by Peggy Webb
“Hello, there.” Her announcement startled them.
Sandi put a hand over her mouth to stop a gale of giggles.
“I suppose you came to see me,” C.J. said.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”
“Well, here I am.”
The space between the door and the sofa looked a million miles long, a desert as vast as the Sahara that she had to cross while he watched. How did Lana do it with that towel on her head?
C.J. affected a beauty queen walk, something halfway between a seductive slither and a minx’s mince. Clint grinned. It had to be the shoes. They hampered her style.
“I really hate to miss this, but I have to be going.”
“Must you, Sandi?” C.J. tried for a royal murmur, but the cold cream spoiled the effect. “I’ll see you to the door.”
Anything for a brief respite from the disturbing Mr. Garrett.
“Call me,” Sandi whispered when they got to the door, and C.J. nodded. Numb, that’s how she felt. She might never get over it.
She stood at the door watching until Sandi was safely through the hedge. Then she kept her back to the room because she was afraid to turn around. Whatever had possessed her to come out of hiding? Obviously she was going crazy. She’d be the only princess in the state of Mississippi carted off to Whitfield in a padded truck.
“Crystal Jean?”
C.J. whirled around. “How did you know my real name?”
“Sandi told me.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“I think it’s much more fun to keep you guessing.”
If he was trying to throw her off balance again, it wasn’t going to work. Men like Clint Garrett were far too dangerous to risk losing control.
“It’s late.” Abandoning queenly behavior altogether, C.J. stalked to the sofa and plopped down.
He grinned. “I know. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Yes, you caught me in the middle of a beauty ritual.”
“Do you do this ritual often?”
“Every night. Faithfully. I’m thinking of going public with my beauty secrets.”
She wished she wouldn’t do that, revert to sarcasm when she was uncertain, but she couldn’t help herself. It was a handy weapon for keeping people at bay. Not that they wanted to be any other way with C.J., particularly good-looking men. What she ought to do was learn some trick for drawing them closer.
“I’m sure they’re waiting with bated breath.” He sniffed. “Do I smell popcorn?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t we share? I’ve always liked eating popcorn from the same bowl as a beauty queen.”
She didn’t miss the devilish glint in his eyes. “I’ll get it.”
Why not? She couldn’t toss him out: he was too big. And besides, it would be her one and only chance to spend Friday night watching a romantic movie with a heartthrob.
While she was pretending to be a princess, she might as well enjoy the benefits. It beat working late typing church bulletins.
When she walked in with the popcorn, Clint grinned and patted the sofa.
“I saved a warm spot for you.”
Up close he was gorgeous and absolutely irresistible. When she sat down her robe slid open as if she’d planned it that way, like a seduction by Lana Turner. Instead of grabbing it like a schoolgirl, C.J. decided that for once in her life she’d be bold, she’d be a real seductress. After all, she had her hands full with the popcorn bowl, and besides, when would she ever get another chance at glamour and excess?
“Nice legs,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Clint didn’t make any bones about it: he stared. If the rest of her looked as good as the enticing bit he was seeing, she’d win the pageant hands down.
“Want some popcorn?” She was all business as she shoved the bowl at him. It was the damnedest thing he’d ever seen, a beauty queen without artifice, without a feminine wile to her name.
Somebody must have told her in advance about him. Wayne, maybe. He must have told her that nothing worked better with Clint Garrett than total lack of interest.
So what if C.J. Maxey was feigning the whole thing? It was working.
“I’ll hold the bowl while you take off your beauty mask.”
She sized him up with a killer pair of eyes that more than matched her killer legs, eyes that were the stuff poets write about. They were big as dinner plates, and so deep blue they looked navy.
“It has to set,” she said.
“Pardon?”
She gave him a satisfied cat’s smile. She knew she’d scored, darn her delicious hide.
“The beauty cream. It has to set.”
“In that case, you hold the bowl and I’ll do the honors.”
“The honors?”
