Simple Gone South (Crimson Romance) Read Online Free Page B

mentioned that they would be leather.
    And the hair. It put him in the mind of hay bales gone bad. Missy, of course, was Bon Jovi. She was wielding a microphone, complete with stand. Lucy, as Sambora, had a guitar. There was a fog machine and a huge backdrop that spelled out “Bon Jovi” in lights. They nodded to each other, in time. The music started and they lip-synced to everyone in that little audience that they “gave love a bad name.” He made a mental note to go back to the table in the lobby where you could order a DVD of the show for $21.95. And that was before Lucy even did her guitar solo.
    They brought down the house. They danced, they gyrated, and they sparkled. Then they told everyone that they were “wanted, dead or alive.”
    Being wanted by Lucy Mead might not be a bad job. The thought startled him.
    He was driving toward the Country Club when he realized that he was sitting there in his new Land Cruiser smiling into the dark. It was when he passed the Publix that he had an idea. They had a bakery, didn’t they?
    He turned the vehicle around.
    • • •
    Lucy got out of the back seat of Harris Bragg’s Lexus SUV and followed Harris and Missy up the steps of the Merritt Country Club. This wasn’t the first time she went there with them, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, but she could not imagine a situation where she would ever want to be there less than she did right now.
    Missy said, “Lanie was coming at five today to help set up for the party and she said she’d save us a table for eight.” That was the way of it. They always had a table for eight, because there was no such thing as a table for seven. These days it was always Missy and Harris, Lanie and Luke, Tolly and Nathan, and of course, Fifth Wheel Lucy.
    However, tonight that eighth chair would be filled.
    She could have had a date tonight—she wasn’t that far gone—but letting Mark Phillips squire her around when she had no interest had seeped into the category of wrong. She was tired—bone weary,
give me some bourbon and put me to bed
tired. That kind of tired is what happened when, by day, you spiffed up houses for people who wanted it done before the holidays, and by night, you were Richie Sambora. She wouldn’t want to go to this party even if Brantley Kincaid wasn’t expected. But he was.
    Hell and double hell.
    Not that Brantley mattered anymore. Hadn’t in a long time, but, if he had to see her, it would have been nice to have looked her best. It was a matter of pride. But he’d seen her first in ratty old clothes and second dressed like a 1980s Richie Sambora.
    At least now she looked pretty good. They had gone to Missy’s right after their performance to wash the gel out of their hair and dress for the party. She’d paid way too much for her dress, not unusual when shopping with Missy, but it
was
flattering—something that never ceased to amaze her. The burnt orange silk shirtwaist dress had a wide belt and left her arms and knees bare—not cocktail attire, but not suitable for work either.
    Ahead of her, Harris and Missy walked hand-in-hand, both tall, blond, tanned, and athletic.
    “Didn’t mean to run off and leave you,” Harris called from the door, where he and Missy had paused.
    “I’m dawdling,” Lucy said and hurried to catch up.
    Aside from the party committee, they were some of the first to arrive. The food was out but the band was still setting up. Laura Cochran handed them each a list of the items in the silent auction and a bid number. “Show over?” she asked.
    “If it’s not, it’s close,” Missy said. “But we left after our act. We had to go to my house and make Jon and Richie go away.”
    “Where do you think our table is?” Lucy asked because sitting was what she intended to do and right now.
    Missy looked over the white covered tables around the room. “Over by the wall. Good job, Lanie.”
    Harris let out a delighted laugh. “I am sure you instructed her exactly where you