MARRIAGE, OUTLAW STYLE

by Cindy Gerard

  She used a deep breath to get ahold of herself. "Well, I guess we'll just have to scratch the skit then." Her shoulders rose and fell with another heavy sigh. "It's a shame, though. The Methodist church auxiliary went to such trouble making the costumes. And along with the skits on the other old commercials from the baby-boomer era, the 'Chiquita Banana' piece was the pivotal number for the segment."

  "You can get someone else to do it," he muttered testily, but with just enough guilt in his tone that she knew she was wearing him down.

  "At this late date? I don't think so. Besides, word's already spread that you're in the show again this year, but that you're doing something out of the ordinary."

  Emma James, pianist for this year's production, sat in the orchestra pit watching the verbal combat going on, on center stage. Clay's brother Garrett, who had just stopped by to see how much longer it would be before rehearsal would be over and Emma would be coming home, dropped onto the piano bench beside her. Together they watched the show within a show.

  "She's playing him like a spinet," Emma said with an amused shake of her head.

  "Set him up like a pro," Garrett agreed, thoroughly enjoying seeing his cooler-than-cool brother being taken to task by a master. "Do you suppose they'll ever figure out that they're crazy about each other?"

  "Maybe," Emma said thoughtfully. "Let's just hope it happens before there's bloodshed."

  In the relative obscurity of the pit, Garrett pulled his wife close to his side and kissed her sweetly. "Got to run. Take notes, okay? I want to hear every detail when you get home."

  As Garrett slipped quietly out of the theater, the action on stage intensified.

  Maddie was just getting warmed up. She still had her trump card to play. "Well, Clay, if that's really the way you feel about it…" Weary with disappointment, she looked toward the backstage curtain. "Sara—are you back there, sweetie?"

  Emma and Garrett's daughter, eight-year-old Sara Jane, was Clay's one-and-only niece. Since Maddie and Emma were best friends, Sara looked toward Maddie as family, too. And Maddie loved her like she was her own. When Sara had begged to help with the variety show, Maddie had made sure she'd found some task for the little girl to perform.

  "Sara, honey," Maddie said when Sara Jane skipped out onto the stage. "Can you take your uncle Clay's costume back to Mrs. Claypool and tell her we won't be able to use it? He's decided not to be in the show this year."

  Sara stared from her uncle Clay, who she adored, to her "aunt" Maddie and back to Clay again. Her big brown eyes brimmed with disappointment. "You're not gonna be in the show? But, Uncle Clay, you're always in the show."

  Clay narrowed his eyes at Maddie. She gave him a "you explain it to her" look before he shifted his attention back to Sara Jane.

  One look at her crestfallen expression and Maddie knew his heart had turned to mush. And when Sara innocently asked, "What if we don't raise enough money for the children's wing to get their computer 'cause people find out you're not in the show?" evidently, his mind turned to mush, too, because the next words out of his mouth were, "Don't you worry, sweet pea. I'll do it."

  Sara Jane wrapped her arms around him in a flash as he bent to scoop her up and hug her hard against his chest.

  Maddie grinned, smug and victorious, as Clay mouthed a silent, "You'll pay for this," over the top of Sara's head.

  Maddie only smiled and, with the authority of a Steven Spielberg, clapped her hands together to get the cast's attention. "Okay, people," she said then snapped out her orders. "Let's get in our places and take it from the top."

  * * *

  He stole the show. In his fruit-laden turban, with his broad hairy chest busting out above the knotted middy top and his size twelves teetering on banana yellow heels, Clay James brought the house down.

  He was the "Chiquita Banana" girl. And no woman, man or child could ever mistake the hip-swinging samba or the hairy, muscular legs that peeked out between the trailing ruffles of his slit skirt for anything but six feet two inches of one-hundred-percent American male singing and cha-chaing across the stage and having some fun at his own expense for a good cause.

