by Bird, Peggy
“I should have worn sunglasses,” Zane said in resigned tones. “I’m not used to life as a celebrity.”
“Well, naturally people coming out of a movie that starred Hunter Howell are going to think you’re him.” She glanced around the small ice cream parlor, relieved to note that they were the only customers at the moment. “And just as naturally, they’re going to hope you’re lying when you claim you aren’t Hunter Howell.”
Zane scowled. Georgeanne noted that his good looks were unblemished by the scowl.
“Hunt is going to have to do something about this,” he said.
“Have you told him so?”
“As a matter of fact, I have.” Zane eyed her smiling face with mock annoyance. “He laughed.”
Zane sounded so injured, Georgeanne couldn’t resist a chuckle. “I imagine he’ll do interviews in which he tells everybody to leave his brother, the doctor, alone. He should enjoy that considerably.”
“You see? I knew you had his number.” Zane grinned at her.
“It isn’t hard to draw the conclusion that if he’d had the opportunity, he’d be a doctor rather than a movie star, no matter how big his career might get.” Georgeanne looked down at their side-by-side spoons. There was something cozy about sharing a banana split with Zane. “I don’t think he really likes being well-known. To him, stardom is probably a means to an end.”
Zane watched her with his intense doctor’s gaze. “What do you think Hunter’s ‘end’ is?”
Georgeanne thought a moment. Impressions about Hunter Howell poured into her brain and she sorted them out. During the movie, she’d been so busy thinking how like Zane he was, she hadn’t consciously noted any personality quirks.
“I think Hunter is probably interested in … Well, judging strictly from what you’ve told me of his background, I’d say he’s interested in something to do with foster care. Or adoption follow-ups.” She made a motion of dismissal with her hands, suddenly embarrassed. Not even full-fledged psychiatrists had any right to go around making assumptions about people they’d never met. Since Georgeanne had never practiced as a psychologist, she was particularly sensitive about attempting to analyze people. “But I’m probably all wrong. Maybe he’s interested in homes for unwed mothers.”
Zane threw back his head and laughed, obviously delighted. “Georgie, you’ve done it again. You know him better than I do. I’d never have guessed all that about him after watching one movie.” He laughed some more. “You even picked up on the homes for unwed mothers. No one but us knows that, so for God’s sake, don’t say a word. Hunt would kill me.”
Georgeanne blinked, surprised. Maybe she did have some form of ESP, although she preferred to think of it as educated guesswork. “Now, Zane, I had the advantage of knowing you, and of knowing a few facts about identical twins. I told you, they tend to grow remarkably alike no matter what their individual upbringings.”
Zane leaned back and smiled at her. “Tell me something personal, Georgie. Why are you running around alone and unattached?”
“I’m a divorced woman, and a very busy one. It’s only when a man intrudes face first into my world that I sit up and take notice.”
“Thank God you’ve put away the blue toys,” Zane said, laughing again. “I don’t want any other men entering your life face first. What are you doing tomorrow after work? Besides reading Fritzi Field’s book,” he added.
Georgeanne propped her chin on her hand and pretended intense thought. It wasn’t easy, now that Fritzi Field had reentered her mind. “I’ll probably go by the clinic and make sure the new telephone system is working. The phone company supposed to be out bright and early Monday morning.”
He smiled. “Dr. Baghri approves of my new interest, by the way. I believe he assumes you’re spending all this time educating me about his clinic idea.”
Georgeanne chuckled. “I should probably be feeling guilty for distracting you. It was inadvertent, I assure you.”
“Georgie, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I had given up on finding a truly honest woman.”
Georgeanne swallowed a bite of ice cream the wrong way and coughed violently for a few minutes.
“Are you all right?” Zane watched her with concern. “Do I need to perform the Heimlich maneuver or something?”
“Not on ice cream that went down the wrong way,” Georgeanne managed. “It was the shock of hearing you describe me as a truly honest woman that did it. Where on earth did you get that idea?”
Zane leaned forward. “Your face. Any lie you told would be instantly visible to anyone who isn’t blind.”
