"George," he said quietly after a strained moment, "I'm not going to attack you. Is that what you're worried about?"
"Yes—no, well, not really,"
"That was a very definitive statement. I feel clear about everything now."
"I'm worried about.. .other things."
"Good. I'm relieved. Would you like to stay here a minute and neck?"
To his amusement, she glanced at him warily.
"Really, George, I'm much too old to make love in the front seat of a car."
She knew she should hop out of the car now and retreat with some dignity, but she made the grave error of looking directly at his face.
"You have bedroom eyes," she said stupidly, unconsciously lifting her hand toward his face.
"You needn't worry, then. I'll close my eyes."
"I don't want you to think that I'm...well, that I'm-"
"A tease? It hadn't crossed my mind. Would you rather talk a while?"
"No."
He reached out his hand and picked up a curl of hair that fell over her shoulder. It felt soft and warm. "Do you dye your hair?"
"Of course not!"
"Well," he said, smiling wolfishly, "there is a way to prove it."
"How? Checking my roots every month?"
He groaned. "One of these days or nights, I'm going to figure you out, Georgina Hathaway." He gave her hair a gentle tug and she leaned toward him.
"Oh," she said when her mouth was an inch away from his.
His eyes gleamed in amusement. Very gently, he kissed the corner of her mouth, glided over her cheek,then nipped the tip of her nose. The gearshift was between them, but for the moment Elliot forgot about it. He slid his hand up under her hair and gently began to knead the back of her neck. "You're tense," he said, and pulled her face forward to his shoulder.
"No," she whispered against his shoulder, "I'm stupid."
"Don't you plan to ever say something I expect?"
George arched her back to look at him, pressing her breasts against his chest. "Please kiss me," she said staring at his mouth.
Cupping her face between his hands, he caressed her lips, slowly deepening his kiss until he felt the warmth of her mouth and tongue. He felt her response but maintained a firm hold on himself. He kept his hands on her hair and her face, though he wanted nothing more than to fell the rest of her in his hands. When he released her, she was breathing hard. "You been jogging, lady?" His voice was softly teasing, and George, abruptly shoved back into the present, buried her face against his white shirt. Her hands, closed into fists, pressed against his shoulders.
Elliot didn't understand her. Very slowly, he slipped his hand between them and pressed his palm against her heart. It was pounding. She was in worse shape than he was, he thought, somewhat dazed. To his surprise, she pulled away from him. "I want to go in now," she said, gulping. He smiled at her bowed head, though it was an effort. "As I said, George, one of these days—or nights—I'm going to understand you. Come on, lady."
He opened the car door and bounded out. For several moments, he concentrated on slowing his pulse.
"I'm too old for this," he muttered between deep breaths. When he turned back, George was already halfway to her door.
She looked strangely bereft. He decided he really was too old for games. He took her hand in his and shook it. "Good night, George. I had an.. .interesting evening."
She flinched, as if he had struck her. Jesus Christ, he thought, I'm playing the lead in a damned play and I have no idea what my lines are.
"Congratulations again," he said.
"Thank you," came the tense reply.
He stared down at her thoughtfully. "I'd like to see you again. Next Friday?"
Her face lit up like a Christmas tree.
"Oh yes, I'll be back from Dallas by then."
"Good." He lightly patted her cheek. "I'll call you. We'll have dinner with David and Doris."
What the hell, he thought as he backed out of her driveway, she was charming company, in spite of the bizarre game she was playing with him.
Chapter 5
It was George's first visit to Dallas, and she found it too hot, too flat and overwhelmingly friendly. She was feted at cocktail parties, swimming parties, press interviews and even a Texas barbecue, all as Georgina, the new Braden-Tyrol beauty girl. She was treated by most of the men as the valuable property she was, until after they'd had a couple of drinks. Then they seemed to think it was open season on George. She found it difficult sometimes to keep her dazzling smile in place.
