Authors: Kristin Hardy
As Bad As Can Be
Earlier, Shay had watched her dance as though he'd been under some spell. Seeing her sway and tease, he'd imagined what it would be like to taste her, to feel her body against his. Imagination was nothing compared to the reality, though.
Hot and sweet. Her flavor infused him, left him craving more.
They were in the bar cellar, he struggled to remember, running his hand down her back to where her top ended and warm skin began.
Then he felt her begin to stroke him and he groaned, abandoning his attempts at control in the face of the delicious friction, the tantalizing touch. He pushed her back against the wall of kegs and kissed her hard.
The door at the top of the stairs slammed open. “Mallory, get up here quick. There's a fight,” someone yelled down.
They broke apart, breathing hard, eyes wide.
Jeez, what'd gotten into him, acting like this with a practical stranger? At least he knew her name now. And not just any herâshe was a woman, a real woman.
A woman who was going to be on his mind, possibly for the rest of his life.
Dear Reader,
I've loved writing the miniseries Under the Covers. I was in the middle of writing
Scoring
when Mallory Carson showed up, a woman with a twist of humor on her lips, shadows in her eyes and a heart of pure gold. Of course, she also had a stubborn streak a mile wide. I got so intrigued that I sent her to Newport, Rhode Island, home of the Gilded Age mansions, and introduced her to pub owner Shay O'Connor. All I had to do then was sit back and watch the fun. They say opposites attractâwait 'til you see what happens when a woman who's as bad as can be takes on a man who's as good as they come. Watch for the Under the Covers finale coming in July 2003, titled
Slippery When Wet.
Newport is a very special place for me. It's where my husband and I got engaged and has a rich and romantic history, so I loved setting a book there. Be sure to drop me a line at [email protected] and tell me what you think. Or drop by my Web site at www.kristinhardy.com for contests, e-mail threads between characters in my books, recipes and updates on my latest book.
Have fun!
Kristin Hardy
Kristin Hardy
To my parents, Frank and Ena Louise Lewotsky, for making me believe in true love, and for Stephen, for making it real.
“C
OME ON
, D
AVE
, you want me to have Screaming Orgasms, don't you?” Mallory Carson leaned back in her chair, crossing one long, jean-clad leg over the other as she gave her best smoky glance to the man behind the desk. It was his office, but she owned it now.
Dave gave her a rueful look and smoothed his ginger-colored moustache. “Sweetheart, there's nothing I'd like better than to give you screaming orgasms, but you've already hit your limit for the month.” He studied the sheet in his hands. The sheet shook a little as Mallory piled her long dark hair on top of her head with her hands, tightening her skimpy blue sweater over her breasts. “You've only been a customer for four weeks,” he protested. “You've only lived here for five. We can't extend your credit line until you've been with us longer. You know the rules.”
Mallory had never come across a rule that couldn't be bent, especially when the person in a position to do the bending was a man. “We've been packed to the gills for the last two weeks,” she said persuasively. “People drink. How am I supposed to have a bar called Bad Reputation without Screaming Orgasms?” She leveled a look at him. “You're my supplier, Dave. What am I supposed to do?” It was like bluffing in
poker, she thought to herself. Stay cool and never act like it matters.
Dave tapped his fingers on the desk. “Business is that good, huh?”
“Business is great,” Mallory said smugly, releasing her hair to fall back over her shoulders and trying to ignore the tension in her stomach muscles. “Newport's never seen anything like us before. But it's going to slow down in a hurry if I have to tell customers I can't make their drinks. Am I going to have to go somewhere else?”
Come on, Dave,
she thought,
bite.
He hesitated, then nodded. “All right,” he said decisively. “I'll extend your credit line for two weeks, but I need a good faith deposit of $500 today.”
A slow smile bloomed over her face as she let out an imperceptible breath of relief. “No problem,” she said lightly. “Cash do you?”
“Cash works for me. While we're making arrangements, let me tell you about the sweet deal I can cut you for your draft beer. We've just picked up the Sam Adams account.”
“I'm all for sweet things, Dave,” she said lazily. “Tell me what you've got in mind.”
Â
I
T WAS ONE OF THOSE GORGEOUS
Indian summer days when the sky was so blue it hurt the eyes. Mallory drove her little truck along the Rhode Island back road, hauling a load of paper goods back to the bar that had become her life, and pondering Dave's deal. In eight months, when she turned thirty, she fully expected the bar to be ticking along like a cash machine. A far cry from her most recent gig in Lowell, Massachusetts, running a back street sports bar.
She tapped her fingers restlessly on the steering
wheel. Then she reached out to punch a speed dial button on her cell phone, listening to the tone that indicated a phone ringing four states away.
“H'lo.” The mumbled greeting sounded half asleep and wholly fogged.
