Читать книгу His Private Pleasure - Donna Kauffman - Страница 6

DYLAN HADN’T THOUGHT she’d really do it. But he was too damn grateful to tease her about it. He’d get his chance later. A vivacious brunette who liked the feel of a hot rod vibrating beneath her thighs was almost impossible not to have some fun with. And he might just be up for a little fun. As soon as he got out of this damn tree.

If he wasn’t so annoyed at his mother’s damn bird—and all too aware of the coming confrontation—he’d have enjoyed the hell out of watching Ms. Fancy Heels try to climb a tree. She wasn’t kidding when she said she wasn’t a climber.

“Dammit!”

She glared up at him as she lost the scant foot she’d gained and landed on the ground again. He had to admit he admired her spunk when, rather than quit, she squared her lovely, rounded shoulders and tried again. She wore a silky, aquamarine T-shirt that clung to her curves. A narrow band of smooth, honey-colored skin peeked from between the hem of the shirt and the low waistband of her white cotton pants. Pants that hugged her all the way down to just below her knee…and just above a very nice flare of calf muscle.

Must have gotten them from tottering around on those Popsicle stick heels, he thought, not uncharitably. Given her definite lack of athleticism, he figured she’d been born into those amazing curves of hers…and he was damn grateful for that, even if it didn’t get him out of this tree.

He winced a little when her bracelets—she wore what looked like dozens of silver chains on her wrists—scraped along the gnarled trunk as her slender, ringed fingers scrabbled for purchase. He mentally added a manicure and possibly a trip to the jewelry store to the tab he was rapidly running up with her.

Another slide, another broken nail. She didn’t even look at him this time. Instead she turned, shot a gauging glance around the corner, then shifted her gaze to her car.

Oh no. “Now you’re taking off?” Not that he could blame her.

“Of course not. I always finish what I start,” she retorted, then hopscotched barefoot on the hot pavement as she hurried to the driver’s side of her car and jumped in. Literally. So maybe she was a bit more limber than he’d credited her with.

“What exactly are you—” He stopped as he realized her plan. She edged her car just beneath the tree, climbed back out, then scooted her fine little body onto the metal luggage rack bracketed to the miniscule trunk.

“Hold on,” she called up to him.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere.” He couldn’t believe she was actually going to all this trouble. But it was too damn entertaining to watch. Not to mention critical to saving his backside. Literally and figuratively.

He hadn’t been surprised to hear she was from L.A. He could spot that movie-town gloss a mile away. Usually her type headed for Santa Fe and Taos, but occasionally they tooled down to Sierra County for the Balloon Regatta, or just to tell their friends they’d been to a town called Truth or Consequences.

None of which explained what a West Coast princess was doing crawling up on her car in downtown Canyon Springs. He watched her steady herself and carefully straighten, before looking up at him. Damn, but God had been having a really fine day when he put her together.

So, maybe Dylan would discover why she was here over lunch. And if he was lucky—and it had been so long since he’d even thought about getting lucky, he figured he was long overdue—breakfast as well.

Her short black curls whipped about in the breeze, dancing along a forehead presently furrowed as she reached once, then twice, for his backside.

Her nails were painted dragon-lady red. As was her mouth. And dear Lord, what a mouth. How had he missed that? Her eyes were a bright flashy blue that almost matched her shirt. But that bow-tie mouth… A man could waste large portions of the night fantasizing about a mouth shaped like that.

She reached up again. This time those nails scraped lightly along the swath of cotton the tear in his uniform had revealed. The way his body leaped to attention you’d have thought she’d stroked them down the length of his—

“Careful,” he barked when she brushed him again. Jesus, it had been too long, if just the tips of her nails were arousing him so swiftly. It was bad enough his choice in underwear was being flashed to half the town. He really didn’t need to reveal anything else, most especially not a raging hard-on.

“Get down before you fall,” he ordered, when she made a little hop and swiped at his belt.

“I can get it, I just have to…” She crouched and jumped a little higher and smacked the heel of her hand against the part of his belt that was stuck. “There!” she cried as it popped free, then shrieked when she lost her balance and did a slow tumble into the front seat of her car.

“Are you okay?” Dylan levered himself up onto the branch and looked down at the scene below.

She didn’t answer. Not because she was hurt. Because she was laughing.

She was sprawled in the passenger seat, legs spread akimbo over the headrest and dashboard, arms flung wide as if waiting for him to hope down to join her.

