The Dirty Girls Book Club

by Savanna Fox

  Georgia smiled at that. Marielle was gorgeous, vivacious, and fun. Her motto was to enjoy life. She sampled drinks, jobs, and men with abandon.

  Marielle’s e-mail ended with:

  Lily, George, what do you think?

  Fantasy or reality? A stranger who seduced the prim Lady Emma and awakened her sexuality. On Monday night, Georgia would have agreed with Kim that it wasn’t believable. Yet she was living proof that it could happen, even when the man was far less suave than Le Comte de Vergennes.

  Lily had chimed in with a brief message:

  Haven’t bought the book yet, but I will. That’s what the club’s about. We have to read everything, even if it’s not something we’d choose ourselves.

  Marielle responded:

  Yeah, you gotta give it a try. Lady Emma tried something different, and hey, she liked it a lot! George, you out there? Have you started the book yet?

  Slowly, she typed:

  Yes, and I’ve read the scene you’re talking about. It did seem out of character for Lady Emma, but I bought into it. Why do you think she did it, though?

  If she better understood Emma’s motivation, maybe she’d be clearer on her own.

  She didn’t expect an immediate response, but an e-mail from Marielle popped in:

  For me, good old chemistry would be enough. But for Emma, I think it’s more than that. She’d never been treated that way before. Never been appreciated for being a beautiful, sexy, desirable woman. And also, she’d never had an orgasm, never really even been turned on. How could she resist?

  How indeed?

  A double knock sounded at the door. Kit-Kat, who was shy around strangers, took off in a tortoiseshell blur. Georgia typed quickly:

  Have to go. Business meeting.

  Before she could rise to answer the door, it opened and Woody invaded her peaceful living room. His jeans and jersey were streaked with dirt, his skin was glossed with sweat, there was a dark smudge across one cheek, and his face wore a satisfied grin. “All done. Purring sweet as any kitten.”

  “Thank you.” She put her laptop on the coffee table, feeling both gratitude and resentment. She had vowed to never be like her mother, to never need a man. But of course she did need a car mechanic, so perhaps it shouldn’t be an issue that the man was someone she knew, not an anonymous guy in the back of the repair shop.

  Of course, Woody wasn’t just someone she knew; he was the man who’d given her orgasms. Who had, in his own un-suave fashion, made her feel sexy and desirable—at least until he’d made it crystal clear he was sorry they’d had sex.

  He waved his hands, smeared with black grease, in front of her face. “Need to wash up.”

  Definitely un-suave. She wrinkled her nose. “Use the kitchen. I suppose you opened the door with one of those?”

  A brow went up. “Nah, with my tongue.”

  She refused, absolutely refused, to think of that tongue tangling with hers. “Don’t be any more disgusting than you need to be.” She followed him into the kitchen. While he scrubbed busily, she took household cleaner and a roll of paper towels to the front door.

  Returning, she handed him paper towels to dry his hands on. “You have a smudge on your cheek.”

  He reached up and she said, “No, the other cheek.”

  When he missed it again, she said, “Stop; I’ll do it.” She wet a paper towel and stretched up.

  Stupid move. He was so tall compared to Anthony, and his raw masculinity was unsettling. Especially when it was raw masculinity she’d been up close and personal with, in that moment of temporary insanity. No wonder her heart was thudding like it wanted to burst out of her chest. Marielle had mentioned chemistry. Was this what it felt like?

  When she inhaled, his scent was raw and masculine too. There was a tang of something like pine or cedar, and the distinct odor of male sweat. Not bad, just not something she was used to. The most exertion Anthony’d ever engaged in was walking and lovemaking, and she couldn’t remember ever seeing him sweat.

  Oh yes! She smiled. Right before he had to defend his master’s thesis.

  “What’s so funny?” Woody asked.

  Startled, she gazed into those mesmerizing blue eyes, far too close to her own. “Nothing.” She stepped back. “We need to get back to our communication lessons.” She eyed his grubby clothing dubiously. “I’d suggest the living room because it’s more comfortable, but your clothes might stain the upholstery.”

