WHEN MAVIS MERIWEATHER had dropped by his office this afternoon and requested a private audience at his house this evening, Les Hastings couldn’t have been any more surprised.
Women, for the most part, regrettably, didn’t seek his private counsel.
Born with a speech impediment no amount of therapy had corrected, Les had learned at an early age that listening would serve him better than talking, and that he communicated best via the written word, which was why he’d started The Branches, Willow Haven’s daily newspaper.
Resigned to a quiet life filled with old jazz, Alfred Hitchcock movies and a personal library that rivaled some of the best in the state, Les had found that a fine tumbler of scotch and a good book could fulfill the majority of his needs.
Except sex, of course, but that wasn’t something he’d ever had much luck with.
Women liked to be wooed with pretty words, and a man who couldn’t pronounce his r’s and whose attempts at conversation closely resembled a popular Looney Tunes character who was on a perpetual “wabbit” hunt, didn’t “woo” well. While he didn’t necessarily like it, he’d nevertheless accepted his fate. This was the hand he’d been dealt, so this was the one he was forced to play.
While he’d occasionally arranged for an escort service on those rare instances when he’d traveled out of town, a recent experience had cut off that particular avenue of fulfillment. He didn’t pay for sex so much as the soft touch of a women’s hand, the feel of a plump breast beneath his palm. Things lots of other men took for granted, could easily find at a roadside dive or hotel bar. For free. He’d tried those avenues, as well, but never with any luck. The instant he spoke, it was over.
It was terrible, that moment, when he watched interest flee and pity emerge.
That’s why the escort service had been the perfect solution. He arranged everything online, established some ground rules, kept conversation to a minimum and tipped generously. Did he long for an affectionate touch? Prefer to make love than simply exchange bodily fluids?
Yes, but he’d given up on that, as well.
As such, he’d resigned himself to celibacy and even convinced himself that, much like the Benedictine monks of long ago, he’d devote his time and energy to a greater purpose. He’d make knowledge his mistress. He’d take the noble high road.
And then Mavis had casually dropped by and the floor—not to mention the high road—had disappeared from beneath his feet.
Because Mavis was...extraordinary.
A former dancer who’d dated famous baseball players and politicians, Mavis had packed more living into her twenties than most people did in a lifetime. She was one of those women who changed her hair color with her mood, but still managed to look natural. She was tall and curvy, with breasts so luscious they should come with a warning label.
Hell, she should come with a warning label.
Her eyes were startlingly blue, the clearest aquamarine, and her bone structure was delicate and fine, like a piece of Limoges porcelain. She wasn’t just beautiful—she was a showstopper. Combine those qualities with an innate sensuality, a razor-sharp wit, a fiendishly clever mind and a command of the English language that would make Shakespeare weep and she became his perfect woman.
And he’d wanted her—desperately, pathetically—for the past forty years.
Having known her for that long and having moved in the same social circles for the past several years, Les had spent a good deal of time with Mavis. He couldn’t claim to know her better than anyone else, but he’d observed her enough to think that he knew her better than most.
And the glint he’d seen in her eye today had been new and keen. It had held an unmistakable interest he’d almost discounted as wishful thinking. Until she’d leaned across his desk—displaying her lovely cleavage to its best advantage—and pressed a kiss against his cheek.
Mavis Meriweather was flirting with him.
Either hell had frozen over or the Almighty had decided to pay him an unexpected kindness.
Regardless, some sort of divine intervention was at work and, as such, he was torn between euphoria and terror.
The doorbell rang, heralding her arrival. With a bracing breath and one last gulp of alcohol, Les pushed from his chair, made his way to the front entrance and opened the door. He inclined his head and gestured her inside.
“Goodness, Les,” she said, her gaze darting around his entrance hall. Like his library, it, too, was filled with books. They lined the walls, were stacked casually on tables, supported various vases, spines out, to better display their artistic gilt letters. A stained-glass fixture hung from the ceiling and a worn oriental rug blanketed the floor. “This is beautiful. It’s not at all what I was expecting.”
He felt his gaze widen, trying to decide if he should be insulted.
She gasped through a smile, then turned to look at him, her eyes sparkling. He felt that grin all the way to his toes. “Oh, dear, that didn’t come out right, did it? I merely meant that I’m pleasantly surprised. I knew that you were a reader, but this—” She gestured widely, seemingly at a loss for words. “This is incredible.”
If she was impressed with the foyer, then his library was really going to slay her. He nodded his thanks, ushering her deeper inside the house then pushed a glass-paned pocket door open and followed her through.
She stopped short, inhaling delightedly. “Oh, my...”
Having converted the formal living room and dining room into one long room lined with bookshelves and anchored with fireplaces on each end, Les was especially proud of his space. Littered with antique furniture, old maps and atlases, the room was filled with the things he loved. The classics, of course, an extensive collection of poetry, hundreds of biographies and histories from all over the world, not to mention hundreds—possibly thousands—of fiction novels.
