Stuck With You Read online

  Alistair’s two grown sons referred to the area around his BarcaLounger recliner as Command Central. An automatic control attached to the gold Naugahydecovered chair motored the seat up and down. Beside the recliner sat a card table that held a cordless telephone, a master remote for the entertainment center, two sets of drugstore reading glasses, a weather-band radio, a loose-leaf notebook cataloging recorded videos of “Murder She Wrote,” another loose-leaf notebook labeled Sleuthing Tips, a stack of mystery novels, and his latest purchase—a Mrs. Tea automatic tea-maker.

  Alistair settled in the recliner, buzzed it to the slight tilt he preferred for phoning, and picked up the receiver to dial Information.

  Five minutes later he buzzed the chair upright so fast he nearly popped out of it. He caught himself and sat very still, eyes narrowed as he tried to make sense of what he’d learned. According to the reservation clerk at The Latchkey Bed and Breakfast, Nora Logan had checked out two days ago.

  Struggling to remain calm, Alistair carefully arranged the facts and tried to reason the way Jessica Fletcher did while solving a mystery on “Murder She Wrote.” Fact: Nora’s whereabouts were unknown. Fact: Charity Webster and Nora’s nephew were in possession of Nora’s house and all her belongings. Fact: Charity and the nephew had acted guilty about something when they’d come out of the laundry room. Fact: The nephew stood to inherit a small fortune from Nora.

  The inescapable conclusion filled Alistair with horror. Those two had conspired to murder poor Nora and dispose of her body! That lovely lady. He felt sick to his stomach. Killed for her fortune. A classic situation. He’d read it hundreds of times, and now here it was in real life. Terrible, just terrible. Not to mention what such a scandal might do to property values.

  Finally he gained control of himself enough to pick up the phone and call the police. Then he replaced the receiver without dialing. He had no proof, no proof at all. Jessica Fletcher would build an airtight case before she made an accusation like that. Alistair straightened his spine as he realized the challenge thrust upon him. Having a job to do made him feel infinitely better. He must gather evidence against this evil pair and then expose them as scheming, cold-blooded killers. They were clever, but he would be more clever. He picked up the notebook labeled Sleuthing Tips. Tonight he would plan.

  CHARITY CLOSED MacDougal in the downstairs powder room so that she could leave the laundry room door open while she and Wyatt finished sawing the plywood patch for the door. MacDougal whined at first but finally settled down. Charity hated to barricade the little dog away, but it was preferable to closing herself in with Wyatt again.

  She didn’t want to take any more chances that this virile cowboy would get the wrong idea. He looked like the type who would grab his fun where he could find it. Charity didn’t relish being the holiday entertainment for a love ‘em and leave ‘em rodeo bum, and besides, she couldn’t imagine facing Nora again after becoming the latest notch on Wyatt’s custom-tooled belt.

  With the laundry room door open, the last of the sawing proceeded without incident. Charity went to get the broom and dustpan from the pantry while Wyatt carried the piece of wood back out to the kitchen.

  “Don’t sweep yet,” Wyatt said as he propped the wood against a cabinet door and turned to find her with the broom in her hand. “After I put the patch on the door I’m going to cut up the scraps for kindling.”

  With every comment he made she understood more fully why Nora didn’t dare leave him alone in this house. “There’s no reason for kindling. Nora doesn’t ever use her fireplace,” she said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. She’s never burned anything in it.”

  Wyatt stared at her as if she were speaking Swahili. “Do you mean to tell me that I’m in Connecticut the night before Thanksgiving, in the middle of a snowstorm, in a Colonial-style house with a big fireplace, and we’re not going to use it?”

  Charity had to admit a cozy fire sounded nice with the wind howling outside and snow pelting the windows, but she’d no more light a fire in Nora’s imported-marble fireplace than she’d seduce Alistair Updegraff. “It’s designed to be decorative and Nora doesn’t want it scorched.”

  “Really.”

