Mating Game

by Maynard, Janice

  His scowl was so unusual, it took her off guard. “Surely you don’t really intend to marry some bozo in the next thirty days. Be reasonable, Nola. If it’s the money, hell . . . I’ve got enough for both of us. Forget Rubeville, Georgia, and stay here with me.”

  “It’s Resnick,” she said stiffly, beginning to resent his obvious disdain for her birthplace. “And it’s not as if I’m being exiled to the ends of the earth. I grew up there. It’s a pretty wonderful town. Peaceful, serene . . .”

  He curled his lip, revealing perfect white teeth. “Translation, backward and boring as hell.”

  It was her turn to scowl. “Now you’re being insular and prejudiced. Not everyone loves the big city, Marc.”

  He laughed softly, with little humor. “You do, my dear. And don’t try to deny it. You won’t last a week without your designer coffees and your trendy boutiques. It might as well be a death sentence.”

  His melodrama made her laugh despite the tenor of the conversation. And her chuckles finally wiped the ill humor from his face. She took his hand and traced the bones on the back of it. “I’m not quite as high-maintenance as you are, Marc, no offense.” It was important to him to have the best of whatever he purchased.

  He smirked, leaning back in his six-hundred-dollar jeans and his Italian-tailored long-sleeved shirt. “None taken. But I still think this is a mistake. How much is the damn inheritance? I’ll write you a check and never miss it.”

  His arrogance was priceless. She shook her head with a rueful grin. “It’s more than the money. The house and land have been in my family for generations. I can’t watch it be gobbled up by strangers.”

  He frowned again. “Surely you aren’t considering staying there indefinitely.”

  She stood up and paced the broad expanse of deep-pile blue carpet, her toes curling into the ocean of soft fibers. Her stomach clenched as Marc’s questions hit on every one of her own misgivings. Find a husband in thirty days? Was she crazy?

  She cleared her throat. “I’m not sure what I’ll end up doing. But if at all possible, I do intend to find a husband. And I’ll stay for six months. After that . . . well, we’ll see.”

  He cocked his head, his eyes narrowed. “You could marry me. I’m not repulsive, and you know I’m not after your pitiful inheritance.”

  His blasé offer rattled her. She licked her lips. “I thought men like you avoided matrimony at all costs.”

  He surveyed her intently, studying her breasts beneath her thin blouse. She knew her nipples were standing at attention, because the room was cold, or at least colder than she liked to keep her apartment. She crossed her arms over her chest and tried not to fidget.

  Finally, he answered her challenge. “I could make an exception for you, Nola.” His expression was unreadable, and she couldn’t decide if he was being sincere, or if this was simply another one of his grand gestures. Would he backpedal hastily if she seemed interested?

  When she remained mute, he elaborated. “I’ve never liked clinging women, and luckily, you don’t seem like the needy type. I’m sure you would never bore me. We could come to some sort of arrangement. . . .”

  The light dawned. “You mean one where I turn a blind eye while you cat around, because you saved my family property?”

  He didn’t even have the grace to look abashed. His eyes twinkled once again. “There is such a thing as a win-win situation. I’d even let you have a baby if you wanted one.”

  She shook her head, not sure whether she was flattered or offended. “Sorry, Marc. We come from two different worlds. And as great as the sex has been, I expect fidelity from a spouse. I don’t think you and I would work long-term. You must see that, surely. And besides, it’s not as if you don’t have your pick of bed partners. Though I do appreciate the offer,” she added hastily.

  Something flashed in his eyes. For a moment she thought he was genuinely upset by her refusal to consider his offhand proposal. But then his trademark grin returned, and she breathed a sigh of relief. He was simply blowing smoke. Tomorrow morning he’d be relieved that she hadn’t taken him up on his impulsive words.

  Marc held out his hand. “Well, if you’re determined to marry some hillbilly with straw between his teeth and a John Deere tractor in the garage instead of a Maserati, I don’t suppose I can talk you out of it.”

