Bride on the Run

by Catherine Mann

  What it felt like to settle for mediocre sex because you thought there was something wrong with you. She’d made an intellectual hobby of that subject ever since coming up with the idea for Sex Talk. And she was convinced that she’d “settled” in more ways than one. Not that she’d discuss that particular subject with her sexy guest.

  “I’m sorry your fiancée called off the wedding. But that happens sometimes.” And didn’t she know it? Guilt pinched even though her fiancé had turned out to be marrying her for her family connections. She shuddered at the thought of him laundering mob money through his dry cleaner businesses.

  “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  “I’m sorry. But no I don’t.” She frowned, trying to figure out why this man looked familiar and coming up blank. “Although I do know you need to go.”

  “Baseball. Reality show. Ditched groom. Starting to ring a bell?”

  Oh. Crap.

  This was that Atlanta baseball player who’d been ditched by his reality TV fiancée after the woman called in for advice. The show made headlines around Georgia for a few weeks after that fateful call when she’d advised Annamae Jessup – the reality TV star – to break up with the man currently on Valerie’s doorstep.

  “I’m very sorry about what happened between the two of you, but if one call to my show ended your relationship then you must realize that the problems ran deeper. Now, please leave or I’m going to have to call the police.”

  An empty threat because if she called the cops she would put her identity at risk. For that matter, how had he found her?

  As he stood fuming in the hallway, Valerie’s retired neighbor Mrs. Seabert had stopped behind him to listen, setting the handbrake on her shopping cart full of tabloid papers. The older woman’s hearing failed whenever Valerie broached the topic of Mrs. Seabert’s demonic poodle that barked from sun-up to sun down, but she could hear perfectly well when words like “sex talk” were bandied about.

  Damn. She didn’t want Mrs. Seabert repeating this to the whole building. With the reassurance of the Mace in her pocket, Valerie made a hasty decision. She tugged her visitor inside the apartment and decided she’d rather run the risk of Joe Stud Baseball Star strangling her than giving the building’s biggest gossipmonger fuel for the rumor mill.

  “I understand that you’re upset, but I’m not sure what purpose confronting me will serve, Mr. Sullivan.” Valerie gave him a frosty glare.

  “I’d like the satisfaction of hearing you admit you made a mistake.” He glared right back, jaw jutting. “I can already hear that Brit accent wavering the longer we speak, and now I’d like to hear you say that your advice is equally bogus.”

  He had a good ear for accents if he’d noticed her slip. Then again, she’d always found it tougher to maintain the voice when she was nervous.

  “The voice may be part of the show’s entertainment value, but I assure you, the advice is sound. And I would like to know how you found me? I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the need for privacy in this kind of business.” She flipped her notebook on the counter closed since the headers read like the table of contents of a sex manual.

  But Boone seemed to have lost interest in what she was saying at the moment, his attention fixed on her collection of framed book covers from classic feminist works from Simone de Beauvoir to Virginia Woolf. Then he turned the full impact of his chocolate brown eyes on her.

  For a moment, she forgot all about their conversation. She remembered that sensual thrill she’d felt just looking at him through her peephole.

  “You’re a card-carrying feminist, aren’t you?” His words bristled with ill-disguised hostility.

  So much for her stupid fantasies about chocolate brown eyes.

  “We don’t carry cards, Mr. Sullivan, merely a strong sense of self and an unwillingness to be steamrolled by male privilege.”

  He clapped his hand on his forehead with a great deal more drama than necessary.

  “No wonder you advised my fiancée to break it off with me. You’re a man-hater.”

  *

  Boone had spent one summer from hell mucking out horse stalls at a neighboring farm in his rural Georgia hometown to make enough money to pay for his baseball gear, but even then he’d never been as knee-deep in horseshit. Still, he wasn’t leaving until he’d gotten what he came for – the resolution he needed after the train wreck in his life that this woman had caused.

  Since his fiancée had broken things off with him, he was neck deep in matchmaking mamas and sports groupies looking to console him. Social functions were a necessity of his career that had rapidly become a nightmare. The Stars’ team foundation raised millions for charitable organizations and no event was more important than their Foundation Weekend that kicked off with a black tie event on Thursday. And he needed a date. A no threat, no commitment date to keep the more aggressive female fans at bay and give him some peace to regroup because the last thing he wanted was another relationship. The way Boone figured it, this woman owed him.

  Then, at the end of the night, she could make her announcement to the press that she’d made an error with her advice to Annamae and that her show was strictly for entertainment value.

  “I am not a man-hater.” She whipped off the scarf and glasses and tossed them on the table. Then she tucked a loose wisp of long, strawberry blonde hair behind her ear with an impatient swipe. Wearing a calf-length, gauzy gray skirt and a tan colored tee, she dressed with a drabness that didn’t come close to hiding her attractiveness. Tortoiseshell combs and hair clips threaded through a haphazard, rapidly deteriorating bun at the back of her head.

  “Sorry if I’m not buying it, but you seem pretty anti-male to me.”

