Simply Irresistible (2 page)

The harpist’s smile grew more flirtatious, and John looked away. Not only was the woman too skinny, but he hated harp music just about as much as he hated weddings. He’d been through two of his own, and neither had been real blissful. In fact, the last time he’d been this hung-over had been in Vegas six months ago when he’d woken up in a red velvet honeymoon suite suddenly married to a stripper named DeeDee Delight. The marriage hadn’t lasted much longer than the wedding night. And the real bitch of it was, he couldn’t remember if DeeDee had been all that delightful.

“Thanks for coming, son.” The owner of the Seattle Chinooks approached John from behind and patted him on the shoulder.

“I didn’t think any of us had a choice,” he said, looking down into Virgil Duffy’s lined face.

Virgil laughed and continued down the wide brick steps, the picture of wealth in his silver-gray tuxedo. Beneath the early afternoon sun, Virgil appeared to be exactly what he was: a member of the Fortune 500, owner of a professional hockey team, and a man who could buy himself a young trophy wife.

“Did you see him last night with the woman he’s marrying?”

John glanced across his right shoulder at his newest teammate, Hugh Miner. Sportswriters had compared Hugh to James Dean in looks and reckless behavior on and off the ice. John liked that in a man. “No,” he answered as he reached beneath his blazer and pulled a pair of Ray-Bans from the breast pocket of his oxford shirt. “I left fairly early.”

“Well, she’s pretty young. Twenty-two or so.”

“That’s what I hear.” He shifted to one side and let a group of older ladies pass on their way down the stairs. Being a practicing womanizer himself, he’d never claimed to be a self-righteous moralist, but there was something pathetic and just a little sick about a man Virgil’s age marrying a woman nearly forty years younger.

Hugh poked John in the side with his elbow. “And breasts that could make a man sit up and beg for buttermilk.”

John slipped the sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and smiled at the ladies who glanced back at Hugh.

He hadn’t been real quiet with his description of Virgil’s fiancée. “You were raised on a dairy farm, right?”

“Yep, about fifty miles outside of Madison,” the young goalie said with pride.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that buttermilk thing too loud, if I were you. Women tend to get real pissed off when you compare them to cows.”

“Yeah.” Hugh laughed and shook his head. “What do you think she sees in a man old enough to be her grandfather? I mean, she isn’t ugly or fat or anything. In fact, she’s real good-lookin‘.”

At the age of twenty-four, Hugh was not only younger than John but obviously naive. He was on his way to being the best damn goalie in the NHL, but he had a real bad habit of stopping the puck with his head. In view of his last question, he obviously needed a thicker mask. “Take a look around,” John answered. “The last I heard, Virgil’s worth over six hundred million.”

“Yeah, well, money can’t buy everything,” the goalie grumbled as he started down the steps. “Are you coming, Wall?” He paused to ask over his shoulder.

“Nope,” John answered. He sucked an ice cube into his mouth, then tossed the tumbler into a potted fern, showing the same disregard for the Baccarat as he had shown for the scotch. He’d put in an appearance at the party last night, and he’d shown his face today. He’d played his part, but he wasn’t staying. “I’ve got one bitch of a hangover,” he said as he descended the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“My house in Copalis.”

“Mr. Duffy isn’t going to like it.”

“Too bad,” was his unconcerned comment as he walked around the side of the three-story brick mansion toward his 1966 Corvette parked in front. A year ago, the convertible had been a present to himself after he’d been traded to the Chinooks and had signed a multimillion-dollar contract with the Seattle hockey team. John loved the classic Corvette. He loved the big engine and all that power. He figured once he got on the freeway, he’d open the Corvette up.

As he shed his blue blazer, a flash of pink at the top of the wide brick steps caught his attention. He tossed his jacket in the shiny red car and paused to watch a woman in a light pink dress slip through the massive double doors. A beige overnight case banged against the hardwood, and a breeze tossed dozens of dark corkscrew curls about her bare shoulders. She looked like she’d been shrink-wrapped in satin from armpit to midthigh. The large white bow sewn to the top of the bodice did little to hide her centerfold bosom. Her legs were long and tan, and she wore a pair of flimsy strapless high heels on her feet.

