Love Is Nuts (3 Tales) (9 page)

Before she could balk, he took hold of her shoulders and steered her toward the closed door in the partition that separated his studio from the antiquities dealership housed in the front of the building.

“I…I don’t think he’s looking to do business,” she choked out, her heels skidding against the floor as Sam shoved her forward.

“Then consider it an opportunity to make a new friend.”

“I don’t think he’s looking for friendship exactly either.”

Sam halted and turned her around to face him, his eyes beaming down on her like searchlights. “Not a customer and not a friend, huh? Then what
does
he want?”

“Me,” she said weakly. “Only…only he’s never seen me before. All he knows is my name. He kept thinking” – she gulped – “Foxy Roxy, Foxy Roxy…”

“A Foxy Roxy who is acting like Chicken Little,” Sam muttered. “Well, whatever you are, mystery woman, you have to learn how to handle these situations. You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding.”

“I’m not worried about the rest of my life, just the next five minutes – you have too many combustibles in here!” With a frightened squeal, she pulled loose and fled to the opposite end of the studio.

Sam heaved a small sigh and followed at a more sedate pace. “What now?”

“He’s here!” She glanced in panic at the partition.

“Well, we
were
expecting him.” Sam took hold of her shoulders once more.

Roxanne’s breath hitched as a new flood of images swamped her. “He…he’s hoping for a beautiful blonde, like Delilah. Or…or a sassy redhead, like Muffy.”

In the process of skidding her back across the floor, Sam couldn’t help chuckling. Whoever the guy was, he had good taste and was evidently familiar with the Jones family. But Delilah and Muffy were only two of Sam’s four sisters – the two tall ones.

“What about Jil and Buffy?” he asked. “Do you see any diminutive damsels in his head?” He stopped shoving, to give her a moment to concentrate.

“No,” Roxanne finally answered. “But there are a couple of leggy brunettes in there. They look kind of oriental.”

“Really?” Sam’s interest perked up. He had a bit of a penchant for exotic brunettes himself – purely artistic, of course. Maybe he should sneak a mental peek… Nah. He focused his attention back on Roxanne.

“Then it sounds to me like you are perfectly safe,” he informed her.

“How do you figure that?” she ground out as he resumed the shove to the door.

“Because you’re not his type. The guy apparently likes Earth Goddesses and Dragon Ladies, while you” – he paused for emphasis – “are a sparkling little Fire Fairy.”

“Angel,” she corrected glumly.

“That, too,” Sam said. “At any rate, you’ll be okay. And just to make sure, I will stay close by with a fire extinguisher.”

“It better be a big extinguisher,” Roxanne grumbled. Sharp hot prickles stung her. A throbbing pressure filled her skull, like something hammering to be let out – no, wait, the hammering was someone asking to be let in. But that was worse.

A lot worse, because now she was getting visions of the hammerer. Not the inside of his head, but the outside – along with everything it was attached to. And it was attached to quite a handful, all of it hard muscled and radiating raw sexual force. Tall, dark, painted-on jeans, black leather vest and biker boots. The image crashed over her, like a tidal wave, almost sweeping her off her feet.

Sam peeked through a hole in the partition to see the tidal wave in the flesh. “Relax, it’s only Slo Larkin. Slo never stays in town for long. Star gives him hives – something in the water maybe.”

He opened the inner door and nudged Roxanne into the shop.

“You mean
Winslow Larkin
?” she whispered, struggling to process this news. “Mrs. Dixon’s
grandson
?” He knees almost buckled as the man’s gaze met hers through the plate glass of the shop’s street door. “That cute little boy she was showing me pictures of last week?”

“Yeah, well, he’s grown up a bit since those pictures were taken,” Sam whispered back. “But don’t call him Winslow – he hates it. People only call him Winslow when they want to tick him off.” Leaving Roxanne, dizzy and dazed, by the long wooden counter at the rear of the shop, he strode to the street door, swung it open, and greeted their visitor with a blinding solar flare of a smile.

