Читать книгу Talking After Midnight - Dakota Cassidy - Страница 7
ОглавлениеMore banging on her door. Loud. Obnoxious. Heavy-handed.
Gravy sakes, could a sick woman just be left to die in splotchy, ugly red runny-nosed peace?
Not if Emmaline Amos and Dixie Davis are your friends, Marybell. With friendship came a certain amount of invasion of privacy, she’d learned. Still, she was going to kill them for waking her again, and just when she’d found a bit of sleep without the threat of coughing her left lung to implosion.
Muddled and fuzzy, Marybell sat upright, her head pulsing its angry protest, making her reach for another tissue. The last time she’d looked at the clock while the girls were still here, it was five in the afternoon. She’d slept for three solid hours.
Pulling herself to a standing position, she shivered as she left behind the warmth of the heating pad and made her way to the front door, jamming her hands into the deep pockets of her favorite, albeit ratty, flannel bathrobe.
She began to open it with a moment’s hesitation, warding off another coughing spell. Then she caught hold of her runaway fears, forcing herself to rationalize through the thick haze of cold meds. Clearly, her friends hadn’t made the connection to her past, and they’d already seen her. So seeing her twice without her makeup and hair gel wouldn’t change anything. What was done was done.
Still, Marybell kept her eyes averted—in hindsight, she’d wish her tongue had done the same. She yanked open the door, her eyelids at half-mast. “You know, you three are like havin’ really annoying sisters. Maybe akin to the stepsisters in Cinderella, only nicer and with smaller feet,” she grumbled, sneezing into her tissue. “How will I ever nab the prince if you pair of mother hens won’t let me rest? Would you have me search for my Prince Charming lookin’ like this?”
A delicious man with hair the color of a dark, exotic wood, worn just long enough to brush the collar of his black sweatshirt, partially covered by the navy-blue knit hat he wore, smiled a smile surely carved with the tool of a god. “Wow. Prince Charming’s a lot of pressure, don’t you think?”
Her breathing stalled while her heart crashed against her ribs and her eyes swiftly hit the floor.
“Are you Marybell Lyman?” he prompted, rough and chocolaty rich, cocking his head in question.
Oh, no. Heaven, no.
She knew that voice. That voice had been in the Call Girls office on more than one occasion as of late. The voice that was always looking for his brother, Jax, who’d created some security software for Dixie and Caine, specifically designed for Call Girls. The voice that belonged to this man—an unconventionally delicious man.
One who made her tremble in her zebra-striped leggings and work boots. One she’d avoided purposely for several months now—even with her Mohawk and trimmings in place.
A man from her past she’d only vaguely known socially, but who would most certainly know her sans her “people shield.”
And hate her for the knowing.
But she had her eye mask. Everything was okay. Her hands self-consciously flew to her face to find her eye mask was no longer there.
Oh, gravy.
Think fast, Marybell Lyman, or all your carefully built walls, all your beloved friends, job and possessions will come crashin’ around your ears.
* * *
As the woman who answered the door made a stumbling, wobbly break for another room, Taggart Hawthorne stood awkwardly at her door, tool belt in hand, remembering only that Em had told him this Marybell Lyman’s protests weren’t an option. She was sick, it was cold out and her heat was broken. Take no prisoners—Em’s exact words.
Which, if you considered her current relationship with his brother, Jax, didn’t surprise him. Em was a warrior disguised in pretty dresses and flowery perfume. Her lipstick was really a magic wand that made you do things you wouldn’t normally do, and her sweet nature bent you to her will without ever realizing you’d been manipulated by flirty eyelashes and pretty words.
Yet she’d become a part of not just his brother’s and his niece Maizy’s world, but his universe, too. And when Em demanded, he listened, largely because he respected the hell out of her.
Tag leaned against the door frame, savoring the smell of chicken soup, tea and Vicks as he assessed the view of this woman’s small but nicely decorated living room.