  She reacted to the censure in his voice with a flash of loyalty for Nora’s decision. “Everybody knows an open fire is an inefficient method of heating and would only dry out the wood of Nora’s antiques. The electric furnace and built-in humidifier are brand-new and perfectly adequate.”

  “That’s not the point.” Wyatt gazed at her. “An electric furnace has zero charm. Nobody’s ever taken a cup of hot chocolate to go sit in front of a furnace.”

  She looked into his fawn-colored eyes and came up with a vivid picture of sharing hot chocolate with Wyatt in front of a roaring fire. It wasn’t much of a leap to imagine a passionate, cocoa-flavored kiss as Wyatt pulled her down to the soft nap of the antique Sultanabad rug. She forced her glance away from his. “The point is that we’re in someone else’s house, and we will respect her wishes concerning it.”

  Wyatt sighed and shook his head. “I never realized Aunt Nora was so uptight about her possessions.”

  Her glance swung back to his. “She most certainly is not uptight.” She planted the broom like a standard beside her. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to preserve the things you’ve worked a lifetime to collect.”

  “You look like Joan of Arc about to march into battle,” he said, amusement in his gaze. “Don’t get me wrong. I love my aunt and I don’t want to ruin anything she sets great store by. I’ve never understood how people can get so attached to sticks of furniture, and a fireplace that you can’t burn makes no sense to me, but…” He shrugged. “I can live with it.”

  His admission that he loved his aunt prompted Charity to reveal her private theory about Nora’s fireplace, a theory she’d never mentioned to anyone. “I think it’s more than her concern for antiques. I think she might be afraid of fire after what happened to your grandparents.”

  Wyatt seemed to think that over. “I guess it’s possible, but my dad doesn’t seem the least bit nervous about fire, and they were his parents, too. We have a huge stone fireplace at the ranch and we use it whenever the temperature goes below fifty outside.”

  “People don’t always react the same to trauma. Did you know she has a sprinkler system in her bedroom?”

  “She does? Guess I never, noticed. And I was only here in the summer as a kid, so the subject of using the fireplace never came up.” Wyatt rubbed his jaw. “Well, if she’s afraid she might die in a house fire, why bother putting in a fireplace?”

  “I don’t know,” Charity admitted. “Tradition, maybe. It goes with the antiques.”

  “Hmm. Well, it doesn’t matter, anyway. We just won’t build a fire.”

  “Right. I’ll go clean the laundry room.” She headed in that direction.

  She should have felt relieved that they’d settled the matter, but instead the romantic image of a crackling fire haunted her as she swept up the sawdust. It would have been the perfect thing for a night like this, she thought with regret. Dangerous to her heart, perhaps, considering Wyatt’s appeal, but perfect nevertheless. She’d often wished her own little duplex had a fireplace. And come to think of it, a fireplace that was never meant to be used was a waste of money and materials. She wouldn’t admit to Wyatt that she agreed with him on that point, however. Give him an inch and he’d take…more than she was willing to give.

  By the time she’d finished sweeping and returned to the kitchen, Wyatt had drilled four holes in the plywood. She decided to leave MacDougal penned up until the job was finished.

  Wyatt crouched by the door and held the plywood up to the damaged portion.

  Because Charity knew he wouldn’t be able to see her, she watched the flex of his muscles beneath the soft fabric of his shirt and admired the shape of his broad back that narrowed to slim hips. His position forced the belted waistband of his jeans slightly away from
the small of his back and pulled the denim tight across his buttocks. She’d always imagined herself attracted to a man’s mind rather than his physique. She’d imagined wrong. Wyatt’s mind was totally irrelevant at the moment.

  “If you’re finished gawking, I could use some help holding this up to the door so I can mark where to drill the holes,” Wyatt said over his shoulder.

  “I was not gawking!” Heat flooded her cheeks. “And anyway, how would you know what I was doing?”