“Yes.” He grabbed a handful of buttery morsels and held them to her lips. Big, soft, sensual-looking lips that all of a sudden he wanted to kiss. He would have if she’d been any other woman, but in spite of the cold cream and the towel on her head, there was something about C.J. Maxey that demanded respect, a quiet dignity that gave him pause.
Clint was no monk, not by a long shot. He’d had his share of flings, but that’s all they’d been, brief romps with women no more interested in attachments than he.
But this was different. C.J. was a wild card, someone completely unknown to him. Warning bells clanged and stoplights flashed. Until he knew that she wasn’t the kind of woman who played for keeps, he would rein in his appetites, put a lid on his libido and do the smart thing: get the story and leave.
“Hmm, delicious,” she said, then licked the butter off her lips.
Clint nearly came unhinged. He was glad he wasn’t planning on moving for the next hour or two because in his present state movement would be awkward if not downright painful.
He was going to kill Wayne when he saw him. But first he was going to get what he’d come for…a face-to-face interview that would reveal the real C.J. Maxey.
He was trying to think of a great opening ploy when the indomitable Miss Maxey said, “Did you come here to interview me or to stare?”
Caught redhanded. Clint jumped up as if the sofa had burst into flames. “Gotta stretch my legs.” She gave him a satisfied smile.
Why hadn’t he gone to Al’s pool hall, had a few beers, played a little pool, then gone on home and settled down with a horror story? Stephen King was a lot less dangerous than C.J. Maxey.
“I guess your lifelong ambition has been to wear a beauty crown?” Great. The perfect opening question. Required a one-word answer. It was too late to take it back. He’d have to do better next time.
“No,” she said.
“No?”
“That’s what I said.”
He’d thought all beauty queens were talkative. Ask them something that required yes or no and they’d go on for fifteen minutes about their vision for saving the world.
“Why do you want to be Mississippi’s Dairy Princess?”
“Greed,” she deadpanned, but her eyes gave her away. They sparkled with malicious glee.
“Do you expect the title to catapult you to fame and fortune and a rich husband?”
“Rich and good-looking. It wouldn’t hurt if he’s also gold-plated.”
She was putting him on. But why? He was going to find out, even if he had to play dirty. Making no bones about staring, Clint moved in and leaned down till he was nose to nose with her.
“May I quote you on that, Miss Maxey?”
C.J. nearly upended the popcorn bowl. Ellie was going to kill her, plain and simple. Here she was supposed to represent the dairy interests of Lee County as well as give Ellie a good name among county agents, and all she could do was poke out her stinger. And all because Clint Garrett was tanned and muscular, six foot five if he was an inch, and every inch of him lip-smacking good.
Why couldn’t she be the kind of woman who seduced men on sofas instead of the kind of woman who reduced men to boredom? Why couldn�
�t she be a natural glamour puss instead of a plain country girl hiding behind five pounds of cold cream?
She leaned as far back as she could, but he was still so close she could smell the soap he’d used.
Instead, she drew herself up tall and relied on her brain.
“No, Mr. Garrett. You may not. You may leave.”
“Leave?”
“Yes. Due to your unprofessional conduct, this interview is over.”
C.J. left him sitting on the sofa. It was her best queenly exit.
Chapter Three
The two ceiling fans in the Tribune’s office did nothing but stir up the muggy air and send a few flyers for the Shriner’s upcoming circus fluttering to the floor. Clint and Wayne leaned back in matching swivel chairs—both were equally ratty—with their feet propped on Wayne’s desk.
A big pitcher of cold lemonade sat on the desk between them making water circles on the already much-abused desk, and from time to time one of them reached over and refilled their glasses. A copy of the Tribune lay open to Clint’s story on the dairy princess.
“I thought you’d get pictures,” Wayne said.
“She hid behind the bathroom door the first time I interviewed her and behind a truck-load of cold cream the next.”
Clint got lost in thought remembering the narrow escape he’d had from the dairy princess Friday night. If that robe of hers had edged open one more inch he’d have had his wicked way with her on the sofa, cold cream or no cold cream.
