His Very Own Girl (10 page)

“The last dance?” Joe blinked, sure he’d misheard. Then he pressed on. “I can do that.”

“And what will you do in the meantime?”

Maybe it was the way she kept her gaze pinned on his while she sipped her drink, seemingly so in control. The Devil took control of Joe’s tongue. “I’m gonna dance with as many pretty girls as will have me.”

Lulu wordlessly handed the empty glass to the captain. He scowled first at Lulu, then at Joe, and walked away. She hadn’t stopped studying Joe’s face. “You’re bluffing. You’ll be sitting here at the bar, biding your time, watching me. Brooding.”

“I do not brood.”

“I’d wager a month’s salary that you do. And probably quite handsomely.”

“Nope, I’ll be dancing,” Joe said, crossing his arms. “By the time the last song starts, I’ll have danced with more partners than you.”

“Don’t talk rubbish.”

“Care to make it a bet?”

She licked her bottom lip. “For what stakes?”

“If you win, you get to weasel out of our last dance and I won’t bother you again. If I win, I get to walk you home.”

“That’s a mile out of your way!”

“Two, actually. Two miles.”

The pulse at her neck fluttered. Maybe she was thinking about waiting to catch the train into Sileby and how long the walk to Mersley would take. Maybe she was thinking about holding hands and talking quietly, just sharing each other’s company. And maybe she was thinking of the good-night kiss he’d most certainly claim.

Joe was.

“You are a prize fool, you know that?”

He laughed. God, it felt good to have her panicky and unsure for a change. “I’ve known too many clever people for that to be an insult.”

“This is ridiculous. How would we even keep track? How would either of us know that we’re not inflating our totals?”

Joe placed his hands on her hips and pushed Lulu back. When her bottom bumped the bar, she uttered a little squeak. He leaned closer and whispered into the shell of her ear.

“I’ll know because you’ve got one thing right: I
will
be watching. I’ll be counting your partners. I’ll catalog their faults. I’ll remember which ones made you laugh and which ones tried more than dancing. And I’ll convince myself you’re only in their arms to spite me.” Feeling daring and electric, he brushed a kiss along the side of her neck and smiled when goose bumps sprinkled over her flesh. “And you’ll be doing the same.”

“Idiot,” she said, pushing him away. She slid a hand over the spot he’d kissed. Her dark brown eyes were fiery, snapping with vigor. But then she beamed, a smile to set him alight. “Are you ready?”

“Sure.”

“Go.”

chapter eight

Lulu’s annoyance lasted all of ten seconds, but the tingle of Joe’s lips against her neck lingered even as she grabbed the nearest soldier and hauled him onto the dance floor.

Propelled by music, she soon found herself dancing with abandon and smiling like an out-and-out madwoman. The chap she’d stolen away from boredom was as graceful as a rhinoceros, but he smiled the whole time, game for it all. Blaring out “Sun Valley Jump,” the orchestra controlled Lulu’s body and gave her feet a will of their own. Her mind cleared of everything but the blaring, brassy beat. Every last cell hopped in time. Strands of hair flew loose and stuck to the sweat along the line of her jaw.

Flying and dancing. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else turned her thoughts to mush and allowed her to breathe, revel, live.

Except maybe Joe’s hands on her hips.

Bloody hell.

Another song, another partner—this time a member of an RAF ground staff. He was long and lanky, towering over her, but he moved with surprising grace and speed. Their slicked palms pressed together, fingers intertwined. His nimble steps mirrored hers as they whisked through a lickety-split Charleston. She couldn’t suss how such a big man stayed so light on his feet, but he never slowed. He was grinning, his eyes shining with amusement.

After four more songs Lulu’s feet ached. Beneath her belted tunic, her shirt clung under her arms and along her ribs. She would’ve kept up the pace until her legs buckled and her lungs stopped working, but the orchestra took pity in the form of a ballad. A young brunette took to the stage. She started in on “I’ll Be Seeing You” with a songbird’s voice.

Had she been with Joe, she would’ve stepped into his arms and closed her eyes, forgetting sweat and tired feet. But he wasn’t with her. He was holding a curvy redhead wearing a Women’s Auxiliary Air Force uniform. Lulu couldn’t see his face, only the muscled expanse of his back where his tunic stretched taut. The redhead’s features, however, were the very picture of bliss: eyes closed, mouth relaxed, head resting on his shoulder.

Lulu pinched her own forearm. When she spotted that same RAF captain, the one who’d bought her the gin, she walked over and took his hand. “Ever so sorry about earlier,” she said. “That Yank has been pestering me for weeks. Care to dance?”

He was an attractive man. His hair was neatly trimmed and combed, as dark as ink. The olive tint to his skin gave him an exotic quality she rarely saw among Englishmen; he could’ve had an Indian grandparent. His looks only improved when he smiled. The tight, hawkish look left his eyes, and he seemed like a boy she could’ve once befriended.

He still wasn’t Joe. Would she be doomed to make that comparison forever?

She and the captain moved well together. All the while, she developed a distinct hatred of WAAFs with ginger curls. What could that dame do other than corral barrage balloons and signal incoming flights? Lulu had probably flown more planes than Joe’s redhead had ever seen.

The song ended. Lulu railed at herself for her ridiculous train of thought. The poor RAF chap might as well have been a coatrack for how little attention she’d paid him. Being in his arms had meant nothing. All the while Joe’s teasing words echoed in her ear, just where he’d whispered them.

