by Cara Bristol
Long Shot
(Corbin's Bend #5)
by
Cara Bristol
Copyright 2014 Lazy Day, LLC and Cara Bristol
www.lazydaypub.com
Long Shot: Corbin's Bend #5
ISBN: 978-1-62750-4508
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Copyright © 2013 Cara Bristol
Cover art by ABCD Graphics and Design
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, any events or locales is purely coincidental. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission from the publisher LazyDay, with the exception of quotes used in reviews and critical articles.
Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
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Chapter One
Abby blew a huff of air to lift her sweaty bangs from her forehead and dug her fingers into the large box growing heavier by the second and halted outside the stairwell door of the second floor walk-up. Balancing on one leg like a stork, she rested the cardboard container marked FRAGILE on one knee and grappled for the knob.
“Let me get that for you,” rumbled a man’s voice.
“Thank you,” she said gratefully, backing up to allow access. Instead of standing aside to allow her to pass after he propped the door open with his foot, he relieved her of the boxes and started up the steps.
Abby blinked and charged after him. The man bounding up the stairs like his load held feathers and not leaded crystal was a stranger. Not so fast, mister. “Excuse me, but do you have any idea where you’re going?” she called in a voice sweeter than high fructose corn syrup.
He threw a glance over his broad shoulder. Teeth as white as his sports attire flashed to reveal lady-killer dimples. “To Quincy Lauder’s, I presume. The only unit up here.”
That he knew her aunt’s name and the building allowed a measure of wariness to recede. She further reasoned since the co-op board vetted all residents, he couldn’t be a homicidal maniac. Unless he didn’t live in town. Perhaps he was a drifter in tennis whites who happened to stray an hour outside of Denver, Colorado, to stop at Auntie Q’s Antiques.
Sometimes her imagination got the better of her.
Still, it would be wise to keep a close watch. Following him, she focused on his muscled buns, strong legs bared by his shorts, the way he climbed without so much as a huff or puff even though he carried a heavy box.
Without warning, he twisted to peer down at her. She raised her gaze from his ass to his eyes alight with a question. She cringed, hoping he hadn’t caught her checking him out. But his slight smile seemed to indicate he had.
At least he had the manners to not mention it. “Keys?” he asked.
“Oh! Of course.” She dug into the back pocket of her jeans. Something else she hadn’t foreseen. How would she have extracted the keys, unlocked the unit, and kept her crystal from tumbling down the stairs? She had needed assistance.
Once again she’d failed to see what should have been obvious. The story of my life.
His woodsy, masculine scent filled the enclosed stairwell, flustering her as she found herself inhaling. She had to try all three keys her aunt had sent before she found the correct one, but she slid it into the tumbler, and they entered a bright, cheery unit.
“Where would you like these?”
Abby did a quick scan. She’d never been here before. After her Uncle Joe had died, her aunt had downsized and applied for this smaller unit over the antique store she owned. “The kitchen, I guess.” She spun around, trying to guess which direction, but Joe made a beeline for a room at the back of the unit. Abby scurried after him.
Her aunt’s harvest table, dressed with a vase of daisies, rested in the center of the kitchen. Lacy curtains adorned a window overlooking the alley behind the shop. An antique stove, the kind most people purchased for decoration rather than use, sat under it. Abby glanced around, taking in the hardwood floors—hand hewn to appear rustic—and reclaimed cabinets complete with wavy glass and a dish rack over the farmhouse sink.
From a very modern crockpot wafted a delicious smell, and Abby peeked through the domed glass lid to see a small roast. Beef? Pork? Her stomach rumbled.
Her aunt’s quaint, homey place reminded her so much of what she’d lost, a lump of residual anger and sadness clogged Abby’s throat. Damn him. Damn me for being so clueless.
“Is something wrong?”
Abby snapped her attention to her helper. She had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. He towered over her by a foot.
“No.” She shook her head. “Why would you say that?”
“Your expression looked sad.”
“Just wool-gathering.” Abby tucked her thumbs into the pockets of her faded jeans, the knee ripped not because of fashion but because she’d caught it on the trailer hitch, and tried to act nonchalant. The man’s size and presence shrank the kitchen to the size of closet. “Well, uh, thank you for your help… I’d better finish unloading.”
“I’ll give you a hand with the rest of it. I’m Harris Montgomery, by the way.”
“Abigail—Abby—Delaney. Quincy Lauder is my great aunt,” she said, and allowed his warm palm to engulf hers. She stared at his large hand, his skin neither rough nor soft, the nails well-shaped and smooth. Perfect for spanking. She shivered. Was he one of them? A spanko? He lived in Corbin’s Bend, didn’t he?
You live in Corbin’s Bend now.
That’s different.
Home was the place when you had to go there they had to take you in.
But that didn’t apply to her aunt. They’d always been close, and Aunt Quincy had such a generous spirit she hadn’t hesitated to fling open her door so Abby could get back on her feet.
Harris released her hand. “So what brings you to Corbin’s Bend?”