  He glanced down, apparently surprised to find dirt all over himself. “I’ve got clean clothes in the car.”

  “Oh.” It was a sensible, considerate suggestion. Why should it make her uneasy? Yes, the last time he’d taken his clothes off, the consequences had been … Her brain sought for the right word. Disastrous? Amazing? But neither of them was going to go insane again. They both regretted yesterday. “Thank you, Woody. That’s good of you.”

  “Shower’d feel good anyway.” He was out the door again.

  She gaped after him. A shower? She hadn’t offered a shower.

  A few minutes later, he was in the bathroom with the water running, whistling. Badly.

  She listened. She couldn’t not listen. Any more than she could avoid imagining him naked, with water streaming over him. Soaping up his hands and slicking them over his bulging muscles.

  His body was so different from Anthony’s. Her husband had been five foot nine, two inches taller than her. She’d loved his body, in all its subtlety and ascetic fineness. Woody was the opposite. Blatant, not subtle.

  Not that he was overdeveloped, like the steroid-pumped men who built their muscles to the point of absurdity. Woody’s body really was quite appealing. For marketing purposes, she reminded herself. That was what counted.

  When Woody had said clean clothes, she’d assumed jeans, but he emerged from the bathroom in baggy gray, mid-thigh-length gym shorts and a loose black T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out. Oh no, he was not fine-boned and ascetic. There was so darned much naked flesh, tanned and toned and utterly masculine.

  He caught her staring. “My squash clothes.”

  “Is there any sport you don’t play?”

  “Sure. Cricket, lacrosse …” Looming above her, he rested his hands on his hips. “Is there any sport you do play?”

  “No. I walk, but I don’t play sports.”

  “How come? Oops, I mean, why?”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t mean to offend you. Honestly. I heard what you said at lunch about hockey. But I never saw the point to ball-chasing, ball-throwing, ball-hitting.” Not to mention, she had no skill in any sport. Anthony was the same. They’d had so many things in common and had truly been soul mates. “I’m more into reading.”

  Woody stood in the middle of her room, gazing around, not bothering to hide his curiosity.

  She felt a little vulnerable, having him check out her place. Yet she could work with this. Rather than let herself react to all those tanned muscles, she’d concentrate on her job. “Let’s work on powers of observation and analysis. What do you see when you look around, and what does it tell you?”

  “It’s cozy,” he said on a note of surprise. “Homey. I hadn’t figured you for the nest-building type. Nice comfy furniture, everything easy on the eye, lots of different, pretty colors.” He turned to her. “How come—I mean, why—don’t you dress in colors like that?”

  He, whose idea of style was a ratty jersey, was critiquing her wardrobe? “Plain, tailored clothes are appropriate for business.”

  “Viv disagrees.”

  “She and I have different approaches.” And who cared that he obviously preferred Viv’s?

  He looked around some more. “Nice paintings. They show that you like flowers and the Pacific Northwest. And you can’t stand to throw out plants when they get old and sickly.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” she demanded.

  He flashed her a grin. “Nothing. I’d say it’s good news for your parents, and whatever guy you end up with. You won’t toss them
when they’re old. Got a high loyalty quotient, Georgia.”

  Her heart had thumped at the mention of parents—her father hadn’t been in her life since she was a toddler, and she and her mom argued over every little thing—and of her guy. Yes, she’d been loyal to Anthony, and wished she’d had the opportunity to be loyal well into her eighties or nineties. She cleared her throat. “Loyalty quotient?”

  “It’s a term the head coach uses. It means—”

  “I get it. I’m just surprised to hear you say it, and surprised you picked up on that about me. It’s true. I can be exceptionally loyal. To people who earn my loyalty.” The thought of her mom put coolness in her voice.

  Woody shot her a questioning look, then walked over to the bookcases that took up the walls on either side of the gas fireplace. “See what you mean about liking reading. And you’ve got real, uh, mixed tastes. There’s a word for that.”

  “Eclectic?”

  “Yeah, eclectic. Bestsellers, autobiographies, marketing, business, and sociology.” He turned to her, scratching his head. “You really read all this?”

