Draekon Abduction: Exiled to the Prison Planet(32)
There’s no doorbell, and the front door is ajar, so I knock and push it open wider and enter, blinking as my eyes adjust to the sudden gloom. “You must be Lana Davey, dear,” a friendly voice says. “Welcome to the Nanny Goat.”
A gray-haired old lady is sitting behind a desk in the makeshift lobby, knitting something green, though how she can see anything in the half-light, I have no idea. “Yes, I’m Lana,” I reply, moving inside.
“Excellent,” she murmurs, taking the credit card I hand her. “So you’re a writer?”
“I am,” I lie through my teeth. Hey, I didn’t come up with this cover story. John did. I’m just doing my job. “I’m hoping to finish my book this month.”
“You’ll like it here then,” she replies. “It’s nice and quiet. There are only two other guests staying with us at the moment.” She looks up. “Oh, there they are. Hello, Blake. You made it.”
I turn around to see who my fellow bed-and-breakfast guests are, and my mouth drops open.
Because the two guys walking into the dimly-lit room are not just hot. They’re sexy-calendar hot. Chiseled jaws, tousled hair, tall, muscled, utterly drool-worthy.
Thank you, Fate. You did me a solid. This is almost as good as lying on a beach and sipping fruity drinks with umbrellas.
“Marla, it’s good to see you.” Hottie #1 goes around the counter and envelops the little old lady in a giant hug, lifting her off the ground. “It’s been too long. You remember Declan, don’t you?”
Hottie #2 smiles at me as he reaches over to shake the little old lady’s hand. She immediately clucks and hugs him. “Of course I do. You look tired, Declan,” she scolds. “And you’ve lost weight.”
Blake chuckles as Declan shakes his head, a wry twist on his lips. “I bet Declan fifty bucks that’d be the first thing you’d say, Marla,” he explains. “Pay up, buddy.”
I shuffle from one foot to another, feeling out of place. Blake seems to notice me for the first time, and his expression turns rueful. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes. “We didn’t see you.”
“You didn’t see her,” Hottie #2—Declan—corrects him immediately. He holds out his hand to me. “Hi,” he says, “I’m Declan Wilde. My oblivious friend here is Blake Thorpe.”
“Lana Davey.” My voice comes out as a squeak. It might have been the booze I drank last night, but I swear, when I shake hands with Declan, I feel tingles. Tingles on my palm, and tingles lower south.
“Lana’s an author,” Marla chimes in. “She’s here for two months. How long are you boys staying this time?”
“I told Elvira I’ll be here for a month,” Blake replies, turning back to the innkeeper.
She nods approvingly at him. “That’s good, dear,” she says. “And you, Declan?”
“I don’t know,” he replies, still holding onto my hand. I make no effort to pull it away—why would I? A hot guy’s holding my hand. This is the most action I’ve seen in years. “I’m waiting to hear about a job. It could be two weeks; it could be two months. Who knows?”
He finally releases my hand, and Marla hands me a key. “I’ve put you upstairs in a corner room, dear,” she tells me. “It’s a nice quiet spot.”
“Thank you.”
Declan’s hazel-green eyes take in my purse. “That’s all the luggage you have for a two-month trip?”
“My suitcases are in my car.”
“Give us a second, and we’ll help you carry it up,” Declan says.
“That’s not necessary,” I demur. That’s a lie. I totally want to see their biceps bulge as they drag my two heavy suitcases up the stairs, and I’m definitely going to use the occasion to check out their asses. Hey, it’s like the museum. It’s okay to look as long as I don’t touch.
Blake chuckles. “You wouldn’t deny us the opportunity to look chivalrous in front of Marla, would you?”
They carry my luggage up a narrow and steep flight of stairs, and the sight is every bit as hot as I’d hoped it would be. “Have you eaten dinner?” Blake asks me when we get to my door.
“No.” Dinner? My thoughts aren’t on dinner. They’re on dessert, if you know what I mean.
“Declan and I are going to the bar across the street to grab a bite to eat. Would you like to join us?”
