Page 115 of At Her Pleasure
Cyn understood the appeal of that part, just not the locale. However, as Mick navigated through the narrow streets of a town’s postage-stamp-sized “downtown,” she noticed a woman sitting at a card table outside of Mindy’s Kitchen Diner. The black woman wore a faux leopard stole, her hair in a fuzzy top knot. Thick-rimmed glasses reflected the early morning light and obscured her eyes.
The sign attached to the table with masking tape announced she did tarot readings. The letters had been hand drawn with markers, surrounded with doodles of flowers.
Houses lined the main street, flanking businesses like Mindy’s. One single-level clapboard house was a storm away from falling down, with rotted porch boards and a roof covered with a blue tarp. Nearly twenty sets of chimes swung from the eaves of the lopsided porch.
I’m here, the owner seemed to be saying. And who I am is more than you think.
Cyn thought of where she’d grown up. Her neighborhood, the apartment. Her mother, who’d been exactly what anyone would have thought she was. Or worse.
Her mother had never hung up a chime, or anything symbolically like it, in her life.
Cyn lowered her window. Tentatively, she put her hand out, letting the breeze pass through her fingers. She rested her other hand on her hair to keep it out of her face. When she glanced toward Mick, he was watching her. He gave her a light smile, then returned his gaze to the road.
He liked looking at her. Of course he did. She was a good-looking woman with the kind of body that attracted male attention. But that wasn’t why he was looking at her like that. Which was why it flustered her. Absurdly so.
She’d never acted like a crush-infected teenage girl. Even at that age. She wasn’t starting now. “So where are we staying tonight?”
“I reserved a spot at an RV park. If you’re up for it, there’s a festival happening about twenty minutes away from it. We should be able to spend the afternoon there, grab a late lunch, then head for the campground.”
“I’m not much a festival person.”
“You’ve never done a New Orleans’ Mardi Gras?”
“Of course I’ve done Mardi Gras. That’s different. You’re talking about a small-town’s version of a festival, with funnel cakes, a rickety Ferris wheel and Jack and Diane walking around with their hands in the pockets of each other’s jeans.”
“Versus flashing your tits for beads and drinking so much you vomit in the gutter.”
“I have done neither of those things at Mardi Gras.”
“How about the rest of your ladies?”
“Ros has us sign NDAs to prevent that kind of information from getting out.”
He grinned. “This festival is for exotic flower enthusiasts. Specifically orchid nerds.”
“And you just happened to be surfing the national schedule for orchid-related events?”
“I had to make sure I had additional ammunition to convince you to come with me,” he said, “so I did a little research about what was happening in the area.”
She studied him. “You’re lying to me, Mick. Why?”
He put his eyes back on the road. “Some things, I can’t tell you the reasons. There are people I have to protect.”
“You’re meeting a contact there.”
He didn’t confirm or deny. “I already had it on my radar as a stop. After seeing your greenhouse, it seemed to fit together pretty well.”
Apparently realizing how that sounded, he lifted a hand. “It wasn’t why I asked you to come with me. I wanted as much time with you as I could get.”
Before he “really” had to leave her. Hearing him acknowledge it rattled the ton of rocks she’d piled on top of her own feelings about it. When he glanced her way again, she wondered if her eyes had the same look as his. Resignation mixed with a fierce desire to have what little they could grab together.
“I would never take you somewhere you’d be in danger,” he told her. “But if that was a possibility, I’d make sure you had all the information you needed, so you wouldn’t be going into it blind. Yes, it’s a contact, but that’s all I can say.”
A faint smile crossed his face. “His interest in orchids is the real deal. He’s also big into roses.”
Cyn settled back. “Don’t lie to me again, Mick. About anything. Big or small. If you can’t tell me, just say you can’t tell me. I’ll respect that.” Or try to.
“Yes, ma’am. You look sexy as hell, by the way.”