A thickly cushioned couch in soft ivory, littered from one end to the other with overstuffed pillows in gold and a light turquoise, sat in disarray. What was it with a woman and some fancy pillows?
It was as if the damn things made everything okay. That must be it, because every woman he’d encountered so far always had a mess o’ pillows—little Maizy included.
Though he had to admire her choice in the chest she’d chosen to use as a coffee table. The surface was scarred, battered from years of use, holding a simple, darkly stained bowl of colored balls. It was sturdy, the lines of it clean and squarely crisp, the color a deep walnut, streaked with hints of red and antique white.
If he had a place of his own, and he wasn’t sponging off his brother, Jax, till he got back on his feet, he’d definitely put his feet up on something like that—every night with a plate of hot wings and a football game.
Perusing the walls, where abstract rectangles of ivory, red and that same turquoise she seemed so fond of, streaked the canvases, reminding him of somewhere warm. Somewhere the sun shone all the time and you sat in the sand with a bottle of Corona while salty waves rolled over your toes and buttery-rayed days turned to purple-hued nights.
There was a big square rug in the center of the bleached white barn-wood floor, woven in the same willowy color of her couch.
So this was the apartment of a phone sex operator? Huh. Truth time. He’d been expecting all manner of paraphernalia. In fact, he’d been damn curious when he thought about running into her tools of the trade.
Yet not a hint of a shelf with hooks where rows of worn floggers and masks in black and red might hang. No fuzzy handcuffs tossed carelessly over a doorknob, and there certainly weren’t any leather catsuits.
Obviously, the job did not define the lady.
It didn’t bother him in the least that Em ran a phone sex company. True, when Em had hired him to fix some faulty wiring at Call Girls, it had made him a little uncomfortable to hear the women talking to their clients through the walls of one office or another. Especially LaDawn. Damn, that woman could make somethin’ out of nothing.
But the discomfort had nothing to do with disapproval and everything to do with the fact that even he had to admit, their breathy sighs and softly moaned words turned him on a little.
Still, he just couldn’t connect with the notion. It was a false connection. Once the operator hung up the phone, she was creating another relationship just like the one she’d had with the caller before. He couldn’t submerse himself enough—or maybe his imagination just wasn’t vivid enough to get past the idea. Of course, Em didn’t do the dirty-talkin’, either. This woman, according to Em, did.
Either way, he’d stick with one-on-one, messy, down-in-the-mud, flaws-and-all, human connections.
Speaking of messy, when Marybell finally reappeared, it was with the floppiest-brimmed hat he’d ever seen cover a woman of no more than five foot two. It was white with black polka dots, sporting a big, shiny pink bow around it. The brim was so big it fell over her eyes, masking almost every feature of her face but the tip of her cold-infested nose and her full, chapped lips. It would have swallowed her whole if she didn’t hold it in place.
“Fancy date?” he asked, unable to stop himself from noting how comical she looked in a moth-eaten bathrobe and summer hat, still trying to figure how she fit into the sparse but colorful landscape of her apartment.
She rocked back on her fuzzy black feet. Not amused, said her posture. “Not unless he wants the black plague.”
“So you kiss on the first date?” he asked, almost looking around to see whose mouth those suggestive words had come out of—and more important, why they had come out at all.
She clucked her tongue, her lips never changing their pursed disapproval. “Only if my date doesn’t mind some snot.”
Unfriendly fire, Captain. Man your battleships. “I’m Tag Hawthorne.” He offered his hand, noting it was cracked and calloused from working outside in Jax’s unheated barn.
She backed away, covering one foot with the other in the process. “I’m dying of the flu.”
“Is dying your first name or your last?” Beneath that wide brim of her ridiculous hat, he’d swear he saw her almost smirk. What was with the hat to begin with? Sure, she was sick, but no one could be that vain, could they?
“Why are you here?”
Tag paused. If he was reading her right, there was a whole lot of territorial in her. This is mine. Keep out. So he smiled, opting to reassure her. “Zombie outbreak.”
