropped the wrappers on the floor.

  Genie shouted, “Three-eighty.”

  “I got your tree-eighty, little bimbo, and raise it to four-hunnert thou.”

  Jim’s face twisted with disgust. “Why you—”

  Genie felt the Inn and her future slipping out of her reach. Her breath came in short puffs. The room began to take on crazy colors and twisted shapes. No. She had to have her own kitchen. No more Sous chef. No more crazy bosses with Mount Vesuvius tempers. No. No. No. She had to have it, it was hers, Dammit. A crazy idea exploded into Genie’s frantic thoughts and out of her lips. She grabbed Jim, pulled his head down to hers and whispered, “I have five-hundred thousand. If you have that, too, we can take this pig.”

  Jim smiled, straightened up, and said. “Four hundred-ten thousand.”

  Tony sneered. “Yada, yada, yada. Four-tirty.”

  Genie clutched Jim’s warm hand to her cold one. “Four hundred-fifty thousand.”

  Tony nearly spat at her. “Five-hunnert thou. Top that, bimbo.”

  Genie vibrated with rage. “Five fifty.”

  Disbelief crossed the hairy man’s face. He mouthed an obscenity. “Eight hunnert.”

  Her heart thundered in her chest. How far could the awful man go? Did he really have more cash in hand than she and Jim could amass?

  Genie shouted, “Eight-hundred fifty thousand.”

  The ugly man’s face darkened. “Nine-hunnert.”

  Dear God, this jerk could
become owner of her inn. She knew life wasn’t fair, but how could such a horrible thing be allowed to happen? She closed her eyes and prayed to Saint Lawrence, Saint Rita and Saint Cayetano.

  Jim cleared his throat. “One million dollars.”

  Tony swore a blue streak and stomped out of the inn. Dick followed close on his heels and could be heard by all that he had no part in the biddings or the deal.

  The silence in the foyer was deafening.

  Beth’s blonde bobble head swiveled between Jim and Genie.

  “Going once? Going twice? Sold to the highest bidder.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ~*~

  Jim sat in Sips Coffee Shop, dipped chocolate biscotti into his espresso, and watched the cookie crumble into his cup. Well, there was a metaphor for today’s event. What was I thinking? Why hadn’t I stopped the proceedings, taken Genie outside and talked some sense into her? But, no, just like old times, the rush that came with taking crazy risks overtook him—and he gambled big time. He won the property—but now he had to figure out how he would pay for repairs. Where would he get the money for that?

  Genie put her small hand over his. “A million dollars for your thoughts?”

  He gave her a wry grin, pulled the worn medallion out of his pocket and placed it on the table. “I think Saint Aloysius Gonzaga was busy protecting other compulsive gamblers today.”

  Surprise crossed Genie’s face. “I knew you were a big poker player in high school. I had no idea—”

  “My parents did a great job of ‘helping’ me out, covering up for their one and only son, making things right. They had no idea they were enabling me.”