by Peggy Webb
Why not? Her lifestyle left very little room for spontaneity. Until today she’d never thought how routine can deaden a person, sap the life out, take away the fun.
“It’s fine by me,” she said, but Clint had already turned onto a country road, leaving the streets and clipped hedges and carefully mowed lawns behind. She should have known a man like Clint wouldn’t wait around for permission.
He increased his speed so that it felt as if they were standing still while the landscape floated past. Horses zipped by, and cows chewing cuds. Lakes and haystacks whizzed past, jumbled together so the domes of hay appeared to be rising out of the water.
C.J. tried to imprint everything on her mind so she could remember this day. Always. If she were keeping a scrapbook she’d call it “The Day I Became Real.”
She’d never felt more alive. Up until today, she’d been sleepwalking. Now she felt reborn, a woman with ideas and yearnings and passion. The strength of her desire amazed her. She’d known what was missing from her life, but she’d never known its power. Lord, she felt as if she might burst into flames. And that just from riding pressed against the back of Clint. What if she were pressed against the front? C.J. actually groaned.
“Are you all right back there?”
Clint’s voice jerked her out of her reverie. “What?”
“I said, is everything okay back there?”
“Sure. Everything’s just dandy.”
“We’ll stop a while.”
“You don’t have to do that on my account.”
He stopped anyway. “You’ll have to get off first so I can keep the bike steady.”
She was no more graceful getting off than she had been getting on. Considering her train of thought for the last mile or so, that could turn into a very good thing. Obviously he’d brought her here to seduce her, cad that he was. C.J. longed for every unscrupulous thing he was fixing to do.
She’d even made up her mind to help him along. Why not? They were in a cow pasture surrounded by deep woods at least two miles from the nearest house. So what if she made a fool of herself? Nobody would see except the cows and one tired-looking old bull with a missing horn.
“This is the perfect place.”
Clint cocked one eyebrow in that sexy move that nearly drove her crazy. He might as well have been crooking his finger at her. She slithered closer.
“The perfect place for what?”
“Whatever you have in mind.” The coat she’d borrowed slid to the ground as she slunk closer in her borrowed dress.
He gave her a smoldering look that made her mouth go dry. “Princess, I believe you’ve read my mind.”
“You tell me what’s on your mind, and I’ll tell you what’s on mine.”
“I prefer to show you.”
He placed his mouth on hers before she could think. Oh, lord, what was happening to her? She’d never felt anything like this in her life.
Before today she thought she’d been kissed. She was mistaken. Clint’s talented lips melted her bones, his marauding tongue stole her reason.
Heat consumed C.J., the heat of memories, the heat of the sun, the heat of hands. Clint’s hands. Taking liberties with her.
C.J. wanted to scream, “Take me, take this cursed virginity. I want to feel like a real woman.”
“You won’t be needing this.” His voice was thick with passion, his hand already on her zipper.
Oh help. When the dress parted he’d discover her padding.
“Wait.”
“For what?”
Desperate, she cast about for a reason. “We haven’t…we haven’t seen the flowers.”
“The what?”
“The wildflowers.” On buttery legs she stumbled two feet away where the air wasn’t so charged.
“You want to look at wildflowers?”
There was something dangerous in his voice. She didn’t dare look at him.
“Yes. Smell that honeysuckle. Isn’t it glorious?” She took a deep steadying breath, still not daring to glance his way.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Look at that black-eyed Susan.” Her mind was coming back, her vision was beginning to clear. “There’s some St. John’s wort, and look over there in the edge of the woods. Fire pink.”
“My mother knew the names of all the wildflowers.”
Something in his voice made her turn around. His face was impassive, but Clint’s eyes looked shattered. C.J. was as shocked as if a wolf had turned into a lap dog. He looked like a little boy who had suddenly discovered he wouldn’t have any Christmas this year.
C.J. wanted to reach out and smooth back his hair. She wanted to gather him to her breasts and croon. Considering recent events, that didn’t seem wise.
