Chapter 7
Ruella Bethany Farrel needed to find a grade-A, 100 percent, snow-on-the-rooftop-but-fire-still-blazing-in-the- cookstove man. And quick.
She would even settle for one of those Viagra-stoked fires, just so long as there were enough sparks to keep the old equipment functioning nice and proper.
At seventy-one (and counting), Ruella wasn’t sure exactly how much time she had left. Her three older sisters had all been diagnosed with diabetes by the age of seventy-two. Likewise, all three had passed away due to diabetes-related causes by the age of seventy-four. Ruella had thought that maybe, for the first time in her life, she might get lucky. After all, she’d made it to seventy-one with a clean bill of health. The occasional stomach upset, but nothing to get her britches in a twist about.
Two weeks ago, however, she’d received the bad news, and she didn’t need a crystal ball to predict what was likely to happen next. Sure, she would feel fine for a while. She would take the appropriate medications, follow a very restricted diet, and do everything the doctor told her, but it wouldn’t make any difference. Sometime within the next two and a half years, she was going to kick the bucket just like her sisters. End of story.
Ruella had never been a lucky woman. She’d married the first man she’d ever kissed. She’d gotten knocked up the first time she’d ever had sex. She’d been duped by a coldhearted, callous man who’d disguised himself as Prince Charming. She’d gone on to endure years of emotional and physical abuse from that same man. And just when she’d gotten used to both—a small price to pay for a roof over her head and clothes on her back—the Lord had struck down her rat bastard of a husband, and she’d found herself left with a mountain of debt and a child to raise on her own. Luck? Bah, humbug.
Ruella was an expert when it came to the worst case, and so she saw no need to try to be optimistic now. Her clock was ticking and the good Lord was this close to calling her home. She had to do something. Now.
She glanced at the newspaper she’d picked up yesterday on her way home from Xandra’s wedding. The classifieds section sat on her nightstand, the paper folded open to the personals. She’d circled several ads the night before and was trying to compose one of her own.
Single white widow seeks mature, experienced, attractive, single male for fantastic sex.
She eyed the words thoughtfully before scribbling an extra sentence. “Lots of fantastic sex.” Okay, so it wasn’t as poetic as she might have liked, but she was a woman whose days were numbered. She didn’t have time to sugarcoat things. She needed as many replies as possible in the shortest amount of time, which was why she’d called an 800 number late last night and left a prerecorded message for other sexy singles. She didn’t want to waste even a moment while waiting for her ad to run. Likewise, she didn’t have time for a long courtship with any of her respondents. Courtships were for falling in like and finding common interests and sharing lifelong goals and forging long-term commitments. Ruella wasn’t interested in long term. She wanted right now. She wanted excitement. She wanted to go to her grave having felt her heart pound and her stomach flutter and her knees tremble and her palms sweat for a reason other than a thyroid condition, a stroke, or underactive sweat glands. She wanted to feel alive, truly alive, for once in her life.
Because Ruella had never had a climax while having sex. During her marriage, she’d always been focused on pleasing the rat bastard, fearful of disappointing him and suffering the consequences, and so her own pleasure had never come into the equation. After his death, she’d been so busy making ends meet and putting Jacqueline through school, and then looking after her granddaughters, that she’d never had time for a date, much less sex.
Until now.
Now it was all she could think about. Could it really be as pleasurable as it was described in all of those romance novels? Her gut said no, but there were too many people out there doing it for it to be all that bad. And so she intended to find out firsthand.
Since her hometown of Georgetown, Texas, wasn’t exactly overflowing with possibilities, she’d decided to stay in Los Angeles. It was one of the biggest cities in the United States, a veritable smorgasbord of gentlemen.
With her mind made up, she hummed that old George Michael song that had been all the rage when her granddaughters had been young. “I Want Your Sex.”