“I even went to church trying to get a picture, but she didn’t show up,” he added.
Wayne grunted. “Maybe you can catch her at work.”
“That’s kind of boring, don’t you think?” He made a frame with his hands. “Dairy Princess Types.”
“Yeah. I see what you mean.”
Eyeing the flyers on the floor, Clint grinned. “I was thinking of something far more exciting for Miss Crystal Jean Maxey.” His brain was cooking with ideas of parades and revels with Miss C.J. Maxey as star of the show.
“What sort of devilment are you up to now?”
“Wouldn’t you rather be surprised?”
“Yeah. It’s safer that way. When the sheriff comes to question me I can always claim ignorance.”
C.J.’s support team was gathered in her living room for a summit conference…Sam, Ellie, Sandi. Ellie had brought cookies, Sam supplied the cola and Sandi had brought a twelve-pack of Hershey’s candy bars with almonds.
Sam had made a huge dent in the cookies while C.J. and Sandi had plowed through the chocolate.
The candy hadn’t helped one bit. In spite of the fact that her rash had cleared and her hair looked better than it ever had, C.J. was still panicked at the thought of her first official public appearance.
“What am I going to do?” she said.
“You’ll do just fine.” Ellie adjusted the straps on C.J.’s simple yellow sundress. “It’s only a parade.”
“A circus parade.”
“You’ve always loved animals,” Sam said.
She had. And if it were only tigers and lions she had to worry about, everything would be all right. But there was one animal she hadn’t counted on…Clint Garrett. According to the Shriner who had called, the Tribune’s ace reporter would be on the float with her.
“All you have to do is wave.” Sandi reached for another candy bar, and Ellie said, “Good lord, where do you put it all?”
“Stress eating,” Sandi said.
“What are you stressed about?” C.J. asked. “You’re not the one stuck in the middle of a circus parade behind the elephants!”
“Better you than me.” Ellie fanned herself with the Tribune. “Good lord, it’s hot.”
“It’s cooler on the porch,” Sam said.
“Let’s go.” Ellie hugged C.J. “You’ll be just fine. Sam and I will be on the sidelines cheering you on. Now, show me that beauty queen’s wave.”
C.J. flapped her hand, limp at the wrist. “You’ve got it down pat,” Ellie said, then followed Sam out.
“Shoot,” C.J. said. “I’m so depressed I could cry. I’m going to make a fool of myself.”
“No, you’re not.” Sandi shoved the remains of their food binge aside. “You’re going to be the star of the show.” She unzipped the duffel bag she’d brought and pulled out a red sequined gown. “I brought you a little something.”
It was a beautiful gown, designer label, bought in Paris. C.J. had seen Sandi wear it once. It showcased Sandi’s dynamite figure to a tee, but C.J. was shaped more like a firecracker. Straight up and down. Without the fuse.
But how could she refuse the gown without hurting Sandi’s feelings?
“That’s very generous of you, but I can’t possibly wear something this fine in a circus parade.”
“Of course you can.”
“I’ll sweat on it.”
“André spilled a whole bottle of champagne on it once.” Was he Sandi’s first fiancé or her second? C.J. couldn’t keep them straight. Sandi held the gown in front of her. “It’s going to look great.”
“On you, maybe, but I don’t think I’ll fill it up.”
“I guarantee you will.” Sandi reached into the bag once more. “They don’t call these things WonderBras for nothing.”
Clint was late. He’d got behind a funeral procession and had to poke along at fifteen miles an hour. Parade or no parade, there was no way he could pull out and roar past a hearse with an escort of half the sheriff’s department. The law of Hot Coffee didn’t take kindly to disrespect.
When the deceased’s entourage finally pulled into the gravel lane that led to Our Lady of the Sorrows Church, Clint kicked his Harley into life and raced toward the fairgrounds in search of Crystal Jean Maxey.
Today she had no place to hide. What would she look like? He hadn’t been this excited since he was six years old and waiting for a Christmas puppy.
