by Leslie Kelly
Jared visibly shuddered. Neither of them were sad to see their grandfather so happily involved in an autumn years romance. But Hildy…well, she certainly wasn’t much like their late grandmother. Still, everyone adored her, quirky habits, ghosts and all. “Next thing you know she’ll have the Queer Eye guys over to redo his house.”
Mick snickered, then asked, “So tell me how it’s going.” He was curious in spite of himself. “I’ve heard tons of gossip but none that sounded reliable.”
“The gossip’s true. Hollywood is every bit as nutty as you’ve ever imagined it was.”
“Example.”
Jared leaned forward. “Remember the huge old tree in the backyard, on the east side of the house?”
Mick snickered. “You mean the one you tried to climb even though you’re afraid of heights?”
He should have known better than to bring up that subject. Jared shot him a look that would freeze lava, still blaming Mick for his role in the Halloween mix-up last year.
“Sorry. Sore subject.”
Jared relented. “Aww, hell, it brought me Gwen.”
So it had. Jared had met Gwen last year, after receiving Mick’s invitation to an in-character Halloween party. Jared had shown up at the Little Bohemie Inn as Miles Stone, a tree-climbing secret agent. Luckily, Gwen had been a woman who liked secret agents.
“So I’m forgiven for not telling you you weren’t a superspy?”
“Didn’t you realize you were forgiven when I asked you to be my best man?”
Mick gave him a wicked grin. “I figured you asked me because you have no other friends.”
Jared shot right back. “Who said you were my friend?”
“Asshole.”
The two of them burst into laughter, well used to the back and forth insults they’d lobbed at one another all their lives. Though a cousin, Jared was as close to Mick as a brother. He, Jared and Sophie had grown up like siblings.
Remembering what Jared had been saying, Mick asked, “So what’s this about the tree?”
Jared groaned. “This director, Renauld Watson, is a lunatic.”
“I’d heard rumors about that. He got his way on having Decatur Street shut down all day this coming Saturday, in spite of people’s protests, didn’t he?”
Nodding, Jared said, “He thinks it’s still too summery for the place to look spooky. Wants that Halloween feel for the show.”
Considering it was only early September, and the days still warmed up to nearly eighty degrees, that was going to be a trick. After Mick said so, Jared continued. “Right. So, to get that autumn look, he decides to paint the tree in the backyard.”
Mick’s jaw dropped. “I get the feeling you’re not talking about a nice watercolor landscape for over your mantel.”
“No.” Jared shook his head. “Gwen came home yesterday and found the tech guys on ladders, spray painting individual leaves yellow and orange.”
Mick raised a hand to his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. Where else but Hollywood?
“I thought Gwen was going to shoot them. She was furious.”
Gwen was a sweet, beautiful little blonde, but Mick knew from experience that she could be ferocious when protecting someone—or something—she cared about. “What happened?”
“Your Caro came to the rescue and smoothed everything out.”
“She’s not Caro. Caro’s pancake syrup.”
“No, Caro’s what you use in pecan pie.”
Mick rolled his eyes. “How the hell do you know that?”
“I like pecan pie,” Jared explained with a shrug. “Hildy makes a very good one.”
Mick ignored the pie reference and went back to Jared’s other ridiculous comment about “his” Caro. “And she’s not mine.”
“Hildy?”
The twinkle in his cousin’s eye said he knew full well who Mick meant. Jared was a wicked tease in his own right. He just preferred to be all serene and conservative while doing it.
“Don’t you have somewhere to go?”
“Only back to the inn, which will soon be accommodating the cast of this insane television program. I can live without being there to see their inglorious arrival.”
The arrival of the cast. Hmm…he wondered how Caroline was going to deal with a bunch of nonacting actors, all hungry for the big cash prize and their shot at fame.
“Funny,” he said as he rose from his desk, “for the first time, it sounds like something that interests me. I think I’ll go up there and check things out.”
CARO HAD NEARLY reached her breaking point and the cast for Killing Time in a Small Town hadn’t even arrived yet.