He watched her wander over to a shelf, peruse the titles offered there. She slid a finger over the spine of Sir Arthur Conan’s Doyle’s A Study in Scarlet.
She turned to look at him and lifted a brow. She was so pretty it hurt. “A first edition?”
He nodded, smiled as if it were a no-brainer.
She grinned. “Of course it is. You founded the Baker Street Boys, didn’t you?” Her forehead wrinkled. “Odd that this book should be bound in blue linen, isn’t it? Scarlet would have been more appropriate.”
“The UK edition was,” he said, careful to avoid the r’s as usual.
She smiled at him, her lips curling fondly, and inclined her head.
Les made his way to the liquor cabinet and gestured to a bottle. “Wine?”
She winced and shook her head. “Got anything stronger?” she asked hopefully.
For courage? he wondered. He grinned at her and lifted a cut glass decanter. “Scotch?”
“That’ll do it,” she told him. She strolled over to an armchair, the leather creaking as she settled in. Dressed in a breezy linen dress the color of cranberries, she looked like Christmas had come early, tart and delicious.
Mouthwatering.
Les made his way to where she sat and handed her a glass. Her elegant hand curled around the tumbler and she watched him as she took a drink, her eyes peeking at him over the rim. It was sexy, that look, and he hardened instantly, nearly to the point of pain.
“You have to be wondering what I’m doing here,” she said, glancing up at him, almost as if she were curious about it, too.
Les found her gaze and held it, then damned near swayed from shock when a spark of yearning flared in those remarkable blue eyes. “I’ve thought of little else,” he admitted. “What do you need, Mavis?”
Her eyes had dropped to his mouth. Ordinarily, he would have wondered if he’d tripped up and used a word with an r in it, but he knew he hadn’t. He’d always been especially careful around her. Furthermore, she wasn’t looking at his mouth as though he’d made a mistake—she was looking at it as though she wanted to taste it. Her breath came in lengthened shallow breaths and her pupils had dilated. Classic signs of desire and, since she was looking at him, logic demanded that she...desired him.
He locked his knees to keep them from wobbling.
“I need a lover, Les,” she said baldly, in typical Mavis form. “And I’m here because you’re a gentleman. You’re interesting, attractive, intelligent and discreet. This would be a friends-with-benefits sort of thing, strictly physical.” She arched a brow. “What do you say? Are you interested?”
Les studied her a minute. Though he was relatively certain her request was legitimate, years of being cautious, of examining motives, was too ingrained to ignore. Satisfied that hell had definitely frozen over and that she was some sort of benevolent angel come to life, he carefully set his glass aside and just as carefully unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them up. He dropped to his knees in front of her, slid his hands beneath her dress and firmly grasped her thighs, startling a gasp out of her in the process, then gently jerked her forward. The scent of her hot sex drifted to him, the musky scent of woman, and he inhaled deeply as he slid his nose up her thigh.
“God, yes,” he breathed.
* * *
MORE NERVOUS THAN SHE could recall being in recent memory, Shelby forced herself to sit quietly and wait for Eli. Dinner at the Hollands’ had gone well and, on the whole—other than Colin, who seemed more surly than usual—the atmosphere in general was more relaxed. Shelby couldn’t help but notice that Carl and Sally seemed especially pleased that she and Eli were on seemingly warmer terms. She’d caught a shared look between the two she wasn’t entirely certain she’d been meant to see. It had been significant, almost calculating, and more than a little self-satisfied.
In other words, odd.
She’d saved him a seat, as promised, and the tension humming between them proved to be a constant distraction. She was acutely aware of every move he made, the innocent brush of his shoulder against hers, the way his long fingers wrapped around his glass, the muscles moving beneath his skin as he did something as innocent—as mundane—as lifting his fork to his mouth.
And his mouth...
It was a little full for a man, but wide and carnal and so sinfully wicked it made her squirm in her seat every time she’d looked at it. And when he smiled...it was sexual magic. Nothing short of panty-melting.
A knock sounded at her front door, startling her out of lust-fogged stupor. Dixie did her dog impression by quickly lumbering up and trotting to the door, pressing her snout against it and sniffing loudly.
Shelby rolled her eyes and nudged her out of the way. “Chill,” she said. “It’s not the pizza delivery guy.”
“I could have brought a pizza,” Eli said, his lips curled into a sheepish grin. Hands shoved into his pockets, he wore a pair of faded jeans and an ochre T-shirt that brought out of the highlights in his golden eyes, accentuated the deeper tones in his tawny hair. Tension tightened his shoulders, haunted the fine lines around his eyes, suggesting that he wasn’t as relaxed as he seemed, either. He bent down and scratched between Dixie’s ears, earning instant piggy love and devotion.
“Careful,” Shelby warned. “That’s one of her erogenous zones.”
