Free Honey and Smoke by Deborah Smith Page A

this change of heart?”
    “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
    He whinnied softly and pawed the table with one fist.
    After dinner the auction began, with the stout, pink-faced Ernie Larson as auctioneer. Before each bid the contributing merchant was asked to come up and describe what she or he had donated.
    There was a varied offering of finely made crafts, paintings, books, furniture, clothes, jewelry, and food. Eventually Ernie introduced the redhead as co-owner of the Taste of Honey Bakery. Her name was Ann. She came to the microphone in the front of the room and smiled broadly, then in a voice as sweet as pecan pie said that her donation was a fifty-dollar gift certificate for baked goods.
    “What am I bid?” Ernie boomed.
    Betty saw Max start to raise his hand. She supposed that a gentleman ought to bid on his date’s donation, but it made her less happy. Despite his gallant words in the hall, he was the kind of man who could have a different woman on his arm every week if he wanted. And he probably wanted. She wasn’t going to forget that.
    Jay leapt to his feet. “Two hundred dollars!”
    Everyone swiveled to stare at him. Betty saw Max lower his hand, give Jay a thoughtful look, then smile. He caught her eye and lifted a brow in droll challenge.
That takes care of my date’s attention
.
    It certainly did, because now Ann looked at Jay in utter delight, her hands clasped over her heart. After a shocked Ernie determined that no one wanted to bidmore than two hundred dollars for a fifty-dollar gift certificate, he whacked his gavel on the auction podium. “Sold!”
    Ann ogled Jay all the way back to her table. He blew her a kiss and, smiling grandly, sat down. “Slick. I’m slick.”
    “I was going to ask you to bid on me, you rake.”
    “Oops. I just spent most of my mad money, but I’ll make a valiant effort. Why?”
    “Because I suspect that Max Templeton—”
    “And next,” Ernie called, “is the newest member of our chamber of commerce, the owner of a restaurant that’ll be opening soon on Spencer Street. Betty Quint, come on up.”
    Betty pushed her chair back and sighed. Across the room Max rose a little, turned his chair to face the microphone squarely, then sat down on the edge with all the confident anticipation of an art dealer about to spend millions on a Picasso.
    “It’s hopeless,” she muttered. “I’m about to be sold to a man who wants a barbecue-catering love slave.”
    At the microphone she put on a happy smile and avoided looking at him. He sat only about a dozen feet away. “Good evening,” she said to the audience pleasantly. “My restaurant will be opening in about two weeks. Because I’m better at cooking than at making up names, it will simply be called ‘Betty’s Restaurant.’ ”
    She paused, clasping her hands in front of her. Her palms were sweaty. “My specialty is barbecue. I’ve been a barbecue caterer for six years, and now I’m going to expand into the restaurant business. Tonight I’m donating a catered barbecue dinner for twenty people. All the winning bidder has to do is tell me where and when, and I’ll provide everything. Thank you.”
    “All right,” Ernie boomed, waving his gavel. “What am I bid—”
    “One hundred dollars!” Jay called from the back.
    “One hundred and ten!” another man yelled. Bettydarted a look at the man and cringed inside. Claymore Perkins lolled back in his chair and smirked at her over the cigarette in his lips. Claymore owned the local pawn and salvage shop, where he displayed his collection of Elvis portraits on velvet. Claymore had already asked her for a date several times, and he’d gotten sarcastic after the most recent of her diplomatic refusals. She had nothing against his work, but his attitude was sleazy.
    “One hundred and twenty!” Jay countered, but he didn’t sound as enthusiastic this time.
    “One hundred and thirty,” Claymore said immediately, his cigarette bobbing. “I got a