Hot Mail
Page 24
Sherry and Randy sat on the front row, hand in hand. In a couple of weeks, they planned to fly to Florida and introduce Randy to Debra and vice versa. After that, they would be setting their own wedding date.
There were no attendants at the altar, not even a maid of honor or best man. Only the minister flanked Ethan. Jane had said, and Ethan agreed, that since they were each marrying their best friend, no other fuss was necessary.
It was one of the shortest engagements on record, but neither Jane nor he had wanted to wait. Though her parents were shocked, they had known Ethan for years, and once they got used to the idea, they gave their blessing. In lieu of planning and paying for a large, expensive wedding, Jane’s disappointed mother and dad had flown her to New York overnight and insisted she buy a designer gown. Ethan hadn’t laid eyes on the Vera something-or-other dress, but he’d be able to have his first glimpse very soon.
The music changed as the swinging wooden doors at the back of the room opened wide. There, framed against a simple archway stood Jane.
She took his breath away. Her hair was caught up on top of her head in a pretty, artful tangle of curls. Her graceful neck was bare save for the platinum-and-diamond necklace he’d given her as an engagement present. The dress was worth every penny her parents had paid.
It was an off-the-shoulder design that showcased tempting amounts of her cleavage, emphasized her narrow waist, and ended in a fairy-tale skirt of tulle and satin.
He had to clear his throat and blink back hot moisture from his eyes.
Music played, but in his head she walked to him in hushed, reverent silence. The carpeted aisle seemed to stretch on forever. When she was close, he stepped forward and took her arm, sharing the last two steps to the altar. Her blue eyes were serene, her smile sexy and sweet.
As they paused and faced the minister, Jane slipped a small envelope into his hand. “Put in your pocket,” she whispered.
He barely moved his lips, conscious of the roomful of eyes on them. “What is it?” Discreetly he tucked the note in his tux jacket.
Jane squeezed his hand. “It’s the last valentine I promised you, number six.”
His lips twitched. “I can hardly wait.”
The minister gave them an admonishing glance and began reading the familiar, oft-repeated words, “ ‘We are gathered here today . . .’ ”
Ethan tuned out for a moment, unable to concentrate on anything but Jane’s profile. She faced the minister, her eyes intent as she listened to the beginning of the ceremony.
His hungry gaze roved over her face—her soft lips, her stubborn chin, the curve of her cheek, her pretty nose.
All of it was so familiar to him, and yet today . . . on the threshold of something brand-new and faintly alarming, she was an enigma, a beautiful, wonderful puzzle.
The minister’s voice pierced Ethan’s preoccupation. “Do you, Ethan, take Jane to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold in sickness and in health, from this day forward, until death do you part?”
There was moisture on Ethan’s brow, and his hands weren’t quite steady, but he cleared his throat and answered firmly, “I do.”
Again, he spaced out, inhaling Jane’s delicate feminine scent, noticing absently that she had transferred her engagement ring temporarily to her right hand so he could place a simple platinum band on her left ring finger.
Joy swelled in Ethan’s chest . . . and he sent a rush of jumbled, grateful, prayerful words to the man upstairs. Not everyone in life was lucky enough to fall in love with their best friend. Ethan swore on the spot never to take the gift for granted.
Somehow he said the right things at the right time. He remembered holding Jane’s hands, repeating vows in a choked voice, listening to an ancient blessing.
And then it was over. The minister smiled benignly, his voice gently amused as he said, “You may kiss your bride.”
Ethan faced the love of his life, toe-to-toe, eye to eye. When he placed his lips over hers, there was an earthquake of some sort beneath his feet. He heard bells ringing, and then Jane was breaking the kiss and laughing softly.
She hooked her arm in his and started for the back of the church. “Come on, Chief. Any more of that and we’ll be arrested.”
He stopped halfway down the aisle and kissed her once more to the accompaniment or raucous hoots and hollers. When he lifted his head, Jane had tears in her eyes.
“I love you,” he said gruffly. They might as well have been alone for all the notice he took of the people surrounding them.