“Don’t give me any ideas,” he murmured, then watched in amused fascination as she expertly untwined herself from the upholstery, levered herself upright, then pushed her wayward curls from her face, checked her lipstick in the visor mirror and settled in the front seat as casually as if she was merely waiting for her driver to show up. Yeah, definitely more limber than he’d given her credit for.

He’d never harbored hot-rod sex fantasies before, preferring the roominess of a bed—a big bed—thank you. But images of tangling himself up with her and all that soft leather were definitely appealing to him at the moment.

“Sure you’re okay?” he asked, thinking he’d be a lot more okay after a cold shower. Or an afternoon drive into the countryside with her in that car.

“Oh, no problem, Officer,” she said oh-so-innocently, then followed it up with a sly wink that was anything but. “But you might want to get down from there before…” She pointed behind him.

Oh yeah. “I have to get this damned bird down first.” He’d forgotten all about Mango. His scowl returned as he looked up to where the cockatoo had been moments ago. There was a great flutter and flapping sound behind him. He swiveled just in time to see Mango stretch his huge wings—his huge clipped wings—and swoop ever so gracefully in an umbrella of white-and-salmon-colored feathers to land on—

“Look out,” he shouted. “Incoming.”

Ms. Bow-tie Lips turned just in time to see Mango land on the seat back behind her.

“Mango is a good boy!” the bird announced rather proudly, then attempted to prove his claim by prancing back and forth, bopping his head up and down, then extending one claw and, very sweetly, asking, “Step up?”

Dylan swore as he climbed to the lowest branch, then dropped to the ground. “Come here, you big pink chicken,” he said as he approached the car.

But Mango was having nothing to do with him. He lunged and squawked, his crest fluffed out to its fullest extent.

“You know, I don’t think he likes you,” his rescuer murmured.

She really did have the sassiest mouth.

“He does prefer women. Go ahead, put your arm out for him. He’s asking you to, so it’ll be okay.”

She laughed—a full-bodied sound that had those images flashing in his brain again. “Yeah, right. I’ve already lost three nails. I’d as soon keep the fingers they were attached to.”

“He won’t—”

“Why, there’s my precious boy!”

Dylan broke off and looked up as Tucker and his mother rounded the corner. He had no idea where the Miller twins, Metsy and Betsy—one fraction of Tucker’s personal fan club—had left off, but Dylan was glad for the reduced crowd. His mother rushed toward him. Rush being perhaps a bit too enthusiastic a term. Avis Jackson did everything at her own pace, even before she’d had to take to using a cane after a round of knee surgery.

“Come to Momma, my baby.”

Dylan didn’t turn or open his arms for her, knowing she wasn’t referring to her only son.

Instead he casually leaned against the car and crossed his ankles, concealing the unfortunate state of his pants—both front and back. “Safe and sound,” he said, trying not to grit his teeth as she cooed and fussed over her “sweet baby.”

“Sweet my ass,” he muttered.

“I happen to think it’s pretty sweet.”

He glanced down to find Liza sizing up the posterior he’d rested just beside her. But before he could respond to her whispered aside, his attention was pulled back to his mother and Mango.

“You really need to stay where I put you, baby,” she was telling the bird.

“You really need to use that safe lock I got you after his last escape.”

His mother merely clucked her tongue and scooped the giant bird up so she could cuddle him against her chest. “He doesn’t like being all locked up. Do you, sweetie?” she crooned.

“Then you have to keep the windows—”

She turned on him, her frown emphasizing the deep grooves bracketing her mouth. “I’m not getting any younger, and I’ll stifle if I have to sit all cooped up in some air-controlled trap. I like to feel the air move. Mango and the rest of the flock like the breeze, too.” She turned and her face became a wreath of smiles. “Don’t you, sweet boy?”

Dylan had long ago stopped trying to figure out how a recalcitrant, oversize parrot could weasel its way into his mother’s good graces when he’d spent the last thirty years trying to do the same thing, only to conclude no such path existed. For him, anyway.

“So, you new in town?”

Dylan shifted his attention back to the sports car. Tucker was leaning over the driver’s side door, beaming that million watt smile he’d perfected back in his high school quarterback days.

She didn’t answer directly. Instead she stuck her hand out and said, “And you would be?”

“Tucker Greywolf, town fire marshal.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

Dylan scowled as he watched Liza give Tucker a thorough visual frisking. His frown deepened when Tucker returned the favor. And she didn’t seem to mind.

Dylan cleared his throat. “We should get this car moved.” He glanced at Tucker. “It’s in a fire lane.”

