by Savanna Fox
Woody muttered, “It’s embarrassing.”
Tom picked up the smaller of the two forks and separated a couple of leaves of lettuce. “Sometimes it helps to talk, but don’t feel pressured.” He chewed the mouthful slowly.
Woody ate his own first bite of salad, then sighed. “I’m still steaming, and I’m mad at myself for being such a fool.” Suddenly, he really did need to talk. He told Tom about how he’d trusted Martin, and how his agent had lost all the money Woody’d made in a career that spanned more than a decade.
When he was finished, Tom said, “Shit.”
Woody raised his eyebrows. The judge never swore.
“That’s fraud. I hope you reported him to the police.”
“If it wasn’t for Martin, I’d never have become a hockey player. I owe him for that.” He explained how it was his boyhood friend’s dad who’d taken the kids to the rink, then to practices and games. He’d even forked out some of his own money for equipment. “He was more of a dad to me than my own was; that’s for sure.”
“But he betrayed your trust.”
Fathers did that. Woody should’ve known better. “Guess it was dumb of me to trust him.”
“It’s always wise to keep an eye on people, but this man gave you every reason to trust him.” Tom sighed. “Sounds as if he’s a gambling addict.”
“Yeah. Seems he got into it after his wife died a couple years ago. Anyhow, I told him I wouldn’t turn him in if he joined Gamblers Anonymous and sticks with it.” One day, maybe he’d return Martin’s call and see how things were going. One day. After he’d paid for his mom’s treatments, paid the back taxes he owed, and got over being royally pissed.
“You’re generous.”
Woody shrugged. “Bet you’d do the same thing.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed as he thought for a long moment. “Maybe. People screw up. They deserve another chance.”
He picked up his fork again, and Woody realized neither of them had eaten for at least ten minutes. The same thing had happened when he’d had lunch with Georgia.
Woody chewed on a mouthful of salad, feeling pretty good. He was glad he’d told Tom. Nothing had been solved, but one person in the world knew, and was on his side.
“Have you hired a new agent?” Tom asked.
“Not yet. It’s hard to trust someone else.”
“Until you do, let me know if I can help with anything.”
“Thanks.” Too bad he hadn’t asked Tom to read the VitalSport contract before he signed it. Woody might not have been stuck modeling gonch.
In companionable silence the two men polished off their salads. Two racks of lamb appeared as if by magic and again Woody studied Tom for behavior cues.
Tom sliced one of the chops off the rack, cut a bite, and raised it to his mouth.
Woody did the same.
“Tell me more about Georgia,” Tom said. “How do you know her?”
“She’s in charge of the marketing campaign.”
“What’s she like? Pretty? Smart?”
“Smart, businesslike. Pretty’s not the right word. Striking. Creamy skin, fiery red hair. Eyes like amber ale with little sparkles in them. Long, slender neck.” He remembered stroking the length of that neck, down to the delicate collarbones. He’d never realized that a neck could be such a turn-on.
“Nice. But you’re not dating her?”
“She’s not that impressed by me.”
The judge raised his eyebrows. “I had the impression women threw themselves at you.”
Woody shrugged. “Some do.”
“So Georgia is a challenge.”
“Nah, I’m not interested.” He had been, but he could recognize a lost cause. Woody sliced into his lamb again.
“That’s not what I’m hearing.”
“I’m not gonna force myself on a woman who isn’t interested.”
“Of course not. But you just said you weren’t interested anyhow.”
“Oh, hell, you’re tying me up in knots. Bet you were a damned good lawyer.”
“I was. Damned good. Good enough not to let you get away with changing the subject that way.” Tom rested his elbows on the table, interlocked his fingers, and leaned his chin on them. “Let’s see. You’re not interested, and Georgia’s not interested. Have I got it right?”
“Yeah.”
Tom’s eyes twinkled. “Then why are we spending so much time talking about her?”
Woody snorted. “I’m not. That’s your doing. You’ve been married so long that you’re desperate for any hint of sex.”
