by Leslie Kelly
This didn’t go into the top ten worst days, it was in the top five.
She was almost to the door when she realized Johnny had followed. He stepped around her, blocking her exit. “Where do you think you’re going? You can barely walk.”
“Away. From. Here.” She punctuated each word with a harshly snarled breath.
“Running away. Your M.O, isn’t it? You get embarrassed and hit the road.” He shook his head in disgust. “Typical Emma Jean Frasier.”
She clenched her back teeth so hard her jaw hurt. But she’d already given the town gossips quite enough to chew over tonight on the gossip lines, thank-you-very-much. She was not about to get into a screaming tizzy of an argument with Johnny over who’d run out on whom. “Please leave me alone.”
She tried to walk around him, finally giving up on the stupid shoe, which made the ache in her ankle even worse. She bent over and yanked it off, letting it dangle by the strap from the tip of her finger. Then she marched toward the door, with her head held high. Or, at least as high as it could be, considering she descended a good three inches each time she went from her good foot—still in the high-heeled sandal—to the bad one, which was completely bare. The bad one also made her cringe with pain every time she put her weight on it.
Johnny, however, wasn’t going to let her make her grand exit. Emma could barely suck in a shocked breath when she felt him scoop her up from behind. “Stubborn woman.”
He held her easily, bracing her behind the shoulders and beneath the knees. She might have been a stuffed doll for all the effort it took him. Emma had just enough time to clutch at her dangling shoe before it fell out of her fingers as the grocery store door opened before them with a swish, letting in a thick blast of stale summer air.
Before they could exit, however, a titter and a few whispers reached her ears. Emma groaned. It wasn’t bad enough that she’d fallen, but now she was being swept out of here like some romance heroine…by the guy who’d given her her first adult taste of heartbreak as a teenager.
She leaned close to his ear to avoid being overheard. Forcing her nose to stop working so she wouldn’t smell the familiar earthy scent of his skin, and her eyes to stop noticing the cute way his hair still curled behind his ear, she whispered, “Put me down right now or I swear I’ll kick you.”
He raised an amused brow. “With a broken foot?”
“My other foot’s not broken.”
“It will be if you kick me. Those shoes of yours are pretty useless, aren’t they?”
“Johnny, please don’t do this.”
“I already did. Now shut up, Emma Jean, and let’s get you X-rayed.”
Over his shoulder, she saw a cluster of shoppers inching closer. They made no bones about trying to hear every word she and Johnny exchanged. Surely nothing this exciting had happened in Joyful since, oh, say, ten years ago. That would have been the night this bastard had seduced her in public, then roared away, leaving her to explain to a bunch of gawking onlookers while trying to fasten two-dozen tiny, silk-covered buttons up the back of her pink prom dress.
Before they could escape the store altogether, however, a female voice said, “Hey, Johnny, what about your sauce?”
Emma glanced at the cashier who’d spoken, a young woman with teased up bright red hair and a serious case of acne. The woman watched them with eyes as big as dinner plates, and a definite pout on her heavily glossed lips.
“I’ll be back for it,” Johnny informed her.
“You have to buy it. You bent it all up when you dropped it,” the belligerent cashier exclaimed.
“Yeah, and your date’s gonna be real disappointed if you don’t make her a gourmet meal,” Emma muttered.
The woman’s voice rose in pitch. “My boss’ll make me pay for it if you don’t.”
Right. As if her boss wouldn’t have heard the whole sordid story within six-point-five minutes on the infamous Joyful grapevine. Every person in the store was practically shifting on their feet, itching for Johnny and Emma to get gone so they could spread the news to the four corners of the Joyful kingdom.
Emma tried to wriggle out of Johnny’s arms. “Go pay for your sauce and I’ll go out and get back in my car. I can drive myself to the clinic.” Then, giving him a slightly malicious smile, she whispered, “You damaged the can. I wouldn’t want you to get falsely accused of vandalism…again.”
