The Locket Read online

  The

  Locket

  Maren Smith

  The Locket

  Maren Smith

  A Red Hot Romance Spanking Novel

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright 2009 © by Maren Smith

  This book may not be reproduced in whole

  or part, by mimeograph or any other means,

  without permission of the author.

  [email protected]

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  http://www.facebook.com/people/Maren-Smith/100001806129049

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, places

  and events are purely coincidental.

  Cover image credit goes to:

  PaulConnelly/www.istockphotos.com

  Other books by Maren Smith

  Angel of Hawkhaven

  Bippity-Boppity-Boo

  B-Flick

  Black Sheep

  Daughter of the Strong

  The Diva

  Enemies

  The Great Prank

  Jinxie’s Orchids

  Kindred Spirits

  Life After Rachel

  The Miner’s Wife

  Mistress

  Morogh the Demon

  The Mountain Man

  My Lady Robin Hood

  The Next Ex

  Saga: Constance’s Story

  Spanking Tails I thru VII

  The Suffragettes

  Treasure

  Varden’s Lady

  CHAPTER ONE

  The first time Kylie met Robert Appleby, he was sitting on her favorite park bench, his black Humphrey Bogart hat resting low over his eyes, his long tweed overcoat turned up against the budding winter’s cold. A bag of bread crumbs in his weathered hands and no less than ninety good years behind him, he looked like somebody’s grandfather. Kind and wise and even relatively harmless. Which was why, with only twenty minutes left on her lunch hour and against all her better ‘big city’ judgment, Kylie polished off the last of her tuna sandwich and walked over to sit down beside him.

  “Hi,” she said, laying her book down between them.

  The old man didn’t reply straight away, although a gentle smile did tug the corners of his lips upwards. Tossing the pigeons a handful of crumbs, he eventually leaned slightly sideways, his broad shoulder just brushing hers as he replied, “You shouldn’t ought to talk to strangers, you know.”

  It was such a lighthearted scolding that Kylie couldn’t help but smile herself. “That only applies to children; I’m twenty-two. Not to put too fine a point on it, I can probably outrun you, too.”

  “Oh ho!” he chuckled, and tossed the cooing birds another loose handful. “That must make it all right then, I guess.”

  “We could introduce ourselves.” Kylie couldn’t put her finger on exactly why, but she liked this old man. It was probably the fastest snap judgment she’d ever made toward another human being, but there was just something about him…something that was a little bit sad and a little bit lost, with maybe a smidgen of loneliness tossed into the mix. All three of those were, unfortunately, things Kylie was well familiar with. It gave her the courage to stick out her open hand. “I’m Kylie Morgan.”

  Shifting the bag of bread crumbs to his other arm, he engulfed her much smaller hand in his warm and weathered one. “Robert Appleby.”

  His hold was gentle but firm, too, and surprisingly strong for a man of his years. And if his grasp lingered just a second or two longer than any normal how-ya-doing handshake should have, well…Kylie didn’t notice. She was much too distracted by that pins and needles tingling that was creeping up through her palm and fingers. Every place his skin touched hers felt so shockingly, stunningly…alive! Kylie breathed in deeply, for a moment unable to move as that electrified tingling moved up through her arm, bringing with it a gentle heat—like warm summer’s sunshine, slowly overwhelming the weather’s chill—and the fresh, rich scent of tree-ripened apples that touched her nose.

  She swallowed, hard, practically able to taste those phantom apples, and the old man let go of her hand. She stared at her hand in wonder, but the scent, the heat and the tingling was already beginning to fade.

  Her ‘little bit lonely’ intuition must have been right on target too, because no sooner did their hands part than, like the opening of flood gates, he began to talk.

  “Do you know who you remind me of?” He offered her a dip into his bag of bread crumbs.

  Flexing her fingers once to make sure that odd sensation really was gone, Kylie hesitantly accepted a pinch, making very careful not to touch either him or the bag if she could help it, and made herself comfortable while she fed the pigeons. “No, who?”

