Sweet Home Carolina (42 page)

He was too busy studying the scenery. His engines were
revved and roaring as she leaned forward to say something to one of her girlfriends—giving
him a full view of her most excellent cleavage. She wore a big gold heart that
dangled right between her breasts. Over this past grim year, he’d forgotten how
much he enjoyed this part of the game, the teasing and being teased.

He ought to be too old for this. With his hand aching like
it was decrepit, he’d been feeling too old for it just five minutes ago. Irritating
how one flirtatious look from a pretty young thing and an instant hard-on could
turn him into a randy chowder head.

He turned back to the bar. “Bring me another, and hit me if
I look again.”

***

“He’s checking you out, girl. Quit pretending you don’t
notice.”

Joella Sanderson sipped her daiquiri and pretended not to
notice. “I’m not doing men anymore, remember?”

“Even tall, dark, and yummy? Give me a break. If you don’t
want him, can I have him? I swear, I need ice just looking at him. That man is
hot
.”
Dot fanned herself with her hand and continued to stare in the direction of the
bar.

“You can still
do
men and not get involved,” Rita said
seriously. “You can’t give up sex entirely.”

Rita had a point there. Joella stole a surreptitious glance
at the bar. Tall, dark, and dangerous had turned his back on her. That got
under her skin a little. He’d got her all hot and bothered for nothing? If he
thought she would come on to him, he needed to find another girl to play games
with.

“He’s not my kind,” she said decisively. “I want an
accountant this time around. A steady man with a steady job.”

Both Dot and Rita laughed until they nearly fell off their
chairs. Jo figured it was high time to cut off their alcohol intake if one
lousy daiquiri had them this giddy.

“Not her kind,” Dot spluttered, drawing letters in the air. “He’s
got
Jo’s Kind
spelled out right across his forehead.”

“Arial, all caps, and bold,” Rita agreed with secretarial
humor. Rita had moved down the mountain to find office work and wore her
new-found sophistication in blond highlights and bright blue contacts.

Jo kind of liked the image of branding the cowboy, but she
bit back a grin rather than let her friends know it. “I mean it,” she asserted.
“He’s too good looking to be anything but married.” That was as good an excuse
as any for his turning his back on her. “I’m not messing with any more lying,
cheating lowlifes. I’m buying my own ticket out of town this time around. Men
are off my radar.”

“They’re not all Randy,” Dot objected. “You’ve had a long
dry spell since he left. It’s time to jump back in the ring.”

“Jump back in bed, you mean,” Joella corrected. “Didn’t your
mama warn you about sex with men you don’t know?”

But warnings and common sense didn’t apply when her hormones
were humming, and just looking at broad shoulders in a sexy cowboy shirt and a
tight ass in designer jeans had her squirming in her seat. Her friends were
right. Upright businessmen were not her style.

But she’d sworn off lying, cheating men who promised fame
and fortune. As her mama always said, she had ambition far beyond her means. That
didn’t mean she was giving up making something of herself. She was just wise
enough now not to expect a man to get her where she wanted to go.

“Anyway, I have to get up early tomorrow. The Stardust’s new
owner is coming, and I want to impress him with my promptness.”

“He’ll probably have a family to run the place, and you’ll
be out on your rear,” Rita said with a pessimistic wave of her hand. “Go for
the joy now.”

Joella set her mouth in a firm line. “I can’t get fired. Mama’s
unemployment runs out next month. I want to try that singing server idea out on
him.” Her gnawing ambition again, but she had so many
ideas
. “Charlie
wouldn’t let me change anything, but a new owner might listen. The place is a
dump. A few ferns, some pretty paint, and an espresso machine could turn the café
right around.”

“We live in Hicksville, Joella,” Dot reminded her. The
purple stripe in her long black braid showed her opinion of their rural home’s
values. “No one drinks espresso, and they’ve all heard you sing at church. Forget
it. Go after the gold.” She sighed and admired the same sight Jo had been
studying.

“I’m not doing sex without commitment these days,” Jo said
airily.

Rita hooted. “You’re scared, admit it. He’s out of your
league.”

“Is not. I may not have your brains or Dot’s artistic
talent, but I know men. I just don’t want one,” she added hastily when Rita
opened her mouth to argue.

Dot gave a disparaging
pffttt
. “Chicken, squawk,
squawk. You gonna let wimpy Randy burn you?”

Hell, no. In the immortal expression of Granny Clampett: Thems
was fightin’ words. With a glare, Jo scraped her chair back and stood up.

Rita and Dot cheered. “You go, girl! Strike a blow for
jilted women everywhere.”

Jo tugged her spandex shirt into place and plastered on her whitened-teeth
smile. So, maybe she needed to test her skills again. One itty bitty dance
couldn’t hurt.

***

Dirk laughed and slid Flint another cold one. “Melinda soured
you, did she? A man can’t go forever without getting some. You’ll fester up and
bust.”

“That might be preferable to living in hell,” Flint growled,
taking a swig of beer and resisting checking the table of young things again.

A powdery scent that raised images of bubble baths and candlelight
enveloped him, and a soft drawl purred near his ear. “I hear tell hell is a
tropical paradise compared to one of our winters.”

Leaning over the bar, Flint nearly choked on his drink. He could
feel her all over his skin without a touch. The stacked height of her hair
brushed his cheek, and he had an insane urge to turn and bury his nose in all
that glorious softness. He bet it would drift to her shoulders in a single tug.

“Way-ellll,” he drawled right back, not looking at her, “you
can fry on a beach in paradise as well as anywhere, I suppose.”

She chuckled and reached past him for the daiquiri Dirk had
prepared for her without asking. “Who’s your surly friend, Deadeye? You don’t
need air-conditioning if you stock the place with icebergs.”

“Joella, meet Flint. Maybe the two of you could compare
notes on absent partners.”

“You’re
so
funny, Dirk,” she said without rancor.

Flint was concentrating hard on ignoring all those flirty
curves and nearly jumped at the brush of slender fingers wrapping around his
biceps.

“Come along, Mr. Flint. They’re playing my song.”

Actually, the band was playing one of
his
songs, but
he wasn’t the type to show off. Mostly. The
Mr.
hurt though. He didn’t
want to be old enough to be a mister.

Deciding it wouldn’t hurt to let off a little steam with a bar
babe who knew the score, Flint obligingly applied his hand to the small of her
back and urged her toward the dance floor. It wasn’t as if she would report him
to his kids in the morning, or to the good citizens of Northfork. Knowing RJ’s
taste in women, she might be the one who could provide the answers he was
seeking. “Happy to oblige, Miss Joella,” he said, bending close to her ear so
she could hear over the music.

She shot him a laughing glance that buoyed his spirits to
record highs. He liked being reminded that he wasn’t entirely over the hill
yet.

He let her weave the way through the tables so he could
admire the sway of her nicely rounded jeans. It had been too damned long since
he’d allowed himself the pleasure of looking at another woman. Life owed him
this dance.

Slipping into the mass of bodies, she raised her arms above
her head and started swaying her hips before he’d caught up with her. Her gold
earrings and necklace sparkled against the tanned column of her throat. She
wore some kind of shimmery red top that clung to high, full curves and revealed
a line of trim brown waist above her low riders.

It was a damned wonder he could move at all after that.

What happens next?

More information

Copyright © 2007 Rice Enterprises Inc.

Online edition copyright © 2012 Patricia Rice

Originally published 2007 by Ivy Books, The Ballantine
Publishing Group

Cover copyright © 2012 Mandala

Cupcakes photo by Katja Seaton

Sweet Home Carolina
is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

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