She Woke Up Married (5 page)

She remembered she’d sobered up somewhere along the line and had kept up with the wild adventure anyway—particularly the part where she’d gotten Turner into her bed. In her flashback of memory she recalled Turner telling her he couldn’t have sex with her unless they were married, so she’d just made that happen. Lust is a many splendored thing.

It wasn’t drinking so much champagne that had kept her from remembering; it’d been self-preservation. If she’d recalled what a complete idiot she’d been, how badly she’d behaved, she would have had to face her worst qualities. She was a manipulative, oversexed, over-the-hill woman. Turner just happened to have been the recipient of her horrible display of self-centered, sloppy behavior.

Which in some ways was lucky for her. Turner would listen to reason. He’d understand and forgive her for tricking him and using him for one wild night. He was very forgiving. Anyone else might not be so forgiving, and she’d have them to deal with. That ought to be a lesson to her.

She was going to clean up her life and get her career back in order just as soon as she put Turner back on a plane to Vegas.

Anton was so mean to bring up her bookings,
even if it was true. Damn him. This was just another example of Anton’s inability to keep private things private. Obviously he and Rita had discussed it, which was just nasty; he couldn’t even keep that to himself, ratting out Rita by telling Paris he knew about her bookings. That meant they were all talking about it. She crossed her arms on the dressing table and smacked her head down hard on them. Her life was shit.

It was all true; she’d just been trying to pretend it wasn’t. She had seen a significant decrease over the last year. The designers kept wanting younger and younger girls. What did they see in those anorexic teenage snots? It just made her want to puke. Again.

Thirty in model years was like…dog years. Paris could see where the seeds of her Vegas outburst had come from. Reality bites—job woes, age woes, and boyfriend woes. But start a family? No way. She would have never said that, drunk or sober.

Paris realized, with her head on her arms, that she hadn’t calculated a period into her miserable life for over two months. That wasn’t totally unusual—it had happened before when she’d gotten too thin, but presently she was firmly in the fat jeans phase.

What was she going to do if she was pregnant? She was way too Catholic for some of the op
tions she might have had if she’d come to her senses earlier.

Which left her with giving the child away. No matter what career change she made, there was no room in it for a baby.

Paris was a working girl. Period. End of story. That’s all she ever wanted to be. Well, except that time she’d thought she might make a good senator’s wife. Backstabbing political arenas were right up her ally.

Turner was just way too nice. She’d break his heart in tiny pieces and leave him a damaged man. She did have some scruples. She was just going to have to ignore him until he got the message. But she wasn’t going to let him and Anton have a slumber party and tell all her secrets; that was for sure. She’d take Turner back with her to her place and straighten him out there.

Paris moved to go fill a paper cup with water at the sink and rinse her mouth out for the tenth time.

She looked in the mirror at her pale complexion and automatically reached in her bag for her lipstick. Maybe sparkling hot pink wasn’t her best shade today, like Anton had said; she should have put on a soft rose color instead.

She tilted her head and smacked her lips together, finding her best angle. There. She might be thirty, but she was still hot. Plenty of compa
nies wanted a slightly older model anyway. She could find work. Look at Cheryl Tiegs. She’d been a spokesmodel for the last zillion years. Of course her own personality wasn’t quite as
perky
as Cheryl’s.

If worse came to worst, she’d just get fat for nine months and give the kid to someone who would appreciate it. A nice couple. There were hundreds of them out there waiting to adopt. Then she’d get back to work. She just wasn’t mother material. Not with her family background.

She blotted her lips, tossed the paper towel in the trash, and pulled herself together.

She just wanted to go home and curl up with one of Marla’s books and a cup of hot chocolate.
Murder so Blue
…or
Green with Murder
—one of the new color-titled ones. That would make her feel better. This just wasn’t happening. She had no proof anyway, and a bad Danish does pop up once in a while. She’d start her period in a few days and laugh about her horrible paranoid moment. Until then she’d just distract herself—keep her mind off it.

Sure.

Paris picked up her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and pushed through the swinging door of the “Lassies” restroom. She marched straight for Turner and Anton.

Grabbing her coat off the chair, she started bundling her shaky self back up. “You,” she pointed at Turner with a wrist snap so quick both Anton and Turner jumped. “You are going home with me, Turner Pruitt. Get your stuff.”

“Paris, queen of tact,” Anton said to Turner.

