Dear Sir, I'm Yours (8 page)

A roofer would be by tomorrow morning. Of course, the front gate needed work. A landscaper would come help with the pond. She’d noticed some water marks on the attic and second floor ceilings, which would probably be resolved by the roof repairs. Thankfully, those areas of the grand old house hadn’t been renovated yet. Once the roof was sealed, Miss Belle could bring in her finishers to paint the plaster.

After last night’s craziness, she’d been afraid whether Miss Belle would actually let her work, or if the old lady would hang around second-guessing everything she did. She didn’t seem to be the kind of lady who let things happen without her nose stuck in it. Miracle of miracles, though, the old gal finished breakfast, made sure Rae had everything she needed, and then jumped in her Caddy and drove off to go shopping in Branson. Definitely a crazy old lady to face the tourists and traffic just to shop!

The best painter she knew was able to stop by since he was in the area. Joe was up on a ladder checking the integrity of the old paint, scraping here and there up under the eaves on each wall to catch any rot that needed to be addressed before the new paint went up.

Rae’s cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number. “This is the Fix-It Lady making your house nightmare right. What can I do for you today?”

“Pop quiz, darlin’.”

Broad daylight without a single touch, and her breasts tightened to the point she wished she had a denim shirt on over her tee shirt. “Good morning to you too. Did you sleep well?”

She moved down the side of the house toward the front porch. She’d been wondering how long it’d take him to call. Checking her watch, she was impressed. He’d almost made it until noon.

“Hell no, and I had an appointment early this morning, too.” He actually growled, which made her smile. She’d slept terribly too, tossing and turning all night, aching to be in his arms.

“Tell me the poet and the choice is yours, dinner out tonight or we’ll eat with Miss Belle again.

Extra credit if you can quote some lines of the same poem. Ready?”

“What’s the extra credit worth, so I’ll know whether I should run upstairs and drag out my anthology from your class.”

Conn laughed. “No cheating, and I’m not telling you the extra credit until tonight. Just know you won’t be sorry at all to win it.”

“It’s been a long time, Dr. Connagher. What if I fail this quiz?”

“Then you’ll have a chance to see how Miss Belle can burn even microwaved leftovers.”

“Ouch, alright. I’m ready.”

“‘
The everlasting universe of things/ Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves,/

Now dark—now glittering—now reflecting gloom—
’”

“That’s easy. ‘Mont Blanc’ by Percy Bysshe Shelley.”

“Excellent, Miss Jackson. Can you quote some?”

She tried to remember what came next but drew a blank other than a snippet of a line from near the end. “‘
Mont Blanc yet gleams on high.
’ That’s all I remember.”

“Good enough, that’s worth a little extra credit. So what time can I pick you up tonight?”

“Where are we going?”

“A little place I know called Mythos in Joplin.”

Wow, that was a bit of a drive. Which reminded her of something. “How about six o’clock and a favor?”

“Anything.”

That silky seductive voice made shivers slide down her spine. Damn, he’d be good at phone sex. Who was she kidding? From what she’d seen, he was good at anything that had to do with sex. “Can I take your Mustang for a little test drive?”

“You can drive us tonight if you want.”

Richard would’ve died before letting her drive his flashy SUV. “Some men don’t like the little woman driving their baby.”

“Blow the engine up. Run it off a cliff, as long as you’re not in it, of course. I don’t give a rat’s ass about the car, darlin’. You’re my baby and you can drive it anywhere, anyplace, anytime you want.”

Her throat felt thick and tight, but she tried to laugh it off. “I’m a bit of a speed demon.”

“Bring it on, darlin’. But I have one request, too.”

“What?”
Anything
, her heart screamed.

“Wear something white, and I’m not talking panties. Actually, I’d prefer you didn’t even have anything on beneath.”

Remembering that tiny little mini-skirt still in the suitcase stuffed in the guest closet, Rae shuddered. No way in hell, even if the damned thing still fit. “Is that an order?”

Because she didn’t know if that was the kind of game she wanted to play with him or not. If he truly thought it a game…maybe. But if he was serious, she’d forget her promise and run like hell. She wasn’t changing herself again for any man. Not even him.