  “My wife, the most wonderful woman that ever lived. Smart as a whip. Very creative and good with her hands. She had your hair color.”

  Thank you, Clairol bottle number 103. Kylie sprinkled a few more crumbs for the fluttering, greedy flock before them.

  “Your eyes, too,” he added, not looking at her. Cooing a very close approximation of a warbling pigeon’s call, the old man took the bag by its bottom and sprinkled all that was left on the ground. “She was the only young lady I ever knew with a heart as big as the whole world. She literally gave the clothes right off her back to help the less fortunate. My mother’s best homespun shawl. Boy, did I lose my temper.” He looked at the birds, tsking and shaking his head. “Once I learned the whole story, I was sure sorry for how I handled the matter. I wonder if she knows that?”

  The poignancy she could hear in his words held Kylie spellbound. Wondering how long he’d been grieving for his paragon wife, and even knowing he was most likely speaking more to himself than her, she nevertheless replied, “I’m sure she does. She probably knew it back then, too.”

  It was the right thing to say. A huge smile split his face and he reached over, briskly patting her knee. “Smart as a whip, I told you. Smart as a whip.” Leaning back against the bench, he brushed off his hands before folding them in his lap. Quietly, he stared across the park, his dark eyes growing distant as he said, “It was during the second world war. That’s when I first laid eyes on her. Ours was an orchard community, you know. We grew everything in that little town and sold it all to the canning factory just down the road. Wasn’t a rich living, but we were comfortable. And nobody starved; that’s the important thing. We took care of our own back then.

  “Then the war hit.” In the pause that followed, although his smile remained fixed on his face, there was no amusement left in his eyes. “Every man who could, my brothers and I included, left the orchards and ran to enlist. They got killed, so the army sent me home. I wanted to stay, of course, but the Sullivans and the Borgstroms kind of ruined that for the rest of us. So, home I went. Do you know, the Appleby orchards survived the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression?”

  “That’s a long time to be alive.” Kylie blurted the words before she could stop herself, but his booming laugh and smart slap on her knee showed he was anything but offended.

  “It certainly is. I remember sitting in our pitch dark schoolroom, all the lights on, a bandana around my face and still unable to breathe for all the dust in the air. And I remember mama sewing me clothes out of our kitchen curtains because I’d wore my brothers’ handmedowns until there wasn’t anything left of them. But the victory gardens…oh now, those were, as they say, the final coffin nail for our town. I came home to a town that was all but dead. The canning factory closed; people moved away, hoping to find work in California. There wasn’t another man, other than me, older than eighteen or younger than fifty in more than sixty miles, any direction. And every time that blasted telegram boy came driving through town, everybody knew that meant one less man would be coming home aft
er the war was done. We were shriveling up in the sun, turning to dust right along with all our fruit trees.” The old man blinked twice, then his eyes moved to fix on her face. He smiled at her and leaned sideways, his shoulder brushing hers again as he said, winking—like the most playful of conspirators—and softly—like the most intimate of lovers. “That’s when I met my wife.”

  He winked again, his smile dancing up into his eyes, as if he could see the havoc his words, charming attitude and very nearness were beginning to wreak upon her insides. Ninety if he was a day, and here she was, thinking of him in damn near romantic terms.

  Get a grip, Kylie! She shifted, pretending to turn sideways on the bench so that she could face him and at the same time putting a few precious inches of empty space between them. There. Now they were newly-met acquaintances again. Nothing more, nothing less. What had he been saying? Oh yes! His wife.

  “Was…” she cleared her throat and tried again, this time without that breathless, slightly aroused hitch in her tone. “Was it love at first sight?”

  “Oh ho!” The old man chuckled again, his lips pursing as he emphatically shook his head. “I turned her over my knee and paddled the blue blazes out of her. Let me tell you, she didn’t like it, or me, one bit.”

