She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series)

by Jasmine Haynes

  The afternoon sun crept across the white eyelet bedspread. Bobbie flopped down on it, stretched her legs out. Forty years in man time didn’t mean much, but in woman time it meant the need for facelifts and butt tucks. At least it did if you weren’t loved.

  Bobbie turned her head on the pillow, the sweet fragrance of baby powder and gardenias fluffing out around her, despite the fact that she’d put on fresh sheets. Mrs. Porter’s essence lingered, smelling like a grandmother. Lying on the bed with the sun across her face, the laughter of children coming home from school, and the indestructible imprint of Mrs. Porter on her pillows, Bobbie decided there were probably worse things than butt drop. Things like thinking about Warren and the Cookie Monster.

  But where Roberta Spivey might give up, Bobbie Jones was a force to be reckoned with. Bobbie had a lasagna to deliver, and a serial killer to seduce. After all, a cookie was just a snack while cereal was a whole meal. Take that, Warren.

  Five minutes later, lips glossed, foil-wrapped lasagna in her arms, Bobbie crossed the street. The picket fence was no longer white, but bleached through lack of interest. Its latch broken, the gate swung open at her touch.

  Stopping beneath the sheltering limbs of the first big oak, she shivered. Gee, it was colder on this side of the street, and she got the feeling it wasn’t just being in the shade. She stumbled over a root that had broken through the front walk. As she climbed the steps, they creaked and squished beneath her platform shoes, the wood of the porch old and rotten.

  Lifting the lion’s-head knocker, she let it fall back to the door. And waited.

  No one came to the door.

  Anxiety washed over her in waves. Didn’t he know that she’d had to work herself up to this? How could he not be home?

  She knocked again. The sound echoed uselessly. No one was going to answer.

  Blast him. Had he seen her from the upstairs window and deliberately ignored her? Okay, she was putting too much into it. Warren had always said she catastrophized everything, interpreting every nuance, when there really wasn’t any nuance at all.

  “Who cares what Warren always said,” she whispered, the lasagna warming her arms. “Warren’s gone.”

  She turned the corner of the wide wraparound porch. They didn’t make houses like this anymore.

  And boy, they didn’t make men like that anymore either. All those beautiful muscles working and rippling as he dug a hole in the backyard. Her eyes went wide, her lashes fluttered, and her heart kicked up the beat. The lasagna, nestled against her breasts, overheated her body.

  The serial killer’s naked chest gleamed in a patch of sun in the backyard. Skin bronzed and hairless—thank God, she wasn’t partial to hairy chests—pectoral muscles flexed as he stamped a shovel into the ground. He worked the base with a foot encased in black leather work boots. His jeans hung low on his hips. Bobbie licked her lips, then raised her gaze to his face.

  Her heart stopped. Devil-dark hair hung in his eyes. His face was all sharp angles and strong lines. His jaw tensed as he gave the shovel one more stomp before pulling back on the handle and lifting dirt. His arms bulged.

  Heck, everything bulged.

  Bobbie’s eyes followed a trickle of sweat running down the center of his chest.

  So this was what women got out of watching construction workers. If she hadn’t had an arm full of lasagna, she would have fanned herself.

  A door slammed next door. The serial killer looked up and over as a flurry of white fur pounded against the other side of the fence.

  “Don’t start with me, you little runt, or you’ll be next.”

  Surely he wouldn’t do anything to the little dog. He wasn’t really a serial killer. Was he?

  No, not with a voice like that. It was pure sin. Like warm syrup running along her nerve endings, it begged to be licked off.

  The dog yapped, a series of high-pitched sounds that grated like nails on a chalkboard. So much for her warm, syrupy feeling.

  The serial killer threw down his shovel and reached for a small, wrapped bundle lying at the edge of the hole he’d been digging. He leaned down to set it in the...oh my God, not a hole, but a grave. And that little bundle was some poor dead animal.

  She must have gasped because he looked up, right into her startled eyes. Now she knew how Jimmy Stewart must have felt in Rear Window when Raymond Burr caught Jimmy watching him dispose of his wife’s body parts.

