Killing Time

He pulled the car up to the curb of the house. The woman, who’d just finished placing the sign, instantly straightened.

“This isn’t a good idea,” he said softly.

But Caro was already stepping out of the car, smiling at the homeowner. Mick might think she was a big-city snob now, but frankly, Caro couldn’t think of a lovelier place to stay during her upcoming weeks in Derryville. The house was small, a one-story cottage with a freestanding one-car garage. With the quiet street, well-kept yard and friendly appearance of the owner, she felt sure this was going to be the place.

It was only when Mick brushed past her, striding over to the small brunette, that Caro realized she might be wrong.

Then she noticed the woman looked upset. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Mick asked as he tenderly touched the woman’s cheek.

Caro swallowed hard, suddenly remembering the kindness of which this man was capable. Yes, Mick had always been a flirt, a rogue, a…dog. But he’d also always been a sucker for someone in distress. Especially if that someone was a female.

The woman didn’t respond in words. Instead, she threw her arms around Mick’s neck and hugged him tight.

Oh, but it hurt to see that. Obviously the reason Mick hadn’t wanted to stop at this particular house was because its owner was his current…whatever. He’d tried to stop her. It was her own fault she had to witness yet another moment with Mick and another female. Kinda like the one that had broken them up.

Well, no way was she going to let him see she was the least bit bothered by that idea. While Mick and the woman talked quietly in the yard, Caro wandered up to the porch, noticing how fragrant the flowers beside it smelled.

“I’m so sorry,” a woman’s voice said. “You guys caught me at the wrong moment.”

“Right moment,” Mick said, his arm draped casually over the other woman’s shoulders as they walked up to join Caro. “It’s not every day you get fired.”

“Fired?” Caro frowned. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

The woman shrugged. “I didn’t get fired. I quit. Sort of. It was kind of mutual.” Then a frown pulled the woman’s pretty brow down. “I just wish half the town hadn’t heard it.”

“You’re exaggerating, honey,” Mick murmured.

Honey. Ouch.

“Anyway,” the woman said, extending her hand toward Caro, “welcome. I’m glad you might be interested in the house. I’m anxious to move, especially now that I don’t have to worry about how it will affect my job. My name’s Sophie Winchester.”

Good Lord. Winchester. Had she been stricken so numb at seeing Mick again that she hadn’t even noticed a gold band on his left hand? Then she remembered something. Her instant relief surprised her. “Sophie. You’re Mick’s baby sister, right?”

The woman looked surprised. “Yes. How did you know that?”

Caro felt heat rise into her cheeks as Mick watched, an obvious grin on his face. He was enjoying this, enjoying watching her sweat as she tried to explain to his sister that she and Mick had once been very close. Often close enough that not a thing had come between them—including clothes. “Mick and I were college friends,” she said. “I remember him mentioning you.”

“Small world.” Sophie graciously dropped the subject as if she read Caro’s discomfort. “Come on inside.”

Ten minutes later, after touring the house with Sophie, who was both funny and charming, Caro had reached two conclusions. First, the house was perfect for her.

And second, it would never, never work.

Because Sophie had a cat. A big fat cat who reacted as every cat did when Caro came in contact with one. As if knowing which people either didn’t like or were allergic to them, felines always curled around her, purring and wanting to be petted.

Just breathing the air in the house was clogging up her throat. Petting Mugs, as Sophie called him, could put Caro in the hospital. There was no way she could live here, even with a thorough cleaning. Caro’s allergies were simply too severe.

Which left her stuck, again, in two ways. First, she still had no place to live. Second, and even worse, she had to get back in the car to do more house-hunting with Mick Winchester.

MICK SHOULD HAVE known better than to take the side streets back to downtown Derryville to his office. He should have stuck to the main road, getting Caroline to her car and out of his life as soon as possible. He should have done everything in his power to bring their interaction to an end, letting her figure out on her own where she was going to live.

He’d done none of the above. Instead, some demon deep inside him made him cut through a quiet neighborhood with which he was very familiar. He told himself it was shorter. That was bullshit.

The truth was, he was still ticked at her. Still affected by her. Still wanting her gone but not wanting her to leave.

