by Webb, Peggy
“The toilet’s through there.” She nodded to the doorway behind him.
“I know that.” He nodded toward the sink. “I wash afterward. Don’t you?”
“What is this? A lesson in etiquette? You must have flunked the course. Polite people don’t spy.”
“The door was cracked open.”
“You didn’t have to look.”
“I couldn’t help myself.”
“Are you saying I’m at fault here?”
“You’re very compelling on the telephone.”
“I didn’t know I had an audience of two.”
“You’re also appealing in person, I might add.”
“If you’re trying to flatter me into forgiveness, it won’t work. I’ll never forgive you for spying on me like that, Joseph Patrick Beauregard. Never!”
With that parting shot, she’d stalked off and left Joseph standing in the bathroom.
He stood in the same spot now, fully clothed, eyes closed, remembering how she’d looked that fateful summer night, magnificent in her rage, the tiny bikini setting her body off to perfection.
He’d stolen something from her, something very precious. He’d taken the gift of intimacy she bestowed on another via phone and used it for himself.
And he’d never even apologized.
Each detail of that night was emblazoned in Joe’s mind. Even as he replayed it, he knew he’d missed nothing. Not once had he ever said to Maxie Corban, “I’m sorry,” not once in all those months. He’d taken the coward’s way out, avoiding her at every turn to cover his own embarrassment.
And now fate was forcing them back together, fate in the form of a nine-pound baby boy.
It was high time he cleared the air. He had to apologize.
Energized, Joe returned to his brother’s den and dashed off a note: “Sorry I had to leave. There is something very important I have to take care of.”
He propped the note on the telephone table, then riffled through the telephone book till he found Maxie’s address. Should he call first?
It would be the polite thing to do. It would also give her a chance to tell him no.
Following his second impulse of the evening, Joseph headed toward Maxwell Street. Her house was yellow. And in the driveway was her little red Volkswagen as well as a navy blue Ford sedan.
She had company. Something he hadn’t counted on.
Maybe he should leave. The clock on his dashboard said ten. It was too late to go calling anyhow, especially without an invitation.
Joseph had his hand on the ignition key when he saw her through the window, red hair shining in the lamplight, head thrown back, laughing. Suddenly everything he’d meant to say vanished from his mind. There was something about her so compelling that all he could do was sit and stare.
As he watched, another person came into view, a man, tall and handsome in a reckless, debonair sort of way. He snapped his fingers, did a quick cha-cha step, and Maxie joined in. They were beautiful dancing together, rhythmical, graceful.
The man was everything that would appeal to Maxie, everything Joe was not. He didn’t have a debonair bone in his body and couldn’t dance a step if his life depended on it.
Not that any of that mattered. He’d come to apologize to Maxie, not to woo her.
He had Susan, and she was all he needed. The sensible thing would be to drive down the street and pretend he’d never even come. After all, he would see Maxie tomorrow in his office. That would be soon enough to apologize.
He took one last glance through the window. The man swirled Maxie around the floor, then dipped low, bent over her like a lover.
Joe turned off the ignition, slammed out of the car, and barreled up the sidewalk.
As he punched the doorbell he muttered to himself, “Hell, I came to apologize. No need to turn tail and run because Fred Astaire can’t keep his hands off her.”
The door swung open and Maxie stood there, flushed and laughing. The strains of a sexy blues song drifted through the doorway.
“Good grief,” she said, sobering. “What brings you here?”
Joe craned his neck, but he couldn’t see the man she’d been dancing with. He’d probably gone to the bedroom to wait for her. Probably at this very minute he was stripping off his clothes and climbing between the covers.
At that thought every shred of good breeding deserted him.
“Do I have to tell you standing on the sidewalk, or can I come in?”
“Well, of course.”
She stood back to let him pass by. She was wearing purple shorts that showed off her legs, and a patch of sweat made her tank top stick to her body in enticing ways.
His body responded instantly. Or was it his body and his mind? He brought himself under control and followed her into the den.
It looked like something she would design, cheerful, comfortable, and zany—sedate antique rocking chairs sharing space with chairs painted purple and sporting red painted lips and gold high-heeled shoes on the front legs; marble-topped end tables vying for attention with tables painted in pink and purple polka dots; a big, plush pink sofa topped by pillows with embroidered lips and red fringe.
That’s where the man sat, on the sofa among the painted lips and red fringe.
“Joseph, this is my associate, Claude.”
“Just Claude,” he said, extending his hand, obviously amused by Joseph’s expression.
Joseph was mad at himself for being so transparent. In the courtroom he was as inscrutable as the Lincoln Memorial. Why was it that every time he got around Maxie every ounce of civilized behavior deserted him and he reverted to a primitive jungle beast?
“So,” Claude said, his smile false. “What brings you here this time of night?”
He emphasized his point by consulting his watch. Joseph rose to the challenge.
“Business,” he said, his smile equally false. “Personal.”
Maxie sat on the sofa close to Claude, too close, in Joe’s opinion, and he chose a chair directly opposite them. He always preferred looking his opponents straight in the eye. There were two chairs opposite the sofa, but he deliberately chose the purple one with the outrageous gold high-heeled shoes. Not for one minute would he want Claude to guess that he was conservative to the bone.
