by Peggy Webb
When the clocks struck twenty that night, Martha Ann excused herself and went to bed. But she wasn't going there to sleep. On the contrary, she thought. She was going to prepare for one more trial by fire with Rick McGill.
When he came through the door thirty minutes later, he was grinning. His grin broadened when he saw Martha Ann.
She was sitting on her side of the bed wearing a voluminous pink flowered sheet and half a pound of cold cream. Skeins of thread were piled in the middle of the bed making a brightly colored Wall of Jericho. She was working away on a piece of needlepoint, and he thought she was smiling. Under all that cold cream it was hard to tell.
He leaned against the door frame and prepared to enjoy the show.
“What are you doing, my pet?”
“Knitting.”
She caught her tongue between her teeth as she concentrated on pulling a needle and thread through the canvas.
“Where are your knitting needles?”
Oh, heck, she thought. He knew more about this kind of stuff than she did. Never mind. She'd wing it.
“Did I say 'knitting'? I meant…” What in the world was this stuff called? “…crocheting.”
Suppressing his chuckle, he moved around to her side of the bed and sat down, taking great care to sit on her flowered sheet. He noted with satisfaction that his weight strained the knot she'd tied over her shoulder and flattened the sheet against her breasts.
There was nothing Martha Ann Riley could do to make herself unattractive. Still, he was flattered that she'd bothered to try. It meant she was having a hard time resisting him. And that's just the way he liked it.
“Do you mind if I watch? This kind of work fascinates me.”
“Of course not.”
Was there nothing that would discourage this man, she wondered. She pushed the wretched needle through the stubborn canvas and tangled a knot as big as Texas. When she tried to untangle it, it got even bigger.
She wished Rick wouldn't sit so close. She wished he wasn't so attractive. She wished she didn't like wicked men.
“Here. Let me.” He took the canvas from her and deftly untangled the knot. Then he stuck the needle neatly into the cloth and handed it to her. “That's an intriguing pattern, butterflies and daisies. What are you making?”
“Booties.”
“Booties?” He didn't bother to hide his laughter.
“Yes. For Michael.”
“Who's Michael?”
“The baby.”
“Of course.” He patted her flat stomach and then didn't bother to move his hand. “How could I forget the baby?”
That big suntanned hand on the flowered sheet sent heat waves through her body. She tried to concentrate on her sewing but only succeeded in tangling another knot.
Without a word he took the canvas and began to straighten it out again. “Needlepointed booties. With daisies and butterflies. Don't you think Michael might be embarrassed to wear them to the nursery?”
“He's going to be an unusual baby.”
Rick patted her stomach and grinned. “He's definitely an unusual baby.”
“He's going to take after his father, Lucky the Gambler.”
“I think he's more likely to take after his mother, Martha Ann the actress.”
“Actress?”
“Yes. You're the mistress of pretense, and I love every minute of it.” He reached across her, scooped up the thread, and dumped it on the bedside table.
Then he lifted the needlepoint canvas out of her hands and dropped it on top of the thread.
“What are you doing?”
“I felt a sudden desire for a facial.”
With one swift move he lay down beside her and pulled her on top of him. His hands cupped her face and brought it down to his. The cold cream made their lips slick. It only enhanced their passion.
“Hmmmm, delicious,” he said.
He rubbed his cheek against hers, slicking his face and nose with cream. Holding her face between his hands, he nibbled her earlobe and planted hot kisses down the side of her throat.
The knot loosened, and her sheet slipped down, baring her chest. His tongue traced the tops of her breasts.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Happy to oblige.” He rolled over, taking her with him. Her hair was tousled, and her blue eyes were enormous. The cold cream was now divided equally between them, leaving her with only a slight sheen on her face.
Sexy, he thought. There was nothing sexier than a naked, fresh-faced woman in a sheet.
He took her mouth again. She wrapped her arms around him and their passion spiraled.
“Just to... show you... that... nothing... can... discourage me.” He spoke between kisses.
“Just so... you... know... that... I'm merely... obliging... because I'm... too much... of a lady... to fight.” Her fingernails dug into his back. The rhythm of her hips teased him.
“In that case...” He lifted his head and gazed down at her. That black hair spread across the pillow, and those enormous blue eyes were almost his undoing. “...we might as well make this good.”
They kissed until their lips felt bruised and puffy. Finally Rick lifted his head and smiled down at her.
“You do your best acting in bed, my pet.”
“But I don't do curtain calls.”
She smoothed her hair and pulled at her sheet. She was lying, of course. She'd do curtain calls all night with Rick McGill. He was that kind of man, and she was that kind of woman.
“I could easily check that out.”
She hoped he wouldn't. Her sister's reputation was already in tatters, and her own was not much better. Good grief. Just to think that she had believed a little needle and thread would stop Rick McGill.
“If you want to have Michael's booties on your conscience, go ahead.”
“Far be it from me to deprive that little guy of his booties.” Laughing, he got off the bed and handed her the needlepoint hoop. “By all means, finish your work.” He leaned down and nuzzled her ear. “But don't overdo it, my pet. You need to save your strength.”
“For what?”
“Las Vegas.”
