Love Between the Pages: 8 Romances for Booklovers

by Bird, Peggy

  She cultivated her face into an expression of mild interest in spite of the color she knew flared in her cheeks. “Well, I’d say Fritzi Field has stated the case with exactitude. That’s one point I wouldn’t dream of arguing with.”

  Denise looked over the top of the book at Georgeanne in a searching way.

  “When you get through with that book, Denise, may I borrow it?” Sandra asked.

  Georgeanne turned with gratitude. The small blonde leaned over the back counter, listening in apparent fascination.

  “Dare we ask why you want to borrow it?” Angela asked in teasing tones. She joined Sandra in leaning against the back counter.

  The three women had just returned from lunch, a lunch Georgeanne had declined on the excuse of addressing those press notices. Georgeanne realized with some horror that Denise had improved the lunch by reading aloud educational passages from Faking It.

  “I’m interested in what else she has to say,” Sandra said. “Fritzi Field is probably going to save a lot of marriages.”

  “That’s what I think,” Denise said. “Do you know what’s weird?”

  Too suffocated to reply, Georgeanne fastened all her attention on the envelope she had just laid in her printer and hoped her hair screened her face. Thank goodness her natural modesty had kept her from showing her colleagues her published magazine articles. They thought she wrote a few things here and there as a hobby — if they remembered she wrote. She sincerely hoped they didn’t remember she wrote.

  “What?” Angela asked. “Other than Fritzi Field’s screwball method of saving marriages, I mean.”

  “When I read that passage, I can almost hear Georgie talking,” Denise said.

  The bottom dropped out of Georgeanne’s stomach. Everything in front of her eyes went momentarily dark.

  “You’re right.” Sandra tapped the counter in agreement. “Georgie sounds exactly the same way when she’s trying to make a point. One minute she sounds like a doctor, and the next minute she sounds like your mother.”

  Georgeanne smothered a soft moan and prayed for strength. When she had finished writing Faking It and submitted it to an agent, she’d honestly thought that if the book got published, it might make her a tidy little advance she could donate to the Humane Society. She never thought to see so much as a single copy of her book in a local bookstore.

  “Thanks a lot.” She could hardly speak, she felt so dismayed.

  “You know, you’re absolutely right.” Angela narrowed her eyes on Georgeanne, who knew she resembled a ripe tomato in spite of her best efforts at ordinariness. “The way that woman writes sounds exactly like the way Georgie talks.” She tossed her fuzzy red hair back and intoned, “Hello, Mr. Leno, this is Angela Porter, freelance agent. For a small fee, I can arrange an introduction to that reclusive author everyone is chasing, Ms. Fritzi Field. You can be the first — ”

  “Cut it out, Angie,” Denise said. “You’re embarrassing poor Georgie.”

  “Can’t you just see me on the Jay Leno show?” Georgeanne managed. “I’d say about two words and freeze into a neon-red block of ice.”

  Angela studied Georgeanne. “Actually, you look like the perfect, professional guest.”

  Georgeanne glanced down at her new yellow jersey dress. She loved yellow, but the color was much too bright to wear for a public appearance. Whenever Georgeanne had to appear on a stage, she took care to dress in something brown. Otherwise, she dominated the stage, thanks to her height.

  “My dream is to be interviewed by Oprah Winfrey,” Denise said. “Wouldn’t I have a fantastic time telling everybody how the world ought to be? Lord, I wish I’d thought of Faking It first.”

  At the moment, Georgeanne wished Denise had, too.

  “Oh, not me,” Sandra said. “I’d just die if anyone thought I had written that book, much as I agree with what it says. Everyone would assume I was writing about myself.”

  Georgeanne sucked in her breath. From the way her skin prickled, she knew her complexion turned white, then red.

  Angela leaned across the counter and peered at Georgeanne. “Now that I think about it, Georgie has been acting weird ever since Denise started bringing that book to work. She never used to blush this much.”

  Georgeanne hurried into thoughtless self-defense. “I just don’t think sex ought to be discussed in public the way all these shows and books seem to be discussing it these days. It’s a private thing between the two people involved.”