  At the cast party afterward, Maddie couldn't even be miffed that as he usually managed to do, he'd turned the tables on her again. What had started out as a plot to sully his ego had evolved into a romp of a performance that had been so much fun, even she felt compelled to congratulate him

  "Well, Clayton," she said, marching up to where he stood with some of the other cast members rehashing the show, "I've got to tell you—you outdid yourself with that one."

  Before he could do more than flash a cocky grin in acknowledgment of her compliment, Veronica, sophisticated and demurely sexy in a slim, black slip dress, wedged her way gracefully along Clay's side. She pressed a glass of champagne into his hand. "A little bubbly for the top banana," she cooed with a possessive smile.

  Baffled by the urge to mess up Veronica's artfully styled hair and clip her perfectly manicured nails down to the quick, Maddie let herself be wedged away from his growing circle of well-wishers. For some unknown reason, she resented the heck out of Veronica's intrusion. She'd wanted to share the show's success with Clay. They'd both worked hard on it—as had all the volunteers. Veronica's presence after the fact at the party—even though cast members were free to invite their spouses or significant others, and even though Veronica had supplied most of the party snacks—felt like an unwelcome intrusion.

  Her resentment, she decided, really had nothing to do with Veronica. Veronica was okay. And it had absolutely nothing to do with wishing she was in Veronica's shoes. Frankly, she mused, ashamed of the nasty little thought that developed, she wouldn't be caught at her own funeral in those shoes, literally or figuratively. Ugly, skimpy, spiky things. She shuddered and wiggled her toes in her comfy sandals that peeked out beneath the flowing folds of her gauzy print skirt

  On a less-literal note, she was not and had never been interested in Clay James on a personal level. No, she assured herself. It wasn't personal. It would never be personal. A romantic involvement would be ludicrous. Laughable. Which made her huffy little pique all the more puzzling.

  The problem, she decided as she stood there, slowly nursing her champagne and covertly studying his profile—realizing as she did that she'd never noticed that sexy little bump on the bridge of his nose that somehow managed to enhance the perfection instead of mar it—

  But I digress, she mused irritably and cut off that unprecedented little side trip by picking up on her original train of thought: the problem was that seeing Clay with Veronica bothered her because she thought Clay could do better than the socially adept bake-off queen. The problem, she continued, warming to her logic, had nothing to do with the niggling notion that if Clay James really wanted a woman, that she, herself, would make an exceedingly better match for him.

  Not that she wanted to be, she assured herself quickly. And definitely not that she cared. She didn't. Not even a little bit. He was too neat and tidy and way too regimented for her. And way, way too bossy.

  Tapping a finger thoughtfully to her upper lip, she drifted toward the table of hors d'oeuvres as Veronica's carefully modulated laughter drifted across the room.

  At the sound Maddie gave the mental equivalent of a snort. Veronica only thought she knew how to handle Clay. In actuality, the svelte blond beauty didn't have a clue. And while Maddie really had nothing against her personally, she knew Veronica wouldn't be enough woman for Clay.

  That man needed someone with a little fire. A little zip. A little something that would keep him on his toes and wanting to come home at night for something less benign than a home-cooked meal and a shoulder massage.

  She tipped her champagne to her lips, thinking that she'd know how to handle him. Thinking that she could handle him if she wanted to.

  But you don't want to, she reminded herself staunchly. Just like you don't want to know what it would be like to kiss him.

  She diverted her attention
to the food table, popped a shrimp puff into her mouth—most likely one of Veronica's—and refused to acknowledge that it was delicious. What she couldn't refuse, however, was dealing with why she was thinking about kissing Clay.

  She'd had the chance to kiss him once, and not that long ago. She'd been so royally ticked off at him at the time, though, that if he'd come anywhere near her with his mouth, she'd have cheerfully bitten off his tongue. If she remembered right, she'd even threatened him with the probability.

  With a rueful smile, she continued drifting around the fringes of the party, deliberately separating herself from the clusters of animated conversations and post-production anecdotes. Before she'd realized what she was doing, her gaze had sought Clay again where he stood across the room with his arm slung casually over Veronica's shoulders. Veronica, of course, always busy scoring points, ogled him with her best puppy dog adoration.