He started undressing, grinning and whistling and carrying on in his usual flamboyant manner. Rick McGill never did anything without fanfare. She didn't even bother to shut her eyes. What was the use? Closing her eyes so she wouldn't see the body she'd practically been mauling seemed the height of hypocrisy.
He finished undressing and climbed into bed. She took up her needle and punched the canvas. She was determined to work until he fell asleep. That way she might avoid another close encounter with temptation.
Goodness gracious, she thought. He felt just right over there on that side of the bed—a good solid bulk making the mattress sag in all the right places, a warm comforting presence as inviting as a woolen blanket on a thirty-degree night.
She tangled another knot in her thread and had to cut it out with the scissors. Turning her head, she sneaked a peek at Rick. He had his eyes closed, but he was grinning.
What in the world had he meant about saving her strength for Las Vegas? Knowing him, it couldn’t be good.
Chapter Seven
The next morning Clyde Running Bear's pickup truck was delivered.
With the two clocks chiming and the two televisions going, Velma practicing her dance steps and packing a picnic basket. and Clyde running in and out banging the screen door behind him, preparations were made for the journey to Las Vegas.
The four of them set out for the wicked city at ten o'clock that morning. Velma and Clyde rode up front in royal splendor. He had donned an elaborately beaded headband for the occasion, and she was dressed in her blondest wig, her longest false eyelashes, and her flashiest blouse.
Rick and Martha Ann sat in the pickup bed on two straight chairs. They rode backward, the backs of their chairs braced against the cab. The chairs had been Clyde's idea.
The old pickup roared and rattled as Clyde nursed it down the
road at a breakneck speed of forty miles an hour. Conversation was difficult in the back of the truck but not impossible.
“Are you comfortable?” Rick shouted.
“Yes.” The wind whipped Martha Ann's hair around her face as she turned to him. “I haven't ridden in the back of a pickup truck since I was fifteen. I'd forgotten what fun it is.”
A late model Chevy with Florida license plates passed them. Three children in the backseat pointed their fingers and grinned.
Rick and Martha Ann waved at them.
“You don't mind being a tourist attraction?” Rick asked.
“It's easier than being pregnant.”
Rick roared with laughter. “It certainly is. Especially in your situation.”
“I've been in so many situations lately, I'm hard-pressed to know which one you're talking about.”
“No husband.”
“Ah, yes. My lost husband.” She held her hair back from her face with one hand. “Everything will be better when we find him.”
“Sweetheart, if things get any better, I won't be responsible for what I do.”
“If you're referring to that bed in The Arabian Nights, let me remind you that we'll have separate beds from now on.”
“Separate beds have never been a hindrance to me.” He winked at her. “As a matter of fact, neither have separate chairs.”
He scooted his chair close and plucked her off her chair like a vine-ripe tomato. Then he arranged her on his lap with the finesse of a man who knew how to cuddle.
“You put me down.”
“I can't have you bouncing around over there on that hard-bottomed chair, little Mama.” He patted her stomach. “It's not good for Michael.”
He wasn't behaving at all, and neither was his hand. It was roaming over her torso, poking and probing at her blouse. His index finger slipped into the space between the buttonholes and found her warm flesh.
“If I weren't afraid of falling out of the truck, I'd get up and whack you in the nose.”
“I'm terrified.” He laughed.
“You're a blade.”
“That. too.”
“Just wait till I get you to Las Vegas.”
“Promises, promises.”
o0o
Inside the cab, Velma pressed her nose against the window and looked back.
“She's sitting on his lap, Clyde.”
“I knew those chairs were just the thing. I'm glad I thought of them.”
“The chairs were my idea.”
“It's the love potion working.”
“Where is it?”
“I found it out in the yard again.”
“Oh, no.”
“Don't worry, honey. I dusted it off and tucked it into that sack full of stuff you gave Martha Ann. I put it right in there between the deodorant and the shampoo.”
Still looking back, Velma reached over and clutched Clyde's arm.
“I believe he's going to kiss her... yes, he's got his hand on her face... he's leaning closer... closer. Oh, my. Oh, NO!”
“What is it, Velma? What happened?”
“I do believe Martha Ann pinched his ear. Just like a schoolmarm.”
“Don't worry about it, honey. The more they want it, the harder to get they play.”
She pressed her face so close to the glass, her nose squashed in. She stayed that way a few minutes without speaking, then she turned back around, smiling.
“Well?” The truck swerved as Clyde swiveled his head to look at Velma.
“She might have pinched his ear with one hand, but she's rubbing the back of his neck with the other.”
“Maybe they'll name the first baby after me.”
o0o
It took two hours to get to Las Vegas. Clyde delivered them to one of the smaller hotels on the Strip, The Orchid, and they said their good-byes. Martha Ann hugged them and promised to write, and Rick shook their hands and privately decided that as soon as he got home he would arrange a little surprise for the Running Bears—indoor plumbing.
Clyde and Velma climbed back into their pickup truck and pulled onto the Strip. Velma leaned out the window and waved until they were out of sight.
Rick turned to Martha Ann. “This is it, kiddo.”
