Great-Aunt Sophia's Lessons for Bombshells

by Lisa Cach

  Grace felt a welter of emotions: doubt, anger, revulsion, fear, and under it all sneaking sexual arousal. She tried to smother it and focus on the possibility of revenge. It had never occurred to her that she could hurt Declan as badly, or even worse, than he had hurt her. She could humiliate him. How would that feel, to rule over him in such a way?

  She’d even be willing to concede that Aunt Sophia was right about the powers of bombshellitude, if she could use it to pierce the rhino hide of a man like Declan.

  “If I did get Declan obsessed with me,” Grace said, “and he fell for me? What if I could do that, with or without sex?”

  “My dear,” Sophia said drily, “if you can make Declan O’Brien fall in love with you, I’ll turn that twenty thousand dollars into fifty.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  Declan shut off his smart phone and stood looking out at the ocean, wondering what else he could do to fill the time waiting for Grace. He’d already returned phone calls, replied to e-mails, and checked up on the progress of his development project with the architecture firm and his contacts in the county, but if he didn’t find more busywork to do, he risked dwelling on the last time he’d seen Grace, and what an utter ass he’d been.

  Cyndee had scampered off to wherever she’d come from, leaving him with faint interest in their date tonight. The sex that followed would be athletic and enthusiastic, but he didn’t want to spend the whole night with her; the woman couldn’t sit still or be quiet to save her life. How had such noise ever evolved in the human female? He’d have thought they’d all been eaten by lions on the savannah before Homo sapiens left Africa.

  He blew out a breath. It had been stupid to ask out Cyndee the human pogo stick. He didn’t know what had come over him: Grace had looked at him with eyes that declared him a chauvinist pig, and the next thing he knew he was doing his best to prove her right. It was as if he unconsciously wanted her to hate him even more than she already did.

  On the night of Grace’s arrival, he’d had a little too much to drink and decided to spend the night; one of the guest rooms was his whenever he was in town. He’d made the mistake of sitting down on the couch in the living room, though, and before he knew it he was zonked out, waking only when Grace began her midnight serenade.

  He didn’t know what had motivated him to all that followed. There were Sophia’s instructions to behave as normal—i.e., as a cad—but he’d gone beyond that. He’d wanted to chase Grace away from the house entirely, hoping she’d leave in the morning with her volatile friend.

  Once he’d started touching Grace, though, all that mattered was the warm, soft female who was slowly giving herself to him. All cats were gray in the dark, and this one had been in heat. Her flesh beneath his touch had been deeply, darkly inviting, filling him with the animal urge to conquer and consume. At that moment, he had to have her. Rational thought had ceased.

  It hadn’t returned when Catherine crashed into the crockery; it hadn’t returned when she stood in the doorway calling Grace’s name. It was only when the light came on that his brain reengaged.

  He wished it hadn’t. Interrupted passion, embarrassment, Sophia’s instructions, the hateful imagined image of Grace and Dr. Andrew in marital bliss, they all came together and made him behave in a way that now brought an unfamiliar twinge of shame.

  He thought he was a nice guy under the hound exterior. Not yet ready to settle down, but never the type of asshole who ended up on DontDateHimGirl.com, either. A good guy who’d never intentionally hurt someone innocent.

  Now, every time he looked at Grace he would see the ugly truth reflected in her eyes. Given the right situation, he could be a dick.

  It was exactly how Sophia wanted him to behave, but he was having a hard time feeling good about it. It was so much more fun to be a womanizer when it came naturally, without conscious thought. Self-awareness was a bitch.

  To please Sophia he would take Grace out today, and he’d be as rude and crude as Grace no doubt expected of him, but he wasn’t going to touch her again. A guy had to be able to look at himself in the mirror.

