His Private Pleasure. Donna Kauffman

brain again. “Yeah, right. I’ve already lost three nails. I’d as soon keep the fingers they were attached to.”

      “He won’t—”

      “Why, there’s my precious boy!”

      Dylan broke off and looked up as Tucker and his mother rounded the corner. He had no idea where the Miller twins, Metsy and Betsy—one fraction of Tucker’s personal fan club—had left off, but Dylan was glad for the reduced crowd. His mother rushed toward him. Rush being perhaps a bit too enthusiastic a term. Avis Jackson did everything at her own pace, even before she’d had to take to using a cane after a round of knee surgery.

      “Come to Momma, my baby.”

      Dylan didn’t turn or open his arms for her, knowing she wasn’t referring to her only son.

      Instead he casually leaned against the car and crossed his ankles, concealing the unfortunate state of his pants—both front and back. “Safe and sound,” he said, trying not to grit his teeth as she cooed and fussed over her “sweet baby.”

      “Sweet my ass,” he muttered.

      “I happen to think it’s pretty sweet.”

      He glanced down to find Liza sizing up the posterior he’d rested just beside her. But before he could respond to her whispered aside, his attention was pulled back to his mother and Mango.

      “You really need to stay where I put you, baby,” she was telling the bird.

      “You really need to use that safe lock I got you after his last escape.”

      His mother merely clucked her tongue and scooped the giant bird up so she could cuddle him against her chest. “He doesn’t like being all locked up. Do you, sweetie?” she crooned.

      “Then you have to keep the windows—”

      She turned on him, her frown emphasizing the deep grooves bracketing her mouth. “I’m not getting any younger, and I’ll stifle if I have to sit all cooped up in some air-controlled trap. I like to feel the air move. Mango and the rest of the flock like the breeze, too.” She turned and her face became a wreath of smiles. “Don’t you, sweet boy?”

      Dylan had long ago stopped trying to figure out how a recalcitrant, oversize parrot could weasel its way into his mother’s good graces when he’d spent the last thirty years trying to do the same thing, only to conclude no such path existed. For him, anyway.

      “So, you new in town?”

      Dylan shifted his attention back to the sports car. Tucker was leaning over the driver’s side door, beaming that million watt smile he’d perfected back in his high school quarterback days.

      She didn’t answer directly. Instead she stuck her hand out and said, “And you would be?”

      “Tucker Greywolf, town fire marshal.”

      “Pleasure to meet you.”

      Dylan scowled as he watched Liza give Tucker a thorough visual frisking. His frown deepened when Tucker returned the favor. And she didn’t seem to mind.

      Dylan cleared his throat. “We should get this car moved.” He glanced at Tucker. “It’s in a fire lane.”

      “So it is,” Tucker said, still smiling. “Why don’t you move it right around the corner to that lot there?” He pointed diagonally across the intersection. “Next to LuLu’s. I’ll spring for some lunch. It’s nothing fancy, but—”

      “I’ve already got a lunch date, Marshal, but thank you for—”

      “Call me Tucker.”

      She merely smiled. “Thanks for the invitation, Tucker. Maybe some other time. I’m Liza.”

      Liza. Dylan groaned silently. No. This couldn’t be happening. First the call from his old captain this morning. Then playing George of the Jungle. Now this. What were the odds her name would be Liza, of all things? And he’d thought his day couldn’t get any worse.

      Both Tucker and his mother had fallen silent and turned to look at him.

      “Oh shit,” Mango whispered.

      His mother gasped and tucked Mango’s head to her breast. “Dylan Benjamin Jackson,” she hissed. “Tell me you did not use profanity in front of Mango.”

      For perhaps the first time ever, Dylan was almost grateful to the pink chicken for his timely interruption. “Mom, really, it’s not like he—”

      “You know how fond he is of reciting anything said with drama. If he so much as repeats that one time during bingo, I’ll—”

      “I’m sure he’s heard far worse at the fire house. And really, it’s not like the ladies have never—”

      His mother cut him off with her trademark Glacial Glare of Doom, then flipped her attention back to Liza. Before Dylan could open his mouth to sidetrack her again, or better yet come up with a rapid explanation, she said, “So, you’re the floozy keeping my son from getting married, hmm?”

      Liza’s blue eyes—which only a second earlier had been dancing in amusement at his maternal dressing-down—popped wide as she looked from Avis, to him, then back to Avis. “I beg your pardon?”

      “Dylan’s stripper. From Vegas.” She turned to him and said, “I guess I should be happy you’re getting it from somewhere. I’d almost begun to think maybe you were hiding something from me. Although you could have told me you were gay, you know. I’m hip. I’m…what do they call it? Down with that?”

      Dylan’s eyes bulged. “What? When did you come up with that idea?” And how many people had she shared her little theory with? He groaned, thinking back to the way the old-timers at Pete’s Barber Shop had fallen silent the other day when he’d walked in. “And since when do you use phrases like ‘down with that’?”

      Avis had to raise her voice to be heard over Tucker’s howls of laughter. “I have cable. I watch that cute Carson Daly on MTV. And what’s a mother supposed to think when every young lady she introduces you to—”

      “You mean shoves down my throat,” he argued, forgetting Liza for the moment. “Like that poor woman who stopped by the VFW Hall last week during bingo to use the rest room?”

      “Bingo!” Mango piped up. “B-12, N-35! We have a winner!”

      Avis sniffed and stroked Mango’s feathers. “Perhaps I’ve grown a bit desperate. It’s hardly my fault. I want grandchildren to dandle on my lap while I can still sit upright.”

      As far as he knew, she’d never even dandled him on her lap. She’d been too busy feeding her flock. “And you think that accosting every—”

      “Shush now,” Avis commanded, then turned a forced smile toward Liza. “Introduce me to your stripper.”

      “I’m not a stripper,” Liza interjected, looking amused once more.

      “No,” Tucker said, still chuckling. “She’s a showgirl, Mrs. Jackson. Remember, Dylan told us all about how she could never find the time to visit due to the two-a-night shows she performs at the Tropicana.”

      Avis eyed Liza. “Doesn’t look tall enough to be a showgirl. Aren’t showgirls usually taller? She’s got the boobs for stripping, though.” She looked down at her own meager chest. “Saw a program on the Discovery channel about showgirls. Always thought it would be fun to wear those tassel things and…” She looked at Liza, and in all seriousness, asked, “Do you know how to make them swing in circles and—”

      “Mother!” Dylan felt his stomach burn, and automatically fished in his pockets for a roll of antacids. Only he didn’t have any. That’s why he was sheriff of Canyon Springs and not vice squad detective in Las Vegas anymore. So he didn’t have to pop Tums like they were gumdrops. He gently tugged his mother away from the car. “I’m sorry, Liza. This