Killing Time

“Not exactly.”

“So, she was right? You consider yourself hot enough that she’d fall over in a faint when she saw your manly magnificence?”

“Something like that,” he replied with a long, low chuckle.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re not all that, Mick.”

He raised a challenging brow, daring her to be honest. Once upon a time, he’d been all that and a lot more to this woman.

No, Caroline hadn’t exactly fainted away the first time she’d seen him naked. But she had dropped to the nearest flat surface pretty damn quick.

“She’s a nice, misguided lady, who I don’t think has ever had a date in her life,” he explained, recognizing that Caroline really did think he should call the police on poor, sad Louise. “So, yeah, I somehow thought I might be able to scare her off.”

“But you’re no Buddy.”

He remembered Louise’s comments about her daddy’s prize bull, who was famous in these parts. “Ahh, you were eavesdropping for quite a while, hmm?”

She pinkened. “Just…scouting out the situation before I decided what to do. I wasn’t sure whether I’d interrupted some lovers’ tryst, a robbery or a bizarre sex crime.”

Mick pulled his shirt on, tucked it in, then refastened his belt. It was easier to deal with Caroline when fully dressed. Half-naked felt too damned vulnerable. “So, what would you have done if it were a lovers’ tryst?”

“Backed out gracefully.”

“Bizarre sex crime?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Called the police.”

“And since it was neither,” he said suggestively, “you just decided to, uh…watch.”

She straightened her back, looking so stiff he thought she might break in two. “I did no such thing.”

“You were out there a long time,” he countered, keeping his voice at the level of a purr. “Staring at the…scenery.”

“The only scenery I was staring at was the nightmare on your butt.”

He couldn’t prevent a triumphant smile for getting her to admit she’d been staring at his naked body.

“I was trying to figure out what kind of man would shout his true nature to the world. ‘I am dog, hear me roar.’”

Tsking, he clarified, “It’s a wolf.”

“Same species.”

He shook his head. “Actually, no. But same genus, I think.”

She let out a soft groan, and he knew he was driving her crazy. He’d always been able to drive her crazy, just like this. A highly emotional person—easily swinging from the highest highs to the lowest lows—Caroline had been a perfect foil for someone like Mick, who was so difficult to rile he’d been accused of having no heart at all.

She’d been the one to accuse him of that, come to think of it. Then she’d stormed out, missing the damage Mick was capable of when his emotions really got the better of him.

“Want to sit down? You look flushed,” he said, thinking she was doing a good job getting riled up all on her own this time.

Ignoring the offer, she shook her head and walked across the office, leaving them separated by a few feet and an ocean’s worth of emotional baggage. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

She was wrong there. He had changed. Not that she’d see it, not that he’d admit it out loud. But he wasn’t the same guy she’d known.

Actually, he wasn’t sure who Mick Winchester was these days. But that was okay. Because nobody else was quite sure who he was, either, other than the black sheep of the Winchester family. The playboy of Derryville. The tattooed bad boy who was much more often found playing poker with the guys on a Sunday than having a weekly after-church gathering with family.

“Still Mr. Cool, aren’t you?” Caroline said. “Still trying to pretend you’re untouchable.”

Untouchable. Perhaps, but only in the emotional sense.

Caroline wasn’t the only one to accuse him of hiding his emotions behind an easy laugh and a charming grin. His little sister, Sophie, had told him more than once he was an emotional teakettle, at full rolling boil just beneath a calm, smooth surface.

Sophie was probably right. No one had ever been able to get Mick to completely lose his control and erupt. Except once. With the woman standing right in front of him.

Of course, Caroline hadn’t been around to see. That had been after she’d left. After she’d waltzed out of his life, accusing him, judging him, sentencing him and walking away without even giving him a chance to defend himself. Hell, he hadn’t even done anything. He’d been guilty of what he might do in the future, and that was enough for her.

Such trust from the girl he’d asked to marry him.

That was the only time Mick had ever lost himself to anger. He still had the scars on his knuckles from where he’d broken several fingers punching holes in the wall of his room.