“Do you want it to be?”

She sharpened her voice to prove she could. “No.”

“Then I beg most humbly that you torment me with something white and don’t tell me what you’re wearing underneath. Make me work for that knowledge.”

Another wave of heat washed over her. Yeah, she could do that. “What is it with you and white?”

“White is virginal innocence, which brings out all my wickedness and debauchery. To a man like me, it’s like waving the white flag of surrender. I see you pure and innocent in white and I can think of nothing else but all the ways I might be able to get that pretty white a bit dirty.”

Oh. Her face felt like she’d fallen into a campfire. She leaned against a formal column of the front porch, trying to calm her breathing. She wasn’t some fluff-brained twit of a virgin ready to blush and swoon at the slightest thought of sex, but somehow, he had that effect on her. If she was white, he was sinful black.

“You’re blushing. And that drives me wild, too.”

He didn’t sound wild at all, but rather terribly calm, promising hours of sensual torment.

Her voice was throaty, but at least she found it. “I don’t have a white dress, and I don’t do shopping.”
Not even for you.

“Wear whatever you’ve got, darlin’. I’ll still want to debauch you.”

“Nobody says debauch anymore.” A startled curse from the painter sent Rae hurrying back around the house. “I’ve got to go. Something’s up.”

She hung up and found Joe swiping fresh emerald green paint off his face and hands.

“What happened?”

“I was going to paint a few test colors for you and Miss Belle to look at and the can just blew up in my face.”

“Well, you look good in green.” Laughter wiped some of the sheepish anger off the man’s face. She couldn’t afford to lose him—he was one of the best housepainters she’d ever met. Most people would argue anybody could paint a house, but she begged to differ. What Joe did was art, plain and simple. Plus, he knew the right historic colors to use.

“I guess the house just doesn’t like green.” Joe said, shaking his head. “Look at the wall.

Not a drop. In fifteen years I’ve never had a can blow up like that on me. It should have sprayed everywhere.”

Hair prickled at the base of her neck, a hint of chill creeping down her spine. Something odd was definitely going on in this house. What’d she expect when Miss Belle supposedly talked to her dead husband enough to make that ridiculous bet? “What other colors do you have?”

“I figured you’d want to stay white on the walls, but some of the trim could use a punch.

The black here on the eaves and trim is a little boring. Lots of houses used this hunter green way back when, but it’s a little fresher.”

“Let’s talk to Miss Belle, but she’ll likely want to stay white and black.” Seemed to be a family theme going here. “What about the front porch columns?”

Joe picked up a couple of pints and they walked around to the front of the house. “The color’s faded so bad I couldn’t tell what it used to be. Something soft, like a muted pastel.”

Gingerly, he set the paint cans down on the ground, keeping an eye on them. “I thought maybe a pale lilac would be nice.”

One of the paint cans fell over and rolled down the lawn toward the driveway. Rae stared at it, her mouth falling open in shock. She glanced at Joe to see his reaction, and his face was pale and sweaty.

His voice shook. “Or gray…”

The can shook, rattling, and the lid bulged like it was going to explode. They both took a wary step back.

“Or this really soft pale pink,” he said hurriedly. “It’s called Rosebud Blush.”

The other can stopped shaking.

Joe licked his lips. “I think the house wants pink. I’m not imagining this, right? You saw it?”

Rae nodded, her eyes wide. She remembered the weird swinging chandelier in the library when she’d first interviewed. The chills she kept getting. The way Miss Belle knew who was at the door last night before Bill Franklin had ever said a word. “It’s not the house. It’s a…

ghost.”

Colonel Healy’s ghost truly did haunt Beulah Land.

Her cell phone rang again. Still shaken, she didn’t look at the number but flipped it open.

“I don’t have time for another pop quiz.”

“Rae?” Her mother’s voice was shaky.

Immediately, her heart clenched with worry. “Is Daddy okay?”

“He’s fine.”

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

“Richard stopped by here today asking questions.”

Dread roiled in the pit of her stomach. “What’d he want?”

