The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [104]
“Bid!” Charlie poked him on the arm, and Oliver held up his hand.
“Hey!” Molly said. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Aunt Kit said, “Hello.”
“Hello,” Oliver said, distracted. “Who are you?”
“This is Kit,” Charlie said reverently.
Introductions seemed to be called for. “Katherine McDougal—my great-aunt—this is Oliver Worth.” But Aunt Kit and Charlie were staring at each other again. “Have you two met before?”
“Seriously,” said Oliver, “what are you doing here?”
“Why are you trying to buy my house?”
“I’m not trying to buy your house. I’m bidding on the—” He looked down at the folded newspaper in his hand. “On the—” He looked at it again. “McDougal house.” He looked at Aunt Kit. “Oh, it’s your house.”
“Bid!” Charlie said, and Oliver held up his hand again.
“It’s not my house,” said Aunt Kit. “It’s Molly’s.”
“Who?” said Oliver.
“It’s my house,” Molly said, taking the newspaper from him. “It says right here, Molly McDougal.”
“Ha! So you’re not Krystal Smith-Jones?” His beautiful lips twisted sarcastically. “What a surprise.” He turned to his grandfather. “Why did you tell me it was Romy’s house?”
“It is Romy’s house.”
“You’re right,” Molly said, “I’m not Krystal Smith-Jones. I’m Molly McDougal.” If nothing else, it was a relief to finally be rid of that silliness.
“Also,” Charlie said helpfully, “Madame Romanescu.”
“No, she’s not.” Oliver looked as if he’d been insulted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“This man is awfully rude,” Aunt Kit noted. “And yet I do believe you’re going to be stuck with him, dear.”
“ Ah, but I am,” Molly said to Oliver in her Romy voice. “Do you remember me now, dear one? We spoke on the phone once, weeks ago. You told me to leave your grandfather alone.” She turned to Aunt Kit. “Yes, he is rude—I told you.”
Oliver had turned into a statue. “Bid,” Charlie said, nudging him again.
“Romy?” he finally managed between numb-looking lips. “You’re Romy?” He tore his gaze from her to look at Charlie. “Why did you tell me she was Krystal?”
“Who’s Krystal?” said Aunt Kit.
“Long story,” said Charlie. “Your turn to bid, Oliver. Say,” he said to Aunt Kit, “do you play golf?”
“Yes,” Molly said, “I am Romy,” still in her Gypsy voice.
“Romy.” Oliver’s face looked like Charlie’s—reverent and wondering. “It’s me,” he said. “Shorty.”
She laughed, a slightly hysterical sound. “No, you’re not. Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“Yes, ma’am, I am,” he said in that low, slow drawl she loved. “You gave me a lotta good advice when I was out there herdin’ the dogies. I gave you some, too.”
“You . . . did?”
“Yes, ma’am. I told you not to squat with your spurs on.”
“Bid,” Charlie commanded, and Oliver held up his hand.
“Shorty?” Molly’s voice quavered. She pressed clasped hands to her heart. Could it be? “Shorty?”
“Romy.”
“Sold!” said the auctioneer.
“What just happened?”
“Oliver bought your house,” said Charlie, patting her on the shoulder. “Who’s Shorty?”
“Who’s Krystal?” said Aunt Kit again.
“You bought my house?”
“I thought it was Romy’s.” Oliver took Molly’s hands. “Oh, Romy, look at you. You’re so . . . young.”
“Oh, Shorty. You’re so . . . tall.”
They moved closer, until their lips were almost touching. She ran her thumbs along his cheekbones, the line of his jaw. “Are you my landlord now?”
“I’ll sell it back to you,” he said tenderly. “Cheap. No money down.”
Aunt Kit pressed her hands to her temples. “I’m not getting any clarity on this at all.”
Oliver looked like a boy when he grinned. Molly fell in love with him when he spread his arms wide, as if to embrace them all, and said, “Let’s go get a cuppa Arbuckles’, straighten this whole thing out.”
“Don’t you have to pay them or something?” Charlie remembered.
“Whoa, Nellie.” He patted his breast pocket. “Be right back.”
“I’ll go with you,” Molly said, not ready to let go of him yet. Not when she’d just found him.
“Okay, but hang on. Something I gotta do first.”
She hoped it was what she thought it was.
It was.
Charlie glanced at Kit—what a sexy name—who was exactly his height in her flat-heeled shoes. Crazy,