Nothing but Trouble (Chinooks #5) (21 page)

In NOT ANOTHER BAD DATE Adele Harris asks the question, “What does a gal have to do to get a good date in this town?” She’s had so many lousy dates, she’s pretty sure she’s cursed. And when she meets Zach Zemaitis, she hopes her luck’s about to change…but is it?

K
iss me, babe.”

“No, really.” Beneath the light of a sixty-watt bulb on her porch, Adele Harris placed a hand on the chest of her latest date. “I’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

Investment banker and former nerd turned world-class jerk Sam King mistook the hand on his chest for a caress and took a step forward, backing Adele against the front door. Cool October air slipped across her cheeks and between the lapels of her coat, and she watched horrified as Sam lowered his face to her. “Baby, you don’t know excitement until I fire you up with a kiss.”

“I’ll pass. I don’t thi—urggg—” Sam smashed his lips against Adele’s and silenced her protest. He shoved his tongue into her mouth and did some sort of weird swirly thing. Three quick circles to the left. Three to the right. Repeat. She hadn’t been kissed like that since Carl Wilson in the sixth grade.

She forced her free hand between them and shoved. “Stop!” she gasped as she reached into the small purse hanging from her shoulder and pulled out her keys. “Good night, Sam.”

His jaw dropped and his brows lowered. “You’re not inviting me in?”

“No.” She turned and unlocked her front door.

“What the hell? I just spent a hundred and twenty bucks on dinner and I don’t get laid?”

She pushed the door open and looked over her shoulder at the moron standing on her porch. The evening had started out okay, but had begun a downward descent with the salad course. “I’m not a prostitute. If you’d wanted a sure thing, you should have called an escort service.”

“Women love me! I don’t have to pay a prostitute,” he protested a bit too much. “Women are dying to get some Sammy.”

By the time the dinner plates had been cleared, the date had nosedived into the third level of hell, and for the past hour Adele had tried to be nice.

“Of course they are,” she said, but failed to keep a bite of sarcasm from her voice. She stepped into her house and turned to face him.

“No wonder you’re thirty-five and alone,” he sneered. “You need to learn how to treat a man.”

For the past hour she’d pretended interest in his narcissistic ramblings. His nonstop bragging and his presumption that he was quite the catch and she was
very
lucky. She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t his fault. That lately she’d begun to suspect there was something about her that made men insane, but he’d just crossed the line. Poked at a very sore spot. “And
you
need to learn to kiss like a man,” she said, and slammed the front door in his stunned face.

Maddie Dupree isn’t in Truly, Idaho, seeking a husband, boyfriend, or anything in between. No, in TANGLED UP IN YOU she’s determined to discover the untold story about the town’s sordid past…and Mick Hennessy is part of that story.

T
he glowing white neon above Mort’s Bar pulsed and vibrated and attracted the thirsty masses of Truly, Idaho, like a bug light. But Mort’s was more than a beer magnet. More than just a place to drink cold Coors and get into a fight on Friday nights. Mort’s had historical significance—kind of like the Alamo. While other establishments came and went in the small town, Mort’s had always stayed the same.

Until about a year ago when the new owner had spruced the place up with gallons of Lysol and paint and had instituted a strict no-panty-tossing policy. Before that, throwing undies like a ring-toss up onto the row of antlers above the bar had been encouraged as a sort of indoor sporting event. Now, if a woman felt the urge to toss, she got tossed out on her bare ass.

Ah, the good old days.

Maddie Jones stood on the sidewalk in front of Mort’s and stared up at the sign, completely immune to the subliminal lure that the light sent out through the impending darkness. An indistinguishable hum of voices and music leached through the cracks in the old building sandwiched between Ace Hardware and the Panda Restaurant.

A couple in jeans and tank tops brushed past Maddie. The door opened and the sound of voices and the unmistakable twang of country music spilled out onto Main Street. The door closed and Maddie remained standing outside. She adjusted the purse strap on her shoulder, then pulled up the zipper on her bulky blue sweater. She hadn’t lived in Truly for twenty-nine years, and she’d forgotten how cool it got at night. Even in July.

Her hand lifted toward the old door, then dropped to her side. A surprising rush of apprehension raised the hair on the back of her neck and tilted her stomach. She’d done this dozens of times. So why the apprehension? Why now? she asked herself, even though she knew the answer. Because it was personal this time, and once she opened that door, once she took the first step, there was no going back.