Abby blinked. Odd that his question seemed to pick up the thread of her thoughts. You’re being fanciful. It’s a natural question to ask a newcomer.
So what had brought her to Corbin’s Bend? The chance to recover from a broken heart. Shattered trust. Financial ruin.
“My husband and I divorced.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “His loss.” But hers too. She’d forfeited so much—hopes, dreams, the Victorian house she’d inherited from Grammy, the antiques she’d begun to furnish it with. All had gone to pay for the debts Dale racked up without her consent.
“Yes it is.” The glint of appreciation in his eyes seemed to indicate he wasn’t being polite, but he meant what he said.
Unused to the attention, Abby fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other. She and Dale had been high school sweethearts. Twenty-six years old now, she’d never dated—slept with—anyone but her ex. She scrutinized Harris from beneath her lashes. How old was he? Thirty-ish, perhaps? He radiated confidence and experience. No doubt he’d had way more than one sexual partner. He’d probably be very good in bed. What’s wrong with you! She chastised herself and glanced at his hands again. Hands that could stroke and caress. Spank. Discipline.
She slammed a lid on that kettle of disturbances and lifted her gaze to his face. The
flop of hair over his forehead and the small scar beneath his left eye hinted at a rakish, devil-may-care personality. A man who took risks?
She’d always played it safe. But where had that gotten her?
“Well, um. Again…thank you for your help.” Rattled, she cued him to leave.
“I’ll carry up the rest of your boxes.”
“You don’t have to do that. Moving can be dusty, dirty.” I’d like to get dirty with him.
Where had that thought come from? Flustered, she wet her lips. “I wouldn’t want you to mess up your nice white clothes.”
He arched his eyebrows, and she remembered she had dressed in white.
“This is just a T-shirt.” She plucked at the cotton fabric, which she’d dressed up by sewing a vintage lace collar around the neckline and hem and adding some pearl buttons to the sleeves.
“And I’ve already played tennis in these clothes, so it’s no problem,” he said, and headed downstairs before she could fabricate a better excuse.
Abby wondered why he unnerved her so much. He seemed like a nice man—maybe even a neighbor—who knew her aunt and who’d stopped by to lend a hand.
“Do you live around here?” she asked, trailing behind him.
“I have a unit about a mile away. I happened to be passing by, and I saw you wrestling with the boxes.”
Curbside, he swept his gaze over the tiny moving trailer hitched to her subcompact car. “When will the rest of your things arrive?” he asked.
“This is it,” she said. Everything she had left fit into the smallest trailer the rental company had with space to spare.
“You travel light,” he commented.
Not by choice. She made a noncommittal noise and veered away from a painful topic. “And what brought you to Corbin’s Bend?”
Duh. Why did anyone—other than her, of course—move here? Because they sought an open spanking lifestyle.
Harris cocked his head and those killer dimples creased his cheeks. “Would you believe a good business opportunity?”
Her turn to arch her eyebrows with skepticism.
The vibration of his chuckle did funny things to her tummy. “I had money to invest, and the opportunity to buy the Wash and Go came available. I support the community standards, believe in the principles of domestic discipline.”
There. He’d laid it all out, but Abby couldn’t resist yanking his chain. She cocked her head. “So you’re a man who likes to be spanked?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Oh sweetheart. I like a woman with a sense of humor.”
His amused rumble sent shivers up her spine, and her stomach fluttered at the casual endearment. But she chided herself for her reaction—and for flirting in the first place. She’d come to Corbin’s Bend to lick her wounds—not start something with a sexy spanko car wash owner.
Harris grabbed a box and nodded toward the others. “Pile a couple more on top,” he directed, and assumed control of the unloading. Abby hesitated. She wasn’t his woman to be taken in hand. Not by any definition.
“Be a good girl.” Brown eyes crinkled with amusement as if he knew her thoughts.
Abby plunked a box atop the one he held a little harder than necessary, then added a third. She grabbed a box herself and followed him up the stairs. “Stack them against the wall over there.” She pointed to an open space next to an antique buffet in the living room. The items he carried belonged in her bedroom, but she and he alone in a room with a bed? Not going to happen. Of course, nothing would happen, but the contemplation of being alone with this stranger in an intimate personal space made her stomach squiggly.
She hadn’t even seen her room yet. Her aunt had said she could have the one at the end of the hall.
It was a testament to how little she had left—or his strength and ability to carry multiple boxes at once—that they unloaded the trailer in minutes. When only the pile of clothing and shoes in her car’s backseat remained, she thanked him for his efforts, but put her foot down and made it plain she would need no further assistance from him.
“Then I’ll be on my way,” he said. He tipped an imaginary hat, and she got the impression he was laughing at her. “I’ll see you soon, Abby Delaney.”
Without him, it took Abby twice as long to carry in her clothing as it had taken him to unload the trailer. Midway through, her legs ached from climbing the stairs, and she wondered if she’d been hasty in dismissing him.
Or not.
She needed to be strong and stand on her own feet.
