by Ann Yost
“Happy now?”
Her gaze fixed on the body part nearest her face, the same part she’d felt pressing against her earlier.
A terrible thought occurred. “Tell me we did not have sex.”
He glanced down at himself, a rueful smile on his lips. “I think I can safely promise you we did not have sex. At least, not recently.”
Chapter Five
Nick grimaced as he adjusted his jeans. He was damn lucky he could get them zipped at all. What the hell was going on? How had he wound up in bed with Daisy Budd of all people? Christ. He knew he hadn’t been that drunk. His temples throbbed as he searched the room for his shirt.
Damn. What a nightmare. He’d meant to stay away from her. Not that he’d crossed the line. The persistent tension in his groin assured him he hadn’t made love with anybody. But he’d been close enough to feel her warmth and sweet feminine curves, close enough to get viciously turned on. She’d been pissed as hell.
Well, hell. He’d hoped to sneak through enemy lines using Junie as a shield. Daisy was already suspicious and now she’d been warned. He knew she’d amass her troops along the border and it would be a helluva lot harder to get in.
Harder. Drums pounded in Nick’s lower body. What was the matter with him? He shouldn’t be this turned on. She was the plain Budd sister. He had to pull himself together. Just when he needed all his wits against the Gray Lady’s owner, he felt like road kill.
He thrust his fingers through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck, sucked in a deep breath and followed her out into the cabin’s main room. She faced the window over the sink. Her puke pink night shirt hugged her gently rounded hips and revealed shapely legs. Her hair corkscrewed in all directions as if it had lost a battle with an eggbeater.
He braced himself for hysteria but it didn’t come. Instead, she turned and handed him a Betty Rubble glass filled with dog pee.
“It’s kumquat juice. Good for whatever ails you.” She nodded at the Flintstones’ logo. “I figured this was your special glass.”
Nick accepted the rank-looking drink.
“Nah. That one was mine.” He indicated the glass in her hand embellished with Dino the Dinosaur. A half-smile appeared on her full lips. He watched her throat work as she swallowed the liquid. She had a nice throat. A really beautiful throat. Soft and white.
Nick bit back a curse. In his current hardened state any female throat would’ve turned him on.
She sat on one of the 1950’s era metal chairs at the Formica-topped table.
“I think we’d better talk.”
“You gonna ask me what I’m doing here?”
She shook her head and the red curls bounced. She looked just like Orphan Annie.
“You figured the place would be empty, right? You’d no way of knowing that I’d rented the cabin from your Aunt Isabelle.”
He lifted one eyebrow. The small muscles protested. He must’ve had more to drink than he’d thought. “You live here?”
She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “A more observant person might have noticed my Jeep in the clearing or my body in the bed but I imagine you’d been drinking.”
He grimaced. She was right.
“I’m sorry, Nick.” The unexpected sympathy sliced through him. “It had to be hard on you to come to meet with your family after seven years and to find the mortuary changed. You probably drove out here for some peace and quiet and here I am.”
“Goldilocks.”
She chuckled. Miss Daisy Budd appeared to have recovered from her encounter with his rude male body.
“Why here?”
“The cabin? No one ever used it. I imagine your aunt expected you’d never come here again. She offered it to me.”
“You’ve got that big house on Pine Street.”
“What would you choose? A rambling ex-funeral home or a cozy cottage?”
Her grin lit up her whole face and something moved in his chest. He felt an answering smile curve his lips. “Touché.”
“You, on the other hand, have the entire Bowman mansion in which to bed down.”
His smile died. “I’d prefer the cabin.”
For a moment they sat in silence. Nick found himself string at the soft cotton nightshirt that outlined a pair of high, firm breasts. Damn. His zipper pressed against the swollen flesh underneath.
“Nick?”
Her voice was high and breathless and something else. Annoyed? Excited? He stared into hazel eyes as he read the words printed on the cotton.
“For your fairytale wedding, come to Happily Here After.”
She made a face. “Caro’s idea of a joke.”