Not that her lack of trust and his perceived inability to commit were the only things to break them up. There had also been geography. She wanted west. L.A. Big city, bright lights. All that star-studded stuff a lot of college girls seemed to want. Mick had never been able to picture anything but what he’d always known. Small-town life. Home.

So she’d taken off. He’d torn apart his dorm room and gotten kicked out of school. End of story. Until now.

“Why are you here?” he finally asked again, unable to keep baiting her when he simply felt weary and off balance. “Why after eight years did you track me down?”

“I didn’t track you down. I’m your appointment.”

He simply stared, not sure what she meant.

“Your renter.”

His renter. One of the studio executives looking for a place to rent in Derryville for a month.

Caroline Lamb was moving here? To this tiny town where they’d be running into each other all the time?

His dismay must have shown in his expression, because for the first time since she’d stumbled into the office, a genuine smile brightened her face. “Doesn’t that just make your day?”

He couldn’t even fathom what life would be like if he had to get used to Caroline being back in his world. The thought of having his youthful stupidity and heartbreak thrown into his face on a daily basis was more than he could stand.

Striding out of his office, he nearly tripped on something, but kicked it out of the way. He continued down the darkened hallway, reached the front door and yanked it open.

“Louise,” he bellowed into the street. “Get back here and shoot me!”

CHAPTER THREE

“SOTELL ME, what is this rumor I’ve heard about you renting a room to one of these TV people?”

Sophie Winchester smothered a groan as her peaceful Monday morning was interrupted immediately after she’d stepped into the church office. There was no mistaking that voice. It was Miss Hester, sister of Pastor Bob, her boss at the First Methodist Church of Derryville. Miss Hester’s sweet tones—so often heard dispensing wisdom, advice and fortitude to the congregational flock—usually spewed criticism and gossip in private.

“Is it true?” Miss Hester shut the door and turned around. “I heard the rumor yesterday.”

So much for keeping her plans a secret. Criminy, she’d only told her brother, Mick, two days ago that she wanted to rent out her house while it was up for sale. And already, the grapevine had gift-wrapped and hand-delivered the rumor to the proprietress of all things proper and good in Derryville, Hester Tomlinson. The one who’d been preaching from her own bully pulpit against allowing any Hollywood types near Derryville.

“Where did you hear that?” she asked, knowing Miss Hester wasn’t going to move her considerable girth out of the way to let her go to her desk until Sophie had spilled her guts.

“Tell me it’s not true. You, a respectable church secretary, are not opening your doors to a Hollywood gigolo who’ll ruin your reputation, destroy your engagement to Chief Fletcher and make a mockery of everything my dear brother preaches each Sunday.”

Oh. So, Miss Hester didn’t have the entire story straight. She thought Sophie was going to be rooming with some TV people. When she learned the truth—that Sophie was—gasp—going to live in sin with her fiancé for a couple of months—she’d shit bricks. Church secretaries simply didn’t do such things.

Not that Sophie was much of a church secretary. That was just the public life she’d lived for the past few years in order to keep her private one a secret. The public job wasn’t going to be hers much longer. She’d already been planning to resign. When Miss Hester learned she planned to give up her house to live with her fiancé, Daniel Fletcher, it’d be imperative.

“Everyone is talking about making it rich by renting out rooms to those…those Hollywood lowlifes.” Miss Hester sounded as if she was talking about insects, rather than human beings.

“Yes,” Sophie admitted, “it’s true. I’m going to rent out my house. I plan to sell it when Daniel and I get married, anyway.”

Miss Hester moved away, shutting the door behind her and striding toward Pastor Bob’s private inner office. “Come with me,” she said, her authoritative tone allowing for no argument.

Sophie began to smile, almost relieved that things were coming to a head. It looked like she might be quitting her job sooner rather than later. That meant she could unglue her tongue from the back of her teeth and tell the old battle-ax what she could do with her stupid job and her stupid rules and her stupid nosiness and her stupid self.

Once Sophie got into the other office, Miss Hester crossed her arms over her massive chest and frowned. “Your wedding’s not until October. Halloween, as I recall, as if anyone could forget a bride choosing such an unholy day for her sacred nuptials.”