Direct hit. His eyes widened at the insult, and his lips thinned. He obviously remembered when he’d told her about being accused of vandalizing the town fountain as a kid. Another memory from prom night—during their hours of talking, he’d told her what it was like growing up a member of the trashiest family in town.
Not too unlike what it had meant growing up a rich kid in boarding school.
Lonely.
“Damn, you got bitchy while you were away, didn’t you?”
The camera-hungry old man, whose pants were hitched up almost to his nipples, snorted with laughter. Yes, he probably approved of the caveman tactics. Emma shot him a glare and he quickly turned away, pretending to carefully examine a sign advertising a weekly special on toilet paper.
Over near a breakfast display, a harried-looking mother shoved a box of marshmallows and sugar masquerading as breakfast cereal into her toddler’s hands to get him to stop crying. Heaven forbid she miss a word of Emma and Johnny’s confrontation.
“And you got hard of hearing,” Emma finally retorted, making no effort to keep her voice down. She didn’t much care if everyone in the store heard and took notes. “I said put me down.”
“Uh, okay, that’d be a big no.”
Without another word to anyone, he strode out the automatic door, still holding her securely in his arms. Emma watched over his shoulder as the cashier, her co-worker and every shopper in the place rushed to the front window. They might as well have pressed their noses against the glass for a better look.
He didn’t even pause as he passed by her convertible. When he reached a black SUV, he lowered her to the ground, effectively trapping her against the car with his long, firm body. Another flood of memories invaded her brain. She remembered what it had been like to dance with him, both vertically at the prom, and later, horizontally under the misty, moonlit sky.
“Don’t you understand the meaning of the word ‘no’?” she asked, wondering why she sounded so darned weak all of a sudden. “Or has it been so long since a woman said it to you that you’ve simply forgotten what it sounds like?”
He raised a brow. “Jealous?”
“Oh, puh-lease.”
“Emma, answer me one question. That little car you squealed in here on. Manual or automatic?”
Flustered by the change of subject, not to mention his, umh…closeness…she admitted, “Manual.”
He nodded, unsurprised. “Of course. You would never buy a car you couldn’t drive like a screaming bat out of hell. Your poor gears are probably already ground down to nothing.”
She couldn’t deny it. An automatic transmission had seemed almost sacrilege in an eight-cylinder car meant to go from zero to ninety in the length of time it took to touch up her lipstick in the rearview mirror.
“Which ankle did you twist?”
She followed his pointed stare toward her left foot, already looking swollen and tender. Then she knew where he was heading. The clutch would be a killer. “Oh.”
“Right.”
He opened the door, and lifted her, putting her in the passenger seat.
“My car…”
“Will be fine here,” he insisted.
His tone allowed for no more arguing. It was time to admit the truth. To her eternal mortification, she really did have to accept the help of the one man on earth she’d hoped never to see again.
Correction. This day was going to her top three list of bad days. Maybe even top two.
“All right,” she finally conceded, hearing the dismay she couldn’t keep from her voice. “Let’s go.”
DANEEN BRADY WALKER but
toned her blouse and smoothed her skirt in the tiny bathroom off the reception area of Boyd Realty, wishing yet again that they had a shower on hand. Paper towel cleanups just didn’t cut it after quickies on the boss’s desk.
“You swore there’d be no more quickies,” she told her reflection, angry at her lack of willpower when it came to Jimbo Boyd, her full-time boss and her often-times lover.
He’d had her in the palm of his hand for years. Whenever she tried to back away, knowing he’d never give her what she wanted—a real commitment—he always managed to seduce her back into their long-standing affair. This latest time, she’d managed to resist for a month. Long enough to start looking beyond him, beyond the fruitless dreams of him leaving his wife for her. She’d begun thinking she could live without him, though he’d been a major presence in her life since she’d been young and dumb, wowed by the attention of a handsome, much-older man.
He was still handsome and she was still dumb, as evidenced by today’s naked wrestling session on his desk.
