Janet Evanovich - Wife for Hire

“Definitely not.”

“You aren’t one of those stubborn redheads, are you?”

She hated being called a stubborn redhead-mostly because she knew it was true. “I’m not a stubborn redhead,” she said. “Tomorrow is totally unreasonable.”

“Okay, day after tomorrow.”

“I’ll need three days minimum.”

“Fine,” Hank said. “Three days.”

It was raining when Maggie and Hank reached the Vermont state line at four in the afternoon. Two hours later Hank left the smooth superhighway running north-south and turned onto a secondary road. The secondary road quickly narrowed, winding its way around foothills, slicing into the heart of tiny towns and national forestland.

Water sluiced off the side of the shoulderless road, and rain ran in rivulets down the windshield of the old maroon pickup. Maggie anxiously squinted through the steamy windows, eager to take in all of Vermont.

It didn’t matter that it was pouring buckets, that the sky was leaden, that the pastureland had been churned into viscous mud by the holsteins standing in small, sullen herds. It was all new and wonderful to her. No Markowitz Coat Factory, no little brick houses with jalousies, no one watching from parted drapes to see what crazy Maggie Toone was up to.

“Are we almost there?” she shouted over the clattering engine and drone of rain on the roof.

“Two miles down this road and we’ll be in Skogen. Then it’s just three miles farther.”

They hit a pothole and Maggie braced herself against the dashboard. “I think you need new shocks.”

“I needed new shocks a year ago.”

“And do you think the motor sounds funny?”

“Valves,” he said. “The valves are shot.”

“I should have brought my car.”

“We’ve been all through that. You drive a sports car. No one’s going to think you’ve turned me into a paragon of virtue and hard work when you go zooming around in a flashy red toy.”

Houses stood back from the road with increasing regularity. They passed a forbidding yellow brick building labeled Skogen Elementary School, and suddenly they were rattling down Main Street with its large white clapboard houses and tidy lawns.

It was a classic New En gland town, dominated by the Skogen Presbyterian Church, its white wooden spire punching heavenward through the rain. Big Irma’s General Store was on the right, hunkering behind two gas pumps and a sign advertising live bait and fresh pies. Then came Keene Real Estate, Betty’s Hair Salon, Skogen Sandwich Shop, Skogen First National Bank and Trust. That was the extent of the town.

The business district was left behind as the maroon truck pushed on. The land became more rolling, and the first of the apple trees appeared.

Hank turned into a private road that wound through the orchard. “You can’t see the house from here because it’s down in a hollow, but it’s just past that hill ahead of us.”

Maggie leaned forward and wiped at the windshield with the heel of her hand. She peered through the smeary circle she’d cleared, and gave a gasp of approval when the big white house came into view. It was just as she’d imagined. A gray slate roof, slick with rain, two stories of clapboard with lots of windows and a wide wraparound porch. A big black dog lay on the porch: Its head rose when the truck crept into the drive. Maggie could see the thick black tail begin a rhythmic thump on the wooden porch floor.

“That’s Horatio,” he said. “Man, it’s good to be home!”

Maggie gripped the plastic cat carrier on her lap more firmly. “You didn’t tell me about Horatio.”

“We’re buddies. We do everything together.”

“He doesn’t chase cats, does he?”

“Not to my knowledge.” He had scared the bejesus out of a few rabbits, Hank thought. And once he caught a squirrel. But as far as he knew, Horatio didn’t chase cats.

“Fluffy has always been an apartment cat,” Maggie said. “She’s never seen a dog. She’s really a sweetie pie.”

Hank gave the cat carrier a quick glance from the corner of his eye. Fluffy, the sweetie pie, was making unearthly growling sounds that had all the little hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end. “She sounds…annoyed.”

“Don’t worry,” Maggie said into the cat carrier. “We’re going to get you out of there right away. I’m going to take you into the house and feed you a nice smelly can of cat food.”

By the time Hank had stopped the truck, Horatio was wagging his tail so hard his whole body was in motion. Hank opened the door, and the dog vaulted off the porch. He hit Hank at a flat-out run, planting two huge paws on Hank’s chest. Both of them went down in the mud with a loud splat and a grunted expletive.

Maggie looked over and grimaced. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Hank said. He was spread-eagled on his back in six inches of brown muck. Horatio stood with his paws still on Hank’s chest. “I’m just dandy.”

