by Webb, Peggy
His smile was slow and easy, his mouth soft and sensual as he lowered it over hers. The kiss touched every part of her body. She hung on to him to keep from falling.
He pulled her roughly against his chest as his tongue plundered her mouth. Unable to resist, she traced her hands along the length of his arms and down his back, defining every taut muscle, memorizing every inch of bronzed skin.
His hips pressed provocatively against hers in imitation of a dance her body remembered but her mind refused to acknowledge.
“Did you miss me while I was gone?” he said.
He should be on the stage. Or at the very least in a courtroom trying headline cases. B. J. gathered her wits and untangled herself from his arms.
“Were you gone somewhere, Judge Beauregard?”
He laughed. “Philadelphia, someday I’m going to penetrate that armor you hide behind, and when I do, all heaven’s going to break loose.”
He was so convincing that B. J. was in danger of believing him. And if she believed him, she might start believing in love and promises, in walking down the aisle to pledge vows then going home to raise babies. Judge Nathaniel Bridge “Crash” Beauregard was in danger of dazzling her with hocus-pocus.
She knew all about hocus-pocus. All the best attorneys did. They used it to great effect in the courtroom.
But this was real life. And real life didn’t hold out any magic. She was a woman teetering on the brink of menopause who had a solid plan for her future, and she wasn’t about to let Crash sidetrack her. No matter how hard he tried.
He tipped her chin up and stared at her in a way that made her want to curl into a ball in his lap and purr.
“You know one of the things I missed most while I was gone?” he said.
“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“The sting of your waspish tongue.”
He made her sound like a spinster shrew.
“I’ll try not to deprive you,” she said. “I’ll leave a sharp message on your answering machine from time to time.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m planning on seeing you in person.”
“Don’t you ever ask?”
“No.” He swatted her rump. “Get out of that prissy attitude and those prissy shoes, Philadelphia. We’re going for a ride.”
The images that came to mind turned her cheeks a bright pink. His chuckle was knowing and wicked.
“Not that kind,” he said.
“What kind?” The minute she let her guard down, she knew she’d made a mistake. “Don’t answer that.”
“Not the kind where we spread a blanket under the stars and get so tangled up with each other we can’t tell your body from mine... though it does have its merits.” He brushed her lips with the tip of his finger. “Do you want me to go into detail, Philadelphia?”
“No. I want you to leave. Right now.”
“That’s what I’m planning to do... with you.”
“You can take Baxter. I have work to do.”
“Nothing that can’t wait.”
He hung a closed sign on her door, then shut and locked it.
“You can’t do that.”
“I just did.”
She was weakening. It was a glorious day, and she’d had her nose to the grindstone for years. What would one day off hurt?
“What if somebody comes?” she said.
“I’ve always loved that dirty mind.”
Her chair looked small when he sat down in it. He picked up a magazine and started flipping through.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Don’t you worry about a thing, Philadelphia. Your honor is safe with me.” He grinned. “I’m going to guard the door while you change.”
“How do you know I have other clothes here?” It was a last-ditch effort to keep from caving in.
“Lawyers like you keep clothes at the office,” he said.
It was true. In Philadelphia she’d worked such long hours that she would never have been able to go anywhere at night if she’d had to fight her way through the traffic in order to go home and change. Though her client list in Tupelo was still small, she kept up her old habits. Sort of. She wasn’t working the long hours yet, but she still had clothes at the office.
“I’ll go for just a little while,” she said, “but only in order to keep my eye on Baxter.”
He could hear the sounds she made as she changed clothes, the soft snick of a zipper, the sensual swishing of silk against silk. Sitting in the chair was almost more temptation than he could bear.
Crash shifted to make his jeans more comfortable, and held his ground. He’d never courted a woman before. As silly as that sounded, it was true. All his relationships had been casual. He’d fallen into them without effort, and out again with equal ease.
He had no idea how to proceed with Philadelphia. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had to. Joe would be no help at all. Though his brother was engaged, Crash had no intention of trying to imitate something that seemed more like contract negotiations than romance.
“I’m ready,” she said.
Philadelphia stood in the doorway looking softer and more feminine than he’d ever seen her. It was something about the eyes. Desire smacked him so hard, he actually had to sit awhile in order to collect himself.
“We’re riding on the Harley,” he said.
“I’ve had one ride with you.”
Color bloomed across her cheeks. Memories of the ride washed over him, her arms around his chest, her breasts pressed into his back. If he had it to do all over again, he’d have let nature take its course in the mountains.
But now it was too late. Circumstances forced him into this awkward position of having to think before he acted, having to weigh each word to know if it was the right thing.
“Don’t be afraid, Philadelphia.”
“I’m not afraid.”
He was. He was scared witless. For a moment he was tempted to bolt, to jump on his motorcycle and head home where he could hole up in his cottage and do some serious thinking.
Instinct told him all the thinking in the world wouldn’t change the facts: He wanted the woman in the doorway, and he wanted her on a level he’d never known, wanted her in a way he could hardly understand, let alone articulate.
“Your steed awaits,” he said.