  “That’s because you personally are aggravating me right now.” She picked up a spiral notebook off the table where she’d flung her phone and spun through the pages to a blank sheet. “How about I write down your feedback on Sex Talk, and then you can be on your way since it’s apparent you’re more interested in airing a personal grievance than accomplishing anything positive?”

  Not likely. But he didn’t mind airing his grievance in detail. He just wished he wasn’t so intrigued by her.

  She possessed an understated set of curves that seemed in keeping with her low-key femininity. No red lipstick or streaky highlights for this woman. She looked more like the girl next door that most guys never had the good fortune to actually live near. Silky strands of hair continued to slide out from the knot affixed at the back of her head, the locks so smooth and shiny they practically begged to be touched. Vivid green eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose gave her face color and character without any makeup.

  “Assuming that’s your beef with the hotline – your partner’s defection – I’m not sure what I can do to help you.” She dropped into a cane-backed chair beneath her collage of she-woman book covers.

  “I’m getting to that.” He’d had weeks to plan what he’d say to her. Just thinking about being dumped on air still fired him up. Not even the surprise distraction of Serena’s just-rolled-out-of-bed beauty could make him forget the blow he’d received listening to replay after replay of Annamae calling the show for advice about him. She couldn’t have talked to him in person? Kept things private?

  “What exactly was the nature of this call you found to be so objectionable, Mr. Sullivan?” Serena perched in her chair with the notebook in her lap, looking for all the world like a psychologist ready to analyze him.

  He tugged at his collar as his necktie slowly strangled him. He was more comfortable in gym gear or casual clothes but he’d ended up having to do an interview with the press after the game. Four hours in the car in a suit hadn’t done his mood any favors.

  “It’s Boone, damn it.” The last thing he wanted was her crawling inside his head. “And I found it objectionable that some so-called sex and relationship expert would spout off advice to my girlfriend when this woman doesn’t know jack about either of us.”


  For once, he had his life on the straight and narrow, and then some know-it-all phone operator had to pull the plug.

  “I answered a call. I gave advice. How the hell was I supposed to know she was being taped on a reality show? Your issue should be with your former fiancée. Not me.”

  True in part. And to add alcohol to the cut, Annamae had already moved on and found a new guy, some apple farmer in Alabama. His eyes strayed toward the stack of papers on Serena’s coffee table. The top one was something about sociolinguistics—did he even know that that was? Squinting down at the text underneath the title he thought he deciphered something about sexism in language.

  Surprise, surprise. She probably saw sexism in something as innocuous as “good morning.”

  When his uppity interrogator didn’t fire back another question, Boone grew impatient. Peering back at her, he noticed she seemed to be drawing designs in the margin of her notebook.

  He was ready for her to admit she was a fraud and she was doodling? He sucked in a breath to fuel himself for the roar of frustration whipping through him when she looked up at him.

  Clearing her throat, her soft words were the last thing he expected.

  “Quite frankly, Boone Sullivan, I have to question the judgment of anyone who courts their future spouse as part of a reality show. You may want to consider looking into your own past for a deeper understanding of your intimacy issues.”

  *

  Valerie briefly regretted her forthright statement when she caught a glimpse of Boone’s thunderous expression.

  And it truly was thunderous, his thick, dark eyebrows somehow slashing inward in a way that put her in the mind of a dark lightning bolt. She rose out of her chair, preferring to be standing when the jolt of imminent electricity arrived to smite her where she stood.

  “In case you didn’t notice, I do not have a phone in my hand and have no interest in your talk-show, cheap advice. Assuming you even have credentials for this sort of assessment.”

  She smoothed the edges of her notebook paper, which kept wanting to curl. If only she could smooth things over with Boone Sullivan as easily. “I have a Master’s degree in mental health counseling and an undergraduate major in psychology.”

  And her training she was beginning to question why she hadn’t just booted this man out of her apartment. Her gossipy neighbor had surely gone back inside now. But something made her hesitate, something she didn’t want to analyze too deeply.

  Typical avoidance. But whatever.

  “Why don’t you tell me what Sex Talk can do to improve this situation, Boone?” She’d used his name to try appealing to him in a friendly manner, but the word sounded disturbingly intimate rolling off her tongue.

  “I’ll tell you what you can do.” Boone closed the space between them, his frustration all the more apparent now that it had found a target. “For starters, you can tell me why you thought it would be a good idea to rile up my girlfriend, to step into our relationship where you had no business, and generally meddle in my personal affairs as if you had any right to be there?”

  Having grown up in a raucous household with more than its fair share of demanding men, thanks to her father’s relatives, Valerie found his loud insistence too reminiscent of everything she resented about the male sex. But even as the scholar in her bristled, the woman in her couldn’t deny there might be something a tiny bit compelling about that outpouring of he-man fury. A fraction of un-P. C. envy stirred for Boone’s ex-girlfriend since Valerie was damn certain no man had ever wasted this much emotion on her before.

  Not that she wanted this brand of emotion from any man. She could do without the anger. But if all that feeling had been redirected, channeled into something like lust… wow. The heat that flowed through her at the mere thought reminded her of all the reasons she was definitely not a man-hater.

  “I’d hardly call it meddling since my advice was actively solicited.” She set aside her unwanted hint of attraction in order to defend herself professionally.