Between an impossible director, a flamboyant, arrogant, hard-to-please show host, techies incapable of independent thought, an aloof lead camera operator and her own personal hell of living in the same house as Mick Winchester, she felt on the verge of a meltdown. Only Charlie, the on-site tech director, had made an effort to be cooperative. Of course, that was because he was a tired old guy who was close to retirement and just didn’t care to argue anymore. But nice was nice. She’d take it.
Overall, things sucked. She’d had one of those back-of-the-head faint headaches for almost two days now and no amount of caffeine or aspirin was making it go away.
“You look like you need a drink.”
Caro glanced up from her cluttered desk inside the cramped on-site production trailer, and saw Hildy Compton. The old woman’s outrageous outfit—screaming pink leggings, knee-high boots, and a filmy peasant blouse—gave Caro her first smile of the day. “It’s only 11:00 a.m.,” she replied. “But thanks for the thought.”
Hildy shrugged and shut the door to the trailer. “I once knew a Joe who kept a bottle of moonshine in his bathroom to brush his teeth every morning. Said it stuck to them all day and he could lick it when he needed a jolt.”
Caro had already become accustomed to Hildy’s frequent reminiscences about her gangster gal past.
“That Mr. Watson needs more than a drink. He needs estrogen,” Hildy said with a harrumph. “That man’s got some wild mood swings for a fella that old.”
Caro smiled faintly, somehow feeling a little better because of the outrageous old lady. She was right. The director—with whom she’d never before worked and hoped never to again—had had a serious case of PMS ever since Caro had ordered the crew to stop painting leaves on the trees and putting cheap, fake-looking spi-derwebs in every room of the inn.
After shoving a stack of folders out of the way, Hildy settled onto the tiny love seat. “So how are you getting along living with that rascal Mick Winchester?”
“Rascal? I don’t know what you mean.”
The old lady snorted. “Ha! Unless you got male gear hidden under those tight skirts of yours, you know what I mean. Not a woman alive who can resist that boy when he sets his mind to her.”
“Well, lucky for me, he hasn’t ‘set his mind’ to me.”
Yeah. Lucky for her. Very lucky, considering she’d felt her resolve and animosity toward Mick melting away through the nights she’d slept under his roof.
God, it was agonizing. She hadn’t realized just how thin the walls might be in his old house. Thin enough that she heard—or thought she heard—every move he made, all night long. The picture of him lying there, naked, uncovered by his sheets, like he used to sleep in the old days, had tormented her for hours each night.
Bad enough if she’d had to rely on memories from years ago when her mind betrayed her and drifted to the image of him naked. No, she still had the full glorious Technicolor picture of that day in his office on her mind.
Bad bad mind.
Mick, bed and naked were three words she shouldn’t associate with one another. But they were all she thought about when she was in his house, which was why she tried to avoid being there. She’d even considered crashing here in the trailer. Unfortunately, as usual, the on-site production trailer had turned from her private office into a catch-all storage closet for the entire crew.
Heaven help her when the cast arrived. Then they’d be in here at all hours, complaining about the director, their rooms, each other or the game. She didn’t know if she was going to survive it.
“That Charmagne fella is a Nancy-boy, isn’t he? I can always tell. He wears eyeliner even when he’s not on camera, trying to look like he’s twenty years younger than he is.”
Caro coughed away a laugh, hiding it behind her fist. God love her, Hildy always told it like it was, with no thought for cultural sensitivity or political correctness. Joshua Charmagne would have a fit if he knew his sexuality was being discussed, since it was supposedly such a big, dark secret.
Before Caro could reply, the door opened. Though she didn’t even turn to see who it was, she somehow knew. Her skin prickled. Her breath caught. Her nipples hardened.
Only one man had ever caused that reaction.
“Mr. Winchester,” Hildy said, confirming her suspicion. “What brings you out here?” She cast a quick look at Caro. “As if I didn’t know.”