She raised one eyebrow and gave a wicked grin. “This is the Newport Department of Health,” she said, pitching her voice higher than her usual husky murmur. “I'm looking for Devlin Carson, partner of record in the Bad Reputation bar. We've had complaints of a salmonella outbreak in your kitchen.”
“What?” Dev's brain was obviously still cobwebbed with sleep.
“Salmonella, Mr. Carson,” Mallory said testily, enjoying herself. “Your customers have been leaving your establishment weaving and getting sick. We need you to appear to address the complaints.”
“But I can'tâ¦I live in Baltimore,” he said in groggy confusion while she smothered a laugh.
“That's really not our problem, sir. We want answers and we want them now.”
“But we don't even serve food. My sister Mallory is the managing partner. She'll⦔ His voice trailed off. “Mal? That's you, isn't it?”
Mallory gave a delighted giggle. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” She turned onto Route 38, headed for Newport. “What are you doing still in bed? I don't think I ever remember you sleeping in this late in my entire life.”
“Oh, I went out with a couple of the guys last night and tied one on.” He groaned. “God, my head.”
“Paying the price, are we?”
“This is nothing.” His voice was dry. “The price
I pay will be when Melissa comes back from shopping with her sister and lays into me.”
“For going out with your friends? Seems harmless enough to me.”
“She wanted me to take her to dinner last night. I went out with the guys instead. It was Riley's birthday.”
“It's not exactly like you're the world's biggest party animal. People go out once in a while. Tell her it's normal.” Mallory searched for diplomacy. “I know she's gorgeous and you guys are engaged and all, Dev, but this isn't exactly sounding like premarital bliss. Are you sure she's the one?”
“When things are going right, I can't get enough of her. You just got a bad impression of her when you visited. She can get a little jealous,” he said, and gave a creaking yawn Mallory could hear over the phone.
“I'm your sister. What's to be jealous of?” Mallory asked, mystified.
He laughed. “We went out and all the guys were looking at you.”
“She's engaged to you. What does she care who the other guys are looking at?” Mallory's radar went up.
“Pride? I don't know. I just know she keeps track of stuff like that.”
Mallory shook her head. She couldn't get around it, she didn't trust Melissa as far as she could throw her, however much Dev was hung up on her. “So, what, you go out with your friends and she worries that you're hanging out with loose women?”
“Christ, I got to get some aspirin here,” Dev muttered. “I'm going cordless.” The line clicked and turned fuzzy, and she could hear the thuds of his feet
as he walked, presumably to find medication. “I don't know, maybe she has a right to be ticked. We're supposed to be getting married in five months. Maybe I should have gone out with her. Anyway, she's always telling me that you've got to give up things to make a relationship work.”
That sounded like Melissa, Mallory thought. She'd grown wary of her brother's then-girlfriend the moment she'd found out Melissa was dragging him to couples counseling. Mallory sighed. “Yeah, well, make sure you don't compromise yourself into oblivion.”
“I'm just trying to figure out how to do this stuff right. I mean, let's face it, it's not like we learned anything from our parents.”
“Sure we did,” she said without thinking. “Don't let anyone get too close to you or you'll be sorry.”
“You're so tough,” he mocked her gently. “Marriage doesn't have to be a bad thing when it's done right.”
“Next you'll have me thinking we grew up in different houses. I know you're older than me so maybe you remember their bliss phase, but we both know how ugly it got.” She sniffed derisively. “Might as well put a Kick Me Hard sign on your butt.”
She heard a snap in the background followed by the sound of water running and guessed he'd found the bottle of pain reliever. “Okay,” he said indistinctly, and sighed. “That's better. Anyway, you probably didn't call just to ruin my morning. What's going on?”
“I was just out at the distributor's and Dave offered me a good price on adding Sam Adams draft. Long-term contract. It's still more expensive, but I think it'll
pay off in terms of sales. Not everyone who steps in the door wants Bud.”
“You're the manager,” he pointed out. “As long as we stay on plan, I'm just a silent investor.”
“Well, the problem is, to go up we need to adjust the terms of our deal with Dave. It'll require a bigger deposit and payment.” She squinted her eyes. “Long-term, it'll be fine, but opening costs set me back a bit.”
“I saw the numbers. Looks like business started out slow.”
Mallory nibbled on her lip. “It'll work out, but I might need a little more working capital next month.”
Dev sighed. “Mal, I want to help out, but I've got wedding stuff to pay for, too. Are you sure we need to do this? The last set of numbers you e-mailed didn't look too promising.”
“Dev, we've only been open for a month,” she said reasonably, her hands tightening on the wheel. “You can't expect to make money on a new bar in the first year. We talked about this going in. We'll be lucky to break even.”
