Here Comes Trouble

by Leslie Kelly

  Startled, Sabrina jerked her head around to follow her sister’s horrified stare. And echoed Allie’s scream. Because right outside her window—his nose almost pressed to the glass—was a dark-eyed, angry looking man.

  “Go, go, back up and get out of here,” Allie yelled. Her hand clutched her big belly and her eyes bugged out in pure, unadulterated fear.

  Sabrina couldn’t do a thing. All her horror-movie training and she could only sit there, frozen, like a deer being confronted by a pair of bright headlights. She half wished the psychotic killer would start up his chainsaw right now—maybe the noise would startle her into action.

  Staring into the man’s face, she was able to grasp a few details—the eyes so brown she couldn’t tell the pupils from the irises. The dark, slashing brows tugged down in a severe frown. The jut of his chin and the clench of his jaw. Not to mention a scar running from his temple down beside the corner of his eye to his high cheekbone.

  Then he lifted his hand, which, she saw to her immediate relief, wasn’t holding a butcher knife or a chainsaw. Rapping his knuckles on the window, he stepped back, obviously waiting for her to open it.

  “Don’t you dare!” Allie snapped when Sabrina reached for the window control.

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed the switch and watched the window descend an inch. “Yes?”

  The stranger, clad in black from his head to toe, stared at her from a few feet away, his gaze both fierce and mesmerizing. “Aside from arguing, may I ask what the two of you are doing sitting in a car in my driveway?” he asked, his voice silky smooth. As smooth as his jet-black hair—windswept, though it was a calm day—looked to be.

  “Uh, we’re…”

  “Lost. We’re just lost. Turning around now,” Allie said, reaching over to grab Sabrina’s leg.

  Almost wincing at the pinch her sister gave her, Sabrina worked up her nerve and offered the man a weak smile. “We were wondering if perhaps you were open for business. We’re looking for a place to stay.”

  His eyes flared; the man had obviously been caught by surprise. Maybe he wasn’t used to his victims landing on his doorstep like this. Sheesh, some serial killer he was. Then again, maybe he’d never even seen Psycho.

  But before she could ask—before she could even grab her sister’s fingers and get them off her leg before Allie drew blood—Sabrina saw a welcome sight. Coming down the front steps of the forbidding inn like a welcoming ray of sunshine was a man dressed in an old-fashioned African-safari–looking outfit, complete with knee-length jodhpurs and high boots. Even if she couldn’t see the bright white hair cascading out from under the broad-rimmed, beige hat, she would have recognized the man immediately. As he, from his jaunty wave, recognized her.

  Saved by the sheikh. Or, judging by his appearance today, the big-game hunter.

  She sighed in relief. Because it appeared Mr. Potts had been visiting the resident serial killer. And even if Max Taylor was a danger to women, she knew in her heart that his grandfather was not.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MORTIMER POTTS WAS NOT only not insane, he was also not blind. Some people in this town might have decided he was a bit dotty, particularly after he’d plunked down an exorbitant sum of money to lay claim to a motley assortment of buildings and properties. But nobody had ever questioned his vision.

  And he could easily see what was going on right in front of his eyes.

  Max was falling fast, falling hard. Probably not in love, but at the very least into infatuation.

  Having seen all of his grandsons involved in various romantic entanglements throughout their lives—from Morgan’s unrequited love for the most popular young lady in eighth grade to Michael’s scandalous affair with a witness to a murder—he’d come to recognize the signs. He’d seen them in Max more than a few times. The boy did enjoy dancing his way in and out of the arms of attractive women. Especially during the past few years when he seemed to think he had something to prove.

  Probably not surprising, given what had happened with his wife. Mortimer still hadn’t gotten used to that situation. Things were so different today than they’d been in his time.

  But Max had survived it. And his fancy footwork had kept him carefully waltzing his way out of any possible entanglements.

  Only, he didn’t seem to be dancing now. In fact, if Mortimer had to guess, he’d say Max was standing very still, trying to determine just what he felt for Miss Sabrina Cavanaugh.