She thought about Elliot, usually when she was lying in bed at night trying to sleep. She wondered if the Boston women were making it open season on him. She sent him a postcard of a Texas oil well. She breathed a huge sigh of relief when her plane finally took off from the Dallas/Ft. Worth airport.
"You did good, kid," Ben said, and perfunctorily patted her arm. "Take it easy for a while. You don't have anything to do until next Tuesday."
"The Texas hospitality was a bit overpowering," she said. "I only wish you had stuck around a bit more to help me fight some of it off."
"You did fine on your own. You're supposed to be a party girl, George." He continued over her disgusted snort, "What about Damien in New York? Owner of a fancy nightclub, a handsome dog, gobs of money. You spend all your time with him when you're there."
"Oh, Damien. He's good cover. I'll tell you a secret if you swear to keep your mouth shut."
"Let me order a drink first."
Ben downed half his Scotch before arching a bush eyebrow at her. '' Well?''
"Ben, have you ever considered having an eyebrow transplant to your head?"
"Shove it, George. Now, what's this secret?"
"Forget it. I've decided to keep my mouth shut." It was just as well that Ben thought her something of a swinger. She was just plain tired, or else she wouldn't have been tempted to tell him that Damien Whyte was gay. Talk about good cover. They were made for each other!
"Women," Ben snorted, gulping down the rest of his Scotch. "Even you, George, can be a big pain in the butt."
"Thanks," she said dryly, and leaned back and closed her eyes. She saw Elliot, smiling in that beguiling way of his, his incredible green eyes caressing her face, and wondered if he thought about her, just a little bit.
* * *
"Good morning, Elliot," Lisa Dickerson said, looking up at her boss. "Welcome back. How was Boston? Did the conference go well?"
"Everything was fine. Any bombs drop while I was gone?"
"No more than usual. Dr. Baines wants one of the residents strung up by his heels, Dr. Luthor is growling about a promotion and the building committee needs your comments on the new wing."
Elliot grunted and walked into his office.
Lisa followed him after a couple of minutes with a cup of black coffee. "You haven't forgotten the fund-raising banquet tonight, have you?"
Elliot stared at her for a moment.. "Damn," he muttered. He swilled down his coffee and slammed the cup on his desk. "Yes, I had forgotten. In fact, I made other plans. Any way out of it?"
Lisa shook her head, guessing his other plans included Georgina Hathaway. "Sorry, Elliot." She made a great fuss straightening a pile of papers. "You could, I suppose, take Miss Hathaway with you."
Elliot shot her a sharp look. "Actually," he said blandly, "I was supposed to have dinner with David and Doris Thornton." He didn't mention that George was the fourth.
"Oh," Lisa said. "Well, that's too bad," she continued, adopting his bland tone. "With her present, all those old crusts would probably drool in their cocktails."
"I would likely be spared making a boring speech."
Lisa shrugged elaborately. "Very true. Their respect for you would soar. Just think, the chairman of Radiology, a swinger!"
"I hear the phone, Lisa," Elliot said.
The morning was hectic. He resolutely put George out of his mind, canceled dinner with the Thorntons, wrote out his talk for the fund-raisin
g dinner, met with Doctors Buzby, Daniels and Corby, and by one o'clock wanted nothing more than to swim fifty laps and collapse in the sauna. When he returned to his office, Lisa had gone to lunch. He sorted through the phone messages and mail on her desk. On top of the pile was a postcard of a Texas oil well. He smiled as he read George's sloping handwriting. He had tried to call her, but there had been no answer.
At three-thirty that afternoon, he closed his office door and dialed George's phone number.
He let it ring a half-dozen times. Finally, to his relief, he heard her exuberant voice. "Hello."
"George, this is Elliot. I've been trying to reach you."
"I was over at the stadium with Tod. He's got a new girlfriend and wanted me to check her out. Did you like Boston?"
"Enough. I just got your postcard. Did you enjoy Dallas?"
"It was a lot of hard work."
"And a lot of parties, I read,"
"There always are. Tell me about Boston. I haven't been back in a couple of years."