“So it is,” Tucker said, still smiling. “Why don’t you move it right around the corner to that lot there?” He pointed diagonally across the intersection. “Next to LuLu’s. I’ll spring for some lunch. It’s nothing fancy, but—”

“I’ve already got a lunch date, Marshal, but thank you for—”

“Call me Tucker.”

She merely smiled. “Thanks for the invitation, Tucker. Maybe some other time. I’m Liza.”

Liza. Dylan groaned silently. No. This couldn’t be happening. First the call from his old captain this morning. Then playing George of the Jungle. Now this. What were the odds her name would be Liza, of all things? And he’d thought his day couldn’t get any worse.

Both Tucker and his mother had fallen silent and turned to look at him.

“Oh shit,” Mango whispered.

His mother gasped and tucked Mango’s head to her breast. “Dylan Benjamin Jackson,” she hissed. “Tell me you did not use profanity in front of Mango.”

For perhaps the first time ever, Dylan was almost grateful to the pink chicken for his timely interruption. “Mom, really, it’s not like he—”

“You know how fond he is of reciting anything said with drama. If he so much as repeats that one time during bingo, I’ll—”

“I’m sure he’s heard far worse at the fire house. And really, it’s not like the ladies have never—”

His mother cut him off with her trademark Glacial Glare of Doom, then flipped her attention back to Liza. Before Dylan could open his mouth to sidetrack her again, or better yet come up with a rapid explanation, she said, “So, you’re the floozy keeping my son from getting married, hmm?”

Liza’s blue eyes—which only a second earlier had been dancing in amusement at his maternal dressing-down—popped wide as she looked from Avis, to him, then back to Avis. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dylan’s stripper. From Vegas.” She turned to him and said, “I guess I should be happy you’re getting it from somewhere. I’d almost begun to think maybe you were hiding something from me. Although you could have told me you were gay, you know. I’m hip. I’m…what do they call it? Down with that?”

Dylan’s eyes bulged. “What? When did you come up with that idea?” And how many people had she shared her little theory with? He groaned, thinking back to the way the old-timers at Pete’s Barber Shop had fallen silent the other day when he’d walked in. “And since when do you use phrases like ‘down with that’?”

Avis had to raise her voice to be heard over Tucker’s howls of laughter. “I have cable. I watch that cute Carson Daly on MTV. And what’s a mother supposed to think when every young lady she introduces you to—”

“You mean shoves down my throat,” he argued, forgetting Liza for the moment. “Like that poor woman who stopped by the VFW Hall last week during bingo to use the rest room?”

“Bingo!” Mango piped up. “B-12, N-35! We have a winner!”

Avis sniffed and stroked Mango’s feathers. “Perhaps I’ve grown a bit desperate. It’s hardly my fault. I want grandchildren to dandle on my lap while I can still sit upright.”

As far as he knew, she’d never even dandled him on her lap. She’d been too busy feeding her flock. “And you think that accosting every—”

“Shush now,” Avis commanded, then turned a forced smile toward Liza. “Introduce me to your stripper.”

“I’m not a stripper,” Liza interjected, looking amused once more.

“No,” Tucker said, still chuckling. “She’s a showgirl, Mrs. Jackson. Remember, Dylan told us all about how she could never find the time to visit due to the two-a-night shows she performs at the Tropicana.”

Avis eyed Liza. “Doesn’t look tall enough to be a showgirl. Aren’t showgirls usually taller? She’s got the boobs for stripping, though.” She looked down at her own meager chest. “Saw a program on the Discovery channel about showgirls. Always thought it would be fun to wear those tassel things and…” She looked at Liza, and in all seriousness, asked, “Do you know how to make them swing in circles and—”

“Mother!” Dylan felt his stomach burn, and automatically fished in his pockets for a roll of antacids. Only he didn’t have any. That’s why he was sheriff of Canyon Springs and not vice squad detective in Las Vegas anymore. So he didn’t have to pop Tums like they were gumdrops. He gently tugged his mother away from the car. “I’m sorry, Liza. This is all a huge misunderstanding.” He turned to Avis. “Mom, this isn’t what you think. She’s—”

“Really pleased to finally meet you, Mrs. Jackson,” Liza interrupted, nudging her door open and climbing out. She bent down and scooped up her slings and slipped them on her feet, instantly adding a little showgirl length to those fabulous legs of hers.

Avis looked her up and down. “Add one of those headdress thingies and I guess you could fill the bill.” She transferred Mango to one sturdy forearm and stuck out a liver-spotted hand. “Sorry if I offended. I just worry about my boy, is all. He’s thirty-two, you understand. Pleasure to meet you.” She shot a reproving look at Dylan. “Finally.”