Opposite her aunt’s, her room, though small, charmed her with its filmy curtains framing the window, and a beautiful full size antique sleigh bed readied with fresh sheets. Lace edged the pillowcases. Rather than a nightstand, a small dresser served as the bedside table.
Abby located the box with her quilt sewn by her grandmother, unpacked it and draped it over the bed. She hung up her clothing in the tall armoire and put away what she could in the nightstand.
From outside, a door slammed and her aunt’s excited voice called out. “Abby, honey? Are you here?”
Abby dashed down the hall. “Aunt Quincy!” she exclaimed seconds before she was enveloped into a tight sandalwood and lavender scented embrace. Then her aunt thrust her away. “Let me look at you.” Hawk-like eyes scanned Abby’s face, swept over her from head to toe. “You’re too thin. You haven’t been eating.”
Abby lifted one shoulder. “I’m okay.” But her appetite had vanished under stress. Some days she forgot to eat at all. But she smiled as she assessed her aunt’s appearance. A purple crinkled broomstick skirt swirled over rounded hips to flick at the tops of lace-up Victorian boots. An emerald tunic top overlaid by a black crocheted vest completed the bohemian style so much a part of her aunt’s personality. “You haven’t changed a bit. You look great,” Abby said.
Her aunt laughed and patted her hips. “I’m not wanting for something to eat, anyway.”
She squeezed Abby in another hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”
Abby twisted her mouth with regret. Aunt Quincy and Uncle Joe had been fixtures during her childhood, much like Grammy, and she’d shuttled between their homes to spend large chunks of summer vacation. “I should have come sooner.”
“You’ve had a lot on your plate, I understand,” Aunt Quincy said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you. I’d planned to be, but the estate auction lasted longer than expected.”
“Did you get something good?”
Her aunt’s face lit up. “Oh boy, did I!” She chortled. “It isn’t often I encounter a stash of vintage spanking implements. People were yucking it up and making lots of jokes, but nobody bid. I got them for the minimum. A steal. I paid for them, but have to go back tomorrow with the van to pick them up. The shop will be closed on Sunday. Maybe you’ll come for a ride? It’s about a half hour drive. Afterwards, I can give you a quick tour and show you what’s changed around Corbin’s Bend since the last time you were here.”
“I’d love to,” Abby said. Growing up, she had had no idea her paternal great aunt and uncle practiced domestic discipline until five years ago when they shocked the family by moving to Corbin’s Bend, a housing co-op located northwest of Denver, Colorado. A group of spankos from New York had founded and built the community from the ground up. Aunt Quincy and Uncle Joe had lived in a large unit off Spanking Loop, the main thoroughfare. Abby had been the only one to visit them there, but she hadn’t been back since before her divorce from Dale.
Two years ago, Uncle Joe had died of a cerebral hemorrhage. Aunt Quincy had taken some time to mourn, and then six months ago, had pursued her lifelong dream and opened up Auntie Q’s Antiques, and moved from the large house to the unit above the shop.
At sixty-three years young, Aunt Quincy had become a businesswoman. “I’m so proud of you,” Abby said, and hugged her aunt.
“I’m proud of you too, honey. You’ve grown into a lovely, young woman.”
“Th
ank you,” Abby said, although she didn’t feel young or lovely. She felt ancient, jaded.
Her aunt planted her hands on her hips and assessed the stack of boxes. “I should have been here to help you unload.”
Abby tucked a lock of hair behind her ears. “Uh, I had help. Harris Montgomery happened by and carried in most of the boxes.”
“You met Harris?” Her aunt clapped her hands. “Wonderful. He’ll be joining us for dinner Tuesday.”
Abby stifled a groan. “No.” She shook her finger at her aunt. “Stop right there.”
Her aunt spread her hands. “Stop what?” Her feigned confusion didn’t fool Abby one bit. Quincy Lauder lived to fix people up, her zeal fed by an uncommon success at matchmaking and a refusal to take no for answer. When it came to meddling, she rolled over opposition like a benevolent tank. But Abby had spotted the matchmaking machinery approaching from a long way off and had plenty of time to leap out of the way.
“You have good intentions, but it’s too soon for me to date.”
“Your divorce has been final for a year. It’s time you started living again.”
“I am living. Dating, however, is another matter.”
“You have to admit Harris is cute.”
Cute? Puppies and kittens were cute. Harris was a rakish hunk of masculinity. But if she admitted that to her aunt, she would pounce like a predatory cat on a lame gazelle. Abby wouldn’t have a chance. “He was all right.“ Suspicious now, she narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t ask Harris to drop by here, did you?”
“No, but it would have been a good idea.”
Abby scrutinized her aunt for signs of subterfuge. Quincy Lauder didn’t hesitate to bend the truth a little if she could arrange a love connection. But her denial appeared to be sincere. Abby sighed. If only she’d been capable of reading Dale as easily as she could read her aunt. But by the time she’d figured out his lies, it had been too late.
“Come.” Her aunt beckoned. “Let me show you the shop, and then I’ll help you unpack.”