She's Gotta Be Mine (12 page)

“How the hell should I know? I told you, I’m not doing her.” But his blood surged southward just contemplating it.

Kent gargled his beer, at odds with his Mr. GQ image, swallowed, then laughed. “You will be soon, dude. She’s got ‘fuck me’ written all over her.”

Nick’s neck muscles tensed. Kent’s description pissed him off. Bobbie wasn’t some cheap bar pickup. But saying that would only keep Kent going down the same path.

“If you swear you’re not doing her—”

“I’m not doing her.”

“Then I’m sure
he’ll
whack
her
.
Brax
is
gonna
crap in his pants. He hates that murder shit in his town.”

Nick’s scalp itched at the mention of Sheriff Tyler Braxton.

A grimace must have creased his face, Kent answering it with, “It’s not his fault that
Jimbo’s
money got him elected. Roles being reversed, you’d have made the same choice he did when it came down to that fight.”

Nick grunted.
Brax
had come close to hauling Nick in, but...something changed his mind. Probably Cookie calming her hapless husband before anyone got wind of the truth.

James “
Jimbo
” Beaumont should learn to keep his wife at home. Prowling the bars in Red Cliff was no place for a so-called lady. Not that Cookie was by any means a lady. A bitch in heat was more like it.

“Lucky for you I didn’t have to choose, huh, buddy. Without me,
Jimbo’s
whole damn business would go under while he’s keeping both eyes on Cookie. And he knows it.” Going on fifteen years now, Kent had managed
Jimbo’s
chain of lube and oil changers.

“Screw
Jimbo
.” But definitely don’t screw his wife.

“You know, Angel, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you sounded bitter and self-pitying.”

Christ. He did. Legacy of Bobbie Jones walking out his door before he got to indulge himself in any mind-bending, sinful stuff. “You’re right. Screw self-pity. Why’d you come over?”

“Just wanted a gander at your new neighbor.”

He should have expected that. Kent had never come over before; usually they went up to Red Cliff.

“Harry said she was a hot little number. If he didn’t have a wife and three kids, he’d give her a run for her money.” Kent smirked “
Brax
gave the idea a resounding second.”

Jesus H. Christ. Nick couldn’t seem to help himself, asking, despite the obvious answer, “How the hell would
Brax
know?”

“He’s seen her around. Everyone’s seen her around. Can’t miss those tits and that tight ass.”

“She’s old.” But then who the hell wanted some sweet little
ingenue
? Not him.

“The older they are, the more they know. There’s something to be said for experience.”

Nick’s sentiments exactly.

“I saw the way she was looking at you,” Kent prodded. “Do her and put her out of her misery.”

A sneer rose to Nick’s lips. He crushed it. “Not a chance.”

Kent chugged his beer, then shot another volley. “
Brax
is thinking about hitting the diner tomorrow morning and getting himself a proper introduction. Why don’t you join him?”

The idea almost choked him. “I don’t do The Cooked Goose. And, as you can see, I’ve already made her acquaintance.”

Why the hell did Kent care one way or another? Most likely because he loved a good bet with even odds. Maybe the bets weren’t just on who would kill whom first, but also on who’d be the first to get her out of her panties.

He didn’t like anyone betting on Bobbie’s sex life, or her life, for that matter.

“You’re afraid of competing with
Brax
. He came out on top in high school, you think he’ll come out on top here, too.”

On top of Mary Alice Turner, that is, without appropriate protection and without taking appropriate responsibility for the consequences. Ancient history, though. But Bobbie and
Brax
? Nick shuddered.

Damn. He felt...jealous. Bobbie was a pain in the ass. She was in the middle of a divorce. Rebound. Transference. Replacement. No way did he want to get a piece of that. Luckily, he’d been saved from that folly by Kent ringing his bell.

“
Brax
can have her,” he said. “I don’t give a damn.”

“Sure you don’t.” Kent slugged his beer, then smacked his lips. “That can only be because you’ve already done her.”

Nick merely rolled his eyes.

“And if you haven’t, then you better get cracking, old boy. Unless you want
Brax
to win.”

He hadn’t, he wouldn’t. He was too old to compete.

But he still had the urge to mess up Sheriff Tyler Braxton’s pretty face. Damn, that woman was getting to him.

* * * * *

Bobbie woke in the early morning, stretching with the seductive aftereffects of a tantalizing dream where Nick the Barbarian tossed her over his shoulder. Her butt had been firm and shapely. Maybe she should have waited out his visitor last night. Just to see what interesting things developed. Maybe a mock battle with a couple of dragons, then...

She bolted up in the bed, suddenly knowing where she’d seen a
sci-fi-fantasy
calendar, presumably one of Nick’s. In Mavis’s office. At the time, she’d thought it oddly unlike Mavis’s style. Maybe Mavis had a secret hankering for the serial killer. No. Oh, no, no, no.

She tackled Mavis before her shift started. “Is that Nick Angel’s calendar in your office?”

Mavis raised one brow. “Maybe. Why?”

“Curiosity.”

“Killed the cat,” Mavis finished.

She had a curiosity about a great many things, one of them being why Mavis had his calendar. But first, she wanted to see what Nick drew. “Can I take a look?”

Mavis glanced at the huge digital watch on her bony wrist. “You’ve got less than ten minutes.”