How on earth the old woman knew there was something between Caro and Mick, she had no idea. But there definitely was something between them. Something ancient and deep, unattainable but unforgettable. Call it attraction, fate, pheromones. Whatever the case, Mick had an effect on her that Caro didn’t appreciate and didn’t want. He tempted her like David had tempted Maddie on Moonlighting. And look what a disaster their eventual union had meant—cancellation!
Finally turning to face the man in the doorway, she ignored the slight hitch in her heart as she saw the way the afternoon sunlight caught the hints of gold in his light brown hair. His green eyes twinkled as he gave Hildy one of those lopsided, sexy-as-sin grins. “How can I resist a visit with the hottest woman in Derryville? Boy, if I didn’t love my grandpa so much, I’d be giving him a run for his money.”
Hildy preened for a moment, then walked over to Mick and pinched his cheek. “Boy, you couldn’t handle this much woman.”
Mick somehow managed to look both chastised and flirtatious. “Oh, but wouldn’t I like to try?”
Hildy appeared to be as helpless against his charm as every other female. “You’re a naughty one,” she said when Mick gave her one of those come-try-me grins. “I’m going to pray for you.”
Mick raised a brow. “And where are you going to do that?”
Hildy frowned, her old lady lips puckering out and her forehead descending over her eyebrows. “Don’t remind me.”
Caro met Mick’s eye over the old lady’s head. “Problems?”
“Hildy isn’t a favorite of Miss Hester’s at the local church.” Then Mick gently put his arm across her shoulders for a quick hug. “That’s okay, some of my favorite people have been kicked out of that church, my sister included.”
Remembering how Sophie had recently been fired and/or quit from her job, and having heard the rumors about the pastor’s sister trying to make trouble for the TV shoot, Caro nodded. “I know what happened with your sister. But I’m sure she’s still welcome at the church. Isn’t everyone?”
“Except me,” Hildy said with a snort. “Miss Hester needs to brighten up. Take a chili powder. Or a Viagra.”
Mick chuckled. “Uh, I think you mean lighten up and take a chill pill. Or a Valium.” Then he plopped down on the arm of the sofa. “Although, maybe a Viagra would improve her mood, too.”
“I don’t understand that Viagra stuff,” Hildy said. “Back in my younger years, any man who’d admit to needin’ it wouldn’t ever have the opportunity to use it again once his gang found out. He’d die of embarrassment—if they didn’t pump his Nancy guts full’a lead first.” She shook her index finger toward Mick. “I bet you never needed it. Or so everyone in this town says.”
Caro couldn’t help it. She stiffened.
“No, I’ve never needed it,” he murmured, meeting Caro’s stare over the old lady’s head. His eyes held something hot and personal, and Caro quickly tried to think of anything but Mick and sex in the same sentence.
Hildy cast Caro an apologetic glance and changed the subject. “Well, as for Miss Hester, she just needs to get a sense of humor.”
“I agree,” Mick concurred. “I almost fell face-first into my spaghetti dinner from laughing. I certainly wasn’t offended by what you said.”
“That’s not saying much, boy, since I don’t imagine you’d be offended if someone told you you were as randy as an alley cat.”
He paused, then baldly stated, “You’re right. I wasn’t.”
Hildy chortled a bit. And Caro couldn’t help asking, “So, what was it you said that got you in trouble with the pastor’s sister?”
Hildy harrumphed at the memory, then explained. “At the annual spaghetti dinner at the church a few months ago I told Miss Hester I was hungry. That’s all.”
Mick cleared his throat.
Hildy shot him a glare, then grudgingly added, “Very hungry.”
As if knowing the woman wasn’t about to tell the whole story, Mick continued. “She told the whole congregation that she was hungry enough to eat the leg off the lamb of God.”
Caro sucked her lips between her teeth to bite back a laugh. There was something to look forward to in old age—being able to get away with being absolutely outrageous.
