No More Mr. Nice

chapter 6


Jess tramped through the kitchen, where several teenagers huddled, sniveling and grumbling. Members of the Brand staff peered out from around corners, their noses pinched tightly to stave off the foul odor.

Maxim hurried to catch up as Jess trekked across the carpeted grand room. The butler hid his nose behind a white handkerchief. “Perhaps I should announce you, Mrs. Glen,” he suggested through the linen as he rushed to catch up with her enraged pace.

“I don’t imagine I’ll need to be announced, Maxim,” she called back. “He’ll detect me soon enough. Where is he?” She paused long enough in the middle of the great room to glance back over her shoulder. Maxim cast a worried look toward the entrance hall.

“That way?” she asked, heading for it.

“Yes ma’am,” he rasped, pursuing her like a protective mother hen determined to defend her chick. “I really should tell him—”

“Oh, please,” she cut in. “Let me surprise him.” She ran a hand, quivering with fury, through her reeking hair. “You said he wasn’t so bad, Maxim. Let’s find out, shall we?”

The butler’s forehead creased with uncertainty but after a few seconds, he indicated the direction with a reluctant nod. “At the head of the hall,” he told her gloomily, “instead of turning right into the foyer toward the main entrance, you turn left. There’s a circular staircase to the second floor. Over the garage there’s a big room—”

“I’ll find it.” She dashed down the hallway toward the mirrored entranceway, then hung a quick left through another set of double doors. Inside was a small carpeted area with a corkscrew staircase that wound tightly up to another level. She took the steps two at a time, in part out of pent-up fury, in part to escape her own stench.

The second landing was simply that. A landing. One window with beige miniblinds looked out over the side yard. A pair of beige upholstered chairs on either side of the window were there no doubt for people stuck cooling their heels, waiting to see Mr. Wonderful, cloistered in his hallowed computer room.

Jess didn’t intend to wait one single second for Lucas Brand. She burst through the door into a long, simply furnished, open room. The walls were white, with white window shades raised to allow the sun in. The pinewood floor gleamed in the spots where it could be seen between the piles and streamers of crumpled computer printouts that were strewn about. This startled her, for it was so uncharacteristic of Lucas.

A man sat at the far end of the room. Jess couldn’t be one-hundred-percent sure it was Lucas because his head was almost completely hidden by an oversize helmet of some sort with a protuberance at the front. A Donald Duck space helmet came to mind. Wires connected to the back of the headgear led to computer equipment that was beeping, flashing and purring in a semicircle about him.



For the first time, Jess had an inkling of the hightech world Lucas spent his time in. She was impressed by the intelligence it must require to be on the cutting edge of such advanced technology but disturbed by the foreign nature of what she saw. It seemed like a world more suited to alien beings than the warm, fuzzy sort of World she craved.

She peered curiously at him. He was groping around in empty air, his right hand encased in a silver glove that might have once belonged to Michael Jackson. Lucas was maneuvering the glove in the vacant space above his desktop. “Okay, baby, stay with me. Take me all the way—that’s good. No, no, hell—don’t stop. You damn tease.”

He grew silent, squeezed the gloved hand again, then sat back, saying, “Okay, that’s better. Now, let’s see if we can keep it hard if I torque around while I squeeze.”

Jess’s cheeks went hot. What had she blundered into? It sounded so—so lewd. What was he doing? She’d never heard of any sex toys that required a Donald Duck hood and a Michael Jackson glove. But Lucas seemed to be getting some sort of gratification out of the experience. She swallowed, not sure she wanted to know if Mr. Lucas Brand had a high-tech, perverted side to his personality. Then she thought of Miss Mary Anne Brown, who’d seemed so lovesick in the restaurant. Apparently he wasn’t kinky enough to turn women off—

“No—no,” he groused, drawing the glove back. He’d resumed talking to himself, under his breath. Or to some mechanical, invisible girlfriend…

“Let me, babe. Don’t fight me—don’t—Damn….” His words died abruptly, and he tilted in his swivel chair. “What the hell…” he muttered, cocking his helmuted head. When he’d turned far enough around so Jess could see his mouth, she noticed with some satisfaction that he was frowning. Clearly the skunk odor had finally reached him.

