Susan Phillips - Ain’t She Sweet?

She loved his smile, but she was tired, jangled, and what she really wanted to do was take a warm bath, then curl up with a book. Instead, she closed the distance between them and slipped her hand between his legs. “Definitely.”

He nuzzled her breast. “Right now I wish we didn’t have a teenager in the house.”

She withdrew her hand and forced her voice to a sultry pitch. “Don’t let me forget where I was, y’hear?”

“Oh, I won’t. Believe me, I won’t.” He gave her a quick kiss. “In the meantime, I’d better go remind Her Highness that kitchen cleanup is her job.”

“Thanks.”

After he disappeared, she wrapped up the leftover piece of steak and stuck it in the refrigerator before Gigi could throw it out. Then she picked up her mug and carried it into the den. She had some paperwork to do for the Community Advancement Association and phone calls she needed to make about the concert, but she wandered over to the window instead.

She was only thirty-two, too young to have lost her libido. She should discuss it with her doctor, but Paul and Ryan had played football in high school.

“How long has lack of desire been a problem, Winnie?”

“A while.”

“Could you be more specific?”

She could lie and say a year. That didn’t sound as bad as three years or maybe four. Five at the outside.

“And have you discussed it with Ryan?”

How could a woman tell the man she loved that she’d been faking it? Ryan would not only be hurt, he’d also be mystified. He was a considerate lover, but they’d started out all wrong. Winnie hadn’t wanted to come in second best to Sugar Beth, so she’d done everything before she was ready. Even though he’d been the more experienced partner, she’d set herself up as the sexual aggressor, and somehow they’d never broken that pattern. She was always available, always responsive. She never pleaded a headache, never made him work for it. She was the pursuer, Ryan the pursued. And as much as she loved him, she resented him for that, too.

Not very much. Not all the time. Just every once in a while.

“Obstinate, eh? I’ll tame you,” Vidal said, and got up.

GEORGETTE HEYER, Devil’s Cub

Sugar Beth switched the grocery bags she was carrying from one hand to the other, but they were equally heavy, so the change didn’t do much good. As she headed down Jefferson Street toward Mockingbird Lane, she tried to relax her shoulders. The few staples she’d bought, along with a box of doggie treats and another six-pack of Coke, had seemed a lot lighter in the store.

Ignoring her parking tickets hadn’t made them go away, and that morning she’d been forced to pull out her arsenal of charm-weapons against the beefy young tow-truck driver who’d been assigned to haul away her Volvo. Afterward, she’d taken the precaution of moving her car to the Arby’s lot half a mile away. It would have been a nice walk if she hadn’t already made it twice today and if she weren’t hauling groceries. Conjuring up a few gruesome revenge scenarios against Colin Byrne helped distract her for a while, except she’d already been there and done that, which pretty much spoiled the fun.

Her luck hadn’t improved in the week since her disastrous visit to Winnie’s antique store. She couldn’t find either a job or the painting, and she had nothing left in her wallet but moths. At least she’d succeeded in tracking down the surviving members of Tallulah’s canasta club, but only Sissy Tooms said she’d actually seen the painting. Unfortunately, she’d also told Sugar Beth that she was on her way to Vegas to have dinner with Frank Sinatra.

Her cell rang in her purse. As she set down her grocery bags by the curb, she wondered how long it would be before they cut off her service.

“It’s me!” a soft voice chirped as Sugar Beth answered.

She smiled. “Hey, baby.”

“Me!” Delilah repeated, as if Sugar Beth wouldn’t recognize the voice of Emmett’s only child.

“How’s my best girl doing?”

“Good! We painted yesterday. And Meesie said I could call you today.”

Sugar Beth had forgotten it was Wednesday, the day she and Delilah usually talked. “How’s your cold? Any better?”

“I’m taking cough syrup at night. It’s helping. And I painted a picture for you.”

Sugar Beth turned her shoulders to the sharp edge of the wind and hooked her boot heel over the curb. Yesterday had been warm, but the chill had settled in again today, and her fake leather motorcycle jacket wasn’t up to the job. “What’s it look like?”

Delilah went on to describe a painting she’d done of the ocean, then talked about the new angelfish in the aquarium. When it was finally time for her to go, Delilah said what she always did.

“I love you, my Sugar Beth. And you love me, too, don’t you?”

Sugar Beth’s eyes stung. No matter what she had to do, she was going to protect this sweet, fragile creature. “I love you bushels and heaps.”

“I thought so.”

Sugar Beth smiled at her certainty.

As she slipped her cell back into her purse, the old anger at Emmett came back. How could he have been so careless about protecting Delilah’s future?

“I made financial provisions,” he’d said when they’d talked about it. “But when things started to go south, I had to borrow. I’ll never forgive myself.”

Sugar Beth remembered her first visit with Delilah at Brookdale, the exclusive private institution where she’d lived most of her adult life. They’d fallen in love with each other on sight. Delilah’s own mother had died a few years before Sugar Beth had met Emmett, and Delilah had desperately missed her. Much to Sugar Beth’s surprise, Delilah had transferred her affections to her new stepmother. Delilah was sweet, funny, and so very vulnerable-a fifty-one-year-old woman with an eleven-year-old’s mind. They both liked girly stuff-clothes and makeup, Friends reruns, Pixie Stix. Sugar Beth had read her most of the Judy Blume books, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, as well as Mary-Kate and Ashley’s adventures. They gossiped about Leonardo DiCaprio, whom Delilah adored, played Clue, and held hands when they went for walks.

If it weren’t for Delilah, Sugar Beth wouldn’t have been forced to come back to Parrish, but the money for Delilah’s care had run out. Now Sugar Beth couldn’t keep her stepdaughter at Brookdale unless she found the Ash painting. Still, she wouldn’t feel sorry for herself. Unconditional love was a precious gift, and Sugar Beth knew a blessing when she met one.

