by Peggy Webb
Clint broke off the kiss and sat up, taking her with him.
“Upsy daisy.”
“Wha?”
“Bedtime, princess.”
“With you?”
“No. Tonight we sleep in separate beds.”
She looked so forlorn he had to stifle his laughter.
“It’sh ’cause of the panties.”
“What?”
“They’re pink.”
“Are you describing your underwear to me, Miss Maxey?”
“You wanna see?”
He grabbed her hands before she could lift her skirt. “Not tonight. I’m in no condition to withstand further goading.”
She pouted at him. “They’re tacky.”
He suppressed another laugh. “Back to the panties, are we?”
“Not bikinis.”
“No?”
“They’re granny britches. Cover the subject.”
“I see.” He hadn’t been this entertained since he’d interviewed her through the bathroom door. If it weren’t for his rather painful state, he’d be enjoying the hell out of himself. “And which subject would that be?”
“The peach orchard.”
“The what?”
“Tha’s wha’ Ellie calls it.”
She giggled and he couldn’t work up more than a grin because he was having the devil of a time with images of peaches—lush, ripe and juicy.
“You love Ellie, don’t you?”
“Yes. She’s been a mother.”
“Then she’ll thank me for what I’m about to do.” He got up off the bed and jerked his pants on. “I’m going to get you a pair of my pajamas so you won’t have to sleep in your pretty yellow dress.”
She didn’t say anything which was probably a good thing, because the way she looked lying on his bed was more than enough to make walking out of the room one of the hardest things he’d ever done.
“Be right back,” he said, then hurried out before he tossed his worrisome conscience out the window and fell upon that fallen yellow flower.
He stubbed his toe in the dark and said an evil word, but it didn’t ease his state of mind one bit. Just thinking about what he’d left behind was enough to arouse a sleeping giant. He jerked open a drawer and nabbed a pair of green silk pajamas, a gift from a misguided mistress whose name he couldn’t even remember.
He stubbed the same toe in the same dark, but refrained from any more profanity just in case C.J. had fallen asleep and he could leave the pajamas draped on the end of the bed where she would see them if she woke up.
No such luck. She’d heard him coming. Before he even got to the door she said, “You don’t have to tiptoe. We’re all alone.”
When he rounded the door frame, he lost what shred of control he’d managed to find. C.J. was standing in the middle of the room with her dress pooled at her feet, her pert little breasts calling his name and her trim little bottom encased in a pair of pink silk panties that screamed innocence but whispered erotica.
“The zipper was hard.”
“That’s not the only thing.”
“I wanted you to unzip me, but you left.”
Her pouty mouth beckoned, but he knew if he kissed her now he’d never stop.
“I see you managed fine without me.”
He’d never seen anything more desirable than her lips. Except her breasts. He wanted to devour them, to take her taut pink nipples deep into his mouth and feast an hour or two.
“If it’s any consolation, princess, I want you, too. Unfortunately I’ve discovered a troublesome streak of nobility.”
She put her hands on her hips, which caused the rest of her to move in a most enticing way. “Drat,” she said.
“Those aren’t exactly my sentiments, but they’ll do.” He tossed the pajamas onto the end of the bed. “Put these on.”
“Don’t want to.”
“Whatever you wish. They’re yours if you need them. Good night, princess.”
“Wait. Where’ you goin’?”
“To bed.”
Her face lit up. “With me?”
“Not tonight. When I go to bed with you, you’ll be in a condition to remember every single detail.”
Her luscious pink mouth fell open, but he didn’t stay to find out whether she wanted to speak or merely to be kissed. He did what any sane red-blooded male would do under the circumstances: he fled.
Chapter Seven
Ordinarily Clint fell into bed and didn’t move till morning. It was one of his greatest achievements, being able to sleep the sleep of the innocent in spite of his wicked ways. But tonight storm troopers in hob-nailed boots marched through his head and every one of them shouted her name.
