She's Gotta Be Mine (8 page)

Call it a sense of loyalty to his hometown, call it atonement, whatever, with
Jimbo’s
new
minimall
doing all the sucking of Cottonmouth’s lifeblood, Nick would keep his commerce inside the city limits. The ball cock would suffice for today.

* * * * *

I just want to die
.

Her muscles had tightened into painful, immovable masses. It would take a team of masseurs to untangle all the knots. Her whole body seemed encased in concrete. Her hands had gone numb.

Like those lonely nights she’d lain next to Warren, silently begging,
please, please touch me
, until the cadence of his breath roughened into sleep. But she’d never lost hope. Not until the day he told her he wasn’t coming back. How could Warren do that?

Because he was...an asshole. There, she’d said it. Or at least thought it. Her stomach knots lessened a smidgen. The man was an asshole, and he didn’t deserve her pain or grief.

Yet it hurt just the same. She missed the good years she and Warren had. He had wanted her in the beginning. She was sure of it. He’d surprised her with weekend getaways. Once he’d even closed the garage door and made love to her on the hood of his car. And boy, that man could make her laugh, or make her cry as they watched a sentimental movie together. When had they stopped doing those things? Had he faked it all, the laughter, the fun, the desire? Depression hadn’t been part of the lexicon then. Or had she not seen it?

All her triumphs of the day—her new job, the male population’s adulation of her Bobbie-self, and the generous tips—were stolen by Warren.

The spineless jerk had left her for a woman who hadn’t even ditched her own husband yet. What’s up with that? Who did Cookie think she was? To steal Roberta’s husband without taking a loss of her own? That sucked.

It wasn’t fair.

She’d finally have to admit it, even if only to herself and within the four walls of Mrs. Porter’s house, the Cookie Monster frightened her. She’d changed her life, changed her name, moved to Cottonmouth, all for nothing.

As she lay on the bed, concentrating on each breath and trying to ignore the butterflies wreaking havoc with her stomach, an ingenious insight flashed across her mind. Seeing Warren, she’d reverted to Roberta.
Roberta
was afraid of the Cookie Monster.

But
Bobbie
wouldn’t let this minor setback get in her way.
Bobbie
had slammed Warren mercilessly.
Bobbie
had lied about the BMW and the Austin—she’d eventually tell him the truth—and given him an anxiety attack. People had noticed Bobbie and liked her. She wasn’t going to let Cookie and Warren take that away from her.

For their entire married life, she’d let Warren make all the choices. What job she took, what promotion, when they made love—which meant never—whether they had children. God, she’d given up children for him. He’d kept putting it off, saying they should wait. She’d meekly agreed, then finally stopped asking. And now it was too late. She’d given up the chance to have children because
he
hadn’t wanted them. She’d let him make that decision, too.
She’d
let him make all the decisions, whether she agreed in her heart of hearts or not.

Now he’d made the final choice to divorce her.

And that was the last decision she’d ever allow him to make for her. If she just laid here on this bed feeling sorry for herself, or worse yet, if she’d stayed in San Francisco and kept the job Warren thought was best for her, lived the life he thought she should, she’d be Robert Jones Spivey for the rest of her life.
She’d
be Spineless Spivey.

She’d rather die at the hands of the serial killer.

The moment screamed for action. Something momentous, something Roberta would
never
do.

Five minutes later, teeth brushed and lips freshened with her new bubblegum gloss, Bobbie knocked on Nick’s door.

It took him forever to answer. And when he did, he glowered down at her with a formidable look exactly like a...well, like a serial killer.

A lock of hair fell across his forehead. Colored smudges marred his white T-shirt. Faded black jeans hugged his thighs and outlined...other things. Very big things.

She finally found her voice. “Hi. I was wondering if you have cable TV.”

Moving just his eyes, he looked from right to left, then back at her. “Yeah.”

“Well, I’ve been twitching Mrs. Porter’s rabbit ears on that old black-and-white.” She hadn’t even tried, but he didn’t need to know that. “And I just can’t get
Buffy
. I was wondering if I could watch it on your TV.”

He did that left-right thing with his eyes again, as if he thought someone else might be hiding in his front porch shadows. “
Buffy
?”

“
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
. I’ve never seen it, and I promised myself that I’d watch all the old reruns.” Warren had always said it was an idiotic show and a waste of time. Well, he was a History Channel addict; she could become a
Buffy
addict.

Nick pushed back that stray lock of hair. “You know, watching a show about a vampire slayer is a bad idea. Especially since just today, someone called
me
a vampire.”

With his dark hair and equally dark eyes, he looked a bit vampire-like. He was also playing her game. The wonder of it made her reckless. “She doesn’t slay good vampires, only bad ones.” She’d figured that much out. “And you’re a good one, right?”

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “I thought they were all bad.”

“Well, that depends on your point of view.”

He stared at her for a long, considering moment, his pupils contracting, while she mentally prepared the perfect answer when he asked what her point of view was.

Instead, he squashed all her fun. “Lady, I don’t know what you want, and quite frankly, I don’t want to know. I’ve got work to do, and I don’t have time for divorced women on the prowl, looking for a substitute or someone to make their ex jealous.”