“Hey, Winslow! Good to see you, man. How’s the paintin’ business?” Ignoring a dark-eyed dagger glare, he pulled the glare’s owner into the shop and slapped him on the back. “This guy’s the Michelangelo of the airbrush, turns cars into artwork,” he told Roxanne while slinging a friendly arm over Slo’s shoulders. “He’s got a great hand for portraiture, too, but doesn’t use it much.”

“No time to. But thanks anyway for the vote of confidence.”

Slo shrugged off Sam’s arm. After spending several impatient minutes on the sidewalk, waiting to be let into the shop, he was now wondering how fast he could get out. Foxy Roxy wasn’t so
foxy
after all. She looked more like a scared rabbit. A pretty little thing, he supposed – even if she did dress like a sack of groceries – but the emphasis there was on the “little.”

Little as in young.

Little as in innocent.

Slo had never had much interest in the young and innocent even when he’d been young and innocent himself. He liked women who could hold their own with him, women who knew the ropes, who appreciated a good time and wouldn’t get all bent out of shape when the good time was over…

“Have you met my cousin?” he heard Sam asking, and from the tone of the question realized this wasn’t the first time Sam had asked it. Slo also realized he’d been staring openly at Little Miss Innocent, who’d reacted to the appraisal as any self-respecting, wary virgin would – waxing wide-eyed, backing away and blushing hot pink.

Wow, was that cute, or what?

Slo’s breath snagged on the intake. He felt a suspicious warm flutter deep down inside – deep and low – very unexpected, but not exactly unwelcome. Maybe some wolfish devil had possessed him, the hungry spirit of a Don Juan or Casanova – or maybe it was just the surprisingly enticing sight of her standing there all sweet and quivery like a freshly steamed plum pudding waiting for the hard sauce – but he had an incorrigible urge to move closer and touch her. Young and innocent suddenly seemed kind of…well, interesting.

“Um, no, I haven’t had that pleasure yet,” he answered Sam. With a provocative, predatory stride, he advanced on the quarry.

“Slo Larkin, this is Roxanne Sinclair. Roxy, meet Slo,” Sam said with a merciless grin at them both.

Slo never saw the grin. He was too busy giving one of his own to Roxanne – one of his best, the grin that curled toes, melted underwear, and flattened feminine resistance like a steamroller.

“Always nice to see a new face in town. Especially a face as nice as yours.” He offered her his hand.

She refused to take it.

Undaunted, Slo took her hand instead.

Then dropped it. Quickly.

Whoa, she was trembling. And hot – you could fry eggs on her. Either the poor kid had a bad case of malaria, or he had carried his little tease a little too far. She wasn’t just nervous, she was terrified. Of him. Great, just great. Boy, was he ever proud of himself.
This
was why he didn’t mess with virgins.

“Roxy’s minding the shop while Jil’s away. Did you hear Jil got married?… Yeah, and Evangeline Allen, too. That was something, wasn’t it?… Husband’s name is Harper Rourke…” Sam’s voice droned on and on, making small talk, filling the air of the shop – air that pulsed with undercurrents of electrical tension.

Slo listened no closer than politeness required, answered the questions with as few words as possible. He was far more aware of the one who was
not
speaking – the blue-eyed baby doll who stood backed against the old-fashioned counter. Her gaze kept darting to his, then away, as though the mere sight of him scorched her. She was quivering and sizzling like a lit fuse.

What a waste, all that energy squandered on stress.

There was dynamite in that baby doll. Someone someday was going to have one hell of a hot time lighting it. Some lucky guy was going to get himself an armful of fiery delight.

Too bad that guy couldn’t be him.

Enough, Larkin! You’ve come, you’ve seen, you’ve conquered. Now quit playing Big Bad Wolf. Leave Little Red Riding Hood alone and go bother Grandma.

“Well, um, I guess I’d better be gettin’ back to the house.” Slo turned toward the exit.

Sam stopped him. “So soon? You just got here, man.”

