The Dirty Girls Book Club

by Savanna Fox

  Still not looking at her, he said, “I wouldn’t have even thought about how I eat if you hadn’t said something.”

  “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.” Last week, she’d wondered about his upbringing. If he’d had a tough one, as his bio suggested, that could account for poor table manners. Rather than come right out and ask, she instead ventured, “Is it a guy-sports thing to rush through your meal?”

  He glanced up. “I guess. We’re usually either carb-loading before a game, or ravenous after one.” He drew a breath. “But honestly, I’ve always eaten like that.”

  “Your parents …” She let the question go unfinished, hoping he’d pick up her hint.

  He put down his fork again, and the muscles in his throat moved. Hard. “Guess we ate pretty quickly.”

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?” She’d heard that siblings often fought over food. Woody’s bio didn’t mention any, but then, it said remarkably little about his family.

  “No. It was just my parents and me.”

  She waited, hoping he’d go on.

  Finally, he said, “It wasn’t pretty, the way I grew up. I don’t talk about it. It’s one of the reasons I’ve avoided interviews and endorsements.”

  His voice was steady, flat. That in itself spoke of the pain he carried inside, and her heart ached for him.

  She touched his hand quickly, gently. “I’m sorry. It’s lonely when you can’t share with anyone.”

  He took another deep breath, then let it out audibly. “Yeah. When I was a kid, I didn’t even tell my best friend. His dad guessed, and I guess his mom knew too. They helped where they could.”

  Guessed what? Abuse? Drugs? She waited, but he didn’t go on. He hadn’t told anyone, so she shouldn’t be hurt that he wouldn’t tell her. “Are your parents still alive?” she ventured.

  He ran a hand roughly across his neatly trimmed beard. “My father died five or six years back.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head. “Got in a fight he couldn’t win. Took a knife in his guts and bled out.”

  Shocked, her breath caught in her throat. The grim satisfaction with which he said it confirmed her suspicion of abuse. Of him? Of his mom? “And your mother?”

  “She’s still alive.” He cleared his throat. “They never traveled. She hated the long, cold winters and always wanted to go to Florida. After he died, I sent her on a long holiday there. She loved it. I’d have liked her to move to Vancouver, but she had some health problems. Cold and rain are hard on her.”

  Health problems resulting from being abused?

  “I got her a place in Florida and visit whenever I can.”

  “She must be proud of you.”

  “That’s what she says. Guess that’s what all moms say, right?”

  Ha. Her mom cared more about whether Georgia was dating than about her career successes. The two of them were just too different to ever be close, yet it still hurt that they weren’t.

  She was saved from answering when the waiter stopped by with a worried expression. “Is there a problem with the appetizers?”

  She realized that, after those first tastes, neither she nor Woody had touched their food.

  Woody smiled at the man. “No, they’re great. We got talking.” He picked up his fork.

  How about that? Woody’d been so caught up in talking to her that he’d forgotten to eat. She reached for her own fork and her shawl slid off her shoulders.

  Woody’s gaze caressed her bare arms, heating them, and this time she didn’t pull the shawl back up.

  After a few mouthfuls, he said, “How about you? What’s your family story?”

  “I’m an only child too. My father—well, I never really knew him. He was around for the first couple of years of my life; then he and my mom split up and he didn’t stay in touch. Since then, Bernadette’s been married four more times. I learned not to get attached to any of my stepdads because they wouldn’t be around long.”

  “That’s rough. I’m surprised it didn’t sour you on marriage.” His tone made her guess that his parents were partly responsible for him being so anti-commitment.

  She shook her head. “I’m the opposite of my mother.”

  “You must’ve been pretty young when you tied the knot.”

  “Twenty-one. And it would have lasted forever.” She hadn’t the slightest doubt.

  He winced, and she figured that to him it must sound like a life sentence of hard time. But all he said was, “Your mom doesn’t believe in that happily-ever-after stuff ?”

