Free Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.) by Sheri Whitefeather, Dixie Browning Page B

annuity and a bunch of CDs—not the music kind, the ones you get from a bank.”
    Maggie only nodded. There was probably a point here somewhere. Being a slow-talking, slow-walking Texan, it took him a while to get to it.
    â€œRight. But then along comes this slick hustler, tells her one-percent interest or whatever she was getting, was peanuts. What she needed to invest in was art. In other words, his stuff. So bless her sweet, gullible heart, she cashes in a few CDs, throws in a couple of Social Security checks and buys herself a bunch of bad wallpaper, thinking she can resell it in a year or so at a huge profit.”
    â€œWhy am I not surprised?” Maggie murmured. Any man who would sweet-talk a woman he’d just met with one eye on her trust fund would definitely do something like that. The old-fashioned term “gold digger” was usually applied to women, but it was definitely an equal opportunity appellation. Given enough material, she could write an exposé that might earn her a place on a real newspaper instead of a few double-column inches between Belk’s white sale and the weekly specials at Mount Tabor Food Market. “How much did your grandmother, uh—invest?”
    Why don’t we try that kiss again? As long as I’m going to be remembering it for the next hundred years, I want to be sure I’ve got it right. Oh, and thistime, put your arms around me. As long as I’m remembering, I might as well get the sizzle in all the right places.
    â€œGet taken for, you mean? Not a fortune, but percentage-wise it was still way too much. Things cost a couple of hundred bucks apiece, depending on the numbers scribbled in pencil on the lower left-hand margin. His autograph—”
    â€œSignature,” Maggie supplied. “You mean he actually puts the price right on the painting, or whatever?” She was finding it hard to concentrate on art, much less on her personal mission—much less on his personal mission—when he was standing there, looking so sexy and appealing. She didn’t need the distraction, she really, really didn’t.
    â€œIt’s not exactly a price, but the numbers in the left-hand corner have something to do with how valuable the thing is. Lower the numbers, the higher the price, according to my source.”
    His source? This was sounding more and more serious.
    â€œThe one she paid the most for was marked eleven-slash-one-twenty. Means there were only a hundred and twenty of the things printed, issued, whatever you call it—and hers was number eleven. Don’t ask me why it matters.”
    He took her arm and steered her toward an old-fashioned wooden swing under a vine-covered arbor. The fragrance of blooming wisteria was almost too sweet. Maggie started to sit, thought about bees, and stepped back, bumping into Ben. Excusing herself, she sighed. “Look, could we just go inside wherethere aren’t any rocks, bees or vampire bats? I really can’t concentrate when my life’s in danger.”
    When it came to distraction, bats, bees and pebbles couldn’t hold a candle to the man who towered over her. It wasn’t enough that he was a supermagnet for any woman with a viable hormone in her body and that he could kiss like an angel—he had a granny he cared enough for to go the extra mile. That was like triple chocolate mousse—with nuts and brandy-flavored whipped cream.
    â€œSure, if you’d rather. I just didn’t want to take a chance on being overheard.”
    â€œThis is beginning to feel like a spy thriller,” she said as she matched her short stride to his longer one. If he could ignore that kiss, than she could ignore it, too. It never happened. “You’re not undercover for James Bond, are you?”
    At the sound of his deep, rusty chuckle, she sighed. Okay, so it had happened. The guy was worse than an epidemic of Spanish flu. She was definitely going to need a