He made no comment.
Georgeanne had always considered herself the perfect blind date because she could talk water uphill, especially when she felt nervous. “But I’ve been to the Gulf many times,” she began. “Once when I was twelve, my grandmother took me and Sissy in her big Lincoln. Boy, what a boat. That car must have weighed ten tons if it weighed an ounce. Sissy and I had just bought these really cool bikinis. Hers looked like an American flag while mine was made of a silky bandanna material. I’ll never forget it. We drove all the way into Dallas just to buy that bikini at J.C. Penney’s. I’d seen it in a catalog and I was just dying to have it. Anyway, Sissy is a Miller on her mother’s side, and the Miller women are known throughout Collin County for their wide hips and piano ankles-not very attractive, but a lovely family just the same. One time-”
“Is there a point to all of this?” John interrupted.
“I was getting to it,” she told him, trying to remain pleasant.
“Any time soon?”
“I just wanted to ask if the water off the coast of Washington is very cold.”
John smiled and cast a glance at her then. For the first time, she noticed the dimple creasing his right cheek. “You’ll freeze your southern butt off,” he said before looking down at the console between them and picking up a cassette. He popped it in the tape player and a wailing harmonica put an end to any attempt at further conversation.
Georgeanne turned her attention to the hilly landscape dotted with fir and alder trees and painted with smears of blue, red, yellow, and of course, green. Up until now, she’d done fairly well at avoiding her thoughts, afraid they would overwhelm and paralyze her. But with no other distraction, they rolled over her like a Texas heat wave. She thought about her life and about what she’d done today. She’d left a man at the altar, and even though the marriage would have been a disaster, he hadn’t deserved that.
All of her things were packed into four suitcases in Virgil’s Rolls-Royce, except the carry-on sitting on the floor of John’s car. She’d packed the little suitcase with essentials the night before in preparation for her and Virgil’s honeymoon trip.
Now all she had with her was a wallet filled with seven dollars and three maxed-out credit cards, a liberal amount of cosmetics, a toothbrush and hairbrush, comb, a can of Aqua Net, six pairs of French-cut underwear with matching lace bras, her birth control pills, and a Snickers.
She had hit an all-time low, even for Georgeanne.
Chapter Two
Flashes of blue and crystal sunlight, waving sea grass, and a salty breeze so thick she could taste it welcomed Georgeanne to the Pacific coast. Goose bumps broke out on her arms as she strained to catch glimpses of rolling blue ocean and foamy whitecaps.
The squall of seagulls pierced the air as John steered the Corvette up the driveway of a nondescript gray house with white shutters. An old man in a sleeveless T-shirt, gray polyester shorts, and a pair of cheap rubber thongs stood on the porch.
As soon as the car rolled to a stop, Georgeanne reached for the door handle and got out. She didn’t wait for John to assist her-not that she believed he would have helped her anyway. After an hour and a half of sitting in the car, her merry widow had became so painful she thought she might get sick after all.
She tugged the hem of her pink dress down her thighs and reached for her overnight case and shoes. The metal stays in her corset dug into her ribs as she bent to shove her feet into her pink mules.
“Good God, son,” the man on the porch growled in a gravelly voice. “Another dancer?”
A scowl creased John’s forehead as he led Georgeanne to the front door. “Ernie, I’d like you to meet Miss Georgeanne Howard. Georgie, this is my grandfather, Ernest Maxwell.”
“How do you do, sir.” Georgeanne offered her hand and looked into the aged face, which bore a striking resemblance to Burgess Meredith.
“Southern… hmmm.” He turned and walked back into the house.
John held the screen door open for Georgeanne, and she stepped inside a house furnished in plush blues, greens, and light browns, giving the impression that the view outside the large picture window had been brought into the living room. Everything appeared to have been chosen to blend with the ocean and sandy beach-everything but the black Naugahyde recliner patched with silver duct tape and the two broken hockey sticks placed like a sideways X above a packed trophy cabinet.
