Anthology - Bad Boys With Expensive Toys

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  "I can wait, if you're in the middle of something," he said, polite but cool, motioning to the silver pot.

  "Oh, no, that's all right," she said, carefully setting the pot on a marble-topped vanity that also held a bouquet of deep pink peonies in a crystal vase, their thin stems struggling to hold the overblown glory

  of the blooms.

  She stepped behind the ornate reception desk that was built into the foyer and pulled out the leather-bound registration book she'd found in an antique shop. Flipping to a fresh page, she passed it,

  and a vintage fountain pen, to her new guest.

  Aunt Olive had tried to talk her into a computerized reservation system, but she liked the simple, old-fashioned book. It fit with the period of the Shady Lady and was well able to handle the few paying guests they received. It was also a heck of a lot cheaper, and sadly, money was a factor in every decision these days.

  She watched as the newest guest wrote his name in a bold but perfectly legible scrawl. Like his speaking voice, his penmanship displayed no extra flourishes, no wasted time, no wasted ink. No nonsense.

  When he was done, she read over his entry. Joe Montcrief was his name, and she was pleased to find she'd guessed correctly. His address was in Manhattan.

  "And how long will you be staying with us, Mr. Montcrief?" she asked in her best B8cB proprietor's tone.

  "It's Joe," he said. She got the impression that it wasn't informality that made him tell her that, more that he didn't want the extra time wasted with all those syllables. He'd even knocked the "seph" from the Joseph. He should be glad his parents hadn't christened him Mortimer, or Horatio. "I'll definitely stay

  two nights, and possibly a third."No if it's all right with you. No if you have rooms available.

  "That's fine. The Blue room is available," she said. In fact, all but the aunts' rooms were available. Four in all. But the Blue was both the priciest and the best she could offer. "It's got a queen-sized bed and a private bath. There's a small sitting area—"

  "Is there a desk?"

  "A roll-top."

  A slight shudder seemed to pass across his face. "Tell me you have Internet access."

  "Not in the room. There's a hook-up in the library."

  "All right."

  This poor man was going to be so out of place here. She nibbled her lower lip, then fessed up, "You know, there's a Hilton only an hour's drive away. You might be more comfortable—"

  "No." He interrupted a second time. "This will be fine. Thank you."

  Her conscience was clear. She smiled at him. "Our breakfasts are better, anyway."

  "What time is breakfast?" He had the most amazing eyes. In the few minutes he'd been in her foyer, they'd changed shades. Not pewter now, more of a Paul Newman blue.

  Since he was her only guest, breakfast was pretty much whenever he wanted, though she decided to

  keep her lack of business to herself. "Seven to nine, but we can adjust with a day's notice."

  "Seven's fine."

  "I'll take your credit card imprint now, please."

  She wasn't a bit surprised when he handed over a platinum card.

  "Are you visiting family in town?" she asked.

  "No. I've got business in the area."

  "Really." She glanced up. She couldn't imagine what business he could possibly have. She knew every person and every business for miles and couldn't picture a single one of them being involved with a sharp-looking man from New York City.

  He sent her a bland smile but offered no further information. Whatever his business, she'd know it all soon enough. Beaverton was like that.

  "Will you need help with your luggage?"

  He glanced at her like she was nuts, and only then did she notice the navy blue overnight bag in the corner. "Right this way, then," she said, picking out one of the ornate brass keys from the board behind her and stepping around the counter.

  She led the way and he followed. As they entered the hallway, she heard the muffled voices from the parlor. It wasn't tough to guess what the subject was. "We're serving afternoon tea at the moment," she said. "You're welcome to join us."

  He didn't answer so she guessed he wouldn't be swapping stories with the aunts over cucumber sandwiches. She breathed a quick sigh of relief. "We serve breakfast in the dining room," she said as they passed the big room she'd set up so prettily with antique and second-hand furniture finds. She'd collected small tables and chairs of different vintages, linen cloths, china and flatware that didn't match, and that was part of the charm.

  She'd have to remember to freshen the flowers on all the tables. She'd also have a chance to freshen up her morning menu. Since Aunt Olive only ate brown toast with raspberry jam and coffee, and Aunt

  Lydia had a bowl of oatmeal and stewed prunes every morning of her life, there was little scope for the imagination. Tomorrow she'd put on a full breakfast—who cared if it was only for one man's enjoyment. Maybe he'd send all his Wall Street friends to Beaverton for their holidays. The thought made her smile as they got to the broad oak stairway and climbed.

  For some reason, she felt suddenly self-conscious. Naturally, since he was behind her on the stairs, chances were that her customer was watching her back. Big deal. So why did she feel this hot, twitchy feeling as though her denim skirt was too tight?