Still stunned that she was here.

Caroline Lamb, right back in the center of his world, and sending it as crazily off balance as she always had. Things had never been peaceful and calm with them. They’d struck sparks off each other from the time they’d met, and Caro had always known how to push his buttons.

Like today. The never-ending house hunt was pure Caroline Lamb. Okay, so old man Snorkle was a heavy smoker and every surface in the house was a sickly beige nicotine color. And yeah, Mrs. Spencer was color blind and the spare room in her house would have been perfect for a patriotic leprechaun. And right, the McKenzies were old and deaf but refused to use hearing aids so their conversations were at the decibel level of a jackhammer.

Picky, picky.

The fact that she’d refused Sophie’s place had really ticked him off. It would have been perfect for her, and would have helped out Sophie. Not that Sophie needed the money. He almost chuckled at that one, remembering how shocked he’d been to learn his bratty kid sister was a famous hack-’em-up horror novelist. So successful she could probably buy and sell him ten times over.

But it would have helped her out to know that someone quiet, respectable and responsible was taking care of her house while she was living with her fiancé.

His jaw tightened at the thought of Sophie living with a man. Then he eased up. Divorce was so common, he’d rather Sophie and Daniel give things a try now than have regrets later.

But Caroline hadn’t wanted Sophie’s house. When he’d accused her of rejecting it to try to avoid him, she hadn’t denied it.

So, she wanted to avoid him. Huh. That’d be a trick in Derryville.

What really bugged him was the evidence that Caroline had turned into such a coward. The girl he’d known back in college wouldn’t have given a damn where he went, what he thought or what he did. Caroline had been all fire and energy, a whirling ball of excitement, always up for adventure, whether it was going four-wheeling up in the mountains in a borrowed Jeep or taking a spontaneous twenty-hour road trip to the beach one weekend.

That girl was gone. Long gone. Not at all in evidence in the tight-lipped, tight-formed woman sitting in his car.

So he couldn’t really say what had made him choose this particular street—his anger, his sense of adventure or his need to once again see Caroline Lamb sweat. Probably all of the above.

“Stop!” She pointed. “There, that one.”

He knew which house she was pointing to. The one on the corner. The big old two-story with the nicely treed lot and the driveway that circled around the front.

“There’s a Room For Rent sign.”

Yeah, there was. “Not this house, Caroline.”

“You only have one sister.” She reached for the door handle. “Don’t tell me another one of your family members lives here.”

He shook his head. “Nope, I’m not telling you that.”

Then, because Mick just could never resist giving someone enough rope to hang themselves with, he let Caroline get out of the car and walk toward the house. He followed her, coming close to telling her the truth, but deciding against it.

Caroline went to the sign and pulled out a flyer. Her eyes sparked with indignation. “You have this place listed for rent.”

“Yep.”

“So why didn’t you tell me about it?”

Because I’m not a freakin’ lunatic?

“I didn’t think it would suit,” he replied, wondering why the hell he didn’t just admit the truth so they could get out of here. Somehow, though, he was starting to have a little fun.

Caroline kept reading. “It has an in-law suite and there’s only one resident. How bad could that be? I mean, there’s no ax murderer or psychopath living here, is there?”

“Not as far as I know,” he said with a chuckle, “but you can never be too sure about some people.”

As if on cue, the front door to the house opened and a very familiar older woman walked out. Mick smothered a sigh, having no doubt what she had been doing inside. Baking.

Caroline shot him a glare as she saw the older woman, complete with iron-gray hair, a pair of wire-framed glasses and a brightly colored dress. “Oh, I’m shaking in my shoes,” Caroline muttered, sotto voce. “I won’t sleep a wink wondering if she’s going to have a raunchy sex party.”

He gulped at that image. Then he gave her a bit more rope…because she deserved it for bringing up the word sex when that was about all he’d been thinking about since he’d laid eyes on her again.

Sex. With her. Lots of it. The kind they used to have when they were young and hungry, when every cell in his body had contained a raging hormone and every one of them had been screaming her name.

“I can’t believe you didn’t mention this place. Did you intentionally make me suffer with all those other ones this morning? Was this some kind of ploy to get even because I dumped you back in college?”

