Here Comes Trouble

Bad choice of words. The blonde’s lips parted as she breathed over them.

He tugged his attention off her mouth. Off her face. Off anything that could make him think things he should not be thinking. Which pretty much left the ground.

Nope. Flat, open surfaces suitable for rolling around on didn’t work either.

“Not going to make it easy on you, is she?”

He lifted his eyes from the soft grass circling the perimeter of the park. “No way. She’s stubborn. Keeps herself tight as a drum—dry—no matter how much I try to lube her.” He almost groaned. This was going from bad to worse. Mentally kicking himself, he gave it another shot. “I can’t loosen her up and get her going.”

God, he was out of control. Blathering suggestive comments without any mental volition whatever. Like his mouth was on flirtation autopilot. It was just…second nature.

The woman kept watching, silently. Something that looked like amusement might have been dancing in those blue eyes of hers, but he couldn’t be certain. Because her expression remained merely curious—friendly—not the least bit sexual or inviting.

“I mean,” he said forcefully, almost dragging appropriately inane words from the un-sexed corner of his brain, “this thing might be too much for me to handle.”

Not great. But acceptable.

He hoped.

“You keep insulting her and she’s definitely going to scratch you,” the blonde murmured as she stepped around him to examine the junction box. She bent over, her jeans pulling tight against the finest hips and backside he’d seen in months, and Max had to send up a prayer for strength.

“You actually think you can get it working?” she asked. She crouched down, shoving a long strand of fine, blond hair back and tucking it behind her ear.

No, he really didn’t. But damned if he wasn’t going to try. “What can I say? I like to tinker and I don’t like having to give up on anything.”

Merry-go-rounds. Sex. Marriages.

“Are you a mechanic?”

In the early days of his business, he’d been a jack-of-all-trades. Mechanic, pilot, reservations clerk. Flight attendant. Anything to keep Taylor Made in the air and in the black. “On occasion. I definitely know my way around a toolbox.”

“I don’t think even Mr. Goodwrench could get this old beauty going again.”

“I don’t think he works on merry-go-rounds. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t make house calls.” Crossing his arms, he leaned against a striped carousel pole, which was a muddy brown and gray color, rather than red and white. “So I guess I’m all you’ve got, baby.”

The woman tilted her head back to look at him from beneath her wispy bangs, as if she thought he’d been talking to her.

He hadn’t. Well, maybe he had, just a bit. He couldn’t help it. Flirting with women had come naturally to Max since childhood, when he’d realized his older brother Morgan was always going to be known as the smart, determined one and his younger brother Mike was a fearless daredevil who also had the whole baby thing working in his favor.

Max had his charm. He’d been using it since third grade, when he sweet-talked his teacher out of calling his parents after he’d been caught on the playground organizing an enthusiastic game of Han Solo Kisses Princess Leia.

He’d been Han Solo. Little girls had been standing in line waiting for their turn to play Princess Leia.

Even at age eight the middle Taylor son had understood the appeal of the bad-boy. Let Luke Skywalker get the glory—the Han Solos of the world were the ones who got the girl.

But not this one.

No. He couldn’t afford those kinds of games right now. Not until he got some good news from his lawyer that his threats to sue Liberty Books had succeeded in halting—or altering—Grace Wellington’s book. Until then, he had to be on his best behavior.

“Well, I guess I’d better get back to work,” he said.

Perfect. His voice had held a combination of down-home friendliness and sincere work ethic while also silently telling her to move along.

Having to play Mr. Squeaky Clean was ridiculous at this point in his life. It seemed impossible that a tiny publisher he’d never even heard of might be so desperate to keep their book project going that they’d go after him personally. Would any legitimate publishing company really try to get some tabloid to do an expose on Max, showing him as the Don Juan he was made out to be in Grace’s book?

Outrageous.

Though he came from a wealthy family—and his grandfather was pretty well known—there was absolutely nothing about Max’s life that would garner the interest of a national magazine. His marriage had been pretty crazy, but not headline worthy. And he’d done some stupid shit following the breakup—but again, nothing to write about in the papers.

