Until today.
He stared out the big window at the woman who stood at the edge of the surf, the breeze whipping her dark hair about her head. Georgeanne definitely disturbed his peace. He brought the bottle of beer to his lips and took a long pull.
An unwitting smile tugged one corner of his mouth as he watched her tiptoe cautiously into the cold waves. Without a doubt, Georgeanne Howard was a walking fantasy. If it weren’t for her irritating habit of rambling, and if she weren’t Virgil’s fiancйe, John didn’t think he’d be in such a hurry to get rid of her.
But Georgeanne was entangled with the owner of the Chinooks, and John had to get her out of town as soon as possible. He figured he’d take her to the airport or bus depot in the morning, which still left the long night ahead.
He hooked one thumb in the waistband of his faded jeans and turned his gaze to a pair of kids flying a kite down the beach. He wasn’t worried that he’d end up in bed with Georgeanne. Because contrary to what Ernie believed, John thought with his head, not his dick. As he raised the beer to his mouth again, his conscience took the opportunity to remind him of his asinine marriage to DeeDee.
Slowly he lowered the bottle and looked back at Georgeanne. He never would have done anything so stupid as marry a woman he hadn’t known more than a few hours if he hadn’t been drunk, no matter how great her body. And DeeDee’s body had been great.
A dark scowl turned John’s mouth downward. His eyes followed Georgeanne as she played in the surf, then with a foul curse on his lips, he stormed into the kitchen and poured out his beer.
The last thing he needed was to wake up in the morning with a pounding headache and married to Virgil’s fiancйe.
Chapter Three
Georgeanne flinched each time a frigid wave rose up her thighs. A shudder shook her shoulders, but despite the cold, she dug her feet into the sand and grabbed ahold of the large rock shaped like a loaf of bread. Bending forward slightly, she planted her hand on the jagged stone. For several moments she stared, fascinated, at the numerous purple and orange starfish fastened to the rock. Then like a woman reading braille, she lightly ran her fingers across the lines of a hard, rough back. The five-carat diamond solitaire on her left hand caught the evening sun and shot blue and red fire across her knuckles.
The surf pounding in her ears, and the view before her eyes, kept her head clear-clear of everything- everything but the simple pleasure of experiencing the Pacific Ocean for the first time.
When she’d first walked down to the beach, her dark thoughts had threatened to overwhelm her. Her destitution, the day’s unfortunate wedding catastrophe, and her dependency on a man like John, who didn’t seem to possess two ounces of compassion, weighed heavy on her shoulders. But worse than her money problems, John, or Virgil was the feeling that she was so incredibly alone in a vast world where nothing felt familiar. She was surrounded by trees and mountains, and everything was so green. The textures were different here, the sand coarser, the water colder, and the wind harsher.
As she’d stood staring out at the ocean, feeling like the only person alive, she’d fought the panic swelling within her, but she’d lost the battle. Like a high-rise building experiencing blackout, Georgeanne had felt and heard the familiar click-click-hum of her brain shutting down. From as far back as she could remember, her mind had always gone blank when she felt overwhelmed. She hated when it happened, but was powerless to prevent it. The events of the day had finally caught up with her, and she was so overloaded, it had taken longer than usual for the lights to come back on. When they had, she’d closed her eyes, taken deep, cleansing breaths, then pushed the day’s troubling thoughts from her head.
Georgeanne was good at clearing her mind and refocusing on one certain thing. She’d had years of practice. She’d had years to learn to cope with a world that danced to a different beat-a beat she didn’t always know or understand. But a beat she’d learned to fake. Since the age of nine, she’d worked hard to make it appear as if she were in perfect step with everyone else.