  She rejoined him on the sofa, allowing him to pull her into a close embrace. “I think he keeps it in the barn,” she teased. “And if you ever come to visit me, we’ll have to work on your political correctness.”

  He lowered his head, his mouth finding hers and toying with her parted lips. “I don’t give a shit about being PC. And I sure as hell can’t see a woman as beautiful and accomplished as you are being tied to some hick with bad grammar and a bird dog.”

  She opened her mouth to reprimand him, but when he thrust his tongue down her throat, she lost the thread of the conversation. He had her naked in less time than it took Paris Hilton to spend a day’s allowance.

  She was wallowing in the pleasure of his talented hands on her body when he scooped her up unexpectedly and carried her into his dining room. The debris from their dinner was still congealed on his ultraexpensive English bone china. He didn’t have a clue about patterns and brands, but he demanded the best. Of everything.

  At first she thought he meant to screw her on the polished teak of his table. The idea held a certain appeal. But instead, he released her momentarily and used his hip to shove the sturdy piece of furniture to the far wall of the room.

  Then he turned back to where she hovered in the doorway. “Come here, Nola.”

  Three words were all it took for the bottom to fall out of her stomach and for all of her female parts to start doing the mambo. She walked forward slowly, searingly conscious that she was the only one sans clothing.

  He guided her to the center of the room, his eyes watchful, the line of his mouth a sensuous twist. “Lift your arms.”

  She obeyed slowly, realizing only at the last second that he intended to secure her wrists to the priceless crystal chandelier. She backed up in instinctive protest. “No way, Marc. I might break it.”

  He caressed her cheek. “Then you’ll have to be very still, won’t you, my love.”

  The endearment floated harmlessly over her head. She paid it no mind at all. It was simply an expression, and besides . . . she was too busy watching Marc tie her with sturdy cords—who knew from where—to the fragile light source over her head.

  When he had her positioned exactly as he wanted her, he ran a careless finger from her nose to her chin, down her throat, and across each of her breasts. Gooseflesh broke out over every inch of her skin. Her nipples tightened.

  He smiled faintly. “You are amazingly responsive, Nola. I can’t get enough of you. Sometimes I’m convinced I could make you come simply by touching your tits.”

  She licked her lips. “I think that’s a demeaning word for a woman’s breasts.”

  He nodded slowly. “Whatever you say, my love.” He reached for one of the chairs and positioned it in front of her. “My apologies.” As he seated himself, his knees touching hers, he produced a single feather from his back pocket. “Look what I found in the kitchen. The maid must have dropped it from her feather duster.”

  Nola moved restlessly, fairly certain that his housekeeper wouldn’t have been so careless. “Isn’t it dirty?” She was stalling.

  He examined it carefully and blew softly on the small plume. “Not at all.”

  “Ah.” It was the only one of a few coherent syllables she would produce for the next half hour.

  He tortured her. There was no other way to describe it. That damn feather trespassed on nerve endings that she had never even taken out for a ride. She quivered. He grinned. She writhed. He chuckled. She cursed him, and he simply moved the feather to another body part.

  Once, when the delightful torment became too much, she groaned and jerked her arms, desperately trying to free herself. The chandelier rotated wil
dly and a single prism crashed to the floor and shattered in half a dozen pieces.

  Nola froze in shock, but Marc barely glanced at the mess. Instead, he grinned devilishly and headed for the one area on her body he had avoided until now. The heart of her pleasure. The tiny knot of nerves that controlled her release.

  Nola squirmed backward. “No. Please, Marc. Anywhere but there. I can’t stand it.” She was sweating and panting and so near an orgasm, the air around her quivered with heat.

  Her protests fell on deaf ears. But Marc took his sweet, easy time getting to the prize. He brushed her labia with the soft end of the feather, gathering moisture along the way. And finally, he reversed the instrument of her destruction and used the sharp tip to rake gently over her clitoris. It was like being struck by lightning.

  The direct stimulation sent her over the edge. Her vision exploded in a crazy cartwheel of lights, and she whimpered helplessly in the viselike grip of a climax that never wanted to end.

