No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,32
you guys. Maybe the prize is money. Let’s catch some snipes,” Suzy chimed in. Turning to Jack, she said, “Let’s you and me partner up.”
Jess exchanged a knowing glance with Lucas. It was painfully clear that Suzy had designs on the silent, sulking Jack.
Lucas whispered, “This was a great idea. Fourteen-year-old couples groping in the woods.”
Jess ignored him and reminded the kids, “No breaking off into little groups. There are wild things out here.”
“Like, besides Moses?” Annie chimed in sarcastically.
“Hey, don’t disrespect me, woman,” Moses complained. “You might be glad I’m around if a bear shows up.”
“I doubt if that will happen,” Jess said. “You five stay in a group. Mr. Niceguy and I are going out to beat the bushes. You make the snipe call, and be ready to nab them in your sacks. Remember, be gentle with them. We’re only going to catch them, feed them some honey and bread, then let them go. We’ve never had more than ten caught, so there’s an extra prize if you beat the record.”
“Radical,” Larry Tenkiller said. “My ancestors hunted the plains hundreds of years ago. You guys otta be glad I’m here. Native Americans are great trackers.”
“Oh yeah?” Moses cut in. “What tribe are you, my man—Last of the Mo’ Stupids?”
“You’re real funny, dork,” Larry said. “Just watch me, and learn.”
“Heap big dwebe,” Jack groused, too quietly for Larry to hear, but Jess caught it.
She ignored the grumble, and nodded to Lucas. “Get to making the snipe mating-call. We’re off to whack the bushes.”
When they’d angled off through some trees, Lucas said, “Whacking bushes sounds dirty.”
“Depends on where you keep your mind.” Jess lifted her stick to rest it on her shoulder. “Why don’t you go on back to the house and whack anything you want,” she suggested. She glanced down at her watch. “You have one hour and forty-five minutes.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Hang around and watch to make sure that Suzy doesn’t attack Jack, or Moses doesn’t get any tongue action other than snipe calling.”
“You’ll get lost.”
She peered up at him. The moonlight made his dark eyes sparkle. She wondered how that was possible, but decided it wasn’t something she ought to dwell on out here in the dark, alone with him. “I—I dropped bread crumbs,” she lied unsteadily.
“What about the wild things that you warned the kids about? Aren’t you afraid of them?”
“What do I really have to fear out here, except skunks?”
“You could fall and break your leg. Sometimes we have wild dogs in the woods. Hungry, wild dogs.”
Casually he put a hand into his jeans pocket—or his chauffeur’s jeans pocket. Whomever they belonged to, they fit him all too well, and Jess couldn’t help giving him a glance. “Well,” she admitted haltingly, “I’m not a woodswoman, if that’s what you’re getting at. But, I doubt if I’ll have any real problems. Besides, I know you’re a busy man. You keep reminding me. So go.”
He pursed his lips, seeming to consider her offer. “This is unlike you,” he said. “Ever since we met, you’ve been on my case about not being around to help. Now, suddenly, you can’t get rid of me fast enough.”
He was perceptive. The last person she wanted to be alone with in the woods was Lucas Brand. She’d maneuvered every which way not to be partnered with him, but as usual, she’d failed.
The Goodalls had been sweet, but they’d insisted that they were always partners, and Bertha had claimed she couldn’t possible make the piecrust without Bernie’s help. It was his grandmother’s recipe, and only he could make the darned stuff flaky enough. So Jess had been forced to make this trek into the woods with a man whose company she objected to with all her heart.
“Don’t you have a meeting or a phone call or Trekkie sex games or something?” she asked, sounding pitifully hopeful.
“Very funny.” He shook his head. “Actually, Sol and Fletch have been in the office for forty-eight hours straight. I told them to get some sleep and a bath. We have a conference call at six in the morning.”
“Well, then,” she suggested, “you go on back and get some sleep or a bath.”
He grinned down at her. “Why, has my after-shave soured on me?”
He’d come very close to the truth. Only his after-shave hadn’t soured, but it had certainly been bothersome. Every time he drew near, she got a heady whiff of him, and he smelted awfully good—hot, spicy and all male. Grimly, she fibbed,