Free The Virgin and the Vengeful Groom by Dixie Browning Page A

mended with masking tape.
    No matter how sexually attractive he was.
    And he was that, all right. Funny, how quickly he’d sneaked in under her guard. As a rule the first thing she did when she found a man attractive was to remind herself of what could happen when a woman let a man get tooclose. Case in point, her own mother. Once, after another unsuccessful attempt to get herself straightened out, her mother had told her that she’d run away from home at the age of fourteen, ended up on the streets, pregnant, hooked on drugs and scared out of her gourd. “Don’t go that road, baby. Don’t ever let a man use you, no matter what he promises in return. You’re better than that. You’re the only decent thing in my life.”
    It hadn’t lasted long, her mother’s attempt to get off the stuff. The experts said it was never too late, but for some people, at some point, it was. Lily had managed to escape the trap. She’d done a lot of things she wasn’t proud of, but she’d survived and managed to climb out of the hole, up to where the air was clean and fresh and sweet smelling. She didn’t do drugs, she didn’t smoke, she didn’t drink. Even a glass of wine was off-limits. As for men, while she might fantasize—might even poke a toe in the waters, enjoying the occasional dinner date with a man who didn’t attract her physically—this was the first time she had ever knowingly, deliberately, exposed herself to a man who affected her not only physically but mentally.
    â€œBess, you’d damn well better stick with me. I have a feeling this time I might need help.”
    Â 
    He was waiting at the Oregon Inlet Bridge. When she’d asked for a street address in case they got separated, he’d told her there was no street, much less a house number. “Cross the inlet, head south until you come to a village. Keep on going until there’s nothing in sight but water, dunes and some scrubby vegetation. When you come to an unpainted house with a cemetery on one side and a few ramshackle outbuildings in the back, that’s Powers Point. On second thought, just meet me at Oregon Inlet and I’ll lead you there.”
    While he waited, Curt was wondering if he had picked up his socks off the living room floor. Or taken the garbage out before he left. He wondered belatedly about the condition of his guest quarters. The last thing he’d expected when he’d headed north was that he’d be bringing someone home with him. He wasn’t what you might call a people person. Never had been. Hell, he even went out of his way to buy groceries in the middle of the night, when there were fewer people around. He collected his mail when he happened to think of it. Most of it was junk mail, which didn’t make it worth any extra effort. Which, come to think of it, was what had gotten him in trouble in the first place.
    So okay—the house was no showplace. So he might have left a few unwashed dishes. No big deal. If Ms. O’Malley turned up her elegant nose at him, his house, and his lifestyle, it was no big deal. Hell, he didn’t even have a lifestyle.
    At least he had a life. For a while it had been touch and go. Style could wait until he figured out what he was going to do with the rest of it. Stay in or get out.
    Three days, tops, he promised himself as he watched her signal a right turn and pull off the road. He would give her three days to go through his stuff, take whatever notes she wanted to take, and leave. He waited until she got out of her car to ease himself out of the high cab. He should’ve been walking around, working the kinks out while he waited. He should’ve worn his back brace, too, but then he didn’t always do what was good for him. So he sauntered over to meet her—at least he tried to think of walking carefully so as not to jar anything loose as sauntering. “If you need to use the head,