“We’ve got your back, girlfriend,” Francine said.
“Thanks. Besides, without my glasses, I’ll need someone to lead me around.”
Ten minutes later, bundled up against the cold, all four women left the salon.
Francine glanced up at the sky. “At least it’s not snowing yet. Your guy shouldn’t have any trouble with the roads.”
“No, fortunately.” Nervous as she was, she wouldn’t have wanted a snowstorm to keep him from getting here. She was as ready as she’d ever be for this meeting.
She dropped back to walk with Dorcas and lowered her voice. “Did you check the plants today?”
“Yes, and one’s missing.”
“Either missing or flattened. I could swear there was a plant where there’s now this big boulder. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we had a bear in Whispering Forest. Nothing else could move a rock that size.”
“Maybe there is a bear,” Dorcas said. “The government has all these wildlife recovery programs going on. One could have wandered over from Ohio. Well, here we are!”
All thoughts of boulders and bears disappeared as Gwen walked into the Big Knobian behind Francine and Sylvia. The bar wasn’t very crowded tonight, which meant she could easily hear the jukebox playing a Tim McGraw song. A quick look around told her she knew everyone there, so Marc hadn’t arrived ahead of her.
As she took off her coat, a wolf whistle cut through the music.
Sylvia preened and sashayed over to the pool table to the left of the door, where Johnny Harshaw, manager of the Knobby Nook Department Store, had a game going with Hank Leiber, the mechanic at the gas station. “Why, thanks, Johnny,” Sylvia said. “You’re looking buff yourself.”
“That was for her.” Johnny pointed his pool cue at Gwen.
Taken completely by surprise, Gwen swallowed and gulped in air at the same time, which made her choke. Terrific. Her first wolf whistle and she was asphyxiating herself over it.
“Get the lady a drink,” Hank called out to Jeff Brady, owner of the Big Knobian.
Jeff came out from behind the bar with a glass of water. “You okay?”
Unable to speak, she nodded. Tears streamed down her cheeks, no doubt leaving mascara tracks, and she’d bet her red face could light up the entire bar. She took the water and began drinking slowly while she tried to hide her embarrassment behind the glass. Thank God Marc wasn’t here yet. She needed to get a grip.
“Pump her arm up and down.” A loud woman’s voice came from the right side of the door, where the booths were located. Gwen knew it had to be Clara Loudermilk, and sure enough, there sat Clara, clutching her Chihuahua, Bud.
Clara’s husband, Clem, sat across the table from her. “I don’t think that really works, sweetie,” he said. A structural engineer, Clem had made a fortune with a patented bra he’d created for his generously endowed wife. Clem was by far the richest man in town, but he still dressed in bib overalls and usually deferred to Clara.
“Of course it works, Clem.” Clara glared at him.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about. You question everything I say these days.”
So that was why they were in marriage counseling with the Lowells, Gwen thought.
Dorcas walked over to the table. “I’d be happy to mediate this discussion.”
Clara bristled. “Not if it’s costing us money. Right, Bud?”
The Chihuahua whined and wiggled in her arms.
Appreciating the diversion, Gwen exchanged a smile with Jeff, who still hovered nearby.
“You doing better?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Go ahead and finish the water while I get you a glass of wine. These first meetings can be tough.”
“No time for the wine.” Francine stepped closer and put her arm around Gwen’s shoulders. “But Mister Tall, Dark and French just walked in the door.”
On cue, Gwen inhaled the rest of the water and went into a second spasm of coughing.
“I didn’t mean to make you do that.” Francine started pounding her on the back.
“Pump her arm!” Clara yelled out.
“Breathe, girl,” Francine said.
“I’m trying,” she said around the spasms.
Jeff glanced toward the door. “Can we help you, buddy?”
“I hope so. I am supposed to meet Mademoiselle Dubois here.”
She couldn’t hear perfectly because the coughing made her ears ring, but she caught enough of the accented baritone to know Jean-Marc Chevalier sounded exactly as she’d imagined he would. Francine had already implied he was gorgeous. This moment could have been so beautiful.