“Shows you don’t know the first thing about my marriage.”
Wrangling cheerfully, they finished their dinners. Woody could see that there was something to be said for Georgia and Tom’s slow and easy approach to dining. He really tasted his food, and he and Tom got in some good conversation.
Woody made his first glass of wine last, and let the waiter refill the glass halfway, then stopped him. The judge did the same. When the waiter had gone, Woody said, “Great wine, but I’m taking it easy on the booze these days.” That one bender had reminded him of a lesson he’d learned years ago.
Tom nodded. “And I have court tomorrow.”
After dinner, they split the bill. Then, feeling more mellow than he had in days, Woody turned down Tom’s offer of a ride. He’d walk home, ice his shoulder, and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, Georgia and her team had a busy day scheduled for him. Clothes fittings, and God knew what else. He wasn’t looking forward to it one bit.
He definitely wasn’t looking forward to seeing Georgia. A guy could take only so much rejection.
If there was a tingle of anticipation in his body, it was about something else entirely. He wasn’t sure what, but definitely not Georgia.
Fifteen
Woody was scheduled to come in at ten thirty on Tuesday. Georgia’s boss, Billy, had asked her, Viv, and Terry to meet before that and brief him on the campaign.
“How’s our hockey star shaping up?” Billy asked.
“We’re working on him,” Georgia said. “The good news is that he learns quickly.” The bad news was that he frustrated and aroused her. “Today we’re tackling hair, wardrobe, and deportment.”
“Interestingly,” Viv said, “I saw Woody last night at Le Gavroche and he looked great. And your first deportment lesson has borne fruit. He behaved perfectly.”
“He was out for dinner?” And at a rather classy French restaurant. Not that she gave a damn, of course. Not in a personal sense, anyhow. “He obviously doesn’t intend to get our approval of his dates.” And so much for him saying that he didn’t date during the playoffs. It had just been another of his lines.
“Oh, we’d approve this one.”
She tried not to grind her teeth. Of course she wasn’t jealous. “Really?”
“Judge Westin of the B.C. Supreme Court.”
“He’s dating a judge?”
Viv’s eyes gleamed. “Judge Tom Westin. They’re friends.”
“Really?” How ridiculous to feel relieved that his companion hadn’t been a woman. “Woody’s table manners were all right?”
“Excellent.”
“Hmm.” Had he been having her on at lunch, or was he really that quick a learner? She’d suggested he find a role model to mimic, and who better than a distinguished judge? “Well, good for him.” She actually felt a little proud.
“He was wearing a Zegna shirt,” Viv said.
“A what?”
“Ermenegildo Zegna,” she said, while Terry nodded. “Honestly, George, you’re as hopeless as Woody.”
How was she supposed to know about designer clothing for men? Anthony certainly hadn’t been into that kind of thing.
Georgia turned to Billy. “Have you had a chance to read the game plan I e-mailed you?”
He lifted a sheaf of papers. “Yes, but don’t we usually call them ‘strategic plans’?”
“Terry’s been teaching me some of the lingo”—she gave a nod
of recognition to the young man—“and I’m trying to use it.”
“I like that. And I like your plans for the image makeover, rehearsing for interviews, and the proposed interview and appearance schedule.”
“Thank you.” Her initial draft had included The Ellen DeGeneres Show, but she’d deleted it from the final version. Woody had just been blowing hot air.
Billy glanced down and fiddled with the pages. He wasn’t a fidgeter by nature, and Georgia sensed he was hunting for words. “You’re going to hand-hold Woody at the first half dozen or so events? To make sure he can deal with whatever comes along?”
She winced. It was an aspect of the plan that didn’t thrill her. An introvert, she was fine when she felt confident about her work and was dealing with clients and coworkers, but public appearances weren’t her forte. They were second nature for Viv. But this campaign was Georgia’s responsibility, and if she wanted to be an account manager and maybe one day run her own firm, she needed to step up. “I will.”
