Jacqueline Farrel was tall and thin and professional in beige slacks, a matching suit jacket and low-heeled, no-nonsense beige pumps. Silvery gray streaked her shoulder-length blond hair, which had been cut into a stylish bob. Only the barest hint of makeup accented her pale skin. She wore a pair of silver-framed glasses that seemed slightly too large for her narrow face. They slid down her nose and she pushed them up as she stepped out onto the set and rounded a red leather sofa. She walked the length of the stage and waved at the three hundred die-hard Farrel fans packed into the audience, who were ready to digest any and everything she had to say.
Jacqueline Farrel hadn’t always been so popular. Her theory that relationships endured because of three key ingredients—great sex, shared interests, and mutual respect—was outlined in her groundbreaking book, The Lifelong Orgasm, back in the early sixties. While the infamous Holy Commitment Trinity had struck a chord in some women, the idea hadn’t really taken off until a few years ago.
Thanks to the rising divorce rate and a special segment on Oprah, a movement had exploded, triggering a re-release of the book, a wave of publicity for Jacqueline, and an offer from Lifetime to host a special late-night segment where women would dish about being women. The trials. The tribulations. The victories. She’d accepted, thrilled at the prospect of bringing her female empowerment doctrine to women all across the country, even if she had to do it on an extravagant red set that looked like Skye’s worst Valentine’s Day nightmare.
“Ladies, ladies, thanks for joining me tonight.” Jacqueline sank down into a red leather armchair. “We’ve got a great show planned. The topic is underwire bras and why we, as women, should reject them. It’s not just a matter of comfort, ladies. It’s a matter of pride. We women no longer have to sacrifice ourselves to fit male-inspired ideals of what we should or shouldn’t look like. Perky breasts? If you’ve got them, great. But if not, rejoice!” She cupped her bosom with both hands and gave an affectionate squeeze. “But first, we’ll do our audience question. And the winner is...” She reached into a bowl sitting on the coffee table and drew a name. “Cheryl Anderson from Wisconsin.”
A round of applause sounded as a short, timid, middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair and trembling hands got to her feet.
“I, um,” the woman blushed and reached into her pocket. “I wrote my question down because I knew I’d be nervous.” She cleared her throat and unfolded the paper. “My husband is always telling me that he’s better than me. He says it’s because man came before woman, therefore women are second best. Dr. Farrel, what do I tell my husband when he says that to me?”
“First off, you have to speak to him in language the male creature can actually understand, which means you don’t talk feelings. You talk business. Just tell him he’s the prototype and you’re the finished product.“ A wave of laughter went through the audience. “From a creationist standpoint, man did come first. But once God, in all of her infinite wisdom, realized her mistakes, she promptly corrected them and created woman.”
“I never thought about it that way,” the woman said. “That’s what Get Sexed Up is all about. Broadening the female mind. Realizing that your existence doesn’t revolve around your partner.” Jacqueline smiled.
A round of applause went up and the music started. The announcer’s voice came over the speaker. “For your question, Cheryl, you’ll receive an autographed collection of Dr. Farrel’s books. And we’ll be right back after this message from our sponsor...”
The music faded into a commercial and Skye let her eyelids drift shut. She knew the topic and the opening question. If her mother asked—and she always asked— Skye could respond openly and honestly and completely guilt-free. She’d done her duty as the eldest and most supportive daughter of Jacqueline Farrel.
“I need the maid of honor.” The high-pitched voice rang out above the steady chatter that filled the small dressing room and made Skye’s temples pound.
“Over here.” Skye popped two Tylenol and slid her hand into the air. The sea of women parted and she spotted the petite man dressed in a tailored Evan Picone black suit. He had a shiny bald head and wore small, wire-rimmed spectacles and a frustrated expression.
“I need you over here.” Jiles Carrington was Dallas’ most sought-after wedding coordinator. He was neat with impeccable taste in clothes. He’d also been featured in every major wedding magazine and was a virtual genius when it came to turning a young bride’s matrimonial dreams into reality.
But most of all, Jiles was a pompous, bossy pain in the ass who got the job done.
“Where have you been?” He reached her in three quick strides. An overflowing box of flowers sat in his small, thin arms. He clutched a decorated cake knife in one hand, and a serving spatula in the other. “I’ve been looking for you forever.”
“I’ve been right here.”
Except when she’d slipped away for a trip to the ladies’ room. She’d needed to after drinking a six-pack of Diet Coke throughout the morning to wake her up.
Not that Jiles would be the least bit understanding. “You are the maid of honor. You have responsibilities. You have to be accessible and reliable.”
“I’ve been right here,” she insisted.
He gave her a Do I look like I just stepped off the boat, Sister look before shoving the box at her. “These bouquets need to be distributed to each bridesmaid according to ribbon color.” He gripped the cake knife and spatula with one hand and snapped his fingers at her. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Get going. We haven’t got all day. I want everyone lined up for a personal inspection in thirty minutes or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Or else you’ll suffer the consequences.” He held up the cake knife and waved it at her. “I don’t like tardiness.”