Jane’s eyes sparkled, sapphire blue. “And I love you, my dearest Ethan. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
It was as beautiful a holiday occasion as anyone could have wished. And as the bride and groom exited their wedding reception a short time later, the guests pelted them with small, colorful candy hearts: Hey, Hot Stuff. Will You Be Mine? Kiss Me. I’m Yours.
If you love sexy stories like Hot Mail, then look for Janice Maynard’s next sizzling tale of seduction
Mating Game
On sale in July 2009 from Signet Eclipse
Read on for a sneak peek. . . .
“You have to be married to inherit. It’s as simple as that.”
Nola stared at her grandmother’s lawyer, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach. His expression was sympathetic, but his words were unequivocal.
She licked her lips, searching in vain for some sense to this madness. “Couldn’t I go to court and argue mental incompetence?” If Marc were here, he’d have whispered in her ear, Hers or yours? He had a wicked sense of humor and loved to tease her.
It was only one of the many things at which Marc excelled, not the least of which was his ability to prove to a woman that she was multiorgasmic, despite all previous evidence to the contrary.
The lawyer shook his head. “She wrote her will five years ago when she was in full possession of her faculties. No judge anywhere will be able to break it. She may have gotten a bit fuzzy there at the end, but she knew what she wanted for you.”
Nola’s bottom lip quivered, and she bit down on it, not willing to make a scene in her favorite Starbucks. She gazed blindly at a grungy teenager two tables away who was swallowing great gulps of cappuccino from a cup in one hand while texting with his other.
The depth of her grief took her off guard. Since the day her grandmother had taken orphaned ten-year-old Nola into her home to raise her, the two women had butted heads over virtually everything. As an adult, Nola traveled south at least quarterly. She had spent time with her grandmother at Christmas just four months ago, but it was a strained visit, compelled by a sense of duty.
Now guilt and loss made uncomfortable bedfellows in her gut. She brought her attention back to the lawyer. He’d been her grandmother’s legal counsel since the late sixties. His worn three-piece suit with the vest tightly buttoned and his dated, almost embarrassing tie made him stand out. He’d have been right at home on a rerun of the Andy Griffith Show, but not so much amidst this trendy downtown crowd.
Nola suspected that the decision to fly here and break the news to her in person was more for his benefit than hers. There wasn’t much to do in Resnick, Georgia, and this impromptu trip to Chicago would probably be the highlight of his year.
Nola cleared her throat. “I can’t believe she’s gone.” And it was just like the cantankerous old biddy to demand she be cremated and forgo a funeral.
The lawyer frowned slightly, as if he had read her mind. “I tried to argue with her about the final arrangements some time ago. It didn’t seem fair to you. Funerals are for the living, and they’re an important ritual . . . part of saying goodbye.”
For the first time, he looked uncomfortable. “We can talk later about where and how she wanted her ashes spread, but let’s get back to the matter at hand. You have thirty days to find a husband, or your grandmother’s entire fortune—house, land, everything—will go to another beneficiary.”
Nola raised an eyebrow. “Who . . . or what?”
He shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Probably something stupid.” Nola slapped her hand over her mouth, aghast at her ill-timed sarcasm.
But the lawyer just chuckled. Again, sympathy gleamed from his faded blue eyes. “Believe me, Nola. I understand how absurd this seems. But unfortunately, the will is completely ironclad.” He paused and took a sip of his plain black coffee. “Surely there’s a man in your life. . . .”
Nola nodded slowly. Marc was a man. And he was definitely in her life. But a suitable candidate for matrimony? Doubtful.
She sighed. “Tell me again about the residency requirement.”
“You have to live full-time in Resnick for a minimum of six months.”
“After I’m married?”
He shook his head. “Not necessarily. You could start that immediately. And there’s no time limit on the marriage. Technically you could marry and then divorce as soon as possible. There’s nothing in the will to stop you from doing that.”
Except common decency and morality and a basic sense of ethics. She looked him in the eye. “If I decide to do this, I intend to stay married.”
The lawyer smiled. “Your grandmother would be very proud. She spoke most highly of you.”
Nola rolled her eyes. “Not to me, I can assure you.”
He grinned. “She bragged to anyone who would listen about your life and your job. She even had brochures made up with your Web site in case anyone wanted to fly to Chicago and have you shoot their portrait.”