She searched for something positive to say. “He sure seems happy to see you.”

This is nothing, Hank thought. Wait until he gets a load of Fluffy.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

The rain was pouring now and she had to shout to be heard. Hank was entirely soaked, and coffee-colored water was swilling around his pants’ legs.

This had to be one of the worst ideas he’d ever had, Hank thought. He wondered if he rolled back onto his stomach and plunged his head into the puddle, would it be possible to drown himself? At the moment it seemed his most pleasant option.

He looked up into Horatio’s face and took solace. At least his dog thought he was wonderful. What Maggie Toone thought of him was beyond imagining. He definitely wasn’t at his masculine best.

“Why don’t you and Fluffy go on into the house, and I’ll be along. The door should be open.”

Maggie nodded and slipped out of the truck, clutching the animal crate. She moved as fast as she could, but she was drenched by the time she reached the porch. Rain dripped from the tip of her nose and off the ringlets at the side of her face. She removed her shoes and stepped into the foyer.

“Hello,” she called, expecting the house keeper he’d promised. But the house was dark and empty. A momentary stab of fear raced through her. What if there was no house keeper? What if it had been a ploy to get a woman alone?

That was ridiculous, she told herself. The employment agency had thoroughly checked out Hank Mallone’s background, and they’d assured her he didn’t have a criminal record. Hank Mallone was exactly what he appeared to be, she told herself. But she wasn’t sure that was comforting.

Hank stood at the bottom of the porch stairs for a moment, letting the rain wash over him, removing the larger chunks of mud. He stepped under the protection of the porch roof, wiped the water from his face, and shook himself like a dog. He looked through the screen door at Maggie. Not a terrific homecoming, he thought. Her eyes were large, her lips pinched tightly together. He couldn’t blame her if she was suddenly frightened and having second thoughts. He probably looked like some deranged yahoo.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not as stupid as I look. I couldn’t possibly be.”

“I’m not worried,” she said, trying not to let her voice waiver. “I’m really very brave. One time I picked up a snake with a stick.”

He felt a smile begin to spread to his face. Damned if she wasn’t cute when she was trying to be brave.

“This is different,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “This is man-woman stuff. You’re probably a little worried about being alone out here with such a smooth guy.”

Maggie giggled. Ordinarily she wasn’t the sort of person who giggled, but it gurgled from her throat in a rush of relief and gratitude. “Thanks. I guess I needed reassuring.”

His gaze inadvertently dropped to her wet shirt, perfectly plastered to high, round breasts, and a pained look came over his face. Now if only he could reassure himself he wasn’t a sex-starved pervert.

Because that’s how he was feeling. He had mud in his ears, his briefs were waterlogged, and his shoes squished when he moved. Only a total degenerate could get aroused under those conditions, he told himself. And it wasn’t just her shirt that was doing it. It was the way her eyelashes looked all spiky when they were wet, and the way the rain had brought out the scent of her shampoo.

“This is awkward,” he said. “This is the first time I’ve ever pretended to be married.”

He was so close, she could feel his body heat steaming off his rain-drenched clothes, and his nearness had the same effect on her as a belt of bourbon on an empty stomach. Fire roiled through her.

She took a step backward, and gave herself silent warning that she wasn’t an impressionable teenager. Modern, intelligent women did not crumple into a heap of slavering goop just because an attractive man invaded their body space, she told herself. She gave his hand a motherly pat and made an effort to bring the moment back into its proper perspective.

“It’s not so serious. It’s a bogus marriage. It’s temporary. I’ll only be here for six months.”

“Oh yeah? What if you get attached to me? Horatio was only supposed to be temporary. Big Irma asked me if I would take him for a few days, until she found a home for him. That was three years ago.” He fondled the dog’s satiny black head.

“Now he’s crazy about me. I can’t get rid of him. He follows me everywhere.”

He leaned a little closer to her, and the corners of his mouth tipped up into a smile. “He’d do anything to get his ear scratched. Anything! That could happen to you, you know.”

The man made a fast recovery, Maggie thought. One minute he was on his back in the mud, and the next minute he was teasing her.

“I’ll try to control myself,” Maggie said. “If I get a sudden, overwhelming urge to have you scratch behind my ears, I’ll lock myself in my room.”