She's Gotta Be Mine (48 page)

“I saw it first.” Easily a head shorter than Jami, the elderly woman clutched the bag to her chest, her bosom heaving.

“I had it first.” Jami narrowed her eyes and secured her stance on her high heels, like a gunfighter ready to quick-draw. She’d touched it first, so she had dibs. She might not have stood up to Dick Head when he’d ordered her to sign that PO, but she’d go to the mat for that bag.

A tear trickled down onto a cheek that resembled an apple wizened in the sun. “But I need it. You don’t need it.”

Jami took in the woman’s blouse, which was literally falling apart at the seams. The torn hem of her skirt dragged on the orange shag carpet. Jami glanced at the bag. Its label read women’s clothing.

Jeez. Did it matter who’d touched it first? The grab-bag thing was about feeling better, and really, if she yanked it out of this poor lady’s hand, she’d feel lower than dirt. “You’re right. I don’t really need it.” She reached in her purse for a dollar bill and handed it to the woman. “But since I touched it first, I still have to be the one to pay for it.”

The woman beamed. She was missing a tooth. Then she snatched the dollar from Jami, pushed between two men arguing about a broken cuckoo clock that
cucked
but didn’t
koo
, and slapped the bill on the counter before Jami could change her mind. If the old lady had scammed her, she’d done it well, and Jami didn’t mind.

Instead, she bent down, reached into the maze of bags on the shelf without looking, pulled one from the last row, then made her way to the front.

The two men were still arguing about the cuckoo.

When she reached the counter, Olga patted her hand. “What’d
ya
get this time, Baby Doll?”

Smiling, Jami plunked down her dollar. “I have no idea. It’s a surprise.”

Olga looked at the sack’s writing through the bottom of her glasses. “It says—”

Jami stuck her fingers in her ears. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know before I open it.”

There was a whole ritual to follow; okay, she
did
have OCD. She couldn’t read the writing on the outside of the bag, just stick her hand in, eyes closed. It could be clothing, jewelry or books, CDs or video tapes. She’d been known to pick men’s clothing or shoes, but there was always something worth calling treasure, even if all an item did was garner a memory of her father’s
Florsheim
shoes and the quarters he used to pay her as a child to keep the leather polished. Pops had passed from lung cancer ten years ago. He hadn’t smoked a day in his life.

Olga shook the bag. “It sounds like—” she
singsonged
in that raspy voice.

“Stop it,” Jami squealed, playing along. “I don’t want to know.”

Olga loved to tease, and they went through the same rigmarole every time. Maybe that was part of the pleasure of grab-bagging. Olga, her teasing, her smiles. Even before Jami left the shop, she always felt sunnier. A little more hopeful.

“Well, I want to hear what you find inside. If it’s really good, I think we’re going to have to consider raising prices.”

“It’s because they’re only a dollar that you even sell them and you know it.” Jami herself was probably the only one who got a big kick out of what was in the bags anyway. “Raising the price doesn’t do you a darn bit of good if volume goes down.”

“Being a high finance mucky-muck, you
oughta
know.”

Right. She’d been more like Dick Head’s bum girl even if she did have a title.
C’est
la vie.
The bright side was not having to see Dick Head day in and day out. Maybe getting fired was a blessing in disguise.

Olga slammed the cash drawer. “Now get
outta
here, and see if you got anything fun.”

Jami waved. The bag rattled in her hand as she headed out to her SUV. It didn’t sound like jewelry. CDs, maybe videos; she rarely got DVDs, since everybody was chucking their old tapes.

The sun shone through the windshield of her white 4Runner, and once inside she was toasty despite the taste of fall chill.

“What have we got?” she whispered. Tearing out the staples, she closed her eyes and stuck her hand in.

Could be video games. She didn’t know if they came in jewel cases. She opened her eyes to find Lawrence
Welk
staring at her, offering his all-time favorite polkas. Oh my God, her aunt would love it! She sifted through the bag, counting nine more CDs. Maybe it was Lawrence
Welk’s
complete collection. One Christmas present was in the bag, no pun intended. The next one she pulled out, however, was Slim Whitman. Jami laughed out loud. Grandma in the movie
Mars Attacks
had played a Slim Whitman record on her phonograph and made all the Martian heads explode, thus saving the world. Jami had thought they made up Slim just for the movie, but he was an honest-to-God crooner.

Les Paul and Mary Ford were next. A married couple from the fifties timeframe, and the CD featured their Rheingold beer commercials. Hmm, okay. She found four more Lawrence
Welk
, big band, ballads, and standards, then the soundtrack for
The Blair Witch Project
—did it even
have
a soundtrack?—and two CDs from a guy she’d never heard of. Colton Amory. The first was called
Dream Sweet
and the second
Dreaming of You
.

