Nancy Warren
ISBN 0-7582-0589-9
Mass Market
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Is He The Only Sane Person In Town?
Corporate shark Joe Iskerson wastes no time in getting exactly what he wants. And what he wants is to spend one brief night in Saunders, Idaho, close a major land deal, and get out. But no one told him Saunders is home to a bunch of kooky eccentrics who don’t seem to grasp the concept of money, or that his B&B is a former brothel that now houses retired ladies of the evening. Then there’s the proprietor of the B&B, Emylou Gainor. Pretty, warm, and apparently not deranged, she’s the sort of homemaking, small-town girl Joe would never be attracted to under normal circumstances. But nothing in Saunders is normal. That must be why he’s going wildly, passionately out of his mind for Emylou. The only way to stay sane is to get out of town, before he gives in to total erotic madness…
…Or Is Normal Highly Overrated?
Emylou has always been level-headed. But then, she’s never met anybody like Joe. When he’s around Emylou feels like going deliciously, wickedly insane. Or maybe that old brothel magic is finally starting to work on her. As acting mayor, Emylou is determined to keep Joe in Saunders long enough to save her hometown…even if she has to take leave of her senses and drive him completely crazy to do it…
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Emmylou entered the parlor with the fresh tea and a few more sandwiches, knowing the aunts were all dying to hear about the new guest, when the object of their curiosity walked in. Since she hadn’t dreamed he’d want to sit around drinking tea with old ladies, she was surprised. Even more so when she saw that he was carrying an overweight and rather smug looking tortoiseshell cat.
“Does this cat belong to someone?” he asked in that crisp voice.
“Why Mae West, what have you been doing?”
Aunt Olive said. “We were napping together. When I came down here, she was still asleep.” “She seems to have woken,” said their guest, though that wasn’t entirely true. The cat purred lazily in his arms, its bright green eyes only half open. That cat knew darned well she wasn’t allowed in the guest rooms. Maybe she was trying to fool them into thinking she’d been sleepwalking.
“I’m sorry,” Emmylou said. “Mae West is curious.” She was also man mad, hence her name. “I hope she didn’t disturb you?”
“She was banging on my window and howling.”
She held out her arms, but Mae West wasn’t having any of it. She flopped to her back and turned so she could bury her head against that muscular chest. Emmylou wanted to laugh, but Joe Montcrief didn’t look particularly amused. He was probably calculating his dry cleaning bill, since his cashmere was liberally covered with cat hair.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, taking a firm hold of the cat who meowed in protest. As she scooped up the animal, her fingers inadvertently dug into Joe’s belly and she couldn’t help but notice that he sported a nice hard set of abs. He smelled like something they didn’t get a lot of at the Shady Lady. Like young, virile man. For a second she envied the cat, then gave herself a mental shake and dumped Mae West on the floor. With a brrp, the cat stalked to the couch and leaped to Aunt Olive’s lap.
Joe was brushing cat hair off his sweater and the thighs of his slacks.
Lydia, watching him with interest said, “You like you’ve got a pretty nice package. What’s the matter? Can’t you get it up?”
Joe stopped brushing cat hair off his pants and glanced up at Lydia as though he couldn’t have heard properly.
Aunt Olive, busy stroking Mae West said, “Really, dear. Not in public.”
Betsy merely looked interested.
“Tea!” Emmylou shrieked.
Joe raised his head and blinked at the assembled company. No doubt, they looked like something from a drawing room farce, but if he said one rude or insulting thing to her darling aunts, he’d be out on his ear and that was that.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’d like some tea.”
“I could bring some to your room, if you’re working.”
He looked over at Aunt Lydia, then at Olive and Betsy. “No. I’ll have it here.”
Well, she thought, as she poured him a cup in the best bone china with the pink roses, at least he’d forgotten about the unfortunate incident with Mae West.
“Joe Montcrief,” she said, belatedly remembering her manners, “I’d like you to meet Lydia Smoltz and Olive Bennet, who live here, and Betsy Carmichael who’s come for tea.” And please let them behave.
But Lydia, sadly, wasn’t nearly finished. “Well, young man,” she said, sitting straighter and giving him a glimpse of what a fine pair of legs a woman could still reveal at seventy-five years old, “You were wise to come to us. Did the doctor send you?”
“Doctor?” He held the delicate cup with no awkwardness, and still managed to look manly. Emmylou had a firm rule about getting involved with guests, but she could look, couldn’t she?
“It’s all right. We’ve helped many men like yourself over the years. An older woman can offer so much more than a clueless young woman. In our day, men didn’t need any of those newfangled drugs. They had us, right Olive?”
“That’s right. We worked our magic the old fashioned way. Too bad they couldn’t bottle us back then.”
“Sandwich, Aunt Lydia?” Emmylou asked desperately. But her aunt waved her away. “What is your sexual problem? I’d be happy to help.”
In her day, Lydia, along with Olive and Emmylou’s grandmother, Patrice, had been what Dr. Emmet Beaver termed Intimate Healers. Lydia, however, hadn’t grasped the concept of retirement.
“Sexual problem?” Joe echoed, looking dumbfounded, while three older women who all ought to know better stared at his crotch.
Helpless to think what else she could do, Emmylou passed him his tea and placed a proprietary hand on his shoulder. In a case of desperate times and desperate measures, she said, “Sorry, Aunt Lydia. Joe is my client.”
As her supposed client looked up and caught her gaze, the trickle of awareness she’d felt built up to a waterfall.
Those silver, gray, blue eyes were shot through with devilry. “Thank you Emmylou,” he said. “I think I’m going to need a lot of one on one work.”
Oh, oh. She had a feeling there was trouble ahead.