  “You were so quiet I checked your reflection in the window to make sure you weren’t sneaking up on me with an upraised knife.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” She glanced across at the window over the kitchen sink and, sure enough, she was reflected against the darkened, frosty glass. “Besides, I wasn’t looking at you. I was…thinking,” she muttered.

  His answering chuckle sizzled along her nerve endings. “Bring a pencil, and mark these holes, please, Charity.”

  She pulled out a drawer where Nora kept odds and ends and found a stubby pencil. Then she walked over and crouched next to Wyatt, her senses alert to every nuance of his body, from the scent of body-warmed cotton and tangy after-shave to the subtle pattern of his breathing. She had to lean close to mark the holes as he held the plywood against the door, and when her breast brushed his elbow, waves of reaction swept through her.

  “What kind of perfume is that?” he asked as she marked the last hole.

  She stood hastily and backed away, her heart thumping. “I don’t wear perfume.”

  He lowered the plywood to rest on the floor. “Well, something makes you smell like a Christmas cookie.” He stood and walked over to get the drill. Then he glanced at her. “Don’t look so worried, Charity. Just because a man says you smell nice doesn’t mean he’s going to throw you to the floor and have his way with you.” He crouched by the door again and shook his head. “Virgins.”

  “I am not a virgin!” she yelled above the sound of the drill, then cringed. Great, just great. Now he had her screaming out her sexual history.

  He kept drilling, but his shoulders shook in what had to be a fit of laughter.

  She waited until he was almost finished with the fourth hole. She’d show him, by God. He thought she was some inexperienced woman he could tease and torment with sexual references, but two could play at that little game. She picked up the small paper bag from the hardware store. Then she crouched next to him just as he laid down the drill.

  “I know what you need, Wyatt,” she murmured in a low, sultry voice.

  He turned his head toward her, his expression suspicious. “Do you, now?”

  “What you need is a good screw,” she said softly.

  His eyes widened in disbelief.

  Holding his astonished gaze, she took his unresisting hand and turned it palm up. Then she dumped the contents of the bag into it. “There’s four. Knock yourself out, cowboy.” Gratified by his dazed look, she stood and left the room.

  OH, BOY. Wyatt sat back on his heels and listened to Charity stomp out of the room. There was nothing more complicated than dealing with a woman who didn’t know what she wanted. Especially when he wasn’t too clear about what he wanted, either.

  The television clicked on in the living room and Wyatt heard the measured voice of Peter Jennings presenting the evening news. He deposited the screws Charity had given him on the floor and reached for the screwdriver. If it weren’t for the snowstorm he’d finish repairing the door and leave, which would certainly simplify the matter. But he couldn’t leave. If the situation didn’t feel like a setup, he just might have pushed the issue with Charity to see if he could tilt the scales in favor of fun and games. But Aunt Nora obviously wanted him to get involved with this woman. He’d bet on it. Which made Charity, whether she knew it or not, a trap.

  He picked up the plywood and inserted the four screws, twisting each one into place with quick movements of the screwdriver. At first he’d thought Charity was a trap he could easily avoid. But she had a sneaky sexiness about her that was working on him. That was the only way to explain his uncharacteristic crack about virgins, which had turned up the heat several notches. Then she’d paid him back with an old joke that shouldn’t have affected him at all. But coming from prim, buttoned-up Charity, it had packed a wallop.

  With great effort he’d kept himself from lunging after her and easing the strain of their differences in a way they’d probably both find very satisfying. But in all likelihood that would spring Aunt Nora’s trap.

  Wyatt positioned the plywood and eased the protruding screws into the holes, noting with pleasure they were a snug fit. Using his shoulder to brace the wood, he tightened each screw in place. Finished. He stood and surveyed the job with pride. He’d forgotten how much fun he’d always had building or repairing things. Living out of motel rooms, he didn’t have much call for that sort of skill.

  “Good job,” Charity said from somewhere behind him.

  He turned in surprise at her conciliatory tone. “Thanks.”