Talk about déjà vu. They’d been in each other’s company only a few hours and once again she was accusing him when he hadn’t done a thing to deserve it. Just like she had when they’d broken up, when she’d thrown ugly words like playboy, irresponsible and “unable to be faithful” at his face. All because she’d seen a questionable moment and chosen to believe the worst.

“The rent is very reasonable,” he replied evenly, not responding to her barb.

The older woman walked down off the porch and finally noticed them standing on the front walk. “Oh, you caught me,” she said, giving Mick a guilty-looking smile. “I just took a pie out of the oven and left it to cool on the counter.”

Caroline extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Caro Lamb.”

“Caro..lan? How nice to meet you, dear.”

“Uh, Lamb. That is…never mind. It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m interested in the room for rent.”

Mick suffered under a ten-second stare from a pair of eyes that had been able to make him spill his guts with just a glance from the time he’d been a kid. “She’s with the reality show and needs a place to stay for a few weeks.” One fine gray brow arched a bit. “I’ve shown her every rental in town,” he added.

Those stiffened shoulders eased a bit. “Well then, how wonderful. I’m sure you’ll love it. I have a hair appointment, so I’ll get out of your way and let you go look.”

Mick watched her leave, then turned his attention to Caroline. She went up to the porch, gave the two-person swing a little push and stood up on tiptoe to sniff at a flowering plant hanging by the door. Her smile was evident from down here on the lawn. She suddenly looked much more like the girl he’d known, which didn’t make him feel one bit better.

She even sat down on the swing, setting it in motion with a kick and wiggling to make herself more comfortable while she waited for him to open the house.

“This is wonderful,” she murmured.

She liked the place. Damn, why did that hurt so much?

“I want to see the inside. If it’s as perfect as the outside, then I think I’ve found where I want to live.”

“You’re making a mistake…”

“No, I’m not,” she said, rising from the swing and staring down at him from three steps above. “Stop telling me what I want and what I don’t, Mick. I would have thought you’d learned a long time ago that I don’t take well to that kind of thing.”

He stiffened. Like he’d needed a reminder of how she’d reacted when he’d tried to insist she didn’t really want to move out to L.A. That her future was with him.

The anger in her voice and condemnation in her eyes was the last straw. He didn’t protest as she looked at the house. As predicted, she loved it. She really went crazy over the rec room with the amazing TV setup. Caroline was ready to move full speed ahead and sign a lease on the spare suite of rooms.

So be it.

An hour later, after she’d signed the papers and paid the full four weeks’ rent in advance, he watched her pull away from his office without a backwards glance.

“You made your bed, babe. Now you can lie in it.”

He just couldn’t wait to see what she said when she found out that bed was in his house.

CHAPTER FOUR

“SO, TELL ME ABOUT this Caro Lamb.”

Great. Just the person Mick didn’t want to talk about. And just the person he didn’t want to talk about her with—his mother—who’d beelined for his table at Ed’s Café the minute she’d entered. So much for his nice, quiet Friday morning breakfast. “Her name’s Caroline. And there’s nothing to tell.”

His mother sniffed, knowing better. Mick watched, amused, while the very predictable Marnie Winchester picked up a napkin, wiped off the seat and made a harrumphing sound as crumbs floated to the floor. She sat across from him, keeping her purse in her lap, hands folded neatly on top of it. He knew darn well she’d ask the waitress to wipe off the table before she ate a thing.

“Sophie seems to think you knew her before.”

Sophie, you’re a dead woman.

He merely shrugged, neither confirming nor denying, hoping his mother had lost that whole mind-reading ability once her kids were out of the house. But he doubted it.

“Well?” she persisted, not at all put off by his signals.

She’d been relentless about Caroline since the afternoon when they’d bumped into her coming out of his house. She’d been there baking him a nice homemade pie. Why? Because his mother was convinced he hadn’t eaten a decent meal or a good wholesome home-cooked treat since leaving home ten years ago.

“I’ve told you, she’s a producer with the TV show,” he said.

