The Dirty Girls Book Club

by Savanna Fox

  “I don’t talk about those days.”

  She shouldn’t feel hurt. Probably the only reason tears came to her eyes again was the emotionality of the night. She blinked them away before they could fall onto his chest.

  Voice rasping, he said, “At home, I was powerless. On the ice, I could control the puck.”

  Those few words told her a lot. She wanted to probe deeper, but instead said, “You must have been a phenom. You were drafted into the NHL when you were seventeen.”

  He gave a soft laugh, his chest moving under her cheek. “Nah. I had natural skill, but it was pretty raw and undeveloped. I was drafted but I wasn’t first pick like Crosby. I went to Atlanta, a team that was near the bottom of the league in standings. But I had better coaching than I’d had before, and playing at that level was incredible. I learned a lot. Then the Beavers traded for me. They weren’t doing well either, but we turned things around. It’s a great team, and I’ve been here ever since.”

  She couldn’t get the thought of his childhood out of her mind. Pressing a kiss to his warm skin, she said, “If you ever want to talk about your childhood, I’d really like to hear.”

  He stiffened, the body she was curled up against turning wooden. “Why?”

  A good question. Why was it so important for her to know? “Because you need to tell someone, and because I want to know you better. I … I like you.”

  He’d asked her to stop being serious and to give them tonight. She’d agreed. But if he revealed his deepest secrets, she’d like him more, care about him more. That was dangerous. She shouldn’t be begging him to do it.

  He didn’t respond, and she’d begun to think he wasn’t going to when he said, “You can’t use any of it in the campaign.”

  That hadn’t occurred to her, but now she reflected that her boss, Billy, would love an inside scoop to draw more attention to the campaign. “If there’s anything that might be useful, I’d ask you first,” she assured Woody.

  “No,” he said flatly. “Nothing. Period.”

  He was trying to tie her hands when it came to doing her job effectively. Yet it was his choice whether to reveal personal secrets, and he was doing it as a friend, not a business colleague. He was doing it naked in bed with her, after making slow, sweet love to her. “You’re right. It’s just between us.”

  He shifted position, moving away but only so he could turn on his side and study her face in the dim light from the big window. He frowned, not an angry frown but a puzzled one. “Why would I want to tell you this shit?”

  She gave him a tentative smile. “Because we’re becoming friends?”

  “Yeah.” He gripped her hand, where it lay on the sheet between their bodies.

  Warmth coursed through her. She wove her fingers through his. “Tell me. Trust me.”

  “I’m not big on trust,” he said gruffly. “Not after what my agent did, and Angela going to the tabloids with those lies.”

  She guessed his trust issues went back to his childhood, and squeezed his hand. “You can trust me. I promise.”

  He gazed at their clasped hands and, in a voice so low she could barely hear, said, “My father was an alcoholic with a violent temper. He took it out on my mom.”

  “And on you?” she asked quietly, aching for him.

  He shrugged, which she knew was a “yes.” “You never knew what to expect. Sometimes he didn’t come home. Those were the good days. Once in a while he was nice, but he’d change in a second. We’d be eating dinner, everything calm, Mom and I quiet so we wouldn’t say anything to set him off. Then next thing you know, he’d grab Mom’s casserole dish off the center of the table and heave it against a wall. Then he’d yank her up, ready to pound on her, and she’d run out of the room.”

  Georgia shivered. “To get away from him.”

  He shook his head. “To get him out of the room. So he wouldn’t hit me, and I wouldn’t see him hit her.”

  She imagined a little boy eating dinner quickly, warily keeping an eye on his dad. And then the rest of it playing out until Woody was alone there, knowing—maybe even hearing—his father beating his mom. “You must have felt so powerless.”

  A shudder moved through him. “Even when I was tiny, I’d try to stop him. She wouldn’t let me. Even slapped me once. It’s the only time she ever hit me. She always said it was our fault. That I hadn’t done my chores. That she’d burned the meat, not cooked the vegetables long enough. Worn a dress he didn’t like, forgotten to buy ketchup.”