When the truth came out about who Sophie was, and what she really did for a living, the wedding date might make sense.

“Actually, I’m going to go ahead and move out now.”

She felt relieved it was going to be over soon. She wanted it done, wanted to stop living a lie. She had her letter of resignation ready, though she’d planned to give it to Pastor Bob. But if Miss Hester pushed too hard, the letter would be hitting her so fast she’d think she’d missed someone yelling “fore.”

“Whoever rents the house would be there alone,” she added.

“Oh,” the woman said. “That’s better, at least.” The woman sounded approving. Sophie recognized the tone. Miss Hester used it on everyone, trying to convince most residents in Derryville that she really was the kindly hostess of her widowed pastor brother, rather than just a small-minded woman who lived on gossip and titillation. “Where do you plan to live in the meantime, dear?”

Sophie didn’t fall for the softened tone or the endearment.

“Are you staying with your parents?”

“No,” Sophie said, waiting for the right moment to tell Miss Hester that sweet little Sophie Winchester was going to be shacking up with the new police chief.

Before she could continue, Miss Hester was distracted by the ringing of her phone. Since Sophie wasn’t out in the reception area, the woman had to answer it herself, leaving Sophie to work up the right words that would mean, basically, take this job and shove it, but wouldn’t sound quite so truck driver-ish.

Not that Miss Hester didn’t deserve such language. The woman was like a scouring pad pretending to be a cotton ball. But Sophie had been directly in contact with the steel wool these days and knew there was nothing cottony soft about the woman.

Which made it awfully easy to picture killing the old broad. Killing. Mutilating. Maiming. Burying. Oh, yeah, Sophie had done it all in her mind. Not as herself, of course, but as her alter ego, R. F. Colt. The hottest horror fiction writer around today.

There was the main reason for quitting her job. Heaven knew she had enough work to do on her novels without living a secret life as a small-town church secretary. But, even though Daniel had convinced her people liked her for who she really was—not who she pretended to be—she had her doubts. Her family? Yes. Daniel? Yes. A few close friends and associates? Absolutely.

But if she told Miss Hester? The woman who’d pray for her poor, sorry soul and preach to her about the evils of a dissolute mind and a wicked imagination? No way. Not a chance. She’d only planned to reveal her secret once she was ready to whip out that resignation letter and switch to another church on Sundays. Which appeared to be right about now.

Miss Hester finally finished her phone call and turned her attention back to Sophie. “So, where will you be living?”

“I didn’t see the point in missing the summer real estate season, so I’m going to put the house on the market right away and rent it out in the meantime. It doesn’t make sense to wait until October.” Offering the other woman a tiny smile, Sophie added, “So I’m just going to move in with Daniel now.”

Miss Hester gasped. “You can’t. You simply can’t.”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“It’s a disgrace. I’ve worked too hard to let you ruin things.” The woman’s voice rose to a near shout. “If you do this, don’t bother to come back the next day.”

Sophie shrugged. “You got it. I quit.”

Miss Hester’s jaw fell open, setting a few of her chins a-wiggling. “You ungrateful, miserable little sneak.”

Hmm…Miss Hester looked pretty ferocious when she was pissed off. Maybe the next time she included the woman as a character in one of her books, she’d make her the villain instead of just a comic relief secondary character or a gruesomely murdered victim.

“You’re as shameless as that no-good brother of yours.”

She’d brought Mick into this? Low. Very low. “I should defend Mick, but I mind my own business and leave my brother alone.” Let her stew on that.

Miss Hester did, quickly realizing the insult. “You are no longer welcome in this office.” Then, as if she had a direct line to God and could issue his invitations, she added, “Or in this church.”

Sophie shrugged. “There are other churches.” Just to be evil, she added, “I’ve been wanting to check out the synagogue, anyway. Or maybe that Buddhist temple up in Chicago.”

Miss Hester clutched a hand to her heart. “You wicked girl.”

Sophie wasn’t listening. She’d already turned toward the door, giving one last mutter. “Oh, drop dead.”

Feeling damn good, Sophie breezed into the reception area.