  She was limp and exhausted when he unfastened her and scooped her into his arms. In some dim corner of her brain she realized he was still dressed. His erection bulged beneath the placket of his zipper.

  Weak and spent, she looped one arm around his strong neck. “Can I ask you something?” she whispered, her throat dry and her mouth cottony with thirst.

  He kissed her nose. “You’ll be wanting some water, I suppose.”

  She sighed. “Well, that, too. But I was wondering if you’d be willing to try something we haven’t done before.”

  He carried her to the kitchen and set her on the granite countertop while he rummaged in the cabinet for a glass. When he had filled it with filtered water, he handed it to her and watched with interest as she drained it in two long gulps. She handed it back to him and leaned on her hands. The pre-Marc Nola would have been embarrassed by her nudity, especially in light of the fact that her lover was fully dressed.

  But Marc had cured her of such bourgeois modesty, as he called it. He’d convinced her to be proud of her body. Through his tutelage, she had been able to overcome her initial squeamishness and had learned to go with the flow. So although she was aware of her dishabille, she wasn’t unduly concerned. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she was still in the grip of a powerful afterglow from Marc’s incredible manipulation of her body.

  His smug, male appreciation of her provocative pose amused her, and she couldn’t resist answering his grin with one of her own. “Like what you see, Overmyer?” She deliberately stuck out her modestly endowed chest and lifted one knee to prop her heel on the counter.

  His cheekbones were streaked with color and his eyes glittered with excitement. But his outward demeanor remained calm. “You know I think you’re a knockout, Nola. You have this intrinsic sexuality I’m not sure you’re even aware of. You radiate intense femininity.”

  His unusual seriousness surprised her. She turned her head and stared out the window, suddenly embarrassed. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  He stepped closer, his smile completely gone. “God, I want you,” he said hoarsely.

  She tried to smile and failed. A rush of affection for this complicated man, her lover, her erotic tutor, overwhelmed her. “You’ve got me,” she said softly, her throat tight.

  He lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist. She could feel him trembling, and that recognition humbled her.

  As they walked out of the kitchen, he kissed her damp temple. “So tell me, Nola. What is this never-before-experienced thing you want us to try?”

  She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling sated and happy and sad at the same time. “I’d love it if you would screw me missionary style in your bed.”

  He choked out a sharp burst of laughter. “You’ve got it, babe. Anything you want, Nola. Anything you want.”

  Three

  Resnick, Georgia, was well off the beaten path. The population had dwindled steadily since the 1950s, so much so that the nearest Wal-Mart was thirty minutes away in the next town. Resnick boasted a single bank, two fast-food establishments, a few shops along a scraggly main thoroughfare, and plenty of boarded-up businesses.

  But for Nola, the red Georgia clay, the multitudinous pine trees, and the flat, fertile fields enlivened by the occasional rolling hill were home.

  She arrived in Resnick on a bright, sunny day that the calendar tracked as May 4. According to the lawyer, the thirty-day ultimatum began ticking the moment Nola officially received news of her grandmother’s death. Unfortunately, that meant ten of those precious twenty-four-hour spans were already kaput. It had taken much longer than anticipated for Nola to tie up loose ends in Chicago, and, consequently, she had arrived here in her hometown stressed, exhausted, and feeling sorry for herself.

  She didn’t own a car. In Chicago it wasn’t really necessary, and it had been an expense she thought she could do without. Her grandmother’s ancient, two-tone Buick no doubt still sat in the garage, but with no way of knowing its condition, Nola had rented a car at the Atlanta airport.

  She stopped for supplies at the old white frame grocery store on the corner of Main and Poplar. Even now, it had a vintage Coke cooler on the front porch, a screen door that allowed the spring breeze to flow through its crowded aisles, and an inventory that included everything from Pop-Tarts to lye soap.

  All Nola wanted was a few essential items to get her through the next couple of days. The interior was much as she remembered it from her childhood, dim and aromatic and cool, at least on this spring morning. She gathered what she needed and approached the narrow wooden checkout counter.