“So does Dad. We used to walk together in the evenings, and he’d point them out.” He was very still, watching her without really seeing. Where was he? What was he remembering? “Did your mother teach them to you?”
“It’s getting late.” He picked up her helmet and tossed it to her. “Put this on.”
“We’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
Saved, she thought. Relief flooded her as she climbed on the motorcycle. Relief and regret. She’d missed something important here.
Clint was furious at himself.
He was going soft. He’d had C.J. Maxey right in the palm of his hand and had let her go…all because she knew the names of a few flowers. All because she widened those innocent-looking blue eyes of hers and acted like a shy, pure maiden.
He smacked his desk with his hand. He had to take his frustration out on something. Ever since he’d dropped her off at her car, he’d been a wild man. He’d nearly burned the keys off his computer typing up his story of the parade.
Shuffling through the piles of paper on his desk, he picked up pictures of C.J. You wouldn’t know by looking that she was a hardhearted woman who could drive a man insane without even half trying.
He slammed the pictures on top of his story, threw the whole thing on Wayne’s desk and jumped on his motorcycle. A few beers, that’s what he needed. Something to cool him off and make him forget that C.J. Maxey was twisting him inside out and turning him upside down. Next thing you knew he’d be growing a conscience. Wouldn’t that be a joke?
“I’ll have your dress cleaned,” C.J. said. She was next door, sitting in Sandi’s kitchen sipping iced tea and eating tofu salad.
“Don’t be silly. I didn’t invite you over here to talk about the dress.”
“What’s up? You sounded so serious and mysterious on the phone.”
“Oh, well, first tell me what you think of Clint Garrett.”
“He’s…interesting.” C.J. didn’t talk about relationships, even with her best friend. Not that she’d ever had one to talk about. She changed the subject. “So what is this news?”
“I’m thinking about getting married.” Translated, that meant Sandi wanted a baby.
“That’s not news.”
Her friend wanted a family more than anybody C.J. had ever known. Sandi had been dreaming of starting her own family since she was sixteen, and probably would have ended up a teenage pregnancy statistic if Phoebe hadn’t been there to guide her.
It seemed to C.J. that desire for family was no reason to marry, but who was she to judge? She knew nothing about the opposite sex and very little about romantic love except what she remembered of Sam and Phoebe before the accident.
“Look, I know my record with men isn’t great,” Sandi said. “But I think it’s different this time. He’s local for one thing.”
“Is he the family type?”
“Hardly. But he has a great gene pool.”
C.J. sighed. She hated seeing her friend disappointed time after time. “If you want a family, you’d better pick a family man.”
“I think he can be persuaded.”
There was no use trying to talk sense into Sandi. Besides, who was she to give advice about love?
“If anybody can do i
t, you can.” C.J. lifted her glass. “Let’s toast. Here’s to success. May you get pregnant on your wedding night.”
“If not sooner.” Sandi clicked her glass against C.J.’s. “My biological alarm is going off.”
Laughing, they drank their tea, then dug into their tofu salad.
“I’m glad he’s local,” C.J. said. “I’d hate to think of you moving off to Mexico or Tahiti. I’d miss this.”
“Me, too.”
“So who is he? Anybody I know?”
“Well, yes. I was going to tell you… It’s Clint Garrett.”
C.J. dropped her drink. Tea soaked her shorts and ran in rivulets down her legs. Glass shattered on the tile floor.
Sandi jumped up and swabbed C.J. with a dish towel. “Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m all right.” She jerked the cloth away and angled herself so Sandi couldn’t see her face. “It’s only tea.”
But it wasn’t. It was a sexy man feeding her popcorn on the sofa. It was clinging to a set of broad shoulders while she whizzed through the countryside on his motorcycle. It was the kiss of a lifetime.
“You’re sure? I would never dream of going after him if I thought for one minute that you were interested. I mean, he did escort you on the float.”
“That’s all he was. My escort.” C.J. jumped up and stalked about the kitchen slamming cabinets. “Where’s the broom?”
“In the laundry room. I’ll get it.”
