“He’s fanatical about baseball. If he is still in Baltimore, then I’m sure he has season tickets to the Orioles.”

“I’ll make sure.”

“Are we going to spy on him?”

“We?”

“Yes, I’m part of the plan.”

“No, you’re not.”

She leaned forward and grabbed his hand. “Max, I want to help get him.”

He pulled his hand from hers and closed his fist over the lingering warmth of her touch. What was it about her that made him say yes even as he meant to tell her no? It was more than her beautiful face and body, although sometimes it was hard to get past the packaging to see what lay beneath. But he had seen it many times.

The last night they’d been together, he recognized it for what it was. Lola was a warrior. She was a warrior with big breasts, a nice ass, and soft lips that begged to be kissed, but she was a warrior at heart. She wasn’t very good at it, but deep down where it counted, she was a fighter just like Max. “You have to do exactly as I tell you, Lola. No letting your emotions getting involved. The minute you do, we’re caught.”

“I won’t.” Through the darkness and the flickering candle, she smiled.

“All I want to hear from you is, ‘Yes Max.’ ”

She frowned but agreed. “Okay. When do we get started?”

“When I get back from Charlotte.”

“What time do you have to leave tonight?”

“I don’t have to meet with the Duke people until Monday morning. I’m going to grab a room somewhere here and head out tomorrow.”

“It’s only about a two-and-a-half-hour drive. What are you going to do until Monday morning?”

“Research the area,” he lied. When he’d thrown his suitcase in the Jeep, he hadn’t had a plan, just some vague idea of seeing Lola, maybe spending some time with her, making sure she was going to be okay. And yes, he’d hoped to end up naked, face down in her cleavage.

“You could stay here. I have a guest bedroom.”

Okay, so there was probably no hope of rolling around naked in her bed, but that hadn’t been the only reason for his trip. He could keep his hands and all other parts to himself. He would behave, but he knew there wasn’t a chance in hell that he would actually sleep. “That sounds great.”

“Good. I haven’t had a friend sleep over in years. It’ll be fun.”

He reached for his beer and grumbled, “Depends on your definition of fun.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Lola rose and collected the dishes. She moved behind Max’s chair, and when he would have stood, she placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “I’ll get this,” she said, and leaned over him. Her stomach brushed his back, and if he turned his head, his nose would be buried in the side of her breast.

“Let’s do something really fun tonight.”

Oh, yeah. He could think of several fun things to do. The first began with eating off her eat me shirt. “Like what?”

“Let’s pop popcorn and watch Pride and Prejudice. I have the A &E video. It’s six hours long, but I’ll fast-forward to the good parts.” She patted his shoulder. “And tomorrow is my family reunion on my daddy’s side. I wasn’t going to go, but now that you’re here, we can go together.” She gave him a little squeeze. “You’re going to love it.”

He closed his eyes. Jesus, she was torturing him on purpose. She was getting back at him for tying her up last week and threatening to drop-kick her dog off the Dora Mae.

Chapter 13

The Carlyle family reunion was always held on the first Saturday in September, on account of the first Saturday also being the anniversary of the day the Yankees had ridden through North Carolina and burned down the original Carlyle “place.”

Never mind that the “place” had been nothing more than a shack, that the original Carlyles slept with their chickens, and that the war had ended in 1865. Carlyle men had fought and died in the War of Northern Aggression, and their genetic memory lived on in the souls of the current generation.

This year the reunion was being held at Lola’s parents‘, much to her mother’s dismay. The Carlyle woodpile had its share of bubbas and bubbettes, and Lola’s mother didn’t especially care for hell-raisers and beer drinkers in her own backyard. She was a little fearful of that particular breed of men. Those who were devoted to hunting and NASCAR, driving around with Lynyrd Skynyrd cranked on their cheap stereos while lobbing empties in the back of their pickups.

And she would never understand women who thought the sun rose and fell on bubba, who fixed Rotel dip and kept the kids quiet so he could enjoy his Monday Night Football. Those women whose hair could survive the wind whipping through bubba’s truck windows. Although, if her mother was honest, she’d have to admit that her own ‘do could outlast an Oklahoma twister.

The Carlyles’ half-acre yard was shaded with old maples and towering oaks. Long tables were burdened under the weight of fried chicken and cornbread, ham and redeye gravy, Brunswick stew-minus the squirrel-and various homemade pickles and chutneys. A myriad of salads and casseroles took up one table, while three full tables were devoted strictly to cakes and pies.

