An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Absolutely Not
ISBN 9781419913457
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Absolutely Not Copyright © 2007 Daisy Dexter Dobbs
Edited by Briana St. James.
Cover art by Syneca.
Electronic book Publication November 2007
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Absolutely Not
Daisy Dexter Dobbs
Dedication
To my darling husband and daughter, for their wealth of inspiration, unwavering belief and steadfast support.
And to my wonderful editor Bree. Honestly, I don’t know what I would do without her wonderful, insightful suggestions and gentle guidance.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Baileys: R & A Bailey & Co
Band-Aid: Johnson & Johnson Corporation
Cadillac: General Motors Corporation
Chicago Tribune: The Tribune Company
Diet Coke: Coca-Cola Company
Godiva: Godiva Brands
Hershey: Hershey Chocolate & Confectionery Corporation
Jack Daniel’s: Jack Daniel’s Properties, Inc.
Jell-O: Kraft Foods, Inc
Johnnie Walker: Guinness United Distillers & Vintners B.V.
Kahlua: The Kahlua Company
Nestle: Societe des Produits Nestle S.A.
Ovaltine: Novartis Nutrition Corporation
Porsche: Dr. Ing. h.c. F. Porsche AG
Realtor: National Association of Realtors
Smurf: Studio Peyo SA
Snickers: Mars, Incorporated
Stetson: John B. Stetson Company
Tarzan: Edgar Rice Burroughs, Inc.
Toll House: Nestle Company, Inc.
Victoria’s Secret: Victoria’s Secret Stores Brand Management, Inc.
Vogue: Advance Magazine Publishers Inc.
Whopper: Burger King Corporation
Chapter One
Maisy Morganfield advanced closer to the pearly gray casket and peered down. Yup, no doubt about it, it was really her ex-husband stretched out on all that creamy pristine satin. And he was really dead. Well after all, that’s what the obituary in the Chicago Tribune said—Prominent Schaumburg, Illinois, real estate broker, John Morganfield, age 40, dies of heart attack—but she had to come to the funeral home and see it with her own eyes.
There he was, rigid and supine and still flaunting that damned arrogant smile. An unwelcome shudder rippled through her body. How in the hell the mortician managed to affix that smile intrigued Maisy enough to want to poke John in the ribs, just to be sure. Judiciously, she overcame the urge. A quick glance to either side ensured no one else was close.
“You robbed me, you sonuvabitch,” Maisy accused under her breath. “You had to die and cheat me out of my moment of glory, my sweet revenge, and I’ll never forgive you for that, you bastard.”
Standing over the bloodless corpse that had once been the man she loved, she tried to feel some emotion, any emotion other than bitterness, anger and loathing. Nothing. It just wasn’t there anymore. Not after he’d broken her heart, methodically stomping on it until it became a tattered clump of raw meat.
Success had always been important to him, to the exclusion of most anything else in life. And John Morganfield had scored a palpable victory when he succeeded in obliterating every last ounce of love or compassion Maisy felt for him long ago.
It wasn’t that Maisy was happy to see John dead—well, actually, she had wished him dead more times than she cared to remember. In fact, she’d often fantasized about plotting the perfect murder, killing the bastard off and reveling in a naked dance of joy on his grave. Cringing at the morbid recollection, Maisy bit back the trickle of guilt threatening to surface.
It’s just that, if John had to go and die, couldn’t he have had the decency to wait a little while longer—just long enough for her to exact a teensy bit of well-deserved revenge? Selfish in life, selfish in death, that was John. What a great epitaph. The thought teased Maisy’s lips with a smile, which she immediately expunged, reminding herself that nice ex-wives shouldn’t revel in such nasty thoughts about their dead ex-husbands.
Especially when the ex-wife was standing over her not-so-dearly departed ex’s casket.