  She popped another shrimp puff, promised herself she would not ask Veronica for the recipe, and found her thoughts wandering back to the night she'd been kissing-close and physically compromised by Clay James at his outlaw best.

  That's when it hit her. In a riveting moment of clarity, she realized that it had been that particular night and its volatile circumstances that was responsible for this unwanted and unsolicited awareness of Clay as a man.

  Snagging a fresh glass of champagne from a nearby tray, she let herself remember. Made herself remember, as an exercise, she assured herself, in exorcising the demon known as Clayton Franklyn James.

  This all went back to the night Garrett had kidnapped Emma…

  They'd been separated for three months. Three painful, troubling months not only for the two of them but for their family and friends. Maddie had suffered with Emma when she'd suspected Garrett was having an affair. She'd taken Emma and Sara into her home—Emma broken, Sara confused—and tried to give her some thinking room. Just as painful as seeing Emma suffer, however, was the breach in the trust and friendship Maddie had always felt with Garrett.

  Her first loyalty, though, had been with Emma. Because of that loyalty, she'd honored Emma's wishes and refused to let Garrett see her. When Clay had come to Maddie's door one midnight on the pretense of showing her the blueprints for her gallery, she should have known it was setup, but her eagerness to get her hands on the plans had made her an easy mark. While Clay kept her busy in the kitchen poring over the plans, Garrett had slipped into the apartment and stolen into a sleeping Emma's bedroom. When Maddie had finally figured out what was going on and threatened to call the police, Garrett was already on his way out the door with Emma in his arms—and Clay was taking the decoy role to new limits.

  She'd dived for the phone to call the law; Clay had jerked the wire out of the jack. She'd lunged for the door; he'd tackled her. Amid a flurry of muffled curses, a tangle of limbs and the rustle of her silk nightgown, she'd ended up beneath Clay on the floor.

  He'd been smug, and superior, and teasing in his easy command of her body as he'd pinned her hands above her head. She'd been furious. Bested again by the man who had beaten her all her life in everything from swimming to tennis to pool.

  As angry as she'd been the night of the kidnapping, though, something had happened as she'd lain beneath him. Something she hadn't expected. She'd realized, with no small amount of horror, that he'd gotten to her in a way that was far different and much more disturbing than ever before. He'd—

  Someone brushed by her, jarring her out of her disturbing reflections and back to the party. She smiled quickly, murmured, "It's okay," as Bob Thomas, one of the prop men, apologized for jostling her before he moved off into the crowd.

  It took a few minutes, however, to calm the rapid-fire beat of her heart and cool the flush that had heated her cheeks.

  Clay James had gotten to her that night, all right. He'd gotten to her on an elemental level—a male-female level that she'd been denying by ignoring ever since.

  Well, she wasn't ignoring it now. As a matter of fact, as she stood in the midst of this crowd of partying people, suddenly she couldn't think about anything else.

  That night … he'd felt so … so alive, so vital, so aggressively, wonderfully male. Three entire months later she was still critically aware of just how male as he'd lain above her, the strength and the heat of his long, sinewy body seeping into hers, the warm caress of his breath feathering across her brow.

  And he'd known, damn him. He'd known he was affecting her, and he'd taunted her with the knowledge. The subtle shift of his hips against hers, the intimate press of his chest against her breasts. He'd stolen her breath, heated her blood and set off a physical reaction that exceeded any anger she'd ever felt toward him.

  Even now, looking at him across a public room, she got caught up remembering the lush stirrings he'd provoked—deep and warm and low. Even now, she got lost in the memory of the scent of him, the heat of him, and of how close they had come that night to crossing a line that may have changed things between them forever.

  "I'd ask what's got you so deep in thought—" Clay's brother Garrett's voice snapped her head up and around as he joined her "—but something tells me it's none of my business. Really none of my business."

  He extended a full glass of champagne and relieved her of her empty. Although she'd already passed her self-imposed limit of one glass, she accepted another with a trembling hand.