Liza grinned and winked at Dylan. “Pleasure is all mine, trust me.”

What the hell did she think she was up to? As if this farce hadn’t played out too long already.

Dylan squeezed between them, determined to straighten this out immediately. “Mom, this isn’t—”

“The place for formal introductions,” Liza interrupted. “Your son was just about to take me to lunch. We’d love to have you join us.”

Avis’s face flushed with surprised pleasure. Dylan swore silently. He didn’t know what Liza’s game was, but he wasn’t going to play along.

His mother patted her braid and adjusted her hat. “I’m not really dressed for lunch. I was out in the garden, weeding, when Mango pushed the screen out again and tried one of his little flying hops. He hates to be away from me. Don’t you, boy,” she said, snuggling Mango’s salmon-colored head, which he’d tucked against her chest. “He’s clipped, but the breeze lifted him, and next thing I knew, he was gone.”

“Again,” Dylan asserted, but no one was listening to him.

“You look fine,” Liza assured Avis. She turned to Tucker and gave him her testosterone-booster smile. “I’m sure Marshal Greywolf wouldn’t mind seeing to Mango, as he’s been in the firehouse before, right?”

Tucker took one look at Dylan’s obvious discomfort and stepped right in, all grins and helpful as hell. “Not a problem. Come on, Mango buddy. Let’s take a walk.”

He stuck out his arm and Mrs. Jackson gave the big bird one last cuddle, then said, “Step up, precious.”

The bird dutifully did so, then looked at Dylan as if to say, “It’s not women I prefer, just anyone but you.”

Yeah, same to you pal, Dylan thought as he watched Tucker hold Mango close to his chest and saunter back down the block toward the station.

“Oh goodness, I almost forgot.” Avis grabbed Dylan’s wrist and turned it so she could read his watch. “I have a ladies auxiliary meeting. We’re discussing the final plans for our Fiesta Day booth.” She placed a hand on Liza’s forearm. “You will be staying for the fiesta, won’t you, dear? We’re having our famous salsa-making contest. People come from all over. It’s a real event. Nothing fancy like they have in Vegas, I’m sure, but—”

Dylan stepped in, taking Liza’s arm in his, mostly to get her out of his mother’s clutches. “I don’t think Liza can—”

“Liza can speak for herself,” Liza said, extricating her arm and smiling at Avis, who was looking well pleased at the way she was handling herself.

Great, he thought. Thirty-two years he hadn’t been able to get on his mother’s top perch and now it was suddenly two against one. How in the hell had this happened, anyway?

“I’m not sure of my plans at the moment, Mrs. Jackson,” Liza was saying.

“And she has manners, too,” Avis said to her son. “I’m sorry I called you a floozy, dear.”

“I’ve been called worse,” Liza assured her.

If Dylan’s life hadn’t been flashing before his very eyes, he might have smiled at the momentary blank look that crossed his mother’s face.

“Yes, well, I suppose there are some with small minds who would make sweeping assumptions,” she managed to murmur.

Never mind that she’d just done the same thing, Dylan thought. His mother definitely operated in her own universe, of which she was the undisputed center. He’d long ago learned it was best to stay in his own distant orbit.

Liza merely caught his eye and winked. “Yes, sweeping assumptions can be a problem.”

Avis smiled. “Come now, I’ll walk you to LuLu’s, it’s on my way.” She tucked her hand through Liza’s arm and steered them back to the sidewalk. “So, is being a showgirl so lucrative that you haven’t found another line of work to bring you closer to my Dylan?”

“Mother, please.” He thought about trying to explain the misunderstanding yet again, but one look at Liza’s dancing eyes told him she’d only circumvent him. She obviously thought this was hysterically funny, and if he weren’t so annoyed, he’d probably think so, too. He’d put an end to it as soon as he got Liza alone.

Which no longer entailed the pleasurable scenario he’d envisioned earlier. Now he was thinking that the sooner he got her out of town, the better.

“Actually, I’ve quit my job,” Liza announced.

“Well, hallelujah,” Avis crowed. “Does this mean you’re coming to Canyon Springs permanently?” She reached over and rapped Dylan’s ankle with her cane. “Why didn’t you tell me? We would have thrown a party or something.”

“I’m going to have you register that thing as a lethal weapon,” he said, wincing as he flexed his leg. “And I didn’t tell you, because I’m as surprised by this as you are.” He sent Liza a pointed look.

She merely smiled brightly as they paused in front of the door to LuLu’s. “Here we are.”

Dylan stepped in, blocking the door and separating the two women at the same time. “Enjoy your meeting, Mom.”

