Wife for Hire - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,49
to set the timing on my truck this morning. It hasn’t been sounding right. Don’t forget we promised to help clean up the grange hall this afternoon. And then there’s the poker game to night at Vern’s house.”
“You’re awfully busy with community activities,” Maggie said, sliding onto the bench seat of Hank’s pickup.
Hank pulled her across his lap and kissed her. “Maybe I need to rearrange my social calendar now that I’m a family man.” His hand stole under the football jersey and gently cupped her breast. He kissed her again; deeper, more passionately than before. “This beats the heck out of baseball,” he murmured.
Her fingers fumbled with the snap on his jeans. “How about fixing Bill Grisbe’s car?” She slid her hand along his flat belly until she found what she was looking for. “Does this beat fixing his Ford?”
His answer was an intake of breath and a groan of plea sure.
She wanted to tease him, wanted to take the role of the seducer, but as she curled her hand around him, she felt her body respond with the lovely heat and the delicious thrum of desire that his nearness always triggered. She forgot about wanting to tease, forgot they were on the front seat of a truck, forgot about everything but the man moving over her. He was knowledgeable now. He knew exactly where to touch, knew the rhythms of her passion, knew all her secrets, all her preferences. His fingers stroked her. His mouth devoured her. When she thought she was at her limit, he took her farther. Much farther.
Afterward they held each other close, both in awe of the power of their love, both wondering how they could have done such a thing in broad daylight, in the driveway.
Hank was the first to raise his head above window level. “No one watching,” he said, obviously relieved.
Maggie felt like a silly teenager, except she’d never done this as a teenager.
Hank sat up and adjusted his clothing. “Okay, I’m ready to go see my father now.”
“Maybe we should take showers first. Maybe I should comb my hair.”
He cranked the engine over and stepped on the accelerator. “No. I want to get to the bottom of this.”
Fifteen minutes later his parents were surprised to see him. “I didn’t realize you got up this early,” his mother said.
“Mom, I run a farm. I’m up at the crack of dawn every day.”
“Yes, but you never got up this early when you lived at home. Have you had breakfast?”
“Yup. I’ve already eaten.”
Helen Mallone looked at Maggie’s hair. “A cup of coffee, perhaps?”
Maggie remembered the coffee she’d left sitting on the kitchen counter. “Coffee would be great.”
Harry Mallone was at the table, reading the paper. He looked over the top of his half glasses and raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t think you got up this early,” he said to Hank. “Is something wrong?”
“Dad, I get up this early every day. I’m a farmer.”
“Mmmm,” Harry said. “Fancy apples.”
Hank sighed and slouched in the seat across from his father. “Actually, something is wrong. People have been breaking into my house.”
“I heard about that,” his father said. “I don’t understand it. We’ve never had that kind of crime in Skogen.”
Hank stared coolly at his father. “Rumor has it, you’re the reason people are breaking in. I heard you offered Fred McDonough a million dollars if he’d steal Maggie’s diary for you.”
Harry’s first reaction was disbelief. His second was a smile that creased his face and produced a chuckle deep in his chest. “You aren’t serious.”
“I am serious.”
Harry looked at him. The smile faded. “You are serious.”
“The way I hear it, everyone in town is working nights, trying to make that million dollars.”
Helen gave Maggie a cup of coffee and took a seat at the table. “Harry, did you do that?”
“Of course not,” Harry said. “Where would I get a million dollars?”
“You’re the president of the bank,” Hank told him.
Harry looked appalled. “They think I’d embezzle a million dollars?”
Hank shook his head. “No. They think you’re rich.”
Helen reached across and patted Maggie’s hand. “The people in this town are very nice,” she said, “but you couldn’t accuse them of being smart.”
Fred McDonough knocked at the back door.
Bubba had been right, Maggie thought. Fred McDonough was definitely hung over. His eyes were heavily bagged and only half-open. He had the beginnings of a beard and under the beard his face was ashen.
Helen Mallone opened the door and gently curled McDonough’s hand around a mug of hot coffee.
“I wish