Naturally Naughty

She was really here.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. “Home lousy home,” she whispered. Then she stepped into Pleasantville.

A S HE SAT gingerly on the edge of a plastic-covered sofa in the parlor of his childhood home, Jack Winfield considered committing hari-kari with the fireplace poker. Or at least stuffing two of the cow-faced ceramic miniatures his mother collected into his ears to block out the sound of her chewing out the new housekeeper in the next room. Sophie, the luncheon salad was unacceptably warm and the pasta unforgivably cold .

As if anyone cared about the food’s temperature when its texture was the equivalency of wet cardboard.

“She’d never forgive me if I got blood on the carpet.”

He eyed the poker again. Maybe just a whack in the head for a peaceful hour of unconsciousness? At least then he could sleep, uninterrupted by the prancing snuffle of his mother’s perpetually horny bulldog, Leonardo, who seemed to have mistaken Jack’s pant leg for the hind end of a shapely retriever.

“Sophie,” he heard from the hall, “be sure Mr. Winfield’s drink is freshened before you start clearing away the dishes.”

“Sophie, be sure to drop a tranquilizer in his glass, too, so Mr. Winfield can get through another day in this bloody mausoleum,” he muttered.

He rubbed a weary hand over his brow and sank deeper into the uncomfortable sofa. The plastic crinkled beneath his ass. Sick of it, he finally slid off to sit on the plushly carpeted floor. Grabbing a pillow, he put it behind his head and leaned back, wondering how long it had been since he’d relaxed.

“Three days. Five hours. Twenty-seven minutes.” Not since he’d returned home to Pleasantville for this long weekend.

Jack didn’t like feeling so caged-in. He needed to be home, in his own Chicago apartment, away from grief and the smell of old dead roses and talcum powder. Away from his mother’s tears and his sister’s complaints.

Actually, when he thought about it, what he really needed to bring about sleep and a good mood was a seriously intense blow job. Followed by some equally intense reciprocal oral sex. And finally good old, blissful, hot, headboard-slamming copulation.

He hadn’t been laid in four months and was feeling the stress. It almost seemed worth it to call his ex and ask her to meet him at his place the next day for some we’re-not-getting-back-together-but-we-sure-had-fun-in-the-sack sex.

Home. Chicago. Late tonight. And not a moment too soon.

Jack supposed there were worse places to visit than his old hometown of Pleasantville, Ohio. Siberia came to mind. Or Afghanistan. The fiery pits of hell. Then again…

“You’re sure you have to leave tonight?” his mother asked as she entered the room. “I thought you were going to stay longer than three days. There’s so much to do.”

“I’m sorry, Mother, you know I can’t.”

Tears came to her eyes. If he hadn’t seen them every hour or so since his birth, they might have actually done what she wanted them to do—make him change his mind.

Sadly enough, his mother simply knew no other way to communicate. Honest conversation hadn’t worked with Jack’s father, so she’d relied on tears and emotional blackmail for as long as Jack could remember. His father had responded with prolonged absences from the house.

Dysfunctional did not begin to describe his parents’ relationship. It—and his sister’s three miserably failed walks down the aisle—had certainly been enough to sour Jack on the entire institution of marriage.

Relationships? Sure. He was all for romance. Dating. Companionship. From shared beer at a ball game, to candlelight dinners or walks along the shores of Lake Michigan on a windy afternoon, he thoroughly enjoyed spending time with women.

Not to mention good, frantic sex with someone who blew his mind but didn’t expect to pick out curtains together the next morning. Someone like his ex, or any number of other females he knew who would happily satisfy any of those requirements with a single phone call. Not calling any of them lately had nothing to do with his certainty that he wasn’t cut out for commitment or happily-ever-after. It had everything to do with his father’s death. Work and his obligation to his family had been all he’d thought about for several months.

“Why can’t you?” his mother prodded.

“I’ve got to wrap up the mall project I’m working on. You know I’ve planned some extended vacation time in July. I’ll come back and help you get things settled then.” Unless I get hit by a train or kidnapped by aliens…one can hope, after all.

Nah. Trains were messy. And after watching the “X-Files” for years, the alien thing didn’t sound so great, either. He really couldn’t get into the whole probing of body orifices gig.

