by Lisa Bingham
Gilhouley waited patiently.
“A bit old-fashioned,” she said finally.
“They don’t approve of your being here?”
She snorted. “It depends on which one you ask. At first, my mother considered my decision to go into nursing as noble. I think she had lofty visions of her daughter floating through the wards dispensing thermometers for a few months before snagging herself a doctor.”
“And that wasn’t what happened.”
“No,” she murmured quietly. Too quietly. Before Gilhouley could pursue that line of questioning, she hurried to add, “My father on the other hand, was furious. As far as he is concerned, the only acceptable occupations for a woman are motherhood, teaching, and tending to one’s parents. In his opinion, nursing was little better than prostitution. What well-bred woman would expose herself to so many unclothed men?” She pretended to shudder. “Horrors!”
“I take it that their views haven’t changed much since then.”
She shook her head. “The theme has been the same for years. In the past, they’ve taken turns trying to convince me to give it all up and come home. But lately, they’ve begun a concerted effort. They’re getting older and they would like to have me closer to home.”
“And what do you want to do?”
She supposed she should offer him a glib answer. She’d never seen him remain serious for more than a few minutes. And yet, here he stood, listening with the intensity of a priest in the confessional.
“I don’t know. I…” She hesitated, not willing to admit that it was the milestone of her fortieth birthday which had caused the sudden discontent. “There’s a part of me that knows I should probably go home. A good daughter would give up her career and care for her parents.”
His mouth lifted in a slow grin. “But you’re not a good daughter?”
“Evidently not. I love my career. I’m good at what I do, but…”
Again, he waited patiently, not pushing but letting her decide for herself how much she would confide.
“I don’t know. Maybe I need a change of scenery, a new challenge.” She gestured out into the darkness. “We all know there’s a war coming. We can’t stay out of things for much longer. The Japanese will probably cause some problems, but the real action will be in Europe. Maybe now’s the time to make sure I get a front row seat.”
He didn’t move, but she sensed a sudden tension to his frame.
“Is that what you want to do?” he asked slowly.
She looked up, catching the way a muscle flicked in his jaw, and suddenly realized that things had changed. She wasn’t sure when or how. But they’d changed.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
He took a step toward her and the moonlight played over his angular features—the jut of his cheekbones, the square line of his jaw. He bent over her—and she couldn’t deny the thrill of looking up, up, knowing that he was taller, broader in a way that made her feel small and feminine.
He was breathing hard as he lifted a finger, a single, square-tipped finger, and traced the line of her brow, her cheek, her jaw, before tipping her face up.
“Don’t go, Rosemary. Don’t go.”
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, he bent toward her, kissing her on one corner of her mouth, then the other, before settling softly, sweetly in the center.
She exhaled against him—a sound that was half sigh, half excitement. Then it was she who took a step forward, her palms resting at his waist, her lips parting to his caress.
And suddenly, as if they’d both been longing for this moment, passion flared between them. What had begun as a tender exploration suddenly exploded into a hunger that neither of them could contain.
Rosemary gripped the lapels of his uniform, holding him close, even as his own arms wrapped around her waist. His lips became hungry, demanding, his tongue sweeping into her mouth.
Drawing abruptly away, she urgently whispered, “Not here. Not where someone can see us.”
Before Gilhouley could say something that might change her mind, she took his hand, drawing him toward her bungalow. She fumbled with the lock, finally unlatched it, then hurried inside, bringing Gilhouley with her.
• • •
John slid out of the truck, shutting the door behind him with a rusty squeak and a bang. Standing for a moment, with his fingertips tucked in his pockets, he surveyed the grassy field in front of him.
According to the instructions he’d been given at the gate, this was the area normally reserved for drills and physical training. But for tonight, the area had been transformed into a makeshift amphitheater. Soldiers crowded close on chairs and benches. Some sat, some stood. All of them were shouting and whistling.
Intrigued by what had filled them with such excitement, he edged his way around a cluster of men—boys, really—who tumbled into the aisles and stood whooping.
As soon as the stage loomed into view, John halted in his tracks, his own eyes widening.
A woman stood poised near the microphone—one of the most beautiful women that John had ever seen. She was short and voluptuous, with fiery red hair and pale skin made even more dramatic by the pool of the spotlight. She wore what appeared to be an Army dress tunic, but it had been tailored to mold to her body, enhancing full breasts, a slim waist, and curvaceous hips.
Dear God in heaven.
He felt a prickling of his skin followed by a quick heat. Frowning, he ducked into the shadows as he realized he was blushing. Blushing. A grown man who was not completely innocent of the ways of the world.
But the sensation didn’t ease. Indeed, it intensified as she began to finger the buttons of her jacket, loosening them one by one. Turning her back to her audience, she offered a come-hither smile over her shoulder, opening one side of her jacket, closing it, opening the other side, closing it.
When she faced the audience again, her jacket was shut, but barely, leaving the tiniest peek of silken tap pants and a lacy corselet.
She continued to taunt and tease her audience, turning this way and that, baring a shoulder, a creamy expanse of hip. Her routine was overtly sensual, her song bawdy. But her routine left the soldiers wanting more and more, until finally, she clasped the curtain, held it in front of her breasts, and threw the jacket out into the audience.