Hildy shook her head in sorrow. “I knew I shouldn’ta. I shoulda said the first thing that came to my head, which was that I was hungry enough to eat the bum off a low-flying duck.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer to whisper, “But I didn’t think bum was appropriate to say in a church-type setting.”
This time, Caro couldn’t hold the laugh in.
“See? She can take a joke. She has a sense of humor. Now, you rascal, you’ve made fun of me enough for today. Be good or I’ll sick Moe on you.”
“I thought Moe never left the property.” He glanced at Caro. “Moe’s the ghost of a mobster. He lives in the inn.”
“I’ve heard about the ghosts,” Caro said. “But we’ve yet to see any. We’re hoping they’ll show up during the shoot.”
“Somehow, I have the feeling Moe “Six Fingers” Marcini and his pals are only around when Hildy needs someone to get her out of trouble.”
Hildy tsked. “Making fun again…well, mock if you will. One of these nights I’ll have Moe go visit your bedroom and see if you’re really all the stories say you are.”
Caro could have answered that question. Yes, he is. But she kept her mouth shut.
Finally, Hildy sauntered out of the trailer, leaving Caro alone with a laughing Mick.
“What a character,” Caroline said.
“You can’t begin to imagine. Gwen and Jared love her to pieces. We all do.”
Caro liked that about Mick. She’d never seen him interact with people outside his own circle before. Mainly, women in his circle. But seeing his tenderness, his good humor, the care with which he’d hugged her and his playful relationship with a woman old enough to be his grandmother somehow surprised her. It wasn’t the type of friendship a no-good playboy would cultivate. Was it?
“So, what are you doing here?” she asked once Mick had closed the door firmly behind Hildy.
Without waiting for an invitation, he took Hildy’s recently vacated spot on the love seat. He crossed his long, khaki-clad legs and gave the trailer a once-over. “I figured it was time to check out the madhouse. I’ve been hearing stories.”
“Stories?” she asked, instantly worried.
“Nothing too dramatic.” He grinned. “Yet.”
“Just wait ’til this afternoon when the cast gets here,” she mumbled, wearily brushing a lone strand of hair off her forehead and tucking it behind her ear.
His voice lowered. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sleeping okay?”
In my big lonely bed?
She choked down the question, wondering where it had come from. She did not want to share a bed with Mick Winchester. Been there. Done that. Never gonna happen again
.
Yes, it had been good enough to almost make her have an orgasm sitting here thinking about it, but that was way in the past. Way, way, way in the past.
Probably he wasn’t that good anymore, anyway. Probably he’d grown older and boring and wouldn’t spend hours kissing, licking and stroking every inch of her skin. Probably he wouldn’t still be able to torment her by bringing her to the very brink of climax over and over again until she would sob and beg him to take her over the edge. Probably he couldn’t take her over that edge a half dozen times in one night.
Probably she should kill herself right now before she started moaning just sitting here thinking about what it had been like to make love to this man.
“You okay, Caroline?”
“Fine.” Whose weak, breathy voice was that? Not hers, not the strong assistant producer who’d all week been barking orders and soothing feathers ruffled by Renauld Watson.
God, Mick reduced her to a sighing girl merely by sitting in the same room. She stiffened in her chair. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m family.”
Not her family. But he’d almost been, hadn’t he? If she’d gone through with it and decided to marry a man who was destined to break her heart over and over again, yes, he would have been.
The thought hurt her so much she had to drop her hands to her lap and press them against her suddenly tight and aching stomach. That was as close to her tight and aching heart as she could get without him suspecting how much he affected her.
“You do remember that Jared’s my cousin, don’t you? As a matter of fact, I’m pretty much responsible for him and Gwen hooking up.” He gave her a secretive smile that invited her to ask him to share a good story.
She didn’t ask. “Right. So feel free to visit your family in the inn. This is the production trailer. Essentially, my office.” Now she’d nailed the voice. The prissy, snotty, “get outta my life” voice she’d been going for.
But it didn’t even phase him. He looked around and gave her a mournful shake of the head. “As far as offices go, this one pretty well sucks, doesn’t it?”