Kitabı oku: «She Drives Me Crazy»

The reviews are rolling in for Leslie Kelly…

“Sexy, funny and little outrageous, Leslie Kelly is a must read!”

—New York Times bestselling author Carly Phillips

“Leslie Kelly is a rising star of romance.”

—New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“Ms. Kelly never fails to deliver a captivating story.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Leslie Kelly writes with a matchless combination of sexiness and sassiness that makes every story a keeper.”

—Romance Junkies

“Leslie Kelly is a master of amusing contemporary romance!”

—Word Weaving

“You can always count on Leslie Kelly to keep readers laughing and entertained with dazzling characters and passionate romance.”

—The Romance Reader’s Connection

“Leslie Kelly has the magnificent ability to create marvelous storylines with truly memorable characters.”

—Writers Unlimited

“Leslie Kelly writes hot, steamy stories with lots of humor and tons of romance thrown in.”

—Romance and Friends

On Killing Time…

“Delightful and entertaining from the first page to the last. I highly recommend Leslie Kelly’s Killing Time.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Sassy, flirty and oh so sexy, Killing Time makes for great summer reading.”

—Round Table Reviews

“A fun, sexy and unique story.”

—A Romance Review

“Kelly tells a high-energy story and delivers a satisfying read.”

—All About Romance

“Intrigue, passion, excitement and more are a given with Killing Time.”

—In the Library Reviews

“Leslie Kelly has written another amazing story.”

—Romance Junkies

“Leslie Kelly’s latest…is a deliciously madcap adventure filled with the sexy and the zany!”

—Romantic Times

“When you pick up Killing Time, and I strongly recommend that you do, make sure you have plenty of time to read because you will not want to put it down!”

—Fallen Angel Reviews

She Drives Me Crazy
Leslie Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

With sincere thanks to my agent, Ethan Ellenberg. Ethan, without your encouragement and support, this would never have been possible.

And to Bruce. You make it all worthwhile.

Thanks for making me truly believe in what I write.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

“JOHNNY, YOU GOTTA SEE THIS. There’s a giant set of hooties hangin’ over exit 23.”

County prosecutor Johnny Walker, named for his father’s favorite brand of fire in a bottle, barely looked up as he continued to pump gas into the tank of his SUV. It was too early in the morning to try to decipher Lester’s sexobabble.

Coming from anyone else, the pronouncement might have raised Johnny’s curiosity. But this was Lester, owner of one of the only two gas stations in Joyful, Georgia. Lester might not remember his nickname from high school, but Johnny—and most of the female population—still mentally referred to him as Lester the Lecher.

“Here you go, Les.” Johnny tugged a twenty out of his pocket and extended it toward the other man.

Lester paid no attention. He continued to stare skyward. A tinge of curiosity finally made Johnny turn around. Following Lester’s stare, he beheld what had so captivated the man.

The letch was right. A big giant set of hooties…er, woman’s breasts…was clearly visible on a billboard by the highway exit. “I’ll be damned,” Johnny muttered, not believing his eyes. He couldn’t help adding, “Nice rack.”

Now, wouldn’t that give the residents of this nasty town something to gossip about when they woke up this morning? Yessir, the townsfolk of this warm, syrupy burg—as falsely sweet as a sugarcoated lemon drop—would glance out the window while munching their corn flakes and behold a pair of snow-capped mountains standing over the interstate. Because from here, the white tassels barely covering the five-foot-in-diameter nipples did indeed resemble snow.

Lester continued to pay silent, drooling homage to the fleshy hills glistening in the morning sun. Finally, he whispered, “Whaddaya suppose it’s for?”

Johnny shrugged. “Haven’t you heard? Sex sells. It could be advertising anything from toothpaste to Viagra.”

“Nah, it wouldn’t work,” Les said with a snicker. “One look at that and a man’d realize he don’t need Viagra.”

Personally, Johnny hadn’t needed to be titillated by pinups, magazine centerfolds or Victoria’s Secret catalogues in oh, about forever. Nope, it had been the real thing or nothing since he was fourteen and a girl named Cherry Hilliard had lived up to every one of those “on top of Cherry Hill” jokes he’d heard whispered about her in the locker room.

Darn shame Cherry had found religion and married Reverend Smith. Cherry Smith just didn’t have quite the same ring to it.

“One way to find out.” Lester reached for the passenger side door handle of Johnny’s SUV. “Let’s go check ’er out.”

“I can’t. I’ve got to drive down to Bradenton for a meeting. Besides, you have another customer,” Johnny said as he watched Fred Willis, a local deputy who Johnny had gone to high school with, turn his squad car into the station.

Fred had apparently noticed the breasts, too. He was paying no attention to his driving, and almost clipped Johnny’s back fender as he pulled up a few inches from the pump. His ancient, dingy tan squad car gave a rusty belch as it shook, rattled and rolled to a stop. “You see that?” he yelled from the window.

“You bet…let’s go!” Lester dashed around to Fred’s passenger door and hopped in. The two drove off, not sparing Johnny a second glance.

That wasn’t too surprising, since Johnny couldn’t fairly call himself one of Fred Willis’s favorite people. Particularly because Johnny got such satisfaction in setting free the poor bumbling criminals Fred and his boss, Sheriff Brady, managed to round up in this relatively crime-free area.

Give him a real crime or criminal, and he might give a damn about doing his job. But, hell, here in Joyful? The jail cell doors might just as well stand open for all the effort Johnny took to keep their occasional occupants inside them. Course, that was probably more effort than Sheriff Brady made to ensure the innocent folks who had the misfortune of being from the wrong side of town were kept out.

In Joyful, the justice system was equally balanced. If you were rich and arrogant and committed a crime, the police took care of you. If you were poor and trashy…Johnny Walker did.

Still holding the twenty, Johnny walked into Lester’s grimy office and left it on the counter near the register. He gingerly picked up a half-squashed plastic water bottle and set it on top of the bill, so it wouldn’t blow away in the warm summer breeze already wafting through the open door.

Looking around, he grimaced in distaste. Hopefully no one else would come to the station and enter the office looking for Lester. The magazine photos plastered across the back of the door would probably make Virginia Davenport, president of the Daughters of the Confederacy, drop dead of sheer outrage.

And with his luck, the sheriff would call it murder and want Johnny to prosecute.

“Hooties over Joyful,” he mused aloud as he again glanced at the billboard and got into his car. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day.”

As he drove out of town, Johnny was struck by the strong feeling that something interesting was about to happen.

He couldn’t wait to find out what it was.

