Simply Irresistible (7 page)

Then she remembered Ernie and a breathy laugh escaped her throat. “I’ve never been tackled before. Does this usually work for you?” Surely John wouldn’t expect her to sleep with him while his grandfather was in the next room. Relief washed through her.

“What’s the matter? Didn’t you like it?”

Georgeanne smiled up into his eyes. “Well, I could make a suggestion.”

Rising to his knees, he looked down at her. “I’ll just bet you could,” he said as he stood.

Instantly she felt the loss of body heat and struggled to a sitting position. “Flowers. They’re more subtle, but get your message across just the same.”

John held out a hand to Georgeanne and helped her to her feet. He never sent flowers to women anymore, not since the day he’d ordered dozens of pink roses placed on the lid of his wife’s white coffin.

He dropped Georgeanne’s hand and pushed the memory aside before it got too painful. Focusing his attention on Georgeanne, he watched her turn at the waist to wipe sand from her behind. He deliberately let his gaze slide down her body. She had tangles in her hair, sand on her knees, and her red toenails were a strange contrast to her dirty feet. The green shorts clung to her thighs, and his old black T-shirt looked as if it had been laminated to her breasts. Her nipples were hard from the cold and stuck out like little berries. Beneath him she’d felt good—too good. And he’d stayed much too long pressed into her soft body and staring down into her pretty green eyes.

“Did you get ahold of your aunt?” he asked as he bent down to pick up his sunglasses from the ground.

“Ahh... not yet.”

“Well, you can call again once we get back.” John straightened, then turned to walk across the beach toward his house.

“I’ll try,” she said, catching up with him and matching his long strides. “But it’s Aunt Lolly’s bingo night, so I don’t think she’ll be home for a few more hours.”

John glanced at her, then slipped on his Ray-Bans. “How long do her bingo games last?”

“Well, that depends on how many of those little cards she buys. Now, if she decides to play at the old grange hall, she doesn’t play as long because they allow smoking, and Aunt Lolly absolutely hates cigarette smoke, and of course, Doralee Hofferman plays at the grange. And there’s been real bad blood between Lolly and Doralee since 1979 when Doralee stole Lolly’s peanut patty recipe and called it her own. The two had been the best of friends, you understand, up until—”

“Here we go again,” John sighed, interrupting her. “Listen, Georgie,” he said, and stopped to look at her. “We’re never going to get through tonight if you don’t stop this.”

“Stop what?”

“Rambling.”

Her pouty mouth fell open and she placed an innocent palm on the top of her left breast. “I ramble?”

“Yes, and it gets on my nerves. I don’t give a goddamn about your aunt’s Jell-O, foot-washing Baptists, or peanut patties. Can’t you just talk like a normal person?”

She dropped her gaze, but not before he saw the wounded look in her eyes. “You don’t think I talk like a normal person?”

A twinge of guilt pricked his conscience. He didn’t want to hurt her, but at the same time, he didn’t want to listen to hours of her meandering chitchat either. “Not really, no. But when I ask you a question that should require a three-second answer, I get three minutes of bullshit that has nothing to do with anything.”

She bit her bottom lip, then said, “I’m not stupid, John.”

“I never meant that you were,” he contended, even though he didn’t figure she’d been valedictorian at that university she said she’d attended. “Look, Georgie,” he added because she looked so hurt, “I’ll tell you what, if you don’t ramble, I’ll try not to be an ass.”

The corners of her mouth formed a doubtful frown.

“Don’t you believe me?”

Shaking her head, she scoffed, “I told you that I wasn’t stupid.”

John laughed. Damn, he was beginning to like her. “Come on.” He motioned with his head toward the house. “You look like you’re freezing.”

“I am,” she confessed, then fell into step beside him.

They walked across the cool sand without speaking while the sounds of crashing waves and crying sea-birds filled the breeze. When they reached the weathered stairs leading to the back door of John’s house, Georgeanne took the first step, then turned to face him. “I don’t ramble,” she said, her eyes squinted against the glare of the setting sun.