He untangled himself from the covers that wrapped around him like a boa constrictor. He was already out the door when he remembered he wasn’t wearing a stitch, so he raced back to the bed and wrapped the sheet around himself. He was glad nobody could see him—a grown man who ought to know better, tiptoeing around in his own house wearing the bedcovers.
“This damned nobility is killing me.”
In spite of that, he pressed on. Just to make sure C.J. wasn’t asleep on the floor or lying in the bathroom with her head cracked open. She was in such a state that any number of dire things could have happened to her.
Not that it mattered to him one way or the other. In spite of the way she kissed. In spite of the way he desired her. He just wanted to get her back to Sam Maxey’s in one piece, that’s all.
She’d fallen asleep with the light on. For a moment Clint stood in the doorway merely looking at her, feasting his eyes like a man too long deprived of the company of women, which was about the most ridiculous thing he could think of. If Wayne could see him now he’d say Clint had lost his marbles. He’d suggest his ace reporter take a long vacation in a secure place with bars on the windows and nurses in soft-soled shoes.
What he ought to do was turn around and leave Hot Coffee’s most exasperating woman on top of the covers. He was used to taking the easy way out, so why not just turn around and walk back down the hall and get on with the battle of the bedsheets?
Sighing, he picked up the silk pajamas she’d kicked onto the floor then knelt beside the bed and took one slender foot in his hand. It was cold. She was liable to get sick if he didn’t do something.
And so he made the supreme sacrifice. He sat on the edge of the bed and shifted her legs into his lap.
C.J. stirred, Clint bit back a groan then eased her legs into the pajamas. He took his time, too. Not that he wanted to feel her silky skin. He didn’t want to wake her. That was all.
Not that there was much chance of that. She lay across his lap like a felled sapling. The only difference was, he’d never had a burning desire to run his hands over a felled sapling. Lord, she was enticing lying there with his pajamas gathered around her tiny waist and her beautiful bare torso screaming for his attention.
He had to compose himself before he could even pick up the pajama top. Getting her into it was going to take some finesse…and all the control he could muster.
Taking a deep breath he gingerly lifted her left arm…and all hell broke loose.
She screeched like a banshee then reared up and whacked his chin with a fist.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
It seemed a reasonable question to him, but C.J. took umbrage. Her fist smashed him again, this time in the eye.
“Dammit,” he roared. “Stop that.”
He tried to grab her wrists but she rolled sideways, then kicked him with the feet he’d so recently admired. He was rapidly revising his opinion. Those formerly dainty feet packed a punch like a peenball hammer.
To make matters worse he could hardly see out of the eye she’d smacked, plus he was having trouble fending her off and hanging on to his bedsheet. How could he hold on to his makeshift toga and fend off flailing arms and legs and flying fists?
He let go of her arm long enough to grab a corner of the sheet, and she
landed a blow to his other eye.
That was the last straw. The only way to win this war was to fight dirty.
“You’d better batten down the hatches, princess, because I’ve had enough.”
She was going to pulverize the two-timing alley cat. In one day he’d tried to seduce her in a cow pasture, carried her former best friend off for nefarious purposes, then lured C.J. to his bed. Never mind that she couldn’t hold her liquor. All the more reason for him to act the gentleman.
Clint grabbed for her and she ducked, which turned out to be most unfortunate because it put her face in such close proximity to his most enthralling body parts that she almost hyperventilated.
C.J. was going to thank Sandi for rescuing her…if she could ever forgive her for taking him away. She readjusted her focus to a less unsettling view—Clint’s amused face.
Her curtsey proved another major mistake in a day fraught with them. She jerked upright with a flaming face and the fervent hope that he hadn’t noticed the direction of her gaze.
Not only did his diabolical laughter confirm her fears, but his wicked gaze burned her to a cinder. “Keep doing that and we’ll both be in trouble, princess.”
“Stop ogling me.”
