Killing Time

All she could think about was arriving at the little oasis in Derryville. The lovely home with the nice, quiet old landlady on the nice, quiet old street. The house would be her home base, a place to escape from the frenzy that always erupted on a reality television show set.

Best of all, the landlady would give her a physical barrier. She’d be a perfect chaperone in case Caroline lapsed into momentary insanity and lusted for Mick Winchester.

No. No lust. No stroll down a mind-numbingly hot memory lane with a guy who’d always been able to fry her circuits with a smile or have her flat on her back with a touch of his hand.

Damn. No woman should ever be unlucky enough to have a Mick Winchester as her first lover. Starting out with the best meant everything else was downhill from there. And it had been, until it got to the point where she hardly found sex worth it anymore.

Another reason to hate the bastard. He’d ruined her sex life.

When she arrived at the house, she parked in the driveway, surprised to note there were five or six cars parked on the street in front of the house. “Sewing circle night,” she mused aloud. “Or maybe a bake sale meeting.”

Though she was tired, this would be a perfect time to meet some of the matriarchs of Derryville. With the production schedule set up by the studio, she had to get the cooperation of the townspeople as quickly as possible. The crew was arriving today and tomorrow, the cast at the end of the week. All the extras had to be screened and signed, the locations set, the schedule firmed. They needed the residents on board from day one.

Swinging her soft carry-on bag over her shoulder, she left her other luggage in the trunk of the car. She wanted to sit down and have a nice hot cup of tea. Maybe some cucumber sandwiches or whatever small-town ladies served at Ladies’ Guild-type meetings.

The front door was wide open, the screen propped as well, propped by a small refrigerator sitting on the porch. It was probably filled with lemonade, or raspberry iced tea. Buttermilk.

“Okay, this isn’t Seventh Heaven,” she muttered, forcing the images of small-town family dramas out of her mind.

This was real. Not TV.

She raised her hand to knock, then noticed something funny. The noises coming from inside the house didn’t sound like a Ladies’ Guild meeting.

Another indication that she wasn’t going to be walking into a room full of nice gentle ladies was the smoke. Thick. Spicy. Obviously from a cigar. Or ten.

She froze, focused on the sounds. Male laughter. Deep. Raucous. Obviously from a man. Or ten.

Holding her breath, she entered the house, instinctively keeping on her toes to prevent her heels from striking the hardwood floors. She followed the noise, the laughter and a loud stereo playing some deafening music.

And suddenly found herself in a room full of testosterone.

Ten. Yep. That’s about what it looked like, though a quick count told her there were really only five.

Five men. Five big, laughing, smoking, drinking, scratching, snorting, belching, card-playing men. They were gathered around a card table that had been set up in the middle of what she remembered was the rec room.

It looked wrecked, all right. Male paraphernalia covered every flat surface. Overflowing ashtrays. Empty beer bottles. A half-empty bottle of Jim Beam and a three-quarters empty one of Crown Royal. Empty glasses. Chip bags. Remnants of pizza in some large boxes littering the floor. Cards. Gambling chips.

And right there in the middle of it, staring at her with a big ol’ shit-eating grin, sat a sexy-as-sin Mick Winchester.

MICK HAD KNOWN she was there the minute Caroline walked into the room. Even if he hadn’t been expecting her he’d have noticed the change in the air. Female molecules, scents and energy stood out in this place. Especially when they were such attractive molecules, intoxicating scents and seductive energies.

He was the only one who saw her at first as she stood there, clad in another one of those power suits tailored to fit perfectly against her curvy little body. And another pair of wickedly high-heeled shoes that accentuated the long, soft legs he remembered.

Forcing his mind out of his crotch, he continued to wait, keeping a casual eye on his cards, the other on her.

Caroline looked shocked. Confused. Ready to faint. Then, ready to kill. She’d obviously seen him.

“Hey, Caroline!” he called, keeping his teeth clamped on the soggy end of a half-smoked cigar.

All the men at the table, his card-playing baseball team buddies, glanced around to follow his stare. He should have told them about her, or at least prepared himself for their reactions. That may have prevented his fists from tightening as Ty Taylor made a soft wolf whistle and Ty’s twin brother, Eddie, muttered something mildly obscene under his breath.

Why he’d want to smash in the teeth of one of his longtime buddies, he really couldn’t say. But he gave Eddie a warning look that instantly shut the other man up.

“What is going on?” Her voice was thready and shaking.

“Poker night. Five card stud. Ten dollar max bid,” Mick explained. “And Jimmy here is kicking our asses.”

She clutched her bag. “I mean, why…why are you here?”

He ignored the question. He also ignored his own slight tinge of remorse for planning this outrageous welcoming party for Caroline. He could have just called her and told her the truth any time over the past few weeks. But her snippy, impersonal little e-mails and faxed messages had kept him from doing it.

“Guys, this is Caroline Lamb. She’s the producer for the new TV show being shot up at the old Marsden place.”

Though he would have sworn not one of the men in the room would have held a door for his own mother after two hours of bourbon, cigars, raunchy talk and cards, each of them stood up and nodded to Caroline. Mick rose as well, acknowledging what he’d always known about Caroline. She brought out a basic male instinct from any man she came across. The good, the bad and the ugly. “The ugly” might have accounted for this whole welcoming reception, which had seemed like such a fine idea the other night over a few beers at the Mainline Tavern, but was making him feel a bit small now.

He shrugged off the feeling, remembering that Caroline was a champion at making people feel small.

“Nice to meet you,” Ty said. His greeting was echoed by the other card players.

Mick quickly went around the table, introducing them all. Caroline remained silent until he reached the last name.

Then she just stared, waiting for the punchline. So he gave it to her. “Caroline’s my new roommate. How are you doing, roomie? Have a good flight?”

He almost heard her back crack as she straightened it in a stiff stance a Master Sergeant would envy. “This is your house?” Her voice didn’t so much as quiver.

“Yep.” He sat back down, throwing his cards face-down onto the pile in the center of the table. “Damn.”

“This is your house?” she repeated.

He looked up. “Uh-huh.”

Her already creamy face went a shade paler and her lips trembled a little bit. He wasn’t sure whether that was fury or dismay and had to gulp down another bit of unfamiliar guilt.

“Who was the woman? That day. Who was the older lady I met here, the one who baked the pie?”

“My mom.”

The guys, who’d slowly retaken their seats around the table, snorted. Then Jimmy said, “You need to change your locks.” He gave Caroline a glance and wagged his eyebrows at Mick. “Never know when she’s going to walk in on something, uh…personal.”

“Hey, she make you any of her chocolate chip cookies lately?” Eddie asked. Mick ignored him.

“You let me think…” she began.

He shrugged. “I tried to tell you this wouldn’t suit you.”

“I thought this was her house,” she said, not seeming to care that she was basically repeating herself.

“I never said she was the landlady. And you never asked.” Chuckling, he leaned back in his seat, kicking his feet out in front of him and crossing his hands behind his head. “Hope you don’t leave panty hose and women’s crap all over the bathroom.”