Avis frowned, clearly not liking being manipulated. If she only knew.

Liza opened her mouth—to say God knew what—but apparently thought better of whatever it was when she caught his eye. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Jackson,” she said instead.

“Why thank you, dear. And please, call me Avis. Where will you be staying?” She eyed the two of them.

Dylan placed a hand on Liza’s shoulder and squeezed.

“We, uh, haven’t worked that out yet,” Liza said.

“I’ll call you later, Mom, okay?”

Avis clearly wished she didn’t have other obligations, but finally nodded. “See that you do. Have a nice lunch.”

Dylan waved. Liza opened her mouth, but with a bit more applied pressure from him, simply nodded and waved.

Once Avis was around the corner, Liza turned, slid neatly from his grasp and reached for the door.

He shifted and blocked her entry with the toe of his boot. “Just what in the hell kind of game do you think you’re playing at here?”

She looked up at him, her expression one of consideration, not guilt or apology. Why didn’t that surprise him?

“Tell me one thing,” she said. “Is there really a showgirl in Las Vegas pining after you?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

She flashed those white teeth, aqua eyes dancing. “That’s what I thought. Pretty clever. Coming up with an out-of-town flame to keep the matchmakers away.”

“Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Not that it’s working either, apparently. Did she really try to hook you up with a woman making a potty stop?”

“Just what is it you want from me?”

“Besides lunch, you mean?” She reached up and straightened his badge, which had become crooked during his descent from the tree. “Come on, you can always make up another imaginary girlfriend, right? I mean, no harm really done here.” She sighed then. “Okay, I’m sorry, I got carried away. I just couldn’t resist.” Her lips curved again and she brushed a quick finger along the groove in his chin. “You have the sexiest scowl.”

Dylan’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t have time for this.” But he couldn’t deny he’d like to make some. An hour or three, anyway. It had been a long time since he’d whiled away an afternoon with a willing woman. A woman who knew how the game was played, and what the rules of engagement were. Only, from what little he knew of Liza, he didn’t think she was all that interested in playing by any rules.

She pursed those incredible lips of hers. “Come on, Sheriff Jackson. For a man who climbs trees, you don’t seem to enjoy the concept of having fun.”

“I had all the fun I could handle in Vegas. I didn’t come here to have fun.” That hadn’t exactly come out how he’d meant it, but he didn’t bother trying to explain himself further.

“A pity.” Liza turned so that her body brushed briefly against his as she stepped behind him.

“What are you doing?” He almost leaped out of his skin when she snugged up behind him.

“I wasn’t sure the citizens of Canyon Springs really wanted to know their sheriff favored smiley-face briefs.”

Jesus. How had he forgotten about that? He knew exactly how he’d forgotten. One look at those party girl lips and far-too-knowing eyes and a guy could forget his own zip code. He scooted so his butt faced the wall, putting her a few merciful feet away from him at the same time. “I know I owe you a lunch, but—”

“Yes, you do. Wait right here.”

“But, I can’t go in there like—” It was too late. She’d disappeared inside.

She was out a moment later, dangling a navy-blue sweater from her fingers. “Here, tie this around your waist.”

“Where did you get that?”

“From the coat rack. It was all the way in the back. Probably left here ages ago. Listen, I deal with these sorts of little crises all the time. You can always drop it back off later after you’ve changed clothes.”

He fished his wallet out. “Fine. Great.”

She frowned. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked as he peeled off a twenty dollar bill.

He took her hand and placed the bill in it. “For services rendered. Have a nice lunch on me. I have to get back to work and change. I don’t have time for—”

“Oh. I see.”

How she could put such a wealth of meaning into a couple of tiny words, he had no idea. And why he cared what the hell she thought of him, he also had no idea.

She folded the twenty very carefully and stuck it behind his badge, then patted his chest. “Thanks, anyway.” She turned to walk away, then stopped and looked at him in that direct way she had. “Listen, I really am sorry if I caused you any problems. I don’t know what got into me back there. I just—” She broke off, then shrugged and smiled at him. For the first time, that bright confident light didn’t suffuse that ocean of blue in her eyes. “Have a nice life.” She turned and walked away. On those impossibly sexy heels. She didn’t look back.

Dylan swore under his breath. Just another eventful day in Canyon Springs, he told himself. Except there were no eventful days in Canyon Springs. He’d come here specifically to embrace the sameness of life that was Canyon Springs, New Mexico.

And then she’d strolled in and reminded him of just how invigorating change could be.

Before he could question his decision, or his sanity, he tied the sweater around his waist and said, “Wait.”