He’d sounded so unhappy last night, that’s what had done her in. He’d called her at home, telling her how terrible his life was without her. That she believed. Jimbo was the most put-upon man she’d ever known, controlled by his rich wife. The mayor would never admit it, but Joyful knew exactly who was in charge, at work, at home and at city hall. First Lady Hannah Boyd.
Jimbo might cheat on her, but he wouldn’t leave Hannah. Daneen had thought the realization would give her the strength to stand firm when he started begging her to come back to him.
Uhh…wrong.
“Idiot,” she called herself, then left the powder room.
She’d known this morning that Jimbo would lay on the charm today, wanting an after-hours dick—yuck, yuck, hardy-har-har, emphasis on the dick—tation session. Nope, no surprise there. Not after last night’s teary phone call, and the loud argument Jimbo’d had with Hannah this morning. Fighting with Hannah always made Jimbo want to have sex…with someone else. Not that Hannah suspected that Daneen was the someone else these days.
Since it was after five-thirty, she began to gather her things to leave. Maybe she’d beat Johnny to the house and he’d never hear her phone message. She’d told him she was working late and he should heat up some leftovers in the microwave for supper.
Grabbing her purse and keys, Daneen knocked lightly on the closed door of Jimbo’s office. When she didn’t receive an answer, she pushed it open and saw him at his desk, talking on the phone.
“I told you it wouldn’t matter,” he said. “The paperwork is perfect. There’s nothing she can do.”
She waited, wondering who he’d called, knowing the phone hadn’t rung. Five minutes ago, they’d been panting and naked on his desk. He must’ve reached for the handset before he’d zipped up his fly. Well, didn’t that make her feel special.
“The tracks are covered. Nobody can do a thing. Do you think I don’t know this town? Stop worrying.”
“Jimbo?” she whispered.
He looked up and saw her standing there, then impatiently waved her out with his hand, not saying a word. Daneen stiffened, hot moisture rising in her eyes, to her absolute mortification.
God, it killed her that she loved the son of a bitch. At least, she usually loved him…on the days she didn’t hate his faithless guts.
Backing out of the office, she blinked rapidly, righteous anger drying her tears. She turned on her heel and walked to the exit, prepared to give the door a good slam as she left. But as she reached it, she saw someone standing outside.
“Came to get paid,” Cora Dillon said as soon as Daneen unlocked the front door, which Jimbo had locked shortly before their five-minute interlude in his office. The woman tried to push inside. “I did some cleaning for Mr. Boyd today.”
Cora, one of Daneen’s late mother’s friends, was known far and wide as the nosiest busybody north of Atlanta. She’d just love to come inside and catch a hint of scandal, perhaps something as damning as Daneen’s lipstick on Jimbo’s chin. Not to mention the unmistakable aroma of illicit sex.
“Sorry, we’re closed.” Daneen stepped out and tried to pull the door shut behind her. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
The steely-eyed old bat had the gall to stick her foot in the door and shoulder it back open. “Mister Boyd said I could get my money today. I know he’s here, so I’ll wait inside for him.”
Daneen gritted her teeth, wishing she’d left earlier, or at least sprayed down Jimbo’s office with some air freshener. Busybodies had the noses of bloodhounds. Since their eyes were almost as deadly keen, she didn’t even dare to glance down at her blouse to make sure she hadn’t missed a button.
That’d be the last thing she needed—for her father—or worse, Johnny, to hear rumors about her and Jimbo. He’d be devastated. Humiliated. And Daneen would die before hurting him.
“You’re wasting your time,” she said to Cora, trying to sound unconcerned. “It’ll be a very long wait. He’s been in on that phone all afternoon, I barely got a minute with him today.”
God, it was hard to stay steady and meet the other woman’s eyes. She did it, though, because Cora Dillon collected gossip the way some old ladies collected ceramic pigs or antique dolls: with single-minded precision.
Daneen didn’t want anyone to know about her secret affair with Jimbo. Not Hannah Boyd. Not Cora Dillon.
And especially not Johnny.