  Chapter Two

  The woman from across the street edged along the side porch with some silver-wrapped casserole thing clutched to her chest like a shield. Nick stuck his thumb through a belt loop.

  Oh yeah, she’d heard the stories about him. No doubt. So what the hell was she doing in his backyard? The good ladies of Cottonmouth wouldn’t come within a hundred feet of his house, let alone venture onto his property. Maybe she was like those women who wrote letters to killers in prison, even married them. The allure of the bad boy. Or maybe she was just pure whacko.

  But a hot little whacko if ever there was one. Easing down the rickety porch stairs, she stepped closer, into a scrap of sun, her red hair dancing with brilliant prisms of light. Surely that color could only be factory born and bred, but he’d never been one to scoff at man’s ingenuity.

  Next door, the mutant mutt’s barking continued, slightly higher, slightly louder, and a whole hell of a lot more irritating. “Princess, I’m warning you...”

  “Don’t you like dogs?”

  “That’s not a dog, it’s a rodent.” Actually, he did like dogs, even had one when he was a kid. A real dog, a malamute named Dodger, who had barked instead of yipped.

  “I have to admit that Princess”—she looked to him to verify the name—“does have a nerve barking at you in your own backyard.”

  Would ya listen to that? Someone in this town actually agreed with him. Call Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Call the Guinness Book of World Records. “Maybe you should make sure Princess hears that.”

  The gutsy woman eased her death grip on the foil-covered offering and dared to take two steps closer, braving the supposed killing fields. She wasn’t young, probably around his age. Tight jeans and form-hugging sweater testified to good genes or a health club membership. Toes and nails painted to match suggested a woman out to make an impression. So again, why in the hell was she in his backyard? A woman like her could do better than the local bogey man.

  Nick picked up his shovel deliberately and began dumping dirt on top of the sheet-shrouded cat.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Burying a cat that got on my nerves.”

  He looked up to gauge her reaction. A step back or a step forward? Only her arms moved, balancing the casserole against her midriff and, in turn, accentuating a very nice pair of breasts. And a telltale impression on the ring finger of her left hand.

  “Did it meow too loudly outside your window?”

  “No, it showed up dead in my yard. I really hate that. The smell, the insects it attracts.” Not to mention nosy neighbors. He’d make an exception for this one; she was far too delectable to send away with a pat on her rump. The thought of cupping that butt made his hands twitch.

  “It just ‘showed’ up? Or did you bludgeon it to death?”

  He almost smiled, then shrugged instead. Why the hell bother to explain? He found himself doing it anyway, simply because she was only the second person to voluntarily walk into his yard in the year since he’d come home. That deserved something. “If I was inclined to bludgeon small animals, I’d start with Princess over there.”

  He tamped down the earth over the now filled hole. Maybe he should start marking the little graves so he didn’t accidentally dig one up.

  “So, you don’t actually kill them.”

  Ah, the serial-killer bit. He couldn’t resist feeding the gossip just to see her reaction. “Animals or humans?”

  Her eyes widened, their color a luscious green that complemented her hair. All his fantasy women had green eyes. He wondered if he could
duplicate her exact shade on canvas.

  “Either,” she said, a hint of a quiver in her voice.

  She’d make sounds like that in bed, he was sure, moans to drive a man over the edge. He leaned on his shovel, let his gaze drift over her breasts. “What do you think? Do I look like I kill cute little animals or sweet young girls? Or both?”

  She chewed her lip. He almost offered to help her with the task. Her taste would be...spicy, like the color of her lipstick. Red-hot. Tongue sizzling.

  The crazy woman smiled then. Like she’d just won the lottery or he’d said the secret word, whatever the hell it was. “I just moved in across the street. I’m Bobbie Jones.” She thrust the foiled dish at him. “I thought it would be neighborly to bring you a lasagna.”

  When other people brought him things, it was usually roadkill he had to bury in the backyard. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around, I bring the new neighbor the lasagna?”