CHAPTER ONE

“EMMA JEAN FRASIER’S coming back to Joyful.”

Cora Dillon wondered if the years of sleeping beside her husband Bob, who sawed logs louder than any lumberjack, had finally taken their toll. Her hearing, without doubt, had just failed her. She stared at fancy-pants Jimbo Boyd, whose round face was filled with self-importance. She didn’t know why, considering what a rotter he’d been as a boy. And leopards didn’t change their spots. Not in Joyful, Georgia, anyway.

“Emmajean Frasier,” Cora said, drawing out the name.

Jimbo nodded, then reached into his desk. He pulled out a bunch of keys stuck on a ring shaped like the hood ornament on the namby-pamby car he was so proud of. “I need you to get the house aired and cleaned today. And I want it done right.”

Cora straightened and narrowed her eyes. Imagine, snot-nosed, dirty-pants Jimbo Boyd telling her how to clean a house! Hadn’t she worked as a cleaning woman for him and half the town for the past ten years? Something was definitely wrong with him. Maybe the glue he used on his shoeshine-black toupee, which looked about as real as the one worn by that Captain Kirk on the TV, had seeped through his skin and affected his brain.

“Emmajean Frasier’s coming back to Joyful. Now there’s a trick I’d like to see,” Cora replied with stoic calm, “considering she’s been dead more’n a year.”

“Dead?” Jimbo began to sputter. “No, no, Cora. I don’t mean Emmajean…I mean Emma Jean…the granddaughter.”

“Granddaughter?”

Jimbo shook his head and huffed. “Yes. Her mama’s folks have money and raised the girl overseas. She spent a year here, though, her last year of high school. ’Bout ten years ago.”

Cora thought on it. “Possible, if it was exactly ten years ago. That’s the year my youngest girl lost her husband and me’n Bob went out to be with her. Always told her the rotten sum-a-gun she married was a brainless fool.”

Jimbo pasted a look of false sympathy on his face, managing to look more concerned than annoyed, though Cora knew better. “I hadn’t realized your girl had been widowed.”

Cora snorted. “Widowed? He didn’t die. I just toldja he got lost. Got drunk in the woods and wandered around for days rantin’ about giant beavers. Ended up in the nuthouse in Terre Haute. We stayed a while to take care of Cora Jr. and the kids.”

Jimbo made a rude sound and Cora’s fingers itched to give his ears a good boxing. She didn’t, though. Jimbo Boyd did own the only real estate office in Joyful, and sent a lot of work her way. Not to mention he was the blasted mayor.

“She’ll be here late today, so I need this done now.”

She scowled. “I didn’t see a granddaughter at the funeral.”

“She wasn’t there. She was sick or busy or something.”

That made Cora pause. Too busy to come to her grandma’s funeral? Disgraceful. She harrumphed as she took the keys from Jimbo. Then she paused, remembering a wicked old scandal. “Wait, the Frasier girl…is she the one…”

Jimbo nodded, his own eyes glowing with speculation.

Cora smirked, no longer surprised Emmajean’s grandchild hadn’t had the nerve to show up in Joyful again. Not given the way she’d left it. “I suppose I can have the house cleaned to Miss High-and-Mighty’s satisfaction.”

THOUGH IT GALLED HER, Cora spent the morning getting Emmajean Frasier’s two-story Victorian-style house sparkling. She was determined no spoiled long-lost grandchild would come to Joyful and turn up her nose at the life her grandma had lived.

Cora talked to herself while she worked. She talked to Emmajean, too, though they hadn’t been very friendly in life, what with Emmajean holding the title of “Champion Pie Maker” five years running, and Cora feeling more entitled to it.

Though Cora didn’t really believe in haunts, she figured she’d best be sure Emmajean didn’t take offense to Cora being in her house. Particularly when she started looking through her recipe box.

“Drat,” she muttered, realizing the other woman must have hidden her best recipes, or memorized then burned them.

Cora had tried that once, when she was having chest pains and thought she was dying. When the doctor’d said it was just gas, and she realized she’d forgotten to memorize her red slaw recipe before she’d burned it, Cora had fumed. She’d tried for days to re-create it until Bob swore the next time she put a helping of red slaw in front of him, she’d be wearing it atop her head.

Wanting to take one more peek around for Emmajean’s recipes, Cora opened a drawer in the old-style rolltop desk in Emmajean’s bedroom. Funny, everything in there was all jumbled up, not neat like the rest of the house. Like someone had looked through it.

Cora shrugged off the thought and began to dig through the drawer, which was full of memories. Photos. Letters. Pictures of a little girl, probably the scandalous brat who hadn’t bothered coming to her grandma’s funeral. There were postcards, newspaper clippings and flyers with Emma Jean Frasier’s name on them. And, near the very bottom, a glossy color brochure.

Cora Dillon sucked in a shocked breath and stared at the brochure in her hand. “Dirty pictures,” she muttered.

Emmajean Frasier’s granddaughter had peddled nasty pictures of naked people, and statues of even more naked people, at some New York gallery that pretended the pornography was art.

“Well, wait until the town of Joyful learns Emmajean Frasier’s granddaughter went off to sell dirty pictures.” Considering the scandal, the details of which she’d finally remembered, they’d likely not be too surprised.

She wasted no time in spreading the word, and the game of “whisper down the lane” was well underway by lunchtime.

By 1:00 p.m., the women at Sylvie Stottlemyer’s bridge club were tittering over it. They gleefully repeated the scandal of May 1995 involving Emmajean Frasier’s granddaughter as they trumped and made their rubbers.

By two, the guys working on the line at the machine parts factory north of town were speculating on precisely what kind of pictures had been involved. Whether they were X-rated or triple-X. And whether they might still be available on the Internet.

By three, the two different rumors about Emma Jean and the billboard had caught up with one another and been mixed together in the great seething cauldron of gossip. Now things began to make sense…because the club advertised on the billboard was being built on old Emmajean’s land.

By four, the term “gone off to sell dirty pictures” had been replaced by the term “gone off to make dirty pictures.”

And by 5:00 p.m., the whole town of Joyful knew with titillated certainty that the person building the new club was Emma Jean Frasier—aka the porn star.

EMMA JEAN FRASIER hit Joyful late Friday afternoon, not sure whether to be glad her long trip had ended, or sorry she couldn’t just keep on driving.

Florida sounded good. West Palm. The Keys.

“Not happening,” she muttered. Joyful had been her destination, and Joyful was where she’d arrived.