“He wanted to know where you were. I told him I didn’t know, but you’d gotten a new job. Did I say too much?”

“No, that’s fine. Listen, if he stops by again, call me immediately. I’m not going to let him bother you and Daddy. I’ll get a restraining order if I have to.”

“I’m not worried about us, Rae, but you. I always thought he’d give you more problems than he did with the divorce.”

“Yeah, me too.” As ugly as their last fight had been, she’d been surprised when he’d slunk off without a word after the divorce. Or had he? The thought made her stomach heave.

“I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

“Take care of yourself, Rae.”

Miss Belle flopped into a wing-backed chair, surrounded by packages. “What a simply wonderful day!”

Coming in from the kitchen with a tray, Rae had to smile. Did they even have that many pink outfits in all of Branson? “Would you like a cup of tea, Miss Belle?”

“Oh, you sweet dear. Thank you.”

She poured, trying to decide the best way to broach the whole ghost situation. She kept trying to convince herself she’d been mistaken, but the memory of that poor man covered in emerald green paint…

“You simply must come with me next time, Rae Lynn. I’ve missed shopping for my girls all these years.”

Shopping for her girls? Eyes narrowed, Rae shot another glance at the bags.

“I’m usually very good at judging sizes, but I’m afraid I might be slightly out of practice.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did,” the old lady replied smugly. “Most of these are yours.”

“But—” Rae spluttered. “I can’t accept a bunch of clothes!”

“Of course you can. I specifically included a clothing allowance in your contract. What fun is a female property manager if I can’t shop for you? Now why don’t you try on a few things and model them for me. I want to help you pick out your outfit for your date tonight.”

Gritting her teeth, she concentrated on not screaming. “Absolutely not.”

***

Sighing, Conn rubbed his eyes. Maybe a few drinks with Mason would make these composition books easier to wade through. Freshman English essays were always a trial, but this semester he despaired of ever teaching anybody anything. Some of the essays read like a kindergartener had written them.

Trying to grade right after lunch was probably a mistake, but he’d hoped to at least make a dent in the stack before the evening. An evening with Rae, alone, far from Miss Belle’s ever watching eyes. What he wouldn’t give to have Rae sitting across from him now in that outrageously short skirt.

Groaning at the thought, he opened the top essay. Maybe it was for the best that she didn’t own a white dress.

This one was actually written in crayon.
Lord Byron is a dead dude who wrote crappy
poetry.

“They don’t pay me enough for this shit,” he muttered, and immediately felt guilty. He’d never signed up to teach for the money. Shuffling the crayon masterpiece to the bottom of the stack, he selected another and braced himself to dig in and search for some glimmer of understanding.

His office door opened.

Everyone knew to leave him alone if his door was shut. Frowning, he looked up and his stomach turned to cold, hard lead. He should have locked his door. “Miss Barrak, my office hours are over.”

Olivia Barrak sidled up to his desk anyway, planted her hands on his polished cherry desk and leaned down to show an ample amount of cleavage. Conn actually feared she might fall out of the ridiculously skimpy bra right into his face. “You had too many students earlier, Dr. Connagher, and I must speak to you about my mid-term.”

“There’s nothing to discuss, Miss Barrak.” Deliberately, he made his voice hard and cool. He’d been having problems with this student all semester, not only her inappropriate behavior toward him personally, but also her terrible work and now attempted cheating in his class. Even if Drury didn’t have a zero-tolerance policy, he would have failed her. She obviously thought she could get through life on looks alone.

Chesty and curvy with thick platinum hair artfully styled to frame her heart-shaped face and pouty lips, she reminded him of Marilyn Monroe. Blatant sexuality had never been his type. In fact, the cooing, smoldering look on her face twisted his stomach.

Another student had come to his office hours regularly five years ago, and he’d looked forward to every single moment with Rae. He’d relished the agony of sitting behind his desk and watching her steal glances at him while he drilled her on poetry. The difference between her and this troublesome student was monumental. Rae had worked her butt off for him. He’d assigned extra reading and assignments, and she’d done them all to the best of her ability.