They walked out arm in arm, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers before they began a slow, sweet tango.
Chapter Fourteen
There were ducks at the park, and children racing after red and yellow balls. Baxter was in his element, and so was Crash.
Every time B. J. looked in his direction, he had another child on his shoulders or clinging to his hands or tugging at his pants leg. At the moment he was pawing in the grass pretending to be a bull while two little boys swung make-believe swords and pretended to be bullfighters.
He caught her watching and gave her a wicked grin.
“Don’t you want to come down here and be an animal?”
He made her want to be an animal, all right, but not with an audience.
“I’ll leave that to you. You do it so well.”
“It comes from lots of experience.”
He dusted the grass off his pants and stretched out beside her on the park bench, deliciously male and outrageously appealing. She braced herself for another battle of wits, but he did something so unexpected, it took her breath away.
“Even an animal can change his stripes,” he said, and then he lifted her left hand to his lips and planted a kiss in her palm, a kiss so soft, so tender that she almost cried.
Instead she jumped up and hugged her dog to her chest.
“We’d better take Baxter home. He’s had enough excitement for one day.”
Crash tipped her chin up with two fingers. “How about you, Philadelphia? Have you had enough for one day?”
That’s all it took from him, one single touch and she melted.
“More than enough.” She licked her lips, and he studied her
face as if he were committing it to memory. And then he did another totally unexpected thing: He let her go without further comment, then took her home and left her with a friendly peck on the cheek.
“I wonder what he meant about an animal changing its stripes,” she said.
Baxter was too tuckered out to answer.
“Are you almost dressed, B. J.?” Maxie called, then swept through the bedroom door. Draped in a white feather boa and wearing a white silk dress cut on the bias, she looked like a movie star straight from the forties. All she needed was a rhinestone tiara and a cigarette holder to complete the image.
Standing in her black silk teddy and black silk stockings, B. J. looked at the red dress lying on the bed. The seduction dress, Maxie called it.
“Good grief, B. J. Hurry up. We’re going to be late.”
“I’m not so sure about this, Maxie. After all, I’m trying to establish myself as a respectable lawyer in this town.”
“Is there any such thing?”
B. J. threw a stocking at Maxie, then pursed her lips and went to her closet. She rummaged through until she found her old standby, a black cocktail dress, high-necked and sedate, completely without ornamentation.
“You’re not wearing that!”
“Why not?” B. J. laid the dress on the bed, then began to rummage for a pair of sensible shoes. “It’s a perfectly respectable dress, exactly right for the professional image I want to create.”
“What’s that? Sourpuss in mourning?”
“Face it, Maxie. There are all kinds of people in this world, and some of us happen to look, act, and dress conservatively.”
Maxie picked up the dress, made a face, then dropped it back onto the bed.
“But what about your plan? What about the baby?”
B. J. felt as if she’d been gut punched. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of herself in Maxie’s pier mirror. Was that a new line showing around her mouth?
“Time marches on,” Maxie said, goading her.
Each day brought a new line, a new sign of aging. Before B. J. knew it, time would have marched right past her, leaving her old and dried up, past the age of childbearing.
“Remember what Grandma used to say?”
“Maxie...”
“‘Remember, girls, you’re Corbans. A Corban always fights for what she wants.’“ Maxie paused.
“‘If something’s not worth fighting for, it’s not worth having,’“ B. J. added.
Going to the bed, she picked up the red dress, then held it to her chest.
“Atta girl,” Maxie said.
“Still, I don’t think this red dress is right for tonight.”
“If you’re going to lure a stud into your bed, you’ve got to show a little of the merchandise.”
“For Pete’s sake, Maxie. This is a banquet for Tupelo’s business leaders. I doubt if a single one of them will qualify for the role of stud.”
With one notable exception.
“Then why are we going there? I know a little lounge where some really great people hang out, theater people, artsy types.... I’d sort of like my niece to be born with talent.”
Trust Maxie to decide the baby’s sex in advance.
“We’re going because it’s a civic duty,” B. J. said.
And because at the park Crash had casually mentioned that he would be there. “One night of torture per year is the extent of my civic duty,” he’d said.
B. J. zipped herself into the red dress then pulled at the top, trying to cover more of her breasts.
“Besides, if I’m going to be successful in this town, I have to become a presence.”
“After tonight, you’ll be a presence they’ll never forget.”
B. J. looked down at her left thigh showing boldly through the slit skirt. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Maxie plucked a pair of rhinestone earrings from her jewelry box on the dressing table. “Here. Wear these. Gild the lily.”
“If I gild this lily any more, I’m afraid it will tarnish.” She handed the earrings back to Maxie.
“Think of your cause, B. J. Think of the baby.” Maxie attached the earrings to her sister’s ears. “Men go for tarnished women.”
o0o
Heads turned when the Corban sisters walked into the banquet hall.
“Everybody’s staring,” B. J. said.
“It’s good for business.” Maxie smiled and waved at everybody, whether she knew them or not.
“Yours maybe, but not mine. I’m supposed to be a lawyer, for Pete’s sake.”