At least no one pointed. Nobody ducked their heads together to whisper. She felt pretty sure she didn’t see any tar being boiled, feathers being plucked or big scarlet letters being cut out for prominent display on her chest. Not that they did that kind of thing anymore.

She hoped.

Glancing at herself in the rearview mirror, she smothered a groan. Sixteen solid hours of driving with the top down under the blazing sun, or the humid, cloud-filled night sky, played absolute hell on a three hundred dollar color job. Even if the color job had been done by Floyds on Fifth in New York.

“No more three hundred dollar color jobs for you, babe,” she told her sun-pinkened reflection. No more lunches at trendy New York restaurants. No expensive cooking classes she could try, but inevitably fail due to her notorious inability in the kitchen. No more trips upstate in the autumn, or wine-tasting clubs or sponsoring shows for promising young artists. No parties in her pretty Manhattan apartment, either.

Gone. Done. Finito. Over and out, with a single hour-long meeting with her attorney.

“Flat broke,” she whispered, unable to hear her own voice.

The summer air rushing over the windshield stung her eyes, bringing a harsh tear to them. It’s only the wind, she told herself. She certainly wasn’t crying over stolen money. Nor over lost jobs, SEC investigations or worthless stock.

Emma had received the invitation to return to Joyful two weeks ago, on the very day she’d found out. An interesting twist, being invited to come to Joyful for her high school reunion the same day she’d learned her only remaining asset was her grandmother’s house in that same town.

She didn’t know if she’d have ever returned if she’d had any other choice. Not for the silly teenage reasons that had driven her away—and kept her away for several years—but simply because there was no one to come home to anymore.

Grandma Emmajean was gone. Just the house remained, not the home.

Her grandmother’s death was a blow from which Emma was still recovering. She’d been unable to face the memories in the warm, sunny-yellow house the old woman had left to her. Her parents had handled all the legal paperwork surrounding Emmajean’s will, and had arranged for her property to be managed by a Realtor in town. Emma had tried not to think about it since.

“Better think about it now,” she mused as she saw more and more that looked familiar to her.

Her foot lifted slightly off the gas pedal as she spotted the old lumber mill on the outskirts of town. Just west of here, near the highway leading down to Atlanta, would be the old pecan orchard her grandmother had owned, the orchard that was now Emma’s. Her heart clenched. She wasn’t quite up to visiting the orchard yet.

She’d soon come to the Chat-n-Chew. The combination gas station and restaurant—where Emma and her high school friends used to try to buy beer—sat right on the main road. She decided to stop, needing to fuel up and grab a cold drink. She also needed to deal with the memories hitting her from every direction, some eliciting a gentle smile but most bringing a hint of sadness for their association with Emmajean.

The blaze of sunlight sent a shimmer of heat reflecting above the blacktop road, and Emma’s eyes grew a little hazy. The tears lurking behind her lids began to spill onto her cheeks.

She was home. In Joyful. But the one person who epitomized the meaning of the word “home” wasn’t here to welcome her.

She blinked rapidly. Fatigue from being behind the wheel for so long was making her overly emotional. Shrugging her shoulders, she ran a quick hand through the tangled mass of short curls surrounding her face and took a deep breath. The air was warm and thick, redolent with the smells she’d always acquaint with the South—earth, pine and a faint wisp of fruit from some nearby orchard. Her tears dried almost immediately.

Before reaching the Chat-n-Chew, Emma suddenly remembered the little park, down a gravel road that cut back to the local grange building. Almost holding her breath, she slowed as she drove by, peeking down the road, unable to see much, other than a tangle of woods and the roof of the grange rising above it.

But she knew what was hidden behind those woods. The park. The gazebo. Emma’s breath came faster as a different memory overcame her, and a new face intruded on the images of the past.

“Johnny,” she said, his name tasting unfamiliar on her tongue.

She hadn’t thought of him in ages. Well, at least not in weeks. His wide, heartbreaking grin and the spark of devilment in his eyes had never been too far from her thoughts, even though the rest of Joyful had been.

Johnny Walker had been her savior and her downfall, all in the very same night. He’d given Emma her first lesson in raw, hot passion. A lesson she’d never forgotten—and had never come close to repeating.

Then he’d given her a lesson in betrayal.

“The bastard.”

Could he still be here?

No. He’d hated this town. He’d wanted nothing more than to shake its dust off his boots and get out even then. Johnny would be long gone from Joyful. No question about it.

And Emma Jean Frasier wouldn’t have it any other way.

“THE PORN STAR’S pulling up outside!”

Johnny paused, his fingers resting lightly on the can of spaghetti sauce he’d picked up off the grocery store shelf. Porn star? Now, there was something you didn’t hear mentioned often in Joyful, Georgia. Livestock auctions, yes. Dances at the VFW hall, storm warnings, gossip about whose husband was spotted with a female impersonator down in Atlanta…yes.

But porn stars in Joyful? Nossir, he didn’t think he’d heard that one before. Though, given the controversy of a proposed new twenty-four-hour strip club on the outskirts of town, he couldn’t claim too much shock.

Wouldn’t that give the biddies something to chew on? As if they all weren’t already in the middle of a frenzy over the billboard advertising Joyful Interludes, the new club, which had shown up this morning. Now they were likely planning pickets, boycotts, religious protests. Soon they’d be talking legal action. Then they’d be knocking on his door.

Add a porn star to the mix and Joyful might just erupt of sheer titillation.

“Didja hear me?” the voice continued. “Joe Crocker down at the Chat-n-Chew says the porn star who’s opening up that new strip club is heading into town, right here to this very store!”

The words hung in the sunny, late-afternoon air of the Joyful Grocery Store. Johnny thought even the dust motes stopped swirling at the announcement made by the teen who’d burst in off the street, his face red, eyes wide with excitement. The kids buying penny—now dime—candy, dropped their loot and froze. The cashiers at the two front checkout lanes, who’d been exchanging man-tales and smacking bubblegum as they rang up the purchases of the handful of customers in the store, also paused.

Then, as if they were all puppets on the same string, they turned and gawked out the huge front window of the store. Eighty-year-old Tom Terry, who used to own the town’s only barbershop, hitched his pants up and tucked his shirttail in.

The expectant silence, as charged as the air in the bingo parlor before each ball was drawn, was suddenly interrupted by a demanding voice. As demanding as only the voice of a three-or or four-year-old little girl could be. “I spilled my juice, Mama!”