“Oh.” Georgeanne considered investing heavily in makeup. An inch deep on the foundation might do the trick. “Well. I’m glad to know that.”
“Come on, Georgie. You look like you sat on an ant bed. What is it you’re hiding? Confess.”
She met his gaze in one startled glance, and then looked down. “If I’m hiding something, you’ll have to find a way to pry it out of me. And I’m invulnerable to tickling, I might add.”
“Is that right?” Zane laughed, clearly delighted. “The last person who told me that turned out to be the most ticklish person in the universe.”
Georgeanne eyed him reproachfully.
“Besides, there are better ways than tickling to get information out of you,” he went on.
“No, there aren’t. I mean — ” Georgeanne stabbed the banana split with her spoon. “How did we get into this conversation?”
“Ah-ha. I was right.” Zane pretended to twirl an imaginary mustache. “You are ticklish. But don’t worry, Georgie. When I’m ready to hear the truth from you, I’ll just find a grassy nook and kiss you into submission. Something tells me you’d sing a lot faster.”
Georgeanne smiled, a purely feminine smile. “I probably would. When I’m tickled, all I do is scream bloody murder.”
Zane stared at her. “I’ll remember that.”
Two women entered the shop, chatting energetically.
“Her husband dumped her,” one said. “I knew it the minute I read the first paragraph. Why else would a woman think faking it was the only way to go?”
Georgeanne’s head came up like a startled deer’s, and she knew she must resemble a doe facing a shotgun.
“Wait till you read the tenth chapter,” the other woman said. “That’s where she goes into detail about the physical signs. Can you believe anyone would go through that much trouble just to hold on to a man?”
“Beats me. I don’t have trouble with that sort of thing.”
Georgeanne smiled involuntarily. Then she realized what she was doing and strove to wipe all expression off her face. If Zane were to read the passage in Fritzi Field’s book that dealt with modern women’s compulsion to pretend they enjoyed every sexual encounter, he would have to realize she knew a lot more about Fritzi Field’s book than she let on.
“Neither do I,” the first woman said. “That book is nothing but a commercial plot. You can mark my words.”
The two women reached the counter and ceased talking to concentrate on which ice cream to order.
“Georgie, you look like someone’s holding a knife to your throat,” Zane said. “What is it about Fritzi Field’s book that scares you so badly?”
“Scares me?” Georgeanne repeated faintly. “Nothing about it scares me, except the fact that Denise wants me to read it, preferably tonight.”
“I suppose that’s enough to scare anybody.” Zane was silent a moment, studying her face as she focused on the ice cream. “Georgie, what’s your opinion of women who fake sexual enjoyment?”
Her gaze lifted to meet his. “I haven’t formed an opinion yet. Wait until I read the book. Fritzi Field might succeed in giving me a whole new outlook on the subject.”
“I gather Denise Devereaux has gained a whole new outlook already,” Zane said.
Georgeanne noted the austere note in Zane’s voice and shivered. Of course, he was a man, and no sane man would approve of a woman who h
ad to put on an act in order to keep her husband. What man would like to think his woman was faking enjoyment of his caresses?
If Zane should ever realize who wrote Faking It, anything between them would be over. Her every response to him would be suspect. Why would he believe her when she swore he was the only man ever to evoke such a response from her?
“You’re right. Denise has formed a whole new opinion of the subject,” Georgeanne said, in faint tones. “That’s why she wants me to read the book. I think she’s hoping I’ll agree with her that a woman has a right to do whatever is necessary in order to save her marriage.”
“Georgie, are you sure you’re all right? You look like you’re about to faint again.”
“I’m fine. Just fine.” Georgeanne swallowed and strove for control. “Don’t pay any attention to my complexion. It has a life of its own, believe me.” She might as well know the worst at once. It was obvious she was going to be up all night doing some heavy thinking. “What do you think, Zane? About women who fake sexual enjoyment, I mean.”
Zane watched her face closely. She hoped he saw nothing in her expression to arouse his suspicions, but she feared he might.
