His Private Pleasure Read online

  “So, he makes a habit of this, huh? Whose is he?”

  “My mother’s.”

  “Aww, that’s so sweet of you, rescuing your mom’s bird.”

  “There is nothing remotely sweet about this bird. Or my mother, most days, for that matter.”

  Liza thought of her own parents and nodded in understanding. She hadn’t heard from her father since marriage number five, which, as several years had passed since then, was likely several “I do’s” ago. Her mother only remembered to check in when she wanted something. Which was mercifully infrequent. “So, what kind of bird is Mango?” she asked. “I’ve never seen a white parrot before.”

  He gave her a long look, then sighed. “He’s a cockatoo. Moluccan.”

  “He’s really gorgeous.”

  “Yeah. Right. A real prince. Listen, maybe you can do me a favor.”

  Liza grinned. She knew she’d get to him eventually. “Sure.”

  “How good are you at climbing trees?”

  Her grin disappeared. “You’re not asking me to climb that tree.”

  He twisted a bit and looked down at her. He could smile, as it turned out, only there was nothing friendly about it. This was more like a take-no-prisoners kind of smile. Still, it managed to send those shivers through her again, anyway. She might like being taken prisoner by him for an afternoon…or three. But she drew the line at physical exertion of any other kind. That’s what personal trainers were for—to sweat with her clients while she got her nails done and took another business lunch.

  “I’m not what you’d call a climber,” she said. “Social, maybe,” she appended with a saucy grin. “Why don’t you let me get you a nice strong fireman with a ladder?”

  “Because Tucker Greywolf would love nothing more than to come pull me out of this tree.”

  “Ah.” The pride thing. This she understood. “What exactly is it you think I can do for you if I were to climb this tree?” Not that she was going to, but she was nothing if not good at solving crisis situations. It was simply a matter of finding out who to call to fix it.

  “My belt is stuck under a knob on this branch. I can’t reach around for it without letting go. If you could climb up just a few feet and pop it off, I could maneuver myself out of here.”

  He was only about twelve to fifteen feet up. A person—meaning someone other than her—would only have to climb about three or four feet, reach the rest of the way, and presto. Shouldn’t be too hard to wrangle someone walking down the street to do that. Only when she turned and looked around the corner, there seemed to be a sudden dearth of pedestrians. A few children down the block on their bikes and two elderly women crossing at the far corner—that was it. She sighed and looked up again.

  He was staring down at her, waiting.

  She glanced down at her perfectly gorgeous Jimmy Choo slings. They gave a two-inch advantage to her skimpy five-foot-four frame, but that wasn’t going to be enough.

  “I can’t climb in heels,” she said.

  “Then kick them off.”

  “I really don’t climb trees. I’m a city girl. L.A. by way of New York.”

  “This is a city.”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “A city with a perfectly good fire department two blocks down.”

  “Forget it.” The sheriff redoubled his efforts, making the branch Mango was perched on sway wildly. The bird merely continued to preen, as if it were the wind blowing and not its rescuer flailing about. Then the sound of ripping fabric rent the air. “Well, shit.”

  “Shit! Shit!” Mango did a little hop from claw to claw, quite happy with his new vocabulary word. “Well, shit!”

  Sheriff Sexy Exposed Ass let his chin drop. “Wonderful. This is all I need.”

  Liza was wide-eyed, staring both at the bird…and the patch of bright yellow smiley faces peeking out from those brown trousers. She focused on the former, though it cost her. “I didn’t know Mango talked. What else does he say?”

  “Only the things you never want him to. Listen, could we cut the chatter—” he glared at Mango “—from both parties, and get my belt unstuck, please?”

  Liza shifted her attention from the prancing cockatoo to the smiley faces. After all, she had tried to focus on the bird first, hadn’t she? “A briefs man, huh?”

  “Wha—? Oh, that. Present from a friend. A joke, really. It’s early when I get up and they were just what came out of the drawer next. Why am I explaining this to you?”

  She shrugged. “That’s what you get for dressing in the dark. Me, I prefer doing it with the lights on.”

