Tease Me Page 2

  Lance? Tucker closed his eyes and counted to ten.

  Lillian gave him a small punch in the shoulder. “Stop worrying. I have it all figured out.”

  Tucker rubbed his arm, thinking quickly. But any last-ditch evasive maneuvers died on the planning table when she added, “You said yourself that I’m the only family you’ve got. Surely you can do me this one small favor.”

  He felt eight years old again. She’d been there for him then, when no one else had. The childhood summers he’d spent with her in Florida after his mom died had been his salvation. There might not be a blood tie between them, but she was the only family he had. And she’d never asked him for a single thing.

  Still … Undercover in a beauty shop? A beauty shop for blue hairs? He sighed. It was only for a week or two.

  “Yes, Aunt Lillian.”

  ONE

  At the jingle of the tiny door bells, Madelaine Cooper looked up from the counter, where she was cutting the day’s pie special, key lime, into narrow slices. She smiled as two of Aunt Minnie’s Wednesday-morning regulars came through the door. “Hello, Irma. Hi, Ida.” She made a kissing noise at the miniature pinscher peeking his black, pointy-eared head out from Ida’s oversized purse. “And good morning to you, Mr. Maxwell.”

  Instead of receiving the usual chorus of friendly hellos and a yip from Mr. Max on the way to “their” table, the identical twin sisters rushed to the counter. “Rushed” was a relative term. At eighty-two they wouldn’t set any land-speed records.

  Always the competitive one, Irma hit the linoleum counter first. Rapping it with the handle of her cane, she announced, “Lainey, you won’t believe what Lillian has gone and done.”

  Ida ambled up, slightly out of breath. “Came out first and has never waited for me since.”

  “Zip it, Ida. I let you get combed out first this morning, didn’t I?”

  Ida patted her steel-blue helmet of hair. “Yes, but only because you wanted to grill that poor, sweet shampoo girl, Lisette, on the new masseur.”

  Irma harrumphed. It was a sound Lainey hadn’t really thought possible until she’d met the older-by-one-full-minute Armbruster sister. Irma glared at Ida. “I wanted to tell her.”

  Ida suddenly discovered that Mr. Maxwell needed a loving pat and a treat from her pocketbook. But Lainey didn’t miss the small, victorious smile.

  Lainey swallowed her own smile when she caught Irma glaring at her. “So Lillian finally found a new masseuse? Have you made an appointment yet? I know how much you both adored your sessions with Helga.”

  Ida sighed in reverence. “My, yes. She was wonderful.”

  “That’s just it,” Irma put in. “It’s not a Helga.”

  The Scandinavian woman had been gone for close to a year, but the ladies still talked about her departure as if it had happened yesterday. It had been all the scandal when she’d run off with Hector Wadlow, the newly widowed owner of Wadlow’s Hardware. Hector’s wife had been a steady client of Helga’s, which had naturally led to detailed speculation over what exactly had caused poor Mrs. Wadlow’s heart attack. And, before any of them could grill him properly, Hector had sold his business and hightailed it off to Europe with Helga, crushing the local ladies, who’d lost both a masseuse and a fresh bachelor in one cruel blow.

  Lainey went back to slicing the pie. “I thought Lillian had given up trying to replace her.”

  “Well, this one might make it,” Ida said, still patting Mr. Maxwell.

  Irma rapped the counter again. “That’s why we’re here.”

  Lainey jumped, then carefully placed her knife on the counter. “You’re not here for your morning coffee and pie?”

  Irma snorted. She was good with noises. “No time for that. We want you to—”

  “Not we, Irma, you,” Ida corrected. “I wanted nothing to do with your scheme. I said we should leave the situation alone.”

  “Situation?” Lainey looked to Irma. “Scheme?”

  “We”—she shot a challenging look at Ida, who immediately began digging in her purse for another doggie treat—“think you should make an appointment. At Lillian’s.”

  Ida cupped a hand to her mouth and leaned closer. “For a massage.” For all her apparent disapproval, there was no missing the gleam of excitement in her faded gray eyes.

