“We’ve had a long, long night. Let’s take a shower and get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning. Or, in this case, the afternoon.”
“You’re probably right,” she said, her voice muffled against his smoke-scented chest. “I’m so tired I don’t know if I can stand upright in the shower.”
“Then let me help.”
Before she could think about what he meant, he swung her into his arms and strode down the hall toward the master bath. She briefly thought about protesting, but couldn’t gather the energy. Besides, being held in his arms, having him take over the decision making for a while, felt heavenly.
When he put her down, she leaned against the cool tile wall and started to undress. He turned on the water, then quickly stripped, which she watched from the corner of her eye. He looked so darn good, all firm golden skin and subtle sculpted muscles. Long, swimmer muscles, not the weight-lifter kind. She sighed in appreciation.
“What?” he asked, turning toward her as he stripped away his jeans.
“I really enjoy looking at you,” she said with another sigh. She probably shouldn’t have admitted something like that—sophisticated women no doubt would have kept their mouths shut—but she didn’t have the strength to guard her feelings right now.
Greg grinned. “The feeling is mutual. I really like looking at you.” He eyed her half-unbuttoned shirt and unsnapped jeans. “Speaking of which, I’m way ahead of you again. Time to catch up.”
She smiled as she finished undressing. The light of the frosted-glass window admitted early-morning sunlight, making her hope he got in the shower quickly. She still felt uncomfortable being naked around him in the light. However, she should have known Greg wouldn’t do as she wished.
“Come here,” he said softly, standing by the tub, the shower curtain pulled back to reveal wisps of steam from the gentle setting of her showerhead.
She stepped into his arms, then looked into his eyes. He might be a temporary lover, but she would remember the caring look in his eyes forever. “A few days ago I didn’t want to take my clothes off in front of you. I was too worried about how I looked.”
“I know, but I still don’t understand. You have a great body.”
“I have the body of an almost-thirty-year-old woman. I was still trying to live up to the ideal of a teenager.”
“Teenagers are highly overrated, especially by themselves.”
“Oh, come on. Tell me you’ve never ogled those perky, nubile singers in low hip-huggers and minuscule halter tops.”
Greg shook his head. “Never. Not ogling, anyway. More in wonder. Like I wonder how much is real and how much was surgically enhanced.”
“I know, but I’d love to have my pre-stretch-mark figure.”
“You can barely tell you’ve ever been pregnant,” he said, sweeping his hands down her hips, his thumbs coming to rest on her hipbones. “And besides, I love knowing you carried Jennifer inside you. It’s so…miraculous.”
“Oh, Greg.” She leaned toward him, kissing him with all the emotion she felt. Perhaps she wasn’t thinking clearly at the moment, but she imagined she saw love in his eyes. She imagined that she felt the same in her heart.
He broke away first, his desire evident despite swearing he was exhausted. He didn’t feel as if he’d been up all night, soaking her barn and roof, moving her stack of firewood to a safe location. He felt…wonderful.
“Let’s get in before the water turns cold,” she suggested.
“Good idea. Besides, if we wait much longer, no telling who might come to the door. This way, we can at least honestly say that you were in the shower.”
She laughed until he pressed her against the wet tiles, kissed her senseless and found new uses for the bath puff and scented soap Cheryl had given her for Christmas.
Chapter Thirteen
After they had made love and slept until a little after noon, Greg had gone back to his house. Carole felt filled with restless energy after waking, both from the erratic schedule and the thoughts of Greg that kept spinning inside her head like a dog chasing its own tail.
She loved being with him when they were together, alone, but when she thought about her family and friends speculating on the relationship, she panicked. She didn’t want people saying that she was repeating a past mistake, falling for the wrong man. A man who wouldn’t be around in both good times and bad. A man who had a life that didn’t include a small-town woman with only a high school education, a ten-year-old daughter and a career baking cookies.
She’d been wrong to throw his quest for a spokesperson in his face. He wasn’t badgering her to agree any longer. They were just having a brief affair, and then he would leave. Perhaps they would see each other again, but she doubted the relationship would be the same. How could it, when the intensity grew the longer they were around each other? Absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder, from her experience. Absence made the heart grow cold.
She used her nervous energy to bake coffee cakes and cookies for the Four Square Café, plus made some extra dough to freeze for when Jenny came home from camp. She’d take the baked goods to town later, perhaps when they went to dinner.
Did Greg really like the people in Ranger Springs, or was he just tolerating them for her sake? She wished she knew more about men. Maybe about the way an adult “dating” relationship worked. Her lack of experience was showing in more than the bedroom. She wondered if Greg minded that she was ignorant of many of the skills other women possessed.
There were so many ways they were different, but she wanted him to be satisfied. To be happy. And although she seemed to please him when they were alone, he had to be accustomed to more of everything. More restaurants. Nightclubs. Health clubs. Whatever a big city offered, Ranger Springs lacked. Not that he was going to spend a lot of time here.