  “I know women often feel that way when they’re in an abusive relationship.” No one on the outside had the right to judge, and yet it was hard not to. His mom should have taken Woody away. Even if she was too weak to protect herself, she should have protected him.

  “Yeah, I guess. And she said marriage was forever, so she’d never leave.”

  “Marriage should be forever, but not when it’s like that,” Georgia said vehemently.

  He shrugged. “Alls I know is, I’d get out of the house whenever I could. On the ice, things were good.”

  He’d said “alls,” slipping back into patterns of speech he’d learned as a child. She squeezed his hand again. “No wonder hockey means so much to you.”

  “It’s my life.”

  He truly loved the sport, and it had meant survival as a child, his ticket out of a horrible situation, a career where he could use his skills and be respected.

  And no wonder he didn’t want to get serious about a woman. With his parents as role models, how could he believe that love and commitment could be the most powerful positive forces in a person’s life, and that marriage could be heaven rather than hell?

  He yawned, a movement that rippled through his torso and made him wince.

  Feeling sorry for the boy he’d been and respecting the man he’d become, she murmured, “You need sleep.”

  “You’re right. There’s a game tomorrow night.” He shifted to glance at the clock by the bed. “Tonight. It’s past midnight.”

  “You’re really going to play?” Then she amended, “Of course you are.”

  “Bet on it.” He stretched out on his back again, and gathered her against him. “This is the critical game. We lose this one, we’re out. I’m gonna be so in the zone, those Ducks won’t know what hit them.”

  She hated to think of him playing injured, but from what he said, it wasn’t unusual. So she tried to give him what he needed. “If I were a betting woman, I’d bet on you.” She’d watch on TV, fingers crossed. She wanted that win, partly for the success of the marketing campaign, but mostly for Woody.

  He yawned again, jaw-crackingly, and his arm grew heavy on her shoulders.

  She should be tired too, but she wasn’t in the least.

  When his breathing became a slow, even beat, she thought how surprisingly comfortable this was, lying with Woody Hanrahan in his king-sized bed. They might never be soul mates, but they’d gone through a lot tonight. Yes, they’d ended the night as lovers, but more than that. They were friends.

  It was a good feeling.

  Knowing he needed his rest, and a clear, focused mind in the morning, she eased away from him and slipped out of bed. Quietly, she let the blinds down, marveling that she could stand naked in front of this big picture window with not a soul to see her. Then she took her clothing into the living room, dressed, wrote a quick note, and headed down to the parking garage, which fortunately was well lit and secure.

  It was a short drive home, where Kit-Kat, no doubt unamused she’d stayed out so late, didn’t greet her. But when Georgia found her cat curled up on a pillow, and stroked her, Kit sniffed her hand, then arched into it approvingly.

  “Yes, I was with him,” Georgia said. “And I let him tickle my tummy. Bet you’re jealous.”

  In fact, the memory of Woody’s touch on her skin was something she didn’t want to wash away, so rather than shower she just pulled on a sleep camisole and drawstring-waist cotton pants, and got ready for bed.

  Settled with
two pillows behind her back and still not tired, she picked up her e-reader. Where had she been? Oh yes, Lady Emma had had sex with the Comte once, and had been pacing her bedchamber wondering whether those orgasms were the only ones she’d ever know.

  “Let me guess,” Georgia said. “You’ll give in to temptation the way I did.”

  Maybe she should regret that decision. Perhaps tomorrow she would. But she doubted it. Tonight, being with Woody had felt right.

  Doing it again, though … It wasn’t professional. Dynamic Marketing didn’t have a rule against it, but Georgia believed in separating her business and personal lives, and she didn’t imagine her boss would be impressed by her behavior.

  More than that, it surely wouldn’t be wise. Nothing could ever come of it.

  Except orgasms, of course.

  Just how shallow was she? She, the woman who’d believed in celibacy until marriage.