Grace, however, was another story. The woman had been the Paris Hilton of her decade before she’d married an up-and-coming congressman. When he’d become a down-and-out congressman and had committed suicide after getting his hand caught in a publicly funded cookie jar, she’d gotten even more attention.

So, yes, it could happen. There were a lot of jaded people out there who got off on reading about the rich and scandalous, so Grace’s book might grab some attention. And if the chapter about him really had gotten most of the rich women of southern California talking, he supposed the publisher might be pretty desperate to keep it.

His lawyer sure seemed to think so. Suspecting the publisher might try something extreme now that Max had threatened to sue, he’d warned Max to keep himself out of trouble. So Max had dug out his dented halo and would be wearing it from here on out—if it killed him.

And it might.

Playing nice and proper was bad enough on a regular day, but with a female like this one—with a body made for silk sheets, sighs and sin—it was proving torturous. He hadn’t expected to come to Trouble and stumble over a woman who made him stupid with lust, but here she was.

Which seemed almost too convenient, didn’t it? He hadn’t met an unattached, attractive woman between the ages of fifteen and forty since he’d shown up in town, and now here was one who’d tempt the Queer Eye guys to go straight. Out in the woods…alone…smelling so damn sweet and looking so damn delicious. What were the odds?

Not very good.

Suddenly, Max began to wonder if his lawyer might have been on to something. Maybe somebody out there was trying to set him up, to put his ass over the flame and see if he cried “Fire!” before being barbecued.

Could this blonde be some kind of reporter? Some tabloid shark using herself as bait?

All of his senses on high alert, he found a well of determination deep inside that enabled him to put on his best “I’m a trustworthy guy” face. That look—and the matching attitude—would stay there, too. At least until he found out exactly who this woman was. And why she was here.

One thing was certain—no matter how much she attracted him, Max Taylor’s business meant a whole lot more to him than any woman. So from this moment on, this one was strictly hands-off.

Which was exactly the silent message he sent her as he smiled, nodded goodbye and murmured, “Well, have a nice day.”

Then he bent down and returned to work on the engine, praying the blond sweetheart would leave before he forgot he was supposed to be a nice guy.

SABRINA HAD NO BUSINESS being out here on the outskirts of town drooling over the hottest male she’d ever seen. But somehow, she couldn’t make herself walk away. Instead, she wandered around the old abandoned amusement park, surreptitiously watching him work.

If there were such a thing as an orgasm in a box, this man would be the spokesman for it. That smile, that husky voice, that knowing look—oh, yeah, $29.95, ladies, flip the lid and start moaning.

She’d buy a case. That was for sure.

His face had sent her heart into overdrive at first sight, and his playful smile had made her stomach roll over about ninety-four times. The body—whew, that big, massive body—had awakened all her most feminine parts and started them zinging. Sparking. Melting.

He had her tense with excitement, hyper-reactive, on alert. Wondering what to say to make him drop his wrench, rise to his feet and get back to paying attention to her rather than the merry-go-round.

Which didn’t make any sense.

He wasn’t her type. Not at all. A muscle-bound hunk wearing dusty jeans that clung to lean hips and solid thighs was not on her list of acceptable men. He certainly wasn’t the nice, Tom Hanks type she’d been telling Nancy about earlier.

No. This brown-haired mechanic with his second-skin black T-shirt that clung to a pair of arms thick enough to burst its sleeves was definitely not for her. His shoulders looked broad enough for a lumberjack—as if he bench-pressed the cars he worked on. His thick, blond-streaked brown hair was windswept, and a little too long for “nice.” It was also much too tempting for finger-curling.

Everything else was wrong, too. His face was too lean, his jaw too square, his eyes—those incredible green eyes—were much too bright and knowing. His mouth was too wide, his smile too confident, his laugh too enticing. His hands…his big, strong, rough hands…Oh, God help her.

No, no, no. He would not do at all.

So why in heaven’s name couldn’t she make herself leave? Even when she should have—given his provocative comments. Then again, he’d looked so innocent, so friendly-but-not-slimy when he’d made them, that she wasn’t entirely sure he’d been coming on to her. Every word he’d said had made perfect sense in the context of the carousel.

And sex.