  “That’s not what you said last week.” Sandra bent her fair head and wrinkled her brow. “Last week, you said it was a good thing that people these days are more open about sex. You said it would prevent lots of bad marriages.”

  “Well, this week I’ve changed my mind.” Georgeanne knew that if she didn’t get control of her complexion and her voice, not to mention her common sense and her memory, her secret would be out. “It must be Denise’s habit of reading bits of Fritzi Field to me at odd times. Obviously, it’s affecting my brain.”

  She needed to get herself hypnotized. Anything that might turn off the blushes.

  Angela laughed. “It’s affected all of us. Why are you so interested in that stupid book, Denise?”

  Denise closed the book. She drew her perfect figure to its full height and assumed every bit of the dignity that she could assume when necessary. “If I’d had this book before my husband left me, I’d still be married.” She marched out of Georgeanne’s office, leaving dismayed silence behind her.

  “Oh, wow.” Angela stared after Denise. “Denise is one of the sexiest-looking women I’ve ever seen. Is she telling us she was frigid? That that’s why her husband left her?”

  “There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Georgeanne said in choked tones. “At least, not many. There are, however, lots of ego-involved men who’d rather blame the woman than their own technique.”

  “That’s exactly what Fritzi Field says,” Sandra said.

  Georgeanne’s breath stopped once more. She needed to muzzle herself. Or else.

  “She also says sexual incompatibility is a major cause of trouble between couples.” Sandra sounded as shocked as Angela. “She says that the woman is the one who is expected to fix everything, while the man keeps on thinking he’s Mr. Super-Stud. That’s why Fritzi feels a woman is justified in faking orgasm. She says that if orgasm is all it takes to soothe his ego and make him happy, then why not give it to him?”

  Georgeanne debated whether she wanted to sink through the floor or allow herself to feel the satisfaction only an author could feel when a reader agrees with her.

  On the whole, she thought sinking through the floor was the better choice. Having her private opinion was one thing, but advising other people was quite another. Georgeanne hadn’t discovered until too late that giving public advice carried great mental and emotional responsibility.

  She wasn’t suited for this. Georgeanne covered her burning face with her hands and wished for oblivion.

  “Georgie?” Zane Bryant said. “Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?”

  Georgeanne’s heart froze. Then it resumed beating at a slightly faster pace. She dropped her hands and turned. “Hello, Doctor. We weren’t expecting you this early.”

  “I cleared my schedule so I could be here the entire weekend.” He regarded her with concern over the front counter. “What’s wrong?”

  “She’s had bad news.” Angela smiled a greeting at him. “She’s just learned she’s the number one suspect in the search for the real Fritzi Field.”

  Georgeanne reacted to the remark the way she would to an unexpected kick to her kneecap. “Don’t be ridiculous, Angie. You know very well I’m not the type to write a book.”

  “You probably could if you wanted to,” Sandra said. “Dr. Gant and Dr. Baghri both say you have writing talent. Look at the way donations are pouring in for the Saturday Clinic.”

  “Fritzi Field?” Zane frowned. “Isn’t she the author of that book they’re discussing on all th
e talk shows? The one who advises women on the proper way to fake an orgasm?”

  Georgeanne thought about homicide, suicide, bolts of lightning, and meteors from heaven.

  “That’s the one.” Sandra sent Zane a shy smile. “Denise has been bringing the book to work this past week and reading us all the good parts. Poor Georgie is about to die of embarrassment.”

  Great. Now Zane Bryant would think she was a prude about sex. Georgeanne attempted to calm herself with the thought that if he did, it was probably for the best.

  Zane smiled, smoky eyes brightening. Georgeanne stared at his mouth and thought for the second time that afternoon that everything was going black around her.

  “I don’t blame her,” he said. “From what I heard on one of the late shows last night, Fritzi Field is the vanguard of a backlash against the idea that women are just like men and should enjoy casual sex the same way men do.”

