Tease Me (27 page)

“So how may I help you?” Despite her jitteriness, she met his gaze evenly.

Without breaking eye contact, he stepped closer to the desk and leaned one large forearm
against it. “I need a room.”

With difficulty, she swallowed. He was making it impossible to be rational. “Why don’t
you stay with one of your brothers? I’m sure they’d be happy to have you.”

“I’ve been staying with Val on that damned houseboat of his. It’s no good for writing,
sleeping … or anything else.”

Blinking, she tried to focus. “So, ah, how long will you be staying?”

“Indefinitely.” He was still staring at her with great interest.

“We don’t really do that here—”

“Theo,” he supplied.

“This isn’t really a long-term kind of place. For one thing, it’s very expensive.”
For another, having you stay here would be dangerous
. She knew her aunt would tell her that turning away customers during the low season,
especially when the Inn was empty, was bad for business, but she tried to convince
herself she was simply looking out for his best interests.

“You don’t think I can afford it?”

“No,” she said quickly. “What I meant to say was that if you’re going to be staying
in town for a while, you might want to consider renting an apartment instead. It would
be more cost-effective.”

“Cost isn’t an issue.”

“Even so, sir, I think that—”

“Theo,” he insisted.

“
Theo
, I think that you should find someplace else.” Somewhere far away from the Inn where
she wouldn’t be distracted by him. She needed to figure out her long-term game plan
for getting back on track with her career. The last thing she needed was to be tempted
into some short-term affair that could only go nowhere.

“Clearly, you don’t have a background in sales,” he said wryly.

The redness suffusing her cheeks was answer enough.

“Look, do you have any available rooms or don’t you?” he asked softly. But there was
hard steel behind his voice.

“We do, but—”

“Then I’ll take one.” He reached into his pocket, pulled a credit card from his wallet,
and handed it to her.

Avery frowned as she looked down at his enormous hand. She reached for the card, but
as she grabbed it, her fingertips brushed his. Before she could even think, an
electric jolt raced from the place they’d touched and zapped up her arm. It wasn’t
static electricity—it was something different entirely. Now she was tingling. All
over. She snatched her shaking hand away and glanced up at him.

A mistake. Again.

This time he gave her a full smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. This man
was
dangerous, no doubt about it. She quickly swiped the card, all too aware that he
was watching her every move.

“So,” she said when the card cleared, “would you like me to show you to your room?”

“That would be nice.”

“Follow me, then.” Immediately missing the sanctuary of the desk, she walked as briskly
as possible through the foyer. When she reached the staircase, she stopped and turned.
He was right there behind her, and though she knew it was unwise, she met his gaze,
praying he couldn’t tell how nervous she was. “After you,” she said, gesturing for
him to go up first.

“Oh, no,” he said, looking at her intently. “After
you
.” Since he was now a paying guest, she couldn’t exactly insist, so she headed up
the stairs to the second floor, stepping precisely on each stair, acutely aware of
his gaze.

“So you’re back in town for a visit?” she asked, trying to choose a neutral subject.
“You live out West somewhere, right?”

“San Francisco. I’m just visiting for a couple of months. I needed some inspiration
for my writing, and Star Harbor seemed like a good place to start.” His voice was
low.

Heading up the next flight of stairs—the ones that led to the two rooms on the third
floor—she placed her hand on the banister as she made the turn. “I could use some
inspiration myself,” she muttered.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” she said curtly. There was no way she was getting into that with him. Not
now. Not ever. “Here’s your room—Smuggler’s Cove. I put you in the top corner room
with a nice view of the water. It should be quiet up here, especially since we don’t
have that many guests at this time of year. Tea is served in the parlor at two-thirty
every afternoon. Do you have any luggage you’d like brought up?”

“Not right now.” He paused, and she knew he was staring at her. “May I?” he asked,
his voice quiet.

“Oh, yes, sorry,” she said, holding out the room key for him to take. He moved closer
until he was standing directly in front of her. She forced herself to look at him.
When her eyes met his intense gaze, her breath caught in her throat. Instead of reaching
for the key, as she’d anticipated, he raised his hand to her head. Without warning,
he lightly ran his fingers through her hair from her scalp to the ends of the strands,
staring at them with wonder as they fell from his hand. Her body’s entire nervous
system went into overdrive, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

Even as she shivered from the contact, he swept the key from her hand, unlocked the
door, stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him.

Right in her face.

Avery stood there for a few seconds, frankly shocked. Finally, she came to her senses,
releasing the breath that she’d unconsciously been holding. More disturbed at her
reaction to his touch than she was by his obnoxious manners, she turned and slowly
descended the stairs, fervently hoping—no, praying—that as long as Theo Grayson was
at the Star Harbor Inn, he would stay in his room and out of her way.

Read on for an excerpt from Karen Leabo’s

Lana’s Lawman

PROLOGUE

Ten Years Ago

“Please, guys, could you wait your turn?” eighteen-year-old Lana Walsh pleaded as
she tried to make sense of the handfuls of grimy dollar bills being thrust at her.
She’d warned her friend Callie Calloway not to put her in charge of carnival tickets.
Math was her worst subject.

“One at a time,” she tried again. It was hot in the gym. Why didn’t someone turn on
the air-conditioning? It was April in central Texas, for crying out loud. Texans needed
their A/C.

She looked up at the half-dozen senior boys who had descended on her booth. Then she
noticed the boy in back, standing slightly apart from the others, and her breath caught
in her throat. Sloan Bennett. What was
he
doing here? With his long hair and his motorcycle and black leather jacket, he was
every schoolgirl’s bad-boy fantasy.

