No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,29
Anne Brown, who’d seemed so lovesick in the restaurant. Apparently he wasn’t kinky enough to turn women off—
“No—no,” he groused, drawing the glove back. He’d resumed talking to himself, under his breath. Or to some mechanical, invisible girlfriend…
“Let me, babe. Don’t fight me—don’t—Damn….” His words died abruptly, and he tilted in his swivel chair. “What the hell…” he muttered, cocking his helmuted head. When he’d turned far enough around so Jess could see his mouth, she noticed with some satisfaction that he was frowning. Clearly the skunk odor had finally reached him.
She remained quiet, banking her anger with difficulty as he used his free hand to lift off the helmet. When he saw Jess standing there, his scowl deepened. “What is that?”
“It’s only me,” she said, giving him her most innocent, wide-eyed stare. “Sorry to disturb you and your-er-hand. I hope I didn’t spoil the mood, but I wanted you to know we’re here.”
“I can smell you’re here,” he said, stripping off the glove. “What happened? You stink like you fell in a cesspool.”
She walked toward him nonchalantly. “Really? Maybe it’s my new perfume. It’s called Obscene.”
“The name fits. It smells obscene.”
“You think so?” She gave him a puzzled stare. “A few brands turn funny on some skins. Maybe this scent isn’t right for me.”
“It’s more suited to chemical warfare.” He stood. “I’d get my money back, if I were you.” Brows dipping in disgust, he held up a hand to halt her. “Don’t come any closer.”
She ignored his command, drawing near to trace a finger along the helmet. She noticed that he backed a few steps away, and she felt a spiteful satisfaction. “What were you doing?” she asked. “Sounded very risqué. Is it some sort of space-age sex for singles?”
“I’d need more than a glove for that.” He coughed and she was sure it was due to her foul-smelling nearness. “What happened to you?” he asked, looking pained.
She couldn’t stand the game any longer. She’d wanted him to suffer at least a little, but there were fourteen miserable people downstairs who needed immediate help. “I’ll tell you what happened,” she hissed. “Mr. Niceguy—maybe you’ve heard of him? Well, he banished us to a closed-up bunkhouse that had been infested by a pack of skunks. That’s what happened. And now there are a whole lot of smelly, pitiful people crowded in your kitchen in need of de-skunking.” She planted her fists on her hips. “I’ll bet there’s a proverb for people who treat people like you treated us today. Something like, ‘Stinkers shall reap what they sow.’ But in your case it’s reek!”
She headed toward the door. “Start figuring out where we’ll be staying, Mr. Niceguy, ’cause Bernie, our volunteer who grew up on a farm and knows skunks, says that bunkhouse won’t be livable for weeks.”
“HOW MUCH TOMATO JUICE?” Jerry asked as he headed out the door, clearly grateful to be given a job that required his absence.
“All they have. Get cases,” Lucas growled. “And get it back here fast.”
“Yes, sir,” Jerry shouted on the run.
Jess was perched on the edge of the kitchen table, making a list of needed items. She glanced at Lucas, who was barking orders to a staff who were scurrying around like frenzied ants, their noses clutched between thumb and index finger, or covered by perfumed kerchiefs.
Lucas had removed his suit coat and had loosened his tie, apparently his mode of attire for emergencies. He was angry, but she had to give him credit—he was very much in command.
The boys had been divided between two bathrooms. Howie was directing the cleaning of one group and Bernie the other. The girls had been ushered into two bathrooms in the far wing, with Bertha and Reba in charge. Servants were dutifully clearing the pantry of all tomato products on hand, since Bernie had said tomato juice was the best skunk-odor remover he’d found, in years of trying both commercial products and home remedies.
Jess hadn’t yet had a chance to deodorize herself. She’d been hurriedly composing a list for Lucas. “Okay,” she said, pulling his attention away from his staff’s progress. “The girls’ suitcases were all that had been brought inside the bunkhouse, so you’ll only have to pick up things for them. Unless you’d rather help get rooms ready and send one of the maids.”
Lucas tossed her a quarrelsome glare, making it very clear he wasn’t a man who did hospital corners on beds unless held at gunpoint. “I’ve never bought clothes for fourteen-year-old girls.