“You might, uh …” Billy’s eyes met hers, then danced away. “When Viv’s consulting with you and Woody about his wardrobe, perhaps she could come up with some suggestions for you too, for public appearances.”
“You’re criticizing the way I dress?” she asked disbelievingly. “I’m totally professional.”
“Yes, of course,” he said quickly. “Your suits are perfectly, uh, suitable for the office, but I think something a little more, uh, well, different is called for when …” He glanced at Viv. “You get what I’m saying? The two of you could go shopping together. Dynamic Marketing will pay for anything you need, within reason.”
“Terrific!” Viv’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Fine. Whatever you want,” Georgia said evenly, seething inside. Billy wanted her to dress like Viv. Like her mom, Bernadette.
Terry gestured toward the clock on the wall. “Woody’ll be here any minute. I’m meeting with him first, right?”
Georgia nodded, relieved to postpone seeing the man. How could she face him? She had let him bury his face between her legs; then she’d run away. And now she had to reestablish her professionalism and authority.
She still couldn’t believe she’d behaved so badly. “Great, Terry,” she said with forced enthusiasm. “You work on those interview questions with him. After that, it’s the hair and clothing appointments. Viv, I know you’d suggested I come along, but really, you’re the expert on those things, as Billy so tactfully pointed out.” She avoided glancing at her boss. “You don’t need me there.”
Viv’s blue eyes gleamed. “Oh, but I do. You’re the one with the overall concept of this campaign.”
“Yes,” Billy said, “you should be there, George.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll be there.”
Grudgingly, she realized she was acting immature and cowardly—like Lady Emma, hiding in her room so as to avoid the Comte. As they all left the conference room, she firmed her jaw. “Terry, when Woody arrives, would you ask him to come to my office? I need five minutes with him before you two get going.”
She hurried to her office, pulled her hair out of its knot, ran a brush through it, then gathered it up even tighter. Though she usually left the collar button undone on her tailored shirt, now she fastened it.
When Woody walked through the door, she jerked to her feet and pressed her lips together as if that could hold back the flush that heated her cheeks and chest. He looked unbelievably masculine and sexy in jeans and a tee—and his mouth had touched the most private parts of her body.
But she couldn’t think about that. Or, at least, she shouldn’t.
“Please close the door,” she said stiffly.
Expression wary, he obeyed. He didn’t sit, and she didn’t suggest it.
“I want to apologize,” she said.
“Oh, yeah?” His tone was as cautious as his expression.
“I’ve behaved unprofessionally and it won’t happen again.” Her tight collar was doing its best to strangle her and she could barely swallow.
He tilted his head and studied her face. “Why?”
At least he’d lost the “how come?” if not his penchant for asking questions. “Why what?”
“Both. Why did you, and why won’t you?”
She really didn’t want to answer, but he deserved an explanation. “You must think I’m crazy, like I can’t make up my mind.”
“I don’t know what to think, Georgia. You’re the most confusing woman I’ve ever run into. I know you’re attracted to me.”
How embarrassing. She could almost feel the air between them vibrate with tension. She closed her eyes briefly. Should she lie to save face? No, she refused to be such a coward. “I guess that’s obvious.”
“As obvious as the fact that you turn me on something wicked.”
“I do?” Despite her better intentions, her lips curled. Wow. She straightened them again. “But there are all sorts of reasons that nothing can—should—happen. We’re totally different people and our relationship is a business one. I’m not one of your puck bunnies.”
“Jesus, I know that.” He kept studying her. “You’re saying you’d like to, though?”
“Like to, uh … ?”
“Have sex again. If it wasn’t for business and how different we are.”
He was the most virile, masculine creature she’d ever seen and her whole body tingled with the desire to have him touch her. “Woody, I was with one man for years and years.” She wouldn’t tell him she’d lost her virginity to that man. “I take relationships seriously.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay, I can see that. And you know that the word ‘relationship,’ with a capital R, gives me hives.” He reflected a moment. “But if it wasn’t for that stuff, you’d sleep with me?” He didn’t seem to be joking, he wasn’t flirting, and she didn’t know what he was driving at.