She remained quiet, banking her anger with difficulty as he used his free hand to lift off the helmet. When he saw Jess standing there, his scowl deepened. “What is that?”

“It’s only me,” she said, giving him her most innocent, wide-eyed stare. “Sorry to disturb you and your-er-hand. I hope I didn’t spoil the mood, but I wanted you to know we’re here.”

“I can smell you’re here,” he said, stripping off the glove. “What happened? You stink like you fell in a cesspool.”

She walked toward him nonchalantly. “Really? Maybe it’s my new perfume. It’s called Obscene.”

“The name fits. It smells obscene.”

“You think so?” She gave him a puzzled stare. “A few brands turn funny on some skins. Maybe this scent isn’t right for me.”

“It’s more suited to chemical warfare.” He stood. “I’d get my money back, if I were you.” Brows dipping in disgust, he held up a hand to halt her. “Don’t come any closer.”

She ignored his command, drawing near to trace a finger along the helmet. She noticed that he backed a few steps away, and she felt a spiteful satisfaction. “What were you doing?” she asked. “Sounded very risqué. Is it some sort of space-age sex for singles?”

“I’d need more than a glove for that.” He coughed and she was sure it was due to her foul-smelling nearness. “What happened to you?” he asked, looking pained.

She couldn’t stand the game any longer. She’d wanted him to suffer at least a little, but there were fourteen miserable people downstairs who needed immediate help. “I’ll tell you what happened,” she hissed. “Mr. Niceguy—maybe you’ve heard of him? Well, he banished us to a closed-up bunkhouse that had been infested by a pack of skunks. That’s what happened. And now there are a whole lot of smelly, pitiful people crowded in your kitchen in need of de-skunking.” She planted her fists on her hips. “I’ll bet there’s a proverb for people who treat people like you treated us today. Something like, ‘Stinkers shall reap what they sow.’ But in your case it’s reek!”

She headed toward the door. “Start figuring out where we’ll be staying, Mr. Niceguy, ’cause Bernie, our volunteer who grew up on a farm and knows skunks, says that bunkhouse won’t be livable for weeks.”

“HOW MUCH TOMATO JUICE?” Jerry asked as he headed out the door, clearly grateful to be given a job that required his absence.

“All they have. Get cases,” Lucas growled. “And get it back here fast.”

“Yes, sir,” Jerry shouted on the run.

Jess was perched on the edge of the kitchen table, making a list of needed items. She glanced at Lucas, who was barking orders to a staff who were scurrying around like frenzied ants, their noses clutched between thumb and index finger, or covered by perfumed kerchiefs.



Lucas had removed his suit coat and had loosened his tie, apparently his mode of attire for emergencies. He was angry, but she had to give him credit—he was very much in command.

The boys had been divided between two bathrooms. Howie was directing the cleaning of one group and Bernie the other. The girls had been ushered into two bathrooms in the far wing, with Bertha and Reba in charge. Servants were dutifully clearing the pantry of all tomato products on hand, since Bernie had said tomato juice was the best skunk-odor remover he’d found, in years of trying both commercial products and home remedies.

Jess hadn’t yet had a chance to deodorize herself. She’d been hurriedly composing a list for Lucas. “Okay,” she said, pulling his attention away from his staff’s progress. “The girls’ suitcases were all that had been brought inside the bunkhouse, so you’ll only have to pick up things for them. Unless you’d rather help get rooms ready and send one of the maids.”

Lucas tossed her a quarrelsome glare, making it very clear he wasn’t a man who did hospital corners on beds unless held at gunpoint. “I’ve never bought clothes for fourteen-year-old girls. What in blazes do you expect me to do?”