  Deep in thought, he didn’t realize Grace was approaching until she appeared in the corner of his eye. With a start he looked down at her, his vision falling smack into as lush a mound of breasts as had ever graced the cover of a men’s magazine. They welled up from the V-neck of a green dress that wrapped round her body and tied at the side, hugging a small waist and full hips that belonged on Kim Kardashian or Marilyn Monroe. He was used to California gym addicts with their sinewy arms and boys’ hips, and in comparison, Grace’s voluptuous feminine display was shocking, almost pornographic. There were so many wild curves flowing this way and that, he didn’t know where to look, or even if he should look.

  “Christ, what happened to you?” he blurted. Had her eyes been that bright a green before? And—was that makeup she was wearing? Her hair was up in a high ponytail, leaving the smooth column of her neck bare.

  “I took a shower.”

  “You must have damn good soap.”

  “Positively transformative,” she said and put on a big pair of sunglasses, the better—he suspected—to hide her true thoughts. “I’m looking forward to this very much,” she said robotically. “It’s very kind of you to show me around.”

  “What did Sophia have to do, bribe you?”

  Grace jerked guiltily, then rubbed her arm. “Mosquito,” she offered in explanation. Her mouth twisted as if tasting something unpleasant, and then curved into a smile. Her voice dropped and she purred up at him with seeming sincerity, “Will you forgive me for my unappreciative behavior earlier? I was too worn out by my workout to give proper thought to how wonderful it would be to be shown around. This is supposed to be one of the most beautiful parts of California, and you were so kind to offer to introduce me to it. Please forgive me.”

  “Er … ,” he said in confusion. He was too surprised to make sense of what was happening. She was apologizing to him?

  Grace laid her fingers on his arm, the contact startling him. “Say you forgive me?”

  “Did Sophia slip you some of her pain meds?”

  He was rewarded by the tightening of her lips. The hint of her real emotion made him feel on more solid ground: she wasn’t entirely the baaing lamb of sweetness she pretended.

  “Pain meds?” she said. “What nonsense. Of course not. I’ve just realized that you’ve been a perfect gentleman, and that you deserve to be treated as one.”

  He grunted, which seemed the only polite response to such a pile of rubbish. He was curious, though, about what she was up to. Maybe this outing would prove entertaining after all. He gestured to the terrace stairs. “Shall we?”

  Grace walked beside him down the stairs and around the side of the house. He kept glancing down at her, expecting to catch her making obscene gestures at him. Her Stepford wife change of tone was a mask for some purpose, he was sure of it.

  His 1956 Jaguar convertible hunkered in a shady corner of the courtyard, waiting to be set free upon the road. They reached the passenger door at the same time, both their hands reaching for the handle, landing upon it together. Grace’s hand tightened on the latch, and Declan expected her to make a feminist remark about not being so weak that she couldn’t open her own door.

  Instead, her grip loosened and fell away. He opened the door and she slid into her seat, and smiled up at him again. “Thank you.”

  Smiling up at him like that—she was really quite lovely. Did she know? He grunted in response to her, and went round to his side and got in.

  “What a beautiful car! Did you find it in such perfect condition, or did you restore it?”

  “I restored it,” he said. “But I’m sure you don’t care about cars.”

  Her mouth twitched, as if her first impulse was to agree, but then it formed itself into a lipsticked smile once again. “I don’t care about modern cars, but this is something special. I noticed it the first day I got here, and wondered who owned it.
”

  He didn’t believe her for a moment. He grunted yet again—he was devolving into an ape in her unexpectedly polite company—and started the engine. His ears noted the velvet purr that said the carburetors were still in perfect balance. The timing might be a hair too advanced, though; he might want to back it off a bit.

  “Where did you find it? There can’t be many like this around.” Grace ran her fingertips slowly over the polished wood of the dash, and he imagined her doing the same to him. “It’s gorgeous. Tell me all about it. Is this wood original?”

