by Peggy Webb
Her friend Jane would laugh if she could hear Virginia describe the scene. “The thing I like about you, Virginia,” Jane would say, “is that you know how to turn drab reality into pulsating fantasy.”
It would behoove Virginia to get her head out of the clouds and her feet back on the ground.
“Eldon Prescott’s a man of indiscriminate taste,” she said. “He tells every woman in Pontotoc the same thing. ‘Good morning, Miss Ruthie. My, aren’t you beautiful today.’ ‘Hello, Lola Bell, what brings such a beautiful woman out on such a beautiful day?’ “
“And are they?”
“Yes, if you look on the inside rather than the outside.”
“I like him already, and I haven’t even met him yet.”
Virginia tensed. She was making a fool of herself, lolling around in the hay thinking she could have an ordinary conversation with a handsome man. The nature of her profession lifted her out of the ordinary, and Bolton Gray Wolf was not just any man. He was a journalist, that dread breed who probed her as coldly as a scientist then spread her secrets out for all the world to gossip about.
“Yet? Are you planning to ask Eldon Prescott what the real Virginia Haven is like?” She jumped off the bale of hay and dusted the seat of her jeans. “Let me save you the trouble. I’m tough and independent and rich—I’m very, very rich—but I’m not sneaky and I’m not mean. I don’t lie and I don’t pretend. So don’t you ever pretend with me, Bolton Gray Wolf. Don’t you ever pretend to be this charming friendly young man who adores horses when all you want to do is sneak off behind my back and start trying to dig up dirt on me.”
“Have you finished?”
“Not quite. Don’t think you can weasel your way into my good graces or my bed with all that Apache charm. I have no intention of being a conquest. Not yours, not anybody’s.”
Bolton had never met a woman with such a sharp stinger. The problem was, he’d long ago ceased to think of Virginia Haven as an interview. When she’d sat on that bale of hay with the sun in her hair and on her fair skin, he’d thought of her as all woman, all desirable woman. As a matter of fact, he’d lost his professional detachment about the time she’d dismounted from the Arabian and stood in front of him with her hair whipping around her face. She reminded him of sunshine and roses. More than that she set off a fire in his blood, a fire of such proportions, he knew it wasn’t a fluke, and that it wouldn’t go away no matter what she said or did.
With her feet wide apart and her hands on her hips, she waited.
“Well, aren’t you going to defend yourself?”
He smiled at her. “No.”
“I suppose you’re going to pack up your cameras and hightail it to the nearest airport.”
“No.” He draped blankets over the horses and led them to their stalls.
Some of the starch went out of Virginia. She’d never met a man she couldn’t back down. And she’d certainly never met a journalist who didn’t grovel at her feet for the sake of a story.
“What are you going to do?”
“Do you want me to answer that question, Virginia, or have you already decided what my answers will be?”
“Don’t play word games with me. You’ll lose.”
“I never lose, Virginia.”
His eyes cut through her like brilliant blue lasers. She felt exposed, as if he’d stripped away her skin and left nothing behind except bare bones and a heart beating too hard and too fast.
There was a slow and easy grace in the way he moved, as if the act of retrieving cameras and gear was some ancient, ritualistic dance. With any other man she’d have said his movements were carefully calculated, but Virginia was not dumb. If she’d learned anything in the last few minutes, it was that Bolton Gray Wolf was definitely not just any man.
The sun turned him to some kind of god as he stood facing her with cameras slung over his shoulders. She’d read about bones melting, had even written about it, but until that moment she’d never understood the concept. Feeling behind her with one hand, she slowly sank back onto the bale of hay.
“When you’re ready for this interview, call me. I’m staying at the Ramada in Tupelo.” He scrawled the number on the back of his business card and handed it to her. She refused to reach for the card, and he placed it on the hay. Though he never touched her, she could feel the heat of his hand as if he had slowly and deliberately caressed her hip.
She looked up at him and became trapped in his intense gaze.
“And Virginia... when I come to your bed, you won’t be a conquest. You will be an equal.”
He walked away with the same silent grace he’d used in rubbing down her horses. She wrapped her arms around herself and watched him go. She was still sitting that way when Candace came to the barn.
“What are you doing, Mother?”
How could she tell her daughter that she had no earthly idea? That she’d been turned inside out and upside down by a man who had boldly declared he was going to be her lover.
“What are you doing, Candace?”
“I came to tell you that Jane called to remind you about dinner tonight... and to lead you to the house in case you’d forgotten the way.”
Laughing, Virginia stood up and put her arm around her daughter’s waist.
“Am I that bad?”
“Sometimes. But I’ve decided to keep you anyhow.”
“Good, because I’ve decided to keep you, too.”
They started toward the house arm in arm, their heads close together as they talked.
“Did you finish the interview?”
“No.”
“Mother! You didn’t run this one off, did you?”
“No. He’s not the kind of man who can be run off. Besides, these interviews take longer than one afternoon.”
“How long?”
“A few days, I expect. Maybe even a week or longer.”