“Hey, mister, wait a minute,” she called to him in a slightly breathless, distinctly southern voice. The heels of her ridiculous shoes made tiny click-click sounds as she bounced down the stairs. Her dress was so tight, she had to descend sideways, and with each hurried step, her breasts strained and swelled against the top of the dress.

John thought about telling her to stop before she hurt herself. Instead he shifted his weight to one foot, folded his arms, and waited until she came to a halt on the opposite side of his car. “Maybe you shouldn’t run like that,” he advised.

From beneath perfectly arched brows, pale green eyes stared at him. “Are you one of Virgil’s hockey players?” she asked, stepping out of her shoes and leaning down to pick them up. Several glossy dark curls slid over her tanned shoulder and brushed the tops of her breasts and the white bow.

“John Kowalsky,” he introduced himself. With her full, kiss-me-daddy lips and tilty eyes, she reminded him of his grandfather’s favorite sex goddess, Rita Hayworth.

“I need to get out of here. Can you help me?”

“Sure. Where are you headed?”

“Anywhere but here,” she answered, and tossed her overnight case and shoes on the floor of his car.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he slid into the Corvette. He hadn’t planned on having company, but having Miss January jump in his car wasn’t such a bad fate. Once she sat in the passenger’s seat, he pulled out of the circular drive. He wondered who she was and why she was in such a hurry.

“Oh God,” she moaned, and turned to stare at Virgil’s rapidly disappearing house. “I left Sissy there all by herself. She went to get her bouquet of lilac and pink roses and I ran out!”

“Who’s Sissy?”

“My friend.”

“Were you supposed to be in the wedding?” he asked. When she nodded he assumed she was a bridesmaid or some sort of attendant. As they sped past walls of fir trees, rolling farmland, and pink rhododendrons, he studied her out of the corner of his eye. A healthy tan tinted her smooth skin, and as John looked at her, he noticed that she was prettier then he’d first realized—younger, too.

She turned to face the front again, and the wind picked up her hair and sent it dancing about her face and straight shoulders. “Oh, God. I’ve really messed up this time,” she groaned, drawing out the vowels.

“I could take you back,” he offered, wondering what had happened to make this woman run out on her friend.

She shook her head and her pearl drop earrings brushed the smooth skin just below her jaw. “No, it’s too late. I’ve done it now. I mean, I’ve done it in the past... but this ... this beats all with a stick.”

John turned his attention to the road. Female tears didn’t really bother him much, but he hated hysterics, and he had a real bad feeling she was about to get hysterical on him. “Ahh ... what’s your name?” he asked, hoping to avoid a scene.

She took a deep breath, tried to let it out slowly, and grabbed at her stomach with one hand. “Georgeanne, but everyone calls me Georgie.”

“Well, Georgie, what’s your last name?”

She placed one palm on her forehead. Her sculpted nails were painted light beige on the bottom and white at the ends. “Howard.”

“Where do you live, Georgie Howard?”

“McKinney.”

“Is that just south of Tacoma?”

“Cryin‘ all night in a bucket,” she groaned, and her breathing quickened. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

“Are you going to get sick?”

“I don’t think so.” She shook her head and gulped air into her lungs. “But I can’t breathe.”

“Are you hyperventilating?”

“Yes—no—I don’t know!” She looked at him with nervous, wet eyes. Her fingers began to claw at the pink satin covering her ribs, and the hem of her dress slipped farther up her smooth thighs. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” she wailed between big, hiccuping breaths.

“Put your head between your knees,” he instructed, glancing briefly at the road.

She leaned slightly forward, then fell back against the seat. “I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“My corset is too tight... Good Lord!” Her southern drawl rose. “I’ve done it up good this time. I can’t believe it...” she continued with her now familiar litany.

John began thinking that helping Georgeanne was not the best idea. He pressed the gas pedal to the floor, propelling the Corvette across a bridge spanning a narrow strip of the Puget Sound, quickly leaving Bainbridge Island behind. Shades of green sped past as the Corvette chewed up highway 305.

“Sissy is never going to forgive me.”

“I wouldn’t worry about your friend,” he said, somewhat disappointed to find that the woman in his car was as flaky as a croissant. “Virgil will buy her something nice, and she’ll forget all about it.”

A wrinkle appeared between her brows. “I don’t think so,” she said.

“Sure he will,” John argued. “He’ll probably take her someplace real expensive, too.”