“I don’t think you need to worry about my opinion of that, Georgie,” he said. “It’s obvious enough that there’s a lot of chemistry between us. When we make love, you’re going to enjoy it as much as I will, never doubt it.”
Georgeanne noted his use of “when” rather than “if,” and tried to ignore her doubts. Just because she felt things so intensely when Zane kissed her didn’t necessarily mean she was capable of experiencing full sexual pleasure.
“I gather you don’t approve,” she said. “Being a man, I don’t suppose you would.”
Zane shook his head. “Two people ought not get married if there’s no sexual excitement between them. One or the other is bound to feel cheated.”
“You’re right, of course.”
She said nothing more. No one agreed with that statement more thoroughly than the author of Faking It, but Georgeanne knew now was not the time to bring up the question of women who found themselves in a marriage where lack of sexual enjoyment on their part was one of the major items plaguing their marriages. Zane would simply reply that said women should have known better than to marry men they felt no physical response toward.
“Somehow, I can’t imagine you ever doing such a thing, Georgie,” Zane said. “You’re much too honest, for one thing. For another, you have such a passionate nature.”
Georgeanne gulped and spoke a thought that was new to her. “I think the degree of passion in a relationship depends on the man a woman is with.”
The realization stunned Georgeanne. She had been married to the wrong man, and she hadn’t even realized it. She had thought all the problems in her marriage were her fault. She had thought a woman was supposed to feel sexual enjoyment the way a man did. A few minutes lying in the grass with Zane Bryant had showed her that, for her at least, sexual enjoyment was based on something more than the promise of simple physical release.
Her head whirled. She’d have to think this one out. Could it be that all the clichés about meeting “Mr. Right” weren’t clichés at all, but a basic truth?
Zane stretched out one big hand across the table toward her. “Georgie, that’s the second nicest thing any woman has ever said to me.”
Stunned, Georgeanne looked blankly at him a moment before placing her hand in his. If Zane Bryant was her own Mr. Right, then she was in very, very deep trouble.
*
Georgeanne’s tentative, unmentioned-even-to-herself hope that Zane would kiss her the way he had earlier came to naught. By the time he drove her home and sat down on her comfortable sofa for a cup of coffee, Zane’s answering service rang his cell phone with an urgent message.
Zane answered the call, then kissed Georgeanne hurriedly and left. One of his young patients had landed in the hospital emergency ward, and was hysterically demanding Zane rather than any other doctor. Because Zane was the type of man he was, he left at once rather than insist that the child submit to another physician.
Georgeanne registered that, even as she admitted to herself that she felt relieved to have the matter taken out of her hands for the night.
She ignored the swelling disappointment in her heart. Making love with Zane just to test her new thoughts on sexual pleasure would be a big mistake on her part. She wasn’t a woman who could indulge unscathed in affairs. If she made love with a man, it meant she planned on marrying him.
That naturally led Georgeanne to ask herself why she had let Zane touch her so intimately that afternoon. Never in her life had she known such desire to feel a man’s hands on her bare skin. Why had it happened like that with Zane so soon after she’d met him, and never with her husband during two years of marriage?
Georgeanne shied away from answering her own question. The only answer that came to her was too shattering to contemplate. Instead, she decided that there was something basically unfair about the whole idea of a Mr. Right.
She went to bed in the middle of an argument with herself, but the only conclusion she reached was that the concept of a Mr. Right had nothing to do with a man’s looks. Tony Rollins was movie-star handsome. She had thought him incredibly good-looking, but she hadn’t wanted him to touch her intimately. In fact, most of his attraction for her had lain in the fact that her aunt was so thrilled at his preference for Georgeanne.
Georgeanne lay in bed staring out the moonlit window as she tried to work through the morass of her own thoughts. Outside, the leaves of the redbud tree formed dark silhouettes against the paler night sky, and Georgeanne fancied she saw Zane’s profile among them. That led to remembering how his lips had felt on her breasts, and the way his long, thick lashes had brushed her neck.
