“Oh?” From the corner of her eye, she saw his brow lift. “Am I to take it you aren’t entirely happy living in Dullsville?”
“It’s not the town. It’s me. I just feel so … restless! Like my whole life is passing me by.”
“Then why have you stayed?”
“You know why.” At his confused look, she jogged his memory. “Dad had a heart attack right after my mother died. He needed me to take care of him.”
“Laura…” His laugh sounded more surprised than amused. “Your mother died when you were, what, seven? Surely your father’s over it by now.”
Some things people don’t ever get over. She wished she could say the words aloud, but the truth about her mother’s death, and all the sordid details leading up to it, were things neither she nor her father shared with anyone. As a result, people had the misconception that she’d led some idyllic life with storybook parents. But under the surface, she suspected her home life wasn’t much happier than what Brent had endured.
Was that why she’d always felt drawn to him?
She’d often wanted to talk to him about her parents, but habit and loyalty made her tamp down the impulse even now. “It wasn’t just my father’s heart attack that made me stay. There were … other considerations.”
“Like what?” He gave her an incredulous look, ready to dispute anything she said.
“Like the fact that my father’s office manager quit without notice the summer after I graduated high school. He needed someone to help out until he could replace her.”
“Let me guess.” Brent held up his hand. “He never found someone to put up with him long enough to fill the position, right?”
“Wrong,” she said. “I discovered I liked managing a doctor’s office. And I happen to be very good at it. Or at least I was.” She heard the disgruntled note that crept into her voice and frowned. Whining was selfish, and she had too much to be grateful for in life to waste time crying over the things she didn’t have.
“Was?” Brent scowled. “Aren’t you working anymore?”
She shrugged. “Dad sold his practice.”
“So? Just because he retired doesn’t mean you had to quit working.”
She glanced out the window to watch the stately oaks that lined the backcountry road. One after another, they slipped by … as uneventful as her days. She’d tried to tell herself over the past months that charity work was enough. She didn’t need money. So why did she feel this compelling need to do something with her life? Why couldn’t she be content as Dr. Morgan’s coddled daughter?
“He made you quit,” Brent guessed. “Didn’t he?”
“He didn’t make me do anything. We both felt the incoming doctor deserved the right to hire his own staff rather than be saddled with Dad’s old one.”
“Yeah, right.”
She crossed her arms and refused to admit she agreed with him. There’d been no reason for her to quit when her father retired, but giving in to his wishes had been easier than living with his quiet condemnation. That, and she hadn’t realized how useless she’d feel without a job. “I’m sorry.” Brent sighed. “I didn’t mean to get you down. I should know better than to discuss your father.”
“I’m not down,” she insisted. At his dubious look, she decided he was right. Her father was a topic that had always thrown up barriers between them. What they needed to do was lighten the mood. “Although you’re right about one thing.” She crossed her legs and leaned toward him, in an effort to look playfully seductive. “My father is the last thing we should be discussing—on our first hot date.”
“Hot date?” For one second, he looked as if he’d swallowed his tongue.
Surprised by his discomfort, she carried the teasing further in her best Southern Belle accent. “What else would you call it, when a girl’s out with a boy who makes her heart go all aflutter?”
An odd frown passed over his features as his gaze fell to the region of her heart. Then his eyes slipped lower, and the crease between his brows deepened. She glanced down to find her skirt had ridden up to show the top of her stockings.
Mortified, she tugged at the hem and sat up straighter. Although, she assured herself, she had no reason to be embarrassed about the stockings. No reason at all. Lots of women wore stockings instead of hose. Especially when the temperature soared into the nineties and beyond.
Chancing a sideways glance, she watched Brent fiddle with the air-conditioning vents. She relaxed a little, relieved to know the sudden heat in her cheeks came from lack of air conditioning. “Speaking of hot,” she said “it’s sure is warm tonight. For April, I mean.”
His hand went back to the steering wheel as he stared straight ahead. “Yeah. Hot.”
She puzzled over his sudden withdrawal. He had no reason to be embarrassed. Unless her wearing stockings bothered him. But that was ludicrous. Surely he didn’t think her choice of underwear had anything to do with him.
They turned off the two-lane county road onto a four-lane divided drive bordered by lush green grass and blooming redbud trees. Pillars of red granite and geysers of water shot into the air, marking the entrance to the Riverwood Golf Course and Country Club.
—
Brent had thought he’d be able to relax once they reached the club. After all, he’d always been comfortable with Laura, they were away from Beason’s Ferry, and the country club was exactly the type of atmosphere he’d grown accustomed to in recent years. Maitre d’s, wine stewards, starched linens, and fine cuisine should have distracted him from thoughts of Laura’s legs.
Or so he’d thought.
He couldn’t quit thinking about the long, slender legs he’d watched skip gracefully down the stairs. It was the stockings that did it. Those damned stockings.
He shifted in his chair and glanced about, looking for the waiter. The soup and salad courses had already been served and removed. Their main course should have been out by now.
“So tell me about Denver,” Laura said, leaning forward to cradle her chin on her laced fingers. “Was it any better than Albuquerque?”
