A Date with the Other Side (Cuttersville #1)(55)
Author: Erin McCarthy

The bastard somehow emerged with a satin set. “Well, look what we’ve got here.” He dangled the emerald green intimate wear up in the air. “Take this pair.” With his own lack of reverence, he crammed them into the duffel bag alongside her oversized T-shirts.

“Boston . . .” Shelby warned him. One glance at the front of his jeans showed her he was picturing her wearing those ridiculous underwear.

She’d worn them only once, near the end of her marriage when she’d been desperate to crack the code on orgasms. It had been futile.

That wouldn’t be the case with Boston, and her ni**les knew it. They were winging out at him like tree roots to water.

Boston smiled and kissed the tip of her nose. “Let’s go.”

Shelby had spent the afternoon avoiding him.

Boston was frustrated and horny, not necessarily in that order.

Not to mention that if Shelby refused to be in the room with him, there was not going to be any ghost-like activity. At least he didn’t think there would. And after all, this was all for Shelby and her financial security. His nefarious plan to convince her to make love to him, marry him, and move to Chicago was just a side bonus since they were alone together.

Except she wouldn’t come near him.

When they’d discovered the cameras were in place and the crew and Adrienne Ashley were out interviewing witnesses, Boston had sent Brady home and prepared to coax Shelby out of her clothes. She was faster than he was, though, and had disappeared in the yellow bedroom with her bag, shutting the door in his face.

Three hours ago.

He’d thought about knocking on the door but had been afraid she was actually taking a nap and hadn’t wanted to wake her. But he was bored and restless. He’d worked in the parlor for a while, clearing out his e-mail and leaving a few messages for Monday morning.

But then he had found himself standing outside Shelby’s door again listening with his ear pressed to the wood to see if she was awake and moving around. Nothing. She was either asleep or she’d crawled out the window and shimmied down a tree. He wouldn’t put it past her.

Edgy, he went down to the kitchen to distract himself with food. Mary was coming in the back door.

“Hello, Boston.” She gave him a wide smile in her soft round face.

Boston had a real fondness for Mary. She popped in right when he really needed her, and she baked some mean sugar cookies with little candies pressed into them. She was no stranger to a Pledge can either, and kept him out from under a layer of dust.

“Hi there, Mary. How are you today?” Boston leaned against the counter and tried not to salivate. Surely Mary would cook something for him.

The TV channel’s camera was on the refrigerator, he noticed, and the red light blinked steadily, showing him it was recording.

“I’m fine, as usual.” Mary set down a package wrapped in brown paper and string. “I baked you some raisin bread.”

“Thank you.” He wondered if it would be rude to dive for it.

Mary didn’t keep him waiting. She reached for a knife, cut the string, and unwrapped the bread. “I hear Shelby’s staying here.”

“Yes, for the weekend. In the yellow bedroom.” He didn’t want to lose his housekeeper by offending her.

“She loves you, you know.” Mary sliced the bread, not looking at him.

Boston was a little startled. “I hope she does,” he said honestly. “Do you know Shelby?”

“Since she was a little girl.” Mary pointed the knife at him. “And she’s worth the sacrifice, Boston Macnamara.”

“What sacrifice?” He felt a little uneasy for some reason. The conversation seemed odd.

“Here you are,” Mary said briskly, the loaf fully sliced. “I’ll be back to do the house on Monday.”

And she left, as quickly as she’d arrived.

Boston bit into the bread and wondered.

He’d almost finished the loaf when Shelby walked in. Her presence was announced by her stomach growling in the quiet room.

“Where did you get that?” she asked.

“From Mary.” He took the last remaining slice and walked over to her. He held it in front of her lips.

She didn’t take it. “Who’s Mary?” Something like jealousy laced her voice.

Which was satisfying, but amusing. Mary was fifty if he was inclined to be generous. “My housekeeper.”

“You have a housekeeper?”

“Yeah. She came with the house.” He tapped her lip with the bread.

“What’s her last name? I never heard of a Mary who cleans this house.”

“I don’t know. She’s older, wears a bun and an apron. Makes great bread.”

Shelby opened and took a bite. “Mmmm. It’s good. But you know, I think your housekeeper is dead.”

“Why? What she’d do? The bread is awesome.”

Her head shook back and forth. “No, I mean, she’s dead. Like she died fifty years ago.”

“Whatever.” He leaned forward and kissed the crumb off the corner of her mouth.

“You don’t care?”

“I don’t believe you.” Nor did he care, for that matter. Boston wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Rewind the tape, Boston! We might have caught a spirit on tape!”

If he hadn’t been so interested in kissing that shiny spot in the corner of her mouth, he might have stopped and thought about what she was saying. But after a frustrating afternoon he finally had her in his arms.

She shoved him.

Or not.

“Stop it! The camera is right on us.”

“And if it wasn’t?”

“I still wouldn’t want you to.”

“Why?” he asked in annoyance, knowing it wasn’t smart to push Shelby but unable to stop himself.

“You know why,” she said with one of those cryptic female statements that means nothing to a man except that he won’t be getting any. She gestured to the camera.

Boston raked his hand through his hair.

Shelby smiled a little. Her finger reached up and touched his head, brushing her arm against his and giving him a taunting view of her lips hovering near his.

“Bread crumb.” She dropped it in the sink. “Now don’t you want to take out the tape and see if Mary was recorded? That would really be something to show that reporter.”

Yeah, his housekeeper slicing bread. Exciting stuff. He’d seen Mary, talked to her many times, and there was no way she was a spirit. No dead person in their right mind would hang around washing a man’s dirty clothes and scrubbing the toilet.