  “You didn’t!” Kylie barked out a startled laugh and quickly covered her mouth with one hand when people on a bench further down the park’s path actually looked up and over at her. In much softer tones, she repeated, “You didn’t either!”

  “Absolutely, I did. She was trespassing, after all. Stealing apples I could ill afford, and I was barely making ends meet as it was.” There was that sparkle again, dancing in the depths of his dark and laughing eyes. He watched her, seemingly waiting for her to be feministically outraged on his unmet wife’s behalf.

  “How terrible!” Unfortunately, her barely mustered defense was completely ruined by the slow blush that was creeping up to pinken her cheeks. Her gaze dropped to study his hands, large and square, hardened by a lifetime of labor, strong and yet folded so harmlessly in his lap. That warmth was back in the pit of her belly again, a molten ribbon of desire flowing down to mingle erotically with that answering, languid pulse slowly awakening between her tightly clenching thighs. “You…you shouldn’t have done that.”

  It was the best rebuke that she could think of and her nervously aroused half-laugh ruined it.

  “She forgave me for it.” His dark eyes twinkled, as if he could see how intently she was fighting the urge to squirm on this very public park bench. “Eventually. But, oh, did I keep her sitting gingerly all that first summer! And don’t you worry. Sometimes she liked it; the rest of the time…well, we’ll just say I gave her every bit of what she was needing, and leave it at that.”

  It really was true: all the good men were either taken or dead…or in this case, about sixty years too old. Kylie looked at his hands again and tried not to sound as wistful as she felt. “I guess that served her right for stealing.”

  Humming, the old man both nodded and shrugged. “Those were hard times for everyone. And I wasn’t as nice then as I’ve since come to be. She did that, you know.” He tossed her another cavalier wink. “Softened me around the edges. Good woman. The best that ever lived.”

  “I’m sorry she’s gone.” Kylie barely refrained from wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

  “I’ll see her again, eventually.” He swiveled slightly to look at her from out beneath the broad rim of his felt hat. “Would you like to see a picture?”

  Kylie perked. “Yes, please.” And when he reached into his coat pocket, she gave up those few buffering inches of self-respect in favor of scooting closer. To see the pictures better, she told herself, and not because she was kinky or anything. But instead of wallet photos, the old man withdrew a silver, heart-shaped locket. It looked at least as old as he was, with engravings that scrolled all across both the front and the back, the quality of craftsmanship the likes of which were rarely practiced anymore. “Wow, that’s pretty.”

  “The clasp is fragile,” he cautioned. “Forgive me. While I would love to show this to you, it is very precious to me. I couldn’t bear the thought it might accidentally be dropped. Therefore, if you want to see it, you must let me put it around your neck first. Now,” he held up his hand, halting her before she had a chance to answer either way. “You absolutely cannot keep the thing, you understand. I warn you, young lady, if you try to abscond with my locket, I will tackle you straight to the ground. And having talked with me now for these past few minutes, you can’t say you don’t know how I would deal with said thievery or how that little scuffle would surely end.”

  The image of this ninety-something-year-old man being able to catch her, much less tackle her to the ground, was absurd enough to make Kylie laugh out loud all over again. She covered her mouth, but too late. People were looking around at them again, but thank goodness no one was even remotely close enough to overhear them. Kylie quickly chanced a quick glance behind her just to make sure, and then stare at him again. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, hoping they weren’t as bright red as they suddenly felt. By the look on his face, they must have been, but there was no way—absolutely no way at all—that he could possibly know the images his words were conjuring in her mind. Or the way her bottom tingled as she envisioned being held down on the ground, her hands pinned behind her while the back of her winter jacket was tossed up out of the way long enough for the flat of his broad hand to descend half a dozen times or more all across her jean-clad rump. The whole scenario was ridiculous. Ludicrous. Absurd! If she weren’t such a firmly-closeted spankophile, this otherwise very innocent conversation would never have been twisted into flirtation in her mind.