“You shouldn’t prance around half naked if you don’t want your considerable assets to be appreciated.”
“I’m not prancing…I’m running, you fool.”
“No need. I’ve stopped chasing you, or have you been too busy to notice?”
She stormed away and covered herself with the first thing she could find. Wouldn’t you know it would smell exactly like him, good clean soap and a subtle, spicy aftershave with just a hint of musky male sweat.
C.J. clutched the sheet close around her neck, then held it out tent-style so he couldn’t see what the heady combination of aromas was doing to her traitorous breasts. She felt like one of those women who had been kidnapped by scoundrels and been brainwashed until she was just like her captors. Maybe there was a good book she could read in order to deprogram herself.
He leaned against the chest of drawers, obviously enjoying her discomfort. “Do you think you can hide from me behind that sheet?”
She flushed so hot she felt as if she’d fallen into a bed of fire ants.
“It will take a bigger man than you to get me out.”
The minute the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to take them back, but it was far too late. Suddenly, the debonair man at the door had vanished and in his place stood a man with fire in his eyes and thunder in his soul.
“The next time you go on a quest for a worthy man, Miss Maxey, I suggest you look somewhere besides Snookie’s Den.” He stalked toward the door, then turned back to her. “Rest well for what’s left of the night. In the morning you’re going to need it.”
She vaguely remembered that they’d come back to his apartment in her car. If only she could remember where she’d put the keys.
As if he’d read her mind, he said, “Don’t bother looking for the keys. I’ve got them somewhere safe.” His smile would frost hot biscuits. “Sleep tight, princess.”
Chapter Eight
Around five o’clock Clint gave up his battle for sleep and sanity. He slipped into his clothes, dashed off a note then sneaked into the camp of the enemy. She lay on her left side with her legs curled and her cheek resting on her folded hands. Danger masquerading as a lamb. Poison posing as innocence.
The sooner he got out of there the better off he was. Tiptoeing like a thief in his own house, he cast the note onto the bedside table and made his escape.
A taxi was waiting outside to take him into Shady Grove for his motorcycle. He had no travel plan and no destination. The point was simply leaving. Who knows, maybe he’d find a town somewhere with a good mom-and-pop restaurant that served grilled hamburgers as big as flying saucers and a secluded fishing hole where a man could sit on the poolbank, drop a line in the water and not think about anything except how long it would be before the fish started biting. A welcoming kind of place where he could hang his hat for a little while.
Clint jumped on his bike and headed east toward Alabama.
C.J. had made a royal mess of things. Her fury at Clint had not abated, but mostly she was furious with herself. Sitting in the middle of her own bed in her crumpled hair shirt, formerly known as a yellow sundress, she read the two notes for the dozenth time.
“C.J.,” her dad had written, “I’ve gone to church, back around noon, hope you had a good time with Sandi.”
Guilt pangs squeezed her deceitful heart, and she crumpled her dad’s note and tossed it into the wastebasket.
Clint’s was equally brief, equally guilt-producing. “Princess,” it read, “here are your car keys. Hope you find your worthy man. Happy hunting.”
This one she didn’t toss aside, but instead put it under her pillow where it would be a constant reminder that women who pretend to be somebody they’re not deserve exactly what they get. The problem was not that she had agreed to be Lee County’s Dairy Princess, but that she had presented herself as a whole ’nother person, which had set up expectations for things she couldn’t deliver. Not only that, but her posturing had cost her a best friend, caused Ellie pain, and driven a wedge between her and her dad. In addition, she had willfully hurt another human being.
Maybe Clint Garrett wasn’t the world’s most desirable bachelor, but he didn’t deserve to feel unworthy as a toad.
C.J. had some bridges to repair, and she was going to start with Ellie.