Bobbie darted through the swing doors, ignored
JJ’s
leer, and threw herself over Mavis’s desk to grab the calendar from the wall. She huddled in the chair, feet balanced on a rung, open pages spread across her thighs.

Not a single clown on those pages. Instead, his paintbrush caressed full feminine lips. Light, shadow, color harmonized into sleek limbs, soulful eyes, and lush curves. He lavished attention on the subtle outline of a peaked nipple, the swell of a toned calf muscle, the hue of windswept hair.

Nick Angel loved women. His art worshipped them. He portrayed them as mythical, revered creatures. Powerful, fearless, invincible.

Bobbie wanted to climb into his canvas and become one of his women with a desperation that stole her breath.

Patsy was wrong. Not that Bobbie had ever believed all that serial killer stuff. But the evidence of Nick’s innocence was right here in his reverent depictions. Not to mention the fact that he’d understood the romanticism of
Laura
. The man who painted women with such...worship could never be capable of killing the very objects of his desire.

“Bobbie.” A shriek ripped through her blissful thoughts.

Bobbie hung the calendar in its place on the wall and scuttled back through the kitchen.

“Hustle your butt out there,” Mavis hissed. “Here, take the sheriff his breakfast.”

Mavis dumped the plates in Bobbie’s hands. Panic set in, not as bad as the hairdryer business, but on a par with the time she’d been stuck in a malfunctioning car wash that wouldn’t turn off. A tall glass of orange juice in her right hand,
Superdeluxe
eggs, home fries, and steak balanced with a separate small plate of toast along her left arm.

Bobbie maneuvered down the aisle, bent to slide the
Superdeluxe
onto the sheriff’s table and almost lost the toast. A massive male paw reached out at the last moment to save it. And her. “Thanks.”

“Welcome, ma’am. So. You’re the new girl,” said the big, blond...brute. He could crush beer cans against his forehead without getting a headache.

“I’m not quite a girl anymore.” She might have told sweetheart
Jimbo
about the big four-oh, but she certainly wasn’t telling this brute. Not that
brute
was a bad word, in his case. In fact, it was sort of appetizing.

“Girl or woman, you look just about perfect to me, ma’am.”

His blue eyes flashed over her, head to toe, so fast she almost thought she’d hallucinated it. Except for the lingering tingle. That was very real, leaving her speechless for a moment. The short, tight skirt of her uniform suddenly seemed a tad shorter and a tad tighter.

“Why don’t you sit a minute?” He indicated the seat opposite with one of those big mitts of his.

She glanced over her shoulder for rescue or confirmation.

“Mavis said it was okay.”

The breakfast crowd was thinning out, all Bobbie’s tables were empty except for a little snub-faced guy over in the corner. Mavis gave her the thumbs up. She sat while the sheriff drank his juice, staring at her over the rim of his glass.

His short hair frizzed with the promise of uncontrollable curls if he didn’t keep an eye on its length. Being a guy, he probably hated that. He blinked with long, gold-tipped lashes.

“Now, why would a pretty lady like you want to leave the big city? For Cottonmouth.” He dug into his eggs, splitting them, letting the yolks leak out, then spread the yolk all over his home fries. Her stomach rumbled daintily.

“Want some?”

Oh, yes, please.
The sheriff was as delicious as the serial killer. Both ends of the law. “No thanks, I had a bagel earlier.”

“Wimp food.” He took a healthy mouthful of his
manly
food, swallowed, then struck up more conversation. “Now, you were saying about why you left the big city.”

She hadn’t been. She’d been avoiding it. “Midlife crisis.” Premenopausal.

He nodded, tucked into his yolk-slathered home fries with gusto.

“Incidentally, does everybody know everything around here?”

“People around here don’t have much else to do but gossip.” He pinned her with that blue gaze. “Don’t let it get on your nerves. They don’t mean anything by it.”

“Actually, it’s kind of nice. I didn’t know my neighbors’ names in San Francisco. Here, I don’t even have to introduce myself. I always thought small towns would be like that.”

“Can be a pain in the...
patoote
if you’ve got something to hide.” Cutting into his steak, he raised just his eyes to her face.

“Thank God, I don’t.”

He scanned her features a moment longer than necessary. “Got any kids?”

“No.” She swallowed, then leaned her elbows on the table, laying her palms flat against the scarred Formica. “I’m not the mothering type.” She might have been. A long time ago. If Warren had wanted to... The backs of her eyes ached suddenly. She was way too old for kids now. And beyond any regrets except the one about having let Warren make the decision.

“Doubt that. All women have the instinct.”

She smiled brightly, blinking away those bad thoughts. If her eyes were moist, it was only because she’d gotten some dust in them. “Not me.”

He mopped up vestiges of yolk with a piece of toast. She hadn’t even noticed him eating the steak, but it was almost gone. “What about other family?”

“My parents are dead. I’m an only child.”

He didn’t offer condolences or apologies. Instead he reached out to trace the pale band of flesh on her left hand. “What about a husband?”

She pulled her hand from beneath his, ignoring the tingle, and tapped her chin with her index finger. “Now Sheriff, you and I are both aware that you know all about my husband. You know he has an office just down the street, and you know we aren’t divorced yet.”

He polished off the remainder of his orange juice in one big swallow, then grinned at her. “Busted.”

“Are you this obvious when interrogating suspects?”

“Way better at it. I was just checking availability.”