John reached for his sunglasses and tossed them on the wood and glass coffee table. “There’s a guest room down the hall, last door on your left. Bathroom’s on the right,” he said as he crossed behind Georgeanne and walked into the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and twisted off the top. Raising the bottle to his lips, he leaned his shoulders back against the closed refrigerator door. He’d messed up big this time. He never should have agreed to help Georgeanne, and he for damn sure never should have brought her with him. He hadn’t wanted to, but then she’d stared up at him looking all vulnerable and scared, and he hadn’t been able to leave her on the side of the road. He just hoped like hell Virgil never found out.
He pushed himself away from the refrigerator and returned to the living room. Ernie had plopped himself down in his favorite recliner, his attention riveted on Georgeanne. She stood next to the fireplace with her hair all windblown and her little pink dress wrinkled. She appeared exhausted, but by the look in Ernie’s eyes, he found her more appealing than an all-you-can-eat buffet.
“Is there a problem, Georgie?” John asked, and raised the bottle to his lips. “Why aren’t you changing?”
“I have a slight dilemma,” she drawled, and looked at him. “I don’t have any clothes.”
He pointed with the bottle. “What’s in that little suitcase?”
“Cosmetics.”
“That’s it?”
“No.” She quickly glanced at Ernie. “I have underthings and my wallet.”
“Where are your clothes?”
“In four suitcases in the back of Virgil’s Rolls-Royce.”
It figured he would have to feed, house, and clothe her. “Come on,” he said, then he set his beer on the coffee table and led her down the hall into his bedroom. He walked to his dresser and pulled an old black T-shirt and a pair of green drawstring shorts from the drawers. “Here,” he said, tossing them on the blue quilt covering his bed before turning toward the door.
“John?”
His name on her lips stopped him, but he didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to see that scared look in her green eyes. “What?”
“I can’t get out of this dress by myself. I need your help.”
He turned to see her standing within a golden slice of sunlight spilling in from the window.
“There are some little buttons at the top.” She awkwardly pointed.
Not only did she want his clothes, she wanted him to undress her.
“They’re really slippery,” she explained.
“Turn around,” he ordered, a harsh edge to his voice as he stepped toward her.
Without a word, she turned her profile to him and faced the mirror above the dresser. Between her smooth shoulder blades, four tiny buttons closed the very top of the dress. She pulled her hair to one side, exposing baby-fine curls just below her hairline. Her skin, her hair, her southern accent, everything about her was soft.
“How did you get into this thing?”
“I had help.” She looked at him through the mirror. John couldn’t remember a time that he’d helped a woman out of her clothes without taking her to bed afterward, but he didn’t intend to touch Virgil’s runaway bride any more than necessary. He raised his hands and tugged until one small button slipped from its slick loop.
“I can’t imagine what they all must be thinking right now. Sissy tried to warn me against marrying Virgil. I thought I could go through with it, but I guess I couldn’t.”
“Don’t you think you should have come to that conclusion before today?” he asked, then moved his finge
rs lower.
“I did. I tried to tell Virgil that I was having second thoughts. I tried to talk to him about it last night, but he wouldn’t listen. Then I saw the silver.” She shook her head and a soft spiral of hair fell down her back and brushed across her smooth skin. “I’d chosen Francis I for my pattern, and his friends had sent a good amount,” she said, all dreamy as if he knew what the hell she was talking about. “Ohhh-just seeing all those pieces of fruit on the knife handles gave me the shivers. Sissy thinks I should have chosen repousse, but I’ve always been a Francis I girl. Even when I was little…”
John had very little tolerance for girly chitchat. He wished he had a tape player and another Tom Petty cassette. Since he didn’t, he tuned her out. More often than not, he was accused of being a real bastard, a reputation he considered an asset. That way he didn’t have to worry about women getting ideas about a permanent connection.