  She made a vague gesture. We’ve gotten off to a bad start, you and I.”

  He noticed that she still held the television remote control. She must have turned off the TV and forgotten to put the remote down, which indicated just how preoccupied she was. “I guess you could call it a bad start,” he said cautiously. He didn’t quite trust this new friendliness. Or his reaction to her standing there, with her kissable mouth looking so soft and her cheeks flushing pink as his mother’s spring roses.

  She adjusted her large-frame glasses. “I usually don’t…that is, I generally get along with the people I meet, both men and women.”

  “Me, too.”

  “In fact, people who know me say I’m good at making the best of a situation.”

  “Same here.”

  “But for some reason, around you I…find myself reacting in a way that’s not like me at all.” She hesitated. “I would hate for Nora to think that I…” She stopped, a pleading light in her blue eyes.

  “Stop right there. I think we need an agreement.” He smiled at her. “Considering we both have an image to protect, I won’t tell Nora anything that’s gone on between us if you’ll return the favor.”

  She let out a breath and smiled back. “Deal.”

  A pact. The moment it was sealed he wondered at the wisdom of offering to link himself to her with shared secrets. They were already temporarily cut off from the world by the snowstorm, which would make them rely on each other more than normal. He was on treacherous ground and he’d better watch himself.

  He reached for his jacket. “I’ll put the tools back in the garage,” he said more brusquely than the announcement warranted.

  “And I’ll see what we can do about dinner.” Her tone was equally crisp.

  He buttoned the jacket. “Don’t go to any trouble.”

  “You’re not hungry?”

  In reality he was starving. All he’d had since breakfast was a bag of potato chips on the train. “Okay, then don’t go to any trouble until I get back. I’ll help you.”

  Her expression was filled with misgiving.

  “What?” he asked, annoyed. “Don’t you think I can handle myself in a kitchen?”

  “To be honest, you don’t look like the type,” she said.

  He picked up the tools. “Well, to be honest, neither do you.”

  The belligerence returned to her eyes. “And I suppose you judge a woman by her ability to cook?”

  It had been a short truce, he thought. Exasperation made him reckless as he opened the kitchen door that connected to the garage. “No, I judge a woman by her ability in bed.” He managed to get out the door before the remote hit it at the approximate level of his head. He opened the door a crack. “Good aim,” he called before closing the door again.

  SHE’D THROWN NORA’S remote control. Charity stood in shock over the wreck. The case was cracked, the batteries scattered on the floor. She didn’t throw things. She respected property, especially property belo
nging to someone else. That’s why Nora had asked her to watch over the house.

  Wyatt couldn’t be held responsible for this, much as she’d like to blame it on him. She should know how to take taunts without responding like that. After all, she’d grown up with two younger brothers. She crouched, picked up the cracked remote, the batteries and the battery cover and carried them into the living room. With luck, it would still work so Nora would have something to use until Charity could buy her a new one.

  Luck wasn’t with her. No matter how she rearranged the batteries or in what order she pushed the buttons, the television remained blank and silent.

  “Broken?” Wyatt leaned in the archway of the living room, his jacket unbuttoned, his Stetson shoved to the back of his head.

  “Apparently.” She clicked a few more times and sighed. “What a stupid thing to do.”

  Wyatt crossed to the ivory damask sofa. “Let me see.”

  She handed it to him and leaned her head back, her eyes closed. The sofa cushions shifted. She opened her eyes and turned her head.

  He sat at the opposite end of the sofa, concentrating on the remote as he took off the battery cover and switched the batteries around. “I shouldn’t have goaded you into it,” he said without looking up. Then he lifted his gaze to hers and there was true regret there. “Sorry.”

  “I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be goaded.” She sat up straight again. “I’m supposed to be an adult.”

  A dimple flashed in his cheek. “Nobody’s an adult all the time, Charity. And the world would be a dull place if they were.” He tried the remote, but the television didn’t respond. He took the battery cover off again.