Her sigh crackled, wheezing from her chest as her fingers pulled a tissue from her bathrobe pocket and pressed it to her nose. “You’re no Daryl,” she replied, her voice, even congested and tight, so sweet it almost hurt his teeth. Fascinating.
“Really, who is?” he joked, still trying to figure out what it was about this woman that made him want not only to get a rise out of her, but to have her treat him with something more than an upturned nose of total disregard. He was all but pulling her pigtails for no reason other than to pull.
Maybe it was the hat. He damn well wanted to see what was under the hat.
Marybell tapped an impatient fingernail on the door she held on to as if it were the armor that helped her protect her castle. “So, you’re here why?”
She wasn’t biting. Not even a nibble. So he slapped on his serious face and played the Emmaline card while still trying to figure out how, in all the trips he’d made to Call Girls over the past few months, he’d missed seeing her. “Em sent me to fix your heat.”
She flapped a hand at him. A ringless hand. Interesting. There were plenty of unattached women in Plum Orchard, a thirsty crew, if you asked him. They’d shown up at Jax’s on more than several occasions with all sorts of casseroles and pies, but he’d never seen Marybell in the mix. “Not necessary. I can take care of it when I’m better.” She began to close the dungeon door on him.
Tag stuck his hand in it, shaking his head. “Uh, no. I mean, wait. That came out wrong. What I mean is, you do know Em, don’t you? I mean, you work with her, right?”
Still nothing but cool disdain and the scent of Vicks. “I do.”
“Well, try living with her. Or almost living with her. She doesn’t like the word no. If I don’t at least look at the problem, she’ll have my head. You don’t want carnage on your hands, do you?”
Her sigh was full of phlegm, making him wince in regret. He was teasing her while she was standing at the door with the raw wind nipping at her. Em wouldn’t like that, either. “Listen, you need to get inside out of the draft. If you get sicker, Em’ll have my head. Just let me take a look, okay? You can trust no one will read a story about you and your hacked-off limbs hanging in a smokehouse in the Plum Orchard Herald. I’m safe. Call Em and check, if you need to.”
Her chin lifted a little, still standoffish. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
Patience. She just needed patience. He had time for that. “It’s going to be down in the thirties tonight, Marybell, and if I remember right, this apartment has concrete floors. Great in a hot Georgia summer, not so great in the winter with this recent cold snap. One quick look and then I’m out of your hair. Deal?” He smiled wide, hoping to sway her with his winning grin.
Yet as he held that grin for as long as his mouth would allow, Marybell clearly wasn’t affected in quite the way he’d hoped. In other words, letting him in had nothing to do with the magic of the Hawthorne charm.
While his teeth stuck to his cold lips from smiling so hard, she finally rolled her hand toward the thermostat, keeping the hat pulled down over her eyes. “Fine.” She turned on her fuzzy foot without another word, leaving him to wipe his feet on the small mat outside her door and enter the enemy’s castle.
Oddly, as she made her way back to the couch, clinging firmly to her hat, he couldn’t help admiring her petite frame, even in a rumpled bathrobe. Compact and curvy.
Then guilt stung his gut. Jesus, Hawthorne. She’s full up with snot, and her nose, what you can see of it, anyway, is redder than a poker fresh from the fire, sick as a dog and still, you gawk.
Jackass.
* * *
Like before when the girls sneak-attacked you, remain calm. Walk to the couch. Sit your backside down. Hang on to your hat and say as little as possible.
When Tag sauntered past the couch, he stooped at her feet, making her freeze and stiffen. “Dropped this,” he offered casually, picking her throw blanket up and placing it on her lap before scanning the room and locating her thermostat.
As Tag popped the face of the digital thermostat off, Marybell let her fingers drift to the arm of her couch and gripped it hard. Every cell in her body ordered her to run and hide. Yet her aching muscles refused to unclench.
Watching him from beneath the brim of the ridiculous hat Dixie had given her as a gift when they’d all watched the Kentucky Derby together was like watching the numbers grow smaller on a ticking bomb.