She shoved the list at him. “Ask a saleslady. Tell her there’re four, and they’re all fourteen. One’s plump, the others are average. And don’t forget underwear.”

Lucas winced, “You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

She lifted her chin, her expression defiant. “Which part? Where I smell like a sewage-processing plant or get to marinate in a tub of cold vegetable juice?” She sniffed contemptuously. “You’re so clever to see through me. I’ve always had a secret urge to masquerade as a Swiss steak.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything else, just walked away and disappeared around a corner.

Jess eyed the spot where he’d been standing, and her lips twitched. “Actually—yes, Mr. Brand,” she whispered. “For your information, I am loving turning you into an errand boy!”

She then went upstairs to check on Bertha’s progress with the tomato-paste shampoo she was giving Suzy Clark. The whining Jess had heard wasn’t a good sign. Poor kids. Served Lucas right to go through the embarrassment of buying girl’s underwear. She found herself grinning, wishing she could be there to bask in his humiliation. Her attitude was harsh, she supposed. But she was only human—a human that smelled like rotten eggs. Small acts of revenge were probably forgivable under the circumstances.

It was another hour before Jess had a chance to bathe, for she insisted everyone else clean up first. Thirty minutes earlier, Jerry had returned with boxes and boxes of tomato juice, crushed tomatoes and tomato sauce, having cleaned out the local Super Grocery Circus’s complete stockpile of tomato products. It had turned out to be barely enough.

Now, Jess was dressed, but her hair was wrapped in a towel as she waited her turn at a blow dryer. She met Lucas in the kitchen where he dumped stacks of brown department-store sacks on the table.

“Good, you’re finally back. The girls are upstairs wrapped in blankets watching sitcom reruns,” she informed him. “How’d you do?”



He pursed his lips with annoyance, then ground out, “It was about as humiliating as you wanted it to be.”

She hid her amusement by bending to open a bag. In the midst of rummaging through jeans, socks and sweatshirts, she stopped, stunned. “What in heaven’s name…?”

Gingerly, she pulled out a scrap of black lace that turned out to be a skimpy, indecent excuse for a bra. Examining it more closely, she realized the garment was big enough for the most well-endowed exotic dancer in Las Vegas, let alone Oklahoma. She stared, tongue-tied, for a long moment.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “It’s underwear.”

“For who, Bumpers Bambi from the Exotic Striptease Inn on Highway 7?” She turned to stare at him. “This is your idea of what a fourteen-year-old girl wears under her Bart Simpson sweatshirt?”

“I told the saleslady to give me a bra in every size. Maybe this color was the only one in—”

“I see,” Jess interrupted, stuffing it back into the bag. “Well, we won’t be needing the industrial-strength model. These girls haven’t had the cosmetic surgery required to fit this one.” She scanned the rest of the contents of the black-and-gold sack, her eyes widening. “For heaven’s sake, Lucas. They’re all see-through black lace. Where did you buy these things, anyway?”

“The lingerie shop in the mall.”

“Damian’s Delightful Undies.” She shook her head, incredulous, then found herself struggling not to laugh. “Didn’t the red garter belts in the window give you any clues…?” She couldn’t go on. The situation was too crazy. He’d tried, she supposed, and had done as well as any bachelor—whose idea of women’s underwear probably didn’t even include the word serviceable.

Glancing back at him, she managed with an almost-straight face, “For future reference, try a JC Penney or Sears store, and get plain cotton in white or pink.”

He frowned, detecting her amusement. “On what frozen day in Hades do you anticipate I’ll need that information?”

She shook her head, grabbing up the sack. “Never mind.” She started out of the kitchen, then stopped. He’d made such an adorable human error—so utterly, ineptly male and out of character. Turning around, she said, “I was wrong to criticize, Lucas. You tried. I’ll tell the girls Damian’s was having a sale. They’ll understand the concept of buying something tasteless because it’s cheap and it was an emergency.”