“You’re the guy from Paris,” Johnny said. “So that’s why she got the makeover. I was wondering.”
Gwen closed her eyes and wondered if she could possibly be more humiliated. Now Marc would know she’d updated her look for him, which wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t presently look like a raccoon having a fit.
She had a brief fantasy of running into the bathroom and getting herself back together, but then she’d be acting like a vain coward. She was a vain coward, but she didn’t want Marc to know.
“Distract him, Sylvia.” Dorcas had returned to her side and gave the low command.
“My pleasure.” Sylvia was almost purring.
Gwen opened her eyes. Wait a minute. She didn’t want Sylvia getting friendly with Marc. Marc was Gwen’s e-mail friend, and—
“Look up.” Dorcas whipped out a handkerchief and began dabbing under Gwen’s eyes. “Turn your head to the left.” She ran the handkerchief under Gwen’s eye and over her cheek. “Now to the right. Good.”
Gwen’s face tingled where the handkerchief had touched it.
“Mademoiselle Dubois?” The dreamy French voice was right behind her. Maybe Sylvia’s tactics hadn’t worked, after all. “Is that you?”
“You’re okay now,” Dorcas murmured under her breath.
Gwen had to take her word for it. Slowly she turned. As awful as this moment was, at least she’d finally be able to put a face with his oh-so-French name. Well, sort of. Without her glasses he looked a little blurry.
But what she could make out looked pretty damn good. She squinted a little to bring him into focus, and he still looked wonderful—deep blue eyes, a strong nose, a sensuous mouth, and an adorable cleft in his chin.
No doubt about it, this was her French fantasy come to life. His expression was concerned, as well it might be considering that people had been hovering over her from the minute he’d walked through the door. No doubt the poor man was at a loss for words. She couldn’t blame him.
It looked as if she’d have to break the ice. Maybe she could impress him with her courage under fire. Yeah, that was the way to play it. Classy and in control, able to handle public embarrassment without losing her cool.
Clearing her throat, she thrust out her hand. “Yes, it’s me. Welcome to Nig Bob.”
Chapter 5
And Marc had thought he was nervous about this meeting. Yes, he was sweating a little under his leather jacket, but Gwen looked terrified. He did what any normal Frenchman would do to make a woman feel better.
Taking her hand in both of his, he leaned forward and brushed a kiss on each of her cheeks. “I am glad to be here, mademoiselle.” Mm. He caught the scent of roses.
She gasped in obvious surprise. In fact, the whole room seemed to draw in a collective breath.
He leaned back to gaze down at her. “Is something wrong?” Her cheeks had turned as pink as a Paris sunset. He loved her hair, and wondered how big a change she had made.
“N-no, nothing’s wrong.” She gulped. “I mean, I’m glad you’re here. How was the trip?”
“Fine, except—”
“You had problems? Was it the luggage?”
“No, I had some trouble finding—”
“The right freeway, I’ll bet.”
“No, the exit for Big Knob.” He wanted to stop the nervous chatter and find a way to g
et Gwen out of here, away from the crowd that seemed to be hanging on every word. He wanted to gaze into her eyes, which he thought were brown, although it was difficult to tell because she kept squinting at him.
“You couldn’t find the exit?” A brunette with burgundy streaks and sparkles in her hair frowned.
“I wonder how I missed it.” Marc blamed jet lag, because after he turned around and came back, the sign was there in full view.
“Excuse me a minute.” The brunette dug in her purse for a cell phone. “I need to make a call.” She moved to an unoccupied booth.
“Gwen, aren’t you going to introduce this gorgeous guy around?” asked the aggressive blonde who had been so intent on buying him a drink when he first came in. She had mentioned she could tie a knot in a cherry stem with her tongue. For one scary minute he thought maybe she was Gwen.
Gwen blinked. “Of course. Excuse my bad manners. Everyone, this is Monsieur Jean-Marc Chevalier. Monsieur Chevalier, let me introduce my friends.”