“While you’re there, could you unzip me? Anyway,” she continued. “I almost wept with joy when I laid eyes on the pickle forks and grapefruit spoons and…”
John scowled at her through the mirror, but she wasn’t paying any attention. Her gaze was directed downward toward the big white bow sewn on the front of her dress. John reached for the metal tab, and as he pulled, he discovered the reason Georgeanne had difficulty breathing. Between the gaping zipper of her wedding dress, silver hooks lashed together an undergarment John instantly recognized as a merry widow. Made out of pink satin, lace, and steel, the corset cut into her soft skin.
She raised a hand to the bow and clutched it to her large breasts to keep the dress from falling. “Seeing my favorite silver pattern went to my head, and I guess I let Virgil convince me that I just had prewedding jitters. I really wanted to believe him…”
When John finished with the zipper he announced, “I’m done.”
“Oh.” She looked up at him through the mirror, then quickly dropped her gaze. Her cheeks turned red as she asked, “Could you unfasten my ah… ah, thing partway?”
“Your corset?”
“Yes, please.”
“I’m not a friggin‘ maid,” he grumbled, and lifted his hands once more to tug at the hooks and eyes. While he worked at the tiny fasteners, his knuckles brushed the pink marks marring her skin. A shudder racked through her as a long, low sigh whispered deep within her throat.
John glanced up into the mirror and his hands stilled. The only time he ever saw such ecstasy on a woman’s face was when he was buried deep inside her. A swift punch of lust hit him low in the belly. His body’s reaction to the bliss-filled tilt to her eyes and lips irritated him.
“Oh, my.” She breathed deep. “I can’t tell you how wonderful that feels. I hadn’t planned to wear this dress for more than an hour and it’s been three.”
His body might respond to a beautiful woman-in fact, he’d worry if it didn’t-but he wasn’t going to do anything about it. “Virgil is an old man,” he said, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice. “How in the hell did you expect him to pry you out of this?”
“That was unkind,” she whispered.
“Don’t expect kindness from me, Georgeanne,” he warned her, and yanked at several more hooks. “Or I’m bound to disappoint you.”
She looked at him and let her hair slide across her shoulders. “I think you could be nice if you wanted to.”
“That’s right,” he told her, and raised his fingertips to brush the marks on her back, but before he could soothe her skin with his touch, he dropped his hand to his side. “If I wanted to,” he said, and moved from the room, shutting the door behind him.
When he walked into the living room, he instantly felt Ernie’s speculative gaze. John snagged his beer from the table, sat down on the couch across from his grandfather’s old recliner, and waited for Ernie to start firing his questions. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Where did you pick up that one?”
“It’s a long story,” he answered, then explained the situation, leaving nothing out.
“Good God, have you lost your mind?” Ernie leaned forward and about tipped himself out of the chair. “What do you think Virgil is going to do? From what you’ve told me, the man isn’t exactly the forgiving kind, and you practically stole his bride.”
“I did not steal her.” John raised his feet to the coffee table and sank deeper into the cushions. “She’d already left him.”
“Yeah.” Ernie folded his arms across his thin chest and scowled at John. “At the altar. A man isn’t likely to forgive and forget a thing like that.”
John rested his elbows on his thighs and raised the bottle to his lips. “He won’t find out,” he said, and took a long swig.
“You better hope not. We’ve worked too damn hard to get this far,” he reminded his grandson.
“I know,” he said, although he didn’t need reminding. He owed a lot of who he was to his grandfather. After John’s father had died, he and his mother had moved right next door to Ernie. Every winter Ernie had filled his backyard with water so John would have a place to skate. It had been Ernie who’d practiced with John out on that cold ice until they were both frozen to the marrow of their bones. It had been Ernie who’d taught him how to play hockey, taken him to games, and stayed to cheer him on. It was Ernie who held things together when life got real bad.
“Are you going to do her?”
John looked over at his wrinkled grandfather. “What?”
“Isn’t that what you young fellas say these days?”
“Jesus, Ernie,” he said, though he really wasn’t shocked. “No, I’m not going to do her.”