So, a summer in Pleasantville it would be.

Thinking of how he’d originally intended to spend his long summer vacation—on a photographic big-game safari in Kenya—could almost make a grown man cry. Pampered poodles instead of elephants. Square dances instead of native tribal rituals. The chatter of blue-haired ladies sitting under hair-drying hoods instead of the roar of lions and the crackle of a raging bonfire. Small town, pouting blond princesses with teased up hair instead of worldly beauties with dark, mysterious eyes.

He sighed. “I think I’ll take a walk downtown. To walk off that great lunch.” What he really needed was to escape the stifling, decades-old, musty-rose-tinged air in the house.

“Just be careful, J.J.”

Jack cringed at the nickname that his mother refused to give up. No one but his parents had called him J.J.—or John Junior—in twenty years. Still, he supposed he could put up with it if it made her happy. She could probably use some happiness right about now; she’d taken his father’s death very hard.

“And it looks like it’s going to rain. Take your rubbers.”

He almost snorted. If she knew how badly he wanted to use a few rubbers—though, not the kind she imagined—she’d faint.

Kissing her on the forehead, he shrugged away a pang of guilt. He needed a brief break from her sadness to deal with his own. Besides, he wanted to get out of the house before his sister got back. With the three of them together, the absence of the fourth became all the more obvious.

His mother would sob quietly. His sister would wail loudly. And Jack would remain strong and quiet. He grieved for his father, too. But always alone, always in silence.

No, they hadn’t been on very good terms lately. His father had never forgiven Jack for accepting a scholarship and moving to California fifteen years before. Even after grad school, when he’d gotten a job with an architecture firm in Chicago, he’d managed to avoid all but a handful of visits. The most recent, four months before, had been to attend his father’s funeral.

He’d always figured there would be time to mend that fence, to try to make his father understand why he couldn’t stay here, couldn’t continue the family tradition and become king of Nowhereville. He’d never said that, of course, knowing the old man would have been cut to the quick at an insult to his town. He’d reminded Jack at least once a week growing up about his ancestors, who’d lived here since before the Civil War.

His mother’s roots ran even deeper, a fact she enjoyed bringing up whenever his father had started pontificating.

Funny. Walking past his father’s study, eyeing the brandy decanter and the old man’s favorite glass, he realized he’d have gladly listened to his father pontificate if it meant seeing him once more. Amazing how there always seemed to be time for one more conversation right up until time ran out. That realization had helped a lot lately in dealing with his emotional mother.

He considered it a new life’s lesson. Tomorrow might not ever come, so don’t put off what you want to do today. Grab it now or risk losing the chance forever. John Winfield, Junior…Jack to his friends…planned to stick to that mantra.

Starting today.

T HE FIRST THING Kate noticed during her walk downtown was the absence of the pungent odors of the Ohio General Paper Mill. The unpleasant aroma used to hang over the town, which had once seemed appropriate to Kate and Cassie. The mill had closed three years ago, according to her mother. That had caused the town’s bad economic situation. Kate couldn’t even conjure up any satisfaction about it. She felt only a sharp tinge of sadness, particularly when she saw the sorry condition of the town square and the courthouse. Pleasantville might not have been pleasant for the Tremaines, but it had actually once been pretty.

As she walked, she got a couple of curious looks. No one recognized her, not that she’d expected anyone to. She was no longer the pretty-in-a-quiet-way, nice girl she’d once been. That was one good thing about her move away from Pleasantville. She no longer felt the need to always be the good girl. Without Cassie around to be so flamboyantly bad, Kate had become free to speak her mind. She sometimes went out of her way to shock people, even if it was really only a defense mechanism to keep others from trying to get too close, as Armand claimed.

There were one or two people she wouldn’t mind seeing. Some of her mother’s friends had been kind. And Kate’s high school drama teacher, Mr. Otis, had been one of the smartest people she’d ever met. She imagined he was long retired by now.

Feeling hot, Kate went into the deli for a drink. She didn’t know the couple who ran the place, and they were friendlier than she’d expected. She began to relax. Maybe ten years of dislike had created an unrealistic anxiety about her trip back here.