I’ll convince myself you’re only in their arms to spite me. And you’ll be doing the same.

Another slow song began. Lulu bid her partner a hasty farewell. He merely sighed and turned away, shaking his head. Crazy dame, he was probably thinking. But she couldn’t bring herself to care. If she lost the bet, she’d have to make a choice: go back on her word or risk the temptation that was walking home with Joe. The night was clear and cool. She could oh-so-easily imagine leaning into his body for warmth, talking in the intimacy of the dark, pushing her fingers into the short hair at his nape when they kissed good night.

She remembered the letter from Quincy Fields that never came. He was probably dead somewhere in Italy. She’d never hear from him again. The idea of waiting and wondering about Joe turned her stomach into a bag of sour milk. She couldn’t do it. As she walked up to the man who would be her next partner, Lulu batted her eyelashes and pasted on a smile.

Joe wondered how long he could sit by and watch Lulu work her magic among the dozen soldiers and airmen she’d already whisked onto the dance floor. He also wondered when she’d notice that he was no longer taking part.

He’d lost his cool by daring her that way—the last thing he wanted. She already held too much power over him, and what was worse, she’d seen him fight Harry Dixon. If Joe ever convinced her to give him more than one night at a time, he’d have to tell her about his youth. Probably all of it.

Shame and that hurtful anger tightened his fingers around the glass beer mug he held. His past was never far from his thoughts, but explaining what he’d done—actually speaking the words aloud—was enough to make him quake. His tongue swelled up. He rubbed the back of his head from collar to crown.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He looked behind him and found the redheaded WAAF he’d danced with. Patricia was her name, from York. He liked how she laughed and how her accent was different from Lulu’s.

Patricia squeezed between him and a corporal standing to his right. Joe wouldn’t have thought there was enough room, but she made do. The other man didn’t seem to mind. With Patricia’s backside wedged against his thigh, he grinned at Joe over her head. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Don’t mention it,” Joe said.

Patricia smiled broadly, a smile that made her kelly-green eyes go almost shut. “Buy a girl a drink?”

Joe nodded and signaled the bartender. A few moments later and he tapped his mug against her tumbler. “Cheers.”

“And where were you from again?” she asked.

He smiled. “Indiana.”

“Where’s that?”

“I’m just going to start saying ‘somewhere in the middle’ every time. It would save us all the hassle.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

While Patricia sipped her scotch, he turned his back to the bar and found Lulu. She was swaying in time with a beanpole lieutenant.
Idiot,
Joe called himself.
Fool. Glutton for punishment.
She made him want to invent new curse words.

“Who are you looking for?” Patricia asked.

He didn’t hear any accusation in her voice but felt defensive anyway. “No one, doll.”

This time she laughed and her eyes squinted shut completely. “Don’t tease,” she said. “Nearly four years among servicemen, I’ve been. You could say I know a thing or two about the lot of you. Blokes who stand by themselves either have a girl at home or their eyes on one who won’t give them the time of day.”

“And you don’t think I have a girl at home?”

“You would’ve mentioned her while we were dancing. Maybe that makes it all right somehow, like setting out the rules from the start.”

He took another drink, both curious and unnerved by the woman’s perceptions. Was Lulu able to read men equally well? Was it a result of the war, or a special talent possessed by English girls?

“But some men lie,” he said. “Some men keep secrets.”

“True, but those chaps are looking for girls on the loose, whether they have a sweetheart or not. They don’t sit at the bar and nurse a beer by themselves.”

Joe could only grin.

“So which one is she?” she asked.

“The one who just noticed I’m talking to you.”

Lulu’s lips opened slightly. Then her gaze lighted on Patricia. She said something to the man who held her—a beefy, bald sergeant from one of the armored units—and then she skirted through the crowd.

“Is she coming over?” Patricia asked, still angled so that her generous breasts practically rested on the bar’s shining surface.

“Yes.”

She gave him a sweet smile this time, one purged of overt sexuality. “Want my help?”

Before he could ask what that meant, Joe was standing face-to-face with Lulu. All that dancing had loosened a barrette above her left ear. Her brow, the tops of her cheeks, and the bridge of her nose shone with perspiration. She looked as she had after he’d kissed her good night. That had been three weeks ago and he could still taste her.

“Joe,” she said simply.

He took a swig of beer to hide the satisfied smirk he felt coming on. She sounded upset. Maybe even angry. “Hello, Lulu.”

Perhaps curious about this new arrival, or perhaps providing the help she’d mentioned, Patricia turned away from the bar—and she did it as slowly and provocatively as possible. Joe could barely register the sensations as they occurred: her bust trailed across his upper arm, her hips turned against his thigh, her hands slid around his waist. Between Patricia’s physicality and memories of kissing Lulu, Joe found himself suddenly breathless and very hard.

“What does it look like?” he said tightly. “I’m sitting this one out.”

Lulu frowned as if he’d spoken in Russian. “What about our bet?”

His frustrations hit a fast boil. A sweet, beautiful redhead was glued to his hip, so he decided to take advantage of what she offered. Joe looped his arm around Patricia’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. She played along beautifully, flattening her palm on his chest and snuggling closer. Lulu deserved as much after how badly she messed with his peace of mind.