Most of the time, I’d be happier to stay in my room and think smutty thoughts of them. That way, there’s no real-life disappointment if they turn out to be boring asses. But there’s a loud voice yelling in my mind, and it sounds suspiciously like Hailey. Say Yes instead of No, Lana. You promised!
“I’d love to.”
“Excellent.” Declan smiles warmly at me, and my insides flutter. He has dimples on his cheeks, for crying out loud. Somebody better keep me from drinking more than I can handle tonight, because as God is my witness, if I get tipsy, I’m going to want to lick those dimples. And a whole lot more. “Meet us downstairs in thirty minutes, and we’ll head there together.”
The bar’s called Randy Goat. Of course. You’ve got to give the town credit for sticking to a theme.
It’s Saturday evening, but when we enter, the place isn’t horribly crowded. A burly, tattooed bartender gives Blake a friendly wave and points toward a table in the back. We take our seats, Declan sitting next to me, Blake across from us, and the bartender shows up with three laminated menus. “Hey Blake,” he says easily. “You in town to see Elvira?”
“Elvira Grantham?” I ask curiously, once we order burgers and beer. Just one pint for you tonight, Lana. “Do you know her?”
Blake gives me a puzzled look. “Yeah, she’s my great-aunt. Why?”
I feel my cheeks heat. “I looked up the history of the town,” I admit sheepishly. “Writers. We can’t stop researching.” I lean forward eagerly. “So is it true? The millionaire died under mysterious circumstances, leaving his money to Ms. Grantham?”
Declan chuckles. “Are you going to work it into your next book?”
Not exactly, though I do find the story fascinating. I’d much rather do a feature about Elvira Grantham, who by all accounts has led a complex, colorful life, than write about two horny doctors that are feeling up their patients, but journalists who want to keep their jobs write the story their editor has assigned to them.
Well, what if you do write about Elvira in addition to the doctors that can’t keep it in their pants? John wouldn’t be interested in it, but Hailey might feature it in Girl Power. Of course, I’d have to tell Elvira Grantham I’m a journalist, not a writer, and risk blowing my cover, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
“Maybe,” I reply vaguely. “The book’s still taking shape in my mind, and I don’t know exactly what I’m going to write about yet. Do you think I could talk to her?”
“I’m not sure,” Blake says. “Aunt Elvira can be a bit touchy sometimes. I’m going to see her in the morning; I’ll ask her.”
Our beers arrive. For a few moments, we lapse into silence, and I use the opportunity to study the men discreetly. They’re both impossibly hot, tall and muscled. Declan has dark hair, cut military-short. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and dark jeans, and his forearms are covered with tattoos. Despite the dimples, there’s an air of magnetic intensity about him.
Blake, on the other hand, looks a lot more happy-go-lucky. His sandy-brown hair is longer than Declan’s. He’s wearing a navy-blue linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and faded jeans. His lips are curled into a smile, and the expression in his blue eyes is one of relaxed amusement.
Serious or laid-back, one thing is crystal clear. Both guys are way out of my league.
“What kind of books do you write?” Declan asks conversationally.
“Cozy mysteries.”
His brow furrows. “I don’t think I’ve heard of them. What are cozy mysteries?”
Oh God. Kill me now. When I made up the details of my cover story, I didn’t plan on running into two good-looking guys, guys who are now going to think that I’m a crazy cat lady. “Have you read Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple books? Those are cozy mysteries.”
Blake looks up. “Elvira will love you,” he says. “She’s a huge Miss Marple fan. She’s got first editions of all of Agatha Christie’s books. Are your books set in England too?”
“No.” Dear God in Heaven, why are they interested in my imaginary books? I’m digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole. “They’re set in Portland. My heroine is a fifty-five-year-old lady who solves crimes with the help of her cat, Smokey.”
“Cats solving crime?” Blake’s lips twitch, and his eyes run over me. “You don’t look like a cat person.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask indignantly. “What do cat people look like?”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Mostly,” he says, “their clothes tend to be covered in cat hair. Marla, for example, has stopped wearing black because her cat, Mr. Boots, sheds on her.”