She's No Angel

“No, it didn’t.”

“I meant…”

“I know what you meant. You were talking about that boys’ elementary-school urge to catch a glimpse of some fellow third grader’s Strawberry Shortcake panties.”

“Well, it so happens that I don’t wear Strawberry Shortcake panties,” she retorted.

“Yeah. I know,” he murmured, unable to get rid of the tiny smile still tugging at his lips.

“You were looking.”

“All the male angels in heaven would have looked.” Never glancing over at her, he continued, “We might not want to see the pink cotton under your school uniform anymore, but we are instinctively bred to zone in on anything made of silk and lace. Especially when it’s resting between a pair of soft thighs.”

Where in the hell all that had come from, Mike honestly didn’t know. He couldn’t remember stringing together such a thought in a long time, much less actually saying it to someone. A woman. A stranger.

A stranger who was watching him from the other seat, her jaw hanging open and her cheeks a little pink.

“Don’t go grabbing for the tire iron, I’m still not going to leap on you,” he said, his tone dry. “I was just making a point.” Returning his attention to the road, he noted the few small scattered buildings that made up the outlying area of the town of Trouble. And another one of those Trouble Ahead signs. “Who named this place, anyway?” he muttered.

She cleared her throat, glad for the subject change. As was he. Talking about a woman’s silky panties and her silkier thighs was a bad idea less than an hour into a relationship.

Not that they were in a relationship! No way. Their acquaintance was going to last approximately twenty minutes…the length of time it took to get her to her car.

“Probably the same person who named the towns of Paradise and Intercourse, Pennsylvania,” she said.

He wondered if he ought to point out that some considered paradise and intercourse connected but figured he shouldn’t. They’d managed to skate off thin ice and he definitely didn’t want to glide back out onto it. He just needed to get this woman to her destination, push her out of the Jeep and keep on going to his grandfather’s house. Where his world was normal. Not involving kooky women who got pissed off and walked until their feet bled. Ones who made him laugh. And leer.

“The name Trouble definitely suits some of its residents. My relatives included.”

“You going to tell me how they ditched you?” he finally asked.

She sighed, then shook her head in resignation. “We went for a drive, then pulled up at a rest stop outside town. I, uh…made a suggestion they weren’t happy about and they demanded to leave. When we got to the car, one of them started screeching about her handkerchief blowing away and demanded that I chase after it.”

“Let me guess. You kicked off your shoes to run?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And they got in the car and left without you?”

“Yep.”

“Where does the tire iron fit in?”

She made a sound of frustration. He glanced over, seeing a look on her face that matched it.

“Aunt Ivy waved it out the window as they drove away, yelling that she’d hit me over the head with it if I tried to force her to move out of her house. I picked it up along the way and was fantasizing about shoving it up the old witch’s nose.”

Bloodthirstiness obviously ran in the family. But he figured it wasn’t the time to point that out, particularly since she’d finally let go of the tire iron.

“She better not have scratched my car when she dropped it,” Jen muttered, sounding more disgruntled than genuinely angry.

Hmm. Tire iron flying out the window of a moving car. He somehow suspected she wasn’t going to get her wish for no scratches. She’d be lucky if there were no dents. But that was for her to work out with her aunt—and her insurance agent—so he kept his opinion to himself.

“Why would you try to force her out of her house?”

“I’m not trying to force them. But I suggested that they move somewhere more appropriate.”

Like a mental institution, from the sound of them. But he figured he’d better not say that, either. He’d been doing a lot of keeping his mouth shut since he’d met her, which really wasn’t surprising considering he genuinely liked to mind his own business and let other people mind theirs. However, they still had a few minutes to kill, and he was curious, so he asked, “Why do you think they should move?”

“Because they each live in ancient monstrosities that are held together by the beehives and termite nests hidden in their foundations, and the congealed dust and mildew on the walls.”

“Pleasant.”

Grunting, she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. Her nicely curved chest, which curved up even higher with the pressure from her arms. Not quite into stop-your-heart territory, but definitely beyond the wonder-if-they’re-real zone.

Real. Oh, yeah.

He cleared his throat and glanced away.

“They’re in their mid-seventies, one’s already had a hip replacement. Yet they insist on living in these two old mausoleums that could fall down under a strong spring breeze. Neither can drive—”

“They took your car,” he pointed out.

“Neither can drive legally,” she clarified. “Ida Mae had her license, but it was taken away because of her vision. Or the road-rage charges. I can’t remember which.”

Again, she startled a small chuckle out of him. Must be some kind of record. Or maybe it was simply because it was a bright, sunny day, he was far away from the city and he had a long weekend off. He’d probably be laughing at Mutt right about now if he hadn’t stopped to pick up his unexpected passenger…. It didn’t necessarily have to do with the woman herself.

“When they’re not refusing to let workmen in their house to fix things—unless they’re young and good-looking, of course—they’re calling me to bitch about each other.”

“Not exactly a pair of Red Riding Hood’s grannies, huh?”

“Only if Red Riding Hood’s granny owned a shotgun and wanted a wolfskin coat for the winter.”

He heard a note of something in her voice—maybe, though she’d probably hate to admit it, a tiny hint of admiration. As though she couldn’t help liking the ballsiness of the old ladies, even if they drove her crazy. This one didn’t like being thwarted, and her relatives were a big old thorn in her side, but something told him she admired them just the same.

“So, you tried to make them leave their homes?”

She sat up straighter. “I suggested that they move into an assisted-living facility where they could have each other for company and have medical help at the push of a button.”

Sounded reasonable. And while he would never expect such a thing of his grandfather, who had enough money to surround himself with staff and live anywhere he damn well chose, he certainly understood the concept of wanting an elderly relative taken care of. Especially taken care of somewhere other than in the crappy town they were entering. “They disliked the idea so much one of them threatened to kill you?”

“She threatens to kill everybody, including cookie-peddling little girls if they ring her doorbell during The Jerry Springer Show,” Jen muttered, waving an unconcerned hand. Then she glanced at her mangled feet. “I just didn’t expect they’d hate the idea enough to maim me over it.”

That soft, wistful tone in her voice told him a lot, hammering home the fact that despite her groaning about them, she cared about these aunts of hers. Cared about them a lot. And was hurt by what they’d done. “Are you giving up?”

Not answering for a moment, she leaned back in her seat, her chin tilting up and her eyes narrowing. From the other side of the Jeep, Mike could feel the temperature go up a degree or two as she got all hot under the collar, every bit of softness and hurt disappearing. Her muscles went tense, which merely emphasized the smoothness of the skin over those muscles, and the slenderness of her body.

“I never give up when there’s something I want, Mr. Taylor.” Her jaw stiff, she stared out the window. "Never."