John stopped and looked into her face on about the same level as his. Several corkscrew curls were beginning to dry and dance about her head. “Georgie, you ramble.” He reached for his sunglasses and slipped them down the bridge of his nose. “But if you can manage to control yourself, we’ll get along fine. I think for one night we can be”—he paused and placed the Ray-Bans on her face—“friends,” he finished for lack of a better word, although he knew it was impossible.

“I’d like that, John,” she said, and pulled her lips into a seductive smile. “But I thought you told me you weren’t a nice guy.”

“I’m not.” She was so close, her breasts almost touched his chest—almost, and he wondered if she was playing the tease again.

“How can we possibly be friends if you’re not nice to me?”

John slid his gaze to her lips. He was tempted to show her just how
nice
he could be. He was tempted to lean forward just a little and brush his mouth across hers, to taste her sweet lips and explore the promise of her seductive smile. He was tempted to raise his hands a few inches to her hips and pull her tight against him, tempted to learn just how far she’d let his hands roam before she stopped him.

He was tempted, but not insane. “Easy.” He placed his palms on her shoulders and moved her to the side. “I’m going out,” he announced, and walked past her up the stairs.

“Take me with you,” she said as she followed closely behind.

“No.” He shook his head. There wasn’t a chance that he was going to be seen with Georgeanne Howard. Not a chance in hell.

Warm water ran over Georgeanne’s chilled flesh as she slowly worked shampoo into her hair. Before she’d entered the shower fifteen minutes ago, John had asked her to keep it short because he wanted to shower before he went out for the evening. Georgeanne had other plans.

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back to rinse the suds away and cringed to think of what the cheap shampoo was doing to the ends of her spiral perm. She thought of the Paul Mitchell packed in her suitcase in the back of Virgil’s Rolls-Royce, and she felt like crying as she ripped open a sample packet of conditioner she’d found beneath the bathroom sink. A pleasant floral scent filled the steam of the shower as her thoughts turned from shampoo and conditioner to the bigger problem at hand.

Ernie had left for the evening, and John planned to follow him. Georgeanne couldn’t very well persuade John to let her stay for a few days if he wasn’t even in the house. When he’d announced that they could be friends, she’d felt a moment of relief, only to have it dashed by his second announcement that he was going out.

Georgeanne took great care to work the conditioner into her hair before she stepped back into the stream of warm water. For a brief moment she thought about using sex to entice John into remaining home for the night, but she quickly dismissed the idea. Not so much because she found the idea morally distasteful, but because she didn’t
like
sex. The few times she’d allowed men to become that intimate with her, she’d felt acutely self-conscious. So self-conscious that she couldn’t enjoy herself.

By the time she emerged from the shower, the water had turned cold and she greatly feared that she smelled like manly soap. She quickly dried herself, then dressed in a pair of emerald lace underwear and a matching bra. She’d bought the fancy underwear in anticipation of her honeymoon, but she couldn’t say she was real sorry that Virgil would never see her in it.

The ceiling fan pulled the steam from the room, but the silk robe she’d borrowed from John clung to her moist skin as she tied the belt around her waist. Despite the soft texture of the material, the robe was very masculine and smelled of cologne. The pitch black silk hit her just below the knees, while a big red and white Japanese symbol had been embroidered on the back.

She ran the big teeth of her comb through her hair and pushed away the memory of her Estee Lauder lotion and powder locked in Virgil’s car. Pulling open cabinet drawers, she looked for anything she might use in her beauty regime. She found a few toothbrushes, a tube of Crest, a bottle of foot powder, a can of shave cream, and two razors.

“That’s it?” With a frown marring her forehead, she turned and rummaged through her overnight case. She pushed aside the plastic container of prescription birth control pills she’d started to take three days prior and pulled out her cosmetics. She found it extremely unjust that John could look so handsome with such a paltry effort while she had to spend hundreds of dollars and a good amount of time on her appearance.

Lifting a towel, she dried a spot on the mirror and peered at herself. Through the circle she’d wiped on the glass, she brushed her teeth, then applied mascara to her lashes and blusher to her cheeks.

A knock on the bathroom door startled her so bad she almost streaked her face with a tube of Luscious Peach lipstick.

“Georgie?”

“Yes, John?”

“I need in there, remember?”