What no one knew—at least, not from her—was that Sloan was more than Lana’s fantasy.
For twenty-three days he had been her reality. Her obsession. The boy who’d found
dark, uncharted territory in her soul and scared her to pieces at the same time.

Almost two weeks had passed since their explosive breakup. She’d managed to avoid
him since then, although it didn’t feel right, not after what they’d shared. But she’d
taken a long look at herself, at her goals, her dreams, and she’d known she was better
off without Sloan in her life. She’d
had
to get out—while she still had choices to make.

Then why, when she tried to put it all behind her, did it hurt so much?

Sloan wasn’t bad, not deep down. He wore the outward trappings of a rebel—perhaps
because that’s how other people had labeled him from early on—but to those who really
knew him he was more hotheaded than truly destructive, even if you took into account
the fact that he’d once stolen a car.

He hadn’t pressed Lana to make love. She’d been perfectly willing.

Lana suddenly found herself wishing she could rush through the ticket sales to these
boring football players so Sloan could advance to the front of the line and she could
talk to him. They’d both cooled down by now, she reasoned. Maybe she could make him
understand.…
Or maybe you’re hoping he’ll make you change your mind
, an inner voice whispered seductively.

“You, Gaston,” she said, addressing Bart Gaston,
the team captain. “You first. How many tickets would you like?”

Bart, big and blond and too sure of himself, leaned across the table until he was
uncomfortably close. “However many you got.”

“I have several thousand. How much money do you have?”

The other boys snickered, and Bart looked annoyed. “Enough,” he replied, peeling off
a bill from a wad he’d pulled from his pocket and smacking it down on the table. “I’ll
take a hundred.”

Lana’s eyes widened. The bill was a fifty—a pretty healthy sum of money to blow on
carnival tickets, even for the son of a banker. Well, it wasn’t any of her business
if that’s how Bart wanted to spend his allowance. She carefully counted out one hundred
rickets and handed them over.

“Me next,” another boy hollered out, waving a twenty in Lana’s face. She brushed it
aside. That’s when she saw Callie the Carnival Queen herself elbowing her way through
the crowd toward her, clipboard in hand.

“Excuse me, official business,” she said as she bull-dozed through, carrying a full
head of steam.

“Hi, Callie,” Lana said with a smile. “Ticket sales are booming.”

Callie nodded with obvious satisfaction. “Mrs. Dingmeir can handle sales for a while,”
she said, motioning to the kindergarten teacher who sat at the table next to Callie
with nary a customer. “We have some official business to take care of.”

“But …” But then Lana would miss her chance to talk to Sloan. She could hardly tell
Callie that. No one knew. Her brief liaison with Sloan had seemed so fragile, so unreal,
Lana had been unable to speak of it to anyone.

Bart, who’d been listening to Callie with amused interest, now put his hand on top
of her head and exerted just enough backward pressure that she was forced to look
up at him. “What kind of official business?”

Looking supremely irked, she ducked out of his grasp. “Nothing that concerns you,
lunkhead.” She turned her attention back to Lana. “Coming?”

“Sure.” Lana smiled apologetically to Bart, then cast one cautious, regretful look
toward Sloan. Their eyes met briefly. As always, his burned with a fire that seemed
to brand her as his, never mind that she’d refused to see him anymore. She looked
away quickly, her heart pounding.

Forcing herself not to dwell on might-have-beens, Lana shook off the memories like
a dog shakes off water. She put Sloan out of her mind—firmly.

“You shouldn’t be so rude to Bart,” Lana whispered as she and Callie left the group
of boys to Mrs. Dingmeir. “I think he’s going to ask me to the prom. Has Sam asked
you yet?”

“Sam and I won’t be going to the prom.”

Lana opened her mouth, then snapped it shut when Callie gave her a quelling look.
Lana knew that look. It meant Callie wasn’t ready to talk. But how could they not
be going to the prom, when they were practically
an institution? They’d been dating since freshman year.

Callie abruptly changed the subject.

“Where’s Millicent?” Millicent Whitney was the third on their student carnival committee.

“She’s helping out with the face painting, remember? Honestly, speaking of not having
a date for the prom …”

Callie frowned a warning.

Lana continued, undaunted. “I mean, Millicent’s not as plain as she thinks she is.
If she would only try to meet some boys …”

“I know. But she’s so darn shy.”

“She’s going to end up alone and lonely,” Lana said sadly. “And that’s really a shame.
She’s smart and nice, and she loves kids.”

That much was obvious. As the two girls approached the face-painting booth, they found
Millicent busily painting a unicorn onto a little girl’s cheek. The child, about four,
sat still as a stone, enthralled by the artist’s soft voice as Millicent told her
a story. She finished up just as she saw Callie and Lana approaching.

“Hi, how’s it going?” Millicent lifted the child from the table where she’d been sitting
and put her on the ground, sending her off with a pat on the head.

“Fine with me,” Lana said, “but Callie says we have official business to take care
of.”

Millicent looked to Callie for clarification.

Callie pushed her glasses up on her nose and pointed to the corner of the gym, where
a red-silk-swathed
booth glittered invitingly. “Did y’all see that?”

Where had that come from? Lana wondered. She hadn’t noticed it before. The small booth
featured a gold-lettered sign that read
THEODORA, FORTUNE-TELLER
.

“The fortune-teller?” Millicent said. “What about her?”

“She’s not on the list. Where’d she come from?” Callie asked.

The two other girls shrugged. “Does it matter?” Millicent asked.

“Of course it matters. She might have sneaked in here under false pretenses. She might
be taking cash under the table.”

“Callie, you’re so suspicious,” Lana scolded gently. “Maybe Mr. Stipley forgot to
tell us about her.” Mr. Stipley was the principal of Destiny High School, and the
carnival was his baby.