“On the other hand, I might get lucky,” Turner replied. “All right, I surrender, General Paris. Take me prisoner. Slap me in handcuffs.”

“Oooh, can I come too?” Anton squealed.

“I’m afraid not, my friend. I’ll report in tomorrow.”

“Good luck.”

“I’d be glad to
slap
you with something, Anton.” Paris made her stone face at him.

“Hurt me. Go ahead.”

Paris waved him off, disgusted, but having just a little bit too much fun playing word toss. She had to get Turner out of here and stay on track.

“I’ll have a word with Stephen and be right with you,” Turner said.

“Hurry it up, will you? I’ve about had it for today,” Paris groused.

“Mrs. Pruitt, we’re going to have to work on your social skills.” He took a long moment and swigged down the last of his dark ale. With that, Turner headed for the bar, leaving Paris fuming.

Turner dropped his canvas duffle bag on the floor and gaped. “Wow, who’s your decorator, The Dixie Chicks?”

“This from a guy who until recently wore a white rhinestone outfit.”

“You can take the girl out of the country, but the country must stick in your craw something fierce. Is that a real chicken?”

“Stuffed. And programmable. It’s an alarm clock and it crows. The neighbors hate it.” Paris seemed genuinely proud of her odd possession. She flung her handbag on an old beat-up hall tree with peeling white paint. Or maybe that was that distressed country look. The fur coat made it on a hook, her boots went flying on the floor.

Turner took in Paris’s place and realized he was seeing a whole new side to Paris. A really messy, tacky, interesting side. The apartment was a large studio with tall ceilings and a great huge window that let the light in—unfortunately. Because what it illuminated in the daytime was really scary.

Her large bed in the far left corner was draped with a lace curtain canopy, piled high with pillows, along with unmatched pale pink and yellow quilts. It was unmade, and on one end was a stack of clothes she must have shed. There was a chair—he couldn’t tell what kind because it was covered with Paris’s clothes. He could see a few almost empty water glasses on the bedside table, along with piles of books and plates.

There was a kitchen, because he could smell it, dead ahead. Pots and dishes were stacked in the sink and take-out cartons from every cuisine known to man littered the countertops.

She had a collection of small bears that took up most of the cupboard space, as far as he could tell, and apparently the collection had taken over every windowsill and tabletop. Turner pivoted around the place and got the full picture. Tall stacks of magazines had old coffee cups and saucers on top, as if the magazines were end tables.

“Just throw your bag in the living room behind the sofa. That’s where you’ll be sleeping.”
Paris flounced over to her bed and shed a few more layers of clothing, which went on the chair.

She did have a closet, he guessed, because she stepped into an area that was draped with plain canvas panels hung from the ceiling. She vanished like a magician’s assistant.

Sofa. Let’s see. There was a sort of beige plaid blob of slipcovered fabric to his near left. That must be it. It faced the wall, and two tall, skinny windows poured the night lights and neon colors of Manhattan back down on it. It actually also faced an old cabinet television perched in between those windows. He didn’t see it at first, because it was piled with papers.

Turner put his bag behind the blob sofa and walked around his new sleeping spot. He picked three dirty sweat socks off one sofa cushion and put them in a basket overflowing with more magazines. He would have considered sitting and contemplating his fate, but the rest of the sofa was occupied by a gaggle of larger teddy bears—in dresses.

Turner tripped over Paris’s tennis shoes. Two pairs of them were just underneath the billowing bottom of the slipcover. He caught himself just before his head hit the bears.

Turner Pruitt had married a kitchy, bitchy slob.

He decided to go to the kitchen and find a glass of wine to dull his senses.

Just about then Paris popped out of the canvas
closet wearing gray leggings, thick socks, and a gray-and-white nightshirt with big pink kittens on it. Her hair was in a messy ponytail held back with a pink scrunchy. Hey, she was color coordinated.

“Help yourself to whatever is in the kitchen. I haven’t had a chance to spruce the place up since I got back from our little Vegas adventure.”

That was quite a while ago. But it looked to Turner like she hadn’t spruced up since Clinton was in office. Or maybe Carter.

“Thanks,” he replied.

“The bathroom is over there.” She pointed to a door painted barn red off to the right. Actually, it was painted just like a Dutch barn door, open on the top, closed on the bottom, with a black-and-white cow’s face smiling at him.