  She tilted her head. “Men don’t cook.”

  “You think they live on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”

  “Something like that.” Hungry green eyes fixated on his naked chest. She licked her lips. His jeans got tighter.

  The last time a woman came bearing gifts, with that same predatory look in her eye and lies on her lips, her husband had tried to pound Nick into the dirt; he didn’t relish a repeat. He let the shovel fall to the ground beside him. “You divorced?”

  Her full red lips clamped together. This time she chewed the inside of her cheek. Finally she murmured, “Not yet.”

  “Planning on making your almost ex-husband jealous by hanging around me?”

  No response, which made the answer fairly fricking obvious. Shit. You win some, you lose some.

  Seconds passed. Princess stopped barking. Neighborhood noises faded into the background. The awkward silence stretched between them until something or someone had to give.

  She pushed the lasagna at him. “Bake it at three-fifty for thirty minutes. And you should probably let it sit for another ten to set. That’s what I always do.”

  He should have let her go then. It would have been the smarter thing to do. But he’d never been particularly smart when it came to women. “You left a mark on your sweater.”

  Her eyes followed the line of his pointing finger. “Oh.” Then she looked back up to meet his gaze. “Do you have a sponge I could wipe it off with?”

  If the mark had been on her skin, he’d have licked it off with his tongue. “Looks like something you need to take your sweater off to really do a good job.”

  She gave him a wide-eyed look as if she were a mouse in a trap. “It would be polite to introduce yourself, you know.”

  “Before or after you take off your sweater?”

  Bobbie Jones flushed like a schoolgirl and shook her head, curls bouncing softly, gleaming red and gold in the dappled sunlight. He thought again about sketching her. Naked.

  He added, “Just to clean it, of course.”

  She shoved the dish in his hands. He had to take it or drop it. Hell, it had been awhile since he’d had lasagna...or anything else she might be offering.

  “I better run back home and take care of the mess.”

  And run she did, giving him a rear view that made his hands sweat. Forget sketching her, there were better things he could think of doing.

  “The name’s Nick,” he called. “You just stop on by any time you get the itch, ya hear.”

  What a goddamn tragedy she had baggage he had no intention of dealing with, like an ex-husband she wanted to make jealous. Otherwise, he‘d enjoy scratching her itch.

  * * * * *

  Standing in front of the small bathroom mirror, Bobbie uncapped her lipstick. She hadn’t run away from Nick Angel yesterday afternoon. After she’d decided he wasn’t an animal killer, that he just buried the carcasses, she’d made a tactical retreat.

  Okay, so he hadn’t said he wasn’t a killer. But the way he’d stood with his foot propped on that shovel, chitchatting, almost flirting, he wouldn’t be doing that if he’d been about to bury the evidence of his crime. And he’d made sexual innuendoes about taking off her sweater. Wow, finally, she’d been the object of a sexual allusion. And from a man with an extraordinarily gorgeous chest.

  It was a start. And today was definitely another day.

  But first, BSKFFA—before serial killer full frontal assault—Bobbie had other plans. She needed to find Warren. And she wanted to find a job. Not that she really needed one. She had enough in savings. Then of course, there would be the sale of the house in San Francisco and the division of assets and...darn, she’d smeared her lipstick. That’s what thinking about Warren made her do.

  She wanted to fit in. In Cottonmouth that would be most easily accomplished if she was employed.

  Fifteen minutes later Bobbie wheeled her shopping cart towards Dillings Grocery.

  Janey Dillings, minus the blood-stained apron, washed off the concrete sidewalk. The smell of wet cement rose like perfume in the air. Water hissed from the wall opening where the hose wasn’t properly attached. A fine mist cooled Bobbie after her walk.

  “I brought your cart back. Thanks for letting me borrow it yesterday. I couldn’t have carried all that stuff.”

  “Bobbie. What a sweetie.” The endearment and the delighted use of her name warmed her. “How was the lasagna?”