“Yeah, sorry. I wasn’t planning on staying. Gran’s got dinner waiting.” Smashed green tomatoes, with cantaloupe pulp for dessert – Slo could hardly wait. “I just thought I’d drop by for a minute to say hi and, um, meet your cousin.” He gave Roxanne an apologetic nod. “Newcomers are kind of an attraction in this town, in case you hadn’t noticed yet.”

But then you’d be an attraction anywhere, wouldn’t you, baby?

Slo knew he hadn’t spoken the thought aloud – but to see Roxanne, you might almost have guessed he had. Flushed and flustered, she turned her back on him, snatched up a rag, and began frantically dusting the counter, working her way down its length, wiping and polishing with a vengeance.

Damn, but it
was
cute how easily she blushed. There was something irresistible about this kid, something naive and seductive in the same breath. Sweet heat. A dangerous temptation. He was starting to imagine other things he could do to make her blush. Sultry, steamy, intimate things…

With effort, Slo shoved the lewd images out of his head. Roxanne had just reached the counter’s end, which sat opposite the door to the studio, and would probably be bolting through that open door any moment now. And he had better take himself and his evil mind out the other door before he disgraced himself. This little girl was getting to him – and she was too damn young. Too shy, too sensitive, too—

He stiffened and stared as his gaze fell through the doorway behind her and landed on a large canvas propped against two easels in the center of the studio. An incredible painting of an incredible figure.

Help me, Lord…

She was gut-gripping glorious, that’s what she was!

His pulse pounded, his stomach did a back flip, his jeans suddenly shrank. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Roxanne snap upright and drop her dust cloth, but he had more immediate concerns. Blood was morphing into molten lava. Something volcanic was about to erupt. Him. He could swear he smelled smoke. Mumbling a hasty, haphazard goodbye, he turned and beat a rocky retreat out the street door and down the sidewalk.

A flurry of wild stamping sounded from the shop behind him, but he didn’t dare turn around to investigate. Maybe Sam had taken up flamenco dancing. Why not? It seemed like something Sam might do.

-------

Sam was dancing, in fact. But more along the lines of an energetic soft-shoe, or perhaps some Irish clogging. Sam was doing it to extinguish the genuine fire that erupted seconds before Slo made his escape. Roxanne’s dust cloth had burst into flames the instant it hit the floor.

Singing “There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight,” Sam crossed the shop, maneuvered Roxanne aside, and executed a neat shuffle-step as he stomped out the blaze in rhythm to the old tune.

He flashed his shaky cousin an upbeat grin. “All things considered, I think that little meet-and-greet went pretty well. How about you?”

“I think that man better stay far away from me,” she said on a ragged breath. “He’d better keep his distance or this whole town could go up in smoke!”

Sam heaved a longsuffering sigh and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Roxy, that is the wrong attitude. Slo lives in Houston, and he
likes
it there. He hates Star and never sticks around for long, but while he’s here, he’s your neighbor. You need to view this as a learning experience, because you’re not going to be able to avoid him.”

“Yes, I can. I’ll go out to the ranch until he’s gone. I’ll stay with Harper and Evangeline.”

“I’m sure they’d love to have you, but it won’t solve anything. Slo always visits Evangeline when he’s home. She’s one of the few people in the area he actually enjoys talking to.”

“Then I…I’ll…”

“You will stay here and face this.” Sam gave her shoulders a squeeze. “There’s
nothing
wrong with you, hon. You’re an attractive, intelligent woman with a powerful ability. If you’ll stop being so frightened of that power, I think you can conquer it.”

“I
can’t
.” Her voice came out like the scratch of sandpaper. “I’ve
never
been able to control it. I’m a human flamethrower! That’s why my father locked me away in a nuthouse – because I am too
dangerous
to be allowed loose.”…

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About the author:

Mimi Riser is a multi-published, award-winning author of fiction and nonfiction. Her books celebrate the upbeat and the offbeat, and “happy endings” are her specialty. She began life in the urban northeast, but now resides in the rural southwest with one husband, two dogs, and more cats than anyone wants to know about.