by Bird, Peggy
Right there, under his watchful eyes, Georgeanne swallowed and looked away. Zane wondered what on earth had crossed her mind to make her react that way.
“In short, you’ve been disillusioned.” Zane smiled. “Georgie, I’m going to do my best to make you believe in destiny. In another week, you can report on any changes in your beliefs.”
*
Georgeanne drove herself home and wondered what on earth Zane meant. His words sounded like a vow, but she certainly wasn’t the kind of woman who inspired men to go around vowing to change a woman’s perceptions of the world.
When she arrived at the clinic site prepared to paint, and found Zane and Dr. Baghri already present, she soon realized her perceptions of the world were indeed changing, and that Zane Bryant was behind the change. He would be lucky if she didn’t strangle him before the night was out.
“You’re not getting on that ladder, Georgie,” Zane said in stern tones. “Don’t even think about it.”
Georgeanne, comfortable in a man’s work shirt and her old painting jeans, turned to stare at him. Zane had driven her back to the Gant Clinic to pick up her car then had gone to Dr. Baghri’s house, where he was staying the weekend. He had changed into jeans and an old knit shirt that outlined his powerful shoulders and enhanced his commanding presence.
Georgeanne did not consider herself a particularly commandable woman. Moreover, in this case she was the commander, and Zane was one of her commandees.
“Zane, I am painting this ceiling.” She indicated the ceiling in the clinic’s waiting room. “Tall as I am, I still cannot paint it if I stand on the floor. Besides, you were assigned to paint the examining room. Why are you in here bugging me?”
“I’m in here because I’m going to paint the ceiling while you paint the windows.”
“I do not do windows,” Georgeanne said with dignity. “I do ceilings.” She gestured at her hair. It was pulled back in a heavy ponytail for the occasion, and she had tied a scarf over as much of her hair as she could cover.
“You don’t do ceilings tonight. Not after you spent half of last night scrubbing these floors. You’re exhausted, whether you know it or not. Come away from that ladder.”
Georgeanne felt her eyes open wide. “Exhausted? Me?”
Zane’s face reflected his struggle not to laugh, she saw with resentment.
He climbed the ladder himself. “Yes, you. In case you’re thinking I’ve gotten above myself, let me tell you that Dr. Baghri and Dr. Gant both agree with me.”
Georgeanne took a moment to master herself. One did not argue with doctors in public. It ruined the godlike image so dear to the medical heart. “What you mean is that you bullied them into agreeing with you. Very well, Doctor. If you want to hog the ceiling, you may do so. I’ll take the examining room.”
“Angela has already agreed to do the examining room.” Zane directed a charming smile down at her from atop the ladder Georgeanne should have been on. “I wanted a chance to talk to you while we work.”
Georgeanne regarded him with considerable suspicion.
Zane broke into unabashed laughter. “Not many people argue with you, do they?”
“They know better.” Georgeanne smiled reluctantly.
“Paint the windows, Georgie,” Sandra struck in. “Dr. Bryant is right. If you aren’t exhausted, you should be.”
“The day scrubbing a mere floor exhausts me is the day I pick out my coffin.” Georgeanne picked up a sash brush and a can of paint with ill grace. “I can see the composition of my painting crew needs some reassessment.”
“Forget the windows, Georgie,” Zane said. “Why don’t you fetch your whip and walk around keeping everyone’s nose to the grindstone. We don’t want you to collapse before the clinic’s grand opening.”
Outraged, Georgeanne stared up at him. “I have never collapsed in my life. I do not intend to start now. As for exhausted — ”
“Oh, shut up and do what he says, Georgie,” Angela called from the doorway into one of the examining rooms. “You are tired, whether you admit it or not. I saw you yawning into your sleeve several times this morning.”
“That was because — ” Georgeanne broke off.
“If you’re intending to claim you were yawning because I was reading choice excerpts aloud from Fritzi Field’s book, I’m calling you a liar to your face.” Denise Devereaux appeared in the doorway, dressed in disreputable old clothes and grinning. “You were as interested as the rest of us, you prevaricator, you.”