They were sexy numbers, no doubt. Tight, muscled, encased in a pair of jeans that set her heart to fluttering and skipping as if she were jumpin’ double Dutch. He wasn’t classically handsome like his brother, Jax.
On the contrary, he was rough, unkempt, his large hands spotted with a dark-wood stain that had set into the rough calluses on his fingers. His skin was ruddy, hard-weather worn and kissed by the sun. His eyes were an odd combination of brown and gold, as rich and deep as his voice, making her wonder what lay behind them.
As Tag tinkered with the dial, emitting a sound from deep within the strong column of his throat, Marybell fought a sigh of girlish admiration. He was strong and rock-solid, all hard edges and craggy surfaces.
If she wasn’t already flush with fever, she’d swear she was on fire while watching him bend over and scoop up his tool belt.
When he lifted his head, Marybell tugged the brim of the hat down again, leaving only his lower torso for her eyes to feast upon.
If she didn’t stop gawking, at any moment he’d realize who she was and her whole life in Plum Orchard, so carefully crafted these past months, would explode. She’d lose everything. Admiration turned to panic, clawing her gut, making her blood run cold in her veins.
Tag turned to her, not as smiley as he was a few moments ago. “Where’s your water heater?”
Instead of being gracious, or even just a little grateful Em had insisted out of the goodness of her heart that Tag come fix her heat, she pointed to the back of her small kitchen where a door led to the garage.
In fact, she all but grunted the directions like some cave dweller.
As Tag strode past her, his muscled thighs working beneath his jeans like well-oiled machines, he looked as though he was going to stop and say something, then thought better of it because he liked his head attached to his neck, and wandered out to her kitchen.
When Marybell heard the door leading to the garage shut, she attempted a sigh of relief, only to end up thwarted by the crackle of her chest. Hopping up off the couch and grabbing her phone from the end table, she ignored the unbelievable ache of her muscles and the wheeze in her lungs and headed straight for the bathroom, where she took one look at her image and almost fainted dead.
Closing the door, she gripped the edge of the sink until her knuckles were white. She was in no condition to apply her “people shield” tonight, so the ridiculous hat stayed. Pulling it from her head, she wet a cloth and pressed it to her flaming cheeks, bright with fever, her body still warring with chills and the sweats.
You’re being incredibly rude, Marybell Lyman.
Mercy, she was indeed. Yet better rude than revealed.
A brisk rap of knuckles on the door made her jump, almost tripping on her work boots, carelessly discarded beside the bathtub when she’d come home last night.
“Marybell?”
Yes, Prince Gruff And Hot? She shivered, at war with his affect on her as much as her wish to remain hidden behind the door until he went away. “Yes?” she managed to croak. Think, think, think, Marybell!
“I just need to grab a few things from my truck. I’ll be right back.”
Her lips trembled, but she managed to force the words out. “Okay...and thank you,” she remembered to add.
Tag’s footsteps rang in her ears just as she sank to the edge of her tub. What to do, what to do? Clearly, she had to leave the bathroom. She couldn’t hide in here the entire time he was fixing her heat. How ungrateful and rude would that appear?
Lost in misery, she jumped when her phone rang, screeching out a Marilyn Manson tune. With shaky fingers, she rode her finger across the surface without even bothering to look and see the identity of the caller. “Hello?”
“Oh, my poor, sweet angel! You sound just dreadful. If this keeps up, I’m calling Doc Johnson,” Em crooned into her ear. “Are you okay? Is Tag there with you?”
She nodded as though Em could see her. Oh, yes. He was here. So very here.
“MB, honey?”
Marybell gnawed on the inside of her lip, perusing the shelves above her toilet, looking... “Yes! Yes, he’s here. Thank you, Em. I told y’all I’d be fine. You didn’t have to bother.”
“Oh, hush. Friends are never a bother. So, has he figured out the problem?”
Not yet, but when he does... She frowned. “Problem?”