Johnny cast a quick glance at the child, whose lower lip was stuck out in a belligerent pout. She tugged on her mother’s dress. The mother—Claire Deveaux, former newspaper reporter turned chubby housewife—ignored the kid. Claire was just as focused on the front door as everyone else in the place.

“Mama…”

“Not now, Eve,” Claire whispered with a shushing motion. “Somebody important’s coming, baby.”

Somebody important. Miss Fanny Tail? Miss Venus Triple-D’Milo? He almost snickered. Why in God’s name would a porn star be opening up a club here in Nowhereville, Georgia? And why was he the only one who seemed surprised by this news?

Johnny shook his head. Apparently he’d once again been completely oblivious to some juicy bit of fodder on the town from Joyful’s infamous grapevine. That’s the way he preferred it. Growing up in a family that was usually the target of such gossip had left a sour taste in his mouth, and he generally shut down his ears when people were whispering nearby.

This time he’d apparently missed some very serious gossip, which had probably started thirty seconds after the billboard had gone up this morning. He almost wished he’d detoured past it to read it for himself.

Porn stars and strip clubs. Joyful was becoming downright wicked.

Not that he believed Joe Crocker knew a porn star from an opera singer—the man thought any female blessed with an abundance of northern curves liked to be leered at and drooled over. So did ninety percent of the rest of Joyful’s male population. Almost made him feel sorry for the mystery woman. She could be anybody from a college professor to a congresswoman. And sure as hell, some man here in this very store would likely ask her to autograph his butt with a red felt-tip marker as soon as she arrived.

He grinned, picturing her response if she was simply a wayward traveler or a harried housewife doing some shopping. It was almost worth sticking around to see if anybody got slapped in the face. Or kicked in the…

“I had me a porn star once,” Tom Terry muttered to no one in particular.

Johnny couldn’t resist glancing at the old-timer, who stared into the air wearing a look of reminiscence.

“Kep’ her in a box under my bed. ’Bout broke my heart when Buddy, my best hunting dog, found her and bit right into her. Great big holes, right in her leg.”

Johnny could only shake his head. It wouldn’t do any good to try to change the subject. Old Tom was as predictable about his dirty stories as he was about spitting on the sidewalk whenever his archenemy Joe-Bob Melton was approaching.

“Tried to use some packing tape t’fix her up,” the old man continued, not even looking around to see if anyone was listening to his tale of woe. “But it didn’t work. Dern near took m’head clean off when she popped and started flyin’ around the room.” And then, as if he hadn’t painted a good enough picture, he added, “Just imagine one’a them Thanksgiving parade balloons hittin’ a light pole and flyin’ all over the city folk, flashin’ her glory-be-ta-Jesus parts in front a’ the kiddies waitin’ fer Sandy Claus. That’s what she looked like all right.”

Johnny closed his eyes and thought about work, his car. Anything except the image Mr. Terry had put into his head.

“She scared poor Buddy right outta the house and under the porch,” old Tom continued, apparently not noticing that everyone within earshot had edged away. “Whizzed ’round the livin’ room like a balloon pricked with a pin.” He gave a wheezy, dirty-old-man snicker. “Pricked.” Then he puffed his scrawny chest out. “Now, I’m not pin-sized, mindya.”

“Mr. Terry, please,” a nearby woman hissed as she tried, unsuccessfully, to cover the ears of her wide-eyed little boy.

Yeah. This was how rumors got started in Joyful. Pretty soon, the story of Tom’s relations with a plastic sex doll would turn into one of the greatest love stories in the state of Georgia. Tom Terry and Plastic Polly would rank right up there with Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter. Or Newt Gingrich and himself.

As much as he disliked admitting it, Joyful’s gossips might not always have the whole story, but there was often at least a kernel of truth in the rumors, way down there amidst the dirt. So, it wasn’t entirely impossible that he was about to see some buxom goddess of stag films and late-night cable movies.

“Which porn star?”

No one answered Johnny’s question. Now that Tom had shut up, they’d resumed their wait. They stared, slack-jawed, wide-eyed, as a sporty red convertible whipped too fast around old Tom’s pickup and zipped into a spot directly out front.

“Mama, my top,” the little girl voice of sugarcoated iron wailed. This time, the pitch was high enough to irritate the ears. All except the child’s mother’s ears—Claire didn’t even seem to hear. She was too busy watching the action unfolding on the movie screen created by the flat surface of the front windows.

Even Johnny watched, interested in spite of himself, more by the reaction of the townspeople in the store than anything else. At least, until he spotted the blonde at the wheel.

Then he heard a low wolf whistle. It took a moment before he realized it had come out of his own mouth.

He couldn’t see her features yet, just the bright blond mass of curls, short, framing her face which was shadowed by an outrageous pair of tortoiseshell, cat’s-eye sunglasses. While he—well, everyone—watched, she reached to the passenger side of her car, bending out of sight. She came back up with a filmy, pink scarf, which she wound tight. Running one hand through her hair, she tied the scarf around her curls like a headband.

The anticipation rose in the store as the blonde leaned close to her rearview mirror to apply some lipstick. Johnny could tell even from here that it was pink—to match the scarf. Her car was parked so close that he could see her purse her lips to check her makeup.

The rush of heat descending from his brain to his gut astounded him. Johnny knew plenty of attractive women—there were a dozen he could call right now if he was in need of female companionship that merely seeing a woman put on lipstick did such interesting things to his lower half. This one, though…well, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Somewhere in the near distance he heard, “Gotta clean my top, Mama. It’s my fave-o-rite!” He recognized the increasingly desperate sounding Deveaux kid. But he couldn’t truly focus on anything except the stranger.

She wore a flouncy-looking white blouse that hung just at the edge of her shoulders. Noting the expanse of bare skin on her neck and chest, he swallowed another wolf whistle. She had to be a northerner. Women from around here wouldn’t dream of exposing so much pale flesh to the hot afternoon sun, particularly while riding around in a convertible.

Plus, of course, not one woman in Joyful had that outrageous platinum-blond hairdo or those cat’s-eye sunglasses.

When she stepped out of the car, he nearly echoed old Tom’s groan of appreciation. “She’s got some legs,” the old man said.

A favorite old ZZ Top song started playing in his mind. Because he’d bet the blonde knew how to use them.

She paused beside the car, and somehow managed to avoid tipping over in the strappy high-heeled sandals that barely covered her feet. A sudden flash of gold told him she was wearing a flirty ankle bracelet. Johnny took a deep breath. He’d had a thing for ankle bracelets ever since he’d first seen one on his brother’s teenage girlfriend, years ago.