  What were they up to? Lainey waited for an explanation, but they both stared at her with hopeful looks on their faces. “A massage? But I don’t need—”

  Irma grabbed her wrist with surprising strength. “Yes. You do.”

  “You’re the only one we can trust,” Ida added earnestly.

  “Working so hard, standing all day. It’ll do you good,” Irma went on.

  “But why—” Lainey broke off as understanding dawned. “Oh, you want me to test her out.”

  In the two years since she’d moved to the small Gulf Coast community, Lainey had gotten to know most of the Sunset Shores residents. Minerva’s Café was the only local nonfast-food place that served breakfast and lunch and had long ago become a local gathering spot. She knew that none of the residents were hurting financially, but most were still on some sort of fixed income. If it would make the sisters feel more comfortable to have a personal recommendation before making their own appointments, well, Lainey could swing one massage.

  She went over her schedule. She had to run several errands the following afternoon since the café was catering several luncheons at the senior center the next week. On Fridays she was always swamped, and Minerva had her club meeting that afternoon. “Maybe I can squeeze something in on Saturday.”

  “Nothing sooner?” Irma demanded.

  “Irma!” Ida smiled at Lainey. “That will be fine. Thank you, sweetie.” She patted her hand. “You’re a good girl.”

  “But, Ida, we can’t wait that long,” Irma whispered in a low hiss. “She’ll certainly find out by—”

  Something was definitely up, but Lainey was at a loss to pinpoint it. Curious but not worried, she smiled with true affection at both sisters. Squabbling aside, they were sweet and truly cared about her. Lainey jumped into the fray. The twins could make a week-long event out of arguing over their soup selection. “I’m sorry I can’t make it any sooner.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Stop badgering the poor girl, Irma,” Ida chided. “She agreed, after all.” She moved closer to her sister and lowered her voice. “We really should tell her though.”

  Irma quickly leaned past her. “Thank you so much, Lainey, we knew we could count on you. Minerva is right to be so proud of you.” She turned to Ida. “Come on, I want to check out that dress down at Natties.”

  “But …” Ida took several steps behind Irma, then turned and shot Lainey an apologetic look. “We’ll drop in for lunch Saturday.”

  “But you have bridge on Sat—” Lainey didn’t bother finishing her sentence. They were gone. Now what was all that about? They hadn’t even stayed for coffee. She shrugged, but before she got busy and forgot, she dialed Lillian’s and reserved an early-morning slot. Lillian’s receptionist, Jewel, was harried with the early-morning rush but seemed both surprised and happy at the appointment request.

  Saturday morning at eight-thirty, thirty-four-year-old Lainey Cooper was getting her first massage. Hey, she thought with a smile of anticipation, it was the least she could do to help out some friends. Before she’d left Philly, both Conrad, her ex-husband, and his mother, Agatha Maitland of the Philadelphia Maitlands, which was how she always thought of her, had warned her that living in a retirement village would be a stifling bore. As if living with them had been a riot-a-minute, she thought dryly.

  Well, they hadn’t met the Armbruster sisters. Imagining Irma and Ida at one of her ex-mother-in-law’s stiff-necked, pinkie-extended, Junior League teas had Lainey laughing as she went back to slicing the pie.

  “I did not sell a successful international business so that I could spend my days rubbing down eighty-year-old bodies.” Tucker frowned down at Lillian’s be
nt head. Her white-gold hair had been ruthlessly combed into a deceptively wispy, gravity-defying cloud that was held together with enough spray cement to make it hurricane-proof. The head beneath it was every bit as hard.

  “You sold an international business because you’re having a midlife crisis. I’m offering you decent work. Stop whining.”

  Lillian was wearing purple leggings under a long, silky tropical shirt printed with eyestraining pink, purple, and white flowers. They perfectly matched the ones sprouting from the middle straps of her wedge-heeled, white patent-leather sandals, not to mention the ones clipped onto her ears and painted on her purple nails. Tucker had taken one look at her and wished for the towel and satin turban.

  She lifted the glasses that hung around her neck on a long chain of plastic pearls, slid them on halfway down her nose, then went back to surveying her product invoice sheet. “How many Exo Waves do I have?”

