Man in Black

by Melissa Shirley

  In character, she circled him, eyeing his backside with the appreciation she usually reserved for the pie cabinet at Kelly’s. She tapped her finger against her chin as she came back to his front side. “You’re kind of scrawny without the leather jacket.” Squeezing a bicep between her fingers, she inhaled more sharply than she’d planned, but hid it behind a cough. “And you don’t technically live here.”

  “Scrawny?” He frowned, spinning with her as she continued to walk around him.

  “And you don’t live here,” she said again.

  “How do you know?”

  Oh yeah. She had him now. She added an extra sniff as the scent of his cologne made her body hum in a way that betrayed her intention to remain immune to him. “Because if you’d taken residence anywhere inside or even close to the city limits, I’d know. The town would have probably imploded.” With a shrug, she crossed her arms not willing to give up the pretense of not knowing him just yet. She wanted to do some research before she climbed up into his business. “You know. Two single people in town under the age of thirty.”

  “I’m thirty-three.”

  She shook her head, rubbing her still sweaty hand over her opposite sleeve. “Anyway, as you were. Sorry I bothered you.”

  “What the hell?” One mock salute and a quick turn later. . . “Hey. I got the letter too,” he called, chasing after her.

  After all of his back of the house planning, buying plane tickets, anonymously sending Mr. July to Hawaii, that little vixen had somehow managed to, without even touching it, convince his dick to do the thinking. Again. Damn him and damn her. He looked down at the little scrap of fabric she’d handed to him.

  Oh, hell no.

  He held it between his thumb and forefinger and walked out of the makeshift dressing room to find the tricky little. . .luscious. . .bitable. . .con-woman—yeah, con-woman—who’d tricked him into doing this. His breath caught when he saw her. Dear God. Those legs, that ass. . .No wonder he hadn’t been able to say no to her. There wasn’t a straight man alive who would be able to.

  Camera in hand, she directed poor Santa like an angry drill sergeant on speed. “Turn your head to the left.” Mr. December turned to the right. If she took the shot from this angle, she would end up with a nice picture of the back of Santa’s hat. “Your other left. Look at me.” Frustration raised her volume, but she finished with a muttered, “Idiot.” Fake snow dotted her blond hair and clung to all the better parts of her body.

  Jesse marched over to where she stood and tapped her shoulder. To his credit, he jerked his hand away without dusting the white powder from the curve of her left breast, but his gaze remained pointed at the spot for a second longer than necessary or smart. When recounting baseball scores in his mind didn’t work to soften his hard-on, he looked over at Principal Miller. A couple deep breaths and a mental picture of the old woman in her workout gear, and his body came back under his control. Yep. Worked then, works now.

  “Hey, Santa.” Ryhan’s voice held a note of the same anger she’d spit at the rock star that morning as she’d rearranged his bedroom. “Would you stop leering at me and try to smile like you’re not a serial killer? We only have to get one good picture. Just one.”

  Santa—Danny Miller from Jesse’s high school English class, a man who’d yet to say a word to Jesse though they’d been friends, had one boot propped on a fake brick chimney, his red, fur-lined shirt wide open, and a big black bag of presents tossed over his shoulder. His wiry, white beard hung sideways off his chin as a little old lady aimed a vacuum hose blowing white confetti snow at him.

  “Jesus, Danny. Now you look constipated.” Ryhan threw her free hand up. “Let’s take a break.” She whirled away from Santa and bumped her head on Jesse’s chest.

  Holy shit. That morning, she’d been angry, driving as though she needed to outrun the devil himself. He’d been too busy holding on to notice much more than the electricity in her eyes. Later, she’d distracted him again by thrashing him with her sharp tongue for asking if she needed a ride. Oh sure. He’d noticed the curve of her face, the fullness of her breasts, the perfection of her ass, and the spark of her brand of fire. But now, standing there with her cheeks flushed, her hair raked into sections from running her fingers through it, and a determined line of her lips, it was easy to sum her up—frustrated angel. His heart rate sped up. His thought process slowed.