  She curled her legs under her. “A lot of it, but most of the sociology books were my husband’s.” She and Anthony had spent so many nights curled up side by side reading, she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of his books.

  Woody gaped at her. “You’re married?”

  He thought she’d cheated on her husband yesterday? “No, of course not,” she said hotly. “I was. He died.”

  Suddenly Woody was in front of her, dropping to his knees. “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

  The compassion in his eyes led her to go on. “It was a stupid car accident. Anthony wasn’t the world’s best driver; he got distracted easily. We were discussing a play we’d just seen.” She swallowed, still feeling guilty about that. “It was dark, raining. It happened so suddenly. The police said he ran a red light and the other car was going too fast, one of its headlights was burned out, and it T-boned our car.” She swallowed again. “On the driver’s side.” The car had been totaled. She’d never looked at it again, not even at pictures.

  “My air bag blew up and I blacked out. When I came to, I was in the hospital. Barely injured.” And Anthony was gone. Dead at the scene of the accident. She’d never had a chance to say good-bye.

  “Man.” Woody reached out to take her hands. “I’m sorry I was such a jerk about my driving. And I’m really sorry about your husband, but I’m sure glad you were okay.”

  Sincerity warmed his striking blue eyes. The grip of his hands was comforting. More than comforting.

  He was too bare-skinned, too masculine, too close. Too different from Anthony, too disconcertingly attractive.

  She tugged her hands free and pushed her body into the back of the chair to increase her distance from him, when what she really wanted to do was lean into him and have him put his arms around her.

  “It happened three years ago,” she said, trying to sound brisk and professional. “Yes, it was tragic, but these things happen.” It shouldn’t have happened. One brief moment of inattention, and she’d lost her soul mate. “I’m …” Despite her best efforts, her voice broke. She gave a choked laugh. “I was going to say I’m over it, but that’s not true. I’m doing fine, though, really.”

  The melting sympathy in his eyes would be her undoing. She felt it dissolving her defenses. A woman could lose herself in those deep indigo pools. She could dive in and never resurface. She’d just go down and down and—

  No, what was she thinking? This was a hockey player, a man who didn’t even believe in serial monogamy, much less marriage. A man who had condoms in his car, condoms in his pocket. Here, there, everywhere a condom. A fact she hadn’t protested about yesterday. Oh God, she was usually so in control in work situations. Why did this man rattle her so badly?

  “I appreciate your concern,” she said, managing to sound calmer.

  He nodded, then rose and returned to the bookcase, where he picked up the small wedding picture that sat on one side. She knew the photo by heart. Anthony, slim and handsome in a tux; Georgia in a lacy white dress, her red hair a mass of curls barely confined by the pearl-studded band of her veil. She and Anthony stood at the top of the church steps, arms around each other’s waists, a shaft of sunshine slanting in to pool at their feet. Smiling as if it was the happiest day of their lives. As it had been.

  They’d been joining their lives, their hearts, their souls, and anticipating the wedding night when for the first time they’d join their bodies.

  Woody gazed at her. “You were a beautiful bride.”

  Nostalgia crowded her heart. Softly she said, “I felt beautiful. I guess every bride does. And is.” She pulled herself together. “Not that beauty is important.”

  Woody was examining her intently from across the room. Judging her beauty, or lack thereof?

  Oh God, she’d had sex with this man. She and Anthony had waited for their wedding night because, for them, lovemaking was such a meaningful, emotional act. Yet, she’d had sex with the hockey player, in an act that was unemotional and meaningless. What was wrong with her?

  She popped out of her chair and headed toward the kitchen. “Want a Coke?” she asked from the doorway.

  “No, thanks. Got any fruit juice or milk?”

  “Sorry. Coffee?”

  “I don’t do caffeine.”

  “Pardon?”

  He came over, the photograph no longer in his hand. “It’s a drug. I mostly don’t do drugs.” He tapped his chest with his knuckles. “This body’s a temple. Gotta take care of it.”

  She stared at him.

  He rolled his eyes. “Joke. But seriously, you gotta respect your body if you want it to come through for you. I ask a lot of my body, so I take care of it.”