She flipped over one to read the song titles on the back, and her heart simply jumped into her throat. Even in a studio portrait, Colton Amory had the most penetrating pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen, as if he were looking right into her soul. Jami held her breath for several seconds. His hair was dark brown, and though his mustache had one or two streaks of gray in it, she could swear he wasn’t more than mid-thirties. He had a cock-eyed smile that made her want to smile right back at him as if he could see her, and laugh lines around his gorgeous blue eyes.

The dollar she’d paid was worth it for Colton Amory’s photo alone. She turned over the other CD,
Dream Sweet
, and this time his smile was only a hint. As if he had a sexy secret. His mustache was minus the gray streaks. But damn, he was hot in both photos.

The copyright dates on the inside covers showed
Dream Sweet
was the earliest, nine years ago, and the second album,
Dreaming of You
, a couple of years later.

By now, Colton Amory probably had a paunch and a big bald spot, but she could still fantasize about what he’d looked like seven years ago. Since he’d found his way into a Used But Not Abused grab bag, however, his music was probably crap.

She started the engine, yanked his more recent CD out of its jewel case and shoved it into her player, then pulled into traffic to the opening strains of Colton Amory’s guitar. It had an odd sound. No, not odd. Not out-of-tune either. It was unique, in a different key that pulled a person’s soul right into the music. Some songs didn’t penetrate the consciousness. Usually, she’d be thinking about the million things she had to get done in the first five minutes at work and never even heard the songs on the radio. Colton Amory’s music didn’t allow her to think of anything else. It sucked her in and wouldn’t let her go.

Then he started to sing, his voice like the smooth taste of a glass of
Kahlua
-n-cream going down. Sweet and velvety like cream, yet rich and smoky like
Kahlua
. In “Baby, I’ll Find You”, he sang about dreams and soul mates and finding the perfect woman. More than a partner, the person who fulfilled you, completed you, the one who gave you synergy. Separate, you were just going through the motions, but together you were so much more than simply the sum of your separate parts. His words spoke to her inner heart; his voice mesmerized her. She ran through the tail-end of a yellow light, cutting it way too close to red.

Oh. My. God. Colton Amory was a grab-bag treasure among treasures. His lyrics made her want to reach for her dreams.

At the next light, she closed her eyes and shivered with an ache so bad, it made her insides quake. God, she wanted. Everything. A baby growing inside her, then finally, finally, that cherished little human being in her arms. Leo’s ring on her finger. His breath in her ear saying how much he loved her, wanted her, needed her. A four-bedroom house she and Leo owned together, something in the suburbs with a white picket fence and rows of hydrangea bushes. She wanted the blue ones. She wanted all the passion in that song, to rediscover it with Leo. Now. Not tomorrow or next month or next year.

The emotion Colton Amory seared into his music was more than mere words. It was a message. In that grab bag, the universe had given her exactly what she needed. Maybe the universe had been sending her a message when Dick Head fired her, too. It was time to take a stand, go for the gusto, take charge of her life, and ask for what she wanted. She’d waited seven years for Leo to make up his mind. She wasn’t getting any younger. She’d spent far too much time waiting for things to happen. It was time to let go of her fears and force them to happen.

Finding Colton Amory’s music was serendipity. Or fate. Maybe even destiny. Jami knew what she had to do.

Tonight, she’d make up Leo’s mind for him.

Chapter Two

“I hate to say it, sweetie, but no man buys the cow when he can get the milk for free.”

Jami’s shoulders tensed, then her neck, until finally a mammoth tension headache sprouted like an alien probe inside her head. With her outdated clichés, her mother was an anachronism. You’d think Mom had been raised on fifties TV shows like
Father Knows Best
and
Leave it Beaver
. She’d actually caught her mother watching old reruns on TV Land.

But Mom was right, things with Leo hadn’t gone the way Jami planned.

If you enjoyed this excerpt, look for
Baby, I’ll Find You
from Jennifer Skully!

Jasmine Haynes also writes steamy erotic romance single titles. But be warned, this one is pretty darn naughty!

Kinky Neighbors

Cover design by
Rosemary Gunn

Two couples, two very hot wives, two husbands who don’t mind a little swapping...

The Mitchells and the Harts have been next door neighbors and friends for the past year.
 
They have loads in common; double incomes, professional careers, no kids,...and a kinky streak.

Now they’re about to become
very
good friends...with kinky benefits.

The sex between them all is hot, naughty, and unbearably exciting.
 
It isn’t merely swapping partners and moving to another room; it’s true foursome sex, same room, same bed, all four involved.
 
For Drew and Cat Mitchell and Logan and Alexis Hart, it’s about barreling through boundaries none of them have ever crossed before, doing kinky things they’ve only fantasized about.
 
But when they begin to exchange not just sex but emotional connection, the problems start; a little jealousy, feeling left out, wanting more from the wrong partner.
 
Can two couples really share everything without losing it all?