As she retrieved her grocery sacks, a familiar cognac-colored Lexus sedan pulled up and stopped next to her. The driver’s side window slid down to reveal the imperious face of the Duke of Doom himself, sneer and all. “You look like a bag lady.”

She assumed he was referring to her grocery sacks instead of her jeans and motorcycle jacket. “Thanks, I hope you’re having a nice day, too.”

He regarded her through his invisible quizzing glass. “Would you like a ride?”

“You let peasants in your carriage?”

“If I’m feeling benevolent.”

“My lucky day.”

He made her wait while he took his time flicking the locks. She opened the back door and set the sacks behind the passenger seat. Then, since pride did count for something, she climbed in with them and closed the door. “Carry on.”

He draped an arm over the seat and gazed down his long nose at her.

She gave him a haughty look. “I really don’t have all day.”

“Perhaps you should walk after all.”

“Bad for the neighborhood. Having a bag lady around.”

She was pleased to note that he stepped on the accelerator just a little harder than necessary, and his tone was withering. “You’ll let me know, won’t you, if there’s anything else I can do to make you comfortable?”

She gazed at the back of those wide shoulders. “You could take that silly little chain off my driveway.”

“But I find it so amusing.” He turned onto Mockingbird Lane. “I saw a tow truck by your car this morning. I’m dreadfully sorry about that.”

“Oh, don’t be. The sweetest boy was driving it, so reasonable, not to mention attractive.”

“So you managed to dissuade him from taking it away, did you?”

“Now, now. Southern ladies don’t French-kiss and tell.”

She waited for him to say she was no lady, but obvious jabs were beneath him, and he engaged in more subtle warfare. “How’s the job search progressing?”

She managed a breezy flick of her hand. “Career decisions are stressful, so I’m taking my time. You can drop me off right here.”

He ignored her and pulled into the drive that led to Frenchman’s Bride, which took care of his tip. “A lot to choose from, is there?”

“Tons.”

“So I’ve heard. The town is abuzz.”

“I’ll bet.”

He parked near the house and turned off the ignition. “The rumor is that even Louis Higgins refused to hire you at the Quik Mart, and he seems to hire anyone who speaks even a modicum of English.”

“Unfortunately, I was the driving force behind a rather nasty rumor about his little sister in ninth grade. He didn’t seem to care that it was true.”

“The chickens keep coming home to roost, don’t they?”

“Clucking all the way.” She opened the door and began to unload. He came around the hood of the car just then, and she nearly dropped her Coke because he was wearing an honest-to-God black suede duster. And, with his short, rumpled hair, looking way too good in it.

“Let me carry your sacks to the carriage house,” he said. “It’s the least I can do.”

She was too stunned by the sight of the duster to answer. In Mississippi yet.

“I’d hoped closing off the driveway wouldn’t be such an inconvenience. Alas, I was wrong.”

“Not to worry,” she said as she recovered. “With the added exercise, I’ve been able to dismiss my personal trainer.”

Gordon had apparently been hiding out on the veranda because he came trotting across the yard. Byrne astonished her by looking pleased. He shifted the sacks so he had one arm free and leaned down to scratch behind his ears. “So you haven’t run off.”

“Nice dog,” she drawled.

“He showed up a few days ago. He’s a stray.”

“That could mean rabies. I’d call the pound if I were you.”

“He doesn’t have rabies.” Byrne looked even more irritated than normal. “And you know exactly what the pound would do to him.”

“Gas him.” She glared down at Gordon, who could spot a sucker a mile away. Instead of snarling at her as he usually did, he played to his new audience by dropping his head, letting his big ears flop on the ground, and giving a little whimper, the perfect portrait of a pathetic pooch.

“That’s remarkably unfeeling, even coming from you,” Byrne said stiffly.

“Yeah, well, it’s a dog-eat-dog world.” Gordon trotted toward the veranda, more than a little pleased with himself. She noticed an extra waddle in his gait. “You haven’t been feeding him, have you? He looks fat.”

“And what business is it of yours if I have?”

She sighed.

They reached the carriage house. When she turned the knob, he got all critical again. “Why isn’t this door locked?”

“It’s Parrish. There’s not much point.”

“We have crime here, just as any other place does. Keep this door locked from now on.”

“Like that’s going to stop you. All you’d have to do is give it one good kick, and-”

“Not from me, you ninny!”

“I hate to be the one to break the bad news, but if they find my body, you’re the one with the biggest grudge.”

“It’s impossible to hold a rational conversation with you.” He gazed at the living room with distaste, despite the fact that she’d cleaned the whole place from top to bottom. “Did your aunt ever discard anything?”

“Not much. If you see something you like, be sure and make me an offer.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath.” He headed toward her kitchen, duster flapping behind him.

She shrugged off her own jacket, dropped her purse on a chair, and followed him. “I’ll bet you’d take out your wallet for the Ash painting.”

“I’m afraid that would stretch even my finances.” He set the sacks on the counter, his big body filling up the small space.

She pulled out a package of E.L. Fudge cookies. “You talked to Tallulah. You believe the painting exists, right?”

“I believe it existed.”

“I hope that’s some kind of fancy Brit talk for, ‘Yes, indeedy, Sugar Beth.’ “

He leaned against the ancient refrigerator and crossed his ankles. “I think it’s quite possible your aunt destroyed it.”

“No way. It was her most prized possession. Why would she?”

“She refused to share the painting during her lifetime. Why would she want to share it after her death? And not to put too fine a point on it, why would she share it with a niece she considered a bit of a tart?”