“Tasteless?” he repeated, sounding hurt.

She nodded. “I’m afraid so.

He frowned, muttering, “And they weren’t cheap. I don’t see why you have to lie.”

She let out a small chuckle, unable to help herself. All of a sudden, Lucas Brand wasn’t the great and powerful wizard of ROMs or RAMs or megawhatevers. He was simply a man helplessly out of his element in a world of women’s lace and frills. Kind of cute…

Worriedly, she shook off her unexpected softening. “It’s either lie about a sale, or have four fourteen-year-old girls believing you bought them sexy underwear because you think they’re sexy, date material. Is that what you want from pubescent females who’re already calling you a hot babe?”

“Hell, that’s the last thing I need,” he groused. “Tell them they were free, if you want.”



She shrugged. “A fifty-percent-off sale will do.”

He leaned a hip against the table. “What in hell would make them think of me as a hot babe? I’ve hardly even spoken to them.”

Her smile faded. “Don’t be coy, Lucas,” she retorted, feeling irked. “You know you’re handsome. You’re rich. And acting brooding and silent makes you seem mysterious. The combination of good looks, money and mystery is hard to resist—at any age.” She bit her tongue. What had made her add that last part? She’d have given anything to take the words back, and was horrified to see the amusement that flickered in his dark eyes.

“Why, thank you, Jess.” His grin was as taunting as his tone.

Darn him. Somehow, he’d gotten the misguided notion that she was intrigued by him! Egomaniac! She stiffened, and spun away, grumbling “Give me strength.”

DARKNESS HAD FALLEN and it was chilly. The teens, bundled in parkas, were divided into two teams of five kids. Each team member was armed with a gunnysack.

“Okay, folks,” Jess said, “Howie and Reba will chase the snipes with team one, and Mr. Niceguy and I will do it with team two. Whichever team catches the most snipes in their gunnysacks by midnight, gets a prize.

Howie and Reba, carrying sticks about two feet long, recently cut from a nearby scrub oak, set off to lead their crew to a remote section of Lucas’s wooded property. Lucas and Jess were similarly equipped, ready to lead their group in another direction.



“When we get back at midnight, Bertha and Bernie will have a snack ready for us, and we’ll award the prize to the winning team.” Jess grinned. “And don’t try to find out what the prize is, or you forfeit it to the other team.”

The kids on these retreats were always excited—too excited to sleep on their first night. So, they got to go on a “snipe hunt.” Little did they know it was all a joke—that there were no such fuzzy little animals as snipes. Several kinds of long-billed sandpipers called snipes inhabited marshy areas of Eurasia and North America, but none of those birds resided anywhere near Oklahoma City. The boys and girls, however, didn’t know that. And the game had always served as a fun icebreaker, giving everybody a laugh.

Lucas, however, wasn’t laughing. When the teenagers were out of earshot, he rumbled under his breath, “So, you and I are supposed to leave these kids in the woods for two hours, alone?

She nodded, swishing her stick at the fallen leaves. “You can run back to the house and play with your hand again, if you want to. I’ll hang around and keep an eye on them.”

“Don’t you think this little prank is cruel? I mean, it’s cold out here.”

She shushed him with a finger to her lips. “They’ll get a good laugh out of it, and any embarrassment will be salved by Bertha’s pecan pie. Both have been a staple of these retreats for five years, and they’ve always been a hit.”

Lucas shrugged. “I won’t argue with an armed woman.”



He wasn’t all that easy to see beneath the canopy of branches, though many of the trees had lost most of their leaves. Still, the autumn three-quarter moon was bright enough for Jess to detect his expression of displeasure.

“Okay, team,” she enthused. “Remember the snipe mating-call sounds like the chattering noise we practiced. You know, putting your tongue against the back of your front teeth and sucking as you pull your tongue away—like this.” She demonstrated, making a noise that sounded like, thit-thit-thit.