"I'll tell you when I see you. I've got to cancel out tonight, George. There's a fund-raiser that I forgot about, and I'm the speaker. Sorry, but I can't get out of it."
"Oh."
Elliot had never heard such disappointment in one simple word. He smiled into the phone. "Will you cook dinner for me Saturday night?"
There was dead silence on the line. That's right, George, he thought, no more games like last weekend. For whatever reason, you've been chasing me long enough.
George was thinking frantically. She didn't know how to cook.
''It's okay, George. Forget it!"
"Seven-thirty," she said firmly. "Please dress comfortably." "If you're sure..."
"Very sure. Elliot?"
"Yes?"
"Don't be late, will you?"
He grinned into the phone. "No, I won't be late."
"I'll pick you up if you're worried about the Jaguar konking out on you.''
"Don't be impertinent, George."
He heard her laugh, and the sound brought a smile to his lips.
"See you Saturday."
He hung up the phone, swiveled in his chair and gazed out over the bay. The fog was rolling in and within a few minutes would blanket his view in white. He picked up the postcard and pictured George as she had appeared at the residents' picnic, her hair in a floppy ponytail, dressed in her Beau Jangles shirt and cutoffs. She had looked about sixteen. No, not sixteen, he thought, remembering those long legs. He drew a deep breath and quickly pulled his speech for the evening from beneath a pile of papers on his desk.
* * *
George stared down at the salad with its romaine lettuce leaves flopping over the sides of the bowl. How could the bloody thing have wilted so quickly?
She glanced at the clock. Where the devil was Marty with the white clam sauce and broccoli hollandaise? The front doorbell rang and she scampered to answer it. To her chagrin, Elliot stood there, fifteen minutes early, a bottle of wine under his arm.
"Hello, George. I live so far away, I didn't want to take the chance of being late and spoiling your dinner."
"Hi," she managed, her eyes darting up and down the street. All she needed was to have Marty pull up in front of Elliot with their dinner, like some sort of delivery service.
Elliot didn't notice her distraction. He was wondering how she could look more beautiful every time he saw her. She was wearing a pair of dark blue corduroy pants, a white silk blouse and no shoes. Her hair was loose over her shoulders, pulled back from her face with barrettes.
"I can't smell what you're cooking. I brought red wine. Will that be all right?"
To his surprise, George flushed. "Red wine is perfect. Actually, I.. .made everything earlier, that's why there are no yummy odors. Please, come in!"
"Can I help you with something?"
"Oh no! I want you to relax. You're my guest." She resolutely pulled the bottle of wine away from him and stayed on his heels until he eased down onto the sofa.
He stared after her as she trotted toward the kitchen, clutching the bottle of wine in her hand like a club.
"George," he called, "are you all right? No fever? No chills?"
She appeared in the doorway, smiling frantically. At that moment, she heard Marty's car pull into the driveway. "Elliot, please come here a moment." He rose, his head cocked to one side. "I want you to see my.. .books! Here, in the study!" She was dancing about, and Elliot decided to be amused and play along. "I would love to see your books," he said dryly. She practically shoved him into the small study and closed the door behind him.
She managed to reach the front door before Marty, her hands full, had a chance to ring. "Thank God you're here! Quick, Marty. My friend arrived early, of all things!"
Marty Taylor, a gourmet cook and a miniature whirlwind, as George affectionately called her, heaved a heavy casserole dish into George's hands. "I'll be in and out like a flash," she whispered. "Not to worry." Heavenly smells of garlic bread and clam sauce floated through the air.
"George, don't forget to taste the spaghetti. About nine minutes, no more. You want it al dente." With those words, Marty giggled, gave George a quick squeeze and was out the front door.
When George returned to the study, she found Elliot seated at her desk, a novel in his hands. "Fascinating," he said. "I'm delighted that you allowed me to see your books."
She gazed at him warily. "Would you care to open the wine now? Dinner will be ready as soon as the spaghetti's done."
"Smells great," Elliot said, sniffing as he followed her into the kitchen.
"I'm heating everything up. Elliot, would you like to check the spaghetti to see if it's al dente?"