“No, let me.” C.J. had to keep moving or she would explode. In the laundry room she leaned her head against the wall and took a deep breath. But that didn’t help a bit.
Sandi could have any man she wanted. Why did she want Clint? And why couldn’t C.J. tell her, “No, I want him for myself?”
“Because it’s ridiculous, that’s why.” Nobody in Hot Coffee had ever looked at her twice. Why did she think a man like Clint Garrett would be interested? Certainly not on a permanent basis, not on a let’s-have-a-baby basis.
There. She was as bad as Sandi. Longing for the impossible.
Of course, in Sandi’s case, it wasn’t impossible. She’d had a string of losers, that’s all. Clint Garrett was no loser. He was just a little misguided, a little confused. Sandi would fix that with one dazzling smile.
C.J. would be her bridesmaid. She’d live next door to them and be godmother to their baby. She’d be gray before she’d forget the way Clint Garrett had kissed her, but she would keep her secrets.
Sandi was that rare and precious commodity, a true friend. C.J. wasn’t about to jeopardize her friendship over a man who didn’t even know she existed.
“C.J.?” Sandi was just outside the door, tapping. “Are you all right in there?”
“Yes, just getting the dustpan.”
“I was just thinking. Why don’t we drive over to Shady Grove tonight and go to that nice little bar that does karaoke?”
And chance running into Clint? She’d rather cover herself with peanut butter and hang out in a tree for the birds to peck.
“’Fraid I can’t, Sandi. Dad was feeling kind of down after the parade. Memories of Mom, you know.”
“Next time, then, I’ll let you know how it all comes out.”
“I can hardly wait.”
C.J. hoped God had a sense of humor.
Chapter Five
Clint sat in a corner booth at Snookie’s Den by himself nursing his second beer of the evening. This was just what he needed—a cold beer, a decent band playing, lots of good-looking women.
“Look but don’t touch,” he muttered. He’d had one close call today. He wasn’t fixing to risk another. Not that there was much chance of it. He still couldn’t get C.J. off his mind.
“Damn her sexy hide.”
“I beg your pardon.” The waitress jumped back.
“Not you.” He tapped his glass. “One more of these, please.”
“Sure thing, honey.”
Even the way the waitress twitched her cute little butt didn’t improve his mood. Maybe he should have invited Wayne. Or even Charlie. Not that Charlie could put two sentences together that didn’t involve some kind of sport, but listening to the stats on Mississippi State’s Bulldogs would have been better than flagellating himself over a princess who didn’t even look like one. Shoot, she didn’t act like one either. She didn’t act like anybody Clint had ever known.
That was the only reason she fascinated him. Had to be. He was immune to women.
As he started his third beer he decided that maybe he’d take a look at what Snookie’s Den had to offer after all. Maybe another woman was exactly what he needed. Hair of the dog, and all that.
“Hi.” The knockout blonde standing beside his booth looked vaguely familiar, but the light was dim and he was well into his cups. “Do you mind if I join you?”
That dazzling smile. Now he remembered. “Sandi? Sandi Wentworth? Right?”
“Yes.” She slid beside him and he smelled her perfume. Something subtly sexy. He liked that. He liked the way she was dressed, too. Simple jeans and a white shirt open at the neck showing a long slender throat and a hint of cleavage. When she bent over and nabbed some peanuts from the bowl, her hair shone in the lamplight. Altogether she was a dynamite package.
“I believe I saw you this afternoon,” he said.
“Yes. I love parades and circuses. When I was eight I wanted to run away and be a trapeze artist.”
She had the type of enthusiasm that should have been contagious. It did nothing for him except make him vaguely uncomfortable. And he knew exactly why.
He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. He was going to ask Miss Sandi Wentworth to dance and forget all about a man-killer in a red dress.
Sandi leaned close. “The music’s great. I love soft, slow ballads, don’t you?”
Clint’s heart rate shot up, his pulse did the fandango. The moment was right.
“Tell me about C.J.,” he said.
All the lights were on and Ellie’s VW bug was parked in the driveway. C.J. set out running, then burst through the front door out of breath.