Turner felt genuine fear wash over him. What evil lurked in the heart of Paris’s cow bathroom? Maybe he should have stayed put at the YMCA. But then he couldn’t spend this quality time with his new wife and get her to come to her senses and talk to him.

For a moment Turner wondered if she had any senses to come to. “Thanks again. I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine.”

“None for me, thanks. If you think I’m falling for that one again, you’re nuts. I’m not getting drunk and ending up in bed with you. I’m going
to brush my teeth, get in my own bed, and curl up with a good book. Do whatever you want. There’s sheets and blankets in that closet right there.” Paris pointed, then padded toward the barn bathroom door in her socks and slammed the cow in his face.

Turner found the blankets and sheets in a small linen closet that dumped its entire contents on him when he opened the door. He picked out a few things and stuffed the rest back in. He better do battle with the teddy bears or he’d never get to sleep tonight. After some careful rearranging, he managed to make himself a bit of a bed. The teddies glared at him from their new home in the corner on the floor.

The kitchen, the kitchen. Oh, my Lord. He just couldn’t help himself. Turner located a trash can under the sink, but it was full to the brim. He shut the lid down as best he could. If it wasn’t still so cold in New York, there would be more flies. There. He found a blessing. There would be more flies if it wasn’t so darn cold.

A box of large black trash bags under the sink caught his eye. He pulled one out, shook it open, and started tossing half-eaten take-out cartons in. When he’d filled it to where it could stand on its own knee-high, he took a break.

Hey, she had a granite countertop! This place was actually kind of eclectic and interesting under her piles.

Turner looked in the fridge long enough to see a bottle of white wine in the door. He grabbed the bottle and slammed the fridge door quickly before any of the science experiments escaped.

A glass was a little harder. He saw that she had a dishwasher, but it only contained baseball hats. How interesting. The cupboard was bare except for a group of ceramic bears.

Oh, and much to his surprise, one thick white china mug with Garfield on it, declaring “I hate Mondays.” That would do. There was just enough space on the top of the dish heap to run the water into the cup and clean it. No dish towels to be seen, and no paper towels. He just shook it dry and unscrewed the wine bottle. A mug of bad wine would have to do.

Paris shoved back the tubes and jars of makeup and face junk so she could sit on the edge of the counter and look at the red bump on her nose close up. It looked like a zit—a zit! All this stress was bad for her skin. She opened the mirrored medicine cabinet and pulled out a bottle of acne cream. She’d zap the little devil back into submission.

She put a blob of the stuff on her nose, then hopped down to brush her teeth with her battery-operated Sylvester the Cat toothbrush. Paris looked in the mirror again and smiled with a foamy toothy smile at her reflection. Turner
was going to get the full reality-based Paris here. Let’s see how long he lasted with that.

No Chinese herb known to man or woman had been able to tame the raging beast that overtook her during days 25 to 28. She put the Incredible Hulk to shame. Most months she tried hard not to appear in public that week just in case she snapped, lost the last of her wire-thin self-control, and murdered someone in cold blood for cutting in front of her for a cab.

This month her boobs were nasty sore—way worse than usual. She must have been a bad man in her last life and they’d made her a woman to get even for it in this life. Karma. That was it. PMS was just not fun.

She’d see how fast Turner Pruitt turned tail and ran back to Vegas after a few days of the horror of PMS. He really should know what an indecent sort she actually was. No manners, no patience, she was just not cut out to be one of those wives that made dinner and ironed shirts and put out whenever the guy was in the mood. Nope, she was not wife material. And neither was she cut out to be a mother to some snot-nose, whiney child with twenty-four-hour needs. She was too selfish and mean.

Paris looked in the mirror again and saw that she was crying. A few tears had escaped her green eyes and streaked their way down her cheeks. She was completely freaking out.

Damn it! Turner Pruit was not going to stir up the past for her and remind her of the pain she’d so carefully buried. She just didn’t care to dig it all up. He’d just get all preachy on her anyhow.

She might have to explain why she’d decided to keep him with her instead of letting him stay at Anton’s, and that would mean talking about it all again. Turner could be so pushy about trying to fix things. He couldn’t seem to accept that some things just couldn’t be fixed.

She shifted her head to the side a bit and looked at her reflection. It had come to her lately that she had begun to resemble her mother quite alarmingly. No doubt she had her mother’s dark shadow lurking inside her, and one day the shadow would emerge and take her over completely.