  Her compliments warmed him. He was proud of his handiwork and he loved the car, so if she was trying to soften him up for a nefarious purpose, she had chosen her method well. He put the car in gear and drove down the driveway, biting back the volumes of detail ready to spill forth about the car. He had touched every bolt, belt, and piston and could happily go on about it for hours to a fellow enthusiast. But Grace was not an enthusiast, and she was feigning interest. “I didn’t figure you for a car person.”

  Her lips formed an O of innocence. “But I’ve never been in a car like this. It feels so different from anything else. Can you blame me for being intrigued?”

  He smiled despite himself.

  He glanced over at her just as they drove over a small bump, making her breasts bounce. His cock stirred, and in a desperate attempt to focus his mind elsewhere he told her about the car: the old barn full of disused vehicles, the eccentric owner, the damage done by rats, chickens, possums, moisture. Encouraged by her ahs and nods and prodding questions, he yammered on for fifteen miles, until the tight turns of Highway One with its sheer drop-offs into the Pacific Ocean gave him a more demanding distraction from her breasts. As full of jiggling delight as those breasts were, they weren’t worth driving off a cliff for.

  Almost, but not quite.

  Grace listened to the car talk with half an ear, most of Declan’s story unintelligible to her with its talk of the differential, valves, and manifolds. She’d enjoyed the bit about the rats nesting in the seat stuffing, but there were no romantic tales of former owners or Topperesque ghosts to turn the car into more than a beautiful hunk of metal for her. When not focused on the corset presently cutting off the circulation below her waist, her mind wandered to the views of water and man.

  More interesting than the car itself was the light in Declan’s eyes as he talked about it. With his eyes shining behind his sunglasses and his posture tense with enthusiasm, one hand leaving the wheel to gesture excitedly, it was easy to forget for a moment that she loathed him. He was gorgeous, a hunky man-god full of joy, and he obviously loved the Jaguar with a pure, artless passion.

  Had he ever felt that way about a woman?

  A wash of doubt hit her. Even with Sophia’s help, it was crazy to think she could be the one to finally break his impervious heart. Falling in love couldn’t be forced. People had tried to control the hearts of others for centuries and never succeeded.

  What were her real chances of success? In Sophia’s presence, anything seemed possible. Alone out here with Declan, though …

  She remembered the feel of his arousal against her thigh, that night on the couch. He hadn’t faked that. So it was possible he was attracted to her, at least as much as he was attracted to any woman.

  Grace also had confidence in her ability to learn. If she could learn calculus and to play the piano, she could learn to seduce a man—body and soul. How hard could it be? If your average gold-digging bimbo could do it, surely she could, too, especially when being taught by a master like Sophia.

  No goal was worth attaining if it came too easily.

  The car conversation with Declan had flagged, which Sophia had warned would happen. “Don’t fill silences with chatter,” she’d warned. “Men don’t want to hear it. Find something to ask him about that truly interests you—about himself, his work, the sports he plays, or his opinion or knowledge of the world. If you can’t think of anything to ask, make eye contact and smile, and tell him what a marvelous time you’re having.

  “The most important part of today’s lesson,” Sophia had gone on, “is that when you are with a man, he feels he is responsible for everything that happens, from the weather to the traffic to your happiness. Each of your smiles and frowns will be taken personally, even if you’re smiling because you saw a pretty dress in a shop window. He’s the one who took you by the window, so he’ll take credit for the smile. The converse is that everything bad must be ignored by you. If you get in a car accident, praise him for his quick thinking that kept it from being worse. If you get stung by a bee, say the sting is to help you remember such a lovely afternoon.”

  “Isn’t that kind of transparent?” Grace had asked.

  Sophia laughed. “Darling. Men see what they want to see, and they all want to believe they are gods in the eyes of women.”

  Grace looked over at Declan, and when he glanced at her she smiled. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  He nodded.

  “It’s glorious!” she cried, flinging her hands into the air.

  “It’s not that exciting,” he grumbled.