  Georgeanne’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “The idea is that women are fed up with being told how to enjoy sex,” Zane said. “They now want to be told how to fake enjoyment so the enjoy-at-all-cost types will leave them alone. At least that’s what the psychologist on the show said.”

  “Oh, heavens,” Georgeanne whispered.

  “I knew it.” Angela bobbed her red head with enthusiasm. “Fritzi Field is the official spokesperson for women who don’t like sex. Instead of enjoying it, they’d rather fake it.”

  “I don’t think that’s quite what Fritzi Field said.” Georgeanne couldn’t let this pass unchallenged.

  “It wasn’t,” Sandra chimed in. “Fritzi Field makes it very clear that her book is intended to help women who simply can’t have orgasm on demand, and it’s affecting their marriages.”

  The front door opened and a woman entered with two children in tow, one of whom drooped across the woman’s shoulder. Immediately behind her followed a man and his little boy.

  “Patients,” Georgeanne said with profound relief. “Back to work, folks.” Angela disappeared into her lab, and Georgeanne smiled at Zane. “Dr. Bryant, make yourself comfortable.”

  “Actually, I’d prefer to visit with you a little, if I won’t be in the way. Dr. Baghri has patients until three, then we’re meeting with several county officials.”

  Georgeanne managed a shaky smile. The sight of Zane Bryant in a dark gray business suit and a red tie did peculiar things to her breathing and her pulse.

  “Are you looking forward to painting the clinic this evening, Dr. Bryant?” Sandra bent to check a name off the appointment book and picked up the folders Georgeanne had laid out for her. “My husband and I will be there. Georgie is the best slave driver a group of slaves could have.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Zane said.

  Georgeanne’s color returned to normal. “Wait till you see how much better it looks, Doctor. Mrs. Collins, if you’d like to bring Jennifer and Mary Lou on back, Dr. Gant will be with you in a moment. Mr. Johnson, you may bring Michael on back to Dr. Baghri’s office. He needs to talk to you both.”

  She only needed to get through this weekend, Georgeanne told herself. Once the new clinic site boasted its new coat of paint and opened to the public, Dr. Zane Bryant would return to his practice in Pasadena, and she could return to her usual routine.

  Such as it was, now that Fritzi Field’s stunning popularity threatened to destroy both her privacy and her sanity.

  *

  Zane noted that Mr. Johnson gazed at Georgeanne the way a dying swan gazed at its mate. Georgeanne didn’t notice the man’s fixed, longing gaze, and Zane offered a prayer of thanks. He wanted to avoid making a scene this early in the game by officially declaring Georgeanne off-limits to other males.

  He waited until Georgeanne sorted the patients into their respective examining rooms before coming around and joining her in her small office. He studied her desk a moment, noting the neat chaos and the way Georgeanne located anything she needed within a second. He also noted the stack of press announcements she addressed.

  “Dr. Baghri says you’re the one who should be meeting with media representatives,” Zane said. “According to him, you tell his story better than he does.”

  Georgeanne smiled and slipped another envelope into her printer. “Actually, I don’t. I just speak with a Southeast Texas accent and all the other Southeast Texans understand me. But there’s nothing like hearing Dr. Baghri’s story in his own words. It has a special charm, I think.”

  Zane agreed and studied her bent head. According to Dr. Baghri, Georgeanne had worked as hard as he had to put his idea into operation, but she remained steadfast in refusing to participate in any of the publicity. She had threatened the amused doctor with death and dismemberment if he tried to award her so much as a single rose at the dedication ceremony.

  He pulled up the only other chair in Georgeanne’s office and sat down opposite her. “I’d like to talk more with you about the nuts and bolts of getting a clinic like Dr. Baghri’s off the ground. Will you have dinner with me before we paint the clinic?”

  “Of course. We don’t start painting until seven.”

  “In that case, let’s leave from here.” As Zane had hoped, Georgeanne would never turn down an opportunity to further Dr. Baghri’s idea. “I’d like plenty of time to discuss the idea thoroughly.”

  Georgeanne looked up from her work and rewarded him with a brief, professional smile. “That would be wonderful, Doctor.”