Nola’s heart sank again as she thought about leaving Chicago and her thriving career. It had taken her a half dozen years after college and a master’s degree in fine arts to establish herself as a locally notable photographer. She wasn’t in the big leagues yet, but she made a nice living.
At one time she had dreamed of having a studio in her grandmother’s house. But the two women could never have coexisted as adults. And besides, how many people in Resnick could afford, or would even want, to have their portraits professionally done?
The lawyer spoke again, perhaps sensing Nola’s ambivalence. “It’s a hell of a lot of money to walk away from.”
Nola stared at him bleakly. “The money is one thing. The house and land are another. I’m the last of the Graingers. How am I supposed to turn my back on that legacy? My family has lived in that house since the early eighteen hundreds.” And she knew every one of the oft-told ancestral stories. During the War of Northern Aggression (as Nola’s grandmother called it until the day she died) a savvy Confederate Grainger widow had bartered her body in exchange for being bypassed by Sherman’s rampaging army. Was Nola about to do the same? Could she prostitute herself to save a house and a few hundred acres of land?
Not without love. Or at least the semblance of it. In that moment, she knew what she had to do.
She had to find a man. Someone she could respect, and look at across the breakfast table every morning, and—above all—someone she could enjoy hot, satisfying sex with. Definitely that last one. Marc had spoiled her that way. He’d taught her things about her own body that still made her blush. She wasn’t about to enter into some farcical platonic marriage of convenience.
She wanted a man who would love her and lust after her and understand why she had to protect her grandmother’s legacy. Marc had a fortune of his own, but he was a player. Nola was merely his flavor of the month. And from the beginning, she’d recognized their passionate liaison as temporary and superficial.
So he wouldn’t be a viable candidate. But if not him, then who?
She wanted tenderness and respect from her husband, as well as raw, raunchy sex. Was that too much to ask? And was she willing to dangle her fortune-to-be as the carrot? Could a woman ever really love a man who was in it for the money?
She stood up, and the lawyer did the same. Nola smoothed her skirt. “Thank you for coming in person. This would have been tough to hear over the phone.” It was still surreal and upsetting, but she was trying to cope.
He gave her an odd little half bow. “If you wish to make other arrangements for your own legal counsel, I certainly understand.”
She shook her head slowly. “No. You knew my grandmother. You know the town and the life. I’d say between the two of us we can work things out.”
He gathered his umbrella and the newspaper he’d been reading on the train. “It’s a hell of a situation, my dear. But I’m sure in the end it will be worth it.”
They paused on the sidewalk, preparing to part in opposite directions. Nola’s skin felt supersensitive to the thin April sunlight. Early-morning thunderstorms had given way to a tentative springlike warmth.
The lawyer shook her hand. “You’re a very attractive woman, Nola. Any man would be lucky to have you.”
She adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder. “From your mouth to God’s ears.” Then she wrinkled her nose. It might be a tad sacrilegious to ask the Almighty’s help in shopping for a husband under such base and selfish circumstances.
As the lawyer disappeared toward the subway station, Nola stood irresolute, the crowds of harried pedestrians parting on either side of her as though she were an easily overlooked obstruction. She glanced at the men—old and young, fat and thin, handsome and homely.
Could she do this? Could she deliberately stalk and capture a male beast, drag him home, and let him put his hands on her body? The sheer gutsiness of what she was contemplating sent a little tingle of anticipation into her abdomen and below.
In her own conflicted way, she would miss her grandmother, but the old lady had thrown down the gauntlet, and Nola was not about to disappoint generations of Grainger ancestors by wimping out.
She had thirty days to find a man. And the clock was ticking. . . .
About the Author
Janice Maynard came to writing early in life. When her short story “The Princess and the Robbers” won a red ribbon in her third-grade school arts fair, Janice was hooked. Since then, she has sold more than a dozen books and novellas. She holds a BA from Emory & Henry College and an MA from East Tennessee State University. In 2002, Janice left a fifteen-year career as an elementary school teacher to write full-time.
Janice lives with her husband in beautiful East Tennessee, and they have two grown daughters, who make them proud. She can be reached via e-mail at JESM13@aol.com. Visit her on the Web at www.janicemaynard.com and www.myspace.com/janicemaynard.