Page 34 of Open Season

TEN

Jack laughed out loud as he drove away from the Minor residence; teasing Miss Daisy was becoming the highlight of his life. She responded to the least provocation as if he’d touched her with a cattle prod. When he’d said they’d been seeing each other for a week or so—which was, strictly speaking, true—she’d jumped and stared at him with undisguised horror before blurting, “We have not,” in such appalled tones he’d had the urge to check his reflection in a mirror to see if he’d suddenly sprouted horns and a forked tail. Except for his ex-wife, he’d never had any complaints from a woman before, so Daisy’s reaction pissed him off a little. And even his ex had never complained in bed. What was Miss Daisy’s problem?

Then she’d turned beet red and began trying to explain things. “We’re just friends—well, not really. I mean, he’s a Yankee. He was at the club with me last night—not with me, just there at the same time—so when the fight started—”

“Fight?” A harmony of voices echoed the word. Her mother and aunt looked horrified, her sister looked stunned, her brother-in-law was alarmed, and the two nephews were fascinated.

“I didn’t start it,” Daisy said hastily. “Not exactly. It wasn’t my fault. But the chief—”

“Jack,” he put in.

She gave him a harried glance. “—Jack carried me out, and today he came by to tell me about date-rape drugs and . . . oh, dear,” she finished, her odd-colored eyes widening as she realized her nephews were listening with sharp attention.

“Drugs,” her mother said faintly, going pale. The bowl of ice cream wobbled in her hand.

Daisy took a deep breath and tried to be reassuring. “I didn’t see any. And I’ll be careful.”

“What’s wrong with being a Yankee?” Jack had demanded, his eyes shining with delight that he tried to hide.

She began spluttering again as she realized she’d been rude—in public, which seemed to be a big thing to her. “Well. . . nothing, except for—I mean, you aren’t exactly . . .” Her thoughts evidently hit a wall, because her voice trailed off.

“I thought we were friends.” He managed to keep a straight face and look solemn, even a little hurt. He wasn’t exactly what? Her type? He’d go along with that. She was a naive prude, and he was a cop; enough said.

“You did?” she asked doubtfully, as he dug into his ice cream to distract himself. The cold, soft ice cream melted on his tongue, and he almost groaned with delight. There was nothing—nothing—like real home-made ice cream.

He swallowed and said, “Sure. You even gave me the mauve gay test. You don’t do that to someone who isn’t a friend.”

Her family was listening in wide-eyed fascination. Both her mother and aunt gasped. “Oh, my,” her aunt Joella said faintly. “Did you pass?”

He rubbed his jaw to hide his grin. So this was where she got it from. “I don’t know. If you know the answer, does that mean you pass or fail?”

Aunt Joella blinked. “Well—neither, I guess. It just means you’re gay.” She paused. “Are you?”

“Aunt Jo!” Daisy moaned, covering her eyes with her free hand.

“No, ma’am.” He took another bite of ice cream. “But that isn’t a good test, because I know what color mauve is.”

Aunt Jo nodded decisively. “Just what I thought. How about puce?”

“Daisy made me look it up in the dictionary,” he said, unable to hide his grin any longer. “I accused her of making it up.”

Aunt Jo leaned back, satisfaction written on her face. “I told you,” she said to Daisy’s mother, Evelyn.

Poor Daisy had taken her hand down and was looking around as if searching for the best escape route. Jack forestalled her by grabbing her arm and pulling her down with him onto the love seat, which was the only free seating left in the room, making him wonder if her mother had arranged things so they’d have to sit side by side. If so, it was fine with him.

He stayed for almost an hour, making small talk and eating another bowl of ice cream while Daisy swirled her spoon in hers until it melted. She kept giving him wary looks and trying to inch away. Very protective of her personal space, was Miss Daisy. He deliberately intruded on it, letting his thigh brush hers, sometimes leaning so that his big shoulders crowded her, occasionally putting his hand on her bare arm. She couldn’t tear a strip off his hide in front of her family the way she had in the library, and he took full advantage of what Aunt Bessie would have called her “company manners.”

By the time he left, Miss Daisy was almost ready to explode.

Well, let her fume, he thought as he drove home. So she didn’t like him, huh? She didn’t consider him a friend, she’d been horrified at the idea that he might be “courting” her, and she was plainly appalled at the idea her family might think they were even going out together.

Too fucking bad, he thought cheerfully. Part of it was because he couldn’t resist a challenge and part of it was because she was so damn much fun, but he’d made up his mind: this particular Yankee was going to get in her pants.

He had the feeling she’d be a real firecracker when she let go. Daisy wasn’t frozen; she was just untried. If she’d ever had sex, she hadn’t had much of it. He planned to change that state of affairs and really give her something to blush about.

He hadn’t had a steady relationship since his divorce; he’d had sex, but been careful not to let a routine develop with any of the women. Relationships were a lot of work, and he hadn’t been interested enough to make the effort. Until now, that is. Daisy was both innocent and complicated, naive and knowledgeable, sharp-tongued but without an ounce of malice in her—something that couldn’t be said about many people. She appealed to him, with her different-colored eyes, old-fashioned ways, and utter openness. Daisy not only didn’t play games, she didn’t know what the games were. A man would always know where he stood with her. Right now he was on her shit list, but he planned to change that.

Unless he missed his guess, Daisy was looking for a man. All the signs were there: the sudden change in her hair and clothes, wearing makeup, and suddenly going to nightclubs. If a man was what she wanted, she needed to look no further. He volunteered for the job. Not that he was going to tell her; she’d likely run as fast as she could in the opposite direction. No, he’d have to play his cards close to the vest for a while, until she got over the idea he wasn’t her type.

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