Blazing Bedtime Stories (17 page)

Juliet wavered. “Can you cut me a slice to go?”

Her mother smiled, the balance in her genteel world restored. “Of course, dear.”

“A new client, eh?” her father said. “Sounds promising.”

“He lives in Whitetail,” Juliet said, referencing Jackson, Mississippi’s answer to New York’s Hamptons. She took a final sip of tea and accepted the plastic container which held her pie from her mother, then stood.

“Whitetail, you say? Who is he?”

“Jamison Highgrove. He’s an older gentleman who’s interested in commissioning a set of fairy-tale murals for his wife.”

Cecilia smiled and her blue eyes lit with maternal delight. “Oh, she must be expecting.”

Juliet frowned uncertainly. Funny. He’d seemed quite odd about it. Purposely vague, even. “He didn’t mention a nursery.”

“Well, good luck, dear,” her mother said. “Business in Whitetail is a coup.”

It was, Juliet thought. And as long as she didn’t have to paint Cupid, she’d be thrilled. At this point, all she wanted to do was get
through the next couple of weeks—and V-Day itself, of course—as painlessly and quickly as possible.

Since she couldn’t throw herself in front of a bus, throwing herself into her work seemed like a good alternative.

“…
AND IT
makes us merely average girls even more painfully aware that we are eternal ugly ducklings without the hope or the faintest prayer of ever getting that handsome guy. It’s a cruel holiday whose only redeemable benefit is the brief but memorable appearance of the large Hershey Kiss and conversation hearts. Quite frankly, Cupid can kiss my ass.”

Gareth Harper stared at his PDA screen—at Juliet Swan, in particular—and laughed until tears gathered in his eyes. His sister had forwarded him the link to kissmyasscupid.com, along with the note “Another V-day hater. This is the girl for you.”

He didn’t know about that, but he couldn’t deny that her assessment left him howling with laughter. “Conversation hearts and the large Hershey Kiss,” he muttered under his breath. She was right. He loved those damned Kisses.

As for Juliet, Gareth had actually met her many years ago when he’d briefly dated her younger sister, Portia. To say that he’d been blown away by those dark eyes, that direct stare, in particular, would be a huge understatement. She’d been so different from everyone else in her family. All the other Swans, parents included, had been fair and blond.

Juliet wasn’t.

Black hair, dark-brown eyes, tall. Compelling, Gareth thought, remembering the unmistakable current of attraction that had zapped his loins the minute he’d looked at her. He inwardly snorted, remembering. Hardly good form to be attracted to one sister when he was dating another, but…

He and Portia had parted ways—she’d been a little too perky for his tastes—and while he’d entertained the idea of calling Juliet, ultimately Gareth had decided against it. He had dated her little
sister—which would be awkward to ignore at best—and there had been something about Juliet that had made him a little…uneasy.

She had a way of looking at him as though she could see right through him. There’d been several times during that fateful lunch—a family tradition, if memory served—when he’d caught a little sardonic smile cross her lips and he’d been left with the strange sensation that she’d been able to read his mind.

Gareth preferred being an enigma to being an open book.

And right now, he’d temporarily closed the book on romance.

In fact, Cupid could kiss his ass, too. The winged bastard certainly hadn’t done him any favors of late. His last serious relationship had ended right before Christmas when he’d found an unexpected present under his tree—his business partner and girlfriend going at it like a couple of drunken elves on a three-day pass from Santa’s workshop. It hadn’t been a surprise, really. For some reason, he had a history of getting ditched on statutory holidays. Hell, the only one he had left was Halloween, and, considering it was more of a pagan ritual than an actual holiday, Gareth wasn’t even sure it counted.

Understandably, he, his business partner and his girlfriend had parted ways.

Frankly, losing his business partner had been harder to take than losing the girlfriend. His landscaping and pool business was gearing up for prime season and he still hadn’t found a suitable replacement. Besides, he and Keith had been friends much longer than he and Courtney had dated. Losing Keith had been more of a blow.

Then again, one could argue that if Keith had been any sort of friend, he would have bypassed screwing Gareth’s girlfriend, but Gareth preferred not to get too hung up on that little detail. Keith had been drunk and Courtney had been an opportunistic, unfaithful bitch. He wanted Keith back. Courtney, on the other hand, could go to hell.

A few minutes later, Jamison Highgrove—who looked alarmingly like Sean Connery’s younger brother—rounded the corner next to the house and whistled low at Gareth’s handiwork. “It’s coming along nicely, isn’t it?” the older man enthused.