“What?” He turned back to her, frowning as he noticed how the soft lighting enhanced her skin. The faint strains of Mozart played in the background. Through the wall of glass beside them, the evening sun lent a golden glow to her hair.
“ Denver?” she prompted. Without the thick glasses of her youth, her eyes sparkled like blue diamonds.
“Yes, of course. Denver.” He frowned as he tried to remember where they were in their conversation. He’d been filling her in on his years as a reporter between college and when he landed the plum job as anchor in Houston. “Believe it or not, Denver was worse…”
He told the story by rote, the way he’d told it a hundred times—embellishing the facts, glossing over the boring parts, and zeroing in on the offbeat wackiness that made the world of broadcast news what it was: exhilarating, challenging, his life’s blood.
“You sound like you miss working in the field.” Her head tipped, and a gentle smile curved her lips. All that rapt attention made him uncomfortable.
He had no idea why. And he didn’t want to know. The reason was all jumbled up with his unexpected attraction to her, and the totally unwelcome thought that her attraction to him was not merely teasing. And why that made him nervous, he really did not want to know.
Some emotions, he’d learned, were like the monster that had lived in his closet when he was a kid. A wise man, like a smart kid, instinctively knew which closet doors to leave firmly shut at all times.
The waiter arrived with their steaks and a bottle of merlot. Brent concentrated on tasting the wine, then tried to focus on his meal. “I suppose I do miss reporting.”
“Then why’d you give it up?” she asked, taking up her knife and fork.
“Are you kidding?” He laughed. “They offered me a prime-time anchor position in a major market. Nobody turns down a career rung like that.”
“Yes, but if you enjoyed reporting more than anchoring�
�”
“Laura.” He shook his head. “Do you have any idea how much more money an anchor makes than a reporter?”
She studied him a moment. “What if they paid the same?”
“I’d go back to reporting in a heartbeat. Not,” he added quickly, “that I don’t like anchoring. It has its challenges—the pace is grueling the hours suck, and I still get to fight with my producer over lead stories and time allotment.”
“What more could a man ask for?” she summed up with a smile.
She had the most incredible smile, sweet yet sexy, pure yet bold. For a heartbeat, he lost his concentration. Then lifting his wineglass, he saluted her understanding. “Exactly.”
“So,” she straightened, “tell me about Houston.”
After taking a healthy sip of merlot, he launched into a few stories about KSET, thinking sooner or later he’d land on a topic that would get his mind off Laura’s legs and those flesh-colored, silk stockings. At least she wasn’t wearing black stockings. Or white. White would definitely be worse. White stockings conjured images of rumpled sheets, lacy lingerie, and a long strand of pearls against satin-smooth skin.
He shifted his weight to accommodate his growing arousal. This was ridiculous. Here he sat in a formal restaurant, surrounded by people—all of whom watched him with avid curiosity—while he mentally stripped Laura Beth Morgan down to her garter belt and stockings.
“Is something wrong?” Laura leaned forward and placed her hand on his.
His whole body stiffened. Staring at her slender fingers, with their neatly trimmed nails against his hard, tanned fist, sent panic shooting through him. He eased his hand away from hers and cut off a bite of steak. “No, of course not.”
Laura sat back, frowning as she studied him. He was lying, and she knew it. Something was definitely wrong. Even while he’d told his entertaining tales of broadcast journalism, she’d sensed an undercurrent of tension. She wondered again what her father had said to him. Or was it simply being back in Beason’s Ferry that was wearing on his nerves?
Returning to his hometown might have been harder on him than even she had imagined. The performance at the opera house would have embarrassed anyone. She’d certainly been embarrassed by it. And now, since arriving at the restaurant, people from town kept staring at him like he was some oddity. Several people had even come over to ask him for his autograph. She’d laughed the first time it happened, thinking how silly it was. These people had known Brent all his life, and now they were asking for his autograph?
The fifth time had not been so funny, and now, to her disbelief, she saw Karl Adderson heading toward their table with a cocktail napkin and pen.
“Why, Brent, is that you?” Karl asked as if he’d just been walking by and happened to notice Brent. “You probably don’t remember me—”
“Of course I do, Mr. Adderson.” Brent rose to shake hands and accept a slap on the back.
Irritated by the interruption, Laura glanced away, toward the wall of glass beside their table. Beyond it she could see the tee box for the first green. Imported African deer grazed along the fairway that cut though the woods.
Superimposed on the tranquil scene was Brent’s reflection as he spoke to the owner of Adderson’s Grocery. Brent had worked for the man three summers in a row. Mr. Adderson kept Brent’s hand clasped in his own while he relayed stories about Brent, as if he were speaking to a total stranger about an old friend. All the while, Brent’s smile remained strained but in place. What had happened to the quiet, brooding boy she’d known so long ago? The one who kept everyone at a distance with his dark scowls?
Did the Brent she’d known years ago still exist beneath the polished new facade? Or had he simply exchanged one shield for another? The thought upset her, but for reasons she feared were more selfish than empathetic, for she very much suspected this new shield was designed to keep her out as well.
Mr. Adderson finally left, and Brent resumed his seat. “I wonder how many more of those ‘I knew you when’ conversations we’ll have to put up with tonight?”
