The Sinner (Notorious 1)

“Margot’s right.” I sighed and Margot’s perfect eyebrows arched slightly in surprise. “It’s time to bring someone else in to take care of this garden.”

2

Savannah

Monday morning before work, the doorbell rang, a heavy gong sound that echoed in the house. It was so rare I actually jumped, dropping the wooden spoon in my hand onto the floor. And Margot, from the library, yelled;

“I’ve got it.” She said like people were ringing our doorbell all the time.

The hair on the back of my neck got all prickly.

“What did you do, Margot?” I yelled as I walked out of the kitchen.

“I put an ad in the paper. And lo and behold, I believe we have our first applicant for the job of handyman-slash-gardener.”

This was too fast. Too much. I wanted to yell stop. Just let me think. But Margot approached and put her soft hand against my cheek.

“I’m sorry for everything that’s hurt you, sweet girl,” she said and I wanted to flinch away, but my grandmother’s kindness was like a spell. “And I wish I could say that nothing will ever hurt you again. But I can’t make that promise, all I can say is this, hiring a man to come take care of the back courtyard, will be all right. I will make sure of it.”

I was a grown-ass woman with a child of my own and I shouldn’t need my grandmother of all people making those kinds of promises. But somehow I did.

I wasn’t proud of it.

I’d been chewed up and spit out by people I had trusted. A couple of lessons like that and you just stopped letting people in the door. Figuratively and literally.

“Can I open the door?” Margot asked and I knew if I said, no, I wasn’t ready, she’d leave that man to die of exposure on our front step.

But I was being ridiculous.

“Yeah. Of course.”

Before throwing open our bright red front door, (bright red because a little bit – fuck this town) Margot patted down her hair and smoothed her silk blouse across her waist. She winked at Katie who then vanished into the dark parts of the house and trust me when I say I wished I could go with her.

She opened the door revealing the bright hot Bonne Terre, Louisiana day and a man wearing a suit like he’d been born to do it. His tie was gone, but the jacket and the crisp white shirt beneath were fine quality. As was he. Tall and broad and…fine.

He had thick brown hair and a face carved out of stone.

“Well,” Margot said to the man. “You’re here about the ad, I suppose.”

His face froze. A smile half on, half off.

Yeah, this guy, wasn’t here for the ad. He had the wrong address. Or he was going to sell them something.

Because he did not look at all like a man dressed for hard outdoor labor. But then he smiled.

And I mean…it was a doozie.

“I am,” he said. “I’m here about the ad.”

“You’re a little over dressed for it,” Margot said.

“Well, first impressions and all that.” His smile was crooked and it lit a spark in his eyes and I glanced down at my hands, flushed.

“Come on in,” Margot said and stepped back next to me in the shadowed cool of the foyer.

“Margot,” I whispered as the strange man climbed the stairs, like some kind of predatory cat, all muscle and intention. His shaggy brown hair gleamed like polished wood and his green eyes radiated something hot and awful that I felt in the core of my body—a trembling where there hadn’t been one in years. Hot sweat ran between my breasts under my white cotton shirt. “This is not a good idea.”

“Please, Savannah,” Margot all but purred, her eyes hovering over the man like a honeybee. “Look at him. It’s a fabulous idea.”

And then he was there, big and masculine on the tattered welcome mat. C.J., the little tart, stepped out of the sleeping porch to curl around his shoes.

Seriously, that cat gave all of us a bad name.

“My name is Matt Howe,” he said, holding out his hand.

Margot clasped Matt’s big paw in her’s. “I’m Margot O’Neill,” she said. “Welcome to our home.”

Then it was my turn.

My turn to touch his flesh to mine. My turn to stand under his neon gaze.

He’s just a man, I told myself. Tell yourself he’s a client. He wants research on minor battles in the Pacific during World War Two or about the migratory patterns of long-tailed swallows.

My hand slid into his and receptors, long buried, long ignored, shook themselves awake, sighing with a sudden pleasure.

“Savannah O’Neill,” I said, my voice a brusque rattle.

“A pleasure, Savannah,” Matt said, bowing slightly over my hand. And my whole body went hot thinking he was going to kiss my fingers.

“Your ad was a little vague,” he said, stammering slightly on the words. “I was hoping for some more information about what you’re looking for?”