“Yes, dumplin’. The problem with your heat,” Em insisted.
Oh, he has no problem with my heat. He’s got me plenty heated. Marybell cringed. Finding this man attractive was absolutely a no-no. “Um, not yet. He’s in...”
“Are you all right, MB? What’s goin’ on over there?”
Realizing she was distracted, Marybell pressed the heel of her hand to her head, massaging the incessant throb. “Everything’s fine, Em. I’m sorry. The cold meds are making me fuzzy, is all.”
Em giggled into the phone, light and sweet. “Or is it Tag makin’ you fuzzy? He’s pretty cute, you know, respectin’ the fact that he’s the love of my life’s relative, of course.”
Of course. Boundaries and such. “I didn’t really notice,” she muttered just as her eyes landed on a way to solve her problem, hoping to hide the fact that her pants would be on fire right now if her denial wasn’t for such a good cause.
“Oh, you did, too. Why, surely you’re not blind from the ragin’ flu, are you, MB?” Em teased her, sliding into a thinly disguised, nosy inquiry. She was forever trying to set Marybell up with someone, declaring she just wanted everyone to be as happy as she and Jax were.
“He’s been very nice.” There. No more discussion. She reached up, pushing her endless bottles of conditioner out of the way. The Lord was good. Eureka!
“Nice? Is that how one describes men like the Hawthorne boys? Nice?” she prodded.
Marybell fished out the large container, filled with green goo. “Em?”
“Marybell?”
Her sigh was ragged as she tucked the phone under her chin and tried to screw the lid off the jar, putting it between her knees and giving it what little she had left. “I look horrible. I smell like I’ve been swimmin’ in a mentholated pool, my eyes are swollen and goopy and my nose is red as your mama’s roses. What difference does it make how I describe this man? I can promise you this, as crazy bag lady as I look right now, he’ll just be glad to get out of here visually unscarred. He won’t give a hoot how I describe him.”
Em sighed into the phone, the happy noises of her household full of children and assorted pets in the background. “Sorry. I was doin’ your dreamin’ for you, wasn’t I?”
Because every girl dreamed of falling for a man who, if he knew her true identity, would rather spit on her than acknowledge her existence. End of dream. “I have to go now, Em. I don’t want to be rude to the very nice Tag Hawthorne while he fixes my heat.” Or heats my fix. Or something along those lines.
“Now, you listen to me, MB. You get yourself back to bed the moment Tag’s done, hear? And you stay there until you’re better. Your clients won’t die for lack of you. LaDawn’s got you covered. Now, one of us will be over in the morning to check on you and make you some breakfast, okay?”
Marybell nodded again, finally loosening the lid on the jar.
“You hear, MB?”
“Yes! I can’t wait. The more chicken soup for my flu-riddled soul, the better,” she chirped. “And thank you again, Em. I really do appreciate you.” She clicked the phone off before Em had her married to Tag and fixin’ her heat for better or worse for an eternity.
Dropping the phone into her pocket, she glanced at her naked face in the mirror before driving her hand into the jar of green goo, taking a huge scoop of it and slathering it across her forehead and cheeks.
When she was done, she wrinkled her nose at her image, turning her head from side to side to be sure she’d covered every inch of her face. Flipping on the faucet, she rinsed her hands, toweled them off and grabbed a clip, pulling all of her hair up on the top of her head to imprison it there.
It wasn’t a pointy Mohawk, but it was just as scary.
One last glance as the goo on her face began to harden. Okay, she assessed. This could work. Feeling only a shade less uneasy, she wrapped a towel around her neck and popped open the bathroom door, running right into Tag.
“Oh!” she yelped, putting her hands in front of her to find them flat on his chest.
Tag grabbed for her, wrapping his arm around her waist.
Marybell’s head popped up and she’d swear, if she ever retold this story, when describing his reaction to the hardening green mass on her face, she’d call it horrified quickly followed by the world’s worst acting job at covering up.