She sighed, taking the last batch of cookies from the oven. She had to stop worrying about Greg. About them. He was going back to Chicago this coming weekend. They had a few days left. Tonight they’d have dinner, then come home to the empty house. She wanted them to enjoy these stolen moments together, to make the memories last, because she had a sinking feeling in her stomach that even if she waited another ten years for a man, she wouldn’t find one as handsome, kind, intelligent and interesting as Greg Rafferty.
DINNER STARTED OUT WELL, but then several people came by the table to ask about the fire. How much of her land had damage? Was her fence down? Did flames get close to the house? Greg sat through each question, keeping his silence because he didn’t want to reveal that he was at Carole’s house through the night. He knew she’d be mortified if she thought people were whispering behind her back.
Even now, several friends and neighbors were glancing at the table. He recognized the Branson man from the hardware store at one table, the banker and his wife at another. They nodded, smiled slightly and went back to their food when they noticed him watching them. Friendly, not condemning, as Carole would assume.
If only she didn’t have this fear of public attention. She’d be the perfect woman…for Huntington, of course. She could gain confidence by having professionals style her, and when she saw herself on tape, she’d know how perfect she was to extol the virtues of Ms. Carole’s cookies. How qualified she was to tell the public that Huntington produced a good, healthy product meant to be consumed in moderation as part of the American diet.
He had to talk to her again, despite his personal vow to enjoy the time they had together fully. Carole deserved one more chance to change her mind, to make a difference in her life and Jennifer’s future. With the money she’d earn as spokesperson, there would be no more need to show cattle at the 4-H events to earn enough for college. Carole could buy a bigger house, or remodel her kitchen or give her mother enough so she’d never have to work again. She could travel more, perhaps visit her sister in Europe or go to places she’d never seen. The world would open up if only she’d agree to his plan.
Hell, he wasn’t asking her to
lie. Just talk about her recipes and the quality cookies Huntington Foods produced.
“Greg, would you like dessert?”
Charlene Jacks’s question startled him out of his thoughts of Carole and what might be. Or what might never be.
“I’m pretty full.”
“You didn’t eat much,” Carole commented.
He’d barely tasted the pot roast and potatoes he’d eaten automatically. “I’m fine. Go ahead and order dessert if you’d like.”
The ladies declined, so he gestured for the check. Within minutes they were making their way through the tables, saying hello to other folks and exclaiming that yes, the fire was sure exciting. And with every step, he felt more and more determined to talk to Carole again. Perhaps this time she’d listen to reason.
“WOULD YOU LIKE some dessert now? Maybe some coffee?” Carole asked as she placed her purse and keys on the kitchen table.
“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
He shut and locked the door, then walked to where she stood, his expression unreadable. Throughout dinner she’d felt he had something on his mind. He’d been unusually quiet during their drive home, too. And the Greg she knew would have made some sexual innuendo about “dessert” and “hungry,” but he’d passed up the opportunity.
“What’s wrong, Greg?”
“I want to talk to you. Can we sit down in the living room?”
“Of course.” She tried not to get too nervous about his subdued tone of voice, his rather stiff body language.
She sat on the couch, clutching her hands as he paced, then settled next to her.
“I want to talk to you about Huntington, but I don’t want you to get all defensive again. I really need you to keep an open mind about becoming the spokesperson.”
His words rankled, immediately making her pull away.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I don’t know how to approach this subject, Carole. Every time I mention—”
“That’s because we have nothing to talk about. I don’t know why you can’t accept my answer, which, in case you’ve forgotten, is ‘No.”’
“But why? You are everything the public would love. A single mother successfully raising a child. You are articulate yet soft-spoken. I’ll bet my life you’re extremely photogenic, from what I’ve seen of the pictures around the house of you and Jennifer. And you are the real thing—a person who took her skills and turned them into a multimillion dollar product line for us.”
“You are forgetting the negatives. I’d be open to criticism about being a single mother, about not having a higher education, about producing the type of product that made the C.A.S.H.E.W. people attack Huntington in the first place.”
“You could give us a new, healthy cookie recipe. You mentioned you might have one.”
“That doesn’t eliminate the other problems!”
“Those are only problems in your mind. You’re playing a game of ‘what if’ with yourself. I’ve told you there are ways we could protect you from such criticism.”
“You can’t protect me from everything, Greg!” she nearly shouted, jumping from the couch. She walked to the stack of photo albums she’d brought in from the truck earlier. The ones she’d wanted to protect in case the fire threatened the house. She stared down at them, her arms wrapped around her middle as a physical pain clenched her in a tight fist.
“What’s wrong, Carole? Please, talk to me.”
She reached down, pulling out a purple album with various brightly colored stickers on the front and spine. Jennifer’s early attempt at art, she remembered with bittersweet emotions. “While the cookies were baking earlier, I took a look at this album. Jenny’s scrapbook. I didn’t know she’d been adding to it recently. She kept that information from me, I suppose, because she thought my feelings would be hurt.”
“What’s in the scrapbook?”
“Photos of her father.”
“I thought you didn’t have a relationship with him. What’s his name? Johnny Ray…something?”