CHAPTER THREE
TRYING TO ESCAPE the view of the onlookers still pressed against the front window of the Joyful Grocery Store, Emma sank into the passenger seat of Johnny’s SUV. Through half-lowered lashes, she watched him go around to get into the driver’s side.
Of all people in the world she hated to be indebted to, it was Johnny Walker. Well, him, and the bank that held her car loan. She’d have to figure out how to pay them after she figured out how she was going to buy her next meal.
But right up there in a close tie was Johnny Walker, the man she’d never been able to forget. Or forgive.
Getting in on the other side, he jerked the door closed, his every movement taut and tense. He obviously disliked the situation as much as she did. His jaw remained stiff as he yanked his seat belt across his lap and fastened it.
She watched, her eyes going where they had no business going before she managed to scrunch them shut. Johnny’s lap was no man’s land. No woman’s land, at least. Not this woman, anyway.
Probably plenty of others, though. She imagined with his looks and smile and those wicked blue eyes he’d probably had a lot of women in his lap over the years. “Bastard.”
He turned his head and quirked a brow. “Excuse me?”
“Hurts like a bastard,” she mumbled.
He stared, practically daring her not to blink at the lie. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. And she didn’t. Not even when her eyes began to feel like they were full of sawdust.
When he finally looked away to start up the car, she almost cried with relief. She did not want him to know she had any feelings for him one way or the other. Sadness would tell him how much he’d once hurt her. Anger implied he meant something to her.
Complete indifference was definitely the best way to go.
“’Cause, you know, I felt pretty sure you couldn’t be talking to me,” he said as he backed out of the parking space. “The guy who just carried your ass out of not only a painful situation but a damned embarrassing one.”
“Which wasn’t entirely my fault.”
“Wasn’t mine, either,” he countered. “In case, you know, you were, uh, cursing more than the pain in your ankle.”
Darn. She hadn’t fooled him at all with the brief staring contest. He was still too intuitive for her own good.
But he was also correct. “You’re right,” she admitted, the words dragged out of her throat almost against her own will. “Thank you. That wasn’t quite the way I’d expected to renew my acquaintance with the residents of Joyful.”
“How’d you ex
pect to do that?” he asked with a frown. “On a stage wearing nothing but a big smile?”
She sucked in a shocked breath, then barked out a laugh. “Good grief, hasn’t this town seen me naked enough?”
This time, she surprised a laugh right back out of him. He glanced over at her, good humor making those irresistible dimples of his deepen in his lean cheeks. “Is that a trick question?”
She raised a brow.
“Is there such a thing as seeing enough of a naked woman?”
Deadpan, she replied, “I suppose it depends on the woman. Are we talking Lady Godiva naked here? Or the old lady from the Shoebox greeting cards naked?”
“How about porn star naked?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
Then she snorted. Porn star, indeed. “Is that how you’re getting your kicks these days? Was the can of spaghetti sauce you dropped really supposed to be a dinner for two—you—and a two-dimensional date on your big-screen TV?”
He chuckled again, shaking his head. Johnny always could get her to say the most outrageous things, when other people generally thought of her as the sweetest spoken, most ladylike girl around. Once upon a time she’d liked him for that.
With Johnny, she hadn’t had to be an angel. And lordy had he tempted her to be a devil. On one night in particular.
“You haven’t changed much,” he finally said.
“You have.”
“You’re still a smart-ass.”
“You’re still a bossy, arrogant so-and-so.”
He snorted. “You obviously still know how to be the center of attention.”
“You obviously still have a hero complex,” she responded.
They fell silent for a moment, then, she heard him say one more thing. “I’ve thought about you.”
The absurd fluttering his softly spoken words caused in her stomach made her retort airily, “I haven’t spared you one minute.”
That shut him up. And officially upped her time in purgatory for lying. Big huge fat liar, that was Emma Jean’s new title.
But it served its purpose and was worth a few more years of penance. Because it got him to quit being cute and teasing and playful and sexier than any man had a right to be.