by Susan Wiggs
“I’d gotten pretty good at doing hair, so I went looking for a salon of my own, working through a business broker. The place in Lightning Creek was up for sale, so off we went. I thought it would be good for Mama, and I guess it was, but she’s never really worked through her grief.”
She glossed over the details. She had never told anyone the whole situation. How the town had made a laughingstock of her father over the crop-dusting lawsuit brought against him by his own former son-in-law. She’d never revealed her dad’s tragic response to the ridicule and his final desperate plan to keep his wife from going broke. How her mother had changed, curling up like a drying leaf and hiding, having to be tranquilized just to get her into the car. How Twyla had fought nausea and morning sickness during the drive across the state.
“It was a pretty tough year, but Mom and I did all right, all things considered.” She spoke lightly, determined to prove after the tears that she was fit company once again.
As he helped her back onto her horse, she could not guess at the thoughts behind his eyes. They were interesting eyes, a deep velvet brown that reflected outward—sunshine and summer sky—but kept the person hidden within.
No matter how hard her path had been, she knew his had been infinitely harder. Her mother had problems, but at least Twyla had a mother. It was time, she decided, to tuck the past away and move on.
She smiled, pleased with her resolve, then leaned down and stroked the mare’s neck. “I like riding a horse. I never thought I would.”
“Then let’s try something new on the ride back. I’ll show you.” He demonstrated how to get the horse up to a trot, then a canter, using heels and knees and that kissing sound, which, she was ashamed to admit, was a turn-on for her.
She found the ride both terrifying and exhilarating. The motion of the horse created an elemental heartbeat rhythm. She could feel its strength, yet there was also a perception of vulnerability, a sense that the horse was essentially a fearful animal with the instinct to flee. The pounding of hooves over earth reverberated upward, and Twyla was startled to feel it in her very center, and the feeling bordered on being unbearably sensual.
Rob rode beside her, watching, occasionally calling out a word of advice or praise for her technique. When they reached the poplar-lined trail leading to Laughing Water Lodge, Twyla let go, feeling a rush of warm summer wind over her skin and through her hair, and she felt like a kid again, carefree, with no more difficult decision to make than what to have for lunch. She knew the state was only temporary, but she loved the idea that the world was taking care of itself without her monitoring it. The horses sped up when they sensed themselves drawing close to home, so the final stretch was a smooth canter. Almost a gallop, Rob told her, impressed by her performance.
At the large stables, she looked around, still seeking a familiar face and half-afraid she’d find one. Most of the workers were too young to know her or were guests at one of the neighboring lodges.
She followed Rob to the main yard, watched him dismount and emulated him as she had earlier, wishing he was there to hold her as he had done before. When her feet hit the ground with a jolt, so did reality—she had rubber legs from all that riding.
Reaching out, she was disappointed to find that Rob’s arm wasn’t there for her to clutch at. Then she shook her head, half-ashamed of herself. She was starting to want him near her even when she didn’t need him. A dangerous turn of events.
“Here, ma’am, let me help you with that.” A man in a Shurgood Feed cap and plaid shirt took the reins.
She thanked him, then did a double take. “Willard, is that you? Willard Stokes?”
He stepped away and eyed her, pushing back the visor of his cap. “Hey, Twyla.”
She introduced him to Rob. “Willard and I went through school together. It’s good to see you, Willard.”
“Same here.” His grin hardened a little, and his eyes narrowed. “I guess you’re here for the big reunion.”
“That’s right.” She didn’t elaborate. She and Rob had cooked up a story, but she wasn’t ready to test it yet. And she certainly didn’t want to try it out on Willard P. Stokes, who had excelled at rumormongering during their school days.
“Will you be at the Grange Hall tonight?” she asked him.
He looked at her, then at Rob, then back at her again, and a sharp, untrustworthy glee darkened his gaze. Obviously he hadn’t changed much in ten years.
“Wouldn’t miss it, Twyla. I sure as heck wouldn’t miss it. I bet ol’ Beverly wouldn’t, either.”
At the mention of Jake’s second wife, Twyla glimpsed the old Willard in his face. The one who had never been able to resist a scandal.
And despite the beating warmth of day, Twyla shivered.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SHE HAD FORGOTTEN what it was like to get ready for a date. She had forgotten how nerve-racking and how evocative it really was. A long bath in the deep spa tub left her warm and fragrant, almost lethargic, and she slipped on a thick terry robe provided by the lodge. She applied makeup, using plenty of color, and smoothed lotion on her arms, tinged pink from riding in the sun today. Her hands forgot all their years of experience doing hair, and it took at least six tries to get the French twist just right.
Standing in front of the mirror in her room, she untied the robe and studied herself with a critical eye, something she never did at home.
She looked her age. She had the body of a twenty-eight-year-old mother of one. Which was not the end of the world, she reminded herself. Still, it wasn’t quite the same muscular little body that had vaulted into the air at pep rallies, to be caught on one arm by a male cheerleader.