“The TV show?” Tina Laudermilk, who was sitting at the next booth listening to every word they said, turned around and gave Mick a good-morning smile. “I hear they’ve started to arrive.”

From behind him, Mick heard a man’s voice. “I saw a bunch of trucks at the inn yesterday when I was making my deliveries.” It was Earl Donovan, the UPS guy, and an aspiring actor who’d been following the TV show goings-on with avid interest.

Earl and Tina began a conversation right over Mick’s and his mother’s heads, talking back and forth as if the other booth was not between them. “I stopped by the trailer and picked up the paperwork to be an extra.”

“Is it true they’re going to do scenes here?” Tina asked.

Ed, the owner and cook, popped his head up from behind the half wall separating the kitchen and the counter. “Yep. And they’re paying me, too.”

“Better save the money for future food poisoning claims,” Mick muttered.

Judging by the way his mother’s lips twitched, she’d heard.

“I saw the director fellow in the drug store yesterday,” Tina said. She made a gooey-eyed face that told Mick what she’d thought of the man. “And did you hear the host is going to be Joshua Charmagne, from that cop show? What a dream.”

The whole thing was more like a nightmare to Mick.

“He’s a flamer.” This from Donnie Jordan, a truck driver who ran diesel throughout the state. He swiveled on his stool and jumped into the conversation. “No real man wears purple shirts like he did.”

“He’s no such thing,” Tina retorted. “He was a gentleman detective and back then in Miami men did wear purple shirts and white suits. I bet he doesn’t wear purple shirts in real life.”

Donnie was not convinced. “Nope. Probably wears those rainbow ones to show his pride.”

Before Tina could launch herself across the table to tackle Donnie for casting doubts on the manhood of her favorite has-been TV star, Mick figured he’d make his getaway.

“Check, please!” Mick hoped to pay his tab and escape while his mother was distracted by the conversation that had erupted around them. That was typical. Everywhere he went these days, the topic of conversation surrounded Killing Time in a Small Town.

His mother wasn’t distracted. “She was very pretty.”

“Who?”

She just smirked. Yeah, she still had that mind-reading thing going on. Caroline hadn’t left his thoughts for a minute.

And his mother was right. Caroline was beyond pretty. She was damned beautiful. Thank God there was no way she’d really move in with him when she arrived for her month-long stay. “Was she? I didn’t notice.” He dropped his napkin onto his plate, trying to make eye contact with the waitress as he feigned indifference.

He should have known better. “Who are you, and what have you done with my son?” She reached over and put her hand on his forehead, like she used to whenever he tried to fake sickness to get out of going to school.

“Am I feverish?”

“Delirious.”

His mother’s droll tone made him laugh and drop the pretense. “Okay, yes, she was very pretty. But not my type.”

“Is there such a thing?” This came not from his piercing-eyed mother, but from Deedee Packalotte, his regular waitress.

Deedee had been trying to rekindle an affair with him for years. Not that an affair was what he’d call the three or four afternoons they’d shared in her parents’ basement, back when he’d been delivering papers and she’d been a teenager going to beauty school. She’d dropped out. Which would be pretty obvious to anyone who took one good look at her hair.

No, he and Deedee had had more like a Mrs. Robinson thing. She’d been the older woman—though only by four years—who’d taught him how to last longer than sixty-five seconds in the sack. Or, rather, on top of the washing machine, or the nearest flat surface they could find in the basement. He wondered if Deedee would be surprised to know he’d once gone sixty-five minutes. Not counting the foreplay.

“I’ll have coffee.” His mother frowned at Deedee for interrupting. “And, dear, would you get a rag and touch up this table?”

God love her.

Mick used her distraction to firm his resolve against talking about Caroline to his mother. His sister had been bad enough. It was hard to keep anything from Sophie. She was an observant person who hadn’t been put off by his claims that Caroline had been a casual friend. Luckily, since Sophie had moved in with Daniel and begun telling people her real identity, she had enough to focus on without worrying about his love life. Or, past love life.

Not present. Caroline was definitely not part of his present.

“So you’re going to rent out a room in your house. I still can’t understand why you didn’t just tell us if you needed help making the mortgage.”