Since that afternoon twelve years ago when her grandmother had told her she had a brain dysfunction, they’d tried to hide her disability from the world. She’d been enrolled in charm and cooking schools, yet she’d never been taken to a scholastic tutor. She understood design compositions and could make beautiful flower arrangements with her eyes closed, yet she could not read past the fourth-grade level. She hid her problems behind charm and flirtations, behind her beautiful face and body. Even though she now knew she was dyslexic rather than retarded, she still hid it. And even though she felt tremendous relief with the discovery, she was still too embarrassed to seek help.
A large wave hit the front of her thighs and soaked the bottom of her shorts. She braced her feet wider apart and dug her toes even deeper into the sand. Close to the top of Georgeanne’s list of life’s rules, right under making sure people liked her, and directly above being a good hostess, was her determination to appear just like everyone else. As a result, she tried to learn and remember two new words a week. She rented movie adaptations of classic literature, and she owned the video of what she considered the best movie ever put on celluloid, Gone with the Wind. She owned the book, too, but had never read it. All those pages and all those words were just too overwhelming.
Moving her hand to a lime green sea anemone, she lightly brushed the edge. The sticky tentacles closed around her fingers. Startled, she jumped back. Another large wave hit her thighs, her knees buckled, and she splashed backward into the surf. A breaker pushed her away from the rock, flipped her several times, and propelled her toward the shore. Icy cold ocean slapped her chest and sucked her breath away. Salt water and sand filled her mouth as she kicked and clawed to keep her head above the surface. A piece of slimy seaweed wrapped around her neck and an even larger wave caught her from behind and shot her up the beach like a torpedo. By the time she finally came to a stop, the surf was already rushing back out to meet the next wave. With one hand she pushed herself to her feet and scrambled up the beach. When she reached the safety of the shore, she dropped to her hands and knees and took several deep breaths. She spit sand from her mouth, grabbed the seaweed from around her neck, and tossed it aside. Her teeth began to chatter, and when she thought of all the plankton she’d just swallowed, her stomach pitched like the Pacific behind her. She could feel grit in very uncomfortable places and looked toward John’s house, hoping her misadventure had gone unobserved.
It hadn’t. Sunglasses shading his eyes and his rubber thongs kicking up sand, John strolled toward her looking good enough to lick up one side and down the other. Georgeanne wanted to crawl back into the ocean and die.
Above the sound of the surf and seagulls, his rich, deep laughter reached her ears. In a flash she forgot about the cold, the sand, and the seaweed. She forgot about her appearance and wanting to die. Red-hot rage shot through her veins and ignited her temper like a blowtorch. She’d worked all of her life to avoid ridicule, and there was nothing she hated more than being laughed at.
“That was the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time,” he said with a flash of his straight white teeth.
Georgeanne’s anger rumbled in her ears, blocking even the sound of the ocean. Her fists closed around two clumps of wet sand.
“Damn, you should have seen yourself,” he told her with a shake of his head. The breeze ruffled the dark hair about his ears and forehead as he roared with laughter.
Rising to her knees, Georgeanne threw a handful of sandy mud, hitting him in the chest with a satisfying splat. She’d never been particularly coordinated or light on her feet, but she’d always been a good shot.
His laughter died instantly. “What the hell?” he swore, and looked down at the front of his tank top. When he raised his stunned gaze, Georgeanne nailed him on the forehead. The sand glob knocked his Ray-Bans askew before the sand fell to his feet. Over the top of the black frames his blue eyes stared back at her, promising retribution.
Ge
orgeanne smiled and reached for another handful. She was beyond fearing anything John might do. “Why aren’t you laughing now, you stupid jock?”
He slid the sunglasses from his face and pointed them at her. “I wouldn’t throw that.”
She stood and, with a brisk toss of her head, flipped a hunk of soggy hair out of her face. “Afraid of a little dirt?”
One dark brow rose up his forehead, but otherwise, he didn’t move.
“What are you going to do?” she taunted the man who suddenly represented every injustice and insult ever inflicted on her. “Something really macho?”
