by Leigh Tudor
The conversation lulled, small talk not being his strong suit, but he was resigned to try for Ally’s sake. “The notes on the wall are a nice touch,” he said, tilting his head toward the other side of the room.
Mercy replied, “They’re notes from one of Cara’s melodies. I thought it would be nice for her to be surrounded by her music while playing music.”
“Come on back and see the rest of the house,” Loren suggested, turning to lead the way. “Did you know the previous renter?”
“Owner,” he corrected, his eyes honing in on her tight, heart-shaped ass and her trim waist. “Old man Kramer. Lived here all his life. Passed away last spring. House hasn’t been lived in since.”
Loren suddenly turned to face him, and he lifted his eyes from her jean pockets a millisecond too late.
“Please tell me he didn’t pass away in the house.”
“Backyard. Sitting in a lawn chair by the big maple tree.”
“Thank God.” Loren sighed with a chuckle. “Cara would play nothing but dirges if she knew someone died in here.”
They were in the dining room. The table-top looked to be a piece of reclaimed wood with a row of cropped sunflowers down the middle, and the mismatched chairs were painted an off-white.
“Something smells good,” he said awkwardly, trying to balance between a silent truce, tempering his lust for the little blond vixen and wondering from what planet these hyper-productive women came from.
Truth be told, all this polite conversation made him feel progressively uncomfortable. Like he was wearing a button-down shirt with a too-tight collar. He missed her snark and the way her eyes came alive when she tore into him.
How fucked up was that?
“Hope you’re hungry,” Mercy said. “Loren’s been working on dinner all day.”
“It was nothing,” Loren scoffed. “Literally.”
“Didn’t want to put you out,” Alec replied with feigned sincerity.
She picked up on the hint of sarcasm and a not-so-subtle reminder of how, in the end, he had gotten the best of her and replied easily, “Oh, I wasn’t put out. I was able to spend most of the day defiling the underage male populace of Wilder, with just enough time to throw dinner together.”
There she was, there was the little demon he ironically looked forward to verbally sparring with.
“Well, I guess I can’t fault you for lack of efficiency.” He grinned with a glint in his eye. “Although I can only assume time restraints kept you from working your way through the women.”
“O-kay,” Mercy interjected, “why don’t I go get the girls so we can eat?”
She hightailed it out of the room. Alec did not take his eyes off Loren. He stalked toward her, their eyes tied to one another. And when he’d adequately compromised her personal space, she pulled in a breath at the same time he pulled out her chair.
He watched her eyes slowly slide up to his as she demurely sat down. Each of them acting with the utmost decorum, knowing Ally and Cara would be walking in at any moment.
“Why, thank you. Be sure to let me know if I can help you with that stick,” she said, sitting down and gingerly placing her napkin in her lap and then batting her eyes up at him. “Particularly the one permanently lodged up your ass.”
He bent down so he was inches from her ear. “There you go again, talking about my backside. If you’re into ass-play, then just say so, Miss Ingalls.”
She tilted her head with a smirk. “Let’s not misinterpret tonight’s invitation, Mr. Wilder. Ally and Cara really like spending time together. All I’m trying to do is make it easier for them by being neighborly.”
Alec moved across the table and pulled out a chair. “And all I’m trying to do is make sure you and your sisters pass the smell test. Look at it from my perspective, you drive into town inappropriately dressed, eye-fuck me in church, and then head butt me, almost breaking my nose.”
“Please,” she hiss-whispered, leaning toward him. “I could’ve done a lot more damage. As a matter of fact, I did you a favor by holding back. I’m pretty sure a single titty-twister would’ve brought you to your knees.”
“So that’s the only thing I said that you take exception to?” he asked with a small grin.
“I wasn’t done yet,” she said demurely, taking a sip of her water as if at high tea. “First of all, there’s nothing the matter with the way we smell. We shower regularly with flowery scented shit. Secondly, we’re not from a sexually repressed backward-ass town like Wilder. Therefore we dress differently. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that since you dress like some throwback to the wild west with your stupid Western shirts and Wrangler jeans.”
He leaned back in his chair, undaunted. “I wear t-shirts and Levi’s. I don’t even own a Western shirt.”
“Okay, cowboy boots.”
He pointed downward. “Red Wing steel toe work boots.”
Ignoring his correction, she forged on. “And lastly, I didn’t eye-fuck you in church. To be honest, I was instantly repulsed by your troll-like visage and effeminate gait.”
“What the hell is a ‘visage’? And are you saying I walk like a goddamned woman?”
“If the string bikini on the cowboy fits—”
Laughter made its way from the staircase to the dining room and Alec and Loren instantly sat back in their chairs as if making their way to their corners. The only forces within a fifty-foot radius able to deter their hostility being their two giggling, pint-sized sisters.
Chapter Eleven
“Pure mathematics, is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas.”
—Albert Einstein
German theoretical physicist
* * *
In fear of blurting out a derogative expletive to their lumberjack-sized asshole of a dinner guest, Loren envisioned a metal vise attached to her head, keeping her mouth firmly shut.