  “Kind of, but it never works. Bernadette is insecure, which you’d never believe if you met her. She comes off as vivacious, flirtatious, bodacious. Underneath, she needs men to give her validation. She meets a guy; he thinks she’s wonderful; she’s so happy and she thinks it’ll last forever. But after a while, he’s not paying her enough attention; he’s looking at other women. There’s always something. Either she leaves to look for another man, or the guy gets tired of her neediness and dumps her. It’s a nasty cycle.”

  “Huh. Yeah, you’re different than her.”

  “I believe that you should only marry if you find your soul mate. I was lucky enough to find mine early on.” And unlucky enough to lose him.

  “I don’t get it,” Woody said slowly. “The soul mate stuff and all. But I see how much he meant to you, and I’m sorry you lost him.”

  Touched, she said, “So am I.”

  Across the table, his eyes were clear, the blue lit by sparkles from the chandelier above and the candle on the table. “I think it’s great that you don’t whine about how life dealt you a low blow. You picked yourself up and got on with things.”

  Pleased, she murmured, “Thank you. You’re like that too, aren’t you? You don’t let things get you down. Not your rough childhood, not being smashed onto the ice, not even having me pick on your manners.”

  “Tough guy,” he reminded her. The humor in his eyes, the softness of his mouth, made him look anything but, yet she knew there was a core of steel inside the man.

  The combination was seductive.

  Yes, to hundreds of women. And Woody liked it that way. Women, in the plural. He didn’t even believe in serial monogamy. It was ridiculous to get moony over him. He wasn’t her type. It was good, though, that she found admirable qualities in him. That would assist with the campaign, and it made working with him a lot more pleasant than she’d anticipated. She just had to make sure she didn’t let it become so pleasant that she abandoned common sense.

  Watching as he interacted with the waiter who’d come to clear their appetizer plates, bring Woody’s red wine, and serve their entrées, she reminded herself she was with Woody only for business reasons.

  Not temptation. Not orgasms.

  She should have worn a business suit. The silky dress Viv had helped her pick out rode high on her thighs, thighs clad in panty hose that shimmered as if her skin had been dusted in gold. Her arms were bare, and she was aware that her V-neckline revealed a wedge of her upper chest, even a hint of cleavage. It was rare for her to bare so much skin, and that threw her off balance.

  It was rare, too, to be in an elegant restaurant dining with a handsome man, feeling her body tingle and pulse with sexual awareness.

  No, that last thing, the sexual awareness, wasn’t just rare; it was unprecedented. Until she’d met Woody.

  Once, he’d made her abandon not only her values but her common sense, and succumb to his wiles. Just like Lady Emma and the Comte. A second time, Georgia had been heading in that direction, but finally managed to pull back.

  She wouldn’t—couldn’t—let it happen a third time. Though she hadn’t had a chance to read more of the book, she was sure Emma would give in to the Frenchman’s seduction. But Georgia wasn’t Emma, and this wasn’t fiction.

  She had to make a success of the VitalSport campaign, and prove to her boss that he’d made the right choice when he picked her over her competition, Harry. Playing the role of puck
bunny was not the way to do it, especially for a woman who believed that gender and sexuality didn’t have a place on the job.

  Not to mention that letting herself care for a man who didn’t believe in marriage, much less even dating one woman at a time, would be purely stupid.

  Eighteen

  Woody finished dinner with a too-small yet delicious salad of exotic fruits and watched Georgia demolish something rich and chocolaty. The way she savored the chocolate and made soft moans of approval had him hard again.

  Maybe there were good reasons for restricting their relationship to business, but hell, he was a guy. A horny guy, with a beautiful woman. “Feel like coming back to my place?” he suggested.

  For a moment, he saw in her eyes the same naked hunger he felt; then she refocused on her dessert. “That’s not a good idea.”

  God, she was frustrating. Tonight, she’d let herself look like the gorgeous, sexy woman she was. She’d shared with him, warmed to him, and he’d seen lust in her eyes. Yet she wouldn’t let herself cross that damned line she’d mentioned. Didn’t she know that the perfect dessert for tonight wasn’t chocolate but sex?