John smiled, then before Georgeanne could utter a scream, he moved like the athlete he was and body-checked her to the ground. The sand flew from her hand. Stunned, she blinked and looked into his face only a few inches from hers.
“What in the hell is the matter with you?” he asked, sounding more incredulous than angry. A dark lock of hair fell over his forehead and touched the white scar running through his brow.
“Get off of me,” Georgeanne demanded, and socked him on the upper arm. His warm skin and hard muscle felt good beneath her clenched fist, and she punched him again, venting her rage. She hit him for laughing at her, for insinuating she’d planned to marry Virgil for money, and for being right. She struck out against her grandmother, who’d died and left her alone-alone to make bad choices.
“Jesus, Georgie,” John cursed, grabbed her wrists, and pinned them to the ground next to her head. “Stop it.”
She looked up into his handsome face, and she hated him. She hated herself, and she hated the moisture blurring her vision. She took a deep breath to keep herself from crying, but a sob caught in her throat. “I hate you,” she whispered, and ran her tongue over her salty lips. Her breasts heaved with the effort to keep her tears inside.
“At the moment,” John said, his face so close she could feel his warm breath on her cheek, “I can’t say that I’m real fond of you either.”
The heat from John’s body penetrated her anger, and Georgeanne became acutely aware of several things at once. She became aware of his right leg crammed snugly between both of hers and his groin shoved intimately into her inner thigh. His wide chest covered her, but his weight wasn’t at all unpleasant. He was solid and incredibly warm.
“But damn if you don’t give me ideas,” he said, a smile twisting one corner of his mouth. “Bad ideas.” He shook his head as if he were trying to convince himself of something. “Real bad.” His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist as his gaze drifted across her face. “You shouldn’t look this good. You’ve got dirt on your forehead, your hair is a damn mess, and you’re as wet as a drowned cat.”
For the first time in days, Georgeanne felt as if she’d been plopped down on familiar ground. A satisfied little smile curved her lips. No matter how he behaved to the contrary, John liked her after all. And with a little tactical maneuvering, he might be willing to let her stay at his house until she figured out what to do with her life. “Please let go of my wrists.”
“Are you going to punch me again?”
Georgeanne shook her head, mentally calculating exactly how much of her considerable charm to use on him.
One of his brows lifted. “Throw sand?”
“No.”
He released his hold but didn’t move to get off her. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” She placed her palms on his shoulders, and beneath her hands his hard muscles bunched, reminding her of his strength. John didn’t strike her as the type of man to force himself on a woman, but she was staying in his house. That fact alone could give a man the wrong idea. Before, when he hadn’t seemed to even like her, it hadn’t occurred to her that John might expect more than gratitude. It occurred to her now.
Then she remembered Ernie and a breathy laugh escaped her throat. “I’ve never been tackled before. Does this usually work for you?” Surely John wouldn’t expect her to sleep with him while his grandfather was in the next room. Relief washed through her.
“What’s the matter? Didn’t you like it?”
Georgeanne smiled up into his eyes. “Well, I could make a suggestion.”
Rising to his knees, he looked down at her. “I’ll just bet you could,” he said as he stood.
Instantly she felt the loss of body heat and struggled to a sitting position. “Flowers. They’re more subtle, but get your message across just the same.”
John held out a hand to Georgeanne and helped her to her feet. He never sent flowers to women anymore, not since the day he’d ordered dozens of pink roses placed on the lid of his wife’s white coffin.
He dropped Georgeanne’s hand and pushed the memory aside before it got too painful. Focusing his attention on Georgeanne, he watched her turn at the waist to wipe sand from her behind. He deliberately let his gaze slide down her body. She had tangles in her hair, sand on her knees, and her red toenails were a strange contrast to her dirty feet. The green shorts clung to her thighs, and his old black T-shirt looked as if it had been laminated to her breasts. Her nipples were hard from the cold and stuck out like little berries. Beneath him she’d felt good-too good. And he’d stayed much too long pressed into her soft body and staring down into her pretty green eyes.