“I wasn’t talking about your law practice. I’m talking about Operation Motherhood.”
Maxie plucked two glasses of wine off a table as they passed, and handed one to B. J.
“If you’re going to...” Maxie stopped in mid-sentence. “Good grief. I’ve found him.”
“Who?”
B.J. turned to look in the direction Maxie was staring. There he was, as bold as brass and twice as showy, Judge Nathaniel Bridge Beauregard, making a white shirt and tie look as rakish as pirate’s garb.
“The man of your dreams,” Maxie said, still staring. “Good grief, wouldn’t you like to melt his starch?”
A flash of pure jealousy went through B. J. Crash would look up and see Maxie, and bells would ring all over the building. She was exactly his type, untamed and untamable, as wild as they came. Maxie gave new meaning to the word unconventional.
“He’s not my type,” B. J. said.
And then she drained half her glass. Never mind that she had a low tolerance for alcohol. Never mind that she could get knee-walking drunk on only one glass. What the heck? Her biological clock was ticking so loudly, it sounded like a time bomb. If she didn’t soon find a candidate for father-of-the-baby, she might as well hang up her red dress and go calmly into spinsterhood.
She took another long swig of wine. “Besides,” she said. “I don’t like blonds.”
“Blonds? I’m not talking about the blond. It’s that dark-headed hunk beside him that I’m talking about.”
B. J. hadn’t seen anybody except Crash. But that’s the way it always was. He dominated a room, making everything and everybody else seem insignificant.
She glanced in his direction again. A tall, distinguished looking man stood beside Crash. Dark hair, dark eyes, well built, nice looking, sexy in a subtle kind of way. He wasn’t Crash, but he wasn’t half bad.
“Come on,” Maxie said.
“Where are you going?”
“To meet Mr. Perfect.”
B. J. had a sudden vision of herself in her red dress, trying to seduce a father for her child right under the amused gaze of Judge Nathaniel Beauregard.
“I don’t think he’s the right one,” B. J. protested, but Maxie was barreling straight ahead in her usual manner. There was no telling what kind of trouble she’d get them both into if B. J. didn’t trail along. Besides, the man Maxie called Mr. Perfect was the only one with potential B. J. had seen.
Feeling wobbly from the wine and tawdry from the dress, she marched toward Crash to the rhythm of her steadily ticking biological clock. He took in everything she had with one sweeping glance.
“Philadelphia...” He assessed her once more, and she flushed under that bold, hot gaze. “I haven’t seen this much of you since the Smokies.”
“You must be Crash.” Maxie said, her attention not on him but on the man at his side.
“Judge Nathaniel Bridge Beauregard,” B. J. said. “In the living flesh.”
“I was going to say the same thing about you,” Crash said, his eyes fixed to the neckline of her dress.
Maybe the wine made her reckless, or maybe it was desperation. Whatever it was, B. J. didn’t think twice, she merely reacted. Turning toward the man beside Crash she took a deep breath so that her breasts were presented like ripe plums on a platter.
The man beside Crash raised an eyebrow. Good. She’d caught his attention. Maybe Maxie was right. Maybe he was the perfect
man. Up close B. J. could see no flaws.
“Come here, Philadelphia....” Crash’s arm snaked out, and he pulled her roughly to his side. She didn’t dare look at him. Sweat popped out on her upper lip. She’d never been one of those women who didn’t sweat. The next thing she knew it would be running down her cheeks and through her cleavage.
Under the innocent guise of holding her, Crash caressed her back. He’d made it perfectly clear he didn’t want her, so what was he trying to prove now?
Angry at him, at herself, at the whole situation, B.J. gave the man beside Crash her most dazzling smile. She wasn’t sure he noticed, he was so busy watching Maxie.
Crash’s hands never stopped their secret caress.
“I think you should get to know this man you’re trying so hard to vamp,” he said. Darn him. Why didn’t he just go away?
“Philadelphia, meet Attorney at Law Joseph Patrick Beauregard.”
She stiffened as if she’d been prodded with a hot poker. “Beauregard?”
“My brother.” Crash’s grin was wicked. She wanted to kill him.
Wasn’t that just her luck? The only man in the room with father potential turned out to be Crash’s brother. Even if she could seduce him, Crash would be her baby’s uncle. Not that she stood a ghost of a chance with Maxie on the premises. Joseph Beauregard was looking at her as if she might be something he planned to put on a silk pillow and ply with cream from a saucer.
Before B. J. could decide what to do, a woman with hair like polished copper and the reflexes of a coiled snake cut Maxie and B. J. off from Joseph P. Beauregard.
“Darling... ,” she said, draping herself over his arm.
“My fiancée,” he said.
Neither of them could remember her name. Later, sitting two tables away, still flushed with wine and the nearness of Crash, B. J. tried to cut into her rubbery chicken.
“Who did he say she was?” Maxie asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“She looks like a cold fish to me.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Not the type for him at all.”
“How could you tell? You don’t even know him.”
“That can easily be remedied. We’ll mingle after the speaker or... I’ve got it... We’ll invite them back to the house for cocktails after dinner.”