Georgeanne knew her heart had just jolted to a dead halt. “If you intend to enliven my paintin by reading aloud pieces out of that book … ”
“Who, me? Would I do that in mixed company?” Denise laughed. “Besides, I wouldn’t risk getting paint on my precious book. Where do you want me, Georgie?”
“Dr. Gant could use some help in the second examining room,” Zane said, indicating it. “His wife had a meeting tonight.”
Georgeanne opened her mouth, then shut it again when Zane spoke up. She shrugged with good-natured acceptance. At least Denise hadn’t brought Faking It along.
“Uh-oh.” Denise winked at Georgeanne. “Looks like we’ve got a new slave driver.”
“I’m getting into practice,” Zane said. “Go sit down somewhere, Georgie. You do look tired.”
“I do not look tired.”
Georgeanne gave up. What good was claiming she felt as energetic as ever when no one believed her? Somehow, Zane had convinced everyone that she was in danger of imminent collapse. Everyone was very solicitous of her health.
Talk about a revolting development, Georgeanne thought. She always worked steadily until she got things done, and she never over-tired herself.
Zane painted the ceiling for the next two hours, while she puttered around trying to find a job worthy of her efforts. Never before had she experienced a situation like this one, where the work had literally been pulled out from under her.
“Settle down, Georgie.” Zane looked down at her, grinning as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “You can kill me later.”
“I don’t think I can wait until later. I think I’d better kill you now, while you’re in a precarious position.” She pretended to shake the ladder he was standing on. “This has got to be one of the most boring evenings of my existence. What did you tell them before I got here?”
Zane looked down at her a moment, then laid his paintbrush carefully across the top of his open paint can. “Let’s walk outside a moment and I’ll tell you. These paint fumes are finally getting to me.”
Georgeanne had unboarded and scrubbed all the windows, and they all stood open. The clinic’s electricity had been restored, and electric fans buzzed in each window. Still, the heavy, fresh scent of latex paint was overpowering. She nodded and moved slowly toward the door. A few minutes of outside air would be welcome.
She had discarded her scarf since there wasn’t any need to wear a scarf if she wasn’t allowed to do any painting. Her ponytail brushed her shoulder blades as she stepped outside into the cool, night air. Seconds later, she felt Zane’s big hand in the center of her back, guiding her toward the group of tallow trees near the road.
“I’m really not tired, Zane,” she said in mild tones. “If it comes to that, there’s nothing more tiring than standing around doing nothing while everyone else works.”
“If you’re not exhausted, you should be,” he said grimly. “When I found out you’d spent five hours scrubbing that floor last night, I was ready to send you home to bed. Be thankful I didn’t do just that.”
They had reached the narrow asphalt road. Georgeanne gazed around and breathed in the rich, earthy scent of spring, noting with delight the early fireflies that dotted the lower level of the surrounding fields and tallow trees. The peaceful sight and deep breathing calmed her nerves, not to mention helped stifle the impulse to tell Zane exactly what she thought of his managing ways.
“Zane, I am not some delicate little creature — ”
The next thing Georgeanne knew, his arms went around her and he pulled her solidly against him. She gasped with shock, and his mouth descended on hers.
Georgeanne knew she must be dreaming. This could not possibly be happening. She stood in the middle of the rice fields, being thoroughly kissed by a man who looked like a movie star, and the only thing she could do about it was kiss him back.
She had been kissed before, kissed with passion, kissed with need, even kissed with joy, but she had never been kissed like this. What the difference was, Georgeanne couldn’t have said, but there was a difference. The trouble was, she was so surprised she couldn’t think.
Zane’s hands traveled up her back. He pressed her against him, so that her curves fit perfectly into the hard hollows of his body and kissed her again. One of his big hands pulled the rubber band out of her hair, freeing the thick brown mass to his touch. He worked his fingers into her hair and tilted her head to meet him. This time he parted her lips in a way that told Georgeanne he knew what he was doing. Nothing mattered except the feelings that exploded across every nerve ending she had.