She put on a pair of panty hose priced well into the double-digit range. On their shopping excursion through the Neiman Marcus catalog, Mrs. Spinelli had insisted on the hose, imported from Italy. They were made of pure silk and had a discreet and excruciatingly fashionable diamond pattern.
Once Twyla had them on, she decided they were worth the splurge. The sheer silk had a peculiar strength that held in things that needed holding in and played up shapes that were still shaped right. She pulled on the tiny red slip, the scarlet silk dress and the ruby high-heeled pumps. Picking up the red satin evening bag, she looked in the mirror and panicked.
The woman in the mirror was a stranger. She was chic and dangerous-looking, resembling a walk-on in a James Bond film. She didn’t look anything like Brian’s mom at all. She looked like a…phony.
Of course, that was exactly what she had come here for. To fool people.
She took a deep breath, checked her makeup one last time, and went to find Rob.
He stood waiting on the front porch, and when he turned, the appreciative look on his face made her glad for the couture panty hose.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his face expressionless. “I was waiting for Twyla. Did you happen to see her?”
She burst out laughing. “Amazing what a little makeup and hair spray can do.”
“Amazing. That’s exactly how you look.” He bowed from the waist with mock formality, holding out a single red rosebud he’d plucked from the hedge in front of the lodge.
“You wore the tux,” she said, her skin flushing warm with pleasure. She took the rose and caressed the delicate bud with her fingertips. “The one from the bachelor auction brochure.”
“Think it’s too much?”
“Probably. But who cares? This whole situation is too much. I’ll deal with reality tomorrow.”
“Good plan.” Without warning, his arm came out and curved around her, fingers draping dangerously low on her hips.
Flustered, she stepped back quickly. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t jump when I touch you like that.” A wicked intent glinted in his eyes. “You can’t keep acting like I’m a stranger, or people will know we’re faking it.”
She was speechless, tingling shamefully where he had touched her.
Reaching inside his coat, he took out a box. The sle
nder, oblong shape and size were unmistakable—as was the rush of pleasure Twyla felt as he handed it to her. She had absolutely no idea how long it had been since a man had given her a gift.
She allowed herself to rub her thumb over the smooth, hard velvet of the case. There was nothing quite so enticing as a hinged jewelry box with gold lettering.
She glanced up at Rob. Well, almost nothing. With heavy reluctance, she held it out to him. “I can’t take this.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too…too much. A rose is one thing. Jewelry would move us to another level entirely.”
“Who says?”
“I say. A woman knows these things. A beautician knows them better than anyone.”
“Well.” He flipped open the lid of the box, and she had to force herself not to crane her neck to see. “I say I’d look pretty damned silly wearing this myself, since it matches your dress.”
He lifted the necklace, and in spite of herself, Twyla couldn’t suppress a gasp. The facets of the diamonds and rubies—she prayed they weren’t real—caught sparkles of light from the lowering sun. The necklace was extravagant and beautiful, and for one unguarded moment she wanted it with a fierce purity that frightened her with its intensity.
“Honestly, Rob—”
“Stop talking, Twyla.” With a firm hand he spun her around and looped the necklace around her neck. The coolness of precious metal and stone warmed as soon as it contacted her skin. She felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending reacting to the brush of his fingers at the nape of her neck as he fastened the clasp. When he finished, he turned her around and held her at arm’s length.
“Damn,” he said, gazing at her throat. “I’m good.”
“You are, huh?” Her fingers came up and touched the stones. “You are. And thank you. But I want you to know, when this weekend’s over, you’re taking this back with you.”
“We’ll argue about that some other time.”
He held the car door open for her, smiling as she got in the passenger side. She smiled back, but inside, she was a wreck. Please God, she thought. Please don’t let me like this too much.
Please don’t let me like him too much.
Her gaze tracked him as he went around the front of the car. She forced herself to look down at her feet, clicking the ruby slippers together three times. It’s not real, she told herself. It’s all make-believe. At midnight he’ll turn into a fry cook at McDonald’s. Or his longtime companion will show up. Or he’s got his first wife buried in the backyard.
He got in and started toward the main road. “What?” he asked when she turned to him. “You’re staring at me.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“No. I already told you—”
“Were you and your college roommate close?”
“What—”
“Ever worked in a food service establishment?”
“No. Twyla, what is this about? Why the third degree?”
She flipped down the visor mirror. “Nerves.” The fading daylight glinted off the dazzling necklace. It looked even prettier than it felt against her throat.
“Hey, don’t be nervous. You faced these people every day for twelve years,” he pointed out, annoyingly manlike in his logic. “One more evening won’t kill you.”
She knew there had to be some flaw, somewhere, in his reasoning, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly where.
“It’s about a ten-minute drive to the Grange Hall,” she said. “Maybe we should rehearse our story one more time.”
He looked straight ahead at the road, grinning. “It’s a great story.”
“A lot of fiction is.”
“Okay, so where do we start? With the ‘Hey, Twyla, what’ve you been up to?’ bit?”
* * *
“WHY, TWYLA MCCABE, what on earth have you been up to?”
Rob tried not to laugh when the woman behind the registration table asked the question.