  He wished she’d had too much to drink, so he could have refused to let her drive home and taken her himself. He’d have turned off the engine, reached out for her in the darkness, and then he’d have been able to persuade her. She’d have invited him in, and once there, they’d have had slow, thorough, blistering sex. His hard cock throbbed as he indulged in that fantasy.

  Then he came to his senses and realized she’d asked for and was paying the bill. Expensing it, he knew, because of course this was a business dinner. A dinner to train and test him.

  That rankled, but he knew it was for his own good. Much as he hated revealing his inadequacies to Georgia, it’d be worse doing it in public, as the figurehead for VitalSport.

  Georgia rose, draping that pretty fringed shawl around her even prettier shoulders.

  He stood up too. The thought of his inadequacies had made his erection subside, so he didn’t embarrass himself.

  He rested his fingers on her lower back as they walked through the half-empty restaurant to the exit, and she let him. But once they were out on the sidewalk, she stepped away.

  Turning to face him, she said in a rush, “That went very well. Congratulations, Woody. And good night.” She looked up at him. “I really hope the next game goes well.” A small laugh. “I suppose I should say, ‘Bash ’em, Beavers.’ ”

  “How about a good luck kiss?”

  “I—” She was tempted. He saw it in her eyes, and in the way her body tilted toward his. Then she jerked back. “That wouldn’t be wise.”

  Damn. “Are you parked in the hotel lot?”

  “No.” She waved a vague hand. “On the street.”

  Remembering her idea of directions, he hoped she’d be able to find her Toyota. And he hoped she’d fed the meter or there’d be another visit to the tow lot. “I’ll walk you.”

  Her chin tilted up. “There’s no need. I’m perfectly capable of getting to my car.”

  “Sure you are.” He tried to sound like he really meant it. “But it’s what a guy’s supposed to do. It’s proper deportment.”

  “I suppose it is. All right, if you insist.” She headed down the street.

  He sauntered beside her, not even commenting when she took a wrong turn and had to retrace her steps. Finally, she said with a note of triumph, “There it is. Thanks, Woody, and good night again.”

  “Night, Georgia.”

  She didn’t offer him a ride. Because she assumed he’d driven, or she didn’t trust him, or she didn’t trust herself? Wondering about that, he turned and started to walk away.

  An instinct made him look back, maybe to make sure she hadn’t locked herself out of her car, or maybe just because he wanted one more look at her, all sexy and feminine. Somehow he knew that tomorrow she’d be back to a business suit and pulled-back hair.

  What he saw brought adrenaline surging through his veins. He didn’t stop to think. His body was in motion, pelting down the street toward her.

  Frozen in a streetlamp’s spotlight, Georgia cringed away from a man in dark clothing and a hoodie. The man’s posture screamed aggression, and something in his hand glinted silver. As the sound of Woody’s sprinting feet brought the mugger swinging around, Woody saw it was a knife.

  Woody’s entire being focused on that knife, only a couple feet away from Georgia, and he kicked out, hard and fast, aiming for the mugger’s forearm. He heard the unmistakable crack of shattering bone. A howl split the night, almost drowning out the sound of the knife clattering to the pavement.

  Woody needed that guy on the ground, out of commission, so he smashed his fist into his solar plexus, putting all his body weight behind the blow, and the man crumpled.

  Woody drew a breath, the first he was aware of since he’d seen the mugger. He turned toward Georgia. “You okay?”

  Out of nowhere, a body smashed into him, his bad shoulder taking the brunt of the attack. Caught off guard, his reaction was a moment slow, and in that moment a fist exploded into his face and he went down. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, the gush of blood from his nose, he leaped to his feet, on the ready.

  He didn’t see a knife this time. But what if there was a third, even a fourth man? He had to deal with this asshole quickly.

  When the second guy rushed him again, Woody dealt him one-two body blows, cracking ribs and punching him in the gut until he buckled to the ground.

  Pumped, flying, Woody spun, doing a full circle, ready to take on any other attackers that materialized out of the night. But no one else came.