Georgeanne’s head fell back in acquiescence. Any thought she had of protesting the kiss evaporated before it had fully formed. Her arms rose to wrap themselves around his neck without any conscious direction from her. The next thing she knew, she kissed him back with enthusiasm.
*
Zane knew immediately when Georgeanne got over her surprise. Her body softened, and her lips parted to accept his tongue with an honesty and passion that enchanted him. His hand stayed buried as deeply in her hair as he wanted to bury himself in her. He slid his hand down the curve of her hip. She felt so good in his arms — just right, in fact. No woman had ever fit into his arms the way Georgeanne did. She had to realize that.
He lifted his head and waited until her lashes fluttered up and Georgeanne’s dark eyes gazed into his. Even in the darkness, he could see that her face reflected dazed passion and mute acceptance “Georgie, I want you,” he said.
Georgeanne’s expression altered, but she said nothing. Perhaps she didn’t know what to say.
She had to feel his desire. She probably felt everything, close as he held her against him. He knew of no reason why she might withhold herself from him, but if there was a reason, he wanted to hear it now.
“I can’t see pretending,” he went on. “You’ve got to know it sooner or later. Frankly, I’d rather it be sooner.”
“I — Zane, I — ” Georgeanne broke off. To his surprise, she sounded unlike her usual decisive self.
“I realize you don’t know me very well. That’s why I’m not going to push you. At least, not much,” he added with wry humor. “But I am going to be with you a lot. As much as you’ll let me, in fact. Will you let me take you to see Hunter’s movie?”
“I — yes. I’d like that very much.”
“Good.” He laughed suddenly, an exultant, boyish laugh. For a moment, he had feared she intended to turn him down. “I can’t wait until Hunter meets you. He’s going to love you. No, scratch that. He’s sure to recognize the fact that you’re off limits to him. Hunt’s an honorable sort in spite of that bad boy image.”
“Oh.” Georgeanne sounded like a woman who had no idea why she had said yes, he noted. Perhaps she thought things were happening too fast between them. “I’m glad to know that.”
Some interesting item must have passed through her brain, because she went from biting her lip to a sudden sigh of acceptance. She almost smiled, and he wondered how soon he could coax her into telling him her thoughts.
“Georgie, you’re priceless.” He laughed again and tightened his hold on her. “We’re going to be good together. You’ll see.”
Georgeanne stirred in his arms. “What makes you so sure?” she asked, with wry humor. “What happens when you discover the truth — that I’m a managing sort of woman who doesn’t take orders well?”
“I can live with being managed,” he said, with suitable gravity. “So long as you can live with taking occasional orders from me when I decide you’re being taken advantage of.”
Georgeanne looked at him with an expression he interpreted as disbelief. “Can you live with the fact that I may ignore the orders upon occasion?”
“Wait a minute.” Zane laughed. “I’ll have to think on that one.” He held her and pretended to think deeply. The feel of Georgeanne’s generous curves and soft warmth against his body set fire to his blood, and this was only the first time he’d kissed her. “As a doctor, I’m not accustomed to having my orders ignored. I can’t be answerable for my actions if such an unheard-of thing should happen.”
“Uh-oh.” Georgeanne bent her head a little, and a small smile curved her lovely mouth. “We might have an impasse here. If you did something outrageous, I’d have to retaliate.”
“If the retaliation involves kissing me into submission, I can live with it.” Zane grinned. “So long as you think you can live with the fact that I would have to respond to your retaliation.”
Georgeanne looked up and smiled back. “In that case, we have a deal. I get to ignore your orders, and I get to kiss you into submission in retaliation for your reaction to my flouting of your orders.”
“What?” He wondered what on earth that meant. “Never mind. So long as it involves getting kissed into submission by you, I’ll sign anything.” Zane lowered his mouth to hers again. Georgeanne had the most kissable mouth he’d ever seen, and he intended to take advantage of that fact at every chance he got.