She went about pulling on a pair of cream-colored support hose. Next she struggled into a beige girdle and a heavy-duty underwire bra. She pulled on one of her new pantsuits, then a strand of pearls and matching earrings. Later, she surveyed herself in the mirror. She wasn’t even close to winning Miss Ripe and Ready at Georgetown’s yearly watermelon fest, as her late husband had always been quick to point out. She never had been. But she’d certainly seen worse.
She leaned closer to the mirror, and her gaze lit on the tiny, threadlike scar that ran from her temple and bisected one silver eyebrow. She had a dozen others here and there. Battle scars from her marriage. They’d faded over time, so now it was hard to tell them from the wrinkles on her face.
Ruella forced aside the negative thought. So she was old? And a little worn? Nobody was perfect unless they had at least a half million dollars invested in cosmetic surgery—an option she’d actually considered at one point to erase all signs of her bad marriage. But the bottom line was, Ruella hadn’t wanted to erase the scars or forget her past for fear that she would find herself making the same mistake again, and so she’d kept them as a reminder. Looking back, she supposed she should have followed through with the surgery for Jacqueline’s sake. Perhaps that would have softened her daughter’s view of love and marriage and commitment.
Then again, maybe not. While Ruella could have erased the scars on her face, she couldn’t erase the scars on her daughter’s childhood. The nights when Jacqueline had lain awake and listened to her father yelling. The times she’d hidden beneath the stairs and watched him work out his aggression with his fists. The times she’d cried because she’d wanted Ruella to take her far, far away. But Ruella had been stuck. She’d had no money and a family that had frowned on divorce. And so she’d stayed and endured, and at the same time, she’d fed her young daughter’s mistrust.
Regret welled inside and tears blurred her eyes. She blinked frantically until her reflection came back into focus. There was no sense dwelling on the past. She couldn’t change things, but she could change the future.
She blinked again and eyed the old woman who stared back at her. Wrinkles and scars aside, she had good skin. No age spots or spider veins. And she had nice eyes. No cataracts to cloud things over. Her eyes were still as blue as Sinatra’s were, as sexy even.
She held fast to the notion, slicked on some pale lipstick to match her suit, and gathered up her handbag. She was going to the post office first thing to mail her ad and the money for its placement, and then she was heading to the nearest coffee shop. There she would have a nice, steaming cup, her usual black with no cream, and make herself very open and visible to the male population that strolled by.
She might even have a piece of apple pie, provided they served the kind made with a sugar substitute. Men liked apple pie, and so she was sure to snag the attention of at least one observant, hungry male. Meanwhile she would brainstorm a list of possible places to meet men. She definitely needed a list of local bingo parlors. She might even visit a sporting goods store on her way home. Most of the men her age were too frail to cast a fishing rod or too weak to paddle a kayak or too blind to see down the scope of a rifle, but she was open to the possibility of cradle-robbing and finding herself someone in his sixties. Maybe even his fifties.
The notion sent a burst of adrenaline through her and she smiled. She might be on her way to kicking the bucket, but she wasn’t a goner yet.
“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” Clint said the moment Linc answered his cell phone on Tuesday morning.
“Are you speaking as my boss or as my brother-in-law?” Linc asked as he slid into his first-clas
s seat on the flight to Atlanta. Eve was busy settling in next to him.
“Both,” Clint told him. “Would you mind telling me what the hell you were thinking last night?” Without waiting for a reply, Clint rushed on, “You’ve pulled a lot of stunts before, but this takes the cake. I thought you liked being single. I thought you thrived on it.”
“Maybe I’m tired of it. Maybe I’m trying to clean up my image.”
Eve gave him a yeah, right look before leaning over to rummage through her purse.
“By marrying Eve Farrel?” Clint’s voice came over the line.
“Okay, so maybe I’m trying to do damage to my image.”
Clint let loose an exasperated breath. “That much I understand. What about your popularity with NASCAR fans? Going from playboy bachelor to devoted husband is bound to kill enthusiasm. Danielle’s called fourteen times in the past hour. She’s this close to having a heart attack.” Danielle Savoy was the racing team’s publicist and the woman responsible for Linc’s bad-boy bachelor image.
