His Private Pleasure. Donna Kauffman

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      “Don’t give me any ideas,” he murmured, then watched in amused fascination as she expertly untwined herself from the upholstery, levered herself upright, then pushed her wayward curls from her face, checked her lipstick in the visor mirror and settled in the front seat as casually as if she was merely waiting for her driver to show up. Yeah, definitely more limber than he’d given her credit for.

      He’d never harbored hot-rod sex fantasies before, preferring the roominess of a bed—a big bed—thank you. But images of tangling himself up with her and all that soft leather were definitely appealing to him at the moment.

      “Sure you’re okay?” he asked, thinking he’d be a lot more okay after a cold shower. Or an afternoon drive into the countryside with her in that car.

      “Oh, no problem, Officer,” she said oh-so-innocently, then followed it up with a sly wink that was anything but. “But you might want to get down from there before…” She pointed behind him.

      Oh yeah. “I have to get this damned bird down first.” He’d forgotten all about Mango. His scowl returned as he looked up to where the cockatoo had been moments ago. There was a great flutter and flapping sound behind him. He swiveled just in time to see Mango stretch his huge wings—his huge clipped wings—and swoop ever so gracefully in an umbrella of white-and-salmon-colored feathers to land on—

      “Look out,” he shouted. “Incoming.”

      Ms. Bow-tie Lips turned just in time to see Mango land on the seat back behind her.

      “Mango is a good boy!” the bird announced rather proudly, then attempted to prove his claim by prancing back and forth, bopping his head up and down, then extending one claw and, very sweetly, asking, “Step up?”

      Dylan swore as he climbed to the lowest branch, then dropped to the ground. “Come here, you big pink chicken,” he said as he approached the car.

      But Mango was having nothing to do with him. He lunged and squawked, his crest fluffed out to its fullest extent.

      “You know, I don’t think he likes you,” his rescuer murmured.

      She really did have the sassiest mouth.

      “He does prefer women. Go ahead, put your arm out for him. He’s asking you to, so it’ll be okay.”

      She laughed—a full-bodied sound that had those images flashing in his brain again. “Yeah, right. I’ve already lost three nails. I’d as soon keep the fingers they were attached to.”

      “He won’t—”

      “Why, there’s my precious boy!”

      Dylan broke off and looked up as Tucker and his mother rounded the corner. He had no idea where the Miller twins, Metsy and Betsy—one fraction of Tucker’s personal fan club—had left off, but Dylan was glad for the reduced crowd. His mother rushed toward him. Rush being perhaps a bit too enthusiastic a term. Avis Jackson did everything at her own pace, even before she’d had to take to using a cane after a round of knee surgery.

      “Come to Momma, my baby.”

      Dylan didn’t turn or open his arms for her, knowing she wasn’t referring to her only son.

      Instead he casually leaned against the car and crossed his ankles, concealing the unfortunate state of his pants—both front and back. “Safe and sound,” he said, trying not to grit his teeth as she cooed and fussed over her “sweet baby.”

      “Sweet my ass,” he muttered.

      “I happen to think it’s pretty sweet.”

      He glanced down to find Liza sizing up the posterior he’d rested just beside her. But before he could respond to her whispered aside, his attention was pulled back to his mother and Mango.

      “You really need to stay where I put you, baby,” she was telling the bird.

      “You really need to use that safe lock I got you after his last escape.”

      His mother merely clucked her tongue and scooped the giant bird up so she could cuddle him against her chest. “He doesn’t like being all locked up. Do you, sweetie?” she crooned.

      “Then you have to keep the windows—”

      She turned on him, her frown emphasizing the deep grooves bracketing her mouth. “I’m not getting any younger, and I’ll stifle if I have to sit all cooped up in some air-controlled trap. I like to feel the air move. Mango and the rest of the flock like the breeze, too.” She turned and her face became a wreath of smiles. “Don’t you, sweet boy?”

      Dylan had long ago stopped trying to figure out how a recalcitrant, oversize parrot could weasel its way into his mother’s good graces when he’d spent the last thirty years trying to do the same thing, only to conclude no such path existed. For him, anyway.

      “So, you new in town?”

      Dylan shifted his attention back to the sports car. Tucker was leaning over the driver’s side door, beaming that million watt smile he’d perfected back in his high school quarterback days.

      She didn’t answer directly. Instead she stuck her hand out and said, “And you would be?”

      “Tucker Greywolf, town fire marshal.”

      “Pleasure to meet you.”

      Dylan scowled as he watched Liza give Tucker a thorough visual frisking. His frown deepened when Tucker returned the favor. And she didn’t seem to mind.

      Dylan cleared his throat. “We should get this car moved.” He glanced at Tucker. “It’s in a fire lane.”

      “So it is,” Tucker said, still smiling. “Why don’t you move it right around the corner to that lot there?” He pointed diagonally across the intersection. “Next to LuLu’s. I’ll spring for some lunch. It’s nothing fancy, but—”

      “I’ve already got a lunch date, Marshal, but thank you for—”

      “Call me Tucker.”

      She merely smiled. “Thanks for the invitation, Tucker. Maybe some other time. I’m Liza.”

      Liza. Dylan groaned silently. No. This couldn’t be happening. First the call from his old captain this morning. Then playing George of the Jungle. Now this. What were the odds her name would be Liza, of all things? And he’d thought his day couldn’t get any worse.

      Both Tucker and his mother had fallen silent and turned to look at him.

      “Oh shit,” Mango whispered.

      His mother gasped and tucked Mango’s head to her breast. “Dylan Benjamin Jackson,” she hissed. “Tell me you did not use profanity in front of Mango.”

      For perhaps the first time ever, Dylan was almost grateful to the pink chicken for his timely interruption. “Mom, really, it’s not like he—”

      “You know how fond he is of reciting anything said with drama. If he so much as repeats that one time during bingo, I’ll—”

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