  She was glad when the endless stairway ended and she could show him his room. She loved the Blue room. Its blue and white striped wallpaper looked fresh and yet fit with the late 1800s period when the Shady Lady had been built. The four-poster bed was original to the house, though the mattress was new. She wanted her guests to have the best night's sleep they could ever remember when they came to her. It was, after all, what her great, great grandmother had promised when she'd opened the brothel. Naturally, she'd had her own ways of ensuring her gentlemen guests slept well. Emmylou relied on top quality mattresses, Irish linen bedding, and her bucolic setting to do the job.

  She ran a quick eye over everything, but there was no dust anywhere. The room looked as fresh as if

  the last guest had checked out this morning instead of three weeks ago.

  The chintz duvet cover, in yellow with green-stemmed lilacs printed on it, was as fresh as springtime, the ceramic jug and basin gleamed on the old washstand; the roll-top desk, which had belonged to the great Dr. Emmet Beaver himself, had the rich patina of age, and the old Axminster on the floor held the grooves of a recent vacuuming.

  Her guest didn't say anything, merely deposited his briefcase on the floor and placed his overnight bag

  on the easy chair she'd set by the window. Two other armchairs flanked the fireplace.

  "The fireplace works," she told him. "It's gas-powered." She showed him where the switch was located.

  "Fine," he said again, sounding extremely uninterested in the fireplace. She supposed he wasn't here to curl up in front of the fire with a good book, or enjoy the view of her garden. Right, he was here to work. The room might be a little froufrou for him, but then if you were going to stay in a former brothel turned bed and breakfast, surely you had a hint what you were getting into.

  "I'll leave you to get settled, then."

  "Thanks. Oh, do you have a list of restaurants in town?"

  She blinked at him.

  "For dinner?"

  "Right." Her mind raced. Where could she send him that wouldn't have him speeding back to New York before his first good night's sleep? A sleep, come to think of it, that he looked as though he could use.

  A gleam of humor flashed across his face and she wanted to catch hold of it. How it transformed that cold, all business countenance into something warm and teasing. "People do eat here?"

  "Yes, of course," she said. "I'm trying to remember who's open on Sunday nights. I'll check and let you know."

  "Thanks."

  "Well, here you are then," she said, and stepped closer to hand him his key. As she reached him, he held out his hand, palm up. A strong hand. Clean, callus-free and ringless. Onc
e more she felt that curious prickling at the back of her neck like a premonition.

  When she got downstairs, she popped her head into the parlor just long enough to say, "I'm going to

  make fresh tea." She could use a cup.

  She'd just walked into the parlor with the fresh tea and a few more sandwiches, knowing the three white-haired ladies were dying to hear about the new guest, when the object of their curiosity walked in. Since she hadn't dreamed he'd want to sit around drinking tea with old ladies, she was surprised. Even more surprised when she saw that he was carrying an overweight and rather smug looking tortoiseshell cat.

  "Does this cat belong to someone?" he asked in that crisp voice.

  "Why, Mae West, wherever have you been?" Aunt Olive said. "We were napping together. When I

  came down here, she was still asleep."

  "She seems to have woken," said their guest, though that wasn't entirely true. The cat purred lazily in his arms, its bright green eyes only half open. That cat knew darn well she wasn't allowed in the guest rooms. Maybe she was trying to fool them into thinking she'd been sleepwalking.

  "I'm sorry," Emmylou said. "Mae West is curious." She was also man mad, hence her name. "I hope she didn't disturb you?"

  "She was banging on my window and howling."

  Emmylou held out her arms, but Mae West wasn't having any of it. She flopped to her back and turned so she could bury her head against that muscular chest. Emmylou wanted to laugh, but Joe Montcrief didn't look particularly amused. He was probably calculating his dry cleaning bill, since his cashmere

  was liberally covered with cat hair.

  "I'm so sorry," she repeated, taking a firm hold of the cat who meowed in protest. As she scooped up

  the animal, her fingers dug into Joe's sweater, and she couldn't help but notice that he sported a nice

  hard belly. He smelled like something they didn't get a lot of at the Shady Lady. Like a young, virile

  man. For a second she envied the cat, then gave herself a mental shake and dumped Mae West on the floor. With a brrp, the feline stalked to the couch and leaped to Aunt Olive's lap.

  Joe was brushing cat hair off his sweater and the thighs of his slacks. Lydia, watching him with interest, said, "You look like you're packing some heat. Can't you get it up?"

  Aunt Olive, busy stroking Mae West, said, "Really, dear. Not in public."

  And Betsy stared at their guest as though he'd disappear if she blinked.

  "Tea!" Emmylou shrieked.

  Joe raised his head and gazed at the assembled company. No doubt, they looked like something from a drawing room farce, but if he said just one rude or insulting thing to her darling aunts, he'd be out on his ear and that was that.

  "Thanks," he said. "I'd like some tea."

  "I could bring some to your room, if you're working."

  "No. I'll have it here."

  Well, she thought, as she poured him a cup in the best bone china with pink roses, at least he'd forgotten about the unfortunate incident with Mae West.

  Lydia, sadly, wasn't nearly finished. "Well, young man," she said, sitting straighter and giving him a glimpse of what a fine pair of legs a woman could still reveal at seventy-five years old, "you were wise to come to us. Did the doctor send you?"