  Interesting. Particularly since his grandson seemed to have shaken off the dark mood that had kept him quiet and unusually morose for the first two weeks of his stay here. Mortimer could only attribute that to the lovely blonde.

  Which was why, when he’d heard the woman mention her predicament to the owner of Seaton House—an interesting fellow, that one—he’d immediately come up with a suggestion. There was absolutely no need for Sabrina and her prettily pregnant sister to leave Trouble.

  They could simply come stay with him.

  Sabrina had demurred, of course, but Mortimer hadn’t been willing to take no for an answer. Besides, though her mouth had declined, something in her eyes told him the young lady was every bit as keen to stay in town as he was to have her here. And not, he was willing to venture, for any investment reasons.

  Seemed to him that Miss Cavanaugh hadn’t even mentioned her interest in “investing” since the day she’d arrived. Which led Mortimer to suspect her reasons for remaining in Trouble were personal rather than financial. Personal reasons with his grandson’s name written all over them.

  “So you’re sure that guy’s not a killer?” the younger sister—Allie—said from the back seat of the car as they rode toward his home. “He looks like a vampire or something.”

  Mortimer snorted. “It is my belief that Mr. Lebeaux’s reputation has been greatly exaggerated.” Mortimer was certainly acquainted with that experience and had great tolerance for anyone in such a situation.

  Though, to be honest, he hadn’t quite believed his new neighbor’s entire explanation as to why he was currently living in a drafty old hotel in the middle of nowhere. There was more to the story, Mortimer would wager on it.

  Fortunately for Mr. Lebeaux, Mortimer was rather adept at minding his own business. At least when it didn’t involve a member of his own family.

  “You’re very nice to let us stay with you,” Allie said.

  “You’re sure Max won’t mind?” Sabrina murmured. Her voice was a bit thin, as if now that she’d finally agreed to his plan, she was having second thoughts.

  “Certainly not. Besides, it isn’t as if you’ll be underfoot. He’ll barely know you’re there, for the most part. You should be quite comfortable in the tent.”

  “I like camping,” the one in the back seat said, her words slow, as if she feared offending him. “But I’m not so sure in my current condition that I’ll be up for roughing it for too long.”

  Mortimer laughed. So did Sabrina. She shifted her gaze toward him and their eyes met in companionable commiseration.

  He liked this girl. Had liked her since the moment she’d stepped into his tent and decreed it one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen.

  “My dear,” Mortimer explained, “there’s no such thing as roughing it in one of my tents. They come from Shari Khayyamiya—the Street of Tents—in Cairo. And I’ve added a few modern conveniences.”

  “Like a generator with lights and air-conditioning,” Sabrina said dryly. “Not to mention the mountains of pillows. I’ve seen less plush rooms in four-star hotels.”

  Exactly, and quite the point. Mortimer hadn’t minded roughing it, as the youngster had called it, when he was in his twenties. Now, however, his aching bones weren’t up to being rolled in a scratchy blanket smelling of horses and sweaty men and laid on a dirt floor.

  “I can’t wait to see it,” the girl said, then she covered her mouth in an attempt to hide a yawn.

  So young to be in her condition. Mortimer had, of course, noticed the lack of a wedd
ing ring on her finger, but he was no prude. He merely wondered what the girl’s situation was, and whether her sister had taken on the role of weary caretaker for good or merely for the duration of the pregnancy.

  He’d like to think she’d be free and unencumbered soon. And that she liked the idea of pregnancy and babies. Because ever since the moment he’d had the fleeting hope that Max’s problems involved getting a woman in trouble, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about having a great-grandchild.

  A little girl. One just like her grandmother.

  Though he’d deny it—especially to Roderick, were he around to see—Mortimer was aware of the quick rush of moisture in his eyes as he thought of his own Carla, the boys’ mother. No one should ever have to outlive their child. No one.