As with all families, some relations had not traveled beyond their original countrified roots, while others held corporate jobs and lived in the most elusive neighborhoods in Chapel Hill. Rusted-out Chargers and pickups with Confederate flag stickers in the windows were parked next to shiny new Cadillacs and gleaming SUVs.

All of them had come wearing their best. The women in floral print dresses and skirts, Lola in a simple silk chiffon dress with a square neck and little cap sleeves. The men wore nice pants and dress shirts, but none of them looked as good as the man with his hand resting casually in the small of Lola’s back. Max’s tailored shirt was the same blue as his eyes and was tucked into a pair of charcoal pants. European cut, they were fuller around his big thighs and long legs and were cuffed at his hand-stitched loafers. Tall and dark and gorgeous, he looked good enough to eat with a spoon, and Lola thought she might like to sink her teeth into him.

Shortly after they arrived, she introduced Max to her parents, and his gaze turned a bit bemused when her father shook his hand, slapped his shoulder, and thanked him for taking care of his “little girl.” Her mother couldn’t thank him enough for Lola’s safe return, and within moments, everyone at the reunion knew that Max Zamora was the hero who’d saved her from certain death aboard the disabled yacht.

“You forgot a few little details about the night we met,” he whispered next to her ear as they headed across the lawn toward Lola’s great-aunts, who were waving like the lunatics they were.

“You mean the part about you tying me up with my skirt?”

She felt his smile against her temple when he said, “That and you shooting a flare gun at me.”

She didn’t bother telling him that the flare gun had accidently discharged. She figured it was best to keep him on his toes.

Lola introduced Max to her great-aunts Bunny and Boo, who sat at the genealogy table, puffing on Viceroys, drinking bourbon and branch, and handing out copies of the Carlyle family tree.

They’d stapled it together with a list of the previous year’s dearly departed, along with stories the two had penned from their earliest recollections. In Boo’s case, there wasn’t much written on account of “the sugarbetes.” What an insulin deficiency had to do with her memory, no one was quite sure, except that it always got her out of doing anything she didn’t want to do.

“Aunts Bunny and Boo, I’d like you to meet my friend, Max Zamora,” she introduced him to the women who were both in their mid-eighties. “Max, these two ladies are my aunts.”

“Ooh, a Latin lover,” Boo announced, because of course, since Lola had modeled lingerie, it stood to reason that she was loose as a slip knot and Max was just naturally her lover. “Do you speak Spanish?”

“Si. Buenos tardes, senoras Bunny and Boo. Como esta usted?” rolled perfectly off Max’s tongue, and the two aunts gazed up at him as if he’d suddenly turned into Julio Iglesias.

Bunny belted back her bourbon. “You’re as handsome as a silver dollar,” she told him, her voice raw and gravelly from her three-pack-a-day habit. She flicked her Bic, fired up a smoke, and got down to business. “Where are your people from?”

“Texas, mostly, ma’am,” he answered as his hand slid from the small of Lola’s back to rest on her hip.

Everyone knew Texas was southern, but it wasn’t quite as good as being a North Carolinian. Obviously it was good enough for Aunt Boo. “I dated me a fella from Texas once,” she said. “W. J. Poteet. I don’t suppose you know the Poteets?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I remember W. J.,” Bunny joined in. “Isn’t he the one who liked silkies?”

“Yep. Couldn’t abide no cotton undies. Ever since W. J., I only wear silkies, or I wear nothing at all.”

Lola felt her eyes widen and hoped the horror she felt didn’t show on her face. Max simply laughed and gave her hip a gentle squeeze.

“You like silkies?” Boo asked him.

“Well, now-”

“We have to go,” Lola interrupted. “Max hasn’t met Natalie,” she added, referring to her sister.

“It was nice to meet you ladies,” he managed before Lola pulled him away.

“I think my aunts were coming on to you,” she said as they moved past a group of children whacking each other with badminton rackets.

“They’re nice ladies.”

“They’re crazy. Between them, they’ve been married eleven times. They have a weakness for tobacco, bourbon, and husbands. And not necessarily their own. It’s a wonder they aren’t dead of lung cancer, liver failure, or shot by jealous wives,” she said as she found Natalie and her husband standing beside one of the many picnic tables. Natalie held her youngest, two-year-old Ashlee, and Lola immediately took her in her arms.