On a good note, everyone seemed to be enjoying the meal, particularly Alec. But for reasons unknown, she couldn’t care less. She lacked the domestic satisfaction of proving to him once and for all that she was capable of fixing a gourmet meal, despite the fact that she didn’t. And, couldn’t.
And as she watched him take another bite, it was official.
She hated the way he ate his food.
It was maddening.
Every time he’d pick up his knife and then lift his fork, the stupid muscles in his forearms flexed, and blue veins popped out under tan skin.
And then the food would reach his lips—don’t even get her started on that ridiculously stern mouth. She could only imagine the amount of tongue-involved kissing it would take to remove the hard lines and soften them into what was a semblance of a smile.
Stupid, stupid lips.
Far too full.
Smirking all the time.
This man was no gentlemen. And despite the surname, he certainly was no Almanzo Wilder from her beloved books. Almanzo was a quietly courageous, hardworking man who was patient and kind. Alec Wilder was an arrogant, ill-mannered, judgmental prick.
Ally reared back her head, laughing at something Alec said, and guilt prickled Loren’s conscience. Of course, he was leery of them. After what his ex-wife did to his sister, how could he not be? Then she thought about Jasper, and those fucked-up comments he made toward Cara, and her blood pressure instantly hiked up several notches.
Maybe she had more in common with Alec than she cared to admit?
Loren did her best to concentrate on her meal and remain quiet. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice as Cara and Ally made up for the lack of conversation with their own constant chatter. Their topics started with a comprehensive discussion on the boys in their class and then switching to antics of some of the mean girls. And as expected, their animated conversation settled on music.
Loren couldn’t help but notice how much Ally resembled Alec with her dark brown hair and blue eyes. She had been so shy when they had first met outside the church. It was hard to believe she was the same girl. Her l
aughter was infectious, and her demeanor soft and gentle. How could anyone ever think to hurt her? It was incomprehensible.
Loren then watched Cara’s entire body light up when Ally showed her the sheet music she’d brought with her, wanting to introduce her to a wide array of artists, going on and on about Freddie Mercury, Dave Grohl, and Michael Jackson.
Cara was soaking it all in. She was so much happier here than she’d ever been at the Center. But then, the doctor had never permitted Cara to study music outside that which enhanced her worldwide appeal and ensured the revenue-generating stream established within the realm of classical music.
Loren leaned on her elbows, her chin resting in her hands and prayed no one recognized Cara as the world-renowned Charlotte Halstead.
To that end, the night before arriving in Wilder she had hacked and permanently deleted Charlotte’s website as well as any other pictures she could find online. She’d checked the news feeds every night for any reports of a missing piano prodigy, or two escaped maniacal psychotics, and to her relief, she found nothing.
How was that possible, and why wasn’t Jasper reporting them to the police or sending his henchmen after them?
“You’re serious. You’ve never heard of any of these artists?” Ally asked, taking a bite of her baked potato.
Cara glanced at Loren, who quickly answered for her. “We were pretty sheltered growing up. Our uncle was highly protective of us.”
“Tell me more about your family,” Alec said with a glimpse of skepticism.
Mercy bolted out her chair, saying, “I’ll get the dessert,” as she rounded the table, making a beeline for the kitchen.
As if that wouldn’t add to his suspicions.
On a slow exhale, Loren walked him through their fabricated history. She explained how their parents had died in a car crash eight years ago, and they were taken in by a reclusive uncle, and how he had recently died of a heart attack during a late-night dinner. The same story she pounded into Cara and Mercy, staying as close to the truth as was safe, making it easier to remember and recite. All of which could be easily confirmed by searching online documents digitally put into place by Loren herself.
Not all lies, exactly, but strategic moments of omission peppered with a few necessary distortions.
“So, your uncle arranged for piano lessons?” Alec asked Cara as Mercy passed out the small plates for the banana pudding that took center stage on the table.
“Yes, I’ve been playing since I was five,” Cara said. “But Mercy’s the real artist in the family; she paints and she’s awesome at it. She can paint anything. She can paint near-perfect copies of some of the world’s most famous pieces of art.”
Loren’s eyes widened, and a plate nearly slipped out of Mercy’s hands as Cara shared information that was a little too close for comfort.
“I mean,” Cara clarified, her eyes bouncing back and forth between Loren and Mercy, “she does it just for fun, of course.”
Loren’s hand tightened around her spoon as her eyes glanced at Alec who thankfully didn’t appear to have picked up on Cara’s nervous attempt to detract from her careless faux pas.
Silence followed as Mercy carefully doled out the dessert on plates and passed them around the table.
“After dinner, you’ll have to show me some of your paintings, Mercy.” He looked pointedly at Loren. “Just because I’m an uncouth smelly farmer doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate art.”
Loren’s eyes landed on Mercy, who appeared to want nothing less than to have this conversation.
“I haven’t painted anything since I’ve been here, well, except for the house.” Mercy stared at her dessert as if it would escape her plate, picking at the paper napkin. “Too busy working on house projects.”
Although not the time, Loren would love to delve more into that comment.
Mercy had yet to pick up an art brush. Whenever Loren attempted to broach the subject, Mercy would blow it off, saying there were too many other things that needed to be done.