The mood in the room wasn’t exactly one of bereavement, which helped to ease Maisy’s less-than-sorrowful mind-set. There were no inconsolable family members. The only blood relation Maisy spotted was Harry Morganfield, John’s oily buffoon of a cousin. The best man at their wedding, he’d done his best to stick his tongue down Maisy’s throat after the ceremony, while pinching her ass at the same time. Clearly seeing John’s wake as a stellar networking opportunity, he was glibly passing out business cards and schmoozing with John’s smiling coworkers.
There were no grief-stricken friends in attendance either. John had never bothered cultivating friendships. It was unproductive. He viewed people as potential clients or competitors. The only reason he ever turned on the charm was to reel in prospective customers or, at least in Maisy’s case, prospective wives.
Expelling a great sigh, Maisy gave John’s pasty remains one last, narrow-eyed, glimpse before turning to leave and finding herself face-to-face with Sharon Fitch.
Fitch the Bitch—the anorexic-looking redhead who was once John’s mistress and now his grieving widow.
Maisy took in Sharon’s overstated mourning garb with a knowing smile. The tight black dress stopped at mid thigh, where it was met by sheer black hose and black stiletto heels. A profusely veiled, wide-brimmed black hat, fashionably slanted over her long, brazenly out-of-the-bottle red locks completed the ensemble.
If there were a Widow’s Weeds magazine, the widow Morganfield could easily be voted playwidow of the month. And if there were a Tramps R Us magazine, Sharon Fitch Morganfield would be the sleazy publication’s all-time favorite cover girl.
Fighting the urge to give in to an emerging head-to-toe shudder, Maisy hiked back her shoulders, elevated her chin and looked the widow Morganfield right in her heavily mascaraed eyes. Her lashes looked so chunky it was a miracle she could keep her eyelids from drooping shut.
It was clear Sharon didn’t recognize Maisy. And why should she? Eighteen months had passed and more than a hundred pounds of fat had been painstakingly shed from Maisy’s frame since she last saw Sharon, or John for that matter. Compared to her mortifying high of just over three hundred pounds, Maisy was positively svelte now.
That wasn’t all that had changed in the last year and a half. Gone was the limp, drab-brown hair and in its place glistened bouncy blonde curls, the color of sunlit honey. Okay, granted, Maisy’s golden locks were also straight out of the bottle, but at least they looked as though they could have been God-given, unlike Sharon’s clownish red-orange hue.
Now when Maisy looked in the mirror, instead of chubby chipmunk-cheeks, she saw an elegantly sculpted face, with blessed little hollows under newly visible cheekbones.
The chalky pallor resulting from the no-makeup, natural look she’d dutifully adopted according to John’s wishes during their ten-year marriage had been trashed. Instead, Maisy’s attractive features were flawlessly accented with makeup. In fac
t, the only original telltale visages left were her large blue eyes and full, generous lips.
Today, doing her best to exude the allure of a Vogue model, she wore a superbly tailored black wool suit—just slightly snug. So proud of the fact that it came from an upscale department store’s misses section rather than a plus-size store, Maisy had been half-temped to wear it inside out so everyone could see the garment tag.
A wicked bit of scarlet lace from her camisole peeked out at the v-neck closure. A slash of crimson lipstick, garnet earrings and a red silk carnation on her lapel completed Maisy’s carefully chosen farewell-you-bastard outfit. The beautiful, ultra-chic woman who stood before the widow Morganfield was a deliberate, painstakingly designed creation.
So what if that creation’s heart was playing a frenzied game of ping pong inside her chest? As long as Maisy played her cards right, no one, especially Sharon, would ever suspect that Maisy felt like a frightened, intimidated, overwhelmed little girl inside. Or that she was on the verge of crying, breaking out in hives and throwing up. All at the same time.
Clearly clueless as to Maisy’s identity, Sharon Fitch Morganfield rendered a bland, obligatory hello as she extended a limp hand. “Thank you for coming,” she said, giving Maisy the same compulsory little welcome speech she’d no doubt given everyone else who strode by John’s casket that morning. No, there was still no seed of recognition apparent. The widow Morganfield’s kohl-rimmed eyes were glazed over with disinterest as she rattled off her apathetic little spiel.