  She cocked her head. “Going on a bender is taking care of your body?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. That was dumb.”

  A man who would admit a mistake. It was another thing to like about him. “Then why did you do it?”

  “Didn’t play well; we lost the game. I dunno. Looked into the glass of beer and—” He broke off, gazing into her eyes.

  Funny shivers—warm ones, not at all unpleasant—rippled through her. “Yes?”

  He gave his head a shake and looked away. “And didn’t come out.” He turned and headed back to the bookcase, saying over his shoulder, “Water’d be good. With ice.”

  Oh yes, ice was a very good idea. It was a relief to escape him, a relief to plunge her hands under the cold water tap. How absurd to react this way to Woody Hanrahan, a man who was the opposite of Anthony. She turned off the water and extracted the plastic ice tray from the freezer.

  “You dating anybody?” His voice came from the living room.

  Under her clumsy hands the tray snapped, spilling cubes all over the counter. He thought she’d had sex with him while she was dating someone else? “No,” she called back. “Why?”

  “No reason.”

  Did he always ask questions without the slightest reason? Surely, he couldn’t be interested in dating her. He was sorry they’d had sex— crappy sex, for him—so the last thing he’d want would be to go out with her. It was the last thing she wanted, as well. Well, the last thing she should want. Oh damn. She’d never had this kind of problem working with a man before.

  She dumped ice into his glass and swept the rest of the cubes into the sink.

  When she walked into the living room, Woody was crouched down between the chair and the bookcase. Kit-Kat sprawled shamelessly on her back with Woody’s fingers buried in her white belly fur, and gave him her most throaty, sexy purr.

  Georgia stared, dumbfounded. “She doesn’t like strangers. Especially men.”

  Woody grinned up. “Guess I’m special.”

  “You just keep thinking that,” she said dryly, holding back a grin.

  He chuckled. “What’s her name? Figure if I’m stroking a girl’s belly, I oughta know her name.”

  “I�
�m impressed by your high moral code. Her name’s Kit-Kat.” She and Anthony, both chocolate lovers, had come up with the name together.

  “Kit the cat,” Woody was murmuring to the feline flirt. “Kit for short and practical, Kitty for cute, and Kitten when you’re acting like one.”

  “And just plain Kat when she’s misbehaving,” Georgia finished, surprised that the hottie jock would have picked up on the cat’s nicknames.

  “Aw, I bet she doesn’t misbehave. Do you, Kitty?”

  The cat gazed up at him soulfully and Georgia shook her head. Kit-Kat had fallen head over heels: a cat who was easily seduced by Woody’s magic fingers. Just as Georgia had been yesterday.

  “On the subject of names,” she said, “I notice you call me Georgia. Everyone else calls me George.”

  He gazed up. “George is a guy’s name, and you ain’t no guy.”

  That hadn’t stopped anyone else. She’d labeled herself George as a teen—when she joined the chastity club and rejected feminine wiles. Everyone had accepted the nickname. Even Anthony.

  Not sure what to do with Woody’s comment, she decided it was high time they got on with the deportment lesson. “Sit, Woody. Let’s get started.”

  He chose the couch, sprawling easily in the middle of it, starting to lift his bare feet to the oak coffee table, then thinking better of it.

  “Thank you,” she said, “but they’re clean, so it’s okay.”

  She took the chair and consulted her notes. “Here are some preliminary items I’d like to clear up: your use of ‘sunshine,’ the appropriate time and place for cellular phones, your rather inadequate and often questionable vocabulary, and …” Was that a groan? “And your attitude. Why aren’t you committed to this campaign?”

  He picked up his water glass and slugged down half the contents. “I’m committed,” he said grimly. “Go on.” A smile tugged at his lips. “Start with ‘sunshine.’ Can’t wait to hear what that’s all about.”

  “I’ve heard you call Viv ‘sunshine,’ and the receptionist at the office, the waitress at lunchtime, and me.”

  “Something wrong with that?”

  “We’re not interchangeable females. We have names.”

  “Yeah.” He gave a puzzled frown. “Sandra, Viv, Tawny, and—” “Tawny?”