  The grief of it would probably have done him in if it hadn’t been for Carla’s three sons, who’d stared at him from across her flower-laden coffin, alone in the world and wondering what was to become of them.

  Mortimer had become of them. And what a time they’d had.

  She’d be proud. Somewhere, he felt quite sure, Carla was proud of the men they’d become. Except for one thing—the lack of families, wives, children, of their own.

  “Well,” he said, clearing his throat and thrusting the sadness out of his mind, “I’m sure you’ll be quite comfortable and you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

  He meant it. He rather hoped this young woman driving a bit too fast up his driveway would stay long enough to bring some excitement—perhaps even happiness—into his grandson’s life. If Mortimer had to pull a few strings to make that happen, well, so be it. After all, he’d already bought himself a town, knowing full well his middle grandson would show up sooner or later to try to get him out of the deal. So cajoling a young woman to be his houseguest didn’t sound nearly as meddlesome.

  Whether Max would see it that way, however, remained to be seen.

  WHY MAX HAD EVER for a moment thought the idea of Sabrina Cavanaugh and her sister staying at his grandfather’s house—er, his grandfather’s tent—was a good one, he’d never know. Because now that he’d had a couple of days to get used to the arrangement, he was in agony.

  It was absolute torture to know the woman he’d been wanting since the moment they’d met was sleeping a few yards outside his door and he couldn’t do a thing about it. And not just because of the stupid book. A wide-eyed, big-bellied chaperone had been glued to Sabrina’s side for forty-eight hours. Plus, Max’s own grandfather had been playing the role of host to the hilt.

  He hadn’t seen Sabrina alone since Sunday morning when he kissed her outside the Dewdrop Inn.

  “That was mistake number eighty in the hundred mistakes you’ve made since you met that woman. Never should have kissed her,” he muttered as he strode down the hill into the woods that separated Mortimer’s property from the old amusement park. If he couldn’t do what he really wanted to do—make something hot and intense happen with Sabrina—he figured he might as well pound the crap out of some metal.

  That damn carousel was going to go around again if it was the last thing Max ever did. The thing had become a personal challenge and he was going to fix it or blow it up. He wasn’t sure which.

  Fix it. You can make it work.

  The carousel. He meant the carousel. Not his relationship with Sabrina.

  He was still telling himself that two hours later as he kicked the junction box with his boot, then started cussing because it hurt.

  “Now I am going to have to wash your mouth out with soap.”

  Jerking his head, he spotted her watching him from a few feet away. He should have been surprised, but he wasn’t. He’d known Sabrina would show up here. That if she found out where he’d gone, she’d find a reason to come after him, and not just because of the lure this tired old spot held for both of them.

  Strange, this certainty, and he wondered if she felt it, too. But there was something between them—a connection. Now that they were practically roommates, it had only grown. Especially because for the past couple of days, when they’d shared friendly conversation and meals with her sister and his grandfather, and walks around town, he’d been silently asking a question: when? And she’d been silently answering it: soon.

  “Déjà vu all over again, huh?”

  “But this time I heard everything.” Shaking her head, she tsked, though the disapproving expression couldn’t disguise the smile lurking around her full lips. “Such language.”

  Rising to his feet, Max brushed off his hands on his jeans and shrugged. “Ex military.”

  “Is that where you learned to fly?”

  “No. I’d been doing that since I was a teenager. I always wanted to fly for the U.S. Air Force.” He paused before quietly adding, “Like my father.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “I could have, but life interfered. Staying in for the years pilot training would have required seemed to have too high a cost.”

  “What did you think it would cost you, that shaggy haircut?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.

  “And a family.”

  She blinked. “You wanted that?”

  “Sure. I wouldn’t have gotten married if I hadn’t.”

  Max hadn’t planned on letting those words come out of his mouth. Honestly, he didn’t talk about his marriage very much, and they certainly weren’t having some deep, intense, let’s-share-our-shit conversation. But something made him want to be honest about that much, at least. Maybe to make up for the fact that he’d been trying to act like he was an angel when devil’s horns had been growing out of his forehead since birth.

