Getting Sassy (18 page)

I leaned back against the wall. The rain had eased up and the thunder had moved past us. The beer had left me pleasantly lightheaded and full of possibilities. I wondered if Bull’s party might provide an opportunity, but the combination of heat and beer was making my eyelids heavy, and I couldn’t hold the thought.

“We could do this.” Mick said, and his breath warmed the curl of my ear. I turned toward him, and he placed his hand against my cheek
and then he kissed me. Something stirred inside me that had been hibernating for a very long time. I responded, slipping my hand around his neck.

I’d read about couples who engaged in criminal behavior mainly because they couldn’t wait to get home and tear each other’s clothes off. Apparently I was of that persuasion.

That was how Gwen found us. Locked in a criminal embrace with Mick’s hand slipping under my filmy top to cup my breast. I may have been moaning.

“Thought you two might need an umbrella.” One was at her side, still dripping and another in its nylon case.

I sat up, brushing myself off, adjusting my clothes. Mick brushed his hair off his forehead and gave her an annoyed look.

“You were always the one with the good timing,” Mick said.

Gwen worked her lower jaw, her eyes practically spewing acid.

I wondered why Gwen would care if we got wet, but I quickly figured it out. Of course, she didn’t. And she hadn’t come out here to see me. She and Mick had a history together. Possibly a recent history.

“Yes,” she said, “well I shouldn’t be surprised to find you out here with your tramp du jour.”

Very recent. But now she was getting personal. “Who’s calling who a tramp?”

She turned toward me, and for a second I felt the heat from the searing look she’d been giving Mick. Next to me, Mick cracked up. For some reason.

Sassy bleated. It was a long, drawn out “Whaaaaaa,” and it was definitely aimed at Gwen. Now I started laughing.

Gwen spun around and stalked out, taking both the umbrellas. Along with them, she took my inclination to continue where Mick and I left off. Her appearance had the same effect on my passion that a hot needle has on a balloon. Gone. Just like that. Mick’s attempts to rekindle the mood were wasted. Not that he didn’t try.

Finally, I squirmed out of his embrace and stood, brushing straw off my pants. “Maybe we should just leave.”

He leaned back on one arm, looking up at me. “Don’t let Gwen get to you.”

“Speaking of Gwen, what kind of history do you two have?”

“We don’t.” He plucked a shard of hay from the bale. “She just can’t stand it when a guy doesn’t flirt back at her.”

“She’s awfully possessive for a sore loser.”

“Gwen Severn isn’t used to rejection.”

“Well, Gwen,” I mumbled under my breath, “practice makes perfect.”

Mick flicked the piece of straw to the ground.

“Let’s go,” I said. Since everyone had moved inside, I figured we could make our escape without anyone being the wiser, but apparently Mick was raised to have manners.

“Can’t just leave,” he said, pushing himself up from the hay bales. “I’ve gotta talk to Bull.”

“We could send him a note.” I blew a lock of hair out of my eye. “Tell him what a nice time we had.”

He gave me a look.

I gave Sassy a hug before we left and Blood just huffed at me.

The rain had all but stopped as Mick and I walked from the barn up to the house, my sandals squishing in the gravelly dirt. I breathed in a lungful of the fresh air and said something about the cool front arriving.

“No kidding,” Mick muttered under his breath.

The inside of the house was as opulent as the outside implied. We went in through a covered porch that wrapped around the back of the home, part of which jutted out from the main building, where a number of the guests had congregated to watch the storm. The wait staff had barely lost a beat, continuing to hoist trays of beer and wine.

Some of the guests had left, but the majority carried on in the confines. Some looked a little damp, but most had survived the storm
without any water damage. I couldn’t say the same for the soggy caterers.

We entered a large room that abutted the kitchen. A dark wooden bar ran the length of one long wall. Above it were glass racks and behind it a mirror reflecting the bottles set up against it. Padded stools lined the bar and five or six round tables were strewn across a muted blue and green plaid carpet. There were four beer taps—Guinness and several British ales. Paintings of wildlife and fox hunts hung from the walls. It really did look like a pub, but the image kept colliding with my first impression of the house—as if a twister had snatched a pub off Fleet Street and plopped it down in Morocco.

Bull was holding court from behind the bar, gesturing with his beer toward the kitchen. “It’s only fair,” he was saying. “Gwen gets her room; I get mine.” Dutiful laughter from his subjects followed.

When Bull saw us, he wagged his chin, and Mick nodded at him. “Give me a minute,” he said, giving my arm a pat.

“I’ll be exploring the kitchen.”

When I stepped into the kitchen I saw Gwen standing across the room talking with a couple of women around her age. I nearly did an about face, but the kitchen looked amazing, and I was determined not to let one unpleasant person—even if she owned the place—keep me from checking it out.

Bottles and platters lined the granite island in the center of the kitchen. Dark wood cupboards surrounded sleek appliances. I ran my hand along the stainless steel stovetop. It looked like it had just arrived from the high-end appliance store. If I had a kitchen like this—and I sometimes dreamed about it—I would have copper and steel pots and pans suspended from the ceiling so I wouldn’t have to dig through three others to find the right one. There’d be bottles of olive oil and spice grinders on the counter. And the stove would look like it had been used. My kitchen would not look like an operating room.

The two women with Gwen were oohing and aahing over her necklace. When Gwen saw me standing nearby, she stepped back in
order to include me in the group as she explained, “Bull gave it to me last month. It’s similar to one of the pieces we had stolen last year. But,” she tilted her little head and clucked softly, then continued in a lower voice, “it just doesn’t have the same sentiment behind it. You know?”