Annie Smith tried it. Then Suzy Clark joined in. Moses Booker laughed at the girls. “Oh, man, scope out the tongue action on these babes.”

“Yeah?” quipped Annie, with a reproving look. “Well, you’d better scope it out, ’cause that’s as close as you’re gonna get to my tongue.”

Jess laughed. “Okay, let’s hear your snipe call, Moses.”

“Yeah. Let’s hear it,” Annie said with a smirk. “Mr. Tongue Action.”

“Come on, you guys. Maybe the prize is money. Let’s catch some snipes,” Suzy chimed in. Turning to Jack, she said, “Let’s you and me partner up.”

Jess exchanged a knowing glance with Lucas. It was painfully clear that Suzy had designs on the silent, sulking Jack.

Lucas whispered, “This was a great idea. Fourteen-year-old couples groping in the woods.”

Jess ignored him and reminded the kids, “No breaking off into little groups. There are wild things out here.”



“Like, besides Moses?” Annie chimed in sarcastically.

“Hey, don’t disrespect me, woman,” Moses complained. “You might be glad I’m around if a bear shows up.”

“I doubt if that will happen,” Jess said. “You five stay in a group. Mr. Niceguy and I are going out to beat the bushes. You make the snipe call, and be ready to nab them in your sacks. Remember, be gentle with them. We’re only going to catch them, feed them some honey and bread, then let them go. We’ve never had more than ten caught, so there’s an extra prize if you beat the record.”

“Radical,” Larry Tenkiller said. “My ancestors hunted the plains hundreds of years ago. You guys otta be glad I’m here. Native Americans are great trackers.”

“Oh yeah?” Moses cut in. “What tribe are you, my man—Last of the Mo’ Stupids?”

“You’re real funny, dork,” Larry said. “Just watch me, and learn.”

“Heap big dwebe,” Jack groused, too quietly for Larry to hear, but Jess caught it.

She ignored the grumble, and nodded to Lucas. “Get to making the snipe mating-call. We’re off to whack the bushes.”

When they’d angled off through some trees, Lucas said, “Whacking bushes sounds dirty.”

“Depends on where you keep your mind.” Jess lifted her stick to rest it on her shoulder. “Why don’t you go on back to the house and whack anything you want,” she suggested. She glanced down at her watch. “You have one hour and forty-five minutes.”



“And what are you going to do?”

“Hang around and watch to make sure that Suzy doesn’t attack Jack, or Moses doesn’t get any tongue action other than snipe calling.”

“You’ll get lost.”

She peered up at him. The moonlight made his dark eyes sparkle. She wondered how that was possible, but decided it wasn’t something she ought to dwell on out here in the dark, alone with him. “I—I dropped bread crumbs,” she lied unsteadily.

“What about the wild things that you warned the kids about? Aren’t you afraid of them?”

“What do I really have to fear out here, except skunks?”

“You could fall and break your leg. Sometimes we have wild dogs in the woods. Hungry, wild dogs.”

Casually he put a hand into his jeans pocket—or his chauffeur’s jeans pocket. Whomever they belonged to, they fit him all too well, and Jess couldn’t help giving him a glance. “Well,” she admitted haltingly, “I’m not a woodswoman, if that’s what you’re getting at. But, I doubt if I’ll have any real problems. Besides, I know you’re a busy man. You keep reminding me. So go.”

He pursed his lips, seeming to consider her offer. “This is unlike you,” he said. “Ever since we met, you’ve been on my case about not being around to help. Now, suddenly, you can’t get rid of me fast enough.”

He was perceptive. The last person she wanted to be alone with in the woods was Lucas Brand. She’d maneuvered every which way not to be partnered with him, but as usual, she’d failed.