  “What?” She pushed the words from between two rows of sparkling white teeth.

  He held up the Speedo and followed her to a table lined with refreshments. “First, I’m not wearing this.”

  As she poured a cup of coffee, a little glimmer of meanness danced across her face. “If you’re afraid you won’t fill it out, you can stuff it with a sock.”

  What? “I don’t need a sock.”

  Ryhan set her cup down and crossed her arms. Her gaze ventured below his belt, and she flipped her eyes right back to his face. “Then”—her voice squeaked and she cleared her throat—“what’s the problem?”

  “The problem? It’s a thong. I have dental floss wider than this.” He snapped the back strap just as Mrs. Miller walked past with her usual expression of disdain. As though he was about to be caught with something to earn him an after-school detention, he shoved the underwear behind his back.

  When he didn’t elaborate further, she raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. “And?”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘first.’ That implies there’s a second or a next or something that lists whatever you feel to be another sin I’ve committed against you.” Her teeth raked her lower lip, then she opened her mouth enough that the tip of her tongue wet one corner before traveling all the way across. His heart stopped as his eyes followed the path.

  She blinked twice, trying to appear bored, but he recognized the look lingering there. He’d seen desire before and lifted a hand to point it out as she worked to wipe it away. She stepped closer, pressing her tiny body into his. She walked her fingers up his chest and lowered her voice to a purr. At this rate, he was going to have a permanent tent in his pants.

  “Listen, pretty boy, the planners worked very hard on putting this calendar together. There were a lot of meetings”—she emphasized it with wide eyes and a shake of her head—“and shopping for props and costumes, and it’s all for a good cause. You don’t want to disappoint a bunch of little old ladies who just want their town to succeed, do you?”

  She licked her lips again, and every drop of blood he owned pounded its way down his body.

  If she would just put her damned tongue away, take one step back, maybe he could reorganize his thoughts and explain whatever he had been meaning to tell her. “Oh. Right.” He looked at the background, the tile floor, into the umbrellaed light stand, trying to clear his thoughts. The strip of fabric dangled from his finger. “I’m not wearing this.”

  She wrapped her fingers around his arm and pulled him away from the woman who still sprayed snow with enthusiasm. Ryhan’s ass rested against the table, and he moved closer as though gravity went horizontal and pulled him nearer to her. An image of holding her with one arm while sweeping the refreshments onto the floor with the other and lowering her to the table propelled his feet forward.

  “Listen, we need you to look sexy and, in this thing, with a little touching up and a few computer enhancements here”—she motioned to broadening his shoulders—“and there”—she pointed to below his belt—“you will. And you’ll sell better.” She grinned. “These women aren’t going to bid very much if they don’t get to see the merchandise.”

  Damn. She leaned closer, smelling like the best combination of sunshine and flowers and his brain clouded. He needed to focus. What had she been babbling about? Bid? Sell? Touching up? “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The bachelor auction?” She clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, blew a calming breath out her nose. “These calendars are like baseball cards but for bachelors instead of athletes, and they promot
e the bachelor auction.” She shook her head quickly, mouth wide open. “The bachelor auction.” Her tone reached an almost shriek, and she turned away but immediately spun back to face him. “You’re bachelor number seven, and these calendars let the bidders build you into some fantasy guy that belongs to them for the sum total of one date.” She leaned in closer as though sharing a state secret with him. “It’s not a big deal. Most of the women just want a night on the town or someone to mow their lawn and drink iced tea on the front porch while ten other old women ogle you from the sidewalk. Or maybe they’ll want something really simple like cleaning their storm gutters. In any case, you’re not a black-market bride, okay?”

  “I’d be a groom.”

  “Not with the way you whine.” She lifted the camera to her eye as Santa moved back to his position in front of the backdrop. “I have to get back to work.” She smiled again, and this time, his blood found its target and his shorts tightened. “You should change.” Once more, she moistened her lips and once more, he shifted his stance.