  “Great. The meat was the best.” Another face-saving little white lie. She hadn’t tasted the lasagna, except for those few bites of sauce she stole while making it. A cook’s treat.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Job hunting.” Warren hunting.

  Janey pushed her glasses up her nose. “Good luck in this div—I mean, town.”

  “Thanks.” Bobbie already had a destination in mind for the first stop. A rush of cool air whooshed out of the open doors of Dillings Grocery as she passed, the store seeming as empty as it had yesterday. Was there a husband? Roberta would hate to pry. Bobbie was dying to know. She turned, sucked in a breath, then blurted it out. “Is there a Mr. Dillings I haven’t met yet?”

  Janey pointed up, water flashing momentarily across the faded stripes of the awning. “Upstairs.” She rolled her eyes. “Has a migraine,” the word stretching out to match the eye roll.

  “Oh, I know all about migraines.” Not tonight, honey, I have a headache was not a solely female refrain.

  Moving on, there was a bounce to Bobbie’s step despite the reminder of Warren. She’d asked a personal question. And gotten a personal answer. Without getting her head bitten off. Cool. Way cool. Warren would have called it snooping.

  Unlike the rest of the street, the parking spaces in front of The Cooked Goose were filled, as was the small lot at the side. What on earth did a place called The Cooked Goose serve for breakfast that would attract so many customers? Probably some sort of specialty crepes.

  The odor of grease assaulted her nostrils as she opened the door, and the noise level was eardrum-puncture loud. The blemished booths accommodated a primarily male population. Bleached red leather stools and yellow and gray checkerboard linoleum—which once might have been white and black— suggested a fifties motif. A young waitress with skinny legs and taped wire-rim glasses sprinted between tables, the pockets of her white apron overstuffed and the hem of her black uniform flapping in the wind tunnel created by her movement.

  A woman, with yet another drooping gray bouffant much like Patsy’s, shoved an order in the roundabout sitting in the opening above the grill. Stacking plates along her arm, she headed out, the slam of stoneware echoing above the din of voices as she made her deliveries. Her eyes seemed to dart everywhere at once as she grabbed a coffee pot, sloshed the hot liquid into mugs with one hand, and slapped down a check with the other.

  Bobbie edged towards the door. She’d come back another time, when things were slower, maybe midafternoon, between lunch and dinner. But suddenly, the bouffant lady was right in front of her.

  “Park yourself
, honey.” Gravel crunched in her voice. “Counter’s about the only place left, but the service is faster there. We’re kind of shorthanded today.”

  “Actually...” Bobbie swallowed to cover the crack at the end of the word and almost stopped right there. But then she forced the words out. “I saw the Help Wanted sign in your window, and I’m here about the job.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Reaching in a pocket file by the register, she snatched a menu, shoved it, a pad, and a pencil into Bobbie’s hands. “Ellie, bring me an apron,” she shouted above the racket. “Don’t worry about the uniform today. Later I’ll find something in the back that’ll fit.” She nipped around for a peak at Bobbie’s denim-encased butt. “Olga was about your size.”

  “You want me to start now?” Her brain froze like she’d just downed an entire ice-cream cone in one bite.

  “Take those five tables in the corner.” The woman waved to the far side of the restaurant. “Write the ticket up using the item number off the menu. Make sure you get your tips off the table before Billy starts bussing. That boy’s got sticky fingers. And don’t worry about ringing stuff up, I’ll take care of it.”

  With that, the bouffant lady jumped behind the register to tackle the line of men who’d appeared within the space of the five seconds it had taken the woman to bark her instructions.

  Bobbie took four steps toward her five tables and stopped. She was an accountant, not a waitress. She’d never waited tables, not even in college for extra cash. Oh my God. The banana she’d eaten before leaving the house shot back up her throat. The fight-or-flight response drummed in her veins. Flight won. Or it would have if her limbs weren’t paralyzed.

  “Hey, Mavis, can I get some more coffee?” A burly guy raised his mug.

  Mavis, the woman with the gray bouffant, called back. “Dammit, Jimbo, can’t you see I’m busy? The new girl’ll help you.”