She gulped a breath. “I told you, I’m not divorced, at least not yet. And I’m not on the prowl.”

Okay, maybe she was. But only for someone who would make Warren see what he’d thrown away. There was the getting-laid thing, too. But he didn’t have to make it sound so...black
widowish
.

She continued. “And if you want to start getting nasty, what about you being a serial killer?”

He ran a hand down his chest, the material outlining a hint of male nipple. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip.”

She dragged her gaze from the potent sight. Hands on her hips, she glared up at him. “Neither should you.”

He cracked a smile. Her heart tripped. He had a devilish smile. “Touché.”

Silence stretched between them. It gave her too much time to think about that chest without a shirt on. Bobbie eased the tip of her tongue along dry lips. “So, what did they say about me?”

He fixated on her mouth. “Who?”

“Whoever was gossiping about me.” Duh.

His voice mimicked a female pitch. “She’s as sweet as the dickens. How her husband could have left her, we’ll never know.”

She covered her mouth to keep from laughing at his antics, while she blushed to the roots of her red-dyed hair at the same time. “They did not say that.”

He crossed his fingers and held them up. “Scout’s honor.”

“I don’t think that’s the correct hand signal.”

“Works for me. So tell me, what do you do that’s so sweet?” He eyed her up and down, as if she were ice cream melting too quickly in the sun.

She
was
melting.

“Cat got your tongue?” He was laughing at her. He also seemed to fill his jeans a little more tightly than before.

She really should stop looking down there. “I’m not sweet. I hate sweet.
Patooey
.” She scrunched her nose in disgust. “Sweet sucks the big one.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

Oh my God. Spontaneous combustion really did exist if the heat of her face was any indication. And the way his gaze seemed to turn to melted chocolate, oh my goodness. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Freudian slip?”

When in doubt, huff. She crossed her arms, tapped her foot on the wooden porch, and blew out a really big puff of irritated air. But the rising temperature on the porch was doing pleasant things inside her body. “I think we were originally talking about you, not me.”

“We were talking about you coming over here to watch Buffy.” He arched one brow, hot eyes lingering on her breasts. “The answer is still no.”

Darn. She sought something else to keep him from closing his door on her. “We were done with
that
subject and had moved on to whether or not you’re a serial killer.”

“Didn’t we discuss this yesterday?”

So what? “You never really answered.”

“Do you think I’m actually going to tell you? What if you’re my next victim? That would be like warning you.”

She’d really like to be his next victim. She tapped her foot a little harder. “I don’t believe it.”

“You don’t believe I’m a serial killer?” His lids did a slow blink, as if he scanned her body all the way down. Then up again. “Or that you’re my next victim?”

Even the tops of her thighs felt steamy now. She cocked her head to one side. “I don’t believe any of the gossip. I bet you’re every bit as angelic as your name, and that there’s not a mean, demented bone in your body. You’re clearly misunderstood and misjudged. And I bet whatever happened with Mary Alice Turner wasn’t even your fault.”

He took an extraordinary amount of time to digest her opinion. And she knew she’d said something terribly wrong. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tensed, muscles rippled in his cheeks.

“In case you haven’t noticed, Ms. Jones, I’m not a nice guy. I’m a total dickhead when it comes to manners. I can’t be bothered. So, if you’re wondering exactly what
that
means, let me make myself clear. I don’t invite strange females over to watch Buffy. I don’t return lasagna
bakeware
. And I don’t give a damn what my neighbor thinks about me.”

He closed the door in her face.

Okay. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned Mary Alice Turner quite so soon in the relationship. But she’d wanted to let him know she’d give him the benefit of the doubt. And of course, she’d harbored a burning curiosity about the story since Patsy had mentioned the girl’s name.

Well, there was always tomorrow. Then she’d wait until
he
mentioned Mary Alice.

* * * * *

The slap of her sandals on the porch steps died away. Nick leaned against the door and drew in a deep breath. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said he’d just finished a 10-K run.

She was one brick short of a full load, or something just this side of insane. Worse, she had that trait common to all women; she didn’t take no for an answer. Even being downright rude hadn’t flashed a bright red stop sign in her face. He was going to have to bar the windows and nail the door shut to keep her out.

She wanted something. Screw Buffy. Screw baked lasagna. She wanted a piece of him. He could feel it, taste it, smell it. Like her bubblegum scent. Sweet. Innocent. Irresistible.

He’d wanted to touch her, feel the heat of her, skim his thumb over her peaked nipple, slide his hands beneath her short denim skirt. Like a fresh canvas, he could repaint his life through her eyes. Expunge his mistakes.

Did she even have a clue how seductive that idea was?

Probably. He’d learned the hard way to avoid women who sucked up big-time, telling you how misjudged and unappreciated you were. Sobbing women with an agenda and a finger on your Achilles’ heel.

Damn, he was such a
fricking
idiot.

Because he’d wanted to tell her everything about Mary Alice. Closing the door in her face had been the hardest thing he’d ever done.