He grinned down at her, deep lines on either side of his mouth forming inviting grooves she had to stop herself from reaching up and touching to feel how deep they really were. “You okay?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, unsure if she was dizzy from the brush of their bodies or her cold. But the brush of his long length against hers, even with the flu, was a whoa moment.
Then, like every other moment she’d spent in his presence, the whoa factor passed and she remembered she was just a girl. Just a girl hiding for her life behind a flaking green face mask of goo.
Forcing herself to step out of his reach, Marybell nodded. “I’m fine, thank you. So, have you figured out the problem?”
He nodded, his eyes flickering over her face before resting on her mouth. “I have. You should be nice and toasty in three, two...one.” Tag held up his index finger just as a rush of air from the vent on the floor blew up her bathrobe.
Marybell smiled in relief, sinking her spine into the wall behind her to avoid making contact with him in the narrow space. “What was it?”
“Pilot light. It was out.”
She rolled her eyes in self-disgust, bringing on another wave of dizziness that left her groping for the wall in support. “Of course it was.”
“It’s an easy thing to miss.”
“It was a dumb thing to miss.”
“You’re sick.”
“Sick? Yes. Brain-dead? No.”
His teeth flashed white in the darkened hall. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
She snorted, congested and gross. “You’re too kind.”
He stared down at her, making her wonder how many times he’d smiled just like this and how many times the recipient of that smile had been a woman. It appeared his boyish grin was Tag’s standard default when he wanted his way.
Ridiculous thoughts likely brought on by her unstable, drugged brain.
“I also fixed the thermostat. The digital reader was broken. Anyway, I’ll let you rest now. Em called to remind me to remind you to take your medicine and get as much rest as possible. Hope you feel better soon.”
Suddenly he was leaving, just like that, his reign of unwitting terror over. And so soon. She put a hand on his arm, letting her fingers sink lightly into it. “Money,” she garbled.
Tag turned, cocking his head. “The root of all evil?”
“No.” She forced the word out, noting she’d left green flakes of goo on the arm of his sweatshirt, covering the roped muscle of his arm.
“Are we free-associating here?”
“I meant, let me pay you.”
“For igniting your pilot light?”
No. For lighting my hormone’s pilot. “Well, yeah. Don’t you charge an hourly wage?”
He chuckled. Rich. Thick. Slippery. “Not when Em’s hiring.”
But wait... “I can’t just let you light my pilot for free.” Smooth, Marybell. Since when did anyone do anything for free, especially a contractor? And what was this reluctance to let him leave? Twenty minutes ago, she been living for his exit.
Now she was every bit Thumper eyes and lobbing money at him.
He backed away, deftly avoiding her black bag with the silver spikes on it, lying on the floor in the nook of the sharp right turn into the living room. “You can, and you will. Feel better, Marybell,” he called out, the sound of the wind and then the door muffling his voice as it closed, greeting her ears.
Her shoulders slumped.
But they were warm when they did.
She wandered back into the living room, hands in her pockets, feeling strangely empty.
Tag had filled up an entire room, and when he’d left, which was exactly what she’d wanted him to do from the moment he entered, the space felt void of something.
Something.
As she pondered the something, she sat back down on the couch, pulling the throw over her legs, and that’s when she noticed it.
A freshly made cup of tea, sitting beside the bowl of decorative balls on her coffee table, complete with tendrils of steam lifting off the amber liquid in wispy waves of heat.
Tag Hawthorne had made her tea.
The corner of Marybell’s lips tilted upward in a reluctant smile, somehow evolving into butterflies in her stomach. Her schoolgirl smile cracked the thick layer of her green face mask until chunks of it fell into her lap.
Then she caught herself, the butterflies accumulating in the pit of her belly fleeing, replaced with dread. The green chunks were a warning. A symbol of what could happen.
Liking Taggart Hawthorne, even a little, would crack her carefully guarded life, turning it into a steaming pile of similar face-mask goo.
Nothing, especially not the temptation of a good-looking man, would ever entice her enough to do that.