The woman’s legs went from the ground clear up to heaven, and were shown off not only by the heels but also by the short, flimsy pink miniskirt she wore. It wisped around her thighs. With a strong gust of wind, it might well have flown even higher.

“Wind’s died down. Too bad,” old Tom muttered with a wheezy, heartfelt sigh, audible from several feet away. Johnny, who’d been thinking much the same thing, couldn’t say a word.

When she turned and bent over the closed door, reaching through the open convertible roof for her purse, Johnny held his breath, along with everyone else in the place. She apparently wasn’t a complete exhibitionist, though. She kept the flat of her hand against the skirt, just below the curve of her backside, to keep from showing the world whether or not her favorite color extended to her underclothes.

Having retrieved her bag, she turned and walked toward the sidewalk. Johnny noticed her wobbling a bit on her heels and wondered if she was going to trip on the curb. No one else appeared to notice the moment of unsteadiness. But he knew he was right when he saw her cast a quick guilty look side to side, as if to see if anyone had observed her narrowly avoided fall. For some reason a smile crossed his lips at that one tiny chink in her filmy pink armor.

“Don’t stand here gawkin,” one of the cashiers said as the blonde reached the store entrance.

With a flurry of motion, a dozen pair of hands found something meaningless to do. Shaken out of his daze by the moment of uncertainty displayed by the bombshell…er, porn star…or whatever she was, Johnny walked toward the checkout counter, still carrying his spaghetti sauce. He swallowed a laugh as he watched Tom nervously grab for something, and then blanch when he realized he held a box of tampons. The man dropped the box to the floor, kicking it under the nearest shelf where it would probably remain until next Christmas when the aisles were rearranged for the holiday goods. Some lucky lady would find a dusty box of feminine products in the half-off basket come New Year’s.

He’d just stepped past Claire, who didn’t even notice him to nod hello, when he heard the young mother shriek. “Oh, no, Evie, what did you do? I have to wash it in the washing machine!” The woman swooped the child up and carried her toward the back of the store, beelining for the bathroom.

Johnny didn’t even have time to wonder what had happened before the stranger from the convertible entered the Joyful Grocery Store. She almost barreled right into him.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice startled him. He’d expected breathy, sultry or honey-sweet tones. Hers sounded controlled, clipped, evenly modulated, with maybe even a hint of a British accent.

“No harm no foul,” Johnny replied with a shrug.

For some reason, the woman sucked in a sudden gasp of air and jerked away from him. Though she still hadn’t removed her ridiculous glasses, Johnny peered at her, trying to see why she seemed so startled. He couldn’t see her eyes, but did notice that the nose on which her glasses rested was lightly dusted with freckles. Aside from the bright pink lipstick, her face was bare of makeup, and a few more freckles dotted the high cheekbones. Not exactly how he’d picture a porn star. Then again, he’d never met one up close. So maybe freckles weren’t so unusual, even if they were damn near adorable.

“You…you…” she said.

Johnny had to wonder about that. A freckled porn star who stuttered?

She wobbled again on her heels, and Johnny instinctively reached out to steady her. He grabbed for her arm but connected with her shoulder instead. The loose cottony fabric of her blouse slid beneath his hand until his palm touched her bare skin. She was soft, pale against his dark fingers.

This time he was the one who pulled back, or, rather, he thought he did. His brain reacted, sent the message, but he had to wonder if his hand had become disconnected somehow, because his fingers were still there. On her. Sliding across the soft flesh of her nape to brush across her collarbone.

Hearing a bark of laughter, Johnny realized every set of eyes in the store was fixed on them. His hand finally remembered who was boss and obeyed his brain’s command to let her go. He took a step back, seeing the faint pink outline his touch had left on her skin, then let his gaze travel down the rest of her.

The first thing he noticed was that she was not built like a brick…well, she wasn’t stacked. He hadn’t seen many porn flicks in his life—never needed to, if truth be told—but one thing he remembered: the females starring in them appeared to be a plastic surgeon’s best friend. Not this one.

While average height, her ridiculously high heels put her at just a few inches shorter than he was. Not hippy. She was nicely curved—had some particularly fine northern curves—but was certainly nowhere near as well-endowed as he’d expect from an X-rated movie queen. So she definitely wasn’t the downright bovine creature pictured on the billboard.

But the legs. Oh, boy, the legs and that thin little strip of gold dangling above her left ankle nearly had him gasping for breath. This woman could probably have any man she wanted at her high-heel clad feet.

“Have a foot fetish?”

A rueful grin spread across his lips as he raised his eyes to meet hers, which were still hidden behind the glasses. Her enigmatic, close-lipped smile told him he’d been caught staring.

“Something like that.” When she made no move to remove her sunglasses, he leaned closer. “What about you? Doing the Jack Nicholson thing?”

She looked confused.

“Traveling incognito?” he asked, gesturing toward her sunglasses.

She shrugged. “Is it working? Am I blending right in?”

He choked out a laugh. “Yeah. Like an ant in a sugar bowl.”

“Are you saying I’m sweet, or are you comparing me to an insect?”

“Oh, I’m certain you’re sweet, darlin’. I doubt this town has seen so much cotton-candy sweetness in one package in a very long time.” He waited for her response, wondering why he enjoyed baiting a complete stranger.

“Do you like cotton candy?”

“Love it,” he replied, narrowing his eyes and shooting her a dangerous look he hadn’t used on too many women recently. “Melts on the tongue and tastes so good.”

She swallowed. Once. Then leveled her gaze on him from behind the dark lenses. “Liar.”

“Am I?”

“Cotton candy makes you throw up and you know it.”

Her voice held a note of certainty and Johnny suddenly realized she wasn’t flirting. She was speaking fact. This time, when his eyes narrowed, it wasn’t flirtatiously, but in concentration. “How do you know that?”

“Same way I know about your appreciation for nice legs.”

He didn’t say a word.

“Not to mention your thing for ankle bracelets.”

This time it was Johnny who nearly gasped. Who the hell is she? He felt like he should know. There was something familiar, something that was nagging at him about her voice. He couldn’t really know her, could he?

“Lucky guesses,” he said, testing her.

She shook her head. “Nope.”

She lifted her hand and raised one index finger, straight up, then crooked it at him, beckoning him closer. Johnny couldn’t resist. Sliding one foot forward, he leaned as near to her as he could get without actually touching her. He nearly felt everyone else in the store shifting forward, too, but ignored them.

“How do you know?” he asked when he was close enough that the tip of his shoes came within a hairsbreadth of her bare toes. Her deep, even breaths reached his cheek.

