a lawyer isn't likely to notice the similarity. What other proof do you have?"
"Everybody knows Jo's songs," Amy protested in puzzlement. "She writes rhymes for our birthdays."
She turned to Jo. "I think the 'Muffin Man' was one of the best things you've ever done."
Jo patted her sister's hand. "I don't need a peacemaker, Mama Warren, but thank you."
"Well, then, I'll let the two of you slug it out. Don't think I haven't heard about the plate fight." Amy waved at someone coming in and hurried away.
Joella leaned over the table to sip through the straw, flashing her cleavage under his nose. When she saw the direction of his gaze, she offered a sultry smile. "Want to slug it out or go over in that corner and shimmy?"
Flint crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward so he could growl into her ear. "If we go over in that corner and I shimmy, you'll have to beat off every woman in this room. We wouldn't want that now, would we?"
She laughed. "Okay, you want to slug it out, I got it."
Her laughter stimulated parts that needed no encouragement. "You got it in one," he agreed. Most women wouldn't have understood the reasoning behind his aggressive suggestion. This one had his number without even trying—if they didn't fight, months of abstinence would overrule sanity, and testosterone would do the talking. He was already prepared to write an ode to that skimpy red top she was wearing.
To his relief, she shoved her drink aside and sat up straight so he could fall into the green pools of her eyes instead of her chest. Except those dangly red earrings held him fixated.
"Every person here could sign an affidavit acknowledging I wrote ditties for the band," she announced in her most businesslike voice. "Slim probably has the original copies of my scribbling in that trash bin he calls an apartment. We made a demo a few years back in Charlotte. How much proof do you need?"
While he was still pondering kissing her splendid long throat, she hit him with icy pragmatism. Flint had the urge to grab his ears and jerk his head back on straight, but he attempted to sound functional. "That's a good start, but a lawyer will ask for proof that RJ wasn't the author."
Instead of taking him up on the challenge, she raised a quizzical eyebrow. "How do you know so much about lawyers?"
That cleared the cloud of lust from his head. Flint drained his coffee cup and set it down with a thud that the drum player drowned out. "Because I've spent these last few years in more law offices than I ever want to see in a lifetime, and I'm in no hurry to revisit one again. Lawyers have nasty minds."
She raised her color-tinted eyebrows expectantly. When he hesitated over spilling, she reminded him, "We're partners in this, remember? If I'm dealing with a crook about to go to jail, I'd like to know it now."
"You don't read the trade papers, do you?" he said with a disgust directed at himself and not her. She backed off warily, but he gestured to erase what he'd said. "Sorry. I thought the entire galaxy knew my story."
She relaxed a fraction. "Maybe the Planet Earth, but you've come to Planet Northfork. We don't even have cable, remember."
"How could I forget? Listen, we can't talk here. How about some other time?" Anything to avoid the issue. Damn, he didn't know if it was cowardice or polite reluctance to spread shit.
"Now's good. Here's not." She stood, and for a moment the spotlight created a white-gold halo of her hair. She gestured at him to follow, then started winding between the tables.
Flint had already deduced that all the movable tables from the shop had been hauled in here in his absence. He wasn't certain where the rest of them had come from. The chairs were mostly the uncomfortable metal, folding kind that the church probably rented out. He hoped he didn't have to clean this up in the morning.
Those thoughts carried him safely through the room so he didn't focus too hard on the rhythmic swing of Joella's fringe over the sway of her
"Everybody knows Jo's songs," Amy protested in puzzlement. "She writes rhymes for our birthdays."
She turned to Jo. "I think the 'Muffin Man' was one of the best things you've ever done."
Jo patted her sister's hand. "I don't need a peacemaker, Mama Warren, but thank you."
"Well, then, I'll let the two of you slug it out. Don't think I haven't heard about the plate fight." Amy waved at someone coming in and hurried away.
Joella leaned over the table to sip through the straw, flashing her cleavage under his nose. When she saw the direction of his gaze, she offered a sultry smile. "Want to slug it out or go over in that corner and shimmy?"
Flint crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward so he could growl into her ear. "If we go over in that corner and I shimmy, you'll have to beat off every woman in this room. We wouldn't want that now, would we?"
She laughed. "Okay, you want to slug it out, I got it."
Her laughter stimulated parts that needed no encouragement. "You got it in one," he agreed. Most women wouldn't have understood the reasoning behind his aggressive suggestion. This one had his number without even trying—if they didn't fight, months of abstinence would overrule sanity, and testosterone would do the talking. He was already prepared to write an ode to that skimpy red top she was wearing.
To his relief, she shoved her drink aside and sat up straight so he could fall into the green pools of her eyes instead of her chest. Except those dangly red earrings held him fixated.
"Every person here could sign an affidavit acknowledging I wrote ditties for the band," she announced in her most businesslike voice. "Slim probably has the original copies of my scribbling in that trash bin he calls an apartment. We made a demo a few years back in Charlotte. How much proof do you need?"
While he was still pondering kissing her splendid long throat, she hit him with icy pragmatism. Flint had the urge to grab his ears and jerk his head back on straight, but he attempted to sound functional. "That's a good start, but a lawyer will ask for proof that RJ wasn't the author."
Instead of taking him up on the challenge, she raised a quizzical eyebrow. "How do you know so much about lawyers?"
That cleared the cloud of lust from his head. Flint drained his coffee cup and set it down with a thud that the drum player drowned out. "Because I've spent these last few years in more law offices than I ever want to see in a lifetime, and I'm in no hurry to revisit one again. Lawyers have nasty minds."
She raised her color-tinted eyebrows expectantly. When he hesitated over spilling, she reminded him, "We're partners in this, remember? If I'm dealing with a crook about to go to jail, I'd like to know it now."
"You don't read the trade papers, do you?" he said with a disgust directed at himself and not her. She backed off warily, but he gestured to erase what he'd said. "Sorry. I thought the entire galaxy knew my story."
She relaxed a fraction. "Maybe the Planet Earth, but you've come to Planet Northfork. We don't even have cable, remember."
"How could I forget? Listen, we can't talk here. How about some other time?" Anything to avoid the issue. Damn, he didn't know if it was cowardice or polite reluctance to spread shit.
"Now's good. Here's not." She stood, and for a moment the spotlight created a white-gold halo of her hair. She gestured at him to follow, then started winding between the tables.
Flint had already deduced that all the movable tables from the shop had been hauled in here in his absence. He wasn't certain where the rest of them had come from. The chairs were mostly the uncomfortable metal, folding kind that the church probably rented out. He hoped he didn't have to clean this up in the morning.
Those thoughts carried him safely through the room so he didn't focus too hard on the rhythmic swing of Joella's fringe over the sway of her
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