After the deli, she continued her stroll. Heavy gray clouds blocked all but a few watery rays of sunlight and kept the unusual spring heat close to the ground. The soda helped cool her off, but her sleeveless silk blouse still clung to her body, and her ivory linen skirt hung limply in the thick humidity.

A few buildings down, in what used to be a record shop, she noticed a new business. A nail salon, judging by the neon hand in the window, which beckoned customers inside. From an angle, the middle finger on the hand appeared abnormally long, almost as thought it was flipping the bird to everyone on the street. Then she saw the name—Nail Me. “Well, now I’ve got to go in.”

“Pull up a chair, angel face,” she heard. “You want your fingers, your toes or both? I’m runnin’ a special.”

Kate had to grin in response to the welcoming smile of a skinny girl, who looked no more than eighteen, sitting on a stool in the empty shop. “Uh, I don’t actually need a manicure.”

The young woman, who had bright orange hair and at least a half-dozen pierced earrings in one ear, sighed. “You sure?”

Kate nodded and held out her hands, knowing her regular manicurist would throw a fit if she ever went to someone else.

The girl whistled. “Nice.” She then pointed to some chairs in a makeshift waiting area. “Have a seat anyway. You’re a stranger, I can give you directions to anyplace you need to go.”

“I’m familiar with this town. I’ve been here before.”

“And you came back voluntarily?”

Kate chuckled. “You’re not a fan of Pleasantville?”

“It’s all right,” the girl said, shrugging. “Could be a decent place, if it would move out of the 1940s and into the new millennium. Just needs something to shake things up.”

The return of a trashy Tremaine could do the trick…not that Kate would be here long enough to renew any acquaintances.

“I wanted to see how the place has changed. I really should go now, though.” She’d seen enough of downtown. Time to stop putting off the inevitable and to go out to her mom’s house.

Bidding the girl goodbye, she exited, crossing Magnolia Avenue to walk back to her parked SUV. She’d only gone a few yards when someone across the street caught her eye.

A man. Oh, without question, a man. A tiny wolf whistle escaped her lips before Kate could stop it. Mister, you are definitely in the wrong place .

No way did this blond god belong here. He should be in Hollywood among the beautiful people. Not in this Ohio town where some men considered changing from crap-covered work boots into non-crap-covered work boots dressing up for a night out.

She sighed as she realized even her thoughts had regressed. Kate Jones, successful business owner, did not generally think about crap-covered anything.

Unable to help herself, she looked across the street at the man again. He appeared tall. Of course, to Kate, most people appeared tall since she stood five foot four. The stranger’s dark blond hair caught the few remnants of sunlight peeking through the gray clouds. It shone like twenty-four-carat gold. Though she wasn’t close enough to determine the color of his eyes, she certainly noted the strength of his jawline, the curve of his lips. And a body that would moisten the underwear of any female under ninety.

Knock it off, Kate. He’s going to catch you staring.

She couldn’t stop herself. She had to look some more, noting the tightness of his navy shirt against those broad shoulders and thick arms. Not to mention the tailored khaki slacks hugging narrow hips and long legs.

They hadn’t grown them like this when she’d lived here.

From behind her, she heard a man shout, “Hey, Jack!”

The blond man looked over, probably searching for the person who’d shouted. But his stare found Kate first.

She froze as he spotted her. So did he. Though several yards of black paved street separated them, she could see the expression on his face. Interest. Definite interest. A slow smile. A brief nod.

The person who’d called to him was a man, so she figured Mr. Gorgeous—Jack—was smiling and nodding at her . And staring just as she had at him. An appreciative stare. An I’d-really-like-to-meet-you stare. A totally unexpected stare, considering her frame of mind since she’d pulled into this place a half hour ago.

She smiled back, simply unable to help it. Damn, the man had dimples. Someone needed to come along with a big street sweeper and clean her up, because, unless she was mistaken, she was melting into a puddle of mush from one heartbreakingly sexy grin.

“Hi,” he said, though she couldn’t hear him. She could tell by the way his lips moved. Those lips…Lord save her, the man had to kiss like a sensual dream with a mouth like that. And those thick arms to wrap around her. The hard chest to explore.