Headlights appeared far down the road and came steadily closer. Zane reluctantly loosened his hold on Georgeanne while she peered at her watch, holding it toward the headlights.
“It’s time for the pizza delivery.” Georgeanne sounded disappointed, which delighted him. “We’d better go back inside.”
For a moment he debated kissing her again, but the pizza driver was almost upon them, so they walked back to the clinic. He managed to keep her hand in his. He wanted everyone inside the clinic to know Georgeanne belonged to him, whether she knew it yet or not.
Zane let go her hand and draped his arm across her shoulders as she stepped in the door. She headed back toward the old laboratory, and he remained beside her, so close his body brushed against hers.
“There you are, Georgie,” Denise said.
Zane saw that Dr. Gant, Dr. Baghri, Denise, Angela, and Sandra’s husband, Bobby Whitney, stood in a semicircle, paintbrushes in hand, obviously in the midst of an important discussion.
“Georgie.” Denise sounded insistent. “Didn’t Fritzi Field say it’s almost impossible for a man to tell whether or not a woman is faking an orgasm? She’s a psychologist, and she should know, right?”
To Zane’s intense interest, Georgeanne turned the color of a boiled lobster. Her face spoke eloquently of a desire to vanish into the woodwork.
She said in choked tones, “Really?”
“You’re a psychologist, too,” Denise reminded her. “You know as much as Fritzi Field does. What do you say, Georgie?”
Chapter 5
Georgeanne felt Zane’s hand tighten on her shoulder. Where were lightning bolts and quicksand floors when you needed them?
“Why are you asking Georgie when there is a roomful of doctors standing here just dying to give you a technical opinion on the matter?” Zane asked.
Denise looked scornful. “Anyone who works for doctors knows they don’t know anything about sex. I want somebody’s opinion who’s qualified. Georgie, what do you say?”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then everyone burst into laughter.
Georgeanne laughed with them in spite of her strong urge to bolt from the room. “I may be qualified as a psychologist, but I think that particular question ought to be answered by someone with a lot of training in anatomy and physiology.”
“You’re jus
t trying to get out of answering,” Denise accused. “You’ve been taking evasive action ever since I started talking about Fritzi Field’s book. Well, you aren’t getting out of it this time. Speak, oracle. Tell us the truth about men’s much-vaunted perspicacity when it comes to reading women.”
All too conscious of the many pairs of male eyes upon her, Georgeanne produced a great, universal truth. “I think it depends on the particular man involved.”
Denise, joined by Angela, groaned in loud disgust.
“Talk about a cop-out,” Angela said, snickering.
“I don’t want another one of your evasions,” Denise said. “I want an answer. What do you say about most men? Do they, or don’t they, know when a woman is faking it?”
Georgeanne wished in vain for an earthquake. Or better yet, a meteor. Anything spectacular that would make everyone forget about Fritzi Field’s sexual advice to women and Georgeanne Hartfield’s psychology degree.
When nothing spectacular happened to save her, Georgeanne cleared her throat. “I … Well, since I haven’t personally — er — tested a viable sample of men, I can’t speak with any authority.”
“No one’s asking you to,” Denise pointed out. “All I want is a psychologist’s learned opinion on the subject. Now speak up, Georgie. Do they or don’t they know?”
“They don’t,” Georgeanne said and wished she’d answered the opposite. She broke free of Zane’s grasp and snatched up her purse. “Excuse me, please. The pizza delivery is here.”
“That’s a lot of bull.” Bobby Whitney looked through the doors toward the waiting room, where his wife, Sandra, painted a wall. “I’d sure know if my wife faked it. There’s no way I could help knowing.”
“Now you just hold it right there, Georgie Hartfield.” Denise grabbed for her. “You’ve got to explain that answer.”
“Not me.” Georgeanne made a break for the door. “The mark of a truly learned psychologist is that she knows when to flee the scene.”
