Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2) (12 page)

Rowena, the darling, half rose out of her
chair to wave at Simone. “Yoo-hoo, we’re over here.” Not that
Simone could have missed the group with only five tables in the
otherwise empty dining room. All the ladies of the Manor were
invited, but only the usual suspects were in attendance: Rowena,
Nonnie, Agnes, and Divine. The four originals.

Rowena had a quaint British accent that had
never worn off despite the fact that she’d lived in the U.S. since
the war. World War Two, that is. With a charming cap of blue-gray
hair and a frilly pink blouse giving her a bosom she didn’t
normally have, Rowena looked quite the queen for a day.

Rowena yoo-hooed a second time, to be sure
Simone heard.

Della waggled her fingers in greeting, then
went back to whispering in Maggie’s ear.

Brax turned, ran his gaze over her white
blouse to her filmy skirt, then smiled. Her heart did a little jig
when he pulled out the chair next to his and patted it. She could
almost feel the pat on her rear end.

Her feet couldn’t move fast enough, and
goodness, her hands trembled the tiniest bit as she sat, then
scooted the chair forward. His knee brushed her thigh. His hand
slid from the back of the chair to her shoulder as he gentlemanly
assisted her.

His little caresses were more than enough to
whet her appetite. Had she recommended light touching last night
when she talked about building anticipation? Or had the man simply
discovered the technique on his own?

She was darn near panting by the time he’d
unfolded her paper napkin and placed it across her lap, the back of
his hand barely skimming over her stomach.

“Sweetie, you look so pretty,” Agnes crooned.
Her bright red lipstick had seeped into the lines above her upper
lip. She’d be mortified to know, but Simone couldn’t tell her
now.

“Doesn’t she look lovely, Brax?” Nonnie
added. Though the oldest of the four ladies, she bore the most
youthful appearance, her brow smooth, as if she’d practiced all her
life not to frown.

“Pretty? Lovely?” Divine piped up. “Men don’t
use those words, you idiots. Right, Brax?”

Her face heating, Simone glanced at him. His
lips flirted with another smile at their obvious matchmaking.

“What do men say, Brax?” Rowena fluttered her
eyelashes coyly.

Chloe flapped her hand at the four elderly
ladies. “You’re embarrassing the poor boy. Aren’t they, Brax?”

“No, ma’am. None of you could possibly cause
embarrassment. And being in the company of such
lovely
ladies is an honor,” he added, stressing the adjective.

Goodness, the man was flirting with
all
of them, giving each in turn a wide smile with lots of
shiny white teeth. In unison, they tittered and simpered like prim
schoolgirls.

It was the sweetest thing Simone had ever
seen a man do. The ladies of the Manor soaked up his compliments as
if starving for male attention. Which they probably were, since all
were over the age of seventy. Only ladies lived at the Manor, and
these
ladies adored male attention.

“Ain’t he a doll? Do you know what he did at
The Coop the other day?” Chloe beamed.

Simone’s heart skipped a beat and her tummy
did a somersault. Brax had been at The Chicken Coop?

Brax coughed, looked pointedly at Chloe, then
reached for his water glass.

Chloe didn’t seem to notice, or if she did,
she ignored his polite warning. “The girls bought this ridiculous
robot with a million parts for Chocolate’s nephew, and Brax spent
all his time with us putting it together. He didn’t even get a
chance to—” Chloe jumped, then glared at Rowena on her right and
Agnes on her left, as if they’d both kicked her under the
table.

“It was my pleasure to help out, Chloe,” Brax
countered. “A nicer group of ladies I’ve never met.” He smiled that
irresistible smile, sweeping the Manor ladies with a look. “Present
company excepted, of course.”

Then his hand dropped to the outside of
Simone’s thigh, stroking her with his knuckles. She gave him to the
count of five, relishing the tingle of his touch, then reached
beneath the table and put his hand back where it belonged.

He’d assembled a robot for the chickens. Why
he’d gone there in the first place wasn’t her business.

Still, she was terribly glad he hadn’t
partaken.

It was time, however, to redirect the
conversation. Brax might not be embarrassed. Simone was another
story. “Maggie, you look...wonderful.” She hesitated at the last
moment because Maggie didn’t look wonderful at all. She
looked...haggard.