“Good. Maybe he’ll still be here when I come home next weekend. Marge will think he’s a dreamboat.” Candace glanced at her mother. “I thought I’d bring her home with me, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
Marge’s home was in Montana, and weekends on the college campus were very long for her. Sometimes Virginia felt as if she had two daughters instead of one, which was fine with her. In fact, better than fine. It was good to have young people around. It kept her from thinking too much about the severe limitations of her social life.
That evening over catfish and fried dill pickles at the Front Porch in nearby Tupelo, Jane reminded her.
“You need to get out more, Virginia.”
“I am out.”
“Oh, poop. Not with me. With somebody handsome, well hung, and loaded.”
“Jane, a man would have to rob a Brink’s truck to have more money than me, and I’m not interested in some brainless jock.”
“You have not been interested in any man since Roger dumped you.”
“That’s not true.” Virginia dragged the appetizers closer to her plate. “You’re hogging all the dill pickles.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I certainly am. I can think of nothing more boring than my social life.”
“See. That’s just what I told you. You spend too much time at your computer, Virginia. Computers can’t hold you close at night, and they certainly can’t give you orgasms.”
“Jane, did I ever tell you that you have a one-track mind?”
“Yeah. Every day since we turned sixteen. If you weren’t rich and famous, I’d hate you.”
“And if you didn’t have freckles and red hair, I’d hate you. It’s hard to hate somebody who looks like Orphan Annie.”
Laughing, Jane patted her pouf of red hair. “Do you think it looks natural? Lola tried a new color on me today. It’s called siren-red.”
“I like it, Jane. It’ll stop traffic. As a matter of fact—” Virginia stopped in midsentence.
“Virginia... Virginia, what in the world are you staring at?”
When Virginia didn’t respond, Jane turned toward the door.
“Holy Moses! Who is that!” Jane clutched the front of her dress in a pretended swoon. “I could eat him with a silver spoon. Heck, I could eat him with a tin spoon if he’d just come close enough.... Good Lord, he’s coming this way.” Jane grabbed her purse and hastily applied a fresh coat of lipstick. “Do I look all right? Virginia...”
In the few hours since she’d last seen him, Bolton Gray Wolf had lost none of his good looks. As a matter of fact, Virginia’s memories hadn’t done him justice. Quite simply, he took her breath away.
“Hello, Virginia.”
“Bolton.”
She gave him a curt nod and refused to yield to her urge to anchor herself to the table with a death grip. He’d swapped his denim shirt for a soft butternut leather, open at the neck to reveal a glimpse of dark hair.
“I didn’t expect to see you this evening.” He smiled as if he knew secrets. Lord, did he know hers?
“Even novelists have to eat.”
”Virginia...” Jane said, then cleared her throat with a sound that was half lady, half pit bull. It was the signal she’d used with her best friend for years to let Virginia know that she was out of bounds, out of order, and threatening to be out of grace.
Virginia felt relief. And then hard on its heels, regret. For a moment she’d fancied herself all alone in the restaurant with Bolton.
She made the introductions smoothly then watched as he turned his charm toward her best friend. He didn’t flirt but merely used that natural easy grace that probably came from living wild and free in the mountains of Arizona.
She knew about him, had made it a point of knowing about him. Not just about his work, which was superb, but about his history, his personal life. She’d worked too hard building her career and recreating her life to trust just anybody with something as important as an interview.
All the things she’d said to him at the stable aside, she knew Bolton Gray Wolf was not only brilliant, but honest and trustworthy. She also knew that he was intensely independent, working freelance, taking only the jobs that interested him. He preferred the company of horses and dogs to women, which probably accounted for the fact that he was still single. What amazed Virginia was that some cute young thing hadn’t snatched him up long ago.
Maybe she ought to write every single female in the western half of the United States and thank them for leaving Bolton Gray Wolf to her. Or perhaps she ought to berate them for leaving so much temptation in her path.
He was still standing beside the table talking to Jane, but every now and then he sent Virginia one of those riveting looks that made her feel naked and exposed. She made a mental note: he was dangerous.
Suddenly his full attention was on her. Bending over, he caught her hand.
“I’ll expect to hear from you, Virginia... soon.”
His touch, his look rendered her speechless. By the time she’d recovered, he had gone, vanished around the corner to one of the tables out of sight.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” she muttered, knowing that she lied.
Leaning across the table, her face flushed and her eyes bright, Jane didn’t even hear her. Which was just as well. Best to keep her feelings about Bolton to herself.
“Is he not the most gorgeous pulsating hunk of male pulchritude in the entire universe if not the whole solar system, or are they one and the same?” Jane fanned herself with her napkin. “Whew, I’m having a hot flash.”
“You don’t get hot flashes from viewing handsome men, and furthermore, it’s a good thing you’re a CPA instead of a writer. ‘Pulsating hunk of male pulchritude,’ is gross overstatement.”
“What’s got you so riled all of a sudden?” Jane squinted her eyes, then tossed her napkin to the center of the table and chortled with glee. “Well, well, well. Somebody of the male persuasion has finally gotten under your skin. Hoorah! Old Roger, move over.”
