Tease Me. Dawn Atkins
plan. No way was she backing out now. She would solve the rent money problem on her own.
There was a slight slope to the street, so she yanked her steering wheel sharply to the right so the tires bumped the curb. Wouldn’t that be awful? Letting her car slide downhill into traffic or a mesquite tree or a house? Talk about one mistake ruining everything….
She loved the car—a going-away gift from her brothers. High safety ratings and terrific value, they’d told her somberly. If they could have dressed her in combat gear and a flak jacket and trailed her all the way here, they would have. She’d wanted to refuse the gift, but they were so anxious to do something for her that she’d given in.
She smiled, thinking of her brothers’ smothering love, feeling fond of them and a little homesick already, but relieved to be free at last.
She looked out at her new home, gleaming in the bleaching sun. Tina had e-mailed digital snaps, but they hadn’t given the whole fabulous effect. The paint was grayed with age—maybe more of a slate blue than a sky-blue—and the white trim needed touching up. Hell, it had flaked so much it looked like a failed antiquing job. But who cared? It was her place. She already loved it.
The houses on either side looked as bad. Weeds clumped in the patchy grass of both yards, which were filled with weather-beaten kid toys—a swing set on the right, a faded vinyl play pool covered with grass clippings to the left. Both porches were loaded with stuff—bikes, a stack of newspapers, abandoned coffee mugs, beer cans and lots of plants. People spent time there, it seemed.
Not that different from Copper Corners, where everyone gathered on porches in the evenings to gossip and throw back Buds or Country Time. People were people, big city or tiny town.
Take the kids playing basketball in the street behind her. Just like in Copper Corners, she’d had to drive slowly to give them time to get out of her way.
She pushed her bangs off her sweaty forehead and grabbed the sack of goodies from Cactus Confections she would give the leasing agent, Deirdre Davis, for agreeing to meet her on a Saturday. Cactus Confections, Copper Corners’ claim to fame, made jelly, syrup and candy from prickly pear cactus fruit.
Deirdre should be inside, but just in case she hadn’t picked up her voicemail with Heidi’s arrival time, Heidi grabbed her cell phone from the outside pocket of her purse.
The purse was stuffed too tightly under the seat to remove, so she left it, opting instead to free the ficus she’d nestled onto the passenger seat, its top branches bent against the ceiling. She would get the garage open so she could pull in and unload her belongings more efficiently.
She tucked the candy under one arm, braced the heavy pot against a hip and made her way up the sidewalk, her muscles protesting the strain. On the porch, she set down the ficus and examined it. A few top branches had snapped, but the greener twigs had sprung back just fine. She and her tree had survived the drive—a little ragged and bent, but recovering nicely and ready to settle into their new home. Sheesh. She was getting sentimental about a house-plant.
She tugged down the top Celia had embroidered as a going-away present. It showed too much midriff and was too little-girl for Heidi’s taste, with eyelet trim and ivy stitched in a pattern Celia had designed herself. Heidi had had to wear it out of town because Celia had insisted on waving her goodbye as she hit the road. The top symbolized the sweet innocence Heidi wanted to leave in the desert dust, but it had love in every stitch, so she wore it cheerfully.
Ready, she pushed the buzzer and waited for the door to her future to open, a big smile on her face, a bag of candy in her hand.
Nothing happened.
Maybe Deirdre hadn’t arrived yet. She glanced behind her, but no car approached. Two young men stood across the street staring. They tore their gazes away fast, probably embarrassed to be ogling the new neighbor. Something else that didn’t change from village to metropolis.
She gave a little wave, then turned back to buzz again. This time she leaned on it for a long, noisy blast.
She was rewarded by the thud of heavy footsteps heading her way. Whew. She stepped back and smiled, candy sack at the ready.
“Just hold your water,” someone mumbled. Someone male.
The door opened and there stood a big guy who’d obviously been grumpy when he grabbed the knob, but softened when he saw her. Well, well. What have we here? She got a little thrill at the blatant male interest. That was something she wanted—to date a man whose social security number, work history and drinking habits her brothers didn’t know.
This guy’s handsome face was soft with sleep, his longish black hair stood out in all directions, and there were pillow creases on his broad, square cheeks. His coffee-colored eyes were foggy. He looked like a bear dragged early from hibernation. He wore a holey black tank top and gray jersey shorts over muscular thighs, the waistband sagging so low her breath caught.
A tingle of attraction interfered with her alarm. Why was this guy—this hot guy—sleeping in her town house at eleven in the morning?
“Yeah?” he said.
“I’m Heidi Fields. For Deirdre Davis. To get the key?”
“The key?” He scratched himself embarrassingly low.
Heidi averted her gaze. “The key to this place—3210 East Alexander? Right?” She feigned a confidence that was trickling away like water in a cupped hand. “I’m renting it?”
He blinked and ran broad fingers across his bristled jaw. “I live here.”
“You what?”
“This is my place. I’m Jackson McCall.”
McCall. Ah. The owner of the building, she knew. Tina had said he was a nice guy—reduced her rent for letting him keep some tools in the garage and he’d sent someone to evaluate the AC and furnace just for her peace of mind.
“I guess there’s been a mistake.” Heidi held her tone steady, fighting panic. “Tina Thomas holds the lease, but when she left, Deirdre promised I could take over.”
“There’s your mistake. Believing Deirdre. Mine, too, since she walked off with three months of your friend’s rent. I hope you didn’t give her any deposits.”
“Security and cleaning,” she said miserably. “And first and last months’ rent.” She hadn’t signed an agreement. Deirdre had been so nice. So informal. Just like people in Copper Corners.
“Bummer.” The guy seemed to feel sorry for her.
Deirdre had taken her money? And now the town house owner had moved in? Ice water raced along her nerves, making her go cold even in the pounding heat.
“Don’t feel too stupid,” Jackson said. “I’m the one who hired her. She’d had some bad breaks in Vegas and needed money, so I took her word and gave her the job.” He shrugged. “Come in.” He backed up and motioned for her to enter.
What was she going to do now? Absently, she stepped over the threshold into the living room, where she was assailed by the scent of pizza-drenched cardboard, stale beer, dust and man. Jackson McCall had been here a while, evidently.
A visual sweep took in male debris—clothes, shoes, newspapers and fast-food remnants, a tangle of video game controllers, a huge TV and three shiny car engines on TV trays against one wall.
Weird, but not as weird as the rest of the place, where the motif seemed to be breasts and the nearly naked women they belonged to. The walls held a velvet rendering of a Marilyn Monroe Playboy shot and posters of women in bikinis. A standing lamp featured a plaster nude and the cocktail table was a piece of glass balanced on the bright pink nipples of a woman’s chest.
Calm down, Heidi, she told herself. You’ve seen boobs before. But these weren’t mere boobs. These were jugs, hooters, melons, racks. And the man who owned them was living in what was supposed to be her town house.
“Nice to