Besides, he was feeling a little reckless. And more than a little proud of himself. Men who were conservative to the bone didn’t pay unexpected late-night calls then sit in outrageous chairs.
Maxie looked distinctly uncomfortable. A first for her, Joe was certain. And Claude showed no intention of leaving. He leaned toward Joe, a satisfied smirk on his face.
“Earlier this evening Maxie and I were discussing the mating habits of the praying mantis,” he said.
“Claude...”
He reached over and patted her knee. “It’s one of Maxie’s favorite subjects.”
Joseph saw right through the ploy. He settled back in his chair, a sizable man who had no intention of being pushed off the turf by this suave Fred Astaire clone.
“It’s also one of mine,” Joe said. “I’m particularly intrigued by the actions of the female.” He swung his glance toward Maxie. “She devours the male.”
A pink flush started at the highest point of her cheekbones and spread all the way out to her hairline. It was the only sign that she was not in control.
Her unsettled state suited Joseph’s purposes just fine. Maxie in control was lethal.
A heavy silence descended over them, and for a while it looked as if all three of them would spend the rest of the evening sitting stiffly in their seats trying to stare each other down. Joe had already made up his mind that nobody was going to get the best of him this evening, certainly not Claude. He’d come to apologize, and apologize he would, even if he had to sit in the purple chair all night waiting for Claude to get the hint and leave.
“Is that before or after sex?” Claude said.
Joseph didn’t bat an eyelash. He merely quirked an eyebrow upward and plucked a
peppermint out of the carnival glass bowl on the table beside him.
Maxie gathered force like a thundercloud. She practically shot sparks when she stood up.
“During, I think,” she said, her smile wicked.
Joe left his peppermint suspended two inches from his open mouth, and the formerly unflappable Claude flapped into silence.
“Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m going to the kitchen to make lemonade—to cool everybody off.”
She swept grandly from the room, leaving Joe and Claude staring at each other.
When the kitchen door had closed behind her, Joe stood up, a big man who didn’t hesitate to use his size to his advantage when the need arose. He meandered around the room, inspecting every nook and cranny, every knickknack that would give him a clue to Maxie.
“Would you stop that prowling?” Claude said.
“Do I make you nervous, Claude?”
“No, but you’re making me mad. What do you mean showing up at Maxie’s like this, unannounced?”
“It’s personal.”
“I happen to be Maxie’s best friend, and if you think I’m going to leave and let you do or say something to upset her, you’re very mistaken. I might not look like much of a man, but I’m willing to take you on.” Claude stood up, his fists doubled. “And anybody else who might harm her.”
It was then that Joseph saw Claude for what he was. He sat back down, in the rocking chair this time.
“I’ve misjudged you, Claude. Only a very good friend would be willing to duke it out with a man nearly twice his size.”
Claude sat back down, somewhat mollified.
“Look, Claude. I’m afraid we got off to a bad start. I came here on impulse, on an errand that is very important to me.”
“Maxie and I have no secrets from each other.”
“Maybe not, but what I have to say is best said without an audience.”
Claude looked as if somebody had sewed him to the sofa.
“You’re a stubborn son of a gun, aren’t you?” he said.
“So are you.”
“It looks like a stalemate.”
Though Joe rarely smoked, and used his pipe mainly as a prop, it came in handy at times when he wanted to signal to his opponents that he was in the battle for the duration. He took his time tamping in tobacco and putting a match to the bowl.
“So it does,” Joe said.
“Are you planning to smoke that odious thing?”
“Yes.”
“This is a silk shirt I’m wearing. It will smell like tobacco.”
“Probably.”
“You’re not going to leave, are you?”
“No.” Joe took a deep puff, then settled back in his chair.
Claude picked up a magazine and fanned it around. Then with a snort of disgust he stood up.
“Tell Maxie I had to go.”
“I’ll do that.”
At the door Claude made a parting shot. “If I didn’t know Maxie could hold her own against a passel of wildcats, I’d stay on that sofa, regardless of my silk shirt. If I were you, I’d be careful what I say to her.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“See that you do.”
Feeling generous at his victory, Joseph let Claude have the last word. As the door closed behind him, Joe sat back in his chair and smiled.
In the kitchen Maxie was humming.
CHAPTER FOUR
When Maxie was upset she hummed. Sometimes it fooled people into thinking she was not about to fall into a million pieces. Sometimes it disarmed people so that they forgot what they’d come for.
Had she put two scoops of sugar in the lemonade already? She had no earthly idea.
All she could see was the way Joseph looked sitting in her house, in her den, in her purple chair. Like something she wanted to sock with her doubled fist. Like something she wanted to eat with a spoon.
Good Lord, the man had her so confused, she didn’t know if she was coming or going. She added another two scoops of sugar to the lemonade.
From the den she could hear the hum of voices. Bless Claude’s dear heart. He wouldn’t desert her in her time of need. He’d stick it out, no matter what Joseph Patrick Beauregard said or did.