The two women nodded as if they did.

“I mean, that one Bull gave me after Tyra was born.”

“You get jewelry for giving birth?” It just slipped out.

“It’s the least I deserve,” she said, and the others joined in the laughter.

I had seen no sign of children in this place. No kids at the barbeque, no photographs, no toys. But according to Gwen, there was a nice piece of jewelry in it for her every time she gave birth. I imagined there could be any number of offspring living in the children’s wing.

As though she were reading my mind, I noticed a flicker of distaste as Gwen’s mouth curled up into a smile and she introduced me. “Girls, you know Mick Hughes. This is his... date. Robyn.” She placed her hand on my arm. “What was your last name?”

“Guthrie,” I said, and then she introduced me to Ashley and Jocelyn.

Then I looked around the sterile kitchen and said to Gwen, “You must enjoy cooking.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the stove and the double oven beside it and said, “When I’m properly inspired.”

That made Ashley laugh but only got a taut smile out of Jocelyn.

I quickly sized up Ashley, who was pretty with a thick shock of auburn hair that, in the minute or so that I’d been standing there, she had tossed at least seven times. Jocelyn was less flashy and had the hazy, heavy-lidded look of someone who was slightly tanked.

“How do you all know each other?” I asked.

“We went to high school together,” Gwen said.

Why wasn’t I surprised?

“Where is Mick?” Ashley asked, craning her long neck to get a better view of the room.

I was about to say he was talking to Bull, but then I didn’t see him with Bull, nor did I see him in the pub.

Before I could answer, Gwen smiled and said, “He’s one you’ve got to keep your eye on.”

“Yes,” I said with a sigh. “I worry so.”

Gwen was frowning as I excused myself. I didn’t see any point in continuing a dialogue with her and her friends. I had already staked out the restroom (three beers), and I found it again without a problem. Afterwards, I wandered around, looking for Mick. I knew he wouldn’t leave without me, but I wondered where he’d disappeared to. There’d been that Rudy guy giving off weird vibes, and I didn’t see him anywhere either.

I walked out onto the porch and stood by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the back of the estate. The cool breeze chilled me a little.

“You’re Mick’s friend.”

I turned to see who the British accent belonged to and was surprised to find Rudy standing behind me.

“Yes,” I said. “Robyn Guthrie.”

He bowed slightly. “A pleasure.”

“And you are.?” I cocked my head.

“Rudy Dresser.”

“Nice to meet you.” On closer inspection, Rudy proved to have a rather nice smile.

“How do you know Mick?” I asked.

“We go way back.” The smile deepened. “Also, he’s my accountant.”

“Mine too.”

I glanced around, looking for Mick. This man’s eyes were disconcerting. Seeing no relief in sight, I said, “Are you a racing fan as well?”

He shrugged, and I saw a trace of amusement in those pale eyes. “Inasmuch as I enjoy beautiful things.” He gave me a nod.

“Yes, thoroughbreds are amazing.” I pushed a strand of damp hair off my forehead and noticed that Rudy’s eyes tracked my hand.

Then he said, “Speaking of beautiful, that’s a lovely ring you’re wearing.”

“Oh.” I glanced down at my hand. “It’s my mother’s.” It was an art deco ring—one of the pieces she had given me when she moved into Dryden. “She doesn’t wear it anymore.”

He placed his fingers under mine, lifting my hand and angling it for a better look. “And it should be worn. Most definitely.”

“Thank you. I like it.”

“It’s charming.” With a dry smile he added, “Could use a bit of cleaning.”

As he released my hand, I took another look at the ring. Clear stones and indigo blue stones combined to resemble a small, bejeweled bow. I’d always loved it but assumed the stones were glass.

“You should get it appraised,” he said.

“Really? I wonder what it’s worth.” The words just fell out of me and must have conveyed the wishful thinking of one who needed a serious influx of cash. Fast.

He laughed. “I doubt it’s enough to retire on, but it’s something you might want to consider insuring.” With a shrug he added, “Perhaps a thousand or two.”

No, that wasn’t enough. Still, it made me wonder where my mother would have gotten such a ring. Not from Wyman. “Thanks, I will have it appraised. Maybe I’ll get it cleaned too.”

“There you are.”

I looked over my shoulder to see Mick approaching. He put his arm around my shoulder—a little awkward given the two inches I had on him—and said, “I see you’ve met Rudy.”

“Yes,” I turned to Mick and saw he was eyeing Rudy. “I’ve just learned the ring I’ve been tossing on the kitchen counter when I make turkey meatballs should be insured.”

That got Mick’s attention. “Nice,” he said as I flashed the ring. Then he took my hand and said, “Why don’t we take you and that ring home?”

Was it just me or was Mick getting a little possessive? I decided to play along. “Can’t wait to see that ferret of yours.”

Mick rolled his eyes and then nodded to Rudy. “Talk to you tomorrow,” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Robyn.”

“Likewise.”

When Mick pulled the Porsche up to my apartment, he turned toward me, his hand resting on the shift knob, and said, “You inviting me up?” He sounded hopeful.

“No,” I answered after a moment. The beers’ effect had abated and sanity had returned. Still, I remembered the taste of his mouth and his touch that was both deft and gentle, and it was with some regret that I stifled those second thoughts. I’d been in my apartment for two years and the only men who had been in it had been there to repair a fixture or to deliver a package. I knew if I invited him up we would have sex—not a bad thing—but then he would want to talk about the Sassy affair, and I would have to tell him that it was the beer talking. And then I’d have to ask myself if everything that followed had also been the talking suds. If I ever invited him into my bed it would be with a head not muddied by booze.