So which, exactly, had he been talking about?

The carousel. It had to be. This guy was too simple—too openly friendly, blue-collar working man—to play the kind of word games she’d been imagining. He was a small-town mechanic who saw the prettiness in a broken-down old carnival ride and was spending his spare time trying to revive it. Generous, sweet, gorgeous.

Perfect.

Could it be that simple? Could he just be the kind of nice, fabulous man women talked about meeting but never did? A good, honorable guy, despite his rock-hard, sex-on-two-legs appearance?

If only.

He had to have a flaw. Have the IQ of a rabbit or like to scratch his crotch and drink cheap beer while watching monster truck rallies on weekends. Something.

He was married. A chauvinist. A gambler.

She didn’t for a moment suspect gay. No way would any woman think that. The female half of humanity would never stand for it—they’d stage a billion-woman protest march at the very idea.

But there had to be something—some imperfection she wasn’t seeing. Because no way could he look this good and be the man of her dreams.

The man of her nice dreams. Her happily-ever-after dreams.

Not her wild, erotic, do-me-’til-I-can’t-move dreams about smooth-talking, Mr. Suave playboy, Max Taylor.

The idea that one man could be both was simply too far in the realm of science fiction to seriously consider.

Sabrina had to admit one thing. She somehow suspected her Max Taylor dreams were going to be supplanted by big-hot-hard-mechanic dreams, at least for the time being.

So, go! She shouldn’t be out here, wondering about this man, not when she had a job to do. But something wouldn’t let her leave. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe even a hint of cowardice about her real mission in Trouble, since she had about as much in common with a femme fatale as she did with Queen Elizabeth.

Whatever the reason, she suddenly wanted to take a few minutes for herself. Just a little longer to try to get to know this stranger who was apparently obsessed with bringing a sad old ruin back to life.

She’d begin her “mission” soon enough—dressed in the expensive knockoffs and playing the part of a rich, bored woman visiting a quaint American village. Trying to tempt Satan’s sexy henchman into revealing his wicked seducer tendencies.

Hmm.

Tough job. But somebody has to do it.

But until she threw herself into some incognito role, she just wanted to be herself for a while longer. Why not, for a few more moments, enjoy the company of this simple mechanic, who probably had never seen the wife of a congressman—much less gotten her naked in the ladies’ room of a trendy Los Angeles restaurant?

Enough with the book.

She really needed to stop thinking about it, to stop remembering the way her whole body had gone warm and moist when she’d imagined being wildly seduced into a debauched life of sensuality by a predatory Max Taylor, as Grace Wellington had been.

Somehow, this stranger with his big hands and his strong shoulders seemed just the person to help her do that.

“So, is there anything I can do to help you?” she asked, once she’d worked her way all around the park and had run out of sad, broken attractions to look at.

He glanced up, eyes widening, displaying the flecks of gold breaking through the green in his irises. Beautiful eyes.

“No, thanks, I think I have it covered.”

Sabrina squatted next to him, anyway, wondering if the warm summer day felt even warmer down here close to the ground because of the man’s overall hotness. “Your hands are pretty big. I’d probably have better luck reaching behind that panel.”

His gaze dropped to her hands, which, hopefully, prevented him from seeing how avidly she was staring at his.

Big hands—big everything else?

“Know a lot about engines, huh?” he asked, sounding amused.

He might be surprised. Her uncle, back in the tiny Ohio town where she grew up, owned an auto repair shop. She hadn’t been allowed to spend a whole lot of time with her father’s brother—mainly because her mother got so much grief from Grandfather whenever she allowed it—but she knew a thing or two. Not that she was about to get into her background with this stranger.

Especially since she almost certainly would never return to her hometown again. Not unless her little sister was welcome, too…which didn’t seem likely. Not after the way their grandparents—and even their mother—had reacted to Allie’s out-of-wedlock pregnancy. And to Sabrina’s so-called culpability in the affair. After all, she’d been the one who’d brought that vermin-in-sheep’s-clothing into their lives.

She hated Peter Prescott for going after her sister to get even with Sabrina for breaking up with him—and for turning him in to their employer for his dishonest activities. But she positively loathed him for costing both sisters their family. Judgmental and old-fashioned or not, they were the only family Sabrina had. And she truly missed them.

