He yanked the door open, putting a screw-you-and-the-horse-you-rode-in-on scowl on his face.
Kent English took a big step back, holding his hands up in surrender. Then his gaze swept past Nick’s shoulder.
Shit. Bobbie hadn’t stayed where he told her to.
“What do you want?” The statement sounded like a growl even to him.
Kent shook his head. “Just a friendly call, buddy. Why don’t you introduce me to your friend back there?”
He spoke without turning. “Bobbie Jones, Kent English.” Now get the hell out of here.
Like a predator, he scented her beside him. A hint of cinnamon and mocha. The mouth-watering zest of something citrus. Edible smells surrounded her as if she were a man’s sustenance.
With a wolfish grin, Kent extended his hand. Nick had known Kent since grade school, buddied around with him during high school, and since the prodigal’s return, Kent was one of the few who didn’t cross to the other side of the street when Nick sauntered down the boulevard.
But right now, Nick resented the hell out of him.
“I’m just on my way out,” Bobbie said as she dropped Kent’s hand, then slipped past Nick through the doorway, her fingers skimming his arm above the elbow. Sparks set his skin alight.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Kent said.
“Gotta run,” she answered over her shoulder as she skipped down the porch steps, sprinted across the road, and through the tangle of flowers in Mrs. Porter’s yard.
“Hot,” Kent said, watching her backside. “She the new girl?”
Nick cracked his knuckles. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
“Sorry I ran her off.” Kent turned, his brown eyes saved from a whipped-puppy look by a lascivious glint.
“I was trying to get rid of her anyway.” Liar. “She keeps turning up uninvited on my doorstep.”
Where had his brain been, telling her all that crap about his art, his dad, his kitchen, his one big movie? Oh yeah, in the middle of her cleavage. A second more and he would have told her he’d been doing a favor for a friend, only to have the director dupe him. There’s a sucker born every minute, and that had definitely been his minute. Still, he’d thought the video would die a natural death. He’d never expected his mother to find out about it. Christ.
“Bobbie Jones doesn’t waste time,” Kent mused.
Nick shrugged off the memories. “Grass will never grow under that woman’s feet.”
“So. You doing her?”
Nick snorted as he moved back inside, Kent following. “She’s in a messy divorce. I don’t like messes.”
“She trailed her husband here. You know that?” Kent crossed the living room and plopped down in his father’s old recliner, the springs protesting. Nick hadn’t used it since he’d been back.
“So I’ve heard. All over town.”
“How is it I never get to scoop you, Nick, when no one else even talks to you? Got a beer?”
Nick returned, two beers in hand. Slouching down into the ancient plaid sofa, he propped his feet on the coffee table and popped his can. Christ, that made him imagine Bobbie, on her knees, making him pop.
Kent knocked back a slug, then wiped his lips. “You betting she’ll whack him first or he’ll whack her?”
He didn’t want to think about Bobbie and her husband in any respect. The man had to be a loser to let her get away. God, he needed to stop thinking about her entirely.
Nick’s lack of conversational participation didn’t faze Kent. “I’m betting the husband’ll whack her. Heard he showed up at The Cooked Goose—you know she’s working there?—and the man’s eyes damn near bulged out. He was practically hyperventilating. Something tells me she didn’t used to wear short skirts and tight little sweaters back home.” His lips curved in a leer. “So spill, does she like thigh-high stockings and crotchless panties?”
“How the hell should I know? I told you, I’m not doing her.” But his blood surged southward just contemplating it.
Kent gargled his beer, at odds with his Mr. GQ image, swallowed, then laughed. “You will be soon, dude. She’s got ‘fuck me’ written all over her.”
Nick’s neck muscles tensed. Kent’s description pissed him off. Bobbie wasn’t some cheap bar pickup. But saying that would only keep Kent going down the same path.
“If you swear you’re not doing her—”
“I’m not doing her.”
“Then I’m sure he’ll whack her. Brax is gonna crap in his pants. He hates that murder shit in his town.”
Nick’s scalp itched at the mention of Sheriff Tyler Braxton.