  “Change?” he asked, distracted by that damned tongue and how badly he wanted to taste her.

  She looked pointedly at his hand.

  “Right. Change.” As she walked away, his head cleared, and he took three steps following her. “I’m still not wearing this.”

  She lowered her camera and glided her fingers up his chest, one reaching his chin and trailing down his neck, her nail teasing his skin. Her voice hovered somewhere between a whisper and a breathy come-get-me tone. “Are you trying to make me beg?”

  God, she was good. At this rate, he might never be able to walk normally again. But a Speedo? Really?

  Of course, this auction would give him the opportunity to weasel his way into the town’s inner circle. Nothing in Rangers End was more powerful than the gossip network for gaining intel, and more than anything he needed intel if he wanted any chance of starting a bidding war the town couldn’t win.

  Ryhan shook her head and stepped closer, upping the tension between them before sliding her hand from his throat to his waistband. This was a woman who purred like a sex-kitten, roared like a tiger, and attacked like a lion. She wasn’t above using her body to get her way, and he had to admit he couldn’t really recall what he’d come out of the dressing room to speak with her about.

  “These women are some of my very best friends, and they have been saving their social security checks for months, waiting for this one night where they can let loose, stop being the pillars of our society, and relive their glory days with a hot stud like you on their arm.”

  He cocked his head to one side and grinned. “You think I’m hot.”

  “Don’t get too cocky, pretty boy.” She waved an arm at the Christmas-y backdrop. “This is your competition.” As though a part of their conversation, Santa flipped open one side of his jacket, licked his lips and circled his nipple with his index finger. She snapped a photo. “That one’s going in the paper, Danny.” She turned back to Jesse. “Come on. Play nice. It’s for a bunch of little old ladies.”

  The idea of playing with anyone but her appealed less by the minute, and his resolve to fight it weakened. Maybe he should just take her to bed and get her out of his system. That was definitely a plan he could get behind. Now, to convince her. . .

  She drew away, frustration in her narrowed eyes and tight-lined lips. “Fine. If you let me take your picture in that, and you don’t bring in the most money, I’ll-I’ll. . .” She threw her hands up and blew out a puffy-cheeked breath.

  He pictured sweaty skin and rumpled sheets. Looking around for Mrs. Miller, the perfect antidote to anything sexual so he didn’t embarrass himself, he counted to ten. He grinned, thinking of the feathery touch of Ryhan’s hand against his skin and the way his body responded. “You’ll go out with me Saturday night.”

  Color made its way up her chin, to her cheeks and across her forehead. She stepped away and crossed her arms. “I already told you, pretty boy. Not happening.”

  He held up his hands, the swimsuit dangling from his index finger. “I’ll leave all my video equipment at home.” She cocked an eyebrow and tightened the line of her lips. “And I’ll wear the Speedo.”

  “Now or on the date?”

  “Both, if you think you can handle it.”

  Her skin pinked, but she smiled. “Oh, I can handle it, and it does sweeten the pot a bit, but it isn’t going to matter. I’m going to win this bet because these ladies are going to go crazy when they see you in that.”

  “Then I guess I’ll be wearing this all alone on Saturday night.”

  He strolled back into the dressing room, glared at the shiny red string of fabric and shook his head. How the hell did this woman manage to keep getting him to do these ridiculous things?

  3

  She’d survived. Barely. Traipsing to her bed, broken heels in hand, Ryhan plopped down and tossed the shoes to the corner as the phone on her night table jingled. She didn’t bother with caller ID. Only one person called so late.

  “Hello, Lana.” Lana had been the best foster mother a girl could ever ask for. And if anyone had experience dealing with bad foster mothers, Ryhan did. Young enough to be Ryhan’s much older sister, Lana had been cool, but stern, fun, but strict.

  “How was the photoshoot?” Their regular Sunday lunch had been rescheduled to Monday because of Ryhan’s obligation to the planning commission.