Maxie stood on tiptoe to reach the lemonade glasses. They were bright blue with silver stars on one side and a full moon on the other. She filled three glasses with ice cubes and poured the lemonade. Then, taking a deep breath, she arranged them on a tray and headed back into the den, back to face the music.
The murmur of voices had ceased. What did it mean? A truce? Where was Claude’s acid tongue when she needed it?
She stood outside the door, gathering her courage. Then she shouldered it open.
“Ta-dah,” she said.
Her dramatic entrance was greeted by an audience of one.
“You didn’t have to go to all that trouble just for me.”
Joseph Beauregard was a dangerous man when he smiled that way. She knew. She’d sat in the back of the courtroom once, shortly after that ill-fated summer night, watching him try a case, taking the measure of the man who had stumbled upon her most embarrassing secret.
He was lethal in the courtroom. Calm, focused, with a razor-sharp mind and rapier wit, he quietly built his case, then went in for the kill. Nothing about the consummate professional even gave hint to the man who had stood in the doorway watching her act out her fantasies.
She hesitated, studying him to see which Joseph Beauregard occupied her chair, the inscrutable litigator or the vulnerable voyeur.
“Need any help with that tray?”
The Joseph who made the offer was neither, but an entirely different man. Much to her horror, he was the Mr. Right she’d swooned over when they’d first met. He was an appealing combination of warmth and danger, of little-boy innocence and roguish charm. He was just the kind of man who set all her bells a-chiming and her hormones a-humming.
And he was strictly off-limits.
He was unapproachable not merely because he was engaged to another woman, though she certainly respected that, but because he was B. J.’s brother-in-law. That would never have stopped Maxie if she were a different kind of woman. But in spite of the fact that men and stray dogs followed her home from parties, in spite of the fact that she never had to sit home alone on Saturday night waiting for the phone to ring, she just couldn’t seem to get it right with a man.
She was like that stubborn old mule her granddaddy used to plow the garden with: She wanted to gee when they wanted to haw. When they wanted marriage, she wanted fun and games. When they wanted commitment, she wanted to run. When they were thinking of a vine-covered cottage, she was thinking of a trip for two to the Bahamas.
Over the years she’d learned that there was no such thing as a friendly parting. She’d tried, goodness knew, but somebody was always storming off her porch vowing to throw himself into the Mississippi River or jump off the Empire State Building.
The longest relationship she’d ever had was long-distance. His name was Alfred Peabody, and he’d lasted six months.
As long as he was at the other end of the telephone line, things went beautifully. But the relationship had gone downhill the minute he’d come to Tupelo and tried to stake his claim.
He’d been the finest brain surgeon in California, and now he was in Africa passing out pills at a clinic.
Maxie wasn’t about to be the cause of B. J.’s brother-in-law taking a slow boat to China. Face it. She was absolutely great at telephone relationships, but a dismal failure face-to-face.
Once she’d talked to B. J. about her problem, and her sister had said, “Maxie, did you ever think that maybe you’re just too much woman for any man to handle? Did you ever think about moderating your ways a bit?”
She hadn’t. And she wouldn’t. Any man who wanted Maxie Corban would have to take her as she was. She had no intention of moderating herself for anybody.
And certainly not for Joseph Patrick Beauregard.
She sashayed across the room, putting an extra hitch in her step, and set the lemonade tray on the coffee table.
“If I’d known only you were here, I’d have added arsenic.”
To her surprise, he laughed. “Smart girl. Murder should never have a witness.”
“Neither should sex.” It popped out before Maxie could stop herself.
Her words hung in the air while they stared at each other. She felt the heat of a blush creep up from her neck and reached for a soothing glass of lemonade. For a moment she held the cool glass to her throat, and when the heat didn’t abate, she did what came naturally: She reached into the glass, plucked out an ice cube, and rubbed it across her hot chest, dipping into the neck of her tank top to skim the tops of her breasts.
“My God,” he whispered.
Too late, Maxie realized she had an audience. Or had she realized it all along? Had she used the ice in a provocative manner deliberately to taunt him? To test his reaction?
Maxie dropped the half-melted cube onto the metal tray, and it was like a thunderclap to their heightened senses. She wet her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue, and Joseph squeezed the bowl of his pipe so hard, his knuckles turned white.
“Do you want some?” she said.
“Some what?”
Goose bumps rose on her arms, and she hugged herself, shivering.
“Lemonade,” she said.
“No... yes.”
Suddenly the room was the Sahara, and Joseph, a distant oasis. Her eyes never left his as she made the long, hot trek. His body heat was shocking. She stood beside his chair a full minute before either of them could move a muscle.
“Your drink.”
“Thank you.”
His fingertips touched hers, and she felt the shock waves through every inch of her body. Stunned, she whirled around and raced back to the safety of the sofa.
She kept several pink notepads scattered throughout the house in case she got a brilliant decorating idea or wanted to capture an elusive thought. As her hand closed around the one on the coffee table, she risked a glimpse at Joseph. He was gulping lemonade as if he hadn’t had a drop of moisture in days and was in immediate danger of dehydration.
Clamping her lower lip between her teeth, she began to write.