  From his perch on a footstool, Tucker scanned the top shelf of supplies. “Six. I could crack ribs, Lillian. Hell, one wrong move, and their entire skeleton might disintegrate.” He turned to face her. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  She shoved the clipboard at him. “You’re helping me with inventory and having a tantrum. Trade places.”

  “I don’t have tantrums.” He tightened his lower lip and dutifully stepped off the stool.

  “It’s the one job here you can do, and the added benefit to it is that it must be done privately, where you have the best shot of gaining confidences and getting some inside information. Heaven knows the things they used to tell Helga. Of course, she didn’t understand much English, but—”

  “Lillian.”

  “My ladies are a lot tougher than they look, Tucker. If Helga didn’t send them to the ER, you certainly won’t.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. And do you really think they’ll trust a man?”

  She eyed him over her glasses. “Well, that’s a loaded question women have been grappling with for eons.” She turned back to counting perms, ignoring his scowl. “You’re charming. When you want to be. And good-looking. For your age.”

  “Please stop before my ego gets too big.” He switched tactics. “Don’t you need a license for this sort of thing? You could get sued or worse.”

  “I’m not advertising that you have one, but I won’t lie if asked, which I won’t be. They’ll be clamoring for you, trust me. And this will all be over before the state board catches on. You did read the books and watch the videos I got you, right?”

  “I hardly think Shiatsu: The Sensual Way to Rub Your Mate the Right Way is part of any accreditation course on clinical massage.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a snob. I happen to think it was wonderful. Why, last weekend, I lit a few candles and invited that nice Stanley Shemanski over and we—”

  “Stop right there.” He knew when he was whipped. “You win. I hope your insurance premiums are up-to-date.”

  “Let me worry about that. You worry about finding out what Minerva, Bernice, and Betty Louise have gotten themselves mixed up in.” She reached out and pushed his bottom lip in. “Buck up. It won’t take that long.”

  He wasn’t so sure about that. “It might take longer than you think to gain their confidence. If Louise Betty, Bernice, and Minerva aren’t talking about—”

  “Betty Louise. And keep your voice down. The walls have hearing aids around here.”

  “I still think that if you’re that worried about them, you could ask the sheriff to help.”

  “I couldn’t go to Roscoe. He’s a friend. The ladies would be mortified if—”

  “It’s his job, Lillian.” But he didn’t push it. She’d been quite adamant about not involving Old Tumbleweed. He hadn’t been any more successful in changing her mind about hiring a real investigator.

  Lillian leaned closer. “I did think of a lead.”

  Tucker worked at not rolling his eyes. “A lead?”

  “Bernice’s husband, Leland, God rest his soul, was quite the gambler. He loved the dogs. Did pretty well, too, as I recall. Maybe Bernice has hit the tracks. Maybe she got in over her head with a bookie.” She frowned. “Betty Louise is a mouse and would do anything Bernice told her to, but Minerva …” She shook her head. “That I can’t figure out. Other than bingo, she’s not much of a gambler. Besides, she’s a cat person.”

  Tucker massaged his temple.

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Anyhow, this is a lead worth pursuing. I think they’re involved in something, and they’ve somehow gotten in over their heads. They’d be too embarrassed to tell anyone. But I’m afraid they’re in danger. I tell you, that guy looked menacing. He’s certainly not from around here.”

  “Anyone under seventy is not from around here.”

  Ignoring him, Lillian did a last scan of the shelves, then snapped the cupboard shut, slipped her glasses off, and turned back to him. “You’ll do fine.”

  “What makes you think they’re going to open up and spill their guts to me?”

  She laughed. “Don’t kid yourself. You are underestimating the effect of strong male hands on a naked female body. Some of these women haven’t had a man’s hands on them in over a decade.”

  Tucker groaned silently, and his stomach tied into another knot.

  “Stop worrying. Follow the videotape, sans the candles and Bolero music, and they’ll be eating out of your hands.”

  “Very fanny.”

  Lillian gave him a sharp once-over. “Actually, I’m more worried about heart attacks than cracked ribs.”