A grimace must have creased his face, Kent answering it with, “It’s not his fault that Jimbo’s money got him elected. Roles being reversed, you’d have made the same choice he did when it came down to that fight.”
Nick grunted. Brax had come close to hauling Nick in, but...something changed his mind. Probably Cookie calming her hapless husband before anyone got wind of the truth.
James “Jimbo” Beaumont should learn to keep his wife at home. Prowling the bars in Red Cliff was no place for a so-called lady. Not that Cookie was by any means a lady. A bitch in heat was more like it.
“Lucky for you I didn’t have to choose, huh, buddy. Without me, Jimbo’s whole damn business would go under while he’s keeping both eyes on Cookie. And he knows it.” Going on fifteen years now, Kent had managed Jimbo’s chain of lube and oil changers.
“Screw Jimbo.” But definitely don’t screw his wife.
“You know, Angel, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you sounded bitter and self-pitying.”
Christ. He did. Legacy of Bobbie Jones walking out his door before he got to indulge himself in any mind-bending, sinful stuff. “You’re right. Screw self-pity. Why’d you come over?”
“Just wanted a gander at your new neighbor.”
He should have expected that. Kent had never come over before; usually they went up to Red Cliff.
“Harry said she was a hot little number. If he didn’t have a wife and three kids, he’d give her a run for her money.” Kent smirked “Brax gave the idea a resounding second.”
Jesus H. Christ. Nick couldn’t seem to help himself, asking, despite the obvious answer, “How the hell would Brax know?”
“He’s seen her around. Everyone’s seen her around. Can’t miss those tits and that tight ass.”
“She’s old.” But then who the hell wanted some sweet little ingenue? Not him.
“The older they are, the more they know. There’s something to be said for experience.”
Nick’s sentiments exactly.
“I saw the way she was looking at you,” Kent prodded. “Do her and put her out of her misery.”
A sneer rose to Nick’s lips. He crushed it. “Not a chance.”
Kent chugged his beer, then shot another volley. “Brax is thinking about hitting the diner tomorrow morning and getting himself a proper introduction. Why don’t you join him?”
The idea almost choked him. “I don’t do The Cooked Goose. And, as you can see, I’ve already made her acquaintance.”
Why the hell did Kent care one way or another? Most likely because he loved a good bet with even odds. Maybe the bets weren’t just on who would kill whom first, but also on who’d be the first to get her out of her panties.
He didn’t like anyone betting on Bobbie’s sex life, or her life, for that matter.
“You’re afraid of competing with Brax. He came out on top in high school, you think he’ll come out on top here, too.”
On top of Mary Alice Turner, that is, without appropriate protection and without taking appropriate responsibility for the consequences. Ancient history, though. But Bobbie and Brax? Nick shuddered.
Damn. He felt...jealous. Bobbie was a pain in the ass. She was in the middle of a divorce. Rebound. Transference. Replacement. No way did he want to get a piece of that. Luckily, he’d been saved from that folly by Kent ringing his bell.
“Brax ca
n have her,” he said. “I don’t give a damn.”
“Sure you don’t.” Kent slugged his beer, then smacked his lips. “That can only be because you’ve already done her.”
Nick merely rolled his eyes.
“And if you haven’t, then you better get cracking, old boy. Unless you want Brax to win.”
He hadn’t, he wouldn’t. He was too old to compete.
But he still had the urge to mess up Sheriff Tyler Braxton’s pretty face. Damn, that woman was getting to him.
* * * * *
Bobbie woke in the early morning, stretching with the seductive aftereffects of a tantalizing dream where Nick the Barbarian tossed her over his shoulder. Her butt had been firm and shapely. Maybe she should have waited out his visitor last night. Just to see what interesting things developed. Maybe a mock battle with a couple of dragons, then...
She bolted up in the bed, suddenly knowing where she’d seen a sci-fi-fantasy calendar, presumably one of Nick’s. In Mavis’s office. At the time, she’d thought it oddly unlike Mavis’s style. Maybe Mavis had a secret hankering for the serial killer. No. Oh, no, no, no.