It was then that she noticed the crowd. The one who’d been listening to every nasty word. Mrs. Carlton who had an appointment with Miss Hester this morning. Dr. Ogilvie, a local dentist, who headed up the food-for-the-needy program. A red-faced Louise Flanagan. Darla from the nail salon. Every last one staring at her.

Damn, when she burst out of the closet, she did it in a big way. Giving them all a bright smile, she murmured, “Good morning,” then walked out the door into the sunshine.

EARLY THAT AFTERNOON, trapped inside a car with the most exasperating man she’d ever known, Caro was on the verge of a meltdown. Every rental in Derryville had something wrong with it. Either the owners were old, loud and nosy or young, loud and obnoxious. Or the rental room was painted a garish Day-Glo green. Or the chain-smoking owner had created a lot of fragrant memories.

Nothing suited her. Least of all the man showing her place after place, a faint smile always evident on his lips. That smile told her more than his silence ever could.

“You’re enjoying this,” she said, watching him wave to yet another local on the streets of Derryville.

He gave her an innocent look. “Enjoying what?”

“Enjoying watching me sweat.”

“I’ve always enjoyed watching you sweat,” he replied, completely unrepentant. “Does you good to get a little worked up once in a while. You look so…” He gestured toward her pressed linen suit, the stylish linen jacket and short white skirt, as if he found the latest fashion lacking.

“So what?”

“So buttoned-up.”

“Professional, I think is the word you want.”

“I was thinking more like cold.”

Cold? He thought she was cold? Good grief, one of the most difficult things she’d overcome when arriving in Hollywood was the impression that she was an innocent young girl, big of heart, warm of spirit, always ready to listen to a sob story. Impressionable, exuberant, naive but clever, they’d called her.

Now Mick was calling her cold. It shouldn’t have bothered her, but, deep down, it did.

“Let’s stick to the subject—finding me a place to live.”

“You’re the one who’s being picky. I’ve shown you four reasonable places.”

“Ugh. Reasonable?”

“You didn’t have better luck on your own,” he reminded her.

No, she hadn’t. Not that the jerk had to bring up the fact that she’d tried. This morning, after their initial run-in in his office, she’d stormed off, determined to find someplace to live without his help. She’d been back an hour later, disheartened and frustrated. The local paper hadn’t listed one single rental. Nor would any of the people with For Rent signs in their yards agree to let her come through without a Realtor.

“Are you the only Realtor in Derryville?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Nah. I have two associates working with me.”

Her spirits perked up at that. Then he dashed her hopes. “But they’re both off this weekend.”

She groaned and stared out the window. “How is it that the only hotel in this town looks like it rents by the hour?”

“Because it does.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you’d know.”

“I’m sure Hollywood doesn’t have such sordid goings-on.”

She couldn’t hide a smile. “Okay, you got me on that one.”

The tension seemed to ease somewhat, probably because she’d finally lightened up. Mick had always been able to lighten her mood. Heck, Mick had always been able to make anybody feel better. It was impossible to be down with someone who was always up.

“Tell me about this TV show,” he said, obviously trying to keep the conversation friendly and impersonal. They both seemed to have reached the same silent conclusion that the past was better left undiscussed, at least for now. “Why’d you decide to film it here? Why the Little Bohemie Inn?”

Safe ground. They could talk business without Caro feeling the urge to reach over and play with his earlobe. Either that or give his hair a good yank because he’d made her so angry every time she’d thought about him over the years. “We’re always on the lookout for new shows. Reality TV had been really hot the last few years.”

He sighed. “Yeah. I was wondering when they’d start the live execution show. Or ‘Who Wants to Let Their Dog Marry a Millionaire’s Dog?’.”

She laughed, unable to help it. Because what he described wasn’t so far off the mark. She felt pretty sure that, somewhere, a desperate Hollywood down-and-outer had thought of just such an idea as a way to try to get back in. “This isn’t going to be anything quite as gratuitous. Actually, the owner of the inn gave us the idea for the show, herself. Gwen…um….”

“Winchester.” He didn’t so much as crack a smile, but she heard the amusement in his voice.

She sighed heavily. “Don’t tell me…”

“She married my cousin last spring.”