She leaned up, almost on tiptoes, and Johnny bent closer. Her perfume, light and flowery, wafted from her warm, creamy skin. It called out to him, something in his brain recognizing the scent and making his whole body grow tense and aware, before his brain could analyze why.

His lips were mere inches from her temple, and he focused hard, trying to figure out the strange feeling of anticipation gripping him.

Then she whispered, “Because you told me. Right before you stole my favorite gold butterfly ankle bracelet right off my ankle.”

And suddenly he knew. Even before she stepped back and pushed her silly sunglasses onto the top of her head with the tip of her index finger, revealing her golden-brown eyes, he knew.

“Emma Jean.”

CHAPTER TWO

THE WORLD certainly kept spinning, and the clock probably kept ticking and the sun likely kept shining and the town of Joyful definitely kept whispering. But right here, right now, for Johnny Walker, time stopped. A decade disappeared. Ten years fell away. And he looked into a set of eyes he’d never thought to see again, though he’d seen them in his brain nearly every day since.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Hello to you, too, Johnny,” she said with a tight smile.

He didn’t return the greeting. “So,” he murmured, knowing she’d be able to hear the edge in his voice. “Emma Jean Frasier has done what she swore she’d never do—return to the pits of hell disguised as the hills of Georgia.”

“And what do I find, but the devil waiting here to greet me,” she said, her expression not nearly as jaunty as her tone.

He tsked. “Still sassy.”

She cast a disparaging glance at the spaghetti sauce can in his hand. “And you’re still a big spender. Don’t tell me—you have a hot date tonight? My, you always did entertain with style.”

He instantly remembered their one date. As her eyes shifted away from him, he knew she was kicking herself for bringing up such a loaded subject.

“Guess I should hurry right out to that field over by the Nelson place to pick a bouquet of wildflowers.”

Her quickly indrawn breath told him his jab had hit home. And suddenly, seeing a flash of hurt in her eyes, he regretted the comment. Coming back to Joyful couldn’t have been easy for Emma Jean. Not with the way she’d left. Correction…the way she’d run away.

The thought helped him thrust off the moment of remorse.

“I have to go,” she insisted, trying to push past him. The brush of her arm against his sent a jolt of hot awareness rushing through him again. As they froze, face-to-face, breath to breath, he mentally tripped again into the world of Emma Jean Frasier’s sweet, caramel-eyed stare. Without warning, his senses went on overload, filled with a sudden, quick stream of memories.

Hot summer days when it almost hurt to draw the thick air into his lungs—particularly as he watched her walk down the road in her tight shorts and tighter tops. The way the sunshine caught the sparkle of gold in her long, honey-colored hair every time she walked by.

And that one incredible night. The cicadas taking up a nighttime chorus as they sat and talked for hours. The moisture of her tears against his neck as he’d held her in his lap while she’d cried over his no-good idiot of a brother. Then the return of her good mood, the way he’d teased her into giving him one of those joyous, dimpled smiles that had stopped his teenage heart.

He almost heard the soft strains of Garth Brooks from his truck radio as they danced in the moonlight. Almost smelled the scent of her hair—lemons and tangerines, sweet and tangy, just like Emma Jean had always been. Almost tasted the sugary, slick taste of her strawberry lip gloss.

His brain tripped one step farther, into truly dangerous territory. Right here and now, in the brightly lit store surrounded by people, he heard the echo of the forbidden, sultry whoosh her satiny dress had made as it fell to the ground. And the way she’d whispered his name over and over again when he’d been buried deep inside her body, certain he’d died and landed straight in the arms of an angel.

“Johnny?”

He flinched as she spoke, losing his grip on the can of sauce in the process. They both looked toward the floor at the sound of the loud clunk. Watching the spaghetti sauce roll away, Emma stepped to the side to avoid getting her toes crunched. Johnny took the moment to get a major grip on himself.

By the time Emma looked up again, he felt much more in control. He’d thrust the mirage of memories back to the depths of his subconscious where they belonged, along with all those other stupid, dangerous teenage memories—like hot-wiring cars, putting firecrackers in mailboxes and making out with girls underneath the bleachers after cutting class. Kid stuff. Just like his feelings for Emma Jean Frasier.

If he told himself that often enough, he might actually start to believe it was true.

“Seeya, Emma Jean,” he managed to mutter, pretty damn sure he sounded almost normal. Almost sane. Almost not crazy with wanting to reach out and either pull her into his arms and kiss the hell out of her, or shake her for leaving. And for coming back. At this moment, he couldn’t say which angered him more.

She nodded and stepped away, gingerly avoiding the sauce he’d dropped. Unfortunately, however, stepping over one can didn’t help Emma save her own. Because two seconds after she moved, she slipped on something, causing her feet to fly out from under her.

Then she hit the floor, falling on her butt like a big old sack of rocks.

IF SOMEONE had told her that within her first several minutes in Joyful she’d be lying flat on the floor, with her legs askew and Johnny Walker crouched between them, Emma would have laughed in that person’s face. Particularly if also told that half the slack-jawed, gaping town would be looking on.

What’d they call this? Déjà vu all over again? Because this was, pretty much, the same position she’d been in on her last night in this town, ten years ago.

Fate, she decided, was a mean-spirited bitch with a really long memory and a twisted sense of humor.

“Em, are you all right?” Johnny asked from where he’d hunkered down between her ankles to see if she was okay.

“No, I’m not all right,” she managed to bite out.

She’d slipped in some unseen puddle on the floor, paying such close attention to avoiding the can—and the man who’d dropped it—that she hadn’t even seen the other danger. Now her ankle and foot felt like they’d been twisted into a pretzel shape. For that matter, so did her stomach.

Not to mention her heart.

She scrunched her eyes shut, waiting for the initial rush of pain to subside. Maybe then she could deal with the fact that the first familiar person she’d seen in Joyful was the one she’d hoped to avoid altogether. And that he looked so damned good.

Johnny as a teenager had been heartthrob material. Pure wicked, honey-tongued, hunk-a-licious male. The baddest of the bad boys. The motorcycle-riding, cigarette-smoking, heartbreaking guy who’d been featured in every teen movie ever made and in every good girl’s most secret fantasies.

Time hadn’t been kind enough to tug frown lines on his lean, handsome face, put circles beneath his stunning blue eyes or gray streaks in his thick, walnut-brown hair. Gravity hadn’t sucked down that flat, muscle-striped chest and stomach. He definitely didn’t have the poochy belly and man boobs she’d occasionally—when in a vengeful mood—wished on him. He wasn’t saggy, pasty and pale. Devil take the man.