Well…most of them.

“I know enough about engines to know you’re never going to be able to get to that green wire.” She pushed his hand out of the way and slipped her fingers into the crevice, catching a frayed wire between the tips of two fingers. She might not always be able to walk in big-girl shoes, but she knew how to use her hands.

And she’d sure like to use them on him….

“Excellent,” he murmured. “I scraped the rust off the receptor—can you reattach it?”

She did so, pretending she didn’t notice the warmth of his breath against her hair. Nothing, however, could make her forget feeling it.

Once she’d accomplished the task, Sabrina leaned out of the way, allowing the stranger to get back to work. He focused on the motor for a few minutes, until she almost thought he’d forgotten she was there.

Then, under his breath, he asked, “Are you from Trouble?”

“No. You?”

He shook his head. “Just visiting.”

“Hot time in the big city?” She didn’t bother keeping the dry tone out of her voice.

“What can I say?” he said with a small laugh. “I love life in the fast lane.”

“I think a horse and buggy would be too fast for this town, so I don’t imagine you’re going to stumble over any Hooters restaurants or wet T-shirt contests.”

His lips twitched as if he was about to laugh at her quip, but he didn’t. Instead, a slight frown tugged at his brow and his mouth pulled tight with disapproval. “I can’t imagine such a thing. It’s awful to think women would degrade themselves in such a way or that men would enjoy it.”

Surprise made her jaw drop. He was shocked by the idea?

Wow, this had to be one amazing guy if he thought bouncing breasts in wet cotton were utterly shocking when she, Reverend Caleb Tucker’s oldest granddaughter, did not. For a man who looked like this one, even Sabrina might forget that a wet T-shirt wouldn’t look so great over the push-up bra she wore when she needed to pretend she had some cleavage.

“You know, I hear the old movie theater opens once a month,” he offered, his eyes wide and innocent. “Third Saturday…that’s coming up. Better keep your calendar clear.”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

His eyes widened in surprise. “But, well, I don’t even know you, ma’am.”

She almost gnashed her teeth, embarrassed as hell. He wasn’t being insulting and she hadn’t shocked him. He simply sounded a little surprised, as if he wasn’t used to such a forward female.

Ha. Nancy had been telling her for four years—since she’d hired Sabrina right out of college—that she was about as romantically aggressive as a guppy. Why this man—who had obviously in no way been making sexual comments earlier—was making her behave in such a way, she had no idea.

“I was just joking,” she mumbled, wondering if the heat in her cheeks had made her face flame red. And if there was any way he’d interpret such redness as her skin crisping under the bright sun. One could hope.

“So why are you here, anyway?” he asked.

She thought of her cover story, the one she and Nancy had concocted. From all reports, Max Taylor’s eccentric—some said mad—old grandfather had just purchased this entire town. And his grandson was here trying to get the man out of the deal, or else resell the property.

She didn’t like carrying on the charade when Taylor wasn’t around to hear it, but since she needed to maintain the facade for as long as she was here, she stuck to her story. “I’m just looking the place over, for possible investment purposes. This is the town that was advertised in the New York Times, isn’t it, with lots of potential for investors?”

His eyes flared and the man reared back, almost tumbling to his butt on the dusty ground. Then a broad smile brightened his face, setting those green eyes to sparkling and sucking the last coherent thought right out of Sabrina’s head.

“You bet it is, and you won’t regret making the trip. Do you need a tour guide? I’d be glad to show you around.” Rising to his feet again, he reached down to help her up, as well.

She shouldn’t have taken his hand. Shouldn’t have let skin touch skin. At the feel of his rough, warm fingers against her own, she mentally crossed the big giant T in her brain that reminded her she was in big trouble. And it had absolutely nothing to do with the name of the godforsaken little town.

No. She was in trouble because now, when she could least afford it, she’d stumbled over the kind of male distraction she’d almost given up on finding. A distraction who was looking at her like she was his guardian angel and Playboy fantasy woman all rolled into one.