“I’ve been incredibly busy,” Twyla said, hugging the beaming woman across the table. “You look wonderful, Carol. Let’s have a drink later and compare notes.”
Rob watched her with admiration. She was a natural at meeting and greeting, looking people in the eye with an honest smile. He had no idea why she’d been so apprehensive about coming to this.
Completely at ease, she put her hand lightly on his arm. “Carol, this is my…fiancé, Rob Carter.” Her face glowed with such pride and warmth that it would take a polygraph to know it was false.
He greeted Carol and handed her a credit card. “Robert Carter, M.D.,” she said, giving a low whistle.
Twyla’s name tag showed her senior picture from the yearbook. She had changed very little, he observed, yet the changes were profound. Naïveté had given way to a womanly maturity that only enhanced her looks.
“So far so good,” Twyla whispered as they moved into the main hall. “She’s a huge gossip, and she knows everyone.”
“Your hand is ice-cold,” he commented, rubbing her fingers. To her credit, it was the only symptom of nerves. The rest of her—damn, but he liked the color red—the rest of her would make a blind man see again.
And it was funny—her beauty was so extravagant and over-the-top that he never would have pegged her as his type. Normally he was drawn to understated, elegant women who wore neutral colors and didn’t show every emotion they had on their faces.
But nothing about this situation was normal, he reminded himself. He was a hired escort and she was a woman with something to prove.
So why did it feel as if something more were going on?
A good-size crowd had gathered in the hall, a huge, creaky place with a high-timbered ceiling. The decor consisted of paper lanterns, sports memorabilia and a photo booth against a backdrop of pictures from a decade earlier. There was an open bar and buffet tables lining the walls, tables grouped near the bar area and a big dance floor. A bored-looking DJ played ten-year-old tunes from his booth on the stage.
Rob played his part with ease, a bland social smile fixed on his face and his hand resting, with more pleasure than he should be feeling, at the small of Twyla’s back. Moving up through the ranks in the Denver medical world had trained him well for making small talk and acting interested in complete strangers.
They made the rounds, and each time he felt the muscles of her back tense, he gently massaged her there until she relaxed again. People came and went in a blur: the class clown who had become a pharmacist. The disillusioned three-time divorcée. The weary-looking retired teachers. The gay guy and his partner. The couples who seemed genuinely, enviably happy. Photos of kids, homes, pets and farm equipment changed hands to a chorus of admiring oohs and aahs.
Everyone wore a tag bearing their yearbook picture and a name in bold letters, with maiden names in parentheses. Spouses and dates had a smaller version of the yearbook picture, so people would know who they were with.
Rob observed the proceedings with more interest than he thought he’d feel. He had never been to a class reunion before, filing all the invitations to Lightning Creek in the trash. Now he wondered if he should have attended his tenth, just to check in.
These were people who were building their lives. A reunion was a chance for them to compare notes, to check their progress against those who had started out at the same spot. The measuring was as ruthless as Twyla had warned him it would be, and he was glad she had brought him along for support.
“So where are you from?” asked a short, plump woman with kind eyes and a sizable diamond ring. Her name tag read Agnes (Schwed) Early.
“Denver.”
“That’s nice. I’m so glad for Twyla,” Agnes continued. “Everybody wondered—” She let her voice trail off and took a sip of her punch.
Twyla remained deep in conversation with a guy who couldn’t keep his eyes off her cleavage.
“Everybody wondered what?” he asked.
“Well, you know. After the way things turned out with her marriage and her fathe
r practically on the same day…” She took another nervous sip. “I’m just glad she learned to trust a man again.”
The DJ put on an old dance tune and Agnes smiled apologetically. “If you’ll excuse me, I should go bust a move with my better half.”
He was completely intrigued by the hint of Twyla’s past. She had told him a lot of things, but she hadn’t told him everything.
The music switched to a trendy blues tune. Rob took Twyla’s hand. “Sweetheart,” he said to her, playing his role of fiancé with ease, “let’s dance.”
Without apology to the cleavage-gawker, he took her by the hand and led her out to the dance floor. The slow tune enveloped them, and it was no effort to hug her close, to bend and inhale the fragrance of her neck. He had never met a woman so redolent of alluring female scent as Twyla McCabe. She wore perfume, no doubt, but what he smelled was the mysterious alchemy of that scent mingled with her body.
“How’s it going?” he asked, speaking so close to her that when she inadvertently moved her head, his lips grazed her ear. She shivered, and he could feel her quick intake of breath. An answering tightness seized him.
“Sorry.” She spoke directly into his ear, as well. “I forgot what you just said.”
He shook with laughter and hugged her closer still. He laughed a lot with Twyla. More than he did with—
He choked off the thought. “I was asking you how it’s going.”
“Oh! Great,” she said. “Better than great. This turned out to be a lot easier than I thought it would be.”
“You mean you might actually be having a good time?”
She put a hand against his chest and leaned back to look at him. The ruby necklace sparkled in the candlelight. “I am,” she said with a smile that outshone the rubies. “I am.”
The smile and her words hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. He was in trouble. He was in big trouble. He wanted Twyla. Bad.