What she didn't say was that if it took walking out into the street and personally hauling clientele inside, she was going to carry a profit back to Dev at the end of the first year. If it weren't for him, she'd still be pouring drinks in small town Massachusetts and saving every penny in the hopes of one day having her own place. He'd taken a chance on her, just like he had all those years ago after their father had died when she'd wound up on his front porch, a teenager with nowhere to go. Now she had something that was hers. She wanted, more than anything she wanted to make a success of Bad Reputation. For Dev.
For herself.
Dev cleared his throat. “Look, Mal, I'm not expecting to make a pile of dough. I'm just wondering if the current financials mean we'd be smarter to hold off on the Sam Adams until business is more steady.”
Mallory considered. “I'm estimating an initial 10 percent more outlay, with probably 12 percent more on sales long term. It'd pay for itself in⦔ She crunched numbers in her head. “I'd say about three months. That's a quick ballpark estimation,” she added.
“Did you just work that out in your head? Jeez, remind me again why you're not pulling down big bucks in some corporation somewhere?”
“You have to follow rules in corporations, big brother,” she said with a smile.
“And you never were much on those.”
“No,” she agreed. “Anyway, I'll run some numbers on it and we can talk about it in more detail. And by the way, business is picking up.”
“Oh, yeah? Is it something you're doing or is word just getting around?”
“Oh, a little of both.” The corners of her mouth tugged up in a smile. “I just sat down and thought about why people go to bars.”
“For deep philosophical conversation?”
Mallory laughed. “Nope. Drinks, music and sex,” she said matter-of-factly. “We supply the big three and we've got a full house every night. Obviously we've got the alcohol. We're licensed for live music, so I'm going to start auditioning bands for Saturday nights. We can pay for it out of the cover charge.”
There was a short silence. “And the sex part?” Dev asked suspiciously.
Mallory grinned. “What did you say? I'm in a dead spot right here.”
“Your reception sounds fine to me. You said business is up and you're doing something to make it happen. What?”
“I'm losing you,” she lied, smothering a laugh.
“Don't you try to duck me, Mal,” Dev insisted, his voice rising. “I know you better than that. What are you up to? You're not going to get us shut down, are you? Mal?”
“I can't understand a word you're saying, Dev. I'm hanging up.” Mallory clicked the key to terminate the call and laughed to herself. What she was doing wasn't going to get her shut down.
She didn't think.
Â
“T
HE USUAL, THEN
, D
ERMOTT
?” Shay O'Connor looked at the compact, bright-eyed old man who leaned his elbows on the polished walnut bar, tapping his finger to the lilting strains of a pennywhistle and fiddle playing quietly over the sound system.
“Same as your grandfather served me, young Shay,” Dermott returned jauntily, smoothing back what little remained of his white hair. “O'Connor's is still the only place in town that knows how to pull a pint.”
Shay tilted a glass under the tap and sent Guinness streaming into it. “The only little piece of Ireland in town, Dermott me lad,” he returned in an exaggerated brogue.
“Damned if you can't sound like you came from County Kerry herself,” Dermott said, turning to survey the cozy pub. Warm wood glowed on every surface, from the wide-planked floor to the coffered ceil
ing. Lace curtains softened wide windows that looked out on the gathering twilight. Dark wood panels topped by colored glass divided the combination restaurant and pub into intimate seating areas, forming the backs of long padded benches where regulars relaxed, resting their pints on the trestle tables. Shelves ran around the ceiling holding old books, antique toys and bottles, and a sense of time gone by.
A willowy young redhead with eyes almost too large for her narrow face walked up to set her tray on the bar. “Two Bass, a Guinness, and a Murphy's then, Shay,” she said briskly, the brogue of the West Counties running through her words.
“Quick as you please, Fiona.”
“Quick as I please would have me taking drinks back to me customers right now,” she said with a wink.
Shay eyed Dermott as he let the pint of Guinness settle and started another. “Are all women this impatient in Ireland?”
Dermott nodded vigorously. “Aye, and a good bit worse,” he said. “'Tis what drove me here.”
“I thought you came to seek your fortune, Dermott,” Fiona said with a raised brow.
“That, too,” he blustered.
Shay turned his attention to the other drinks. Painted words flowed across the wood above his head:
There are no strangers, only friends that haven't met.
Looking out at the pub, he felt the comfort of tradition filling him like a cup of hot coffee on a cold morning. He put a head on the Guinness and slid it across the bar to Dermott.
A lanky young man with a disordered mop of black hair breezed into the pub. Fiona glanced at him, her
eyes lingering just a beat too long. Then she turned, elaborately casual, to check her tray. “Nice to see you've decided to join us, Colin O'Connor, a rock star like yourself,” she said, her voice lightly mocking.