She spun around, clutching the scrapbook. “How did you know that?” No one around here talked about him.
Greg shrugged. “We had to know if you were right for the position.”
“So you did what? Had me investigated?”
“No more than we would have done for any other employee in a key position. Just a standard background check.”
“Yes, but I’m not an employee, am I, Greg? I never wanted to be one. I was perfectly happy licensing my cookie recipes to you until you came to Texas and tried to talk me into doing things I could never do.”
He jumped up from the couch. “Were you perfectly happy, Carole, or were you hiding from life? You can’t be happy if you’re living in fear.”
“I’m not afraid! I’m careful. I have responsibilities!”
“Yes, you do, and one of those is to provide a good example to your daughter. Do you tell her she can be whatever she wants to be when she grows up?”
“Of course.” She clutched the scrapbook tighter. Jenny’s scrapbook. The daughter who now had secrets, too.
“And what kind of example are you showing her? That it’s okay to be afraid of life? That you really can’t be whatever you want to be because it’s okay to be afraid?”
She trembled with rage, the album edges biting into her palms. “That’s enough. I don’t have to listen to you!”
“No, you don’t, but I want you to listen to yourself. You’re afraid, Carole, and I don’t know why. I care about you. I want to know.”
“You want to know?” She stalked to the couch and, using both hands, plunked the scrapbook down in front of him. “Let me show you.” She flipped quickly through the first dozen pages of the book. Pages filled with photos of Jenny and her stuffed animals. Jenny and her pets. Jenny and her friends at birthday parties. Then ribbons and programs from school and 4-H, more photos, more mementos.
And then, the newest pages. Photos of a man, cut out of a magazine. Articles about him. “This is my secret, Greg. This is why I need to be private.”
“A country-western singer?”
She backed away from the coffee table, her hand covering her chin and mouth as tears stung her eyes. “Johnny Ray French. Jennifer’s father.”
“He’s famous?”
Carole laughed, a sound almost a sob. “Yes, he is now. Ten years ago he was just a member of a band. A talented but immature boy who didn’t want a wife or child. He wanted bright lights and fame, wild women and alcohol. He certainly didn’t want a small-town bride who’d gotten knocked up in a cheap motel room in Arkansas because she thought she couldn’t get pregnant the first time she ‘did it.”’
“He was your husband,” Greg said softly.
Carole shook her head. “He was the boy I married. He was never a husband. He’s never been a father.”
“Then what’s the problem? You have each gone your own way. Jennifer is well adjusted.”
“Do you think the press would let this story lie if I got in the spotlight? They’d ask him all types of intrusive questions. What was it like being married to Ms. Carole? Did she bake cookies for you back then? What type of role do you play in your daughter’s life? How do you think he’s going to react to being ambushed by reporters for something he’d put behind him more than ten years ago?”
“Not well, I assume.”
“Darn right! He’s going to be furious. If it’s reported that he’s never had contact with his own daughter, never paid a dime of child support, what will the public say about him? What will his record label do to him?”
“I see your point.”
“Finally!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands.
“Carole, this is the first time you’ve told me about your ex-husband. You refused to talk about him. That’s one reason I asked someone responsible and discreet to find out as much as possible about the facts of your life.”
“Oh! That is so intrusive.”
“It’s necessary in business.”
“Carole, just listen to me. We can overcome this problem with your ex-husband by approaching him privately. This doesn’t have to hurt you or Jennifer.”
“Of course it will hurt her. Look at this scrapbook!” she said, sweeping her hand across the evidence of her daughter’s secret fascination. “I didn’t know she had these magazines. We don’t listen to his music in this house. We don’t talk about him. And now she has him in this scrapbook. How do you think she’ll feel when she knows we talked to him, told him about this publicity you have planned, and he says he still wants nothing to do with his daughter?”
“We can keep Jennifer out of this.”
“No we can’t! Because you know what else could happen? He could decide that having no contact with his daughter would be worse than being a father. What if he decides to take a role in her life? Or maybe take her away from me?”
She leaned close, across the coffee table, close enough to see the gold flecks in his blue-green eyes. “Can you absolutely guarantee that the courts won’t allow him access to Jenny? Or that she won’t decide to…to go live with her father? The man she’s documented in this book. The man with lots of money and fame. That’s what I’m competing against, Greg, and there’s no way in hell you can guarantee that Jenny will be able to live a normal life here in Ranger Springs if her father becomes part of her life.”
GREG KNEW he couldn’t talk to Carole when she was so upset, but he had the strongest urge to hold her in his arms, stroke her hair and tell her everything was going to be fine. She’d rebuffed him when he’d tried. She wanted nothing to do with him after he caused her such pain. He’d brought out every secret fear, every horrible scenario that she’d probably never voiced before.
He leaned back against the couch in his rented home and hugged a pillow to his chest, wishing she were here. She shouldn’t be alone tonight. But what could he do? He was the last person in the world she wanted to see after she’d revealed her secret.
The C.E.O. & the Cookie Queen Page 16