Marc did his best to pay attention, but he was not good in these situations. Monsieur Harshaw was the person who had embarrassed Gwen with the remark about her makeover, and Monsieur Brady owned the bar. He immediately forgot who the other pool player was. Mademoiselle Hepplewaite was the blonde, and the one with quadruple hair colors was Mademoiselle Edington? No, Edgerton.
He found it difficult to care, both because he was dead tired and because Gwen looked so approachable and soft that he wanted to concentrate on her. The way she had buttoned her blouse made it easy to see . . . He snapped his gaze back to her face, not wanting to be caught studying her breasts.
The attractive, middle-aged woman with the sparkles in her hair had returned from making her phone call, and Gwen introduced her as Dorcas Lowell.
That name rang a bell. Madame Lowell and her husband had been the ones who had discovered the bromeliads in the forest. According to Gwen, Monsieur Lowell had suggested finding an expert on the Web, which had brought them to him. He had the Lowells to thank for this connection with Gwen.
But he could not mention that, because the plants were still a secret shared only by him, Gwen, and the Lowells. He was aware of Madame Lowell gazing at him intently, though, and he gave her a smile in return, hoping she would know it was a smile of gratitude.
About that time, the couple with the Chihuahua came over, and after Gwen had introduced them, the husband handed Marc a card.
Marc glanced at it. CLEM LOUDERMILK, SUPERIOR SUPPORT SYSTEMS was engraved in red on a gray background. “Do you manufacture metal braces?” he asked.
“I’m into bras.”
“Oh.” Even with an adequate amount of available brain cells, Marc would have struggled to respond.
“Here’s the deal,” Monsieur Loudermilk said. “Years ago, I invented a bra with excellent structural integrity for my wife, Clara, here, and a major company picked it up. Now I have plenty of money, but I’m bored.”
“Clem, I told you we could travel,” his wife said. “We can buy an RV and take Bud.”
“Don’t want to travel,” Clem said to Clara. Then he turned back to Marc. “See, we’ve been getting marriage counseling from her and her husband.” He pointed to Madame Lowell. “They think I’m bored because I haven’t invented anything new lately, so I’ve decided to design a bra that’s a little more interesting.”
“Interesting?” His wife glowered at him. “You mean indecent!”
“You don’t know anything about it, Clara,” her husband said. “I’m an artist. I need to expand my range.” He gazed at Marc as if expecting a response.
Marc nodded. “Sounds logical.”
Clem beamed at him. “I knew you’d appreciate my situation, you being French and all. I’ve done my research, and the French are all about women’s underwear. I thought you might have some ideas.”
“Well, monsieur . . .” Always inclined to be truthful, Marc had to admit an interest in the subject. Any Frenchman worth his salt had ideas about women’s undergarments. Marc tended to prefer silk over lace because lace could be scratchy, whereas silk was the closest thing to a woman’s bare skin, yet it preserved the mystery. He wondered what kind Gwen liked.
“Oh, Clem, for pity’s sake.” Madame Loudermilk held the Chihuahua under one arm and clutched her husband by the sleeve with her free hand. “Leave the poor man alone. You have too many ideas already. At the next counseling session I’m telling the Lowells you’re turning into a sex fiend.”
In bib overalls? Marc tried not to smile as Madame Loudermilk tugged her very round and supposedly oversexed husband toward the door.
“Call me!” Monsieur Loudermilk threw over his shoulder before Clara yanked him outside.
“I will try, monsieur.” Despite himself, he was intrigued. He had never met a brassiere inventor before and he was curious. How did the man do his research? What sort of testing would the garments require?
“Sorry about that,” Gwen said. Her cheeks had flushed even pinker as she gestured toward the curved wooden bar. “Would you . . . like something to drink?”
He had not eaten anything since getting off the plane. The threat of an impending snowstorm had crowded out all other concerns except getting to Big Knob before the snow hit. He always carried energy bars, a habit he had developed while traveling in primitive conditions, but energy bars could only carry a man so far. He was starving.
If he put alcohol in his very empty stomach, he would be drunk in no time. Not a good way to start this visit. “I would love some food. Is there someplace I could buy a hamburger and fries?”