  “Are you kidding?” she demanded, beginning to believe it as she said it. “This is everyone’s dream of California—driving down Highway One in a convertible, the sun shining, a handsome guy at the wheel. What more could I ask?”

  A self-satisfied smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, a dimple pressing into his cheek. “It is a nice day for a drive.”

  It worked! Sophia was right, he was mentally taking credit for the weather, the road, everything. Sophia was a genius!

  Her self-confidence high, Grace set a mini goal for herself: by the end of this outing, she’d get Declan to kiss her. Not a peck-on-the-cheek kiss, either, but a real full-contact tongue thruster.

  She grinned. She’d have him dancing for treats by the time she was done with him.

  The road noise meant conversation was on a semi-shouted level, so Grace was content to let Declan play tour guide, pointing out the occasional landmark. The more she smiled and nodded and asked innocuous questions designed for him to display his knowledge of the area, the more relaxed he seemed to become, so that by the time they looped back through farmland, toward Monterey, he was driving with his elbow on the door and an easy grin on his lips.

  Grace had started to enjoy herself as well, and not just in seeing how well she could control Declan’s mood. He was a good guide, telling entertaining anecdotes and reciting snippets of history about the places they passed. She was surprised that he almost came across as … charming.

  Perish the thought!

  Eventually, though, Grace’s empty stomach began to complain that they’d been driving for at least forty minutes, and her jolly mood began to fade. She was hungry, as only a half-starved dieter postworkout could be. She hoped Declan remembered that lunch had been part of his offer.

  Grace surreptitiously wedged a finger into the top of her lavender corset, trying to relieve some of the binding pressure. “Comfortable,” her ass, although it did make her feel strangely sexy to have her waist pinched in and to know what a naughty pair of panties she wore. It just didn’t seem right that a girl could be squished to the point of numbness by her overconstructed underwear but still have enough space in her stomach to feel hungry. At least they were headed west, which meant back toward civilization. Lunch couldn’t be far behind.

  Just as her mouth began to water at the thought of a basket of warm, soft sourdough bread smeared with butter, Declan turned off the main route onto a side road.

  “There’s something I want to show you,” he said.

  “Great!” Grace said faintly. They left vineyards behind and traveled up into grassy hills cut through by ravines thick with pine.

  They passed a few houses, and fields fenced with barbed wire holding the occasional drowsy cow or horse. Declan slowed the car to a crawl as the road deteriorated, and without the sixty-mile-per-hour breeze Grace began to feel the heat of the sun on her hea
d and shoulders. Sweat popped out between skin and corset, and she suddenly wished she had that big bottle of water Cyndee kept trying to force down her throat.

  At last he pulled off to the side of the road and parked near an opening in a fence. The engine died and Declan got out. “Are you up for a short hike?” he asked, coming around to her side and opening her door.

  Grace put her feet in their high-heeled sandals on the rough ground. “Sure!” she lied, and resigned herself to dusty feet and ruined shoes, and lunch being far away. She followed him into the field, eyes on the ground, stepping carefully in the long golden grass that still held touches of springtime green.

  Were there rattlesnakes in this part of the country? Ticks? Ground-dwelling wasps or yellow jackets? She and the outdoors usually got on fine as cordial acquaintances, but she felt vulnerable, wobbling precariously in her open-toed shoes. When a bird burst from the grass nearby, she jumped and nearly lost her balance, grabbing Declan’s arm for support and emitting what she had to admit was a squeal.

  Note for further research: which came first, the helpless damsel or the ridiculous shoes? She could devise an entire study around personality changes in women depending upon their footwear for the day.

  “Are you okay?” Declan asked.

  “Yes, sorry,” she said, letting go of his arm. “Lost my balance for a moment.” She remembered Sophia’s advice and, smiling, added, “Thanks for catching me.”

  He took her hand and put it back in the crook of his arm. “Just a little bit farther, I promise.”

  “No worries,” she said, but couldn’t think of anything both positive and believable to add. She was too hot and hungry to be clever.