The Goodalls had been sweet, but they’d insisted that they were always partners, and Bertha had claimed she couldn’t possible make the piecrust without Bernie’s help. It was his grandmother’s recipe, and only he could make the darned stuff flaky enough. So Jess had been forced to make this trek into the woods with a man whose company she objected to with all her heart.

“Don’t you have a meeting or a phone call or Trekkie sex games or something?” she asked, sounding pitifully hopeful.

“Very funny.” He shook his head. “Actually, Sol and Fletch have been in the office for forty-eight hours straight. I told them to get some sleep and a bath. We have a conference call at six in the morning.”

“Well, then,” she suggested, “you go on back and get some sleep or a bath.”

He grinned down at her. “Why, has my after-shave soured on me?”

He’d come very close to the truth. Only his after-shave hadn’t soured, but it had certainly been bothersome. Every time he drew near, she got a heady whiff of him, and he smelted awfully good—hot, spicy and all male. Grimly, she fibbed, “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Then what’s your problem? Are you afraid I’ll attack you, or something?”

“Certainly not!” she blurted, disgusted that she sounded so frightened. “This is a stupid conversation. I need to sneak up and check on the kids. I’m afraid the black lace undies you bought for the girls have gone to Suzy’s head, and she’s dying to show hers off.” Jess wheeled around, forgetting that her stick was resting on her shoulder. She felt the stick knock hard against something, and twisted back, horrified. She saw Lucas put a protective hand over his eye. “Oh, my goodness,” she cried in a whisper. “I hit you!”



He was shaking his head, as though to try to clear his vision. “I noticed,” he grunted under his breath.

“How bad is it? Should we rush you to a hospital?” She was terrified that she might have destroyed his vision. “I’m so sorry.” She brushed away his hand and gently holding the lids apart, peered up into the injured eye. “I can’t see much,” she said. “It’s too dark. We’d better get to some light.”

She took his hand and began to drag him along. “I hope I didn’t scratch the cornea, but I hear they can do wonderful things with laser surgery these days. I’m sure—” Her voice broke, and she sucked in a shuddery breath.

An instant later, she was facing him. Somehow he’d turned her around and was looking down at her sternly, one eye nearly closed. “Look, Jess,” he began seriously, “I’m fine. I don’t think it hit my eye, just grazed the lid. I’ll probably be bruised tomorrow, but I’m not really hurt. So shut up.”

He held her by her upper arms and shook her slightly. She swallowed, a little less panicky. “Are you sure? I mean, I’d never forgive myself if I’d maimed you.”

He gave a short laugh. “You’re a strange case, Mrs. Glen. You don’t mind screwing me out of a hundred million dollars, but you go all to pieces when you think you’ve scratched me. Why is that? Don’t you know I’d endure one hell of a lot of physical pain for that kind of money?”

She stared up into his beguiling features. He didn’t seem angry or even irritated; just mildly curious about the workings of her mind. And there was something else there, too. It wasn’t so much in the way he looked at her or his words, but the fact that he was holding her arms—gently, and for no good reason anymore. Her gaze slid to the ground. “Do you mean for one hundred million dollars you’d allow yourself to be blinded?”

“No, of course not,” he jeered. “But you’re not even slightly remorseful about the business crisis your Mr. Niceguy thing is causing me, and yet a little poke in my eye has you in tears.”

“Don’t be crazy!” she objected, embarrassed, unhappily aware that she’d been near tears a minute ago. He must have seen the telltale glimmer in her eyes, reflected by the dratted moonlight.

He frowned at her for another minute, then half smiled. It was a cynical look. “Good,” he said flatly. “Let’s keep it that way. I don’t want anyone crying on my account.”

Jess sensed that there was a postscript to his remark, unspoken yet very clear. And I don’t intend to become close enough to anyone else to cry for them, either.

Jess knew it would be foolhardy to make any comment, but for some reason, she longed to ask him what had made him so cold and remote.

Before she had a chance to open her mouth and insert her foot, somebody screamed.