Considering this was the first time Gareth had ever been asked to build a grotto à la Hugh Hefner and his Playboy mansion
fame—he’d researched it on Google to make sure he had the right idea—and he was working without a partner, Gareth did indeed think the work was coming along quite well. Highgrove was a well-connected client and it was in Gareth’s best interests to knock this one out of the park, so to speak.

He’d incorporated some beautiful pottery inside the rather large cave, used cut stone for the steps leading in and out of the pool and had placed several little seating areas throughout the structure.

“I’m still working on the waterfalls and fountains within the cave,” Gareth told him. “But everything else is coming together remarkably well.”

Jamison rocked back on his heels and smiled. “Excellent. And are we still on schedule? You’ll be finished before Valentine’s Day?”

Gareth rubbed the back of his neck. “It’ll be tight, Mr. Highgrove, I won’t lie to you. But it will get done.” Even if he had to work all night to complete the installation. Highgrove was a high-profile client. He couldn’t afford to screw it up.

“It’s a Valentine’s present for my wife, you know,” Highgrove reminded him for at least the tenth time. “I want everything to be perfect when she gets home.”

“I understand.”

Truthfully, he didn’t understand. But then again, he didn’t have to. If the elderly Highgrove wanted a sex grotto for his hot young wife—one who was currently at a resort island in the Caribbean undergoing a few “procedures”—then who was he to judge? His girlfriend had slept with his friend, for heaven’s sake. Clearly his penis hadn’t been enough to keep her satisfied.

Faithless bitch or not, that had stung.

Frankly, the fact that Highgrove was willing to go to these lengths to make his wife happy impressed the hell out of Gareth. Eccentricities aside, he liked the old man. He admired his grit. He hadn’t let a little thing like age keep him down.

Literally,
Gareth thought, remembering the penile implant demonstration Highgrove had offered to show him last week. “Best damn thing I’ve ever done for myself,” Jamison had told him, going into explicit detail about how the device worked. “Getting it up and keeping it up is no longer a problem—powering that sucker down,
on the other hand, was a bit tricky on the front end, but we’ve got it all worked out now.”

That, of course, had left him with a mental image he could have done without. But what could he say? He hoped he’d never need a penile implant, but it was nice to know there were options available should the unthinkable ever occur. Hell, by then, they’d probably have invented a remote-control variety, complete with an internal vibrator option. The idea made his lips twitch and he passed a hand over his face to hide his smile.

Highgrove’s ever-present walkie-talkie chirped at his waist. “Mr. Highgrove, there’s a woman at the gate to see you. She says she has an appointment.”

Highgrove’s tanned face split into a broad grin. “Another surprise for Patricia,” he explained.

Whatever cranked her tractor,
Gareth thought. Like any other man, he’d cop to enjoying a little girl-on-girl action.

“Juliet Swan?” Highgrove asked the security guard.

Gareth blinked, stunned.

“Yes, sir,” came the reply.

“Excellent,” Highgrove said. “Send her in.” He clipped the walkie talkie back to his waist. “My one o’clock is here, Gareth, so you’ll have to excuse me.”

Gareth frowned and gave his head a little shake. “Did you say Juliet Swan, sir?”

Highgrove paused. “I did. She’s a local artist I’m commissioning to paint a few naughty fairy tales in our
special
boudoir. Patricia had seen a bit of her work at a friend’s house and was quite impressed. She’s an excellent muralist from what I understand.” The older man paused, his dark browns knitting thoughtfully. “Do you know her?”

Naughty fairy tales? Juliet? In their special boudoir complete with the sex swing? Gareth couldn’t stop a grin. He could just imagine Juliet’s reaction to her new assignment. “I met her once several years ago.” As for her art, she was more than talented—she was brilliant. He’d actually bought a painting of hers from a local gallery a few months ago. It was of a single canoe on a moonlit lake, with just the hint of a shadowed person manning the boat. It was dark and lonely and hauntingly beautiful. The damned thing had
cost more than his high-definition television, but he hadn’t been able to resist. He’d wanted it.

“Good, because if she takes this job, I’m going to get her to paint a few things out here for us as well. Vines and flowers and such.”

Gareth nodded and thoughtfully stroked his jaw. “Er…does she know you want her to paint naughty fairy tales?”

Highgrove grinned, showing a full mouth of ceramic implants. The man’s mouth was worth more than his own car, Gareth thought. “I might have left out that little detail. Thought it would be better if I pleaded my case in person.”

“Right.”

Highgrove’s manicured brows formed a questioning line. “She’s not a prude, is she?”

“I only met her the one time, sir, so I really couldn’t say.” He’d gotten the impression that she was inexperienced, Gareth thought, but not necessarily a prude.