An old, seldom-heard voice of doubt mentally intruded. He must be talking to someone else. Why would he be talking to me?

Once Kate had reached Chicago, it had taken her a while before she’d begun to accept that men might really want to look at her …even when her stunning blond cousin was in the room. She almost couldn’t get used to it, even now. Sure, she knew she had always been pretty. Sweet Kate. Quiet Kate. Smart, dark-haired, petite Kate with the pale, delicate face and the boring chocolate-brown eyes who’d always been too easily wounded by the meanness of others. Nothing like show-stopping bombshell Cassie, who was every 36–24-36 inch a Tremaine, with a mile of attitude and a ton of confidence.

Yet this Mount Olympus-bound hunk had stopped to flirt with her? He tilted his head to the side and raised one eyebrow. When he pointed to her, then to the sidewalk on which he stood, she knew what he was asking. Your side or mine?

Remembering where they were, she stiffened and shook her head. Forget it. No way are you going to even say hello. Do what you have to do and get outta Dodge, Katherine Jones. You’ve got no time to get all drooly over the local Don Juan .

He stepped closer, toward the curb. By the time his feet hit the street, Kate realized he was coming over, though not to talk to the man who’d hailed him. No, his stare had never left Kate’s face. She forced herself to move, hurrying down the sidewalk.

She peeked over her shoulder only once. A mixture of relief and disappointment flooded through her as she realized the man who’d hailed him had planted himself firmly in the path of the blond hunk. He couldn’t follow her even if he wanted to.

Did he want to? Doesn’t matter . She kept on walking.

A plop of rain landed on Kate’s shoulder. She experienced an instant of déjà vu, remembering walking the streets of Pleasantville on a rainy night when the raindrops had warred with her tears to wash away her makeup.

Seeking shelter, she turned toward the nearest doorway. Somehow, without realizing where her steps had carried her, she found herself standing outside McIntyre’s Tea Room. “Oh, no.”

The Tea Room, owned by Darren McIntyre’s mother, had been the worst spot for any Tremaine ten years ago. The old guard of Pleasantville—the Winfields and the other Lilac Hill set, considered this “their” territory. Kate’s mom and her friends had been more comfortable at the beauty parlor in the basement of Eileen Saginaw’s house, so it wasn’t until Kate had gotten friendly with Darren that she’d ever even been in the Tea Room.

“Still the same,” she mused, looking at the small, discreet sign in the window. Next door, though, Mr. McIntyre’s menswear shop was gone, closed, dark and empty.

Don’t, Kate. Just don’t . Casting one more quick look up the street, she saw the handsome stranger watching her from over the shoulder of his companion. He wouldn’t follow her, would he? Well, he certainly wouldn’t follow her into the Tea Room, a notoriously female establishment.

Knowing she must have some liking for self-torture, she walked up the wood steps to the awning-covered porch and reached for the doorknob. Once inside, she had to pause for a moment as sense memory kicked in and her mind identified the smells of her youth. Yeasty bread. Raspberry jam. Spiced teas. Some old lady perfume…White Shoulders? Lots of hair spray. Dried flowers.

She had to stop in the foyer to take it all in.

This place, at least, was hopping, every table full. She recognized some faces, though they’d aged. Physically, nothing had altered. From the white-linen tablecloths to the lilac-tinted wallpaper, the room looked the same as the last time she’d been in it. All it needed was a glowering, frowning-faced Mrs. McIntyre to flare her nostrils as if she smelled something bad whenever Kate walked in, to make her trip down memory lane complete.

No one paid a bit of attention as she stood watching. They were all, it appeared, engaged in a room-wide debate over some poor soul they kept calling shameless and shocking.

Things hadn’t changed here at all.

Knowing there was absolutely nothing in this place for her, Kate turned to leave. Before she could walk back out the door, however, she heard the only word that could have stopped her.

Tremaine.

2

A S H ARRY B ILLINGSLEY , the town’s ancient barber, engaged him in conversation, Jack watched every step the brunette took. She walked quickly, almost tripping once on an uneven brick, as if she wanted to escape the rain. He knew better. She wasn’t running from the rain. When she peeked over her shoulder at him, he knew she was avoiding him .