  “I had no idea you were married.” Her gaze shifted to his bare left hand. “And…divorced?”

  He nodded, noting her surprise. With today’s divorce rate, it really wasn’t that shocking, but Sabrina seemed genuinely taken aback. “Is that so unusual?”

  Shaking her head, she quickly said, “No, it’s not. I just…hadn’t realized.”

  “It’s not like you get to wear a divorce ring to let every new person you meet know about it,” he said with a small smile, wondering how far to go with this friendly chat. Considering how comfortable he already felt with Sabrina, he suspected it could be far. Farther into Max’s private life and history than he’d gone with any woman in a long time.

  Not about everything, certainly. He wasn’t interested in talking about what it had been like to watch TV coverage of his dad being blown out of the sky over the desert, or to see his mother being eaten from inside by disease. But his marriage had always made for some interesting conversation. And once Max had stopped feeling the need to punch his friends—who had gotten a good couple of years’ worth of jokes out of it—he’d begun to see the whole thing for the learning experience it had really been.

  He’d definitely learned one thing: people could make you believe anything if they really tried hard enough. His wife certainly had. He’d believed she loved him. He’d believed she wanted him. He’d believed she wanted a normal, happy marriage.

  He’d believed she’d been pregnant when he married her.

  Uh…no.

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” Sabrina said as she stepped over his toolbox and moved closer.

  “You’re not prying. You didn’t ask, I told you. It’s not a big deal, I just thought you should know.”

  Maybe because something deep inside told him they were going to take a step forward, and soon. Physically, emotionally—didn’t matter, really. Either way she probably deserved to know a little more about him. And he’d definitely like to know more about her—like why she was responsible for her pregnant sister who looked like a teenager and where the hell the rest of their family was.

  The plastic bottle of water in Sabrina’s hand reminded Max that he was thirsty. It was a hot summer day. She’d thought ahead, he had not.

  Without much thinking about it, he reached for the bottle. Twisting off the lid, he lifted it to his mouth, pausing for a second when h
e saw the small smear of pink lipstick on its rim. God, he wanted to kiss her again. And her lips would only be the first of many places he’d kiss once he got started.

  As he drank, Sabrina murmured, “Sure, help yourself.”

  When he was finished, he wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand, then screwed the top back on the bottle. As he handed it back to her, their fingers brushed—his cool and moist with condensation, hers warm and soft, kissed by the sun.

  Together they were just about perfect.

  “Thanks, I was thirsty.”

  “Funny, you don’t seem the type to reach out and grab what you want,” she said, staring at him intently, her big blue eyes holding a question.

  She was talking to the nice guy she’d met that first day. The one shocked by the idea of waitresses in tiny T-shirts.

  Hell, Max owned stock in Hooters.

  This farce was getting old. He just couldn’t pretend to be what he was not. So maybe it was time to stop even trying, the book be damned and Grace along with it. “That’s something you ought to know about me,” he murmured. “I sometimes don’t wait to ask when there’s something I want.”

  Max half expected her to lick her lips, to step closer, to melt into him. Put one slender hand on his chest and twine the other in his hair and draw him down for a sultry kiss.

  Instead, she shifted back. Color rose in her cheeks and her gaze moved down so that she no longer met his stare.

  He’d increased the stakes and she’d pushed away from the table. Though he knew he should be relieved, since they were in an only partially secluded place in broad daylight, he couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Because the Sabrina who’d gone after that fat postman who’d mouthed off to Grandfather Saturday morning didn’t seem like the type who’d back off of anything.

  He thought about the way she’d abruptly ended their crazy sexy encounter Sunday morning outside the inn. Something had made her back off then, too. Which, looking back, had been a good thing, since her sister had showed up. Though, at the time, it had felt like someone had put a vice around his nuts and a rope around his neck and pulled both of them tight.