The soldiers’ cheers became a roar. A dozen men in the first few rows fought over her costume, so she laughed—an expression of such joy that John felt a frisson of something akin to wonder skitter down his spine. Then, with a final wave, she called out, “So long, boys! It’s been a pleasure!”
Amid the tide of soldiers jumping to their feet, John eased out of the fracas again and made his way toward the grassy expanse were a pair of MP’s stood casually smoking.
“Excuse me. I’ve been sent to pick up—” John dug into his pocket to withdraw a scrap of paper, “—Glory O’Halloran.”
The two men exchanged glances.
“Lucky you,” one of the men murmured before gesturing to a set of canvas tents located near the rear of the stage. “Second one on the left.”
John nodded and strode in that direction. The quicker he picked up his employer’s guest, the quicker he could be on his way back to the plantation again.
But even as he assured himself of the validity of his errand, that he had every right to be mingling among the serviceman gathered for the show, he couldn’t push away the feeling that he’d somehow encroached on a private exchange between the soldiers and that…that…woman.
Dear God, she’d been stripping in front of thousands. So why did he feel like a Peeping Tom?
He pushed his way through the performers milling around the rear of the stage. Again, he wondered whom Milton Wilmington had invited to stay at the Big House. It was the first time John had ever known him to make such arrangements. Even the staff had been mystified. For days, they’d been frantically cooking and cleaning lest someone akin to royalty showed up. They’d known as little as John. A f
riend of a friend had been invited to stay. How long the visit would last would be determined at a later date. John hadn’t even had a name to pin to the guest until this morning when a wire had arrived to let him know when and where to arrange the pickup.
Glory B. O’Halloran.
Whoever she was, she must be damned important for Milton to go to this much fuss and expense.
Distantly, he could hear the throaty, crooning voice of a male quartet singing You Made Me Love You. The crowd of men had grown quieter—as if the melancholy tune had brought to mind memories of home.
John approached the tent, then stood indecisively. How was a person supposed to knock?
At a loss, he finally wrapped his knuckles against the flap, then grimaced at the ineffectual rustling noise.
“Excuse me? I’m looking for Glory O’Halloran?” he called out, feeling like an absolute fool. If only there’d been someone else he could have sent to retrieve the woman. “I’m here to pick her up.”
“Come on in.”
Amid the swell of muted trumpets from the accompanying military band, John ducked into the tent, following the husky tones of the woman’s call.
The space was surprisingly neat. With the chaos outside, he’d expected to see costumes and makeup scattered around the small confines. Instead, a trunk and two suitcases were stacked near the flap. A dressing table with its mirror had already been cleared and wiped clean.
Seeing no one, he called out, “Miss O’Halloran?”
“I’ll be with you in a minute. Take a seat if you want.”
His eyes skipped to a changing screen in the far corner, then to the folding chairs in the center of the tent.
Realizing that the woman he’d come to collect was probably in a state of undress, he debated whether or not to go outside again, but before he could come up with a subtle exit strategy, a figure stepped from behind the screen.
John felt his pulse suddenly slam against his temples, then lower, much lower.
It was the woman.
The person who…
The stripper.
Mother of God.
“Can you hand me my shoes?”
She gestured to a pair of heels resting on top of the luggage, even as she settled into one of the folding chairs. As she bent to smooth her hose, he was afforded a perfect view of the valley between her ample breasts.
He jerked his gaze away, reaching for her footwear. In his haste, one of them tumbled to the ground and he was forced to bend to scoop it up. The red shoe with its sling back and open toe was incredibly small in his hand. Incredibly feminine.
Clearing his throat, he nearly tossed them into her lap, but she didn’t appear to notice his awkwardness.
“Thanks.” She grinned up at him. “I take it you’re my ride?”
Her accent was so patently American, flat vowels, a slight drawl. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He was on an American military base, after all. But it had been a long time since he’d heard such tones from a woman.
The image of Sister Mary Francis seeped into his brain, but he quickly pushed it away. Not now. Not here.
“As soon as you’re ready…” He gestured to the tent flap, deciding he’d wait outside after all.
“I’m ready now. Could you help me with my luggage?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She shot him a wide grin. “Call me Glory Bee—spelled B-double-E. The only ma’am I’ve ever known was my grandmother.”
She jumped to her feet, grabbing a pocketbook from the table, then the smaller suitcase. When she would have reached for the other pieces of luggage, he pushed her hands aside.
“I’ll get those.”
She flashed him a quick smile, and it was at that moment that he realized she was young. Very, very young. What was even more disconcerting was that she was completely at odds to the sensual siren who’d abandoned the stage.
John slung the trunk over his back, then grabbed the handle of the smaller suitcase.
“Oh, dear,” she said in open dismay. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get you some help? I’m notoriously prone to over-packing.”
“No, ma’am…Miss O’Halloran. I’m fine. The truck isn’t far.”
She flashed him a brilliant smile. “Swell!”
Preceding him out of the tent, she held up the flap for him, then fell into step as soon as he’d passed through.