“Perhaps you should come and meet her with me,” Highgrove suggested. “Help put her at ease.”

“Oh, I don’t know—”

“I insist,” he said. “I don’t want her to think I’m some old pervert. Patricia and I, we just like to keep things fresh. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there? It’s not like we’re going to host an orgy or anything. We aren’t
deviants
. We’re sexual pioneers.”

Sexual pioneers. Right. Honestly, it was quite depressing for Gareth to realize this old man was getting laid more frequently than he was.

As a consolation prize, he supposed seeing the look on Juliet’s face when Highgrove explained exactly what sort of art he wanted would have to do.

Gareth nodded and followed Jamison into the house, making sure to wipe his muddy boots before going inside. “So, when you say naughty fairy tales, just exactly what is it that you’re looking for?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Highgrove said. “I’m thinking ‘Beauty and the Beast.’ Beauty’s got a little cleavage showing—possibly even a whole breast. ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ on another wall. She’s wearing nothing but the cape and the Big Bad Wolf is trying to help her out of it, if you get my drift. Then ‘The Ugly Duckling’—I’m having a harder time coming up with a concept for
that one, but it’s Patricia’s favorite story, so it’s got to be included. Hopefully Juliet can figure something out.”

“Is this a Valentine’s Day present, too?” Gareth asked, just as the front doorbell rang. His spine prickled and his heart rate kicked up a notch.

“It is.”

“I’d keep that to myself if I were you.”

“What? Why?”

“Trust me on this, Mr. H. Not all women are as keen about this holiday as you are,” he said, remembering Juliet’s recent video tirade.

Seeming baffled, Highgrove nodded.

Fran, one of Highgrove’s staff, ushered Juliet into the foyer just as Gareth and his employer were making their entrance as well. Her surprised gaze connected with Gareth’s, making a sizzle of unexpected electricity fire in his crotch and the back of his neck prickle with excitement. So he hadn’t imagined it before. Damn.

He honestly didn’t understand it.

Dressed in a shapeless black top easily two sizes too big, a pair of paint-speckled jeans, her hair in a sloppy bun on top of her head and secured with what looked suspiciously like chopsticks, she was hardly what one would call sexy. In fact, she was a walking fashion wreck—she even had on a pair of those godawful plastic shoes all the kids were wearing. Her only nod at any sort of current style was a pair of colorful, boxy glasses. They were funky, and definitely suited her, Gareth decided.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Swan,” Highgrove welcomed her. “I’m so glad you could see me on such short notice.”

“Certainly,” she said, shooting him a curious look. She inclined her head. “Mr. Harper.”

So she remembered him. His ego knew a fleeting moment of masculine joy. “It’s nice to see you again, Juliet.”

Highgrove frowned. “How is it again that you know each other?” he asked Gareth. “You never said.”

Gareth smiled awkwardly. “I, uh—”

“Gareth came around for lunch with my sister a couple of times,” Juliet said, letting him off the hook.

“How is Portia?” he felt compelled to ask.

“She’s fine. I just saw her a little while ago as a matter of fact.”

“Lunch?”

She smiled and something flickered in her gaze. “Right. Every Saturday, noon sharp. Be there or else.”

“Sounds like a lovely family tradition,” Highgrove said. “Those are becoming increasingly rare. I only see my kids and their families a couple of times a year. Brant’s in Denver, Lucinda’s in Maine.” He grimaced. “We’re scattered, much as I hate it.”

Juliet made a commiserating face, then briskly changed the subject. “So, what sort of project did you have in mind for me, Mr. Highgrove?” she asked.

Highgrove shot Gareth an uncomfortable look. “It’s of a different nature,” he said. “I doubt you’ve done anything like it before.”

“Oh, I’ve painted many fairy-tale murals.” She reached into a big bag attached to her shoulder and withdrew a large leather album. “Actually, I brought my portfolio with me—”

“Er…that won’t be necessary,” Highgrove interrupted. “Why don’t I show you the room, then you can get an idea of what sort of
tone
we’re looking for.”

To give her credit, Juliet didn’t miss a beat. He knew she had to be thoroughly confused, but was professional enough not to show the slightest hesitation. She nodded briskly, then followed Highgrove to the back part of his Georgian-style mansion. The “boudoir” actually opened into the pool area, which would come in handy when they decided to move the festivities to the sex grotto, Gareth thought. After all, it was attached to the pool.

Gareth followed Juliet into the bedroom and had the privilege of watching her step falter at the sight of the heart-shaped bed, the champagne-glass hot tub and the sex swing. Recessed lighting and a disco ball rounded out the tacky porno-film decor.