  “Long. I started off late, then Mrs. Weatherly decided to change up the shoot for the April model. April showers suddenly meant an actual shower. I had to drag all of my equipment into the bathroom and deal with the steam fogging up the lens and eleven old women squishing in beside me as I tried to get a good picture. Of course, Jean-Pierre—you remember him?—decided for authenticity’s sake to actually shower in Mrs. Megalos’s guest bath.” He’d stripped down and climbed in, used a hundred-dollar bottle of shampoo to suds himself from head to toe before she’d been allowed to snap one photo.

  “Isn’t he the boy who changed his name from Tommy because he wanted to be French? The one you took to your senior prom? Kind of looks like a cross between Pee-wee Herman and that little doll from the scary movies?”

  Oh yeah. That was him. “Yep.”

  “And?”

  “He wears overalls to church.” Jean-Pierre had only one redeeming quality about him, and it certainly wasn’t his stick figure or anything below his waist—she’d spent forty minutes in a bathroom while he showered—but boy, could he fix a car. He maintained her vintage Pinto. Really, maintained, since vintage, when referencing Ryhan’s car, meant barely salvageable junk.

  “Okay. So, Jean-Pierre isn’t your man.” Lana’s tone turned hopeful, as though somewhere in the mess of her day, Ryhan had snagged a potential husband, relieving her mother from the responsibility of worrying about her. “Every eligible bachelor in the city was half naked in front of you. See anything interesting?”

  Lana was cool, best friend cool, but there was no way Ryhan was going to mention Jesse, especially when she had no idea how to describe the intensity of her reactions to him. “No. I think I’ve learned my lesson about men.”

  “Don’t let them bring a camera into the bedroom?”

  “Ha. Ha.” Well, in her own defense, it wasn’t a lesson they’d taught in high school or college. “Actually, yes, but I learned I don’t need them—men, in general.” Jesse and that damned little swimming suit, and the way he filled it out, squeaked past the wall she’d built in her mind. He definitely hadn’t needed a sock. “If I can’t find a guy like Mark, I don’t want one.”

  Lana laughed. “I know. I got lucky.”

  Mark. The foster father of all foster fathers. They’d come into her life shortly after her fifteenth birthday. After moving them to Rangers End, his first order of business had been to teach her to drive. A car. Through their brand new garage door in their brand new house. He hadn’t meant to teach that part, but in their enthusiasm to spend time with her, they’d all piled into the car and
forgotten to open the door. Instead of yelling at her, locking her in a closet, or taking the belt to her backside, they’d just sat in the car and laughed as random bits of drywall continued to fall on the windshield. For the first time in her life, Ryhan had a real home.

  She nodded. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

  “Oh stop. You’re making me blush.” Lana chuckled. “Did you edit the pictures yet?”

  “No. I just walked in the door when you called.”

  “Okay. Well, I’ll let you go so you can work. How soon do you have to have them at the printer’s?”

  “By midnight, so they can get them formatted and printed for sale in the morning.” Ryhan picked a piece of lint from her well-worn blanket. “I can’t believe the planners waited so long to spring this idea. Usually the auction is in the fall and we have months and months to pull it all together.” She shook her head and scuffed her toe against the floor. “It’s like there’s some big emergency this year.”

  “That’s because they know they don’t need to put it off this year. They know you’ll get it done on time.”

  “From your lips to God’s ear.”

  While the photos loaded onto the computer, Ryhan showered, slipped into her pajamas, and made a fresh pot of coffee. Her long day had just morphed itself into a very long night.

  By ten-thirty, she’d selected, elongated, air-brushed, color brightened and attached eleven out of the twelve required photos to an email waiting to be sent. She had one month left—Mr. July. Of course, Mr. July.

  She’d had a terrible time keeping her eyes and her lens aimed above his waist. She could always blame any blurriness on Jean-Pierre’s impromptu steam bath messing with the shutter speed rather than on her shaking hands. If she’d had a lick of sense, she would have moved Jesse to Mr. May and put him on a Harley in his leather jacket and jeans. Although, the thought of him dressed in leather on top of a motorcycle heated every inch of her skin from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.