The Watson Brothers. Lori FosterЧитать онлайн книгу.

      ZEBRA BOOKS

      KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      CONTENTS

      MY HOUSE, MY RULES

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      BRINGING UP BABY

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      GOOD WITH HIS HANDS

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter One

      He knew that damned aggravating little giggle anywhere. It was throaty and pure and never failed to set him on edge. He’d listened to it every Sunday for two long months when Pete, his baby brother, had been infatuated with her. That giddy laugh was often directed at him, instead of Pete, as it should have been.

      With a heavy dose of dread and a visible grimace, Sam Watson slewed his head away from his whiskey and toward that annoying twitter. Shit. Sure enough, there sat Ariel Mathers. At the bar no less. And there were two men chatting her up.

      What the hell was she doing in this dive? He glanced around but didn’t see his brother anywhere. As to that, no one particular man appeared to be with her. Huh. The little twit was slumming.

      So many times since first meeting her, Sam had wanted to put her over his knee. For leading his brother on at a time when he’d been vulnerable. For flirting with him, Sam, a man much too old for her. And especially for being so damned adorable, he almost couldn’t stand it.

      And now this.

      His palm itched at the thought of it and his mind conjured the image of her over his knees, her tush bared. He started to sweat, knowing that if he had her in such a position, punishment would be the very last thing on his mind. She was so petite that her bottom would be small. And pale. And no doubt silky soft…

      Shit, shit, shit.

      His eyes burned as he stared at her slim back. She had her hair up with a few baby-fine blond curls kissing her nape. Little gold hoops in her earlobes glittered with the bar lights. The heart-shaped tush he’d so often fantasized over, now perched on a bar stool, was easily outlined beneath the clinging silk skirt of her dress.

      At twenty-four she was twelve years too young for him. His mind understood that. His dick didn’t care.

      She paused in whatever nonsense she’d been uttering to the hapless fool beside her. As she started to look around, Sam twisted in his seat to face the window. Do not let her see me, he prayed. He waited, pretending to be drunk when he was more alert than he’d ever been in his life. He’d nursed one whiskey since coming into the bar, but he’d pretended drunkenness on his way in. Anyone who noticed him would assume he was there to top off an already inebriated night.

      Fifteen seconds ticked by, then thirty, a minute—no one approached him. Sam relaxed, but kept his face averted, just in case. No way could he carry off his assignment tonight if Ariel got in the way.

      He should have known better than to stare at her. People felt that sort of thing, just as he’d felt the big bruiser at the far booth watching him. He would have liked to order another drink, to call further attention to his feigned drunkenness. But with Ariel sitting there, it would be too risky.

      Better to get this over with now, before he did something stupid. Like staring at her again.

      Opening his wallet to show the bloated contents—two hundred dollars’ worth—he pulled out a ten-dollar tip. He laid it on the table, stumbled to his feet and staggered out the door.

      Once outside, he deliberately started across the street toward the abandoned, shadowed building where he would supposedly retrace his path home—and where his backup could clearly see him. Sam took his time, singing a crude bawdy tune about a woman from Nantucket, who according to the men, liked to suck it. It was a favorite limerick from his youth and he knew it by heart, but this time he missed some words, slurred a few others.

      He pitched into the brick wall, laughed too loud, and started off again, only to trip over a garbage can, causing an awful racket. He gave a rank curse, stepped in something disgusting that he didn’t want to identify, and dropped up against the side of a broken, collapsible fire escape.

      Sam was fumbling for a more upright position when a meaty paw grabbed his upper arm, filling him with satisfaction. The perp had taken the bait.

      “Give me your wallet.”

      Jolting around, Sam acted surprised, then spat in the big chap’s face, “Fug off.”

      A ham-sized fist hit him in the side of the head and he saw stars for real. Jesus, he hadn’t expected the fellow to get nasty so quick. Most of the thefts in the area—and there’d been plenty of late—had been done without any real personal damage.

      Across a six-block area that covered three bars in Duluth, Indiana, more than twelve muggings had taken place in less than a month. It wasn’t the best part of the city, so muggings weren’t uncommon. But twelve? And all against men carrying substantial amounts of money. That smacked of premeditated, organized activity, and grabbed the attention of the police.

      Sam twisted away, but was brought back around for another punch, this one in the gut. He bent double and almost puked.

      Because he knew the guys would never let him live it down, he managed to keep his supper in his belly where it belonged. Just barely.

      Where the hell were they anyway? Taking their own sweet time?

      Before Sam could decide to take another punch or sneak in one of his own, a female banshee cry split the air, making his ears ring and his hair stand on end. Two seconds later his perp got hit from behind by a small tornado and the momentum drove him straight into Sam, against the side of the metal stairs. It felt like his damn ribs cracked.

      Everyone started struggling at once and they went down in a heap, Sam on the bottom so that his head and back hit the hard, gravel-covered ground with jarring impact. The wind left his lungs in a whoosh.

      While supine and wheezing, Sam got a good look at the familiar blond clinging tenaciously to his perp’s hair with one hand while trying to use her purse like a club with the other. Sam couldn’t quite tell if she was attempting to bludgeon him to death, or scream him into submission.

      Wincing, the would-be robber reached back, caught her shoulder, and flipped