The blusher on her cheeks appeared almost
garish against her pale skin. Bags sagged under her eyes, and a
deep frown puckered her forehead as well as her mouth. Unhappy
didn’t accurately describe her. Wretched was more like it.

Maggie gave her a wan smile.

“She looks like crap,” Divine barked, then
added, “Tell us what’s wrong, honeybunch.”

“She had another fight with that bastard
Carl,” Della announced, “and she doesn’t want to talk about
it.”

So that’s what all the whispering had been
about.

“He’s a rotten, no-good bastard.” Maggie
might not want to talk about it, but Della certainly did, patting
Maggie’s hand and adding, “You’d be so much better off without
him.”

Simone felt honor bound to intercede on
Carl’s behalf. For Maggie’s sake as well. After all, Carl had
ordered that fantasy. He’d paid for it, too, wouldn’t take no for
an answer even though Simone didn’t want his money. Making payment
showed commitment, a desire to fix things. “He’s trying,
Della.”

But why hadn’t he given Maggie the fantasy,
acted it out with her? Simone was sure he hadn’t, not yet. Maggie
wouldn’t appear so beaten down if he had.

“Trying, schmying,” Della said. “He’s a man.
They don’t even know how to begin.” She added a glare for Brax.
Della had started picking on Carl recently, but then Della picked
on men period.

Not that Della wasn’t a very attractive
woman. Somewhere in her midfifties, her hair was still a golden
cloud atop her head, and her makeup application was flawless,
accenting her high cheekbones. She kept a trim figure, and her
attire was always impeccable, usually skirts that reached the knees
or slacks with matching blazers, though she did wear jeans for
casual occasions. Neatly pressed jeans, minus the faded-wash
look.

She was a well-ironed woman, with few
wrinkles marring her face and none marring her clothing.

Brax cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should
save this discussion for a more private moment.” A good sheriff, he
headed off trouble before the tea party degenerated.

With Della, it didn’t work. “Don’t you care
that your sister’s miserable?”

Della was fiercely loyal to her friends, and
though she’d always known Maggie and Carl as a couple, she
naturally took Maggie’s side due to hours spent over coffee and
low-fat pastries.

Now she’d turned her fierce loyalty against
Maggie’s brother.

“Out of respect, I don’t air my sister’s
problems in public.”

“Said like a man who thinks a woman should be
seen and not heard. We’re supposed to suffer in silence. Well, this
isn’t public. We’re all friends here. We all care about Maggie and
we want to help her.” The sun through the window caught the sparkle
of moisture in her eye.

Della cared and Della wanted to solve
everyone’s problems. She hurt as much as her friends did when
something bothered them. Yet sometimes she didn’t know when to
stop.

Next to her, Maggie shrank in her seat as if
she wanted the earth to swallow her up.

“I said later,” Brax repeated. Simone had to
admire that he stood his ground against Della’s ferocity.

Della’s eyes narrowed and her nostrils
twitched as if she’d encountered a particularly nasty odor. Simone
had seen that look more than once.

Brax didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t a criminal
Della was sentencing.

Simone simply had to jump to his defense.
“Della, I think—”

Chloe didn’t let her finish. “Shut up, Della.
The boy’s right. This isn’t the time or place.”

“But you know she’d be better off without
him—”

“Brax said later, and I said shut up.” Chloe
sat taller in her chair and glared across the table, almost daring
Della to open her mouth again. “I think you ought to apologize to
Brax.”

Della’s eyes flashed. Chloe was going a tad
too far.

Brax shot the table at large a winning smile.
“No apology necessary.” Then he deftly redirected the topic away
from his sister. “May I have one of those delicacies?”

“Scones. I made them myself. They let us use
the kitchen here, you know,” Rowena popped in, relief in the rapid
pace of her quaint British accent. “I’ve always loved baking, but
with my chosen profession, I never had much time. Since I came
here, why I bake to my heart’s content, don’t I, girls?”

“You should taste her trifle,” Nonnie added.
“Delicious.”

“Trifle isn’t baked, you silly woman,” Divine
burst in. “It’s custard and whipped cream.”

“Don’t forget the sherry on the ladyfingers,”
Agnes trilled. “Rowena always puts extra sherry. It’s simply
orgasmic.”