She yanked her hand away, clenching then unclenching her fingers to get them to stop tingling.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re here. Have you seen all the public buildings yet? Been inside that movie theater? There’s a huge amount of potential there.”

Sabrina, still reeling from the way she’d reacted to his simple touch, remained silent.

“What a fortunate coincidence that we met,” he added, his enthusiasm so boyishly charming that she couldn’t help smiling in response.

“Why is that?”

“Because I’m exactly the man you need to see.”

She did need to see him. Naked. And soon. No matter what her brain was telling her about why he was the wrong kind of man, her sexual self wanted nothing more than to watch his clothes come off piece by piece, to reveal that incredible body under the bright, sunny sky.

But he couldn’t know that…she hoped. Which meant he was referring to something else.

“How so?”

“Because I happen to have an ‘in’ with the owner of this place and I can guarantee he’d love to meet you.”

The owner. Max Taylor’s grandfather. The one who lived with the spoiled, sexpot pilot himself.

Though shaking inside, Sabrina maintained a calm expression. It was time to focus on her mission—getting Grace’s book into print as written—and to forget about handsome mechanics with laughing eyes and killer chests. Time to get into character and do what she’d come to this lousy town to do: pretend to be an investor. Pretend to be rich. Get Max Taylor to come after her and prove himself as big a fiery sex maniac as Grace made him out to be.

Without getting herself burned in the process.

Maybe she should just call this Mission: Impossible?

Too bad she’d put on a simple pair of jeans and sneakers for the drive here today—she certainly wasn’t dressed for seduction. But she wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip away, not when she was finally so close to Max Taylor she could almost smell him.

“Okay,” she forced herself to say to the dusty mechanic, who she could no longer afford to lust after, even mentally, “that would be wonderful. Can we go now?”

She held her breath, and almost groaned in frustration when the man shook his head. “He’s not home right now, but if you want to come by tomorrow, I promise I’d be happy to introduce you. You can’t miss the house—it’s right there.”

He pointed through the woods toward a small hill. She could just make out the top floor of a three-story monstrosity looking like something out of a Nathaniel Hawthorne story. A famous millionaire lived there?

Sabrina hid her surprise. “Okay. What time?”

He shrugged, looking at the carousel and at the hammer in his hand. “I have the feeling I’ll be here all day. So come on by whenever you want and I’ll walk you up.”

“Perfect,” she said, meaning it. That would allow her the chance to find the B&B where she’d made a reservation, get settled in and prepare to accomplish her objective.

A good night’s sleep would be helpful before going on a clandestine sex campaign.

Hopefully, by tomorrow, Sabrina would have gotten a grip on her libido and would be able to shove her attraction to this sweet, sexy mechanic aside. And focus only on the wicked, soulless playboy she’d come here to expose.

CHAPTER THREE

IDA MAE MONROE AND Ivy Helmsley—better known as the Feeney sisters—had been fighting over men since they were two willowy slips of girls. It had started way back in forty-three when Ida Mae was fourteen and her sister Ivy only twelve and Ida Mae’s beau, Buddy Hoolihan, threw Ivy’s lunch pail down the well at his daddy’s farm. Ida Mae laughed, though she did feel a bit bad for Ivy, ’specially since their mama had made corn bread for their lunches that day.

But sisters were only sisters and boys were better. So, deciding she’d give Ivy her pretty new yellow hair ribbon later that night, Ida Mae cheered Buddy on during his tormenting.

Then Ivy began to cry like her heart would break. Just like that, Buddy went all gooey-soft. He apologized to Ivy, put his arm around her and looked at a still-laughing Ida Mae like her heart was black as coal. Ivy batted her lashes at him, stuck her tongue out at Ida Mae…and silently declared a war that lasted for more than half a century.

The sisters had battled over Buddy throughout grade school, but moved on to other boys—and men—as the years progressed. Usually bloodlessly. But not always.

Eventually, after their mama had died, they both left town, married fellas from the outside, and each tried to keep her husband away from her man-stealing sister.

They’d realized, however, somewhere around 1980 when they’d both been widowed—Ivy more than once—that life just wasn’t as much fun without a sister around to love to hate. So they moved back to Trouble and promptly resumed their feud.