Ain’t She Sweet?

“Bugger. That dog showed up the same time you did. He’s yours, isn’t he?”

“Believe me, I’m not proud of it.” She set the Coke on the top shelf.

“You told me to call the pound.”

She was pleased to hear a note of outrage in his voice. “We’re all entitled to our fantasies.”

“If you dislike the dog so much, why do you have him?”

She knelt down to put the doggie treats under the sink. “Because Gordon was Emmett’s, and nobody else will take him. I tried to give him away, but he has a personality disorder.”

“Rubbish. He’s a splendid dog.”

“He’s just sucking up.”

Apparently he decided she’d had enough fun because he began wandering around the kitchen, inspecting the glass-fronted cabinets and the old appliances. The china knob on the bread box came off in his hand. He smiled as he examined it. “It’s unfortunate that you’re having such a hard time finding work.”

“Now don’t you go worrying that arrogant big head about it.” Her knit top rode up as she stretched to put a bag of chips on the top shelf. She knew he noticed because it took him a few beats too long to pick up the thread of the conversation.

“I almost feel sorry for you,” he said. “You have a dog you don’t like, no one will give you a job, and you’re broke.”

“On the other hand, I still have my charm.”

He propped a shoulder against the wall and tossed the china knob from one hand to the other. “I believe I mentioned that I might have a job for you. Are you desperate enough yet?”

She nearly choked on her spit. “I figured you were funnin’ me.”

“I’m fairly certain I’ve never funned anyone.”

“My mistake. Does the job involve letting you feel me up again?”

“Would you like it to?” The way his eyelids fell to half-mast told her she wasn’t the only critter around who knew something about playing games.

“I’d worry so much about frostbite.” Curiosity overcame her need to dish out the crap. “What did you have in mind?”

He inspected the bread box, then took his time screwing the knob on while she held her breath. When he was finally satisfied, he turned back to her, his eyes shrewd. “I need a housekeeper.”

“A housekeeper?”

“Someone who keeps house.”

“I know what the word means. Why are you offering the job to me?”

“Because it’s more temptation than I can resist. The cherished daughter of Frenchman’s Bride forced to sweep its floors and serve on bended knee the man she tried to destroy. The Brothers Grimm as interpreted by Colin Byrne. Delicious, yes?”

“The minute I find Tallulah’s butcher knife, you’re dead.” She jerked open the nearest drawer.

He took his time moving out of stabbing range into the living room. “On the practical side… maintaining Frenchman’s Bride is nearly a full-time job, and it’s cutting too deeply into my writing. This would be six days a week, from seven in the morning until after dinner. Long hours and, it goes without saying, each one as difficult as I can possibly make it.”

“Where the hell is that knife?”

“You’ll answer the phone, take care of grocery shopping and simple meal preparation, although I suppose that will be beyond you. The household bills have to be organized, the mail sorted, laundry done. I want an efficiently run household with absolutely no effort on my part. Do you think you could manage that?”

He made no effort to hide his smug contempt, and she told herself she wasn’t this desperate yet. Except she was.

He named a salary that lifted her spirits, and she shot into the living room. “I’ll take it! You mean for a day, right?”

From across the room, Colin watched Sugar Beth’s entire face light up and knew he should feel like a cad. He didn’t, of course. He hadn’t felt better since the day she’d arrived. “Don’t be foolish.” He gazed down his nose at her. “That’s for the entire week.”

She looked as though she was choking, and he didn’t try to hide his smile. The idea of offering her a job had come to him that day at the depot. He’d had time to think about it since then, but until he’d seen her standing on the curb in those tight jeans, cell phone pressed to her ear, looking like a very expensive hooker, he’d rejected the idea as far more trouble than she was worth. Then the wind had caught her blond hair and sent it streaming behind her head like an advertising banner. She looked so untouched by the harm she’d caused, and right then he’d changed his mind.

He didn’t plan to destroy her, but he bloody well intended to see some flesh wounds, or, at the very least, a few honest tears of regret. Even a forgiving person would have to agree that he deserved more than he’d gotten so far. Putting that chain across her driveway had been like going after an elephant with a peashooter. This, on the other hand, should do the job right.

She tightened her grip on the chair, still dazed by the insulting salary he’d offered her. “No human being could possibly be that cheap.”

He regarded her imperiously. “Don’t forget you’ll be eating my food, doubtless using my telephone. Then there’s the miscellaneous pilfering one expects from the help.” Her blue eyes snapped like pompoms. “Just to prove I’m not unreasonable, I’ll take the chain off the driveway.” He paused as inspiration struck. “And, naturally, I’ll provide the uniform allowance.”

“Uniform!”

Oh, yes. Having her slink around his house in tight pants and seductive tops would be too much of a distraction. Just watching her put away groceries had tested his self-restraint: the stretch of those long legs, the four inches of rib cage that had shown when she’d reached for the top shelf. This was the downside of being male. His body didn’t recognize poison, even when his mind knew it was there.

“You’ll be a housekeeper,” he said. “Of course you’ll need a uniform.”

“In the twenty-first century?”

“We’ll discuss the details on your first day.”

She clenched her small, straight teeth. “All right, you son of a bitch. But you’re buying the dog food.”

“My pleasure. I’ll expect you tomorrow at seven.” He began to leave, but he still wasn’t quite satisfied. He needed to make absolutely certain she understood exactly how things would be, and he searched his mind until he found one last nail to hammer in her coffin.

“Let yourself in the back door, will you?”

Colin Byrne’s housekeeper! Sugar Beth stomped around the carriage house until Gordon got so aggravated he clamped his jaws around her ankle and refused to let go until he was sure she knew he meant business. She bent down to examine the skin, but he was too wily. “One of these days, fatso, you’re going to leave marks, and then you’re out of here.”

He lifted his leg and licked himself.

She stalked upstairs hoping a good long soak would calm her down. The bathroom had a claw-footed tub and a single window with a yellowed shade. She dropped her clothes on the old-fashioned black-and-white honeycomb tiles, clipped her hair on top of her head, and tossed some ancient lily of the valley bath salts in the water. As she settled in, she tried to look on the positive side.

She’d already combed every inch of the depot, the carriage house, and the studio, and she only had one place left to look. Frenchman’s Bride. There was nowhere else for Tallulah to have hidden the painting. But why hadn’t she removed it before Byrne had moved in? Unless she’d been too ill by then.

Lincoln Ash had arrived in Parrish during the spring of 1954. Until then, he’d been living in a cold-water flat in Manhattan and hanging out with the equally impoverished Jackson Pollock at the Cedar Bar in Greenwich Village. The established art community had sneered at the work of “the dribblers,” as they tagged them, but the public had begun to take notice, including Sugar Beth’s grandmother, who considered herself a patron of the avant-garde. She’d agreed to provide him with room and board for three months, a studio where he could work, and a small stipend. In return, she’d have bragging rights as the first woman in northern Mississippi with her own artist in residence. Griffin had been sixteen at the time, and he loved telling people that he’d learned to smoke cigars and