No, Johnny Walker was nothing like she’d sometimes hoped he’d be. Of course, the other times, she’d been vacillating between wanting him maimed, dead or imprisoned.

Liar. What she’d really wanted was him pining.

But, huh-uh, just her luck, he looked better than he had ten years ago. Bigger. Harder. Fully masculine in his adult body, with little remaining of the whipcord-lean youth she’d known. Definitely he had not wasted away having spent the past decade mourning the loss of the best thing he’d ever had. Her.

Nope, he was all hunky, smiling, flirty man. The jeans and leather jacket might be gone, as were the chains and silver stud earring he used to wear. But the “Yeah, I really can deliver what my eyes are promising” look was all, one hundred percent Johnny.

“Let me help you,” he insisted. “Hell, Emma Jean, I didn’t imagine you’d drop away in shock at the sight of me.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Because I have to admit, seeing you was a definite surprise, but I don’t think I’d go swooning over it.”

His surprise certainly couldn’t match hers. She’d been so sure Johnny would be long gone. Instead, here he was, crouched between her calves, trying to ease her foot out of her sandal, as if they’d seen each other in the flesh every day for the past decade…instead of only in each other’s nightmares.

“I didn’t swoon,” she muttered. “I slipped in something.”

He just shrugged, continuing to try to unbuckle her shoe.

Emma took a moment to remember the look on his face when he’d first recognized her. She had to admit it—that expression had almost made the subsequent pain of twisting her ankle worthwhile. Surprise didn’t cut it. He’d been shocked. Stunned. And for one quick, nearly unseen instant, he’d been very, very glad.

Emma didn’t care so much about the shock. The glad, however, had almost been worth the sixteen-hour car ride which had ended with her falling on her fanny with her legs askew and the hottest guy she’d ever known in her life crouched between them. In front of the gawking shoppers in the Joyful Grocery Store, no less.

Who were all still gawking.

She sighed. Quite an entrance after ten years away. She supposed it was a vain hope to think no one here would remember her being caught in pretty much this same position on prom night.

Oh, well, at least she wasn’t stark naked this time.

As she ruthlessly shoved the hint of pleasure that Johnny was glad to see her out of her brain, she acknowledged the other parts of her body that were also sparking in reaction. My, oh my, those hard, lean hips of his were between her legs and she was looking at his thick, dark head of hair, remembering tangling her fingers in it. Suddenly she was feeling damp—down low—and it had nothing to do with whatever spilled liquid she’d fallen in.

Closing her eyes, Emma took a deep breath, trying to work up the courage to deal with her current predicament. Hmm…she was flat on her butt in public, lusting for a guy she should hate, wishing her panties weren’t so tight and her skirt wasn’t so short and her sex life hadn’t been so miserable lately that her own body would betray her in spite of the pain in her ankle. And in her heart.

Today was going onto her top ten list of bad days.

“I’m sorry, Emma Jean, your foot’s already swelling.”

Sorry for causing her to slip on some unseen wet spot? Or for breaking her heart? Not that she’d give him the satisfaction of voicing that question. No, Johnny Walker had no idea he’d broken her heart…because he’d never known it was his to break.

“Nobody calls me Emma Jean anymore,” she said, wincing as he gingerly touched her heel with the tip of his finger.

He visibly stiffened and met her stare, his deep blue eyes still incredibly dramatic against the dark brown hair. “Do you go by another name? A screen name?”

Not sure why on earth he’d care about her Internet name, she frowned and leaned over to gingerly unbuckle her sandal. “I mean, I go by just Emma now.”

“As in just Cher? Or Madonna?” he asked, his voice thick with something she couldn’t identify. She put it down to embarrassment—he couldn’t be feeling any better about the situation in which they’d suddenly found themselves than she did, particularly with the wide-eyed onlookers all around them.

“No,” she explained her patience growing thinner as her embarrassment increased. “As in just Emma Frasier. No Jean. Now, if we’ve straightened out my name to your satisfaction, would you mind leaving me alone so I can stagger to the nearest emergency room for X-rays and a cast?”

He muttered under his breath and she’d swear she caught the word “sassy” again. “I’ll take you over to the clinic,” he finally said when he saw her staring at him.

“Forget it,” she muttered. “I can get up.” She glanced around the floor. “What did I slip in?”

They both spotted a big, smeary blue puddle of sticky goo at the same instant. “Did two Smurfs battle to the death in here or something?” she said with a disbelieving groan.

Johnny tsked. “Laundry detergent. Or fabric softener. I think a little girl was trying to get some spilled juice out of her clothes.”

“Great. Welcome home, Emma, enjoy your fall,” she said.

He shrugged. “You always did know how to make an entrance.” Then his eyes narrowed. “And an exit.”

She shot him a glare, not appreciating his humor—nor his reminder of the last time they’d been together—one teeny bit.

“You’re sure it was a little girl? Maybe it was you who had to suddenly clean up his clothes…though I never figured you for a man who’d wet his pants at having to look me in the eye again.”

The insult skimmed right off his gorgeous hide. “Aww, honey, I hate to disappoint you, but you didn’t have me shaking in my shoes.” He lowered his voice. “Or needing to get out of my pants in a hurry.” His grin was positively evil. “For a change.”

Zing. Another dangerous recollection. Johnny sure hadn’t needed much urging to get out of his pants the last time they’d been together. The dog.

Before she could give into her first impulse, which was to laugh in spite of herself, or her second, which was to smack him, he continued. “It was the Deveaux kid. I don’t think she’s quite mastered the whole sippie cup thing yet.”

“So then what?” Emma asked, raising her voice and looking around the store. “Was there a run on mops or something today? Blue light special on paper towels?”

The two young cashiers, as blatantly nosy and fascinated as their customers, exchanged a look. She read it easily. Both silently ordered the other to take care of the mess. Then they each refused. She could almost predict how this one was going to end—with a game of rock, paper, scissors, loser gets the floor duty. In Joyful, some things never changed.

“Doggone, I sure wish I had a camera to get a picture for the paper,” the old man said with a snort. “I can see the headline. Star slips…”

“Enough, Tom,” Johnny muttered, giving him a warning look.

Star? Before she could even ask what on earth the old-as-dirt guy was talking about, one of the cashiers reached around her register and grabbed a disposable camera.