An old story. His parents were always trying to help, whether it was popping by to cook enough food for a battalion or offering him money. No matter how many times he’d told them he didn’t need their help, they never stopped offering. Sophie suffered the same endless good will.

“I don’t need help making the mortgage.” True. He was fine, at least until the slow winter season came. That was the worst time of year in his business. So he’d thought he’d rent out a room in his big house—which he’d bought at auction and fixed up over the past two years—to fill in some. Of all the bad ideas he’d ever had…

“And this Caro, she’s going to be living in your house, but you still say she’s not your type?”

“She’s not going to live in my house,” he insisted as he sipped his rapidly cooling coffee, inhaling its aroma. Ed’s served good coffee. Good thing, since the food sucked.

“What do you mean?”

He sipped again. I mean the minute she finds out she’s signed a lease to room with the big bad wolf, a Day-Glo green room or a little cigarette smoke ain’t gonna seem so bad.

“She’ll make other arrangements when she arrives Sunday.”

In fact, he was going to make damn sure of it. He was ninety-nine percent sure Caroline would storm out on her own the minute she found out she’d rented a room in his house. And he’d give her every penny of her money back. The look on her face would be payment enough.

But just in case, in the slim event that she liked his house enough to overlook the company, he’d developed a plan to help…uh…convince her.

He wasn’t sure how yet, but one thing was definite. When Caroline Lamb arrived in Derryville, she was going to find a welcoming committee she’d never forget.

CARO HATED FLYING. It seemed unnatural that something so big should stay in the air, defying gravity. If humans were meant to ride in airplanes, they’d be born with a frequent flier card and an airsick bag.

Unfortunately, her job sometimes required long-distance travel. Like today. But, for once, landing didn’t seem much better than flying, which said a lot about how little she wanted to arrive at her eventual destination.

“Derryville, Illinois,” she muttered. “How on earth could I have forgotten the name of Mick’s hometown?”

She quickly put him out of her mind. Unfortunately, as had been the case for the past three weeks—not to mention the past eight years—he was never completely gone.

She killed time in the usual way during the flight. And, as usual, she drew a few sidelong looks from her seat-mates and the passing flight attendant. Because she was singing.

Oh, she tried not to, tried to do it just in her head, but she couldn’t help it. When Caro was nervous she couldn’t stop herself from breaking into song in a low, quavering voice. This time as she sang, she pictured Tootie and Blair and the gang.

The woman next to her shot her a puzzled look. Caro almost identified the song as coming from The Facts of Life. Then she realized the woman probably wasn’t curious about the song. More about the wacky singer.

Okay, so she was a professional twenty-eight-year-old woman with a great hairstyle, perfect makeup, wearing a thousand dollar Donna Karan suit and carrying a leather briefcase that had cost more than her first junker car.

And she sang TV jingles under her breath.

Sue me.

Everyone had their quirks, didn’t they? At least she wasn’t clicking her teeth or cracking her knuckles or blowing her nose into a tissue and then peeking at the goods like other people she’d sat next to on airplanes.

All in all, her nervous habit seemed pretty innocuous. It was just the TV part that made it look weird. If she’d been humming the latest Alanis Morissette song, nobody would have looked twice.

But Caro’s nervous singing habit stuck strictly to her childhood repertoire of TV theme songs and jingles. Like a gambler might only play at a particular table, or an athlete wear a particular pair of socks, Caro relied on her old standby for good luck in avoiding things like midair collisions: television.

It had been her baby-sitter, then best friend and closest companion throughout her childhood. She’d needed somewhere to lose herself with two parents who worked all the time and either fought like cats and dogs or went at it like bunnies—depending on their moods—when they were home. Either way, she’d learned to keep the TV turned up as a kid. Loud—to block out the sounds. So loud that she could swear she still sometimes heard the tune the Huxtables had danced to in 1983 or every note from the Family Ties ditty.

Family Ties or The Cosby Show her family definitely was not.

From the seat in front of her, a man began to hum the song from Cheers. Funny how everybody responded to TV. Like it or not—and Caro liked it—television was as intrinsic to American culture as a Big Mac. It sparked water cooler debates, show-watching parties, betting pools and hairstyles.