  The cashier, a slender blonde, looked familiar. Her eyes sharpened when she saw Nola. “Well, hey, stranger. I hadn’t heard you were back in town. Sorry about your grandma,” she said gruffly.

  Nola hadn’t seen Jackie in several years, but they had gone to high school together. “Thank you.” After an awkward pause, she said, “I didn’t know you were working here now.”

  Jackie nodded. “My husband got laid off at the plant over in Stinson right after Christmas. I’m trying to pick up some extra cash.” She started ringing up Nola’s purchases. The carton of orange juice thudded into a bag. “Whatcha gonna do with the house?”

  No topic in a small town was sacred. Nola smiled. “I’m keeping it.”

  “Thought you lived in Chicago.”

  “I do, but Resnick will always be home.” It wasn’t until Nola said the words out loud that she realized how deeply excited she was to be back. And although she mourned her grandmother’s passing, the knowledge that she, Nola, now had the autonomy to deal with the wonderful old house in her own way was exhilarating.

  Jackie was not to be rushed. “Your old boyfriend’s still available.”

  Nola smothered a grin. “Billy Inman?”

  Jackie nodded her head. “Well, of course. How many did you have?”

  Only one in Resnick. And he was the love of my life.

  Nola glanced at her watch, but the deliberate gesture had no effect at all on Jackie’s speed. “Just the one. But that was a long time ago.”

  “Word on the street is that he never got over you dumping him.”

  Nola gaped. “Billy broke it off, not me.” Gossip was seldom accurate, and it stung to be painted as the villain of the piece.

  Jackie didn’t look convinced, but she moved on. “He’s not married. His mama told me he’s one of those workaholics. She’s desperate for some grandkids, but ever since he divorced several years back, he ain’t hooked up with anyone serious.”

  “Billy and I drifted apart a long time ago.”

  “Prob’ly ’cause you moved away. But you’re back . . . right? No reason to keep the house if you don’t plan to live in it.”

  The woman had a point. Nola picked up the last can of soup and stuffed it in the bag. “It’s been nice talking to you, Jackie. But I’d better go.”

  Jackie nodded. “I know you’ve got lots to do. Welcome home, Nola. We’re glad to have you back.”

 
; In her moss green Sentra, Nola traversed the familiar half-mile driveway flanked by live oaks all the way to the crescent-shaped turnaround. She shut off the engine and looked through the windshield at the sprawling three-story house where she had spent the bulk of her formative years. It was hard to imagine walking through that large mahogany front door and not finding her grandmother waiting impatiently. Even at Christmas, when the old lady’s mind had wandered more than it had stayed on target, the wonderful house had welcomed Nola.

  Her memories of running up and down its hallways and stair-cases as a child were warm and happy. Losing her parents had been painful and traumatic, but her grandmother had been a stalwart force, a bulwark of security to a lost and hurting child, even though her stern, dictatorial nature had been hard to take at first. It was only later, when puberty hit, that Nola and her grandmother began butting heads in earnest.

  Everything had been a battle . . . when Nola could date, how much makeup she should wear, what courses she would take in high school, which boys were unsuitable . . . the list went on and on. And the two Grainger females, equally stubborn, fussed and argued and yelled until the day Nola went away to college, fortunately three hours away.

  After that, over time, her visits home had steadily decreased. Nola loved the town and the house and her grandmother, but it was easier to get a summer job during college and stay away than it was to go back and subject herself to a string of never-ending criticism. So she established her independence, and after graduation she moved to Chicago, much to her grandmother’s chagrin. Nola loved the big, brash city, and after a few years had passed, she felt almost like a native.

  Of course, as soon as she opened her mouth her accent gave her away. But still . . . Chicago embraced her and vice versa.

  As Nola stepped out of the car, she felt a moment’s panic at the realization that she might not be able to return to the Windy City. But she quashed the thought and stared at the facade of what had once been a stately Southern plantation home. She reached into her carry-on bag in the front seat for her camera and took a series of shots. It was second nature to record such moments, and through the eye of the lens, she could usually find a measure of objectivity.