“I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you,” she said, her heels sinking awkwardly in the grass.
John angled their path toward the walkway.
“Oh, thank you.” She exhaled a deep breath. “I should have known better than to wear heels, but I’m expected to maintain appearances, you know.”
John didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, but he nodded as if he did.
“Is it far?”
“Just a few more yards.”
She laughed, the sound girlish and so at odds with her surroundings that John nearly stopped in his tracks.
“No, I meant the plantation. Is the plantation far from here?”
John slowed as they neared the truck. He swung the trunk into the back bed, then quickly followed with the suitcase.
“No, not far. About twenty minutes to a half-hour.”
A brief twinge of disappointment crossed her features, but was gone so quickly, he wondered if he’d imagined the flicker of weariness.
He held open her door and she slid inside with what sounded like a sigh. Once she’d been safely stowed in the cab, John quickly tied her cases down with a piece of rope. The roads around the plantation were notoriously bad, and he didn’t want to take a midnight scavenger hunt for this woman’s luggage if they hit a particularly nasty pothole.
As he worked, he whistled softly to himself in an effort to rid his mind of the image of Glory Bee O’Halloran on stage, her shapely legs bared. The roundness of her shoulder. The jut of her hip. Scrambling, he tried to think of something—anything—to say during their long drive to the plantation.
But as soon as he slid into place behind the wheel, he realized that he needn’t have bothered.
Glory Bee O’Halloran was fast asleep.
• • •
As soon as the door closed behind them, Rosemary turned to face Gilhouley. In the velvety darkness, he seemed even taller, leaner than before. From his stance, it was clear that he wasn’t sure what to expect. For all he knew, the brief respite might have caused her to change her mind about…
About what? What exactly was happening here? Rosemary couldn’t have said. She didn’t know the precise moment when they shifted from casual friendship to…to what? Even at that point she was at a loss to explain. She only knew that for the longest time, she’d harbored a loneliness within her that had sapped her of energy and joy. And for the first time, she felt a spark of hope, of vitality, of pure feminine awareness. She acknowledged that she wasn’t being entirely rational, and that ideally any sort of relationship with Gilhouley could only lead to trouble. But even that hint of danger was infinitely attractive.
She stepped toward him, closing the distance between them. Without a word, she took off his hat and set it on the side table. With dancing fingers, she touched his hair, its fire a muted glow in the darkness. He kept it military short, especially at the sides and back, and the fine hairs were downy soft, tickling the sensitive pads of her fingertips.
As if she were a blind woman, she traced the jut of his brow, the high cheekbones, the line of his jaw. Then his mouth. His beautiful, expressive mouth.
When he bent to take her lips with his own, there was no resistance. Merely an acceptance. An acknowledgement that—no matter what the future might bring—this moment was right. This kiss was right.
Although barely a hairsbreadth separated them, Gilhouley’s arms slid around her waist, drawing her against him, thigh to thigh, hip to hip. And she reveled in the strength of him, the angles and planes that proved the perfect counterpoint to her softness.
Sliding her arms around his n
eck, she lifted on tiptoe so that their kiss could deepen. And with each kiss, each stroke of his hand across her back, her hip, the need within her increased as powerfully as her wonder. How could this be happening?
Breaking away, she gulped for air. He grew still against her, willing to let her dictate the terms of their time together, whether she stopped things now or allowed them to continue. But she was already past the point of no return. She felt as if she’d been lost in a desert of want and had suddenly been offered an oasis that was beyond anything she could have ever dreamed possible. She couldn’t have stepped away for anything.
With trembling fingers, she began to unbutton his tunic, sliding it from his shoulders where it fell into a heap on the floor. Without pausing, she worked at the knot of his tie. By the time she reached for the buttons of his shirt, he was helping her, shrugging free, then lifting his undershirt up and away in one swoop.
He pulled her close again, the warmth of his bare chest seeping through the satin of her evening gown. As a nurse, she’d seen her fair share of unclothed men. She’d even had a lover, once, so long ago. But none of that could have prepared her for the strength of Gilhouley’s body, the sculpted beauty of his musculature. Again, he bent for a kiss, and she hungrily answered the slant of his mouth, the thrust of his tongue. But her hands continued their questing path, tracing the arc of his ribs, the ridges of his abdomen. Then lower still, caressing the hard length shielded only by the fabric of his trousers.
Gilhouley gasped against her, and the sound was like a shot of adrenalin to her system. He wanted her. Rosemary Dodd.
She fumbled with his belt, then the button at his waist. But this time, Gilhouley answered with his own foray, his fingers finding the tiny hooks and eyes of her evening gown, then the button of the half-slip beneath, dispatching them with alarming skill, until they fell to the floor in a whoosh of satin and taffeta and she stood before him in little more than her merry widow, tap pants, and silk stockings.
Rosemary opened her eyes in time to see his rich satisfaction, and felt a jolt of her own pride. Not bad for a forty-year-old broad, she had the wherewithal to think. But only for a moment. Because Gilhouley was already tugging loose the fasteners to her garter, then began working at the busk of her corselet.