into the lobby. He watched her scoot around the counter and snag a key from one of the cubbies.
As she did, the door behind the counter swung open. And the bombshell walked out.
She was blonde—as Nate thought suited bombshells best—with the wavy mass of sunlight hair spilling down to brush very impressive breasts that were showcased by the low scoop of her snug, blue sweater. It took him a minute to get to the face as the sweater was tucked into jeans so tight they must have bruised several internal organs.
Not that he was complaining.
The face boasted bright blue eyes with an innocence in direct contrast with the plump, red lips. She was a little generous on the paint, and put him in mind of a Barbie doll.
Man-killer Barbie.
Despite the restriction of the outfit, everything that could jiggle did so as she strolled around the counter on skinny, backless heels, wiggled her way into the diner. And posed languidly against the bar.
"Well, hello, handsome."
Her voice was a throaty purr—she must've practiced it—designed to drain the blood out of a man's head and send his IQ plummeting to that of a green turnip.
"Charlene, you behave." Hopp rattled the key. "This boy's tired and half sick. He doesn't have the reserves to deal with you right now. Chief Burke, Charlene Hidel. This is her place. Town budget's paying your room and board here as part of your pay, so don't feel obliged to offer anything out in trade."
"Hopp, you're so bad." But Charlene smiled like a stroked kitten as she said it. "Why don't I just take you up, Chief Burke, get you all settled in? Then we'll bring you something hot to eat."
"I'll take him up." Deliberately Hopp closed her fist around the key, letting the big black room number tag dangle. "Jerk's bringing in his gear. Wouldn't hurt to have Rose bring him the chowder Mike's dishing up for him though. Come on, Ignatious. You can socialize when you're not so ready to drop."
He could've spoken for himself, but he didn't see the point. He followed Hopp through a doorway and up a flight of steps as obediently as a puppy follows its master.
He heard someone mutter, "Cheechako," in the tone a man uses to spit out bad meat. He assumed it was an insult, but let it go.
"Charlene doesn't mean any harm," Hopp was saying. "But she does like to tease a man to death given half a chance."
"Don't worry about me, Mom."
She gave that foghorn laugh again, and slid the key into the lock on room 203.
"Man took off on her about fifteen years back, left her with a girl to raise on her own. Did a decent enough job with Meg, though they're at each other like she-cats half the time. Had plenty of men since, and they get younger every year. I said she was too old for you before." Hopp looked over her shoulder. "Fact is, the way she's been going, you're too old for her. Thirty-two, aren't you?"
"I was when I left Baltimore. How many years ago was that?"
Hopp shook her head, pushed open the door. "Charlene's got better than a dozen years on you. Got a grown daughter nearly your age. Might want to keep that in mind."
"I thought you women got off when one of your kind bags a younger man."
"Shows what you know about females. Pisses us off is what it does, because we didn't bag him first. Well, this is it."
He stepped into a wood-paneled room with an iron bed, a dresser and mirror on one side, and a small round table, two chairs and a little desk on the other.
It was clean, it was spare and about as interesting as a bag of white rice.
"Little kitchen through here." Hopp walked over, yanked back a blue curtain to reveal a pint-sized refrigerator, a two-burner stove and a sink the size of Nate's cupped palm. "Unless cooking's your passion or hobby, I'd take my meals downstairs. Food's good here.
"It's not the Ritz, and she's got fancier rooms, but we're on a budget." She crossed to the other side, pushed open a door. "Bathroom. This one has indoor plumbing."
"Woo-hoo." He poked his head in.
The sink was
As she did, the door behind the counter swung open. And the bombshell walked out.
She was blonde—as Nate thought suited bombshells best—with the wavy mass of sunlight hair spilling down to brush very impressive breasts that were showcased by the low scoop of her snug, blue sweater. It took him a minute to get to the face as the sweater was tucked into jeans so tight they must have bruised several internal organs.
Not that he was complaining.
The face boasted bright blue eyes with an innocence in direct contrast with the plump, red lips. She was a little generous on the paint, and put him in mind of a Barbie doll.
Man-killer Barbie.
Despite the restriction of the outfit, everything that could jiggle did so as she strolled around the counter on skinny, backless heels, wiggled her way into the diner. And posed languidly against the bar.
"Well, hello, handsome."
Her voice was a throaty purr—she must've practiced it—designed to drain the blood out of a man's head and send his IQ plummeting to that of a green turnip.
"Charlene, you behave." Hopp rattled the key. "This boy's tired and half sick. He doesn't have the reserves to deal with you right now. Chief Burke, Charlene Hidel. This is her place. Town budget's paying your room and board here as part of your pay, so don't feel obliged to offer anything out in trade."
"Hopp, you're so bad." But Charlene smiled like a stroked kitten as she said it. "Why don't I just take you up, Chief Burke, get you all settled in? Then we'll bring you something hot to eat."
"I'll take him up." Deliberately Hopp closed her fist around the key, letting the big black room number tag dangle. "Jerk's bringing in his gear. Wouldn't hurt to have Rose bring him the chowder Mike's dishing up for him though. Come on, Ignatious. You can socialize when you're not so ready to drop."
He could've spoken for himself, but he didn't see the point. He followed Hopp through a doorway and up a flight of steps as obediently as a puppy follows its master.
He heard someone mutter, "Cheechako," in the tone a man uses to spit out bad meat. He assumed it was an insult, but let it go.
"Charlene doesn't mean any harm," Hopp was saying. "But she does like to tease a man to death given half a chance."
"Don't worry about me, Mom."
She gave that foghorn laugh again, and slid the key into the lock on room 203.
"Man took off on her about fifteen years back, left her with a girl to raise on her own. Did a decent enough job with Meg, though they're at each other like she-cats half the time. Had plenty of men since, and they get younger every year. I said she was too old for you before." Hopp looked over her shoulder. "Fact is, the way she's been going, you're too old for her. Thirty-two, aren't you?"
"I was when I left Baltimore. How many years ago was that?"
Hopp shook her head, pushed open the door. "Charlene's got better than a dozen years on you. Got a grown daughter nearly your age. Might want to keep that in mind."
"I thought you women got off when one of your kind bags a younger man."
"Shows what you know about females. Pisses us off is what it does, because we didn't bag him first. Well, this is it."
He stepped into a wood-paneled room with an iron bed, a dresser and mirror on one side, and a small round table, two chairs and a little desk on the other.
It was clean, it was spare and about as interesting as a bag of white rice.
"Little kitchen through here." Hopp walked over, yanked back a blue curtain to reveal a pint-sized refrigerator, a two-burner stove and a sink the size of Nate's cupped palm. "Unless cooking's your passion or hobby, I'd take my meals downstairs. Food's good here.
"It's not the Ritz, and she's got fancier rooms, but we're on a budget." She crossed to the other side, pushed open a door. "Bathroom. This one has indoor plumbing."
"Woo-hoo." He poked his head in.
The sink was
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