had to live with leaky pipes, stuck windows and a broken ice maker for the past few months. Not to mention hate mail and, recently, some disturbing phone calls that had forced her to have her phone number changed. Twice.
Despite what some men thought, Jen’s sarcastic books were meant more as black-comedy satires than advice-for-women pieces. Erma Bombeck with snark. Dave Barry with cattiness. That was what the reviewers said, anyway. Even with a master’s in psychology, she’d never set herself up as some kind of marriage counselor. The books were the result of letters she’d received from readers of Her Life, battle stories from friends and coworkers.
And her own experiences with men she’d dated, including four straight Manhattan losers interested only in money until 6:00 p.m. and only in sex until 6:00 a.m.
Women’s romantic misery was, after all, a universal, timeless theme. She’d even included some of her crazy old relatives’ tales. Aunt Ivy was a font of information regarding the battle of the sexes…and if some of the stories were true, she’d been a lethal weapon during that battle for many years.
But some men just had no sense of humor and didn’t get the joke. Probably, despite that tiny twinkle, like this one. The one whose jeans rode his hard body perfectly, hugging lean hips and enfolding some strong male thighs in their faded blue fabric. Those flinty brownish-black eyes might have shown a tiny hint of humor, but his short, barked laugh really hadn’t. It had sounded creaky, as if it didn’t get much use.
Nope, not much of a sense of humor here. Just as well. A jolly disposition wouldn’t go with that rock-hard jaw, wide, tightly controlled mouth and his thick, dark hair cut short and spiky. He looked like the type who should be dressed in army fatigues, holding an AK-47, blowing up buildings on a big screen at a movie theater. Tough enough to be dangerous…Sexy enough to be the next box-office action hero.
With about as much personality as a two-dimensional character. He was so sure of her he didn’t even wait to see if she was coming. Nor was he courteous enough to offer her any help. Her feet could be bloody stumps for all he knew.
This guy obviously hadn’t learned charm from his very eccentric grandfather, who’d been so gentlemanly he’d make a young Cary Grant seem like a bum. And to hear her aunts talk, he was just about as sexy, too.
Don’t go there, a voice in her head screamed as she remembered some of the innuendo the women had dropped after their meeting with Mr. Potts. She did not want to know what went on in the Feeney sisters’ bedrooms, especially since seeing the Kama Sutra sheets in Ida Mae’s washing machine.
Jen didn’t know which bothered her more—the idea of Ida Mae and Ivy sharing a man. Or the thought that her seventy-something-year-old relatives were getting it—wildly—while she hadn’t had even the most basic, boring, twist-push-thrust missionary sex in so long her diaphragm probably no longer fit.
“Buckle up,” her reluctant rescuer said as she got in the Jeep, casting a quick glance at the mixed-breed dog sprawled on the back seat. The animal barely lifted his head in greeting.
Man’s best friend was just as polite as the man in this case.
“Don’t worry, he’s friendly.”
Right. Just like his owner.
“The worst he might do is drool on you.”
Her pretty new Saks sundress was already windblown, grass-stained, and dinged with the gravel and road dirt her car’s tires had flung at her as she’d tried to chase down her aunts. A little dog drool probably wouldn’t hurt much.
“What’s his name?” she asked, mainly to fill the vehicle with conversation as they started to drive toward town.
“Mutt.”
“Mutt,” she repeated. “That’s all?”
The driver shrugged. “I tried other names. It’s the only one he even remotely answered to. So it stuck.”
Wonderful. A guy so cryptic and self-contained he couldn’t even be bothered to name his dog. Good thing he wasn’t in the running for Mr. Personality. And good thing she wasn’t in the running for a man. Uh-uh, no way.
It wasn’t that she didn’t like men—despite her books, she did like them. She especially liked having sex with them. Not that she’d had any recently—like, since her first book had been published and her then-lover had read it. He’d been out the door before she’d done her first book signing. Which had also been one of her last book signings considering the number of men who’d shown up to yell at her for ruining their formerly docile girlfriends and wives. Or shown up to make her see the error of her ways by using smarmy charm to try to pick her up. Ick.
That had been two years ago, and since then, the former Single in the City girl hadn’t had as much as a date. But she sure had made friends with the UPS delivery woman who regularly brought the plain brown wrapped packages Jen ordered from sites like havesexalone.com.
Not that it mattered. Her life was too full to deal with any more complications…male ones in particular. Especially moody, six-foot-two piles of hotness like the one sitting beside her. Whether sex with another person was involved or not.
She just couldn’t afford any distractions, not today when she was involved in World War III. Because they might have won the first skirmish by leaving her out here in the middle of nowhere and stealing her car. But when she found Ida Mae and Ivy, the war was really going to begin.
CHAPTER TWO
Widows get to wear black…which is so much more slimming than divorcée red.
—Why Arsenic Is Better Than Divorce by Jennifer Feeney
THOUGH HER SISTER WAS ENTIRELY convinced they’d taken care of their “little problem,” Ivy Feeney Cantone Helmsley—now just Feeney again—was still hiding.
Ida Mae might think they’d put a stop to the schemes of that girl, but Ivy wasn’t so sure. Despite not being a true Feeney—not one by blood, anyhow—the girl had shown some surprising resilience and spunk over the years. Ivy should know…she’d tried to break the child more than once. But the stubborn chit had kept coming around.
So Ivy wasn’t taking any chances. Which was why she was skulking, alone, in her basement. This was her regular hiding place, her security zone. She felt safe here, with Daddy clutched in her arms. Well, half of him, anyway.
“Force us out of our house,” she whispered, keeping her voice nearly inaudible. “She thinks she can make us leave our home? Well, she’ll have to find us first, won’t she, Daddy?”
That wouldn’t be easy. The one place the girl had always been frightened of was this cellar. Ivy couldn’t see why. Personally, she found the dankness of the musty, cavernous room completely comforting.
She supposed the girl’s fear could have something to do with the fact that she’d been locked down here for a few hours when she was ten or eleven. Ivy didn’t regret shutting her in. The little sneak had needed a lesson, and no real harm had been done, even if Jennifer’s father, Ivan, had read Ivy the riot act over it.
Funny…the girl had later stepped forward, telling her father she might have twisted the lock on her own, by mistake. Ivy had almost liked her that day, as much as she could like any nosy intruder. That was saying a lot since Ivy didn’t like