“After winning the Daytona 500, the only thing that’s going to kill enthusiasm is losing the next race. Everybody loves a winner, boss. Single or otherwise.”
“I hope so. Speaking of which, I’ll see you at the Rock first thing tomorrow morning. We’ve got some PR stuff to do with some of the local radio stations and then a meeting with Big Tex.” Big Tex was the main MacAllister Magic racing team sponsor.
“I’ll be there.”
“Are you staying in L.A. the rest of today?”
“We’re flying to Adams to spend the night, then we’ll head for the track at daybreak.”
“We? You and Eve?”
“We are married.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing with all of this.”
“So do I.” Linc hung up the phone and watched Eve pop three pieces of gum into her mouth before leaning over to stuff the rest of the package back into her purse. His gaze fixed on her mouth as she chewed. She had a really great mouth.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asked after several seconds ticked by.
“I’m not staring at you.”
“You’re definitely staring at me.”
“You look nervous,” Linc told her. “You’re not afraid to fly, are you?”
“I’m not afraid to fly.” If only, Eve thought. But she had much bigger problems at the moment.
She was stressed from having to pack in less than fifteen minutes. And tired from having to tote Killer down to Mr. Wilkie’s apartment for an impromptu sleepover with Lady and the Tramp—her neighbor had agreed to dog-sit while she was away. Eve was also nearly blind, thanks to the three photographers still camped out on the front steps of her apartment building. The trio had followed Eve and Linc all the way to the airport and snapped picture after picture while they’d headed for the gate. She was also eager to pull out her laptop and get to work. And thirsty since she hadn’t had a sip of anything since they’d left the house. And hungry for a major sugar fix since she’d missed her midmorning package of Sugar Babies.
“It’s okay,” Linc went on. “My brake man, Jim, can bench-press four hundred pounds, but he’s terrified of heights. Just the thought makes him break out in a sweat.”
“I am not afraid to fly.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid of Teletubbies, conservative Republicans, and men who name their penises. That’s about it.” Eve tried to sound nonchalant as she forced her knuckles to loosen their death grip on the armrests of her seat.
The last thing, the very last thing Eve needed was for him to realize that she was, indeed, nervous. But not about flying. About him. He was too close and he smelled too good.
“Why are you afraid of Teletubbies?” Linc asked as he rested his elbows on the armrests of his seat. His arm brushed hers and she did her best not to jump.
“One of my cameramen belongs to this group that thinks all the babbling they do is some secret code used by aliens to communicate with fellow aliens stationed on earth. They’ve even got members dedicated to deciphering the code, which they report in a monthly e-mail newsletter to all members.” She busied herself fastening her seat belt.
“And you believe that?”
“No, but the fact that over two hundred and fifty supposedly rational adults buy into such a thing makes me terribly afraid of the state of our society.”
“What about conservative Republicans?” Eve gave him a get real look and he shrugged. “Okay, that’s a given. What about men who name their penises?”
“It’s a sign of insecurity.”
“How do you figure?”
“Men develop pet names for their members because they’re too embarrassed to use the correct term. It smacks of immaturity, which indicates that society will never fully evolve into a peaceful, rational world where all are created equal.”
“You get all that just from a guy referring to his Baby Huey?”
“Baby Huey?”
“Or Captain America. Or Grave Digger. Or even the Titanic.” His gaze hooked with hers. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe the nickname isn’t a sign of immaturity, but practicality?”
“Meaning?”
“Maybe men just like using a term that’s more individual and appropriate. Penis is such a generic word for something that comes in all shapes and sizes. Besides, it’s a damned sight special to most men, so it deserves a name all its own.”
“So what do you call yours?” The words were out before Eve could stop them.
He grinned. “I’ve already told you.”
“Baby Huey?”
He gave her a you know better look.
“I might understand Grave Digger, but Titanic is a bit ambitious, don’t you think?”