Caro. The sister he’d dated and abandoned. He heard the tightness in her voice.
“Is that the reason you don’t trust me, Daisy? Because I dated your sister?”
She shrugged. “You abandoned your family. You weren’t here for Theo’s death. Bowman’s Biscuits needs your help but you aren’t planning to stay. You mistreated my sister. And speaking of sisters, I know Junie said you could help us clean up the cellar at the Gray Lady but I’m countermanding that.” She ticked off the reasons as if she’d spent plenty of time reviewing them.
“You have something against free help?”
“I’ve got it covered. I’m sure you have more important things to do in town.”
He noted the flash in her golden eyes. There was more going on here than her reluctance to accept help from a Bowman. He’d find out what it was. In the meantime, he’d have to go to Plan B. Just as soon as he figured it out. Her next words took him by surprise.
“You look exhausted.”
More sympathy?
“You ought to get back to Bowman Mansion and get some rest.”
“I told you. I can’t sleep there.”
The statement was automatic and stark and completely true.
Daisy didn’t question it. She met his eyes. “All right. You can finish the night on my sofa. But tomorrow you’ve got to find somewhere else to stay.”
The cushions sagged and the print was faded and stained on the broken-down, too-short sofa but he’d take what he could get.
“Thanks.”
He limped across the room and collapsed. He did not hear her move but he felt the soft blanket she tucked around his shoulders and he inhaled that scent of fresh wildflowers. Daisy’s scent.
His eyelids flickered. “Thanks.”
“This is the daisy quilt my Gran made me,” she said. “Don’t get sick on it.”
****
The cabin needed a fresh coat of paint.
Daisy came to that unsurprising conclusion after she stared at the watermarks above her bed long enough to see the outline of an animal in the stains. It was a wolf with ghostly gray eyes.
Good grief.
Insomnia wasn’t new. During the past couple of years she’d tried to carve out a career in journalism in a small town on the other side of the state while worrying about her family back in Mayville, she’d experienced plenty of sleepless nights.
This was not the same generalized anxiety. It was different. Tonight every nerve was wired. Tonight she couldn’t sleep because her hormones were Mexican jumping beans. Tonight’s trouble could be traced ten feet to the man sleeping on her sofa.
The unfortunate crush of her teen-aged years had morphed into an even more unfortunate cataract of adult desire.
Daisy squeezed her eyes shut. She did not need this right now. Or ever. She did not need this man jumping into the middle of her already out-of-control life.
She did not want him. Or, maybe it was more accurate to say, she didn’t want to want him.
Dang.
Daisy willed herself to focus on something else but each time she closed her eyes she pictured the hair on his chest and the way it feathered across his muscles to meet in a thin dark line that arrowed toward his groin. She pictured the groin, too, with its flare of dark curls and its jutting erection. Merde! She was getting as bad as Junie.
&n
bsp; She needed an air conditioner. Or a lobotomy.
****
Nick grunted in pain. His neck was bent in two like a chicken ready for the pan. He’d smacked his knee against the coffee table sometime during the night and his temples throbbed. To add insult to injury he’d awakened with a particularly painful morning arousal.
He blamed Daisy Budd for all of it.
Daisy Budd and her damned quilt. The scent made it impossible for him to forget the way her soft flesh had tucked into the curve of his body last night.
Nick knew she’d been turned on. Just before she’d exploded like a scalded cat he’d felt the tight nipples against his forearm and the heat of her body under that nightshirt. She’d wanted him. Of course, that was before she’d recognized him.
And he sure as hell wanted her.
It was out of the question. Wrong woman, wrong time, wrong place.
He stared out the kitchen window at the silhouettes of the tall evergreens around Trout Lake. The sun hadn’t yet reached the horizon. In a few minutes it would flirt with the pine branches as it climbed into the sky.
An unexpected wave of nostalgia rolled through him as he remembered those childhood summer mornings with Buzz and his dad and Pops.
Pops.