“Even if it can’t be helped?”
“Especially if it can’t be helped.” He gave her the Evil Eye. “So I suggest you go get everyone together.”
“Or else?”
“Exactly.”
Skye only hoped that the or else was swift so that she missed all the blood. She didn’t do blood very well.
He snapped again and barked, “Chop, chop.”
Skye stifled the urge to bop him over his head with one of the bouquets or, worse, turn and bolt because he was obviously not playing with a full deck. He was a wedding coordinator, for heaven’s sake. Not a character from The Sopranos.
You can do this. You’re in the home stretch. Just a few more hours.
A few deep breaths later, she worked her way through the dressing room filled with females and spent the next ten minutes matching dress color with the appropriate ribbon until she’d distributed all of the bouquets, except for the yellow.
“Where’s the banana?” she asked.
“That would be Cheryl,” one of the bridesmaids— the peach—called out from a few feet away. “She’s our second cousin.”
“Where is she?”
“Beats me. The last time I saw her, she was in the parlor puffing away on a cigarette.”
“She still smokes?” the cherry asked.
“Like a chimney,” the peach replied.
“And she still drinks,” the kiwi offered. “But hopefully she’ll behave herself tonight. No trysts in the men’s bathroom like last time. Duke warned her last night.”
“Since when does she listen to Duke? She needs to grow up.”
“She needs a good spanking.”
Skye looked at her watch. Twenty minutes to Jiles’ inspection and counting...
Skye walked out of the dressing room, damning herself for not stuffing a few Chips Ahoy into her purse before she’d left the house that morning. But she’d been determined to make it through today without indulging. After all, it was just one day. She was in the home stretch, trudging toward the finish line. She could make it. She would make it. Without a sugar fix.
She glanced around, then picked a direction at random. How hard could it be to find a girl wearing a monstro
us, blindingly yellow dress?
Damned hard.
She came to that conclusion ten minutes later after she’d searched almost the entire first floor of the Southern Oaks Plantation.
Skye shoved open the last men’s room door and muttered, “Where in the hell is she?”
“Can I help you?” The deep male voice came from behind her.
She whirled around and saw a broad back outlined by a crisp white shirt. He stood a few feet in front of her, his back to her as he faced the urinal. His pants sagged around his hips, the black material accenting a firm, muscular rear end—
Zippp ...
The sound sent a bolt of reality through her and ended her speculation. Her gaze shot to the mirror on the opposite wall and a man’s smiling reflection.
Familiar. He looked so familiar with his lips crooked in a cocky grin and his eyes dancing with amusement.
“Can I help you?”
The deep, smooth voice echoed in her ears and sent a hum pulsing along her nerve endings.
A reaction she’d felt many times before with many attractive men, though not quite this intense. Intense enough to scramble her common sense for several frantic heartbeats.
“I’m looking for a banana,” she finally blurted.
He grinned. “That’s what they all say, sweetheart.”
Chapter Three
Clint MacAllister had heard some really great pickup lines in his thirty-six years, and so he considered himself somewhat of an expert. They were a hazard of the job for one of NASCAR’s hottest drivers, not to mention the Most Eligible Bachelor in Comfort, Texas—a title he’d owned for the past fifteen years thanks to the good citizens of his hometown, half of whom were related to him.
He’d heard everything from You have really great eyes to Wanna go back to my hotel and play hide the salami? Some lines were tasteful, some downright raunchy. Some were shy and demure, others as straight as an arrow. Some tasted as stale as his momma’s day-old biscuits, while others were as fresh as the women delivering them.
He wasn’t sure how to categorize this one. While there was nothing new about the banana line, the desperation in the woman’s eyes gave it a sincere edge.
Definitely a first for Clint. He’d met many women during his career, but very few he’d been able to take at face value thanks to his high profile image as a hotshot driver.
Then again, he wasn’t as hot as he’d been in years past. He’d stepped down after the opening Daytona 500 this season thanks to a crash and burn that had left him with a dislocated shoulder and a hell of a lot of pain.
The shoulder had been fixed and he no longer screamed with every deep breath, but he still wasn’t the same.
“It’s all about confidence, folks. And it seems that Clint MacAllister may have lost his.”
That’s what the press was speculating, but Clint knew better. He hadn’t lost anything. Hell, no. He’d gained an insight into his life. Namely, that he didn’t have one. He’d been so busy with his career for the past fifteen years that he’d had little time for anything else. No wife. No kids. Nothing but a gigantic house on the outskirts of Dallas filled with boxes that he hadn’t had time to unpack in the two years since he’d purchased it.
But all that was changing. He’d taken the retirement he’d planned for the following year. He’d found another driver for his race team and now he watched from the sidelines.
As an owner, he had a lot more time and energy to devote to other things, like unpacking, getting a Blue Heeler named Jezebel, and noticing the bright green eyes of the woman standing in front of him.
But while he had time to notice, he didn’t have time for anything more. There was a roomful of rowdy groomsmen who needed some organization, not to mention a nervous groom desperate for a little moral support. Clint was the best man. Better yet, he was a reformed man since the shoulder injury that had changed his life and put him on the straight and narrow path to the altar.