  For a split second his gaze sharpened to such a fine point she thought she felt it pierce her. Right where she wanted to be pierced, too. Then he sighed and let his head drop back, and it was like the moment never happened. Only it had. She knew it, and her libido definitely knew it. And wanted to be pierced again. And again. Down, girl.

  “Please, I’m at your mercy here,” he said. “Name your price.”

  Boy, talk about a test. The things she could come up with right now. But she met the challenge and said, “Do they serve lunch somewhere nearby?”

  “Fine, lunch, great. Now could we— Oh, shit.”

  “Shit!” Mango mimicked happily. “Shit, oh, shit!”

  Liza ignored the bird and turned in the direction the sheriff was looking. From his vantage point he could see past the corner. She took a step or two and craned her neck so she could see as well. A small, somewhat interesting contingent was heading their way. A strapping man in a form-fitting blue uniform, framed by two identical middle-aged women in identical business attire, fronted by a tall, rawboned woman wearing plaid Bermuda shorts, a pale green, long-sleeve pullover and a floppy straw hat. A long braid of shocking red hair lay over her shoulder. Her cane clacked against the cement sidewalk.

  “Please God, just kill me now,” she heard the sheriff say over her head.

  “Greywolf and company, I take it?”

  “I will pay any price if you could get me out of this tree before they get here.”

  Liza looked at the closing contingent, still a good block and a half away, then back up to the beseeching eyes of her sheriff. Definitely brown, she thought. And she was a sucker for brown eyes. Okay, so she was a sucker for green eyes. But that was only because she’d never seen eyes like his before.

  “This is going to cost you big, you know,” she said, still weighing her options. “Very, very big.”

  Then he grinned. A real grin. The Cheshire cat had nothing on this grin. “Oh, I’m sure it already has.”

  Liza sighed, then kicked off her shoes.

  2

  DYLAN HADN’T THOUGHT she’d really do it. But he was too damn grateful to tease her about it. He’d get his chance later. A vivacious brunette who liked the feel of a hot rod vibrating beneath her thighs was almost impossible not to have some fun with. And he might just be up for a little fun. As soon as he got out of this damn tree.

  If he wasn’t so annoyed at his mother’s damn bird—and all too aware of the coming confrontation—he’d have enjoyed the hell out of watching Ms. Fancy Heels try to climb a tree. She wasn’t kidding when she said she wasn’t a climber.

  “Dammit!”

  She glared up at him as she lost the scant foot she’d gained and landed on the ground again. He had to admit he admired her spunk when, rather than quit, she squared her lovely, rounded shoulders and tried again. She wore a silky, aquamarine T-shirt that clung to her curves. A narrow band of smooth, honey-colored skin peeked from between the hem of the shirt and the low waistband of her white cotton pants. Pants that hugged her all the way down to just below her knee…and just above a very nice flare of calf muscle.

  Must have gotten them from tottering around on those Popsicle stick heels, he thought, not uncharitably. Given her definite lack of athleticism, he figured she’d been born into those amazing curves of hers…and he was damn grateful for that, even if it didn’t get him out of this tree.

  He win
ced a little when her bracelets—she wore what looked like dozens of silver chains on her wrists—scraped along the gnarled trunk as her slender, ringed fingers scrabbled for purchase. He mentally added a manicure and possibly a trip to the jewelry store to the tab he was rapidly running up with her.

  Another slide, another broken nail. She didn’t even look at him this time. Instead she turned, shot a gauging glance around the corner, then shifted her gaze to her car.

  Oh no. “Now you’re taking off?” Not that he could blame her.

  “Of course not. I always finish what I start,” she retorted, then hopscotched barefoot on the hot pavement as she hurried to the driver’s side of her car and jumped in. Literally. So maybe she was a bit more limber than he’d credited her with.

  “What exactly are you—” He stopped as he realized her plan. She edged her car just beneath the tree, climbed back out, then scooted her fine little body onto the metal luggage rack bracketed to the miniscule trunk.