She tackled Mavis before her shift started. “Is that Nick Angel’s calendar in your office?”
Mavis raised one brow. “Maybe. Why?”
“Curiosity.”
“Killed the cat,” Mavis finished.
She had a curiosity about a great many things, one of them being why Mavis had his calendar. But first, she wanted to see what Nick drew. “Can I take a look?”
Mavis glanced at the huge digital watch on her bony wrist. “You’ve got less than ten minutes.”
Bobbie darted through the swing doors, ignored JJ’s leer, and threw herself over Mavis’s desk to grab the calendar from the wall. She huddled in the chair, feet balanced on a rung, open pages spread across her thighs.
Not a single clown on those pages. Instead, his paintbrush caressed full feminine lips. Light, shadow, color harmonized into sleek limbs, soulful eyes, and lush curves. He lavished attention on the subtle outline of a peaked nipple, the swell of a toned calf muscle, the hue of windswept hair.
Nick Angel loved women. His art worshipped them. He portrayed them as mythical, revered creatures. Powerful, fearless, invincible.
Bobbie wanted to climb into his canvas and become one of his women with a desperation that stole her breath.
Patsy was wrong. Not that Bobbie had ever believed all that serial killer stuff. But the evidence of Nick’s innocence was right here in his reverent depictions. Not to mention the fact that he’d understood the romanticism of Laura. The man who painted women with such...worship could never be capable of killing the very objects of his desire.
“Bobbie.” A shriek ripped through her blissful thoughts.
Bobbie hung the calendar in its place on the wall and scuttled back through the kitchen.
“Hustle your butt out there,” Mavis hissed. “Here, take the sheriff his breakfast.”
Mavis dumped the plates in Bobbie’s hands. Panic set in, not as bad as the hairdryer business, but on a par with the time she’d been stuck in a malfunctioning car wash that wouldn’t turn off. A tall glass of orange juice in her right hand, Superdeluxe eggs, home fries, and steak balanced with a separate small plate of toast along her left arm.
Bobbie maneuvered down the aisle, bent to slide the Superdeluxe onto the sheriff’s table and almost lost the toast. A massive male paw reached out at the last moment to save it. And her. “Thanks.”
“Welcome, ma’am. So. You’re the new girl,” said the big, blond...brute. He could crush beer cans against his forehead without getting a headache.
“I’m not quite a girl anymore.” She might have told sweetheart Jimbo about the big four-oh, but she certainly wasn’t telling this brute. Not that brute was a bad word, in his case. In fact, it was sort of appetizing.
“Girl or woman, you look just about perfect to me, ma’am.”
His blue eyes flashed over her, head to toe, so fast she almost thought she’d hallucinated it. Except for the lingering tingle. That was very real, leaving her speechless for a moment. The short, tight skirt of her uniform suddenly seemed a tad shorter and a tad tighter.
“Why don’t you sit a minute?” He indicated the seat opposite with one of those big mitts of his.
She glanced over her shoulder for rescue or confirmation.
“Mavis said it was okay.”
The breakfast crowd was thinning out, all Bobbie’s tables were empty except for a little snub-faced guy over in the corner. Mavis gave her the thumbs up. She sat while the sheriff drank his juice, staring at her over the rim of his glass.
His short hair frizzed with the promise of uncontrollable curls if he didn’t keep an eye on its length. Being a guy, he probably hated that. He blinked with long, gold-tipped lashes.
“Now, why would a pretty lady like you want to leave the big city? For Cottonmouth.” He dug into his eggs, splitting them, letting the yolks leak out, then spread the yolk all over his home fries. Her stomach rumbled daintily.
“Want some?”
Oh, yes, please. The sheriff was as delicious as the serial killer. Both ends of the law. “No thanks, I had a bagel earlier.”
“Wimp food.” He took a healthy mouthful of his manly food, swallowed, then struck up more conversation. “Now, you were saying about why you left the big city.”
She hadn’t been. She’d been avoiding it. “Midlife crisis.” Premenopausal.