Another Winchester. Oh, joy. Another wonderful day-to-day reminder of the only guy she’d ever loved. Her trip to Derryville should be renamed a visit to purgatory.

“So how’d Gwen give you the show idea?”

“A review of the inn in a Chicago paper mentioned they were doing in-character murder mystery weekends. Someone at the network saw it, thought it would be an interesting concept and came up with Killing Time in a Small Town.”

Mick nodded. “Those in-character weekends at the Little Bohemie Inn are something else. And you should probably thank my cousin, Jared, for inspiring the idea.” He wore a secretive look, as though he had a story to tell, but instead kept the conversation away from personal matters. “I’d heard it was a murder mystery show. I don’t suppose society has fallen quite so low as to have real murders for our viewing pleasure?”

“Only on cable. Not on one of the big three networks.”

He gave her a sideways glance, nodding his appreciation of her humor. Where that humor had come from, she couldn’t say. Her mind told her she was still mad at him, still hurt by him, still insane to spend even one minute alone with him.

But her body, her spirit, her long-dormant sunny, open, good nature, reminded her that she’d always liked being around this guy. He’d always been able to make her laugh, make her give in to crazy impulses and live for the moment.

That thought doused the good humor. She’d stopped living for the moment a long time ago. Judging by the fact that some local woman had thought she needed to “save” Mick from himself, he hadn’t.

He hadn’t stopped being the kind of impulsive person who did what he wanted, when he wanted, with whom he wanted. He was still self-indulgent, still a creature of his senses, still a walking testament to living life for fun and pleasure. Exactly the kind of man she’d predicted he’d be. Exactly the kind of man she’d decided to exclude from her life. No matter how much it hurt.

“How does the show work?”

She cleared her throat, trying to regain her better mood. “It’s supposed to walk the line between reality TV shows and the scripted variety. It’s like that old party game, where one person is a killer and nobody knows who it is until they get ‘winked’ at. Then they are murdered and out of the game.”

He nodded absently. “So the contestants aren’t taking part in challenges to see who wins. They could actually get outwitted and killed?”

“They take part in challenges to try to figure out who, among them, is the killer. And also to earn exemptions on murder nights.”

“Are they actors, playing roles?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Real people, not actors. Playing themselves, but always ‘in character.”’

Mick gave her a questioning look as he directed the car off the main street through town and turned toward another subdivision with another rental possibility. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, they will have to do some acting because they’re supposed to behave from day one as if they’re really registering at a spooky, possibly haunted inn, and suddenly murder and mayhem erupt in the town around them.”

And that was the tricky part of this entire reality show adventure. Because the contestants couldn’t just be themselves. To make the show a success, the cast had to act as if everything—every murder, every drop of blood, fingerprint, mysterious stranger and unexplained noise in the night—was real.

Unfortunately, she imagined the closest some of them had ever come to acting was faking the occasional orgasm.

He nodded. “An in-character reality TV cast. That’s not so unusual, I guess. I mean, aren’t a lot of the contestants of these reality shows acting like sweet, marriageable girls when they’re really foot fetish models or all-around bitches?”

She chuckled. “Right.”

“Do they have to follow a script or something?”

She shook her head. “Nothing that happens is scripted beyond outlines of where they all need to go every day and the locations and descriptions of the murders. And the murder plot. We’ve set up the first few victims of the ‘Derryville Demon,’ but as for who dies after that, it’s anyone’s guess.”

Before Caroline could continue, she saw that an attractive woman was placing a “For Rent” sign in front of the pretty house that had caught her eye. Her spirits lifted. “Is this it?”

Mick glanced over, gave a surprised look, then shook his head. “No, this isn’t the one.”

“Stop anyway,” she urged, liking the profusion of flowers beside the front porch, and the way the big maple tree out front shaded the windows of the lovely yellow house.

“You wouldn’t be interested in that one.”

“Who says? Stop the car.”

“She’s renting the whole house, Caroline.”

“It’s Caro.”

“Caro’s syrup. It’s not a name, it’s something you put on pancakes,” he muttered.

“No, maple syrup’s what you put on pancakes. Caro’s—oh, would you just stop?”