“But Sissy doesn’t like Virgil. She thinks he’s a lecherous old leprechaun.”

A real bad feeling tweaked the back of John’s neck. “Isn’t Sissy the bride?”

She stared at him with her big green eyes and shook her head. “I am.”

“That’s not even funny, Georgeanne.”

“I know,” she wailed. “I can’t believe I left Virgil at the altar!”

The tweak in John’s neck shot to his head, reminding him of his hangover. He stomped on the brake as the Corvette swerved to the right and stopped on the side of the highway. Georgeanne fell against the door and grasped the handle with both hands.

“Jesus H. Christ!” John shoved the car into park and reached for the sunglasses on his face. “Tell me you’re joking!” he demanded, tossing the Ray-Bans on the dash. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he were caught with Virgil’s runaway bride. But then, he really didn’t have to think about it too hard, he knew what would happen. He knew he’d find himself traded to a losing team faster than he could clear out his locker. He liked playing for the Chinook organization. He liked living in Seattle. The last thing he wanted was a trade.

Georgeanne straightened and shook her head.

“But you’re not wearing a wedding dress.” He felt tricked and pointed an accusing finger at her. “What kind of bride doesn’t wear a damn wedding dress?”

“This is a wedding dress.” She grasped the hem and tried to yank it modestly down her thighs. But the dress hadn’t been made for modesty. The more she tugged it toward her knees, the farther it slid down her breasts. “It’s just not a traditional wedding dress,” she explained as she grabbed the big white bow and pulled the bodice back up. “After all, Virgil has been married five times, and he thought a white gown would be tacky.”

Taking a deep breath, John closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. He had to get rid of her—fast. “You live south of Tacoma, right?”

“No. I’m from McKinney—McKinney, Texas. Until three days ago, I’d never been north of Oklahoma City.”

“This just keeps getting better.” He laughed without humor and turned to look at her sitting there as if she’d been gift wrapped just for him. “Your family is here for the wedding, right?”

Again she shook her head.

John frowned. “Naturally.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

Jumping out of the car, John ran to the other side. If she was going to vomit, he’d prefer she didn’t do it in his new classic ‘vette. He opened her door and grabbed her around the waist, and even though John was six foot five, weighed two twenty-five in his birthday suit, and could easily body-check any player against the boards, hauling Georgeanne Howard from his car was no easy task. She was heavier than she looked, and beneath his hands, she felt like she’d sealed herself up in a soup can. “Are you going to puke?” he asked the part in the top of her head.

“I don’t think so,” she answered, and looked up at him with pleading eyes. He’d been around enough women to spot a house cat when one landed in his lap. He recognized the “love me, feed me, take care of me” breed. They purred and rubbed, and other than making a man yowl, weren’t good for anything else. He’d help her get where she needed to go, but the last thing he wanted was the care and feeding of the woman who’d jilted Virgil Duffy. “Where can I drop you off?”

Georgeanne felt like she’d swallowed dozens of butterflies and had difficulty catching her breath. She’d cinched herself into a dress two sizes too small and could only suck air into the top of her lungs. She looked way up into dark blue eyes surrounded by thick lashes and knew she’d rather slit her wrists with a butter knife than get sick in front of a man so outrageously good-looking. His thick lashes and full mouth should have made him look a little feminine, but didn’t. The man exuded too much masculinity to be confused for anything but one hundred percent heterosexual male. Georgeanne, who stood five ten and weighed one hundred forty—on good days when she wasn’t retaining water—felt almost small next to him.

“Where can I drop you off, Georgie?” he asked her again. A lock of rich brown hair curved over his forehead, drawing her attention to a thin white scar running through his left brow.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. For months now she’d lived with a horrible heaviness in her chest. A weight she’d been so sure a man like Virgil could make go away. With Virgil, she would have never had to dodge bill collectors or angry landlords again. She was twenty-two and had tried to take care of herself, but as with most things in her life, she’d failed—miserably. She’d always been a failure. She’d failed in school and at every job she’d ever had, and she’d failed to convince herself that she could love Virgil Duffy. That afternoon, as she’d stood before the cheval mirror studying her reflection, studying the wedding dress he’d chosen for her, the heaviness in her chest threatened to choke her and she’d known she couldn’t marry Virgil. Not even for all that wonderful money could she go to bed with a man who reminded her of H. Ross Perot.