Nick inhaled Daisy’s scent and his body tightened again driving away the old pain. He needed a cold shower but he wasn’t gonna tempt fate by using hers. He folded the blanket, gathered his clothes and headed for the screened door. The ugliest cat he’d ever seen sat crossed his path. Its tail looked as if it had been attacked by moths.
Nick pushed open the door.
“C’mon fella. Let’s both get some fresh air.”
****
With the first faint rays of daylight Daisy gave up the fantasy of sleep. She dressed in a turquoise skirt with an Aztec pattern in yellow, coral, orange, red and black and a lemon yellow tank top. She fastened the clasp on her squash blossom necklace and added a silver cuff and she pulled her hair up into a loose fountain out of deference to the heat and humidity of the morning. At least she’d be fully dressed this time when she faced Nick Bowman.
Only she didn’t face Nick. He wasn’t on the sofa or in the kitchen or bathroom. She peered out the screened door. He was gone but his car wasn’t. She stepped onto the porch. The mirror-like surface of Trout Lake in the morning always made Daisy catch her breath. Today her breath was short for a different reason. A pair of tanned arms powered through the water as if there was no resistance at all.
He finished his workout then swam back toward the dock. Instead of hoisting himself up on the wooden structure he swam until he reached the shallows and then he stood, tall, broad-shouldered and naked. Poseidon, rising from the water, complete with trident.
Junie was right. The guy was a genetic jackpot.
She had thought herself hidden but his eyes crinkled at her and his hard mouth crooked into a smile. Her heart crashed against her ribs even as she tried to remind herself that his male beauty wasn’t enough to make up for his neglect of her sister.
She could not allow him to come out to the cabin anymore. While he pulled on a pair of jeans she practiced the words she’d use to draw boundaries but she never got a chance to use them. She heard his voice and looked up.
“Thanks for the hospitality.” He ducked into the Malibu and within seconds, he’d disappeared down the dirt road.
“You’re welcome,” Daisy murmured. Larry waved his ragged tail.
Chapter Six
“I want a Romanov theme,” the young woman said, with supreme confidence, “and I know exactly how I want to execute it.”
Junie choked back a laugh and Daisy sent her a sharp glance. They simply couldn’t make fun of the clients. Stacey Burlingame couldn’t be more than nineteen years old but she took her wedding plans very seriously.
“A Romanov wedding sounds lovely,” Daisy said, hastily. “White and silver and crystal? Very romantic.”
Stacey nodded. She twirled a lock of her blonde hair. A budding bridezilla unless Daisy missed her guess.
“I want a horse-drawn sleigh,” Stacey went on, “and the groomsmen will dress as Cossacks.”
“My dear!” Stacey’s mother sounded horrified. “That won’t do at all. Too war-like.”
Not to mention too hot for the unfortunate attendants.
Stacey proceeded as if she hadn’t heard. “The bridesmaids will wear peasant clothing and I want a wolfhound to be ring bearer.”
“You want a dog in the ceremony?” This time Junie couldn’t repress her reaction. “Quelle horreur!”
“Animals are difficult to control.” Daisy raised her voice to drown out her sister’s comment, an unnecessary effort since Stacey wasn’t listening to anyone but herself.
“The cake should be shaped like the Russian church with the rounded top.”
“St. Basil’s Cathedral,” Daisy murmured, “with the onion dome.”
Junie’s eyes brightened. “I can totally make that shape!”
Daisy grimaced as she remembered Junie’s recent “tit” cake.
“And,” Stacey decreed, “I want falling snow.”
“Snow is hard to guarantee,” Daisy warned, “even during a Michigan winter.”
“Winter? Oh, no! The wedding is June seventeenth,” Stacey said.
“A year from the day Dennis finally caved,” her mother murmured.
Stacey extended her left hand to display a sparkling diamond the size of a golf ball.
“I’m afraid there is no snow in June.”
“Can’t you make some? That’s what they do at ski resorts.”
Daisy shook her head. “No snow.”