  “What’s all this doctor business?” he asked. “You and I are not on a professional basis, Georgie.” That was the first thing he wanted her to understand. “In fact, I hope we’re going to become good friends.” That formed an approach to the second thing he wanted her to understand.

  She smiled without a trace of shyness, much to his pleasure. “Thank you. I hope so, too. But when I’m in the office, it’s better to call doctors ‘doctor’.”

  He acceded, so long as she promised to drop it the moment they got outside the office.

  “Georgie,” Denise called. “About that statement of yours that sex is a private thing between the two people involved. That’s completely — oh, hello, Doctor — opposite to what you said last week. Are you sure you don’t know more about Fritzi Field than you’re letting on?”

  Georgeanne promptly turned a color that Zane last remembered seeing when a patient had given him a basket of ripe red strawberries.

  “It was a reactionary statement made in self-defense,” she said. “If I hear one more word out of anyone in this office about Fritzi Field, I promise you, there will be hell to pay.”

  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if our Georgie turned out to be Fritzi Field?” Denise said to Zane. “Oprah Winfrey might even call this office.”

  “Dream on, Denise,” Georgeanne said. “How is little Jennifer Collins doing?”

  “Little Jenny has another strep throat coming on.” Denise leaned over the rear counter of Georgeanne’s small office and grinned at Zane. “While Angie was doing the throat swab, Mrs. Collins and I were talking about Faking It. Did you know Mrs. Collins — ?”

  Georgeanne interrupted in what Zane considered an almost frightened way. “Tell Mrs. Collins to try some slippery elm tea for Jenny’s throat. Very soothing. By the way, don’t forget to bring a scarf for your hair tonight. Paint is going to fly.”

  Before Denise returned to her post in the examining room, she gave Zane a commiserating wink.

  Zane studied Georgeanne. He’d swear she turned away in order to hide her burning cheeks.

  Perhaps she needed reassurance that he found her ability to blush charming rather than prudish.

  Because Zane felt sure of one thing — Georgeanne Hartfield was no prude, and he intended to prove it very soon.

  *

  Georgeanne’s day, in her opinion, had spun out of control.

  “It sounds as though Fritzi Field has made a big hit with your friends.” Zane helped Georgeanne into his car, an older but well-kept Lincoln Continental, and bl
ocked her hand with his own in order to open the door for her. “They all seem bent upon teasing you about it.”

  “It’s my own fault.” Rattled, Georgeanne settled onto the car seat and looked up at him.

  He grinned at her as if he knew men usually got out of her way and let her open her own car doors. Georgeanne forbade herself the pleasure of staring at him.

  “Denise has been reading choice bits aloud from the book for the past week,” she added. “If I didn’t blush so easily, they wouldn’t have any reason to tease me.”

  Zane looked down at her with an expression of interest. “What do you think about the book?”

  Mercifully, he shut the door and came around to slide in beside her. She watched him and composed a reply in the interval.

  “It seems to me that Fritzi Field wrote the book as an analysis of why her own marriage failed, and what she could have done about it,” she said. “That’s why the book speaks so strongly to certain women and is so annoying to others.”

  “Do you think so?” Zane sounded fascinated, much to Georgeanne’s horror. “That’s an interesting theory. I listened to three psychologists arguing for almost an hour last night, and no one ever brought that idea up.”

  That figured. Georgeanne mentally kicked herself. “I don’t know why that occurred to me. I’m probably all wrong.”

  “You’re probably correct.” He chuckled. “You’d be a hit on the talk show circuit. You’re a better psychologist than the PhD shrinks I saw last night.”

  Georgeanne suppressed a horrified moan. “You know how it is when a stray thought crosses your mind. Lots of times, that thought is the result of clues your subconscious has been picking up for days. In my case, I’ve been listening to bits and pieces of that book, along with assorted commentary from my friends, for the past week.”

  Zane glanced at her, his smoky gray eyes sympathetic. “You have a degree in psychology, according to Dr. Gant. And you’ve been married, haven’t you? Maybe that gives you the background to better understand Fritzi Field’s motivations.”