  Annamae Jessup had been scared of getting married, and she’d called the hotline for advice. Valerie had empathized immediately since she’d been in that exact same position. Except she hadn’t run out of her hair appointment the way all of Georgia had later learned that Annamae had. No, Valerie had been scared of getting married and still stepped into that damn white gown and walked down the aisle. Sometimes she felt like she hadn’t really woken up to live her life until that sunlight steaming in through those church windows had jarred her from a deep sleep.

  Of course she’d told Annamae to respect the fear. To break things off until she was positive.

  “Okay, maybe the advice was solicited.” He narrowed his gaze. “But not by me.”

  Compassion tweaked her conscience, which had been certain she’d given Annamae good advice. But Valerie hadn’t given much thought to the woman’s boyfriend on the receiving end of a breakup. Had she made the same mistake she’d often accused men of making—of egocentrically casting themselves in the center of their own universe while the opposite sex floated around in the periphery?

  Guilt pinching, she decided to ask Desiree and Meg for their opinion on the matter in their next company meeting, aka sock-sorting session.

  “You’re right.” Valerie tossed her notebook aside. “Perhaps in the future I should consider giving couples a chance to call in for a three-way before I advise something so rash as dissolving a relationship.”

  “A three way?” Boone shook off his anger long enough to lift an eyebrow in mild interest.

  So much for empathizing with him. “A three-way phone conversation. Maybe it would be wise to bring in all parties concerned for a group dialogue.”

  Boone sighed with thinly veiled impatience. “That’s all well and good, Oprah, but it doesn’t help my situation. While Annamae skipped town after she left me, I had to deal with all the heat and the questions in the press.”

  “I don’t understand how you think I can help.” She wasn’t about to justify herself to him since she’d helped Annamae make the decision that was right for her.

  “I told you, I expect you to publicly admit you made a mistake.”

  “You’re serious?” Her mind working quickly, she wondered how they could compromise. “It wasn’t a mistake to tell a woman to listen to her instincts.”

  “And I’ve got the perfect venue for your announcement since your advice left me without a date for every party and fundraising event for the season.”

  For the season, she noted. Did that mean he would be taking applications for new fiancées next year?

  “You’ve lost me again, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “It’s Boone,” he reminded her. “And you might as well use it since you’re going to be my date at the Atlanta Stars’ Foundation Weekend Black Tie Gala on Thursday.”

  She made a sound that was probably as close as Serena had ever come to a splutter. But for crying out loud, he couldn’t be serious.

  “Out of the question. That’s impossible.” She couldn’t appear in the media. On the radio, she was anonymous. But if her face were captured on film, she’d have Dimitri family representatives on her doorstep within hours.

  “That’s four days away and I’m happy to drive you. I assure you, it will be very easy.” He checked his silver timepiece, the muscles beneath his navy jacket bunching as he bent his arm. “I made it less than four hours. Once you attend the event with me, you can make your announcement to the sports media since they roasted me ten ways to Sunday after Annamae jilted me.”

  “I’m not agreeing to attend, but I’ll admit I’m curious.” Surely she was misunderstanding the emphasis he placed on some frivolous get-together. “Why on earth would you want to date the woman who destroyed your love life?”

  He leaned against the back of her couch, his suit jacket falling open to reveal a broad chest and flat abs, his yellow silk tie trailing lazily over an impressive upper body. “A woman at my side wards off groupies so I can focus on the event. I have s
ome personal friends coming in for this and I’d like to be able to talk to them.”

  Her inner Serena was even more incensed on behalf of Boone’s ex-girlfriend.

  “A woman? Meaning any woman will do? It sounds to me like you’re more interested in the role Annamae played in advancing your career than you are in developing a meaningful relationship with anyone.” In which case Annamae had been smart to dump him and Valerie had been balls-on accurate to advise her to do so.

  Figuratively speaking about the balls, of course. She made a mental note to investigate the sociolinguistics of phrases like “balls-on.”

  Why wasn’t it ovaries-on?

  “Don’t forget I played the arm candy role for Annamae on her reality show a few times, too.”

  As if she spent her time following this arrogant man’s TV appearances?

  “Shouldn’t you be discussing this with her so you two can reconcile?”

  “Impossible since she’s already moved on to another man.” Boone’s eyes simmered with dark frustration at the same time his tone of voice told her exactly how much he respected her suggested heartbreak regimen.

  “Wow. I see. That was fast.” And another sign that the relationship with Boone had been shaky at best. Valerie tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I’ll admit that puts you in a bind, but since you were more interested in Annamae’s role as a prop for your career than in the woman herself, I’m not sure the advice we gave her was technically faulty. Inconvenient, maybe, but—”

  Her ringing phone interrupted her and she rose to retrieve the handset.

  “Can’t someone else take it?” Boone looked at his watch meaningfully.

  “I’m not even the primary operator tonight, so if calls are rolling back to me, no one else is available.” Plucking the cordless receiver for the landline off the desk, she gave her standard greeting and hoped she could solve the customer’s problem quickly.

  Silence yawned on the other end.