He’d hosted his last bachelor party. Next time around, Clint intended to be the guest of honor.
He grinned. “I’d like to help you out, but this banana’s spoken for. If you want to let me go get my jacket, I’ll hook you up with an autographed picture.” That usually did the trick for most women.
She gave him a puzzled look before realization seemed to hit her. She shook her head. “No, no, that’s not what I mean.” Another shake and the soft blond curls framing her face trembled. “I mean, that is what I mean. Sort of.” She blew out a deep breath and licked her bottom lip, drawing his full attention to her mouth.
She had a really great mouth with full, pouty pink lips. The kind a man fantasized about feeling against his own.
“Where’s a cookie when you really need one?” she murmured.
“I thought you wanted a banana?”
“I do, but not your banana.”
Okay, it was one thing to be too reformed to get picked up, and quite another to be told he wasn’t worthy of the effort.
He frowned. “What’s wrong with my banana?” “Nothing.” Her cheeks flooded. “I’m sure your banana’s fine.”
“As if you don’t know. I saw you checking me out.” “I was not checking you out.”
“You stood here a full minute just staring.”
“I was not staring.”
“Forget a minute. It was more like two. Maybe even three.”
“Maybe I was staring.” She blew out an exasperated breath. “But you caught me off guard. I didn’t expect to find anybody in here.”
“Right. You probably followed me in.”
“I did not follow you in.”
“You still checked me out.” He eyed her.
She eyed him back. “Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t. But it’s not your banana I’m after right now. It’s Jenny’s.”
“Jenny’s banana is this close to tossing his cookies, so I’d keep my distance if I were you.”
She shook her head again and blinked frantically. “Not banana as in male member, though I can see how you would be confused by the phallic symbolism given our present situation. I’m looking for Jenny’s banana bridesmaid. The girl wearing the yellow.” At his confused look, she added, “She didn’t choose just one color. Instead, she went with a fruit theme for everything.”
“That should make for some interesting pictures.” “You’re telling me—Ohmigod!” She glanced at her watch and panic lit her eyes. “It’s almost time for the inspection and I’m still missing the banana!” She whirled and reached for the door.
“The patio out back,” he called after her.
She paused. “I beg your pardon?”
“The guys are on the back patio watching the Busch Series. They race on Saturdays. Winston races on Sunday. That way drivers can race in both series if they want.”
“That’s very informative, but what does it have to do with the banana?”
“My guess is you’ll find her out back since she obviously likes keeping company with the men, otherwise you wouldn’t have been raiding the men’s room.”
She looked so grateful and relieved that he heard himself say, “And it isn’t time. You still have a few minutes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jiles always bumps the inspection time up by a half-hour to give himself a safety net for just this sort of situation.” At her puzzled expression, he added, “It’s my eighth wedding in the past five years. Jiles has been the wedding planner for five of them.”
“You’ve been in eight weddings?”
“Actually I’ve been in sixteen, but the other eight were back in my twenties. I was just a groomsman in those. In the last eight, I’ve been the best man.”
“This is my first wedding and first time as maid of honor and—Ohmigod. You’re him.” She looked as if he’d grown two heads. “You’re that cowboy guy.”
He shrugged. “I’m not really a cowboy, but if that floats your boat, all the better.” What the hell was he doing?
You’re flirtin
g, buddy.
Hell and damnation, he wasn’t supposed to be flirting. Flirting led to other things, naked things, and he’d promised himself no more when he’d popped the question to Darla, his intended and the best damned media contact at Daytona International Speedway.
So what if she hadn’t exactly said yes.
“I’m really flattered, Clint. I like you so much. You’re a master behind the wheel, but in the bedroom... I’m afraid the sex just isn’t that great. But hey, I still want to be friends.”
Most men would have crawled away with their tail between their legs, but Clint had never gotten anywhere by letting others keep him from what he really wanted.
Darla was the woman for him. They had the same things in common. He could talk to her about his latest transmission adjustment or the new shock he’d just developed and she didn’t look at him as if he’d just sprouted a second head. Even more, Darla was down to earth. Simple. She wasn’t one of those uppity-up types who thought they were better than everyone else. Darla was real and she didn’t look down on him because of his dyslexia. She treated him like everyone else.
That’s why he intended to come up with a strategy and approach her again when his race team returned to Daytona in a few weeks for the Pepsi 400. He just wasn’t so sure what he intended to say, much less do.
Yet.
“I can’t believe you’re him. He’s you. And you’re right here.”
“Listen, don’t take this personally, but I can’t do this. I’m practically engaged. This close to tying the knot myself.”
“Can’t do what?”
“Waste time with flirting.”
“Waste time...?” The words seemed to strike a chord and she glanced at her watch. “I—I really need to go. Jiles is going to freak.”
“Maybe this will help.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an individually wrapped peppermint. “The male equivalent of a cookie. Actually, a cigarette would be the equivalent, but I gave up those last year.” He held out the candy to her. “Try it. It’s not too bad.”
Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice Page 3