Linc frowned and it was Eve’s turn to smile. His thigh bumped hers as he stretched his legs. His forearm, all hard muscle dusted with golden hair, grazed her bare skin again and she sucked in her breath.
Breath-sucking because of a gold-dusted, muscular arm? Cripes, she hated everything gold, and she’d overcome her weakness for muscles. Now it was all about mind over matter when it came to men. Intelligence over physique. Men who pondered the state of the world rather than the state of their abs. Men who didn’t have long legs and muscular thighs and a tiny scar that bisected the back of their right index finger.
Eve tore her gaze away from the strong, large hand resting atop Linc’s upper thigh and distracted herself by pulling every magazine from the seat pocket in front of her. She flipped through several pages and tried to forget about Linc, who sat next to her and stared out the window. Heat rolled off his body and teased her closer. The delicious scent of him—an intoxicating mix of raw sensuality and wildness—stole her breath away.
She squirmed and searched for a more comfortable position. One would think that first class would be a bit easier on the bottom.
“You really do look nervous.”
“I am not nervous.”
He surveyed her for a few moments before the flight attendant serving the first-class passengers stopped near their seats and drew his attention. The woman carried a bottle of Dom Pérignon, a lacey white bow tied around the neck.
“On behalf of the crew and everyone at the airline, we would like to extend our deepest congratulations!” The attendant presented them with the bubbly. “We’re so thrilled to have you and the new Mrs. Adams flying with us today!”
“It’s not missus,” Eve cut in. “It’s Eve. Eve Farrel. Mizzz Eve Farrel.”
“But you’re married.”
“I’m also a strong, independent, fully competent woman who happens to like her name. I’ve had it a lot longer than I’ve had him.”
“But that’s all going to change,” Linc said, sliding his arm around Eve’s shoulders and pulling her against him for a tight squeeze. “We’re joined at the hip now, ain’t that right, lamb chop? Two peas in the same pod. Two bottles of Coors Light sharing the same six-pack.” Another squeeze. “Till death
do us part.”
“That could be a lot sooner than you think,” Eve muttered for his ears only.
Linc wasn’t intimidated. He squeezed her once more for good measure before sliding his arm free. “Tell everyone I’m mighty obliged,” he told the flight attendant. He winked and the woman blushed. “Me and the missus, here, appreciate everybody’s support.”
The flight attendant’s curious stare slipped over Eve, appraising the woman who’d managed to snag NASCAR’s hottest bachelor.
Surprise registered in the woman’s gaze, and Eve gave herself a mental high five. She’d purposely gone out of her way to tramp it up before leaving her apartment, and she’d obviously succeeded. While she still wore short skirts and clingy tops—old habits died hard—she now dressed with designer clothes and great accessories. Today, however, she’d traded her Gucci and Prada for a black spandex miniskirt, a Madonna bustier, fishnet stockings, and thigh-high black boots. She looked more like a biker chick than a Victoria’s Secret model, or any of the other blond, blue-eyed babes Linc had been seen with.
Today she’d left her jet-black hair long and straight. A dozen bangle bracelets dangled from one wrist. The only other jewelry Eve wore was a honker of a wedding ring. They’d made the purchase on the way to the airport after stopping off at Linc’s hotel so that he could change and pick up his luggage. The ring was platinum gold with a huge marquise diamond. Very traditional, which made it stand out even more since Eve herself was very nontraditional.
She smiled, her bloodred lips parting as she took the bottle of champagne from the curious flight attendant. “Thank you so much. But where’s his?”
“Excuse me?”
“This is barely enough to get me through takeoff, and I hate drinking alone. That’s one common interest we both share, isn’t it, love monkey?” The flight attendant arched an eyebrow at the nickname Eve gave Linc. “Trust me, you don’t want to know,” Eve told the woman as she patted Linc’s thigh and then wished she hadn’t. It was too hard. And too hot. And too close. “We love to get sloshed.”
Sweet as Sugar, Hot as Spice Page 8