Brax almost knocked his water tumbler over.
He cocked his head and stared at Agnes as if he wasn’t sure he’d
heard correctly. Then he grinned, which Simone determined to mean
he’d decided he’d imagined the word. After all, Agnes, her pile of
gray hair knotted and confined in a silvery hair net with tiny
sparkles of glitter, certainly didn’t look as though she’d say
orgasmic
. Simone covered her mouth to hide her smile, though
it would have been terribly embarrassing if Brax had
understood.

He came out with “I’d love to try it
sometime.”

“And then there’s her nut torte,” Nonnie
added, as if afraid a moment’s lull in conversation might give
Della another opportunity to start in on Carl. “It’s made with
crushed nuts, no flour or anything. It’s amazing. And there’s—”

“Pass him a scone, Nonnie, before he expires
of hunger,” Rowena admonished.

“Ladies first.”

“Oh no, you’re the first man we’ve
entertained since Chloe opened the place,” Agnes revealed.
“Gentleman callers first.”

“Oh yes, yes. And jam and butter.” The plate
of scones rattled against the jam pot as Nonnie passed them to Brax
with slightly palsied fingers.

“I can’t wait.” Brax took the offering, but
his glance shot speculatively to Chloe.

Our Manor of the Ladies had been Chloe’s
brainchild, and she’d funded a goodly portion of it, then chided
town dignitaries to raise the additional monies. It had taken
almost a year, but finally, the Manor had opened to its first
residents, the four women now seated at the table.

“Here’s your tea,” Agnes said, passing the
cup. Lukewarm liquid sloshed into the saucer. “And you must have
milk and sugar, the way the British drink it. Rowena taught us
that.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Brax poured milk, stirred
sugar, and spread jam and butter as the ladies tweeted around him
like birds.

Maggie surreptitiously swiped at something
beneath her eye. Simone ached for her. Della, while caring deeply,
wouldn’t understand that her behavior had only made matters
worse.

What to do, what to do? She’d find Carl and
tell him to let the fantasy work its magic. He should act tonight.
Which meant Simone would have to occupy Brax so that Maggie and
Carl could be alone.

She’d be forced to invite Brax for another
movie. What would he like?
The Adventures of Robin Hood
with
Errol Flynn. Even better,
Captain Blood
. Yes. Perfect.

“Oh my, would you look at the size of his
hands.” Eyes wide, hand over her mouth, Agnes was agog.

Brax stopped with a bit of scone halfway to
his mouth. Then he extended his arm to look at the aforementioned
hand. He quirked an eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with my
hands?”

“Oh no,” Nonnie chirped.

“They’re so large,” Agnes went on with awe in
her voice.

His gaze flashed left to right, from one lady
to the other, his question shouted in his glance.

“You know what they say about a man’s hands,
don’t you?”

Oh my God. Catastrophe was coming. Simone
opened her mouth to divert it just as Brax said, “No, what do they
say?”

Agnes let the words burst forth. “Why, that
the size of a man’s hands is directly proportional to the size of
his penis.”

If he’d been drinking his tea or eating his
scone, Simone was sure he’d have spit mouthfuls across the table.
As it was, his pupils dilated, and the scone dropped to his plate,
landing with a splat, jam side down.

“Is it true?” Nonnie asked with wide-eyed
innocence.

Simone’s cheeks flamed. Why, the old
jokesters.

“You two stop that right now. My mother
always says the tea table isn’t the place for discussing”—Simone
searched for an appropriate euphemism and fell back
on—“tallywhackers.” Brax was going to think that’s all they talked
about in Goldstone.

Agnes hid behind pouring tea for everyone
else and passing out the cups as someone—maybe Divine—snickered.
Nonnie blinked behind her jeweled cat’s-eye glasses and said, “It
isn’t?”

Rowena sampled her scone and pronounced it
“Magnificent, if I do say so myself. And, my dear, in our
profession, penises are always the first thing we wonder
about.”

“Former profession,” Chloe corrected.

Rowena sniffed. “If men realized the virtue
of an older, experienced woman, it wouldn’t be former,
darling.”

“Here, here.” The ladies clinked cups, china
tinkling in the dining room.

Brax had yet to pick up his teacup or his
upside-down scone. Now that was a
squirrel-in-the-center-of-the-road look if Simone ever saw one.

Divine tapped Maggie’s arm. “You didn’t tell
him, honey?”