  “Hold on,” she called up to him.

  “Oh, I’m not going anywhere.” He couldn’t believe she was actually going to all this trouble. But it was too damn entertaining to watch. Not to mention critical to saving his backside. Literally and figuratively.

  He hadn’t been surprised to hear she was from L.A. He could spot that movie-town gloss a mile away. Usually her type headed for Santa Fe and Taos, but occasionally they tooled down to Sierra County for the Balloon Regatta, or just to tell their friends they’d been to a town called Truth or Consequences.

  None of which explained what a West Coast princess was doing crawling up on her car in downtown Canyon Springs. He watched her steady herself and carefully straighten, before looking up at him. Damn, but God had been having a really fine day when he put her together.

  So, maybe Dylan would discover why she was here over lunch. And if he was lucky—and it had been so long since he’d even thought about getting lucky, he figured he was long overdue—breakfast as well.

  Her short black curls whipped about in the breeze, dancing along a forehead presently furrowed as she reached once, then twice, for his backside.

  Her nails were painted dragon-lady red. As was her mouth. And dear Lord, what a mouth. How had he missed that? Her eyes were a bright flashy blue that almost matched her shirt. But that bow-tie mouth… A man could waste large portions of the night fantasizing about a mouth shaped like that.

  She reached up again. This time those nails scraped lightly along the swath of cotton the tear in his uniform had revealed. The way his body leaped to attention you’d have thought she’d stroked them down the length of his—

  “Careful,” he barked when she brushed him again. Jesus, it had been too long, if just the tips of her nails were arousing him so swiftly. It was bad enough his choice in underwear was being flashed to half the town. He really didn’t need to reveal anything else, most especially not a raging hard-on.

  “Get down before you fall,” he ordered, when she made a little hop and swiped at his belt.

  “I can get it, I just have to…” She crouched and jumped a little higher and smacked the heel of her hand against the part of his belt that was stuck. “There!” she cried as it popped free, then shrieked when she lost her balance and did a slow tumble into the front seat of her car.

  “Are you okay?” Dylan levered himself up onto the branch and looked down at the scene below.

  She didn’t answer. Not because she was hurt. Because she was laughing.

  She was sprawled in the passenger seat, legs spread akimbo over the headrest and dashboard, arms flung wide as if waiting for him to hope down to join her.

  “Don’t give me any ideas,” he murmured, then watched in amused fascination as she expertly untwined herself from the upholstery, levered herself upright, then pushed her wayward curls from her face, checked her lipstick in the visor mirror and settled in the front seat as casually as if she was merely waiting for her driver to show up. Yeah, definitely more limber than he’d given her credit for.

  He’d never harbored hot-rod sex fantasies before, preferring the roominess of a bed—a big bed—thank you. But images of tangling himself up with her and all that soft leather were definitely appealing to him at the moment.

  “Sure you’re okay?” he asked, thinking he’d be a lot more okay after a cold shower. Or an afternoon drive into the countryside with her in that car.

  “Oh, no problem, Officer,” she said oh-so-innocently, then followed it up with a sly wink that was anything but. “But you might want to get down from there before…” She pointed behind him.

  Oh yeah. “I have to get this damned bird down first.” He’d forgotten all about Mango. His scowl returned as he looked up to where the cockatoo had been moments ago. There was a great flutter and flapping sound behind him. He swiveled just in time to see Mango stretch his huge wings—his huge clipped wings—and swoop ever so gracefully in an umbrella of white-and-salmon-colored feathers to land on—

  “Look out,” he shouted. “Incoming.”

  Ms. Bow-tie Lips turned just in time to see Mango land on the seat back behind her.

  “Mango is a good boy!” the bird announced rather proudly, then attempted to prove his claim by prancing back and forth, bopping his head up and down, then extending one claw and, very sweetly, asking, “Step up?”

  Dylan swore as he climbed to the lowest branch, then dropped to the ground. “Come here, you big pink chicken,” he said as he approached the car.

  But Mango was having nothing to do with him. He lunged and squawked, his crest fluffed out to its fullest extent.