“Dad! Ellie!”
Ellie stuck her head around the kitchen door. “In here, C.J.”
Her hair poked out like porcupine quills from her habit of running her hands through it, and she was wearing an old shirt of Sam’s, a blue-and-green plaid one C.J. had seen a dozen times out in the clinic. Pots and pans littered the kitchen counters and delicious smells wafted all over the house. Another of Ellie’s habits: when she was upset she cooked.
“Where’s Dad? Has anything happened? Is he all right?”
“Yes. He’s okay. Here. Eat this.” Ellie shoved a slice of lemon ice-box pie in her hand, then cut two for herself. “If I don’t quit this comfort eating I’m going to be as big as my car.”
C.J. could use a little comfort eating, herself. Even as she sat down and kicked off her shoes, Sandi was somewhere with Clint, probably already in his house, maybe even his bed.
She took an extra-big bite. “Let me guess. The parade brought back memories. Right?”
“You got it. I had a sneaking suspicion, so when I called the house and nobody answered I came right over. Found Sam sitting in the bedroom poring over albums of Phoebe in her beauty queen days. ‘Look at her,’ he said, ‘is she not the most beautiful woman in the world,’ and I told him she was, said she was the prettiest woman in Mississippi. Then he set in to talking about how he’d failed her, how he’d failed all of us.”
Ellie’s hands shook as she poured two cups of hot chocolate then squirted on the whipped cream. It brimmed over and puddled on the countertop. She sat down without even wiping it up, which told C.J. all she needed to know about Ellie’s state of mind.
“You do too much for us, Ellie. Why don’t you go home and rest?”
“For what? Sex?” Ellie slammed her cup down, then jumped up to cut herself a piece of chocolate cake. “The last sex I had was in l977.”
C.J. couldn’t have been more shocked if El
lie had suddenly sprouted horns. “Well,” she murmured, “I’m not sure…”
“I’m tired of being a reliable old maid. I’m sick of pretending I don’t have a libido.” She pounded her chest. “Underneath this flat chest beats the heart of a woman. A real woman.”
“I know just how you feel.”
“No, you don’t. I’m old.”
“Why, you’re not…”
“I’m a dried-up old crone with an atrophied peach orchard.” Ellie slammed her cup down so hard chocolate milk sloshed all over the table. “I ought to go in there and slap the tar out of him.”
“Who?”
“Sam, that’s who.”
“Dad? You want to slap Dad?” Now C.J. was really alarmed. Had Ellie had a mild stroke? Gone crazy? Suffered a mental breakdown of some kind?
C.J. jumped up. “I’ll call a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor.” Ellie grabbed her car keys out of her purse. “What I need is a man.”
She stalked out of the kitchen and slammed the back door so hard it echoed through the house. Roused from sleep, Sam padded down the hall wearing bedroom slippers and a fuzzy-headed look.
“Where’s Ellie?” he asked.
“Gone.”
“Gone? Where’d she go?”
C.J. kissed his cheek and said, “Go on back to bed, Dad. Everything’s all right.”
What was one more lie? Sam shuffled off and she gathered up pots and pans. She was probably the only available-and-looking-but-not-so-you-could-tell woman in Hot Coffee washing dirty dishes in the shank of a Saturday night.
Sam’s snores echoed down the hall and grated along C.J.’s already ragged nerves. She turned on the radio to drown out the sounds, but they overrode the easy country ballad and reverberated through the kitchen.
C.J. couldn’t stand her dull life a minute longer. She threw the dishcloth onto the countertop and said, “There, I’m throwing in the towel.”
Then she marched down to her little girl’s bedroom and ripped the frilly lace curtains off the windows. A moon as big as Missouri beamed through her windows and fell across the stuffed animals on her spinster’s bed. She grabbed the teddy bear by the arm and tossed him into the closet. Next went the pink elephant Sam had won for her at the county fair when she was six years old. With one sweep she scooped the rest of the menagerie into a sack and slammed the closet door on them.