“It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?” she observed.
“What?”
“People’s adoration.”
“Oh, that.” He tried to laugh it off. When she didn’t buy it, he sighed in defeat. “Yeah, if you want to know the truth, it makes me very uncomfortable.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It just feels weird.” He looked as if he would leave it at that but surprised her by taking on an urgent tone. “Have you ever felt like … like nobody really sees you? Like their eyes are focused about an inch in front of you, not on you?”
She stared at him, amazed that he’d so accurately described how she felt at times, as if people saw only what she was on the surface, Dr. Morgan’s dutiful daughter, the conscientious citizen, the hard little worker. None of them seemed able to look into her eyes and see that she had sorrows locked deep in her heart and ambitions beyond Beason’s Ferry. She was a woman, with needs and flaws and unfulfilled dreams. But she also feared that someday someone would see all the way inside her—and reject the person she really was. “Yes,” she said quietly, “I know exactly how it feels.”
Before he could respond, the waiter arrived with their desserts. Brent waited until they were alone, then spoke in a voice that held a hint of self-mockery. “When I came back here, I guess I wanted to show all the people who ever looked down on me what a big shot I’d become.”
“If you mean you wanted to impress the people in your hometown, you have.”
“Only with what I am now, not with how far I had to come to get here. It should be enough, though, don’t you think?” His eyes met hers. “I should be happy they only see Brent Michaels, News Anchor, not the kid who used to mow their lawns and deliver their groceries and hustle pool at Snake’s Pool Palace.”
“So why isn’t it enough?”
“Who knows?” He shrugged. “And once this weekend is over, I’ll be back in Houston, so what does it matter?”
She frowned at his feigned acceptance of something that obviously bothered him, but chose to shift the topic slightly. “Did you really hustle pool at Snake’s?”
He chuckled at her intrigued expression. “How do you think I made money after I quit mowing lawns?”
Her eyes widened. “But you were only sixteen when you quit mowing lawns. I thought you had to be twenty-one to get into Snake’s.”
“Oh, God, Laura.” He shook his head, laughing. “You really are an innocent, aren’t you? Even after all these years.” He smiled, as if his words were a compliment, but she felt downright insulted.
Why does everybody in the world live interesting lives but me? She brooded over the question as she ate her dessert. When it was gone, the waiter came to whisk away their plates.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” the waiter asked.
“Nothing for me,” Brent answered. “Laura?”
She shook her head.
“Well, then.” Brent rose to pull out her chair. “Are you ready for the ballroom?”
She nodded, still lost in thought. Since the meal had been donated by the country club, they didn’t have to wait for a bill, although Brent left a generous tip on the table.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he said as they made their way across the dining room.
“Hmm?” She started slightly. “Oh, sorry.”
“You aren’t mad about something, are you?”
“Mad?” She frowned. “No, of course not.”
He looked less than convinced as he led her to the foyer between the restaurant and the ballroom. A crowd stood at the doorway, waiting to get in. From inside, she heard the band swing into an old Glenn Miller tune.
“I knew it,” Brent muttered close to her ear. “ Lawrence Welk.”
Looking at the crowd inside the ballroom, her heart sank. The last thing she wanted was to go into a room full of people who were craning their heads and gathering cocktail napkins
for Brent’s autograph. The line moved ahead, leaving her and Brent standing alone in the doorway.
“Well,” he took a deep breath, “you ready?”
“No.” The word popped out of her mouth of its own accord. “Let’s not go in there.”
“You want to go home?” He frowned at her.
“I don’t know. I just…”
“What?” He sounded leery—and perhaps a little hurt. Did he think she wanted to get away from him? Looking in his eyes, she realized he thought exactly that.
Somehow this evening, she’d crossed over the line from being his ally to being one of “them”—the people who wanted a piece of Brent Michaels but had never taken the time to know Brent Zartlich.
With a stab of guilt, she realized maybe she was no different from the rest of the town. She hadn’t taken the time to truly get to know him beyond a surface friendship, a passing camaraderie between two misfits. Perhaps the fear of exposing her own flaws had held her back.
More than anything, though, she wanted to know Brent—the real Brent.
“Take me to Snake’s Pool Palace,” she said.
“Excuse me?” He stared in disbelief.
“You heard me.” A slow smile stole across her lips. “I want you to take me to Snake’s.”
Chapter 6
“Wait Stop.” Brent came to a halt the minute they stepped out the front doors of the country club into the motor court. “I can’t take you to Snake’s.”
“Why not?” Laura grinned up at him, overflowing with jaunty enthusiasm.
“Because…” He stared at her face, thinking that for an intelligent woman, she could be really dense at times. “Do you have any idea what that place is like?”
“No. Which is why I want to go.” Her expression said she’d never done anything like this and almost couldn’t believe she was doing it now.
“Okay, look, if you want to shoot some pool or do some country-western dancing, why don’t we drive over to the VFW Hall?”
“I don’t want to go to the VFW Hall,” she said slowly. “I want to go to Snake’s Pool Palace.”
“Laura, your father will murder me if I take you to a place like that.”
Drive Me Wild Page 5