He nuzzled her breast. “Right now I wish we didn’t have a teenager in the house.”

She withdrew her hand and forced her voice to a sultry pitch. “Don’t let me forget where I was, y’hear?”

“Oh, I won’t. Believe me, I won’t.” He gave her a quick kiss. “In the meantime, I’d better go remind Her Highness that kitchen cleanup is her job.”

“Thanks.”

After he disappeared, she wrapped up the leftover piece of steak and stuck it in the refrigerator before Gigi could throw it out. Then she picked up her mug and carried it into the den. She had some paperwork to do for the Community Advancement Association and phone calls she needed to make about the concert, but she wandered over to the window instead.

She was only thirty-two, too young to have lost her libido. She should discuss it with her doctor, but Paul and Ryan had played football in high school.

“How long has lack of desire been a problem, Winnie?”

“A while.”

“Could you be more specific?”

She could lie and say a year. That didn’t sound as bad as three years or maybe four. Five at the outside.

“And have you discussed it with Ryan?”

How could a woman tell the man she loved that she’d been faking it? Ryan would not only be hurt, he’d also be mystified. He was a considerate lover, but they’d started out all wrong. Winnie hadn’t wanted to come in second best to Sugar Beth, so she’d done everything before she was ready. Even though he’d been the more experienced partner, she’d set herself up as the sexual aggressor, and somehow they’d never broken that pattern. She was always available, always responsive. She never pleaded a headache, never made him work for it. She was the pursuer, Ryan the pursued. And as much as she loved him, she resented him for that, too.

Not very much. Not all the time. Just every once in a while.

“Obstinate, eh? I’ll tame you,” Vidal said, and got up.

G

EORGETTE

H

EYER

,

Devil’s Cub

CHAPTER FIVE

Sugar Beth switched the grocery bags she was carrying from one hand to the other, but they were equally heavy, so the change didn’t do much good. As she headed down Jefferson Street toward Mockingbird Lane, she tried to relax her shoulders. The few staples she’d bought, along with a box of doggie treats and another six-pack of Coke, had seemed a lot lighter in the store.

Ignoring her parking tickets hadn’t made them go away, and that morning she’d been forced to pull out her arsenal of charm-weapons against the beefy young tow-truck driver who’d been assigned to haul away her Volvo. Afterward, she’d taken the precaution of moving her car to the Arby’s lot half a mile away. It would have been a nice walk if she hadn’t already made it twice today and if she weren’t hauling groceries. Conjuring up a few gruesome revenge scenarios against Colin Byrne helped distract her for a while, except she’d already been there and done that, which pretty much spoiled the fun.

Her luck hadn’t improved in the week since her disastrous visit to Winnie’s antique store. She couldn’t find either a job or the painting, and she had nothing left in her wallet but moths. At least she’d succeeded in tracking down the surviving members of Tallulah’s canasta club, but only Sissy Tooms said she’d actually seen the painting. Unfortunately, she’d also told Sugar Beth that she was on her way to Vegas to have dinner with Frank Sinatra.

Her cell rang in her purse. As she set down her grocery bags by the curb, she wondered how long it would be before they cut off her service.

“It’s me!” a soft voice chirped as Sugar Beth answered.

She smiled. “Hey, baby.”

“Me!” Delilah repeated, as if Sugar Beth wouldn’t recognize the voice of Emmett’s only child.

“How’s my best girl doing?”

“Good! We painted yesterday. And Meesie said I could call you today.”

Sugar Beth had forgotten it was Wednesday, the day she and Delilah usually talked. “How’s your cold? Any better?”

“I’m taking cough syrup at night. It’s helping. And I painted a picture for you.”

Sugar Beth turned her shoulders to the sharp edge of the wind and hooked her boot heel over the curb. Yesterday had been warm, but the chill had settled in again today, and her fake leather motorcycle jacket wasn’t up to the job. “What’s it look like?”

Delilah went on to describe a painting she’d done of the ocean, then talked about the new angelfish in the aquarium. When it was finally time for her to go, Delilah said what she always did.

“I love you, my Sugar Beth. And you love me, too, don’t you?”

Sugar Beth’s eyes stung. No matter what she had to do, she was going to protect this sweet, fragile creature. “I love you bushels and heaps.”

“I thought so.”

Sugar Beth smiled at her certainty.

As she slipped her cell back into her purse, the old anger at Emmett came back. How could he have been so careless about protecting Delilah’s future?

“I made financial provisions,” he’d said when they’d talked about it. “But when things started to go south, I had to borrow. I’ll never forgive myself.”

Sugar Beth remembered her first visit with Delilah at Brookdale, the exclusive private institution where she’d lived most of her adult life. They’d fallen in love with each other on sight. Delilah’s own mother had died a few years before Sugar Beth had met Emmett, and Delilah had desperately missed her. Much to Sugar Beth’s surprise, Delilah had transferred her affections to her new stepmother. Delilah was sweet, funny, and so very vulnerable—a fifty-one-year-old woman with an eleven-year-old’s mind. They both liked girly stuff—clothes and makeup, Friends reruns, Pixie Stix. Sugar Beth had read her most of the Judy Blume books, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, as well as Mary-Kate and Ashley’s adventures. They gossiped about Leonardo DiCaprio, whom Delilah adored, played Clue, and held hands when they went for walks.

If it weren’t for Delilah, Sugar Beth wouldn’t have been forced to come back to Parrish, but the money for Delilah’s care had run out. Now Sugar Beth couldn’t keep her stepdaughter at Brookdale unless she found the Ash painting. Still, she wouldn’t feel sorry for herself. Unconditional love was a precious gift, and Sugar Beth knew a blessing when she met one.

As she retrieved her grocery sacks, a familiar cognac-colored Lexus sedan pulled up and stopped next to her. The driver’s side window slid down to reveal the imperious face of the Duke of Doom himself, sneer and all. “You look like a bag lady.”

She assumed he was referring to her grocery sacks instead of her jeans and motorcycle jacket. “Thanks, I hope you’re having a nice day, too.”

He regarded her through his invisible quizzing glass. “Would you like a ride?”

“You let peasants in your carriage?”

“If I’m feeling benevolent.”

“My lucky day.”

He made her wait while he took his time flicking the locks. She opened the back door and set the sacks behind the passenger seat. Then, since pride did count for something, she climbed in with them and closed the door. “Carry on.”

He draped an arm over the seat and gazed down his long nose at her.

She gave him a haughty look. “I really don’t have all day.”

“Perhaps you should walk after all.”

“Bad for the neighborhood. Having a bag lady around.”

She was pleased to note that he stepped on the accelerator just a little harder than necessary, and his tone was withering. “You’ll let me know, won’t you, if there’s anything else I can do to make you comfortable?”

She gazed at the back of those wide shoulders. “You could take that silly little chain off my driveway.”

“But I find it so amusing.” He turned onto Mockingbird Lane. “I saw a tow truck by your car this morning. I’m dreadfully sorry about that.”