Baffled, she planted her hands on her hips. “What are you asking?”
“Did you like it? Would you do it again if it wasn’t for all the stuff that’s bugging you?”
Oh my God. She gritted her teeth. “Yes, I liked it! Damn it, what are you looking for?”
A slow smile widened on his lips. Such sensual lips, and such a warm, charming smile. “Just wanted to know it was okay for you.”
“You’re the one who thought it was crappy,” she snapped.
“What?” He looked astonished.
“After, you said it was kind of crappy.” She fought to keep the hurt out of her voice.
“Shit, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant that I was, you know, selfish. I didn’t make it good for you. You didn’t, uh, come.”
Heat flooded her entire body. “I did,” she whispered.
“I meant the second time.”
Her mouth fell open as it dawned on her that the big tough jock, the guy women flocked around, might suffer from performance anxiety? Immediately, she felt 100 percent better. Her lips curved. “Actually, I did. You just weren’t paying attention.”
“You can say that again,” he muttered ruefully. “But seriously, you did?”
She nodded. “Now are you satisfied?”
He grinned, a sexy flash of white teeth, and his blue eyes sparkled. “Nah, I’m sexually frustrated as hell. How ’bout you?”
She gave a startled laugh. “That pretty much describes it.” And for her, the mutual confessions had gone a long way to clearing the air. Did he feel it too? “So, Woody, are we okay? Are we going to be able to work together?”
“If you can keep those pretty hands off me,” he drawled, sounding smug.
“Oh, it’ll be a struggle, but I’ll do my best,” she teased back, knowing she spoke the truth.
“Yeah, me too. But you can undo that button. Promise I won’t rip your clothes off you.” He headed for the door, then tossed a final remark over his shoulder. “Not unless you beg me to.”
Laughing, she reached up and unfastened the button that was nearly strangling her. That would be the day. Georgi
a Malone begging a jock for sex.
Albeit hot sex. Very hot sex.
An hour later, Georgia walked with Viv and Woody to Christopher Slate’s hair salon. The loft-style room had azure walls and half a dozen unusual chandeliers. The décor featured a clutter of funky objets d’art, bright abstracts of nude men and women, state-of-the-art hairdressing equipment, giant plants, couches that belonged on the set of a French drawing-room farce, and even a hot pink chaise longue. Very odd, and it shouldn’t have worked, but to Georgia’s mind it was both cozy and intriguing.
“Eclectic,” Woody said sagely.
Georgia raised her brows. He really did pick things up quickly.
“Yes, it is,” Viv said, “and creative. Come meet Christopher.”
Christopher Slate, a man of perhaps forty, was willowy and elegant in a black shirt and pants. A mane of glossy black hair cascaded from a silver-clasped ponytail to midway down his back. His features were those of a Spanish grandee, his manner blatantly gay.
His eyes widened theatrically as he took in Woody; then he said to Viv, “My dear, how deliciously raw!”
Georgia choked back a laugh and Woody sent her a thundercloud glare. He squared his shoulders and stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Christopher returned, clasping Woody’s hand enthusiastically between his slender palms. “Now, come with me and we’ll get you changed.”
“I can get myself changed, thanks all the same,” Woody growled.
Georgia bent her head to Viv’s. “He’s going to kill us for this, you realize.”
“Nonsense. I have complete faith in Christopher.” The blonde rubbed her hands together and said gleefully, “One transformation coming up.”
Woody emerged from a change room, caped in black and purple, looking immensely ill at ease. The stylist seated him in front of a giant mirror and edged gracefully around him, studying his head from all angles, lifting his hair and testing the texture between his fingers. Woody’s face was expressionless, as if he’d left his body in the chair and removed his mind to a distant planet.
Christopher finally spoke. “Viv, you suggested a style rather like that of our friend Terry?”