“I sure as hell hope not.” He crossed one callused and cracked foot over the other. “But if Virgil finds out she’s here, he’ll think you did anyway.”
“She’s not my type.”
“She sure as hell is,” Ernie argued. “She reminds me of that stripper you dated a while back, Cocoa LaDude.”
John glanced at the hallway, grateful to find it empty. “Her name was Cocoa LaDuke, and I didn’t date her.” He looked back at his grandfather and frowned. Even though Ernie never said so, John had a feeling his grandfather didn’t approve of his lifestyle. “I didn’t expect to find you here,” he said, purposely changing the subject.
“Where else would I be?”
“Home.”
“Tomorrow is the sixth.”
John turned his gaze to the huge window facing the ocean. He watched several white-tipped waves swell, then curl in on themselves. “I don’t need you to hold my hand.”
“I know, but I thought you might like a beer buddy.”
John closed his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Linda.”
“We don’t have to. Your mama’s worried about you. You should call her more often.”
With his thumb, John picked at the label glued to the beer bottle. “Yeah, I should,” he agreed, although he knew he wouldn’t. His mother would bitch at him about his drinking and tell him that he was leading a self-destructive life. Since he knew she was pretty much right, he didn’t need to hear it. “When I drove through town, I spotted Dickie Marks coming out of your favorite bar,” he said, again changing the subject.
“I saw him earlier.” Ernie pushed himself forward and rose slowly from the chair, reminding John that his grandfather was seventy-one. “We’re going fishing in the morning. You should get up and come with us.” Several years ago, John would have been the first on the boat, but these days he usually woke up with a splitting headache. Getting up before dawn to freeze his butt off just didn’t appeal to him anymore. “I’ll think about it,” he answered, knowing he wouldn’t.
Georgeanne fastened her maroon bra, reached for the T-shirt, and pulled it over her head. A Seahawks baseball cap, a stopwatch, an Ace bandage, and a good amount of dust rested on the dresser in front of her. Her gaze rose to the big mirror above the dresser and she cringed. Soft black cotton fit tight across her breasts but loose everyplace else. She looked like a fashion nig
htmare, so she tucked the T-shirt into the baggy drawstring shorts, which only accentuated her large breasts and behind-the two places she’d rather not emphasize. She yanked the shirt out until it fell to her hips, then she threw her shoes into the overnight case and grabbed her Snickers. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she peeled back the dark brown wrapper and sank her teeth into the rich chocolate. A euphoric sigh escaped her lips as she chewed her candy bar. Lying back on the blue comforter, she stretched and stared up at the light fixture attached to the ceiling. Two dead moths lay in the bottom of the shallow white glass. As she devoured her candy, she listened to John and Ernie’s muffled conversation through the wood door. Considering that John didn’t seem to like her very much, she found it odd that the low timbre of his voice should soothe her. Perhaps it was because he was the only person she knew for miles, or maybe because she sensed he really wasn’t a jerk as he pretended. Then again, the sheer size of the man would make just about any woman feel safe.
She scooted until her head rested on John’s pillow and her feet lay across her wedding dress, which she’d thrown on the end of the bed. Polishing off the Snickers, she thought about calling Lolly, but decided to wait. She wasn’t in a big hurry to hear her aunt’s reaction. She thought about getting up but closed her eyes instead. She thought of the first time she’d met Virgil in the fragrance department at the Neiman-Marcus in Dallas. It was still hard to believe that just a little over a month ago she’d been working as a perfume girl, handing out samples of Fendi and Liz Claiborne. She probably wouldn’t have noticed him if he hadn’t approached her. She probably wouldn’t have agreed to have dinner with him that first time if he hadn’t had roses and a limousine waiting by the curb for her after work. It had been so easy to crawl inside that air-conditioned limo, out of the heat, humidity, and bus fumes. If she hadn’t felt so alone, and if her future weren’t so uncertain, she probably wouldn’t have agreed to marry a man she’d known for such a short time.
Simply Irresistible Page 3