  She'd been blessed with an olive complexion. Yet as she stood there, the object of Garrett's curious stare, she knew her summer tan was doing a poor job of concealing the pink that had crept into her cheeks.

  She tipped back her glass before replying. "Actually," she said, then cleared her throat of the little Kermit that had crept in, "I was doing a little daydreaming."

  "That much, I'd figured out," he teased with that trademark James grin that had melted hearts from Jackson to Cheyenne.

  "Leave it to a man to put a sexual spin on an innocent fantasy." Though it was a little weak, she managed a smile to take the bite out of her reply.

  "There are no innocent fantasies." He waggled a dark brow. "Only fun ones."

  An honest grin tipped up the corners of her mouth this time. "Shame on you. You're a married man—and a father to boot."

  "Happily married to the woman who fulfills all my fantasies," he clarified, as his gaze trailed the room until he found Emma. The blue of his eyes warmed like a summer sky when his wife met and returned his smile. The look Garrett sent Emma was so full of secret intimacies it made Maddie feel like she was intruding on a private conversation.

  With a wistful sigh, she wondered what it would feel like to be looked at that way. To be loved that way.

  Although she'd been ready to hang Garrett out to dry a few months ago when she'd thought, along with Emma, that he'd been cheating, nothing pleased Maddie more than seeing them together again, and this happy.

  On impulse, she rose to her toes and hugged him. "And that would be for?" he asked, surprised by her show of affection but returning her sisterly embrace.

  "That would be for being such a nice person." A wealth of understanding passed between them with one brief, speaking look.

  He gave her a quick squeeze then let her go with a gruff, "Ditto," that successfully brought to a close a scene that promised some sloppy sentiment they both acknowledged but didn't want to share in public.

  "So," she said brightly and moved on to a safe, unemotional topic. "How'd you like the show?"

  "Well, it's not quite ready for Broadway, but I'd pay to see it again—especially the banana boy."

  She returned his grin. "He was something, wasn't he?"

  "Oh, yeah. And there's not a real man in town who's likely to ever let him forget it."

  They shared another quick smile.

  "So what do you think of Clay and Veronica?"

  Garrett's direct question caught her off guard. After a slight stumble, she squared her shoulders and got busy looking uninterested. "Actually, I hadn't thought about it," she lied, straight-facedl
y. "But now that you mention it, they do look pretty good together. Is it serious, do you think?"

  Hoping to project casual interest, not the chest-tightening apprehension she really didn't want to feel, she sipped more champagne.

  Garrett studied her in a measuring silence, then shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. I know he's got an itch to settle down."

  "How convenient. Veronica looks like she knows just where to scratch."

  When Garrett snorted out a quick laugh, then eyed her with a speculative grin, she busied herself ducking her chin and feigning fascination with the bubbles in her champagne.

  "Tell me something, Maddie."

  She looked up and then quickly away from a pair of eyes as blue as Clay's and far too probing. "What do you want to know?"

  "Why is it that you and Clay have never done the dating thing?"

  She barked out a laugh that was supposed to express incredulity. When she choked on it, though, it sort of diminished the effect. She was red-faced again, but this time from lack of oxygen when Garrett finally eased up pounding her on the back.

  "Must have had a bone in it," she wheezed, pressing a hand to her throat.

  "The champagne, or the idea of a romantic involvement with my brother?" he persisted.

  When she didn't reply, couldn't reply, he pressed on. "Why don't you just admit that you've got a thing for him?"

  "Oh, I've got a thing for him, all right," she conceded with a bobbing nod and a sarcastic and indelicate little grunt. "It's a thing like an allergy. It's irritating and it's persistent, but I've just got to live with the grief it dishes out."

  "Have you ever considered," he said, refusing to let her divert him, "that the reason he gives you such a hard time is because he's trying to get your attention?"

  "He's gotten my attention. Several times," she acknowledged, thinking of all the times he'd embarrassed or beaten her. "And each time, he's made it very clear why he does it. He just loves to tick me off. I figure it's a man thing. Or a little boy thing—sort of a carryover from adolescence that he never outgrew."