“Did you get ahold of your aunt?” he asked as he bent down to pick up his sunglasses from the ground.
“Ahh… not yet.”
“Well, you can call again once we get back.” John straightened, then turned to walk across the beach toward his house.
“I’ll try,” she said, catching up with him and matching his long strides. “But it’s Aunt Lolly’s bingo night, so I don’t think she’ll be home for a few more hours.”
John glanced at her, then slipped on his Ray-Bans. “How long do her bingo games last?”
“Well, that depends on how many of those little cards she buys. Now, if she decides to play at the old grange hall, she doesn’t play as long because they allow smoking, and Aunt Lolly absolutely hates cigarette smoke, and of course, Doralee Hofferman plays at the grange. And there’s been real bad blood between Lolly and Doralee since 1979 when Doralee stole Lolly’s peanut patty recipe and called it her own. The two had been the best of friends, you understand, up until-”
“Here we go again,” John sighed, interrupting her. “Listen, Georgie,” he said, and stopped to look at her. “We’re never going to get through tonight if you don’t stop this.”
“Stop what?”
“Rambling.”
Her pouty mouth fell open and she placed an innocent palm on the top of her left breast. “I ramble?”
“Yes, and it gets on my nerves. I don’t give a goddamn about your aunt’s Jell-O, foot-washing Baptists, or peanut patties. Can’t you just talk like a normal person?”
She dropped her gaze, but not before he saw the wounded look in her eyes. “You don’t think I talk like a normal person?”
A twinge of guilt pricked his conscience. He didn’t want to hurt her, but at the same time, he didn’t want to listen to hours of her meandering chitchat either. “Not really, no. But when I ask you a question that should require a three-second answer, I get three minutes of bullshit that has nothing to do with anything.”
She bit her bottom lip, then said, “I’m not stupid, John.”
“I never meant that you were,” he contended, even though he didn’t figure she’d been valedictorian at that university she said she’d attended. “Look, Georgie,” he added because she looked so hurt, “I’ll tell you what, if you don’t ramble, I’ll try not to be an ass.”
The corners of her mouth formed a doubtful frown.
“Don’t you believe me?”
Shaking her head, she scoffed, “I told you that I wasn’t stupid.”
John laughed. Damn, he was beginning to like her. “Come on.” He motioned with his head toward the house. “You look like you’re freezing.”
“I am,” she confessed, then fell into step beside him.
They walked across the cool
sand without speaking while the sounds of crashing waves and crying sea-birds filled the breeze. When they reached the weathered stairs leading to the back door of John’s house, Georgeanne took the first step, then turned to face him. “I don’t ramble,” she said, her eyes squinted against the glare of the setting sun.
John stopped and looked into her face on about the same level as his. Several corkscrew curls were beginning to dry and dance about her head. “Georgie, you ramble.” He reached for his sunglasses and slipped them down the bridge of his nose. “But if you can manage to control yourself, we’ll get along fine. I think for one night we can be”-he paused and placed the Ray-Bans on her face-“friends,” he finished for lack of a better word, although he knew it was impossible.
“I’d like that, John,” she said, and pulled her lips into a seductive smile. “But I thought you told me you weren’t a nice guy.”
“I’m not.” She was so close, her breasts almost touched his chest-almost, and he wondered if she was playing the tease again.
“How can we possibly be friends if you’re not nice to me?”
John slid his gaze to her lips. He was tempted to show her just how nice he could be. He was tempted to lean forward just a little and brush his mouth across hers, to taste her sweet lips and explore the promise of her seductive smile. He was tempted to raise his hands a few inches to her hips and pull her tight against him, tempted to learn just how far she’d let his hands roam before she stopped him.
He was tempted, but not insane. “Easy.” He placed his palms on her shoulders and moved her to the side. “I’m going out,” he announced, and walked past her up the stairs.
Simply Irresistible Page 5