  Sighing, she escaped into Lady Emma’s world.

  The next morning, Emma took breakfast in her room, but knew she could not stay sequestered for the remainder of her visit. Venturing forth, she avoided the library, where the Comte might seek her out, and instead found herself in the music room.

  Music had always given her solace, and especially when she put her fingers to the bow. She had not brought her violin with her, but Margaret played and had invited Emma to borrow her instrument.

  Now, trying not to feel like an intruder, Emma riffled through Margaret’s sheet music. Choosing a lively piece to lift her spirits, she drew her friend’s violin from its case and stroked the burnished yellow-amber wood with reverence. It was a Guarneri, an instrument her friend assured her would one day be more famous than those created by Stradivarius. Whether or not Margaret’s prediction would prove true, this was a far finer instrument than Emma had ever touched. She stroked it again. Odd, how she’d never before noticed what a feminine shape a violin had, with its lush curves and nipped-in waist.

  When she tucked the base of the violin between her chin and shoulder, it felt surprisingly comfortable. Experimentally, she drew the bow across the strings, enjoying the resonance of the tone. As she warmed up, her soul was soothed. Almost, she could forget that the wanton interlude with the Comte had ever happened.

  She launched into the spirited piece she had selected. At least to her own ears, she had never played so well.

  When she came to the end of the number, a male voice called, “Brava!” and she heard clapping.

  Startled, she turned to see le Comte de Vergennes, as darkly handsome and dashing as always, regarding her from the doorway. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

  Her entire body heated, from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. Unbidden, her hand flew to her throat.

  “You permit me to join you, Lady Emma?”

  “I …” Shouldn’t. Couldn’t. She had let this man take the most outrageous liberties with her body. Worse—or better?—she had enjoyed it.

  If she said no, would he truly leave her in peace?

  Did she want to be left in peace?

  As he approached, her heart fluttered so wildly she could barely think. His black hair gleamed. Had she really run her fingers through it? His sensual lips widened in a smile. Had those lips really touched—No, she could not even think it.

  And yet … In scant months, she’d be forced to decide between two forms of servitude: as wife to an older man chosen by her father, or as caretaker to her brother’s family. Was it utterly wrong to enjoy a few moments of the Comte’s attention?

  She would draw a boundary today, though. If he even attempted to touch her, much less kiss her, she would slap his face. Yes, she would, and then she’d flee to safety.

  “A duet,” he said.

  “What?” No touch, not even an attempt to kiss her?

  “We will play a duet. Oui? I told you I play the piano, did I not?”

  Of course he had. He’d spoken of playing beautiful music together, and then he’d played her body like a maestro.

  The seductive twinkle in his eye told her he knew exactly what she was thinking, and was deliberately reminding her of it. Yet he made not the slightest attempt to touch her.

  “I recall that,” she said stiffly. Perhaps today he spoke only of music. After all, he’d taken what he wanted from her. Most probably, her naïveté had disappointed him, worldly man that he was. And that was a good thing, of course. She would not have to fend off unwanted advances—or debate with herself whether she wanted those very advances.

  “Let’s see what we have.” He helped himself to Margaret’s music. “How about this? It is a favorite of mine. I know it by heart.”

  She glanced at the music he held out. To her surprise, it was a number she enjoyed herself. It reminded her of birds in flight. She really should leave, and yet something held her there. The music. Only the music. “One piece,” she said, “and then I must go.”

  His lips curved and his dark, sparkling eyes held hers. “One piece, in which to persuade you. You set a hard bargain, my lady.”

  To persuade her of what? But no, she would not ask. She would not care. If it was something improper, she would indeed slap his face and flee. In the meantime, she would focus entirely on the music.

  He seated himself at the piano with a showy flourish.

  She put the violin in place, and lifted the bow.

  He held her gaze. “Here we go. One, two, three.” His fingers descended, as did her bow.

