Simply Irresistible (8 page)

The pleasure of his smile sent a flutter to the pit of Georgeanne’s stomach. As she placed a package of sausage links in the sink and ran hot water over them, she imagined that with a smile like his, he’d have no problem getting women to do anything he wanted anytime he wanted it. “Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked, as she turned off the water and began pulling flour and other ingredients out of cupboards.

“How much of this do I slice?” he asked instead of answering her question.

Georgeanne glanced across her shoulder at him. He held the ham in one hand and a wicked-looking knife in the other. “As much as you think you’ll eat,” she responded. “Are you going to answer my question?”

“Nope.”

“Why?” She dumped flour, salt, and baking powder into a bowl without measuring.

“Because,” he began, and hacked off a hunk of ham, “it’s none of your business.”

“We’re friends, remember,” she reminded him, dying to know details of his personal life. She spooned Crisco into the flour and added, “Friends tell each other things.”

The hacking stopped and he looked up at her with his blue eyes. “I’ll answer your question if you answer one of mine.”

“Okay,” she said, figuring she could always tell a little white lie if she had to.

“No. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

For some reason his confession made her stomach flutter a little more.

“Now it’s your turn.” He tossed a piece of ham in his mouth, then asked, “How long have you known Virgil?”

Georgeanne pondered the question as she moved past John and took milk from the refrigerator. Should she lie, tell the truth, or perhaps reveal a bit of both? “A little over a month,” she answered truthfully, and added several splashes of milk to the bowl.

“Ahh,” he said through a flat smile. “Love at first sight.”

Hearing his bland, patronizing voice, she wanted to clobber him with her wooden spoon. “Don’t you believe in love at first sight?” She settled the bowl on her left hip and stirred as she’d seen her grandmother do a thousand times, as she herself had done too many times to count.

“No.” He shook his head and began to slice the ham once more. “Especially not between a woman like you and a man as old as Virgil.”

“A woman like me? What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No,” she said, even though she had a pretty good idea. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on.” He frowned and looked at her. “You’re young and attractive and built like a bri—like aaa ...” He paused and pointed the knife at her. “There’s only one reason a girl like you marries a man who parts his hair by his left ear and combs it over the top of his head.”

“I was fond of Virgil,” she defended herself, and stirred the dough into a dense ball.

He lifted a skeptical brow. “Fond of his money, you mean.”

“That’s not true. He can be real charming.”

“He can also be a
real
son of a bitch, but being that you’ve only known him a month, you might not know that.”

Careful not to lose her temper and throw something at him again, and in turn damage her chances of receiving an invitation to stay for a few more days, Georgeanne prudently placed the bowl on the counter.

“What made you run out on your wedding?”

She certainly wasn’t about to confess her reasons to him. “I just changed my mind is all.”

“Or did it finally dawn on you that you were going to have to have sex with a man old enough to be your grandfather for the rest of his life?”

Georgeanne folded her arms beneath her breasts and scowled at him. “This is the second time you’ve brought up the subject. Why are you so fascinated by my relationship with Virgil?”

“Not fascinated. Just curious,” he corrected, and continued to cut a few more slices of ham, before setting down the knife.

“Has it occurred to you that I might not have had sex with Virgil?”

“No.”

“Well, I haven’t.”

“Bullshit.”

Her hands fell to her sides and curled into fists. “You have a dirty mind and a filthy mouth.”

Nonchalant, John shrugged and leaned one hip into the edge of the counter. “Virgil Duffy didn’t make his millions by leaving anything to chance. He wouldn’t have paid for a sweet young bed partner without testing the springs.”

Georgeanne wanted to yell in his face that Virgil hadn’t paid for her, but he had. He just hadn’t received a return on his investment. If she’d gone through with the wedding, he would have. “I didn’t sleep with him,” she insisted while her emotions pitched from anger to hurt. Anger that he should judge her at all and hurt that he should judge her so trashy.

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly and a lock of his thick hair brushed his brow as he shook his head. “Listen, sweetheart, I don’t care if you slept with Virgil.”

“Then why do you keep talking about it?” she asked, and reminded herself that no matter how aggravating he was, she couldn’t lose her temper again.