No child should have to live through that. And that is why she would never allow that to happen.

Paris grabbed her ratty pink terry-cloth robe off the hook, tied it on, flung open the bathroom door, and shuffled into the kitchen. Turner was leaning against the counter drinking something out of her Garfield cup.

“That’s my favorite cup.”

“Many pardons, my queen, I’ll rinse it out and fill it with anything you like. Hot Milk? Cocoa? I found a teakettle and two packets of cocoa mix, complete with marshmallows. Are you game?”

“Hmph. Fine.” She headed to the third drawer beside the dishwasher and pulled it open to find her Twinkie stash intact. One she peeled right away and stuffed in her mouth, the other two she put in her robe pockets. “I’ll be in bed when it’s ready,” she mumbled through a Twinkie.

“You’re welcome, dear.”

“And don’t call me
dear
.”

“Yes, dear.” Turner smiled big at her and started filling the teakettle with water.

As she walked toward her bed, she glanced back at him. If she didn’t know better, it would look like he’d cleaned up the kitchen counters. She could see the blue granite in spots.

Nah, it must have been that way before.

He was humming.

She unloaded her Twinkies on the bedside table and threw her robe onto the chair. She could hardly believe how good it felt to get in between the smooth blue gingham sheets of her bed and pile the quilts and down comforter on top of herself. She squirmed out of the piles of covers enough to prop herself up on pillows and peel another Twinkie rapper.

He made quite a bit of kitchen noise, then he started singing some Irish sea chanty about leaving sweet Bessie behind or some such nonsense. His voice was really marvelous, but the neighbors were going to be banging on the walls pretty soon.

“Pipe down in there, you’ll wake the neighbors.” She yelled, but she had a Twinkie in her mouth, so it came out more like, “Phm dwine fer ul make the gnapers.”

“Whatever you say, darling.” The kettle started whistling loudly and drowned out whatever else she might have to say.

“Augh!” she said.

Turner came over to her bed bearing a steaming cup of hot chocolate in her favorite cup, perched on a pretty plate she didn’t know she owned. He balanced this for a moment and picked up three wine glasses with his other hand, finger balancing them, so there would be room on the bedside table for the plate. He set the glasses on the floor, arranged the plate, and placed her remaining Twinkie beside the hot chocolate.

Then he picked up the wine glasses and walked away humming again. What an annoying, beastly man he was.

She sipped the hot chocolate and finished up her second Twinkie. It was heaven, really.

A minute later she saw him cross the room with a wine glass of something for himself and head toward the sofa.

After he set his glass on the coffee table, he did the most amazing thing. He took off all his clothes. He did this very slowly, very deliberately, and without any self-consciousness at all.
He had turned down the apartment lights, and the city lights were the only thing illuminating him except her bedside lamp.

She watched him unbutton his faded blue denim shirt, fold it neatly, and set it on the table beside him, atop her stack of
Harper’s Bazaar
magazines. Next he peeled off a white T-shirt he’d worn under the shirt. His naked chest was broad and gloriously muscled from biceps to abs. She licked her lips and got hot chocolate foam in return.

He folded that shirt as well, and added it to the pile. She sat up a little taller to watch him remove his boots, set them to the side, then take off his jeans. Slow and easy they slid down his magnificent legs. He folded the jeans neatly and piled them with the rest.

He turned his back to her, and she had to really sit up against her hands to see the final piece of clothing come off Turner’s amazing body. His rear was truly a thing of beauty. She gasped, then heard herself gasp, and scrunched back down against the pillows in case he noticed. She quickly grabbed a paperback book off the table and pretended to read it.

Turner stretched out on her sofa totally nude, picked up his glass, and took a long drink. He stared out the windows. He didn’t pick up a magazine, turn on the tube, or read the newspaper. He just stared out the window.

After a while he set down the glass and rose from his reclining position. He walked straight across the apartment, still naked, and into her bathroom. She heard water running. She giggled to herself and ate her last Twinkie, washing it down with the last of the hot chocolate. She’d have to go brush her teeth again somehow, but she’d be damned if she’d let him know she’d been watching his gorgeous self get naked.

Turner came out of the bathroom, passed by her, smiled, then lay back down on the sofa, pulling a sheet and blanket over himself. She watched as he again just gazed out the window.

“Paris?” he asked.

“What?” she replied as flatly as possible.