She's No Angel. Leslie Kelly

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      “Out.”

      She shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere.”

      The shrug, and reasonable tone, seemed to get Ida Mae’s attention more than anything Jen had said. She appeared a bit nonplussed that her niece hadn’t launched to her feet and started arguing back—as Ivy probably would have done. Ida Mae could handle anger. But she wasn’t so good at holding up against calm, rational conversation.

      Maybe that was one reason she never battled with her brother. Jen’s father was the absolute epitome of a laid-back, kindly man. Which had made his massive heart attack at fifty-nine that much more frightening.

      As if knowing she’d lost the skirmish—though, she’d never concede the battle—Ida Mae glared. “Fine. Stay then. Just be gone tomorrow.”

      Without another word, she bent down, grabbed Jen’s salad and stalked out of the room.

      THE LAST TIME MIKE HAD VISITED his grandfather in Trouble had been during the winter, at Christmastime, to be exact. So it hadn’t quite hit him just how hot this part of Pennsylvania could be in August. Particularly in a monstrous old house with no central air-conditioning. Even his hair was sweating.

      He hadn’t noticed it as much when he’d first arrived the previous evening, since Roderick had served up a great dinner on the back patio. With newly installed ceiling fans spinning lazily overhead, an icy cold beer in his hand and his grandfather’s fine company, he hadn’t even felt the temperature.

      Until he’d gone to bed.

      Then he’d turned into Mr. Heat Miser from that old Christmas show.

      His grandfather had said he’d looked into installing a system when doing renovations on the old monstrosity over the last year. But supposedly the lines of the oddly constructed building—which, in Mike’s opinion, looked like a bunch of kid’s card houses on top of one another—would be affected by installing central air. So Mortimer hadn’t done it. He’d merely brought in a few window units, though none for the third floor.

      Hence the sweating. Even Mutt had known better than to sleep up here. He’d come in with Mike the night before, then turned right back around and gone downstairs where it was cooler. Man’s best friend. Huh.

      Mike had to concede it: the steaminess of his first night in the house might also be attributed to the dream he’d had. He couldn’t remember all the details. But he definitely remembered it had involved Jennifer Feeney, a bottle of massage oil and a pair of his handcuffs.

      It had also caused him to wake up as hard as a tree trunk.

      “Get out of my head, lady,” he muttered as he got up, knowing there was no point trying to sleep any longer. When his feet hit the floor, he groaned. Even the scratched old wooden floors of the attic room were hot, and it was only 9:00 a.m.

      His brother Max, who’d spent a few weeks here last summer, had sworn this third-floor room got the best cross breezes from the two turret windows. Supposedly, its greatest benefit was that it was out of earshot of Mortimer’s snoring, which had been known to knock pictures off walls.

      Mike was apparently a lighter sleeper than his brother. He’d heard his grandfather sawing away from one story below until at least 3:00 a.m. And if a breeze had come through the front window last night, it had tiptoed around him sprawled naked on the bed and gone right out the other side. Now that some rainy weather had rolled in, the humidity was thick enough to drink from a cup and his whole body felt sticky.

      He didn’t know how Max had managed to stay here last summer. Then he thought about his new sister-in-law. And he knew how.

      His brother had fallen hard and fast for Sabrina, and more power to him. Maybe with one grandson settled, Mortimer would get some great-grandchildren who’d distract him from this mess of a town he’d purchased a little over a year ago.

      The man was never as happy as when he had someone to scheme and fuss over, and a new baby would definitely fit the bill. The way Grandpa talked about Hank, his secretary Allie’s kid, he sounded as if he’d already bought stock in Pampers. He adored the boy who was, to be technical, a relative, since he was Sabrina’s nephew. Mike couldn’t even imagine what Mortimer would do with his own great-grandchild…beyond loving him more than life.

      Just as he had his grandsons, who’d never forgotten what he’d done for them when their parents had died. He hadn’t shuffled them off to private schools or dumped them on paid servants. Hadn’t treated them as if they were a nuisance. Hadn’t allowed them to wallow in their own unhappiness. No. Instead, he’d become a true parent all over again, in every sense of the word.

      Mike had only been a kid when his dad had been blown out of the sky during the first Gulf War. But he remembered full well how terrified he’d been of losing anyone else he cared about. So the death of his mother from cancer less than a year later had brought his entire world to a crashing halt.

      Mortimer had made it start spinning again. Eventually. And as it had spun, he’d dragged his three grandsons across it, giving them the kinds of lives most kids only dreamed of having.

      “Michael?” A tap on the door gave him about ten seconds’ notice before it was pushed in by his grandfather. Which was just enough time for Mike to grab his shorts and yank them on.

      It wouldn’t have been the first time his grandfather had walked in and seen him sporting some morning wood. But that hadn’t happened since he was fourteen. The memory of the sex talk Mortimer had insisted they have afterward still gave him chills.

      He would do anything for his grandfather. But he didn’t want to think about the man’s wild sex life, which had, he said, served him well through a few marriages and many love affairs.

      “Good, you’re up. I was hoping you could do me a favor and go down to the market for a newspaper.”

      He certainly didn’t mind, but was curious about the request. “I can’t believe you don’t have the Times, the Journal and the Post delivered to your doorstep every morning anymore.”

      “The town doesn’t carry ’em. Besides, the only paper carrier around here dropped dead of a heart attack when Mrs. Sneed’s pit bull came through her screen door at him.”

      The comment rolled out of Grandfather’s mouth as if he’d been living in this Podunk town all his life. Obviously Mortimer was playing a new role: small-town old-timer. He even had a completely phony twang in his voice.

      “Okay,” Mike said. “I’ll run down there right after I shower.”

      Grandfather frowned. “I could really use that paper.”

      A newspaper emergency? One reason leaped to mind. “Stock issues? Do you want me to check the market on the Internet?”

      Mortimer shrugged. “Roddy does that computer thing for me every day. No, there’s, er, some town business I need to find out about and it should be in today’s paper. So, a bit of a hurry-up would be most appreciated.”

      The old man was nervous. His smile was too wide, his eyes too bright and he was bouncing on his arthritic legs. Whatever this town business was, it appeared to be important. If Mike didn’t go for the paper, he felt sure his grandfather would. And Mortimer Potts and automobiles didn’t go so well together anymore, as several СКАЧАТЬ