The fairgrounds on Main Street teemed with life—convertibles and floats draped with crepe paper vied for space with prancing Arabians and restless caged tigers. Clint slowed to a crawl, craning his neck for a glimpse of the dairy princess. Her float was just up ahead waiting in front of the building where every fall the homemakers of Hot Coffee displayed their pies and cakes and pickled peaches at the county fair.
Hundreds of crepe paper roses adorned Leonard Lumpkin’s flatbed truck. That had to be Leonard himself standing beside the cab awaiting the honor of driving the princess in her first parade. His hair was slicked back in a greasy ducktail, his red shirt was ringed with sweat and his Adam’s apple bulged above a necktie that featured Mickey Mouse.
Any man who would wear a tie like that couldn’t be bad. Clint parked his motorbike and was fixing to give Leonard a hearty handshake when this foxy chick dressed in red slithered up and changed his mind about everything he’d ever thought.
One, Leonard was obviously a pervert because he suddenly grew six hands, every one of them patting the princess in places they had no business being. Two, the princess herself was not refreshingly different after all. She was merely another Barbie doll with cleavage stuck out halfway to Texas and a rounded woman’s butt just begging to be pinched. Which was exactly what Leonard was trying to do.
The princess sidestepped so fast her banner got crooked. But for all her pretense of modesty, she gave Leonard a smile designed to dazzle and seduce.
Clint was speechless with rage, but what took him most by surprise was his disappointment. C.J. Maxey had played him for a fool. She’d led him on with her sharp wit and her pretense of guilelessness. She’d made him think that behind all that cold cream was a woman with a brain in her head. Somebody he could enjoy talking with. Shoot, she might even have turned out to be destiny’s final joke on him—a woman who could make him straighten up and fly right, a woman who could make him believe in himself.
Instead she was just another shallow flirt.
She had a dazzling smile beamed on Leonard, and clearly he was completely fooled by her act. Bu
t she couldn’t fool Clint. Nosirree. Women like her were a dime a dozen. He had them for breakfast. He chewed them up then spit them out.
Which was exactly what he was fixing to do with Miss Crystal Jean Maxey. Actually, he ought to be grateful to her for flaunting her wares. She’d saved him from departing the familiar routine that had worked for him for years. Love ’em and leave ’em. Trite but true. Well, almost. Everything except the love part. There wasn’t a bit of feeling involved in his brief encounters with women, which made it easy for Clint to keep on drifting.
C.J. outmatched poor Leonard, but that wouldn’t be a problem with Clint. The way he figured it, he and C.J. Maxey deserved each other, the worthless bastard and the shameless tease.
Just as Leonard was fixing to boost C.J. onto the back of his flatbed truck, Clint stalked over and plucked her out of his hands.
“Allow me.”
C.J. gave a little squawk of surprise, and Leonard said, “Well, I beg your pardon.”
Clint ignored both of them and let nature take its course. Her skirt had a side slit and his hand was right there. He ran it down the length of one long slender, silky leg.
“What do you think you’re doing?” C.J. said.
“Yeah, just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Leonard stuck out his jaw and strutted around like a turkey cock.
“My job.”
For a moment Leonard looked as if he might take umbrage, then he climbed into the cab of his truck and slammed the door.
In a big show of false modesty, C.J. did take umbrage. “Your job?”
“Yes, I’m your escort for the day.”
His laugh was decidedly hollow. Even with all her inexperience, C.J. could see that. When he pulled her against his chest with a soft whump, he held her so tight her push-up pads almost popped out. C.J. had never been so mortified in her whole life…nor so thrilled.
She was actually wallowing in the arms of a handsome hunk. She didn’t know what she’d been missing. All those lonely dreams she’d had about being in the arms of a man paled by comparison to the real thing.
Not that he was doing anything except boosting her onto the float. Still, this newfound sexual power was heady stuff. All she’d had to do was pad herself within an inch of her life and bat her eyelashes.