Eli looked up. “Really?”
Shelby chuckled and shook her head. “That was too easy.”
“How was I supposed to know?” he asked, settling on one end of her couch. He cast a look around the room, taking in her decor, noting the exits. “I’m not familiar with the pig-pet model.”
“She’s been spayed,” Shelby explained, handing him a glass of wine. “Otherwise, she’d pee all over the house, spreading her scent. Not to mention the PMS,” she added with a significant grimace. “From everything I’ve read, it can get really bad.”
“Pig PMS?” He shot her a skeptical look. “You’re yanking my chain again, aren’t you?”
“Not at all.”
He took a sip from his glass, let the wine settle over his tongue before swallowing appreciatively. “You learn something new every day,” he said, his gaze landing on the pictures on her mantel. There were several. Some of her parents, her grandparents, Dixie, but the snapshot he lingered on was of her and Micah and him.
It had been taken at the lake, after a day spent waterskiing. Micah stood between them, an arm slung around both their shoulders. She and Eli had just shared a joke Micah had missed and he’d wandered up while they’d been laughing. Sally chose that exact moment to insist on a picture, so Micah had moved in between them and they’d all grinned. She and Eli were still smiling over the joke and Micah was smiling because he’d been happy that day. He’d been happy most of the time, which had made his suicide all the more painful. He must have gone to a really dark place and lost the light, Shelby thought now.
Eli gestured to the picture, his face somber. “It’s still hard to believe, isn’t it? That he’s gone. That he went the way he did.”
She swallowed, nodded. “It is. I would have never dreamed that he’d...” She couldn’t say it, couldn’t finish. “He was always so happy, and even when he was angry, he was still good-natured.” She hesitated. “He didn’t elaborate, in the letter,” she said. “He just said he’d been unable to stop something and that the damage was unbearable, that he couldn’t ‘un-see’ it.” She glanced at him, bit her lip. “Do you know what happened?”
His jaw tightened and he gave her a curt nod. “Are you going to make me tell you?”
“No,” she said. She wouldn’t make him relive something so terrible that it drove their friend to suicide. “But if you ever need to tell me, I’ll listen.”
He turned to face her, his expression stark, pained. “You’ll regret it,” he said. “But...thanks.”
It wasn’t until that moment that Shelby realized the sheer magnitude of the burden Micah had put on Eli. In addition to finding him, he’d had to lie to protect him, to protect his family—repeatedly, she imagined, because even she knew “his gun misfired” was often code for suicide—and carry the weight of whatever it was that put Micah there. And now he was here, building the memorial, doing the next right thing, and Katrina Nolan was trying to take that away from him.
Her fingers tightened around her glass as another bolt of anger rocketed through her.
It quickly fizzled out, though, when she realized she was doing the same damned thing—giving him a problem to fix.
“Listen, Eli,” she said, turning to look at him. “If you can sort out Katrina, I’ll take care of the letter writer.” She wearily rubbed a line from between her brows. “Micah gave you plenty to do without me adding to it and I—”
His eyes flashed and he straightened. “You’re not adding to anything,” he said, his voice suddenly hot. His expression blackened and he pointed to the mantel. “All of this—every damned bit of it—is on him, you understand? You didn’t do this. He did.”
She could feel his anger, his frustration. It rolled off of him in waves, pounding into her with its intensity. “I understand that, but you don’t have to—”
He bolted up from the couch, walked to the mantel and shook his head. “Yes, I do. I do have to do it. For him, yes, because he’d absolutely flip a bitch if he knew someone was blaming you for this. He’d expect me to take care of it, because that’s what friends do.” He turned to look at her, his face a mask of anguish. “You know what his last words to me were? ‘You’re a good friend, Eli.’” A bark of awful laughter erupted from his throat. “A good friend? Yeah, right. I’m the good friend who didn’t get him the help he needed. I’m the good friend who couldn’t keep him from putting a gun in his mouth. I’m the good friend who’s been lusting after his fiancée for years. Even now—even now—it’s all I can do to keep my hands off of you. He’s dead and it doesn’t make a difference. God help me, I still want you. Good friend?” he repeated incredulously, eyes wide. “Really?” He shook his head, passed a hand over his face. “What bullshit. But I’m trying to be now, and you know what? I resent it. I’d like nothing more than to thrash the hell out of him for this, to read him the fucking riot act.”
Chest constricted so tight she could barely breathe, Shelby didn’t know where to start. It wasn’t just Eli being Eli—he was looking for absolution.
For all the wrong reasons. And it explained so much.
“I’d better go,” he said, heading for the door. “I’ll look at the letters tomorrow night.”
Shelby hurriedly stood. “Eli, wait.”
“Shelby, please,” he implored without looking at her. He rested his forehead against the door, closed his eyes. “I need to do this. Let me do this.”
Finally, she nodded and he left.
But this conversation was far from over.