Something downright electric had happened a few moments ago when their stares had met across Magnolia Avenue. There’d been an instant connection, a shared intimacy though they were complete strangers. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before.

Obviously she had been just as affected. Only instead of intriguing her, as it had him, their silent, thirty-second exchange had bothered her, scared her even. Her feet had turned cold and she’d run off.

No matter, he’d be able to find her again. The woman stood out here like a bloodred rose in a bouquet of daisies.

A few months ago he might not have let the charged stare across a deserted street affect him. His new attitude toward life, however, made finding the brunette and talking to her a must. No more letting opportunities slide. Now, when Jack Winfield saw a good thing, he was going to go after it. He somehow knew the stranger could be a very good thing indeed.

Jack tried to brush off Harry as politely as he could. “Yes, but I really have to go now. Maybe we can talk in July when I come back for a longer stay.”

Harry continued. “Your father made some mistakes. Stirred up a lot of gossip around here with his will and Edie Jones.”

Gossip. His least favorite word, and it was used as currency in this town. Jack had never listened to it and never would. So his father had left his maid a small bequest. Only in a town like this could that be considered gossip-worthy.

Watching as the dark-haired stranger in the sexy green blouse went into the Tea Room, he cringed. Of all the places she could have picked, why did she have to go into that hen’s nest?

“I’m sorry, I really have to go,” Jack said, finally simply walking away in the middle of Harry’s long-winded monologue. He didn’t care to hear about any old town scandals, especially not if they involved his father, the former mayor.

Following a stranger down a public street wasn’t Jack’s M.O. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever done it. But something about this stranger…this perfectly delightful stranger…made him certain he could follow her anywhere. He simply had to see her, up close. To determine if her face was really as delicate and perfect as it had appeared from across the street. If her eyes were possibly the same dark, rich brown as her long hair.

Shrugging, he walked to the entrance of the Tea Room and stood outside the door. For a second he wondered if old lady McIntyre would come out and shoo him away. She used to shout at all the boys who’d plant themselves on the stoop, hoping a customer with a take-out bag would hand over some free sweets.

Never happened, as far as he recalled. The snob set of Pleasantville was notoriously tight-fisted with their sweets.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, he proceeded to wait. “You’ve got to come out sooner or later.”

It took less time than he expected. Before he even realized what was happening, the door to the Tea Room opened and she barreled out, crashing straight into his arms.

Just as if she belonged there.

“O H , I’ M SO SORRY !” Before Kate could step away from the person she’d crashed into, she quickly reached up to dash away some angry tears blurring her vision.

That these people could make her cry infuriated her. Somehow, though, anger and sharp hurt for her mother had combined to bring moisture to her eyes while she stood in the Tea Room listening to her family being torn apart yet again by a bunch of small-minded, small-town witches. It was either turn and hurry out or throw a big screaming hissy fit telling them all to jump on their broomsticks and fly straight to the devil.

She couldn’t have said which course of action her cousin Cassie would have chosen. But for Kate, who’d become quite adept at maintaining a cool and calm composure, it was think first, react second. Kate didn’t believe in hysterical fits—particularly not when she had tears in her eyes. She did, however, believe in well-thought-out retaliation. Someday .

Finally turning her attention to the person she’d nailed, she sucked in a breath. “You.”

Mr. Gorgeous. Jack. This is so not my day .

“Nice to meet you too,” he said with a sexy grin, as if they were exchanging handshakes instead of being practically wrapped around one another on the steps of the Tea Room.

He made no effort to move away, seeming content that her hand was on his shoulder, her belly pressed to his hip and her leg between both his thighs.

Of course, Kate didn’t move, either. Funny thing the sudden lethargy in her limbs. Particularly considering the sharp heat shooting from the tips of her breasts—which brushed against his shirt—down to her stomach. Lower.

“Did I hurt you?” she whispered.

“Only my ego when you ran away from me a few minutes ago.”

Kate blinked, but remained still, somehow unable, or perhaps unwilling, to break their intimate contact. Her breaths grew deeper as she watched him stare at her. His gaze studied her long, dark hair, her face, her mouth. His eyes glittered and a smile played about his sensual lips, as if he liked what he saw.