“Just look at us.” She spread her arms wide. “We're both covered with forty miles of desert dust. And we have nothing except the clothes on our backs.”
“We have the modern miracle of plastic.” He grinned. “You're forgetting my credit card.” He took her hand. “Come on. Let's go check in.”
“Separate rooms.”
“Would I do anything else?”
“You would do whatever you thought you could get by with.”
“Mrs. O'Grady, I can promise that you will have a palatial suite all your own, complete with telephone and running water.”
“I can hardly wait.”
o0o
Fifteen minutes later Rick and Martha Ann were moving into their rooms—adjoining rooms.
“Did you have to do that?”
“Lucky would never forgive me if I didn't keep close watch on you.”
“Just thank your fairy godmother I'm not planning to tell him how close.”
Rick stuck the key into his lock. “I'll see you after a while, Martha Ann. I have things to do.”
“So do I. I may never get out of the tub.” She pushed open her door and entered the blessed coolness of a room with a telephone, running water, and a bed she could call her own.
First she stripped off all her clothes. She'd have to wash them again. They were the only clothes she had. If she put the blouse over the air-conditioning vent it would be dry in a few hours. She'd have to wear the jeans damp—that was, if she could get back into them.
Small matter, she thought. She was in Las Vegas, and she'd soon find Lucky and head back home. Damp clothes would be only a minor inconvenience compared to the trials of the last few days.
She worked up a lather on the blouse and smiled. Adventure was a better word than trials. Trials were endured and adventure was enjoyed. And she'd enjoyed every minute of being with that rapscallion Rick McGill.
She draped her clothes over a chair in front of the air-conditioning vent and ran herself a tubful of hot water. Reaching into the sack of toiletries Velma had given her, she pulled out some bubble bath, a bottle of shampoo, and a small mesh bag.
“Good grief. Not again.” The little bag was worse for wear. It had a few tears where the chickens had pecked it, and it was covered with dirt from its many journeys to the backyard. And it smelled worse than ever.
“Whatever you are, good-bye forever.” Martha Ann threw it into the garbage can and set the can out in the hall for the maid. Then she climbed into the tub for a long leisurely soak.
She lathered herself from head to toe, humming and singing and generally having fun. A long while later she emerged from the tub and draped herself in a towel.
She leaned over, shook her wet hair out, fluffed it up with her fingers, and stepped into her bedroom. Rick McGill was in one of her wing chairs, bold as you please, his feet propped on the bedside table. He was grinning.
She didn't even attempt to feign surprise. Nothing he did surprised her anymore.
“You're too late,” she said. “I've already had my bath.”
“So I see.” He took time to give her a thorough perusal. “Might I add that you look good enough to eat.”
“By all means. You're welcome to say anything you like as long as you stay on that side of the room.”
“What's the matter? Afraid of a few sparks?”
“No. I'm afraid of getting dirty again. I'm clean, and you're still dusty from the journey.” She inched toward the bed, being careful to keep the bottom of her towel together. If she could get the bedspread off, she could cover herself. “By the way, how did you get in?”
“With this.” He held up an extra key to her room. “I like to cover all the bases.”
“That's not all you like to cover.”
He laughed. “That's true. I've spent the last hour thinking about covering that delectable body of yours.” He lowered his feet and reached for a box. “Here, sweetheart, this is for you.” He held the box toward her.
“What is it?”
“I've been shopping. I took the trusty plastic and bought us a couple of clean outfits.”
“You bought clothes for me?”
“Nothing personal. I'll add them to your tab.”
“Naturally.”
He'd made it sound like a business deal, but she couldn't help being pleased. As she took the box from him, she decided that Rick could really be a nice guy when he tried. Buying her clothes. Now that was thoughtful.
“Thank you, Rick.”
She looked so pleased standing there, he thought. All scrubbed and shiny in that towel, like a girl of sweet sixteen who's thinking of hugging her favorite uncle. A man could grow accustomed to having a woman like Martha Ann around the house.
But it wouldn't do to get too sentimental. Sentimentality was a dangerous state for a man who was already on the verge of losing his head.
He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the table in a deliberate gesture of nonchalance. He'd have to remedy the situation.
“I always expect payment, Martha Ann. Starting now.”
She held the box in front of her chest. “I suppose I could call my bank at home to wire me some money.”
“I'm not talking about money.”
Her face grew wary. “What are you talking about then?”
“A performance. You're good at that.”
“So are you. For a moment there, you had me thinking you were a nice guy.”
“Nice guys don't have fun. And I intend to have fun.” He folded his hands behind his head and leaned further back in his chair. “I want a fashion show, Mrs. O'Grady.”
“A fashion show?”
“I paid for the goods; I want to see you model them.”
She thought about banging the box over his head and telling him exactly what he could do with the goods. Then she changed her mind. Why not? She might just give the arrogant skunk more than he bargained for.
She carried her box into the bathroom and opened the lid. Inside was a red miniskirt with a long zipper up the front from hem to waist and a red halter top that was barely big enough to cover the principal parts, let alone the subject. A tall pair of spiky red high heels and black mesh stockings completed the outfit. He'd even thought to buy lingerie—G-string panties and a bra with holes over the nipples.