"My pleasure." She watched him deftly twirl a strand around a fork, touch it to his finger, then taste it. "Nearly there."
He turned to her. "Good to see you, George," he said, and kissed her lightly on her mouth. Without shoes, she came to his chin. He slipped his hands beneath her hair and gently kneaded the nape of her neck. "Tension again, George," he said, his fingers caressing her.
"Clam sauce," she said, unable to keep herself from pressing against the length of him. "It always makes me tense."
He kissed her again. When his tongue gently probed her mouth, he felt her start, then snuggle closer against him, her arms going around his back.
"The spaghetti, damn it."
"The...spaghetti," she repeated stupidly, slowly stepping back from him.
Elliot willed his enthusiastic body to calm. He quickly turned away from her and drained the spaghetti. She had covered the circular butcher block table with a checkered tablecloth and had set a thick red candle on it. "Quite authentic," he said over his shoulder. He made her a wine spritzer, three-quarters soda with just enough wine to color it a pale red.
"Looks and smells great," he said once all the food was on the table. George sipped her spritzer and said, as if surprised, "This isn't half bad. Needs a little lemon to be perfect!
He told her about Boston, about the scull he'd taken out on the Charles. "I was on the crew at Yale. Lord, I didn't remember how much work it was."
George told him a bit about Dallas. "Imagine, they barbecued an entire cow! I didn't want to see it cooking, so I hid in the bathroom."
Elliot forked down another bit of the delicious clam sauce. He smiled to himself, then said blandly, "I like your use of cumin in the sauce, George. It gives it that snappy flavor. How much do you use?"
Cumin! What the dickens was cumin? "Oh, a couple of...well, not too much. You don't want to overdo."
"True. And the Parmesan on the garlic bread. Delicious. Did you grate it yourself?"
"No, I'm too lazy to do that."
"Sure tastes fresh. You're quite a gourmet cook "
"Thank you."
"You must give me your recipe for the hollandaise sauce. It was very creamy and not too cheesy. You must have spent hours stirring it."
"Oh, not hours," George said airily. "Save room for dessert, El
liot. I made cherries jubilee."
"It'll have to be later, George. You've stuffed me." Elliot took a last bite of garlic bread and rose. He kissed her lightly on the top of her head. "You've worked so hard. I'll clean up. Why don't you go watch tv or.. .read a book?"
"Oh, no! You're my guest. How about brandy or a cup of espresso?" "Coffee would be fine."
Elliot stacked the dishes in the dishwasher while George fiddled with the coffeemaker. "Need any help?" he asked, circling his arms around her waist.
He felt her muscles stiffen and spread his fingers over her. "You're very slender," he said, kissing her temple. His hands strayed upward. George leaned back against him, her eyes closed. His hands stopped. "Coffee's ready," he said, and released her.
He saw the stunned look on her face and smiled to himself. Men could tease, too.
George felt flushed, and she knew he knew it. She fumbled with the coffee cups, her whole body feeling taut and very warm. She managed a crooked smile.
"Would you like to watch TV?"
"If you like," Elliot said.
George carried the coffee cups into the living room and set them on the low table beside the sofa. She dropped to her knees and flipped on the tv. "I had cable installed last week. Let's check it out." Actually, she couldn't have cared less about any stupid movie. Her fingers suddenly froze on the dial. It was Chanel 31, the erotic movie channel. She sat back on her heels, staring. "Good grief, George," she heard Elliot laugh behind her.
On the screen, in full color, lay a naked man and woman, the man positioned between the woman's legs, his hands and mouth on her breast.
"Shall I turn it?"
Elliot grinned at her high, squeaky voice. Evidently she hadn't planned this at all.
"Not yet," he said easily. "Come here."
George crawled back to the sofa and sat cross-legged on the floor, between Elliot's legs.
"I ordered all the channels," she said, her eyes fastened on the screen.
"So I see. Now that is a position that much appeals to me."
The man's head was buried between the woman's thighs.
Aftershocks Page 5