“Because I don’t think you realize what you’ve done. Virgil is a very rich and powerful man. And you humiliated him today.”

“I know.” She lowered her gaze to the front of his white tank top. “I thought I might call him tomorrow and apologize.”

“Bad idea.”

She looked back up into his eyes. “Too soon?”

“Oh, yeah. Next year might be too soon. If I were you, I’d get the hell out of this state altogether. And as soon as possible.”

Georgeanne took a step forward, stopping several inches from John’s chest, and looked up at him as if she were on the edge of scared when, in truth, Virgil Duffy didn’t frighten her one bit. She felt bad for what she’d done to him today, but she knew he’d get over it. He didn’t love her. He only wanted her, and she didn’t intend to dwell on him tonight. Especially not when she had a more pressing concern, like finagling an until-you-can-get-your-life-together invitation out of John. “What’s he gonna do?” she drawled. “Hire someone to kill me?”

“I doubt he’ll go that far.” His gaze lowered to her mouth. “But he could make you one miserable little girl.”

“I’m not a little girl,” she whispered, and inched closer. “Or maybe you haven’t noticed.”

John pushed away from the counter and looked down into her face. “I’m neither blind nor retarded. I noticed,” he said, and slid his hand around her waist to the small of her back. “I’ve noticed a lot about you, and if you drop that robe, I’m sure you could keep me happy and smiling for hours.” His fingers drifted up her spine and brushed between her shoulders.

Even though John stood close, Georgeanne didn’t feel threatened. His broad chest and big arms reminded her of his strength, but without a doubt, she instinctively knew she could walk away at any time. “Sugar buns, if I dropped this robe, your smile would have to be surgically removed from your face,” she teased, her voice oozing southern seduction.

He lowered his hand to her bottom and cupped her right cheek in his palm. His eyes dared her to stop him. He was testing her, seeing just how far she’d let him go. “Hell, you might be worth a little surgery,” he said, and eased her close.

Georgeanne froze for an instant, testing the sensation of his touch. Even though his hand caressed her behind, and the tips of her breasts touched his chest, she didn’t feel pawed and pulled like a piece of taffy. She relaxed a little and slipped her palms up his chest.

Beneath her hands she felt the definition of muscle.

“But you’re not worth my career,” he said as his fingers smoothed the silk material back and forth across her behind.

“Your career?” Georgeanne rose onto the balls of her feet and placed soft kisses at the corner of his mouth. “What are you talking about?” she asked, prepared to carefully free herself from his grasp if he did something she didn’t care for.

“You,” he answered against her lips. “You’re a real good-time baby, but you’re bad for a man like me.”

“Like you?”

“I have a hard time saying no to anything excessive, shiny, or sinful.”

Georgeanne smiled. “Which am I?”

John laughed silently against her mouth. “Georgie girl, I do believe you are all three, and I’d love to find out just how bad you get, but it isn’t going to happen.”

“What isn’t?” she asked cautiously.

He pulled back far enough to look into her face. “The wild thing.”

“What?”

“Sex.”

Enormous relief washed through her. “I guess this just isn’t my lucky day,” she drawled through a big smile she tried but failed to suppress.

Chapter Four

John glanced at the folded napkin by his fork and shook his head. He couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be a hat, a boat, or some sort of lid. But since Georgeanne had informed him that she’d set the table with a North-meets-South theme, he guessed it was supposed to be a hat. Two empty beer bottles sprouted yellow and white wildflowers out the long necks. Down the middle of the table, a thin line of sand and broken shells had been woven through the four lucky horseshoes that used to hang on the stone fireplace. John didn’t think Ernie would mind the use of the horseshoes, but why Georgeanne would drag all that crap to the table was beyond him.

“Would you like some butter?”

He looked across the table into her seductive green eyes and shoved a bite of warm biscuit and sausage gravy in his mouth. Georgeanne Howard was a tease, but she was also one hell of a good cook. “No.”

“How was your shower?” she asked, and gave him a smile as soft as her biscuits.