He nodded, tucked into his yolk-slathered home fries with gusto.
“Incidentally, does everybody know everything around here?”
“People around here don’t have much else to do but gossip.” He pinned her with that blue gaze. “Don’t let it get on your nerves. They don’t mean anything by it.”
“Actually, it’s kind of nice. I didn’t know my neighbors’ names in San Francisco. Here, I don’t even have to introduce myself. I always thought small towns would be like that.”
“Can be a pain in the...patoote if you’ve got something to hide.” Cutting into his steak, he raised just his eyes to her face.
“Thank God, I don’t.”
He scanned her features a moment longer than necessary. “Got any kids?”
“No.” She swallowed, then leaned her elbows on the table, laying her palms flat against the scarred Formica. “I’m not the mothering type.” She might have been. A long time ago. If Warren had wanted to... The backs of her eyes ached suddenly. She was way too old for kids now. And beyond any regrets except the one about having let Warren make the decision.
“Doubt that. All women have the instinct.”
She smiled brightly, blinking away those bad thoughts. If her eyes were moist, it was only because she’d gotten some dust in them. “Not me.”
He mopped up vestiges of yolk with a piece of toast. She hadn’t even noticed him eating the steak, but it was almost gone. “What about other family?”
“My parents are dead. I’m an only child.”
He didn’t offer condolences or apologies. Instead he reached out to trace the pale band of flesh on her left hand. “What about a husband?”
She pulled her hand from beneath his, ignoring the tingle, and tapped her chin with her index finger. “Now Sheriff, you and I are both aware that you know all about my husband. You know he has an office just down the street, and you know we aren’t divorced yet.”
He polished off the remainder of his orange juice in one big swallow, then grinned at her. “Busted.”
“Are you this obvious when interrogating suspects?”
“Way better at it. I was just checking availability.”
Availability for what? The suspense raised her pulse rate. “I have to get back to work.”
“Name’s Tyler Braxton,” he said as she rose. “But you can call me Brax. Everyone does.”
“Nice to meet you, Brax.”
“You can call on me, Bobbie, any time you’d like.”
Hmm, big, blond, blu
e-eyed sheriff or dark-eyed, dark-haired, devilish serial killer. A veritable smorgasbord for such a small town. She’d be willing to bet, though, that the sheriff wasn’t a sentimental guy. He’d probably never even heard of Laura, let alone watched the movie.
“One more thing, Bobbie.”
She tipped her head.
“Just make sure you don’t murder your ex in my county. I’d really hate to have to put you in jail.”
* * * * *
Bobbie hadn’t come to his house last night. Three nights in a row, she’d bellied up to his porch, but last night, not so much as a boo. And yesterday, she’d served the Sheriff his breakfast and sat with him while he ate—that info gleaned from a trip to Sylvestor’s to get the rest of the items he needed for the toilet restoration project.
Not that Nick gave a flying freaking rat’s ass. It was merely curiosity. In fact, it’d be a good thing if Brax took her off his hands and his porch.
That’s the only reason he’d ventured down to The Cooked Goose. Curiosity.
Shit. Why bother denying the truth? She’d left her pasta bowl behind, and he felt obligated to return it.
Double shit. All right, already, the real truth. He couldn’t stand the idea of Bobbie being anyone’s quarry. He should probably warn her about Kent’s bet.
So here he was, the one bellying up to The Cooked Goose, choosing the middle of the afternoon in order to make the smallest possible spectacle of himself. Truly pathetic.
He opened the door. Silence descended like the curtain going down on the first act of a bad play, The Life of Nick Angel.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Nick Angel? I think I’m going to have a heart attack.” Mavis Morgan grabbed her scrawny chest.
He should have known she wouldn’t let him in without a scene. Only four or five tables were occupied at this hour, late for lunch, early for dinner, no Brax, no Jimbo.
The diner was Jimbo’s territory. Cookie might be a Venus flytrap, but a man had to take responsibility for letting himself get trapped. So, Nick solicitously avoided Jimbo’s favorite joint. Until Bobbie came to town.
She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series) Page 8