canaries.
Through the open door, he eyed the two red-tailed gray parrots in the next room. Tilting their heads, they eyed him back. Feeling vaguely self-conscious, he turned his attention back to the turkey he’d bought in Tampa and allowed to thaw on the way north. He probably should’ve opted for something simpler, but the grand gesture had been part of the plan. Showing up with deli food and a bottle of wine wouldn’t do the trick. It had been his experience that wives didn’t care much for surprises, and a raw turkey definitely qualified as a surprise.
Rafe had had a wife of his own, briefly. He’d like to think Stu would have better luck, but he wouldn’t bet on it. Marital bliss was not a component of their gene pool, on either the maternal or the paternal side, he reminded himself as he rummaged underneath the counter for a roasting pan. If the kid found himself married to the wrong kind of woman, who better than Rafe to lead him out of the wilderness?
Judging strictly from the wedding pictures that had been waiting in his stack of mail when he’d gotten back from his extended stay in Central America, the lady was gorgeous and at least three inches taller than her bridegroom, who’d been grinning like Howdy Doody in every single picture. Knowing Stu, Rafe figured his half brother probably hadn’t bothered to draw up a prenuptial agreement.
Knowing women in general, the bride probably would have talked him out of it even if he had. His baby brother all but carried a sign that said Kick Me.
The range was an ancient model, the oven barely big enough to hold a roasting pan and the sweet potato casserole he’d planned. In the years after Stu had gone off to college, Rafe’s cooking had been limited to intimate dinners for two, usually followed by breakfast. Other than that, he ate out. Domestic, he was not. A woman he’d once known briefly had called it a defense mechanism. She’d been into pop psychology and thought she had his number.
Defense mechanism? No way. He simply liked his life just fine the way it was, and saw no reason to change it. And dammit, he was not lonely, no matter what anyone said! Anytime he wanted company, all he had to do was pick up the phone. Could a man have it any better than that? All the fun, none of the hassles?
There was a row of broken shells on the kitchen windowsill and he wondered if that was a clue to the kind of woman Stu had married. Was there some hidden psychological meaning here? What sort of person would bring home broken shells? Judging solely from the wedding photos, the bride could be a model or a starlet. She had the looks. According to Stu, she was supposed to be working on a degree in linguistics.
What the hell was linguistics, anyway?
A long-haired yellow cat with a wide head and ragged ears stalked into the kitchen and glared at him. Rafe glared back. “Don’t even think about it, friend,” he growled, plopping the turkey into the sink.
“Balderdash!” screamed one of the two African Grays from the living room.
“Yeah, right,” Rafe grumbled as he ran water through the cavity and wondered if he’d remembered to buy prepared stuffing. He was getting a low-pressure headache. Either that, or second thoughts were piling in faster than his brain could process them.
The second parrot tuned up with a creditable imitation of a squeaking door, followed by a realistic smoker’s hack. From there, things went rapidly downhill.
Rafe wanted to get dinner in the oven before he started checking around for a hotel room. At least since his first disastrous attempt to create a Thanksgiving feast for a desolate kid, he’d learned to remove the unmentionables inside the bird before cramming in the store-bought stuffing.
“Help! Lemme go! Bad-ass, bad-ass!”
“Shut up, you red-tailed devil, or you’re going into the oven with baldie here.”
If Stu’s lovely linguist bride was responsible for her birds’ vocabulary, she was a hell of a lot tougher than she looked. Remembering the pictures of the gorgeous vision in white clinging to a beaming Stu reminded Rafe of another reason why he was here instead of being back in Pelican’s Cove, Florida, inspecting his latest acquisition to get some idea of how much was salvageable.
Belle was getting married this weekend. Long-legged, sexy Belle, his mistress of the past eight months, who was every bit as good in bed as she was on the tennis courts. They’d met at a yacht christening and promptly entered into the relationship with both pairs of eyes wide open. Rafe had made a point of sharing his philosophy right up front. Except for the five years when Stu lived with him, his motto had always been easy come, easy go. Work hard, play hard, and avoid encumbrances. If he lost everything today, he’d start over tomorrow. Once he’d launched his kid brother and gotten his own life back on track, he had quickly reverted to his old lifestyle. Life was an adventure, he remembered telling Belle at some point. He made a point of not setting up any false expectations. While he was scrupulously faithful to one woman at a time, the last thing he wanted was an anchor holding him down. When the time came to move on, he simply moved on. When both sides clearly understood the ground rules, moving on was easy.
Both he and Belle were in their late thirties and unencumbered. Rafe had been wildly attracted to her body and Belle had been equally attracted to the lifestyle of a young, moderately wealthy bachelor. Rafe prided himself on being a generous lover, both physically and financially. And he had been, right up until Belle’s biological alarm clock had gone off. Six weeks after she had regretfully handed him his walking papers in exchange for a gold charm bracelet and a block of stock, she’d snagged herself an insurance salesman. The last time he’d heard from her they were shopping for a house near a good school.
Rafe wished her luck because he’d genuinely liked the woman. But he’d been feeling increasingly restless ever since he’d heard the news. He’d had his personal assistant pick out an expensive wedding gift, and then he’d rearranged his calendar and filed a flight plan to an off-the-beaten-track island on North Carolina’s Outer Banks.
A mile away, Molly struggled to hide a yawn. They’d spent a few hours driving along the beach, and for a little while she’d felt like the heroine of one of those adventure movies, racing along the beach, splashing through the surf with the wind blowing in her face and an attractive man at her side.
Jeffy liked open windows. Said he could smell a school of fish a mile out at sea. Over the roar of the wind, he had told her about his father’s concrete block business and his own high school football career, and the trophy-size channel bass he’d taken a few years ago. He had perfect teeth, Molly noted absently during the monologue, and a really nice smile. Actually, he was good company if she overlooked a few minor detractions. His jokes were a little raw, but then, the new Molly wasn’t going to be as big a prude as the old Molly had been.
After driving from one end of the island to the other, Jeffy insisted on stopping off for a seafood dinner at Delroy’s Pub. By that time she was too hungry to resist. Which meant she was going to have to starve for days to make up for the fried scallops and French fries, even though she had left one of each on her plate.
And then someone fed the jukebox. As soon as the music started, two couples got up to dance. From a corner booth, Molly watched, tapping time on the tabletop.
“Hey, come on, what do you say we show ’em how it’s done?” Jeffy stood and held out his hand. There was a chorus of whistles and catcalls from the bar and he turned and bowed, grinning at his buddies.
“I don’t—” she started to say, but he cut her off.
“Sure you do, honey. Everybody does. Just do what comes naturally.”
What came