“Bolton Gray Wolf is not under my skin. I barely know the man, for one thing.”
“It only takes a moment,” Jane said, quoting from a song they had both sung in the chorus of the community theater’s spring production of Hello, Dolly.
“Plagiarism doesn’t become you.”
“He’s awfully young, though.” Jane picked up her menu and studied her friend over the top.
“Thirty-five, to be precise,” Virginia said, and Jane arched her eyebrows. “You don’t think I’d let him come near me without investigating him first, do you?”
“He’s exactly what you need.”
“Not my needs again.”
Virginia threw up her hands, and Jane grinned.
“I feel reckless. I’m having fried catfish, fried hush puppies, and corn bread made with lots of grease.” Jane shoved her menu aside. “I guess you’re having broiled, as usual.”
“Yes.” Virginia’s mind was not on food; it was on the man just around the corner, a man she couldn’t even see.
“That’s just what I mean. You need to take a chance, Virginia. Look, you’ve paid your dues. You don’t have to be the independent woman showing everybody you can make it without Roger or his puny child support check. You’ve made it, kid, big time.”
Jane waited until the waitress had taken their orders before she finished her diatribe.
“Everybody knows that women reach their sexual peak later than men. Take that gorgeous young hunk to bed, then send him on his merry way. Both of you will still be grinning come Christmas.”
The trouble was, if she ever took him to bed, she wouldn’t want to let him go. Virginia understood that on some deep primeval level. But it was not information that she cared to share, even with her nearest and dearest friend.
Virginia shoved the appetizer plate toward her friend.
“Eat your dill pickles and shut up.”
“You wouldn’t like me if I did. You’d be bored.”
Jane was right, of course. Virginia thrived on challenge, and she adored going against convention. But wouldn’t it be lovely sometime to sit back and let somebody else fight the battles, to lie on Egyptian cotton sheets and let somebody kiss away her worries and soothe away her aches?
Not just somebody. Bolton Gray Wolf.
o0o
He couldn’t get her off his mind, not even when he saw her empty table. As he walked out of the restaurant, Bolton studied every nook and cranny, looked twice at every woman with honey-blond hair, hoping for a glimpse of Virginia.
She stayed with him on the drive back to his motel and all the while he surfed through the channels. He was not one to watch television, but, cooped up in his room, there was nothing else to do. Each image on the screen brought to mind some small detail of Virginia. The female reporter on the ten o’clock news had lips nearly as ripe and rosy as hers. The first guest on the late show had her long, slender legs; the next, her throaty chuckle.
He closed his eyes and saw Virginia galloping across the fields on her white Arabian, saw the autumn leaves and dust swirling around her so that she approached him like someone in a dream, half hidden by mists.
When the late show was over, he began to undress for bed. The ring box fell out of his pocket. Guilty, he picked it up. He had promised to call Janice when he got to Mississippi.
He glanced at the clock, hoping it was too late. Almost midnight. He could tell himself that she’d already be asleep, that there was no need to wake her, but he’d never been one to lie, not even to himself. Janice would be waiting up for him, anxious, maybe even crying.
He picked up the phone, and she answered on the first ring.
“Bolton. Where in the world are you?”
“Northeast Mississippi, home of Elvis Presley and Virginia Haven.”
“That woman you’ve gone to interview.”
“Yes, that woman.”
He could hear her soft sniffle, then the forced cheer in her voice.
“I don’t want you to think I’ve been hanging around the phone waiting
, Bolton. I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. I’m not the least bit worried.”
“That’s great, Janice.”
“Bolton...” Again that small sniffle. “I don’t have anything to worry about, do I?”
He fingered the ring box he’d laid on the bedside table.
“Not a thing, Janice.”
Except a woman called Virginia Haven, a woman who had galloped her white Arabian through the golden leaves of autumn and straight into his heart.
THREE
The first thing Virginia did when she woke up was reach for the phone. She’d call Bolton to do the interview and get it over with. Then he could go back to Apache land and she could go back to her safe and trusty computer.
As she reached for the receiver she caught sight of her face in the three-way mirror over her dressing table. Without a speck of makeup she looked every bit of forty-eight, if not more. She’d bathe and repair the damage and then she’d call Bolton.
She’d been in one of her reckless moods when she designed her bathroom. It had floor-to-ceiling windows that faced a private courtyard and skylights that she could open in summertime to let the morning sun pour down on banks of ferns. Virginia could never get enough light in her house. As if all that natural light weren’t enough, one full wall of mirrors was surrounded by incandescent bulbs.
It was a bathroom made for lovers, with space for tumbling naked on the floor together, a tub big enough for frolic, and plenty of mirrors to view the fun.
As she leaned over the tub and turned on the water, Virginia thought again of Bolton.
“When I come to your bed, you won’t be a conquest. You will be an equal.” Her mind replayed Bolton’s soft, seductive promise. Not if, but when.
She closed her eyes and imagined being in his bed, in his arms. Passion long repressed came boiling to the surface. With her gift for fantasy, she imagined a Bolton so real she reached out and caressed his fine, hard body with her left hand. With her other she brought herself to a trembling climax.