  She took her hands from her face in the hopes that she wouldn’t seem so incredibly, guiltily embarrassed, and said, “I promise I won’t steal your locket.”

  That promise was, apparently, good enough for him. With slightly trembling hands, he unfastened the clasp while she gathered her shoulder-length blonde hair up and pulled her jacket’s collar out of the way, turning her back to him long enough to allow the locket to be slipped around her neck. The intricately engraved silver charm settled warm against her skin as he secured it at her nape.

  “There,” he said, lightly patting her shoulders with hands that made her tingle when he was finished. “Open it up. Tell me what you think of my wonderful wife.”

  Setting herself to be properly nostalgic, Kylie cradled that beautiful silver heart between her hands while carefully unhooking the latch and prizing the two halves apart. There were two pictures inside. On the left, four children (ranging in ages from two to ten) stood together on white-washed front porch steps, dressed in their Sunday best. On the right, the woman who looked just like Kylie smiled comfortably out into space.

  Kylie blinked in surprise and lifted the picture for a closer look. The woman’s hair was brown. As brown as…well, Kylie’s roots. She looked a little older, too, perhaps by as much as ten years. And yet her unmistakable resemblance to that black and white face was more than just uncanny. Apart from a few laugh lines around the pictured woman’s eyes and a good ten years difference in their apparent ages—not to mention the massive gap in time between now and whenever this photo had been taken—they could very well have been twins.

  “Wow,” Kylie said again. “Deja vu.”

  Studying that picture, Kylie didn’t realize the old man had reached for her until she felt the tingling shock of his bare hand against her equally bare cheek. This touch was ten times stronger than what she had felt in her fingers and a hundred times more vivid than his pat upon her shoulders. She gasped outright, feeling electrified when he lifted her chin and turned her face to his.

  “I almost sent you packing,” he said, staring intently into her wide and startled eyes. “The only reason I didn’t was because you wept and said you had no place else to go. Remember that, Kylie.” His thumb caressed the curve of her cheek, as if once more wiping away those l
ong-ago tears. “You had no place else to go.”

  The old man kissed her then, and it was every bit as warm and as passionate as the kisses she’d read about in the pages of any historical romance. It was the kind of kiss that most women ached to experience just once in the whole of their lives, and only with the one person they loved above all others. Kylie had read about kisses like this, kisses that made every nerve and fiber cry out, kisses that curled every single one of her toes and scattered her thoughts to the skies the way the pigeons suddenly scattered from around their feet, flapping noisily away. Reading about them, and experiencing them firsthand were two devastatingly different things—and all from a man old enough to be her grandfather.

  Her lips felt like they were sparking; the whole world spun. Quite literally, in fact. And that sudden, sharp shift in vertigo pulled queasily at her stomach until it felt as if she were standing in a rapidly falling elevator.

  Robert’s hand against her cheek disappeared, as did the touch of his withered lips upon her own. She couldn’t feel the locket in her hands anymore, either. Nor the cold of the weather, or the park bench beneath her. Kylie opened her eyes with a gasp, seeing nothing of the park at all, but blinded instead by streaks of the most brilliant light shooting past her at speeds that would make a military jet seem as if it were standing still.

  Kylie sucked a fast breath to cry out, but it was like screaming in a vacuum. There was no sound, there was no touch. There was only the light, flashing past her faster and faster until, just as suddenly as it had started, everything went black.

  * * * * *

  Kylie woke up slowly. Gone was the park and the winter-bound city where she worked. Instead, she found herself lying on a bed of tall yellow grass, with the heat of summer sunshine burning into the legs of her jeans and the tickle of a bug crawling over the backs of her fingers. She blinked once, then twice, trying to bring the red and gold apples in the branches above her into focus. There was a persistent tone screaming in her ears, and it took nearly a full minute for her to realize the sound wasn’t ringing, but the persistent near-deafening shrill of dozens of unseen katydids in the brush.