  “Oh, so now the over-the-hill guy is okay?”

  “Hey, if you’re single and breathing on your own, you’re not over the hill to them.”

  Tucker was saved from a reply when the intercom crackled. “Tucker, your eight-thirty is here.”

  His what? Oh, no. A client. He had a client. He looked at Lillian with unconcealed dread. “I have an eight-thirty?”

  Blue eyes twinkling, she said, “Looks like it.” She shoved at his shoulder, almost pushing him out of the small room. “Go on.” He tried to stop, but she swatted him with her clipboard.

  “Hey!” He rubbed his backside but moved down the hallway.

  “And Tucker?”

  He glared at her. “What?”

  “Knock ’em dead, honey.”

  “Not funny.” He swore under his breath. What in the hell had he gotten himself into? He wondered if he shouldn’t have argued so hard to use his own name. But Lance? He still shuddered. “And I changed my mind about that inheritance,” he called back. Her only response was a laugh.

  Lainey tucked in the towel more firmly above her breasts and tried to find a graceful, minimum-exposure way to climb onto the massage table. The room was warm and softly lit, the exotic fragrance of heated oils mixing with the soft jazz being piped in to create a relaxing atmosphere. It was not at all the clinical setup she’d imagined. She laughed at herself. She was there to be pampered, not probed. If she could get over feeling so exposed, she might actually enjoy herself.

  Ignoring the fact that in minutes she would be even more exposed, she gripped the knot at the top of her coral-pink towel, flattened her other palm along the end that barely dangled past her backside, and sidled over to the side of the linen-covered table. No footstool. Hmmm.

  That made graceful and minimum exposure an either/or proposition. What she needed was leverage. She tightened her grip on both ends of her towel and looked at the hip-high padded table. “I’m short one hand.”

  “You can use one of mine,” a deep voice suggested helpfully.

  With a muffled shriek, she spun around. The tall man standing inside the doorway was dressed in white pleated pants and a white crewneck T-shirt. He had thick, finger-ruffled, dark blond hair and blue eyes that would make even Mel Gibson’s wife drool. The first thing that struck her was that Irma was most certainly right. He was definitely no Helga.

  The second thing that hit her was the real reason the sisters had conspired to ge
t her in there.

  “Matchmakers,” she muttered. She thought the Charlie Kovacs incident had cured the Armbruster sisters of their matchmaking tendencies. Charlie was the “nice young accountant” who gave tax seminars at the senior center whom she had agreed to go out with. She’d firmly believed that if she hadn’t said yes, the sisters might have come up with someone a lot worse than a short, balding CPA.

  As it turned out, Charlie had been quite charming, and she’d continued to see him. He’d been confident without being overbearing and had no mother in sight, so Lainey had seen him as a safe way for her to reenter social life as a single woman. And he had been just that … right up until the day the risk-free tax shelter he’d gotten her into was exposed as a scam, which had resulted in her being audited and heavily penalized by the IRS and Charlie being sent to live in a nice minimum-security prison. They had all decided that in the “men” department, there couldn’t be much worse than Charlie Kovacs.

  Lainey looked at the broad-shouldered back and perfectly shaped butt of the man currently sliding a sign that said Occupied into a metal track on the outside of the door. He was a fantasy waiting to happen. And yet she knew with absolute certainty that somehow, some way, the Kovacs theory was about to be proven wrong. Good things did not happen to Madelaine Cooper.

  “He’s got to be married, gay, or a serial killer who likes to massage old people to death,” she murmured.

  He stepped into the room. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  The instant she heard the soft click of the door closing, the room’s temperature went from pleasantly warm to uncomfortably hot.

  When she didn’t answer right away, he said, “I didn’t mean to startle you. I knocked. I must not have done it hard enough.”

  There wasn’t anything this man couldn’t do hard enough. The images that thought produced made her throat go dry. Resist, Lainey. Be strong. Remember Charlie. Remember Conrad. And if that doesn’t work, remember Conrad’s mother. She straightened as a vision of Agatha’s disapproving glare swam across her mind. “I don’t guess you’re the towel guy or the shampoo, uh, boy.”