She lived in a small white house near the post office, protected from the spying eye of the postmistress by a thick row of gardenias, an arbor heavy with pink-and-white roses, and countless flowerbeds filled with iris and lilies, phlox and lavender, azalea and forsythia already gone by. Fragrant culinary herbs in pots perfumed the walkway and verbena laid a carpet of purple around an ancient bird bath where two fat robins were taking a break from feeding the babies that nested in the hanging ferns on the front porch.
Ellie’s straw hat bobbed among the riot of blossoms in the English garden she’d created from scratch.
“Yahoo,” she called when she spotted C.J. Discarding her gloves and her gardening shears, she nodded toward the porch swing. “Have a seat and tell me what’s wrong.”
“I don’t want to interrupt your gardening.”
“Interrupt it. I’m just out here puttering around so I wouldn’t have to go to church and face Sam.”
Right then and there C.J. decided that for once she wasn’t going to be the one spilling problems for Ellie to fix.
“I’m worried about you, Ellie.”
“No need. I’m a tough old nut. I can survive anything.”
“I shouldn’t have let you leave the house in the state you were in last night.”
“Don’t worry about me, C.J. I called Lucy, and she and Kitty and Dolly came over with elderberry wine. The Foxes always pull each other through.”
Phi Omicron Xi, nicknamed the Foxes. The sorority Ellie and her three friends had chartered in rebellion against the snobbish social clubs they’d encountered on campus. Phoebe had told her the story a dozen times, how the four smartest women on campus had asked her to join them even though she couldn’t hold a candle to them intellectually. “I guess they must have felt sorry for me, because I was something of an outsider myself,” Phoebe would say. “Nobody could get beyond my beauty titles till the Foxes came along.”
Ellie had told a different story: “Phoebe was the lightning rod that kept us grounded. The rest of us would have vanished into a cosmic fog if it hadn’t been for your mother.”
Phoebe had played the same role in their family, and when she died Sam had vanished, only returning in brief spurts, mostly when Ellie was around.
“Tell me what happened between you and Dad last night.”
“Nothing.”
One thing C.J. had learned from watching her dad at the clinic was patience. She sat back on the cushions and waited for Ellie to tell h
er the truth.
“Don’t look at me like that, C.J.”
“Like what?”
“Like Sam. He has a way of tilting his head and pulling the truth out of you with his eyes.”
That’s when it hit C.J. that Ellie was more than a good friend to her family, more than a surrogate mother to her.
“How long have you been in love with my father?”
“How did you know?”
“I guess I finally grew up.”
“Do you want some tea?”
“No, thank you, Ellie. But I do want to know about you and Dad.”
“We grew up together.”
“I already know that. Tell me something I don’t know, like when you fell in love with him and why he married my mother instead of you.”
“Good lord, anybody in his right mind would choose Phoebe over me. Your mother was not only beautiful, she was charming and sweet. Everybody loved her. Sam was smitten from the moment he met her.”
Which had been when they were in college.
“What I want to know is before college. I want to know about you and Dad.”
Ellie smiled at her. “You’re just like Sam. You won’t be satisfied till you get to the bottom of all this.”
“I love both of you, Ellie, and I don’t like to see you as unhappy as you were last night.”
“What about Sam? He’s been unhappy for six years.”
“I wish I knew what to do about that.”
“Why don’t you try not to coddle him? Why don’t you try living your life, no matter where it takes you?”
“And leave Dad behind?”
“Yes.” Ellie gazed over the porch railing at her roses as if she were taking strength from their beauty. “Maybe it’s time we both quit trying to protect him.”
C.J. thought Ellie might be right, but she wasn’t ready to admit any drastic changes into her life. First she had to get her feet planted solidly back on the ground and then she had to repair fences.
“Were you and Dad ever planning to marry?”
“Yes. I’ve loved Sam forever, I guess. From the time we played in the same sandbox to the time we partnered on the debate team in high school, we were a couple. Everybody took for granted that someday we’d marry. I wanted it with my whole heart, and I guess he just went along with it, being Sam.”