The telephone rang, and Georgeanne fairly pounced on the extension beside her bed. Anything to keep from thinking.
“No, Denise, I haven’t finished reading it yet,” she said.
“Didn’t you at least read the foreword?” Zane Bryant asked, sounding amused.
“Zane?” Surprise suspended her voice for a moment.
“Definitely, I’m buying a copy of that book,” Zane said. “If Denise is so determined for you to read it, she’s taken to calling you at midnight … ”
“Well, she does seem rather determined that I get busy on it right away. She’s already called me twice tonight.” She collected her thoughts. “How was the little boy?”
“He’s going to be fine,” Zane said. “It was a case of asthma brought on by a rough afternoon session with the family dog. A day in the hospital and he’ll be fine.”
“I hope you aren’t going to tell the family to get rid of the family dog.” Georgeanne lay back against her pillow.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, although I did tell his mother to stop smoking in the house. Georgie, I’m sorry I had to leave so suddenly. This isn’t the way I planned the weekend.”
She chuckled. “I’ve been working for doctors for the past two years. Believe me, I know how these things operate. A doctor’s time is not his own, even when he isn’t on call.”
“Most women aren’t as understanding as you are.” Zane sighed. “I’m on call next weekend. I’ll have to miss the dedication ceremony.”
Georgeanne suppressed a sigh of her own. “That’s too bad. You’ll miss Dr. Baghri’s speech, the one I spent all day Friday typing.”
Zane laughed. “The one you wrote, you mean.”
They talked a while longer about Zane’s work and her own. Georgeanne hung up with a lighter heart. Zane was interested in her. No man called a woman at midnight just to talk unless he wanted to see her again.
Her heart plummeted. If Zane found out who Fritzi Field really was …
Why should he, her mind argued. Alice wouldn’t betray her. Surely the public wasn’t interested enough in a lone pop psychologist’s view of sex and marriage to send out investigative reporters in search of the real Fritzi Fie
ld. The book simply wasn’t that important. Soon, it would fade from public interest.
But not right away, she discovered. Monday morning. Denise was lying in wait for her when Georgeanne arrived at the Gant Clinic.
“Did you finish reading it?”
Georgeanne had spent a few moments that morning reviewing Faking It and thought she had worked out a strategy. “Yes, I read it. It was a fast read, however, so don’t count too much on my opinion.”
“I understand.” Denise grabbed Georgeanne’s arm. “You can formulate your professional opinion later. Just step right this way and tell me all about your off-the-cuff opinion.”
Georgeanne obligingly let herself be herded into Dr. Gant’s office. “Believe it or not, my opinion won’t take too terribly long to deliver.” She plucked the book from her canvas briefcase, relieved to be rid of it, and handed it to Denise, who received it with a reverence that made its author distinctly uncomfortable. “Let’s lend this copy to Sandra.”
“I’ll give it to her in a few minutes. Now all I want is your true, unvarnished opinion of what the woman says.” Denise shut the office door. “Talk, Georgie.”
“Well, the first thing that impressed me was how bitter she sounds,” Georgeanne said.
It had been a shock to reread parts of Faking It. Georgeanne reflected that if she’d put the manuscript aside a few weeks and then reread it before querying agents, she’d probably have given the book the deep-six treatment. She regarded the tome in Denise’s arms with something akin to loathing.
“Well, I, for one, couldn’t blame her.” Denise perched on the edge of Dr. Gant’s desk and regarded Georgeanne with intensity. “The fact is, she would never have written this book if she hadn’t been bitter, and if she hadn’t had the strength and intelligence to look back and see her own mistakes. Now go on, Georgie.”
Nonplussed, Georgeanne sought for words. “You certainly don’t want to base any of your own actions on a book based on bitterness and anger without thinking it over carefully.”
“I don’t think the things Fritzi advocates in her book are necessarily based on bitterness or anger,” Denise countered. “My feeling was that she sort of went off and licked her wounds when her marriage ended, and this was what occurred to her.”