Disregarding the handshake overture, Maisy relished the moment, squelching the burgeoning urge to smoosh her hand into the woman’s face hard enough to send Sharon careening backward, ultimately landing her on top of her dearly departed husband.
“Hello, Sharon,” Maisy hissed, hoping she’d managed to keep the nervous quavering in her voice to a minimum. It was only after hearing Maisy speak that Sharon’s detached gaze crystallized, widening in shocked disbelief.
“You!” Sharon furrowed her eyebrows and stiffened. “What the fuck are you doing here?” The once-over she gave Maisy was so caustic it could have cut through hardened enamel.
Fortifying herself with a deep breath, Maisy resolutely maintained her poise as she mustered the courage to converse with the woman she despised above all others. She had waited a year and a half for this opportunity, ingesting little more than salad, steamed veggies and skinned chicken. And now Maisy was terrified she’d get cold feet and the words she’d rehearsed so carefully would stick in her throat like peanut butter.
Mazel Lynn, whatever you do, don’t you dare chicken out now! Holding her head high and beaming a narrow-eyed glare straight into Sharon Fitch’s dog-poop-brown eyes, Maisy cleared her throat and ignored the thunderous thumping of her chicken-shit little heart.
“After all, Sharon dear, John was my husband before he was yours,” Maisy managed matter-of-factly. Fluffing her hair in a calculated manner, she conjured a coy little smile.
Never breaking eye contact with her nemesis, Maisy swallowed the lump in her throat. Her thoughts raced as she mentally urged herself to continue, to override the commanding case of nerves that gripped her. It wasn’t in her nature to be deliberately cruel and getting out the acerbic words she’d planned to say to Sharon was harder than she’d expected. But if she left without saying them, she knew she’d regret it.
“Oh, by the way, is the rumor true?” Maisy said nonchalantly. “I hear John keeled over with a heart attack right smack dab in the throes of passion. With another woman. A much younger woman, in fact.”
Pausing for effect, Maisy studied Sharon’s deliciously livid reaction. If the widow Morganfield’s eyes grew any wider, Maisy feared they’d pop right out of her skull, bouncing down the red carpet runner that led from John’s casket.
Satisfied her words had generated the desired effect, Maisy found new courage and continued. “My, how distressing that must have been for you, Sharon dear. Why, I can’t possibly imagine how embarrassed you… Oh!” Maisy touched her fingers to her mouth, tittering a demure little laugh.
“Silly me,” she went on. “But of course I can imagine it. How foolish of me to forget that I caught you screwing my husband right in my own bed just over eighteen months ago.”
Maisy finally released the wicked smile that had been clawing at the inside of her face, begging to escape. “Well, as they say, Sharon, what goes around comes around. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Oh God, oh God, oh God, she’d done it! She’d said it all without keeling over in a dead faint.
Now all she wanted to do was get the hell out of there and away from the mountain of painful memories cascading over her like an avalanche.
As Maisy sidestepped, Sharon grabbed the sleeve of her suit.
“Not so fast, you little bitch.”
Damn.
“Little?” Batting her eyelashes, Maisy’s her hand flew to the base of her throat. “Why thank you for the lovely compliment, Sharon. I’m truly flattered.”
A depraved smile crept across Sharon’s hollow-cheeked features as she gave Maisy a piercing appraisal. “I don’t care how much weight you lose, Maisy. You’ll always be a cow as far as I’m concerned,” she snarled through clenched teeth. “A big, fat, frumpy, repulsive heifer.”
Licking the angry spittle from her stoplight-red lips, Sharon clearly strained to keep her voice a near whisper. “Let me see…what was John’s favorite pet name for you again? Oh yes, his little warthog.” Scrutinizing Maisy as if she were fly-larva, Sharon tapped a finger against her angular chin in an assessing manner. “Yes, even with the weight loss, the term definitely still fits.”
“Well, at least I’m not a devious, henna-headed, husband-stealing, belly-crawling viper,” Maisy calmly countered with a half-smile. Her gaze fell to Sharon’s chest and Maisy almost laughed. “With ridiculously huge fake tits,” she added. The little bee-stung breasts she remembered eyeing eighteen months ago had been replaced with so much plastic and silicone Maisy was amazed Sharon’s scrawny frame didn’t topple right over.