If her friends could see her, standing there as if her feet were set in the concrete, they’d be shocked. She’d interviewed serial killers and cold-blooded murderers, but chatting up nut jobs with anti social personality disorders was a piece of cake compared to what waited for her inside Mort’s. Beyond the
NO ONE UNDER
21 sign, her past waited for her, and as she’d learned recently, digging into other people’s pasts was a hell of a lot easier than digging into her own.

“For God’s sake,” she muttered and reached for the door. She was a little disgusted with herself for being such a wimp and a weenie, and she squelched her apprehension under the heavy fist of her strong will. Nothing was going to happen that she did not want to happen. She was in control. As always.

TRUE LOVE AND OTHER DISASTERS’ Faith Duffy doesn’t need the pro hockey team she just inherited, and she really doesn’t need the loathsome team captain who comes with it. Ty Savage has lethal sex appeal…and Faith knows it would be disastrous to get involved with him. But as we all know, sometimes disaster is just waiting to happen…

H
e stopped in front of her and held out his hand. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” A slight frown creased her smooth forehead and her big green eyes looked up into his face. She was even more beautiful and looked much younger up close. She placed her hand in his; her skin was soft and her fingers a little cool. “You’re the captain of Virgil’s hockey team. He always spoke highly of you.”

It was her hockey team now, and what she did with it was up for speculation. He’d heard she was going to sell it. He hoped that was true and that it happened soon.

Ty dropped her hand. “Virgil was a great guy.” Which everyone knew was a stretch. Like a lot of extremely wealthy men used to getting their way, Virgil could be a real son of a bitch. But Ty had gotten along with the old man because they’d had the same goal. “I enjoyed our long talks about hockey.” Virgil might have been eighty-one, but his mind had been sharp and he’d known more about hockey than a lot of players.

A smile curved her full kiss-me-baby lips. “Yes. He loved it.”

She wore very little makeup, which surprised him given her former profession. He’d never met a Playmate who didn’t love to paint her face. “If there is anything the guys and I can do to help you out, let me know,” he said without much sincerity, but since he was the captain of the team, he figured he should offer.

“Thank you.”

Virgil’s only child stepped forward and whispered something in the Widow’s ear. Ty had met Landon Duffy on several occasions and couldn’t say that he liked him much. He was as ruthless and driven as Virgil, but without the charm that had made his father such a success.

The Widow’s smile faltered and her shoulders straightened. Anger flashed in her green eyes. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Savage.” Like a lot of Americans, she’d mispronounced his name. It wasn’t savage, like in
beast
. It was pronounced Sah-vahge.

Ty watched her turn and walk away, and he wondered what Landon had said. Obviously, she hadn’t liked it. His gaze slid down her blonde hair to her nicely rounded behind in the plain black dress that looked anything but plain. He wondered if Virgil’s son had propositioned her. Not that it mattered. Ty had more important things to worry about. Namely, this Thursday’s game in Vancouver when they’d take on the dual threat of the Sedin twins in the playoffs opener. Until three months ago, Ty had been captain of the Canucks, and he knew better than anyone to never underestimate the boys from Sweden. If they were on their game, they were a defenseman’s worst nightmare.

“Have you seen the pictures?”

Ty removed his gaze from the Widow’s departing ass and looked over his shoulder at his teammate, all-around shit-disturber, Sam Leclaire. “No.” He didn’t have to ask what pictures. He knew and had never been interested enough to search them out.

“Her boobs are real.” Out of one corner of his mouth Sam added, “Not that I looked.” He tried to appear innocent, but the black eye ruined it.

“Of course not.”

“Do you think she can get us invited to the Playboy Mansion?”

“See ya tomorrow,” Ty said through a laugh and moved toward the entry.

With the publication of
New York Times
bestselling author
RACHEL GIBSON
’s first book, readers discovered one of contemporary romance’s freshest voices. Four of her novels were named among the Top Ten Favorite Books of the Year by Romance Writers of America. She has won numerous awards, including Borders Bestselling Romantic Comedy, National Reader’s Choice, and the RITA
^®
Award for the Best Single Contemporary Romance Title of the Year.

Readers can write to Rachel Gibson at P.O. Box 4124, Boise, Idaho 83711-4124, or visit her website at
www.rachelgibson.com.

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