  Rarely had she played duets, and it was invigorating, harmonizing with someone else, playing a note and hearing him answer, then responding to him in turn.

  The Comte’s smile flashed bright and he threw his entire body into his playing, as if the music filled him and swept him away.

  In Emma’s mind, birds swooped and soared, and she smiled and let her body go with them.

  This, right now, was quite perfect. If she could live in this moment forever, she would happily do so. But of course the music ended, and with regret she lowered the bow and took the violin from its spot under her chin.

  The Comte rested his hands on his knees. “What did you hear?”

  “Birds,” she confessed quietly. “Flying, swooping. Free and beautiful.”

  He nodded. “You were flying too. I saw it in the way your body moved. Beautiful, yes, and free.”

  She shook her head sadly. “Only for those short moments. I’m not the least bit free.”

  He rose and came toward her with that lithe grace of his.

  Warily, she watched him approach, but all he did was reach out to take the violin and bow.

  She placed them in his hands, careful not to actually touch him.

  Rather than putting them down as she expected, he lifted them, one in each hand. “You can be free, Emma. You can choose to be free.”

  “You are not a woman—a widow—in this society,” she said dryly, “or you would not say such a thing.”

  “You can have your moments, and not just when you lose yourself in the music.”

  He held up the violin. “She is lovely, yes? With her round curves, her glowing face. And here”—he raised the bow in his other hand—“when he touches her, he makes her sing. He makes her fly, takes her wherever she wants to go.”

  A bow was a rather male object, wasn’t it? That thought had never before occurred to her. And it shouldn’t now. It was a most improper thought, and it was improper of the Comte to talk this way.

  She almost laughed. The Comte had, after all, done far more improper things.

  Now he replaced the violin and bow in their case. “They will rest, and now it is your turn, dear Emma.”

  “My turn?” The words came out in a breathy whisper.

  He knelt in front of her chair and finally—finally!—touched her. Gently, he took her hand, raised it to his lips, and placed a kiss in the center of her palm. He didn’t let go when he said, “You know what I mean. You know what I want. And you want it too.”

  “Wh-what?” she quav
ered. What she should want right now was to slap his face, but instead what she truly wanted was another kiss. This time on her lips.

  “You are a bird who’s been tethered in a cage. You want to sing, to fly, to be truly a woman. To experience all the things I can teach you.”

  Again, he lifted her hand to his lips and this time, shocking her, he licked her palm. The wet, deliberate stroke of his tongue sent tingling heat racing through her, setting a pulse throbbing in the womanly place between her legs.

  God save her, she did want everything he offered. “It would be wrong.”

  He licked again, and she gasped. “Not wrong,” he countered. “You are a widow and I am unmarried. We are betraying no one.”

  “Society would condemn us. That may be of little concern to you, but it is a serious matter to me.”

  “Ah, the lady has a sharp tongue. Yes, it is quite true that I don’t give a fig what society says of me. However, I assure you I am a most discreet man.”

  “Ha! Everyone knows about that married woman in France.”

  “Because of her husband, not because of me. He was the one to issue the challenge and expose the affair.”

  There was truth in that. And considerable temptation in the tongue that now ran up the side of one of her fingers, into the dip between it and the next one, and then up the other. Shocking herself, she imagined that tongue on her most private flesh.

  “No one will be hurt,” the Comte said, dark eyes gleaming, “and you and I will experience more pleasure than you can even imagine.”

  “Why me?” she asked. “There are younger, prettier girls. They clustered around you the other night.”

  “Youth is no particular virtue, and you are beautiful rather than pretty.”

  He really saw her that way?

  “But it’s more than that,” he went on. “You heard the music that night, inside your body and your heart. They barely listened. Their minds are a tangle of their own concerns. They do not know how to still their minds, how to experience something meaningful.”

  Still clasping her hand, he gazed at her. “You and I together, that would be meaningful. Making beautiful music together is meaningful, as it was with the violin and piano. With our bodies, Emma, it will be something incredible.”