Tightening her grasp on Maisy’s sleeve, Sharon yanked her closer. “Nobody had to steal John from you, Maisy. You and all that disgusting flab of yours pushed him away. I just happened to snag him as he was trying to escape from that repulsive mountain of flesh, that’s all.” Sharon flashed a sinister smile.
Maisy fought to keep the rising tide of old insecurities from making her cower.
“Sure, Maisy, you can get thin, dye your hair and slap makeup all over your plain-Jane, farm-girl face but you know what they say…you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. And in your case…” Sharon jutted her chin high, uttering a deep guttural laugh. “We’re talking about more than just a sow’s ear. We’re talking the whole fucking sow.” Her sharp cackle curdled in Maisy’s ears. “It’s no wonder the thought of sleeping with you made John’s skin crawl.”
Her stomach roiling from a wave of nausea that wasn’t helped by the cloying stench of Sharon’s cheap perfume, Maisy yanked her arm away, brushing at the bunched fabric.
The woman’s spiteful comments scorched like a jalapeño pepper poultice over an open, albeit old, wound. Maisy was angry with herself for allowing it to hurt so damned much. For an instant she found herself wishing she could glom onto some chocolate and find a nice hole under the mortuary floorboards to crawl into where she could feed her face and escape having to deal with Sharon. But she’d come too far and worked too hard to let herself crumble now.
Whatever you do, don’t let Sharon see you flustered. Remember, you’re cool, slender and sophisticated now. You’ve had eighteen months of practice, Mazel Lynn…you can do this. You. Can. Do. This.
With a quick look left and right, Maisy straightened her shoulders, elevating her head proudly as she spoke down to Fitch the Bitch. “It must be terrible for you to have to bury your husband, Sharon,” she said quietly. “Did I mention how truly sad it makes me that you can’t join him?”
If anyone had been within heari
ng distance Maisy knew damned well she’d come off sounding like a cold, callous, unfeeling bitch. Hell, she even sounded like one to herself, but both she and Sharon knew better.
Once again, Sharon’s eyes grew so wide Maisy half-expected they’d pop right out of their sockets, dangling from little springs.
“Why you-you,” Sharon sputtered. “You contemptible, wretched little cunt. You listen to me, Maisy Morganfield,” she jabbed a bony finger at Maisy’s breastbone, “this is my day. You don’t have any business being here.” Sharon’s face became a kaleidoscope of colors that Maisy had never remembered seeing before on a human being all at one time.
“If John could get up out of that coffin,” Sharon spat, “he’d kick you out himself. So why don’t you just haul your fat ass out of here?”
“On the contrary, Sharon,” Maisy countered. “If John could get up out of that coffin, the first thing he’d concern himself with is finding a bouncy little twenty-something to hump one last time before they put him in the ground.”
Sharon opened her mouth to speak but before she had a chance to retort she and Maisy were joined by a striking man so tall and remarkable he stole Maisy’s breath away for a moment.
Suddenly aware her jaw was slack and she was in danger of drooling—which might discredit her sophisticated, cool-as-iced-vodka performance a bit—Maisy snapped her mouth shut. Her gaze scanned his princely frame crisply tailored in a charcoal gray suit. While exuding rough, raw animal magnetism he still managed to look polished, refined. Confident. Powerful. He veritably glistened with style and class.
This was the too-perfect, too-gorgeous, too-sexy kind of man who’d always intimidated the hell out of Maisy.
“Sharon, aren’t you going to introduce me to the lady?” He flashed Maisy a dazzling smile, seemingly unaware the women were in the throes of a seething verbal joust and fiercely glaring at each other. Sharon stammered, obviously at a loss for words. With an outstretched finger she frantically gestured toward Maisy but still no words came forth. Finally, expelling an exasperated grumble, she threw her hands into the air, spun on one stiletto heel and marched off.
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