  Relaxing a little, barely breaking a sweat, he took a quick inventory. Georgia was huddled against her car, her arms wrapped around herself, trembling and gasping, but he was sure neither man had hurt her. The muggers were out of the game, both curled up on the ground, moaning.

  Yeah, he’d given them what they deserved. Woody smiled grimly.

  He went over to Georgia. “You okay?” he asked again, his voice coming out nasal and choked.

  She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Yes, they never touched me. Oh my God, you’re bleeding.”

  Nasty throbbing behind his left eye and in his nose led him to probe gingerly. His nose, though gushing like a fountain, wasn’t broken again, thank God. “I’m okay.” He bent his head forward, pinching his nostrils, and heard the wail of sirens.

  She fumbled a tissue out of her purse and began poking at his face. “Put your head back to stop the bleeding.”

  He batted her hand away. “I know how to look after a nosebleed.”

  Sirens whooped, stopped, and the police were there, rescuing him from her attentions.

  When statements had been taken, the two attackers cuffed and dragged away, and the cops had wished him good luck in the game tomorrow night, Woody and Georgia stood alone by her car. His nose had stopped bleeding and he’d mopped most of the blood off his face with her tissues; then she’d fussed around, cleaning up the rest. His left eye was half swollen shut. Adrenaline was still a faint sizzle in his veins, taking the edge off the pain.

  “We’ve got to get you to emergency, like the police said,” Georgia said.

  “Nah, nothing’s broken. I’ll be okay.”

  “But what if you have a concussion?”

  He snorted. “I didn’t hit my head.”

  “But that man hit you pretty hard. Maybe you’ve got whiplash or something.”

  Offended, he said, “He didn’t hit me that hard. And he only got me at all because I didn’t see him coming.”

  She nibbled her lip. “At least let me drive you home and make sure you’re okay. There might be some kind of delayed reaction.”

  Her concern was sweet, but she was treating him like a wimp. “You don’t know anything about injuries, do you?”

  “Enough to know a person shouldn’t be left alone if they haven’t been checked out by a doctor.” Her face was pale, her eyes huge a
nd strained, yet he read determination in them. She might try to come across starchy and professional, but at heart she was a nurturer.

  She was also sexy and beautiful. Even though the adrenaline was wearing off and Woody was feeling far less than 100 percent, he was still a guy. And it dawned on him that Georgia’d given him an opening. “Okay, Coach. I surrender. If taking on two muggers is what it takes to get you to go home with me, then it’s a price I’ll pay.”

  Her lips twitched. “I said I’d drive you. I didn’t say I was coming in.”

  “What if I pass out in the elevator? Loss of blood makes a guy faint.”

  “I think you really must be concussed,” she returned. “Or else you’d never admit you might faint.”

  He lifted a hand to his head. “Man, maybe you’re right. I went down hard and all I was thinking was that I had to get back up and get that guy before he attacked you. Maybe I did hurt my head.” It was all true except for that last bit, and yeah, he was being manipulative, but he didn’t give a damn.

  “Then you’re going to the hospital,” she said firmly.

  He shook his head, and didn’t have to fake a wince. “They’d just send me home and say I shouldn’t be alone. I know about concussions. Someone needs to check on you every couple of hours, make sure you’re not disoriented. Be there if you do pass out and don’t wake up, so they can call an ambulance.”

  “I can do that,” she said, eyes huge and serious.

  Woody didn’t feel the least bit guilty.

  Nineteen

  Georgia was so upset that she could barely force herself to get behind the wheel of her car and turn on the ignition. She glanced at Woody, who’d lowered himself slowly to the passenger seat, buckled up, then put his head back and closed his eyes. He must be in serious pain to admit that he needed help.

  She gritted her teeth and pulled away from the curb. The man had saved her from two muggers. The least she could do was get him home safely. “Woody? Where’s your place?”

  “Yaletown.” Not opening his eyes, he gave directions.

  Though her hands—her entire body—wanted to tremble, she forced herself to focus entirely on driving and following his instructions. One thing at a time. Get to his building.