Since he’d sat down at the table ten minutes ago, she’d tried her hardest to engage him in conversation, but he wasn’t in an obliging mood. “Fine,” he answered.

“Do your parents live in Seattle?”

“No.”

“Canada?”

“Just my mother.”

“Are your parents divorced?”

“Nope.” Her deep cleavage drew his gaze to the front of the black robe.

“Where’s your father?” she asked as she reached for her orange juice. The front of the robe gaped, exposing the scalloped edge of green lace and the swell of smooth white skin.

“Died when I was five.”

“I’m sorry. I know how it feels to lose a parent. I lost both of mine when I was quite young myself.”

John glanced back up into her face, unmoved. She was gorgeous. Curvy and soft in an overblown, breathy sort of way. Her long legs were beautifully shaped, and she was exactly the type of woman he preferred naked and in bed. Earlier today he’d accepted the fact that he couldn’t have Georgeanne. That didn’t bother him all that much, but it bugged the hell out of him that she only
pretended
she couldn’t wait to get her hot little hands all over his body. When he’d told her they couldn’t make love, her pouty little mouth had ooohed and cooed her disappointment, but her eyes had sparked with utter relief. In fact, he’d never seen such relief on a woman’s face.

“It was a boating accident,” she informed him as if he’d asked. She took a sip of orange juice, then added, “Off the coast of Florida.”

John stabbed a bite of ham, then reached for his coffee. Women liked him. Women shoved their phone numbers and underwear in his pockets. Women didn’t look at John as if sex with him were tantamount to root canal.

“It was a miracle that I wasn’t with them. My parents hated to leave me, of course, but I’d contracted the chicken pox. So reluctantly they’d left me with my grandmother, Clarissa June. I remember ...”

Tuning out her words, John lowered his gaze to the soft hollow of her throat. He wasn’t a conceited man, or at least he didn’t think he was. But the fact that Georgeanne found him so totally
resistible
irritated him more than he liked to admit. He set his coffee mug on the table and folded his arms across his chest. After his shower, he’d changed into a clean pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt. He still planned to go out. All he had to do was grab his shoes and go.

“But Mrs. Lovett was as cold as a Frigidaire,” Georgeanne continued, leaving John to wonder how the subject had shifted from her parents to refrigerators. “And tacky... cryin‘ all night, she was tacky. When LouAnn White got married, she gave her”— Georgeanne paused, her green eyes sparkling with animation—“a Hot Dogger. Can you believe it? Not only did she give an appliance, she gave a little machine that electrocutes weenies!”

John tilted his chair back on two legs. He distinctly remembered a conversation he’d had with her about rambling. He guessed she just couldn’t help herself. She was a tease and a chatter hound.

Georgeanne pushed her plate to the side and leaned forward. The robe parted as she confided, “My grandmother used to say that Margaret Lovett was just too tacky for Technicolor.”

“Are you doing that on purpose?” he asked.

Her eyes rounded. “What?”

“Flashing me your breasts.”

She looked down, eased away from the table, and clutched the robe to her throat. “No.”

The front legs of the chair hit the floor as John rose to his feet. He looked into her wide eyes and gave in to insanity. Holding out his hand, he ordered, “Come here.” When she stood before him, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her tight against his chest. “I’m leaving now,” he said, sinking into her soft curves. “Kiss me good-bye.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Awhile,” he answered, feeling his body grow heavy.

Like a cat stretching on a warm windowsill, Georgeanne arched against him and wound her arms around his neck. “I could go with you,” she purred.

John shook his head. “Kiss me and mean it.”

She rose onto the balls of her feet and did what he asked. She kissed like a woman who knew what she was doing. Her parted lips pressed softly into his. She tasted of orange juice and the promise of something sweeter. Her tongue touched, swirled, caressed, and teased. She ran her fingers through his hair as the arch of her foot slipped up his calf. Pure lust shot up the backs of his legs, took hold of his insides, and gave a good hard tug.

She was a pro, and he eased back far enough to look into her face. Her lips were shiny, her breath slightly uneven, and if her eyes had shown the slightest hint of the same hunger he felt, he would have turned and walked out the door. Satisfied.