  "Doctor?"

  "It's all right. We've helped many men like yourself over the years. An older woman can offer so much more than a clueless young woman. In our day, men didn't need any of those newfangled drugs. They had us, right, Olive?"

  "That's right. We were human Viagra. Too bad they couldn't bottle us back then."

  "Sandwich, Aunt Lydia?" Emmylou asked desperately. But her aunt waved her away. "What is your sexual problem? I'd be happy to help."

  In her day, along with Olive and Emmylou's grandmother, Patrice had been what Dr. Emmet Beaver termed intimate healers. Lydia, however, hadn't grasped the concept of retirement.

  "Sexual problem?" Joe echoed, looking dumbfounded.

  Helpless to think what else she could do, Emmylou passed him his tea and placed a proprietary hand on his shoulder. In a case of desperate times and desperate measures, she said, "It's all right, Aunt Lydia.

  Joe is my client."

  As her supposed client looked up and caught her gaze, the trickle of awareness she'd felt built up to a waterfall.

  Those silver, gray blue eyes were shot through with devilry. "Thank you, Emmylou," he said. "I think

  I'm going to need a lot of one-on-one work."

  Oh, oh.She had a feeling there was trouble ahead.

  We don't think you will want to missHELLO, GORGEOUS! , Maryjanice Davidson's next novel from Brava. Available in March 2005.

  There were a few flaws in her plan, she thought, staring dreamily at what's-his-name's hands as he shifted gears. He had wonderful hands, big and blocky, and the knuckles were sprinkled with fine black hair. If she couldn't stare into his big dreamy blue eyes, she'd stare at his hands. Oh, and think about the flaws. Right. That, too.

  Flaw number one: she wasn't the killer.

  Flaw number two: she wasn't sure he was, but on the chance that he wasn't, the killer was still running around loose. Killing ... what did he say? Members of the Wagner team? She knew about them, they were the team that had infected her. Wagner for Jamie Wagner, the Bionic Woman. Ha. Ha. Ha. Somebody at the O.S.F. was watching too many reruns.

  Flaw number three: she had just agreed to be taken into what's-his-name's custody for an indefinite amount of time.

  Flaw number four: she didn't know what's-his-name's name.

  Flaw number five: she was letting her hormones do her thinking for her, which, while almost always resulting in short-term satisfaction, led to long-term poor results.

  Flaw number six: The Boss.

  "That reminds me," she said. "I need to make a phone call."

  "Where's your cell phone?"

  "Pal, you're probably looking at the one person in the state of Minnesota who doesn't have one."

  "Gregory Hamlin sent a green recruit into the field without a cellphone?"

  "Don't yell. I'm sitting right here."

  "Unbelievable," what's-his-name muttered. "Truly. The mind reels. The mind is boggled."

  "Pal." She snapped her fingers. "Are you with me? Stay focused, okay? I. Need. A. Phone."

  "When we get into the jet, you can use mine."

  "Okay." Jet? Oooh. Jet? "Jet?"

  "Yes."

  "Where are we going?"

  "My home."

  "Okey-dokey."

  She supposed it was time she read that stupid file. She settled back in the luxurious leather seats of the whatever-it-was he was driving (she had never been a car babe) and closed her eyes. And read.

  * * *

  Dmitri Novatur snuck another glance at the odd blonde in the seat next to him, and nearly drove into a telephone pole. That's enough of that, he told himself. Pay attention. Yes, she's quite pretty, but that's also quite irrelevant.

  He had calculated several results from his trip to the motel, but the probability of her willingly going with him was only eight point five two three percent. The probability that he would have had to kill her had been almost sixty percent. He was, frankly, amazed she'd gotten into his Lexus.

  He would have to re-do all his calculations, because as it was, he was playing it by ear. And he hated playing it by ear. Too many variables made it impossible to predict outcome with any accuracy.

  And now . .. she was asleep!

  He quickly calculated the probability of the Wagner team killer agreeing to come with him and then falling asleep in his car. It was low . . . one point six seven percent.

  It was all very strange, and she was possibly the strangest of all in what he knew to be a very odd and cutthroat business. For a field agent, she was remarkably ... real.

  Of course, they trained them to be charming, and pretty girls were often specifically recruited, but truly, she was like no other woman he had met. And the amazing thing was,
it had nothing to do with the fact that she was the other cyber-netically enhanced human being walking around on the planet.

  No, it was just her. When she wasn't yelling, she was ... well, yelling. But when she regained consciousness, she had been more angry than scared. In fact, he didn't believe she had been scared at all.

  Most agents, upon waking in the presence of The Wolf, would have soiled themselves in terror. Or at least cringed a little. Not this one. Not this ... Caitlyn.

  And what could her sinister motive be, to willingly come with him? Was he on her hit list? It would make sense, of a twisted sort... she had certainly taken care of enough of the Wagner team.