Loren saw Alec’s demeanor turn skeptical. “You didn’t bring any of your art with you?”
Mercy’s eyes locked on Loren as if begging for help.
“Storage,” Loren said quickly. “We weren’t sure we were going to settle in Wilder for good, so we put a lot of our things in storage.”
Mercy picked up her glass of water, swallowing it down in a few gulps as even Cara and Ally sat silent.
Alec was the first to speak. “Ally, finish your dessert. It’s getting late.”
Ally turned beseeching eyes toward her brother. “Can’t we stay just a little longer so we can play some of the music I brought?”
He smiled and then capitulated. “Fifteen minutes. You know I have to get up early.”
The girls jumped out of their chairs as if the table were on fire, and Mercy popped out of her seat to clear the dishes.
“Miss Ingalls, may I have a word with you outside?” He moved out of his chair, leading the way.
Loren followed him to the front door, walking past the girls as Ally placed sheet music on the piano and Cara began playing what Ally had called “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
Loren mentally cataloged all the missteps taken at dinner and how she could possibly defend them. She knew it wasn’t their stories themselves that caused doubt, but rather what guileless liars Mercy and Cara were, their body language making each comment sound false and manufactured. Mercy with her downturned sheepish eyes and Cara with her neurotically flapping hand gestures.
Once the door closed behind them and in a race to get the first word in, she crossed her arms and did her best to mask the tension in her body. “Let me guess—you noticed the pentagram in the backyard?”
His back was to her, his arms leaning on the porch rail as he looked out silently toward the driveway.
“No? The shrunken head draining in the bathtub? I told Mercy to take it to the shed out back, but nooo, she thought it’d make a great ice breaker—”
He turned and stalked toward her, until her back was flush against the door. She fought the urge to raise her arms and move into self-defense mode as his face was unexpectedly full of pent-up rage.
Not rage exactly, but something intense and dark.
Sweet baby Jesus, was he . . . glowering?
“Where’s your bra?” he rasped, hands on his hips and the vein in his forehead pulsating at an alarming rate.
Loren looked up into crystal-blue eyes that bore into her, completely blindsided by his question.
“My bra?” she said, pointing at her chest in confusion.
“Yes, the piece of constraining fabric that’s used to provide support for a woman’s breasts.”
Her eyes looked right and then left, still not sure she heard right. “Wellll, since I’m on the short side of a B cup, my breasts don’t really require support.”
He glanced down and her treacherous nipples spiked into painfully hard tips, as if saluting him and confirming his point.
His eyes dragged back up to hers, eyebrows raised.
Her own pulse raged, and cognitive decline ensued. “Okay, you want to get personal. What about you and the stupid way you eat?”
“The way I eat?”
“With the muscles in your arms moving and . . . and veiny things popping out. Then there’s your mouth,” she said bitterly and as if making perfect sense, “when you put food in that . . . that mouth.”
She bit down on her tongue to stop her blathering.
The vice she had imagined clamping her mouth shut at dinner looked to be thrown to the side, mangled, twisted, and useless.
Blood drained from her body as she stared at his lips and calculated the number of lost IQ points only to be matched with the amount of gibberish she’d spewed.
One of those freakishly delicious arms leaned on the door above her head, while the other moved to her waist, sliding farther back and then down, cupping her ass. All while he glared at her, pulling her closer.
“What about y
our ass?” he asked as if it were also a perfectly rational question. His voice rattled like gravel as his large hands kneaded her as if he were angry, as if her ass was an affront to his senses. His lips hovered over hers, just out of reach. “Heart-shaped and firm, begging me to touch it. Palm it.”
She unconsciously pushed her hips toward him as he continued to stroke and knead. She wasn’t sure she should or could respond.
Was he angry?
Turned on?
“You think I liked staring at your breasts all through dinner?”
“No . . . yes . . . I mean . . . .”
“I don’t,” he confirmed. But the blatant heat in his eyes said otherwise.
She felt his hot breath on her lips as he continued his verbal assault.
“You think I like watching your ass in those jeans, blatantly inviting me to undo the zipper, reach down and take them in hand? Punish them?”
Sensation robbed her of speech, her hips continuing to search for his as he purposely skirted their intent.
Why was she allowing him to affect her senses to this degree? It was humiliating and, oh, so, fucking hot.
Based on past experiences, she should be immune to his charm.
Moonlight assignations, seductions as a means to an end were executed on a number of occasions as part of an assignment. Thanks to granular timing, there was never a need to push the seduction to the extreme. But out of all those times, not once did her brain fog from just watching a man’s bicep perform a mundane task like cutting his freaking meat. Not once did any of the men she’d targeted illicit the hormonal rampage causing her to lose her faculties, namely her jutting hips.
Was she blind from lust or experiencing a grand mal seizure?
His lips, still refusing hers, moved away and landed on the skin just below her ear. At the same time, he blessedly pulled her into his hard-won groin, and she couldn’t help but emit an embarrassingly loud moan.
He was so hard and long and . . . and right there.
She arched her neck, finding she also took issue with the soap and shampoo he used that made him smell like sex on a stick, and moaned again at the sensation of his lips making small bites along the length of her neck.