She stared at him. “You want a burger and fries?”
“But of course! Americans are famous for this, non? What is nearby?”
The guy named Jeff laughed. “Nothing, buddy.”
“The diner’s closed,” said the woman with several streaks of color in her hair.
“Oh. How about in Evansville? I have to go there, anyway, for my hotel.” He hated to leave Gwen, though. Maybe she would like to take a drive.
“Nonsense,” said Dorcas. “If a burger and fries is what you want, I’d be more than happy to make it for you and Gwen. Our house isn’t far, so why don’t we—”
“I can manage a burger and fries,” Gwen said. “And my house is closer than Dorcas’s.”
So Gwen was inviting him to her house for dinner. He took that as a positive sign. When she had suggested meeting at the bar, he had assumed she was using caution before committing herself to alone time. He had thought the same way, but now that he had met her, he was ready for a little more privacy so they could get to know each other.
Besides, if they went to her house, he would be able to see the bromeliad. The potted version would not prove much, but at least he could start studying it before he went with her into the woods tomorrow.
He turned to Dorcas. “Thank you, madame, but if you do not mind, I will have dinner with my . . .” He struggled to remember what relative he was supposed to be.
“Cousin,” Gwen said. “On my father’s side.”
“Oui. Cousin. We have much catching up to do.”
“I understand.” Dorcas gave him a knowing look, as if she could guess that he was already having carnal thoughts about his supposed cousin. “Bon appe’tit.”
Once Gwen had established that Marc was coming home with her, she didn’t see any point in delaying the trip to her house. Bidding everyone good-bye, she accepted Marc’s help with her coat and walked out the door with him. She’d never left with the best-looking guy in the room before, and she had to admit to a sense of triumph.
“Should we drive over?” Marc asked.
“No reason to. It’s just down the street.”
“Then let me get something out of the car.” He clicked the keychain to open the passenger door. Opening it required a hard pull because of the ice collecting around the edges. “I brought you a small gift,” he said as he emerged with a package and handed it to her.
“Goodness, you didn�
�t have to do that.” But she was thrilled to know he’d thought of her. The present was inside a paper bag decorated with a map of France. It had been taped shut. “Shall I open it now?”
“We can wait until we get to your house.”
“Good idea. It’s cold and you’re hungry.” She tucked the gift inside her coat pocket, where it nestled like a sweet promise. He’d bought her something, which must mean he wanted her to remember this visit. As if she’d ever forget it.
On one level, she couldn’t believe this was happening. Twenty-four hours ago they’d been Internet buddies only, separated by an ocean and the anonymous nature of cyberspace. Tonight he’d be eating in her country kitchen. And he’d brought her a present.
“Which way?”
Apparently she’d been standing gawking at him like an idiot while he grew more chilled by the minute. His leather jacket couldn’t possibly be warm enough for this weather. “Did you bring a scarf or a hat?”
“No.”
“Then we’d better get going. It’s this way.” A breeze cooled her hot cheeks as she started walking down First Street toward Beaucoup Bouquets. Her little house was located behind the florist shop.
“The town square is not quite a square, is it?”
“I suppose not.”
“More of a pentagon.”
“Yes. Even the gazebo’s a pentagon, so it matches, but we still call it the square. You couldn’t have the July Fourth weenie roast on the town pentagon.”
Marc laughed. “No, probably not.”
His laugh was easy to listen to. Not everyone’s was. Walt, the town’s barber, had a laugh like a barking seal. Gwen would never rule a guy out because he had an obnoxious laugh, but knowing Marc didn’t made him all the more appealing.
He might be freezing, but he looked damned sexy as he trudged along the slushy sidewalk wearing his black leather jacket and no hat. The cold breeze ruffled his thick hair, which made him look even sexier. She hoped he wouldn’t end up sexy-looking but sick as a dog. That thought reminded her to check his feet. Sure enough, he was wearing very wet, very trendy loafers. “I didn’t notice that you’re not wearing boots, either. We should have driven, after all.”
Casual Hex Page 5