Bad Influence. Kristin Hardy

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      “Tamer, I think. More like vaudeville. My granddad’s neighbor was a big star back in the day.”

      “Who?”

      “Gloria Reed.”

      Delaney tapped her feet lightly on the carpet. “The name’s vaguely familiar. I think I might have read an article on her somewhere, maybe.”

      “Under whore of Babylon, if you listen to my grandfather.” Paige unplugged her BlackBerry from its wall charger and headed toward her desk. “Anyway, she wants to start this museum to commemorate burlesque.”

      “Hey, why not? There’s a banjo-picking hall of fame.”

      Paige stopped. “A banjo-picking hall of fame?”

      “Yup.”

      “The world is a stranger place than we know.” She tossed the electronics into her purse.

      “You said it. A burlesque museum, huh? I’m guessing your grandfather is unthrilled.”

      “Try ballistic. He’s dead set on blocking it. If I’m not around to work on it, he will, and that’s the last thing he needs to focus on right now.”

      “Can’t you just go to the city and complain?”

      “I guess. They need a zoning variance to do it at her estate. If they don’t get it, no museum. I don’t know if they’ve applied or not. The grandson says it’s going to happen.”

      “The whore of Babylon’s grandson?” Delaney perked up. “How old?”

      “I don’t know. Midthirties maybe,” Paige guessed.

      “Is he cute?”

       Cute was the last word Paige would ever apply to Zach Reed. Ballsy, arrogant and, probably to some people, liquid-metal-hot, yes. Cute? “He’s annoying.”

      Delaney studied her. “You know, a bunch of really interesting expressions just went over your face,” she observed. “Spill it, Favreau.”

      “There’s nothing to spill.” Paige moved to her bookshelf and started culling catalogs for lighting and furnishings.

      “I don’t buy it. Come on, what’s going on?”

      “Simple—they want the museum, we don’t. But if Zach Reed thinks he can just push it through, he’s got another think coming.”

      “Really?”

      “Really.” Paige thumped the stack of catalogs on the desk and slapped some files on top. “He thinks he’s God’s gift to women and I’ll just roll over for him. Trust me, I’ve got better things to do than to stand around in parking lots while he acts as if he can just play me like putty.” She shoved the stack into the tote.

      “Whoa. Okay, wait a minute. Start the story from the beginning,” Delaney ordered. “This I’ve gotta hear.”

      Telling the tale made her angry afresh. And it made her remember just how hot it had been. She dug in her desk for her memory stick.

      Delaney watched her speculatively. “So when did this happen?”

      “Yesterday.” Paige slammed the drawer shut.

      “Have you kissed him yet?”

      “Delaney, please.” Exasperation sparked in her voice. “I want nothing to do with the man.”

      Delaney began to laugh. “I’m not sure that’s going to matter, sweet pea.”

      Paige scowled. “This is me, remember? I don’t go looking for bad boys to rock my world.”

      “Talk to me after you’ve been sleeping fifty feet away from him for three weeks. Better yet, call me after you’ve slept two inches away from him.”

      “Never going to happen,” Paige said.

      “Twenty bucks says it will. In fact, I’ll pay you twenty bucks to have sex with him. It’s just what you need. He can be your vacation fling.”

      Paige rose and picked up her laptop and tote bag. “Just what I don’t need. Quite aside from the fact that it would send my grandfather around the bend, I don’t have any desire to sleep with a grown-up juvenile delinquent. I like men with brains, remember?”

      “So date them when you get back home. Come on,” Delaney begged. “This is perfect.”

      “I am so not listening to you,” Paige said, walking to the door.

      “Okay, don’t blame me. I tried.” Delaney rose and followed her. “Where’s your luggage?”

      “Already in the car.” Paige handed her a set of keys. “That’s the spare set. I’ve already cancelled the mail and newspapers and put timers on the lights. You know which plants to water when.”

      “Got it,” Delaney said and looked back at the room with a broad smile. “Okeydoke. Par-tay.”

      “No red wine on the white sofa,” Paige ordered. “And if I find one potato chip crumb between the cushions, you’re toast.”

      “Toast?”

      “Toast, melba.”

      I T WAS EARLY AFTERNOON by the time Paige walked through the door of Lyndon’s house. “Granddad? Where are you?”

      “In here,” he called from the living room.

      “The mailman was out front.” She handed him the stack and set down her laptop. “Do you need anything? How about if I make us some lunch?”

      “I won’t say no to a little feed, but why don’t you sit down and relax first? I’ll keep.”

      “I might not, though.” She put a hand to her stomach. “I’m fading away even as we speak,” she said with a grin and headed toward the kitchen. As she got out the bread and cold cuts, she heard the sound of envelopes ripping open. And then a noise of explosive frustration.

      “I’ll be damned.”

      “What?” Paige stepped swiftly out to the living room to find Lyndon staring at a sheet of paper, his face red.

      “I can’t believe they did this.”

      “What?”

      He stared at the sheet. “It’s from the planning commission. They’re having a meeting on a variance for that damned museum.”

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