The mother’s relieved smile countered the bride’s scowl. Daisy found the physical resemblance between the women somewhat startling. All that separated Eunice Burlingame from her daughter were twenty years and forty pounds. And a few grains of common sense.
“If I can’t have snow I want my second choice.” Stacey’s mouth pursed in a practiced pout. “Lord of the Rings.”
Her mother wrung her hands. “Heavens, dear. The wedding party would be full of trolls and wookies.”
Daisy decided it was time to take control.
“What would you say to an Arabian Nights fantasy? Or Cinderella. You could arrive in a horse-drawn carriage.”
“The bridesmaids could be the ugly stepsisters,” Junie added, helpfully.
Daisy shot her a repressive look. A dreamy look came over the young woman’s face.
“You know my favorite movie ever is The Little Mermaid.”
“Lots of bright fish,” Junie said.
“And water,” Mrs. Burlingame noted. “I don’t know how they would do the water, dear.”
As Junie ran to answer the phone, Daisy explained how they could create the illusion of water with blue fabric and a bubble machine before she escorted them down the stairs. A moment later Junie joined her sister on the front porch.
“Merde. That phone call? A potential client wants a Corpse Bride theme since this is a funeral home.”
“Was a funeral home,” Daisy corrected her. She refused to be discouraged by the world’s reluctance to accept the Gray Lady’s most recent incarnation. She faced a slew of mortgage payments and renovation bills. She’d give the people what they wanted. Within reason.
“Call her back,” Daisy advised. “Tell her we can do a Corpse Bride. Absolutely.”
****
The central offices of Bowman’s Biscuits were not impressive for a company with an annual net income of more than a hundred million dollars and a five-hundred employee payroll.
Theo Bowman refused to “gild the lily.” A biscuit mix factory, he’d said many times, should look like a biscuit mix factory, no more, no less.
Isabelle glanced at the cement block walls as she made her way up the utilitarian staircase. She’d spent little time at the company’s office over the years. She’d never been comfortable here and that hadn’t changed. Anxiety formed a lump in her
stomach. She already regretted the impulse that had prompted her to stop by. When she’d proposed a marriage of convenience to her father’s attorney she had not expected to find in the stone-faced Arthur, a virtual geyser of sexuality. It had been most gratifying until it had stopped six weeks earlier. Isabelle wondered if she’d made a mistake to visit him at his office. Why should he welcome the intrusion in his work day when he no longer welcomed it in the privacy of their bedroom. Isabelle wished she could scurry back to the car but it was too late. Miss Ginger Watson, the company’s receptionist, had recognized her. She offered to accompany her to Arthur’s office. Isabelle thanked her but declined. She knew the way.
Arthur’s long-time secretary, Leilani Harter and she were of an age and friends, after a fashion. Not secretary, Isabelle reminded herself. The modern term was administrative assistant. She and the Harters crossed paths at church and other community events and Leilani and her husband had attended Isabelle and Arthur’s small wedding. Isabelle looked forward to seeing the familiar face but Leilani’s desk chair was empty. Isabelle stood outside her husband’s office door, irresolute and awkward. Should she knock? Should she enter unannounced? A sudden shyness paralyzed her. She told herself to get a grip. She owned a third of the company and this was her husband’s office. She knocked but there was no answer. Isabelle began to worry.
Maybe Arthur had suffered a heart attack. Maybe he was collapsed on the floor with the useless telephone receiver in his hand. Maybe he was already dead. Her heart jumped into her throat and she knocked again. Still no answer. Where in the world was he?
Anxiety made her semi-hysterical and she feared she’d start to scream. Instead, she turned the knob and stepped inside the door. She gaped at the man seated behind his large, walnut desk. He did have the telephone receiver in his hand but he spoke into it. He looked at her and held up a finger to indicate he’d be another minute. She used the time to recover her equilibrium.
“My goodness you gave me a turn,” she said, when he hung up. She waited for him to rise to greet her and was shocked when he remained seated. He indicated the chair across from him and she sat.