  “You know, I don’t think he likes you,” his rescuer murmured.

  She really did have the sassiest mouth.

  “He does prefer women. Go ahead, put your arm out for him. He’s asking you to, so it’ll be okay.”

  She laughed—a full-bodied sound that had those images flashing in his brain again. “Yeah, right. I’ve already lost three nails. I’d as soon keep the fingers they were attached to.”

  “He won’t—”

  “Why, there’s my precious boy!”

  Dylan broke off and looked up as Tucker and his mother rounded the corner. He had no idea where the Miller twins, Metsy and Betsy—one fraction of Tucker’s personal fan club—had left off, but Dylan was glad for the reduced crowd. His mother rushed toward him. Rush being perhaps a bit too enthusiastic a term. Avis Jackson did everything at her own pace, even before she’d had to take to using a cane after a round of knee surgery.

  “Come to Momma, my baby.”

  Dylan didn’t turn or open his arms for her, knowing she wasn’t referring to her only son.

  Instead he casually leaned against the car and crossed his ankles, concealing the unfortunate state of his pants—both front and back. “Safe and sound,” he said, trying not to grit his teeth as she cooed and fussed over her “sweet baby.”

  “Sweet my ass,” he muttered.

  “I happen to think it’s pretty sweet.”

  He glanced down to find Liza sizing up the posterior he’d rested just beside her. But before he could respond to her whispered aside, his attention was pulled back to his mother and Mango.

  “You really need to stay where I put you, baby,” she was telling the bird.

  “You really need to use that safe lock I got you after his last escape.”

  His mother merely clucked her tongue and scooped the giant bird up so she could cuddle him against her chest. “He doesn’t like being all locked up. Do you, sweetie?” she crooned.

  “Then you have to keep the windows—”

  She turned on him, her frown emphasizing the deep grooves bracketing her mouth. “I’m not getting any younger, and I’ll stifle if I have to sit all cooped up in some air-controlled trap. I like to feel the air move. Mango and the rest of the flock like the breeze, too.” She turned and her face became a wreath of smiles. “Don’t you, sweet boy?”

  Dylan had long ago stopped trying to figure out how a recalcitran
t, oversize parrot could weasel its way into his mother’s good graces when he’d spent the last thirty years trying to do the same thing, only to conclude no such path existed. For him, anyway.

  “So, you new in town?”

  Dylan shifted his attention back to the sports car. Tucker was leaning over the driver’s side door, beaming that million watt smile he’d perfected back in his high school quarterback days.

  She didn’t answer directly. Instead she stuck her hand out and said, “And you would be?”

  “Tucker Greywolf, town fire marshal.”

  “Pleasure to meet you.”

  Dylan scowled as he watched Liza give Tucker a thorough visual frisking. His frown deepened when Tucker returned the favor. And she didn’t seem to mind.

  Dylan cleared his throat. “We should get this car moved.” He glanced at Tucker. “It’s in a fire lane.”

  “So it is,” Tucker said, still smiling. “Why don’t you move it right around the corner to that lot there?” He pointed diagonally across the intersection. “Next to LuLu’s. I’ll spring for some lunch. It’s nothing fancy, but—”

  “I’ve already got a lunch date, Marshal, but thank you for—”

  “Call me Tucker.”

  She merely smiled. “Thanks for the invitation, Tucker. Maybe some other time. I’m Liza.”

  Liza. Dylan groaned silently. No. This couldn’t be happening. First the call from his old captain this morning. Then playing George of the Jungle. Now this. What were the odds her name would be Liza, of all things? And he’d thought his day couldn’t get any worse.

  Both Tucker and his mother had fallen silent and turned to look at him.

  “Oh shit,” Mango whispered.

  His mother gasped and tucked Mango’s head to her breast. “Dylan Benjamin Jackson,” she hissed. “Tell me you did not use profanity in front of Mango.”

  For perhaps the first time ever, Dylan was almost grateful to the pink chicken for his timely interruption. “Mom, really, it’s not like he—”