and a terrible feminist to boot. Focus on feeding us and forget about the boy. He wasn’t even invited.”
Marshal Jones watched them with a wariness that suggested she wouldn’t be surprised if they both pulled out revolvers and started whooping their way down the porch steps, shooting pistols in the air.
“I’m sorry, Marshal Jones,” Isabelle said. “But we are in the mood for a party. Did you want to come inside?”
“No, I’m only here to take a quick look around the property before it’s full dark.
Tom
will be over soon with Ms. Chandler.” She stepped quickly off the porch and headed for the side of the house.
Oh, shit.
Tom
, Marshal Jones had said with a little sneer in her voice. As if she didn’t approve. As if she had reason not to.
He’d said something about his second-in-command coming by, which meant that he spent a lot of time with this woman. Time on the road, at restaurants, in hotel rooms. An occasional night of mutual stress relief would be totally normal, but those situations rarely played out with equal levels of feeling on both sides. This was going to be awkward. No wonder Tom hadn’t stayed for a quickie last night.
“That woman needs some good food,” Jill said, climbing back up the steps with a pie in each hand.
Isabelle quickly grabbed one and backed into the house. “I guess she’s tired after a full day at the courthouse. Crap, I didn’t even check the news. Is everything okay?”
“It seemed quiet. Some motion was filed by the defense, and everything ended around 3:00 p.m. Aside from the lawyers and reporters blathering on for endless interviews, of course. They received another letter this weekend. Did you hear?”
Isabelle frowned. “Maybe?” She couldn’t quite remember, but she did recall how tired Tom had looked the night before. She sifted through her constantly crowded brain, trying to tuck away all the useless bits of anatomical details and medical facts that were currently crowding the way. “Right. A threat against the judge’s family. I talked to Tom about it last night.”
“Oh, you
did
? Now, that is something I hadn’t heard.”
Isabelle shrugged. “He comes to see you, too.”
“Yes, but I’m luring him with food. What are you luring him with?”
“My tits. And my sparkling personality, I’m sure.”
“No, it’s your tits. They’re gorgeous.”
Isabelle actually felt her cheeks go pink. “Shut up,” she said halfheartedly.
“Did you show him that painting?”
“He doesn’t like my work.”
Jill snorted. “He’ll like
that
. Now get out of my way so I can finish the pastries.”
Isabelle moved quickly to her bedroom to put on her party clothes, waving at Marshal Jones through the window before shutting the blinds. Thank God she didn’t have any neighbors. She could rarely be bothered with closing curtains, and she often ran around in nothing but panties and bedhead. It was only her, after all, and half her day was spent remembering something she’d left in the other room or forgotten to do. Sometimes it took her two hours to finish getting dressed.
But not today. Today was easy, since she’d already laid out her clothes, mostly because she’d just taken them from the dryer. Black leggings, a long sage-green tank top that covered her ass and swooped low over her breasts, heeled boots and her nicest black cardigan. The cardigan would come off once the sangria kicked in.
She smiled as she wrapped a long silver chain around her neck three times. The longest loop dipped to touch the rise of her breasts. She hoped Tom would notice. She hoped he’d look at that warm metal touching her skin, and he’d want to touch it himself.
Thank God Tom’s story had turned out to be true, or she’d never have let herself feel attracted to him. Not that sex with Tom was a sure thing at this point, but it was nice to have the interest. To look at a live, in-the-flesh man and feel her body say,
Yes.
The last time had been over a year ago
Marshal Jones watched them with a wariness that suggested she wouldn’t be surprised if they both pulled out revolvers and started whooping their way down the porch steps, shooting pistols in the air.
“I’m sorry, Marshal Jones,” Isabelle said. “But we are in the mood for a party. Did you want to come inside?”
“No, I’m only here to take a quick look around the property before it’s full dark.
Tom
will be over soon with Ms. Chandler.” She stepped quickly off the porch and headed for the side of the house.
Oh, shit.
Tom
, Marshal Jones had said with a little sneer in her voice. As if she didn’t approve. As if she had reason not to.
He’d said something about his second-in-command coming by, which meant that he spent a lot of time with this woman. Time on the road, at restaurants, in hotel rooms. An occasional night of mutual stress relief would be totally normal, but those situations rarely played out with equal levels of feeling on both sides. This was going to be awkward. No wonder Tom hadn’t stayed for a quickie last night.
“That woman needs some good food,” Jill said, climbing back up the steps with a pie in each hand.
Isabelle quickly grabbed one and backed into the house. “I guess she’s tired after a full day at the courthouse. Crap, I didn’t even check the news. Is everything okay?”
“It seemed quiet. Some motion was filed by the defense, and everything ended around 3:00 p.m. Aside from the lawyers and reporters blathering on for endless interviews, of course. They received another letter this weekend. Did you hear?”
Isabelle frowned. “Maybe?” She couldn’t quite remember, but she did recall how tired Tom had looked the night before. She sifted through her constantly crowded brain, trying to tuck away all the useless bits of anatomical details and medical facts that were currently crowding the way. “Right. A threat against the judge’s family. I talked to Tom about it last night.”
“Oh, you
did
? Now, that is something I hadn’t heard.”
Isabelle shrugged. “He comes to see you, too.”
“Yes, but I’m luring him with food. What are you luring him with?”
“My tits. And my sparkling personality, I’m sure.”
“No, it’s your tits. They’re gorgeous.”
Isabelle actually felt her cheeks go pink. “Shut up,” she said halfheartedly.
“Did you show him that painting?”
“He doesn’t like my work.”
Jill snorted. “He’ll like
that
. Now get out of my way so I can finish the pastries.”
Isabelle moved quickly to her bedroom to put on her party clothes, waving at Marshal Jones through the window before shutting the blinds. Thank God she didn’t have any neighbors. She could rarely be bothered with closing curtains, and she often ran around in nothing but panties and bedhead. It was only her, after all, and half her day was spent remembering something she’d left in the other room or forgotten to do. Sometimes it took her two hours to finish getting dressed.
But not today. Today was easy, since she’d already laid out her clothes, mostly because she’d just taken them from the dryer. Black leggings, a long sage-green tank top that covered her ass and swooped low over her breasts, heeled boots and her nicest black cardigan. The cardigan would come off once the sangria kicked in.
She smiled as she wrapped a long silver chain around her neck three times. The longest loop dipped to touch the rise of her breasts. She hoped Tom would notice. She hoped he’d look at that warm metal touching her skin, and he’d want to touch it himself.
Thank God Tom’s story had turned out to be true, or she’d never have let herself feel attracted to him. Not that sex with Tom was a sure thing at this point, but it was nice to have the interest. To look at a live, in-the-flesh man and feel her body say,
Yes.
The last time had been over a year ago
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