She remembered, all right. “Oh, I forgot.” She fluffed the hair around her face with her fingers and critically viewed her appearance. She smelled like a man and looked less than her best.

“Are you coming out anytime tonight?”

“Give me a second,” she said, and tossed her cosmetics into the overnight case sitting on the closed toilet seat lid. “Should I put the wet clothes over the towel rack?” she asked as she gathered them from the white and black linoleum floor.

“Yeah. Sure,” he answered through the door. “Are you going to be much longer?”

Georgeanne carefully laid her wet bra and underwear over the aluminum rod, then covered them with the green shorts and T-shirt. “All done,” she said as she opened the door.

“What happened to keeping it short?” He held up his hands as if he were catching rain in his palms.

“Wasn’t that short? I thought that was short.”

His hands fell to his sides. “You were in there so long, I’m surprised your skin isn’t wrinkled like a California raisin.” Then he did what she’d expected the moment she’d opened the door. He let his gaze wander down her body, then climb back up again. A spark of interest flashed behind his eyes, and she relaxed. He liked her. “Did you use all the hot water?” he asked as a deep scowl darkened his features.

Georgeanne’s eyes widened. “I guess I did.”

“It doesn’t matter now anyway, damn it,” he cursed as he turned his wrist over and looked at his watch. “Even if I left now, the bar will run out of oysters before I can get there.” He turned and walked down the hall toward the living room. “I guess I’ll eat beer nuts and stale popcorn.”

“If you’re hungry, I could cook something for you.” Georgeanne followed close behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I don’t think so.”

She wasn’t about to let this opportunity to impress him pass her by. “I’m a wonderful cook. I could make you a beautiful dinner before you go out.”

John stopped in the middle of the living room and turned to face her. “No.”

“But I’m hungry also,” she said, which wasn’t precisely the truth.

“You didn’t get enough to eat earlier?” He buried his hands up to his knuckles in the front pocket of his jeans and shifted his weight to one foot. “Ernie sometimes forgets that not everyone eats as little as he does. You should have said something.”

“Well, I didn’t want to impose any more than I already have,” she said, and smiled sweetly at him. She could see his hesitation and pressed a little further. “And I didn’t want to hurt your grandfather’s feelings, but I hadn’t eaten all day and was starving. But I know how older people are. They eat soup or salad and call it a meal while the rest of us call it first course.”

His lips curved slightly.

Georgeanne took the slight smile as a sign of acquiescence and walked past him into the kitchen. For a jock who admitted he didn’t like to cook, the room was surprisingly modern. She opened the almond-colored refrigerator and mentally inventoried its contents. Ernie had mentioned that the kitchen was well stocked, and he hadn’t been kidding.

“Can you really make gravy with tuna fish?” he asked from the doorway.

Recipes flipped through her head like a Rolodex as she opened a cupboard filled with a variety of pasta and spices. She glanced at John, who stood with one shoulder propped against the frame. “Don’t tell me you want creamed tuna? Some people like it, but if I never have to see or smell it again, I could live quite happy.”

“Can you make a big breakfast?”

Georgeanne shut the cupboard and turned to face him. The silky black belt at her waist came loose. “Of course,” she said as she tightly retied it into a bow. “But why would you want breakfast when you have all that wonderful seafood in your refrigerator?”

“I can have seafood anytime,” he answered with a shrug.

She’d accumulated a variety of culinary skills from years of cooking classes and was eager to impress him. “Are you sure you want breakfast? I make a killer pesto and my linguine with clam sauce is to die for.”

“How about biscuits and gravy?”

Disappointed she asked, “You’re kidding, right?” Georgeanne couldn’t remember being taught how to make biscuits and gravy, it was just something she’d always known how to do. She supposed it had been bred into her. “I thought you wanted oysters.”

He shrugged again. “I’d rather have a big, greasy breakfast. A real southern artery clogger.”

Georgeanne shook her head and opened the refrigerator again. “We’ll fry up all the pork we can find.”

“We?”

“Yep.” She placed a summer ham on the counter, then opened the freezer. “I need you to slice the ham while I make biscuits.”

His dimple creased his tan cheek as he smiled, and he pushed himself away from the doorframe. “I can do that.”