That was enough for Emma. Without another word, she yanked two fistfuls of Johnny’s shirt between her fingers. Using his shoulders for leverage, she pushed herself up into a half-standing, half-leaning position. She ignored the sudden rush of heat in her belly. It was almost certainly caused by embarrassment and not the warmth of his exhaled breaths against her stomach as she leaned over him.

Not his breaths. Not his lips. Not his mouth.

Definitely not.

Another giggle from the crowd made her straighten her back. Her ankle screamed in protest, but she turned and hobbled toward the door, anyway. She just couldn’t do this right now. Not after the night she’d had. Not after the month she’d had!

Emma had no problem laughing at herself when she deserved it. But this was too much. She was stressed, jobless, exhausted from driving. Oh, yeah, and penniless. Then, she’d come face-to-face with the guy who’d stolen her virginity and broken her heart.

And finally, the cherry on this particular hot-fudge sundae of her life, she ended up flat on her butt next to a big puddle of sticky blue goo in front of half the town.

Dammit, some days it didn’t pay to get out of bed. Then she remembered: she hadn’t been able to afford springing for a cheap hotel room along I-95 last night. So she’d actually been out of bed for more than twenty-four hours.

No wonder she was on the verge of tears. Not because of pain or humiliation. Not even because of the ache in her heart, and the other one between her legs at seeing Johnny Walker again. It was merely fatigue making her eyes sting and her lids flutter to keep any suspicious moisture from flowing down her cheeks.

This didn’t go into the top ten worst days, it was in the top five.

She was almost to the door when she realized Johnny had followed. He stepped around her, blocking her exit. “Where do you think you’re going? You can barely walk.”

“Away. From. Here.” She punctuated each word with a harshly snarled breath.

“Running away. Your M.O, isn’t it? You get embarrassed and hit the road.” He shook his head in disgust. “Typical Emma Jean Frasier.”

She clenched her back teeth so hard her jaw hurt. But she’d already given the town gossips quite enough to chew over tonight on the gossip lines, thank-you-very-much. She was not about to get into a screaming tizzy of an argument with Johnny over who’d run out on whom. “Please leave me alone.”

She tried to walk around him, finally giving up on the stupid shoe, which made the ache in her ankle even worse. She bent over and yanked it off, letting it dangle by the strap from the tip of her finger. Then she marched toward the door, with her head held high. Or, at least as high as it could be, considering she descended a good three inches each time she went from her good foot—still in the high-heeled sandal—to the bad one, which was completely bare. The bad one also made her cringe with pain every time she put her weight on it.

Johnny, however, wasn’t going to let her make her grand exit. Emma could barely suck in a shocked breath when she felt him scoop her up from behind. “Stubborn woman.”

He held her easily, bracing her behind the shoulders and beneath the knees. She might have been a stuffed doll for all the effort it took him. Emma had just enough time to clutch at her dangling shoe before it fell out of her fingers as the grocery store door opened before them with a swish, letting in a thick blast of stale summer air.

Before they could exit, however, a titter and a few whispers reached her ears. Emma groaned. It wasn’t bad enough that she’d fallen, but now she was being swept out of here like some romance heroine…by the guy who’d given her her first adult taste of heartbreak as a teenager.

She leaned close to his ear to avoid being overheard. Forcing her nose to stop working so she wouldn’t smell the familiar earthy scent of his skin, and her eyes to stop noticing the cute way his hair still curled behind his ear, she whispered, “Put me down right now or I swear I’ll kick you.”

He raised an amused brow. “With a broken foot?”

“My other foot’s not broken.”

“It will be if you kick me. Those shoes of yours are pretty useless, aren’t they?”

“Johnny, please don’t do this.”

“I already did. Now shut up, Emma Jean, and let’s get you X-rayed.”

Over his shoulder, she saw a cluster of shoppers inching closer. They made no bones about trying to hear every word she and Johnny exchanged. Surely nothing this exciting had happened in Joyful since, oh, say, ten years ago. That would have been the night this bastard had seduced her in public, then roared away, leaving her to explain to a bunch of gawking onlookers while trying to fasten two-dozen tiny, silk-covered buttons up the back of her pink prom dress.

Before they could escape the store altogether, however, a female voice said, “Hey, Johnny, what about your sauce?”

Emma glanced at the cashier who’d spoken, a young woman with teased up bright red hair and a serious case of acne. The woman watched them with eyes as big as dinner plates, and a definite pout on her heavily glossed lips.

“I’ll be back for it,” Johnny informed her.

“You have to buy it. You bent it all up when you dropped it,” the belligerent cashier exclaimed.

“Yeah, and your date’s gonna be real disappointed if you don’t make her a gourmet meal,” Emma muttered.

The woman’s voice rose in pitch. “My boss’ll make me pay for it if you don’t.”

Right. As if her boss wouldn’t have heard the whole sordid story within six-point-five minutes on the infamous Joyful grapevine. Every person in the store was practically shifting on their feet, itching for Johnny and Emma to get gone so they could spread the news to the four corners of the Joyful kingdom.

Emma tried to wriggle out of Johnny’s arms. “Go pay for your sauce and I’ll go out and get back in my car. I can drive myself to the clinic.” Then, giving him a slightly malicious smile, she whispered, “You damaged the can. I wouldn’t want you to get falsely accused of vandalism…again.”

Direct hit. His eyes widened at the insult, and his lips thinned. He obviously remembered when he’d told her about being accused of vandalizing the town fountain as a kid. Another memory from prom night—during their hours of talking, he’d told her what it was like growing up a member of the trashiest family in town.

Not too unlike what it had meant growing up a rich kid in boarding school.

Lonely.

“Damn, you got bitchy while you were away, didn’t you?”

The camera-hungry old man, whose pants were hitched up almost to his nipples, snorted with laughter. Yes, he probably approved of the caveman tactics. Emma shot him a glare and he quickly turned away, pretending to carefully examine a sign advertising a weekly special on toilet paper.

Over near a breakfast display, a harried-looking mother shoved a box of marshmallows and sugar masquerading as breakfast cereal into her toddler’s hands to get him to stop crying. Heaven forbid she miss a word of Emma and Johnny’s confrontation.

“And you got hard of hearing,” Emma finally retorted, making no effort to keep her voice down. She didn’t much care if everyone in the store heard and took notes. “I said put me down.”

“Uh, okay, that’d be a big no.”

Without another word to anyone, he strode out the automatic door, still holding her securely in his arms. Emma watched over his shoulder as the cashier, her co-worker and every shopper in the place rushed to the front window. They might as well have pressed their noses against the glass for a better look.