The Sex Diet

by Rhonda Nelson

  As though he could feel her stare, Hank suddenly looked up and caught her gaze. He smiled reassuringly and gave her an encouraging thumbs-up. Samantha returned the grin and, with effort, tuned back into the pageant. The line had started to move and she slowly made her way toward the stage. Just get it over with, Samantha thought as her belly clenched with resigned anxiety. That was all. Hank was waiting for her, and as soon as this was over, she’d be with him.

  “Contestant number twenty-seven, Samantha McCafferty!”

  Samantha summoned a bright smile and took the stage.

  “Samantha’s a dietician originally from Orange Beach though she currently makes her home in Aspen, Colorado. Her hobbies include attending Civil War Reenactments, visiting historic battlegrounds and volunteering at her local nursing home.”

  What? Samantha thought wildly. Her smile froze. She hadn’t written any of that stuff! She’d never been to a Civil War Reenactment in her life! Her gaze cut to Hank, who looked incredibly pleased with himself and this time offered a double thumbs-up. She’d break his thumbs, Samantha decided ominously.

  Right after she slept with him.

  “Samantha’s favorite song is Hank Williams Jr.’s ‘If Heaven Ain’t a Lot Like Dixie’ and she enjoys quilting.” Mayor Flannagin smiled approvingly. “All Belle qualities, indeed.”

  By this time, Samantha had made it to the end of the runway, where she smiled for five seconds, then backtracked and made her way to the last X. She manufactured her most winsome smile, then swiftly exited the stage. She peeked around the curtain, caught Hank’s eye, and furiously motioned for him to come to her.

  Hank was beaming when he reached her side. “You were fantastic. I swear, you looked ab—”

  Samantha poked him in the chest. “You tampered with my entry!” she snarled. “How could you do that? Why would you do that?”

  Hank flushed guiltily. “I read over your entry form and decided it could use a little, er, spiffing up.”

  “Spiffing up?”

  “Yeah. Reading a good book or exercising might work for another pageant—” his dubious expression said that he doubted the credibility of that remark “—but this is a Belle pageant and you needed something more…fitting.”

  “Hank, you lied,” Samantha whispered, outraged. “I’ve never been to a Civil War Reenactment in my life,” she hissed angrily, “and I damn sure don’t know how to quilt.” Hell, she could barely replace a button. “What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?”

  “I want you to win,” he said, looking truly—adorably—baffled, as though this settled everything. “I want you to move back here.”

  Leave it to Hank to sum things up so succinctly, Samantha thought as her rightful irritation fled at his honest, heart-warming reply. “Well, thank you. I appreciate it,” she told him, somewhat mollified. Still… “You haven’t done anything else I should know about have you?”

  Though he didn’t necessarily pause before he shook his head, Samantha felt it all the same. Her eyes narrowed. “Hank,” she said warningly.

  He hastily kissed her on the cheek, then straightened. “They’re about to announce the finalists. I’d better go.” He turned and fled before she could find out anything more.

  “Dammit, Hank!” Samantha growled.

  The music cued once more and Samantha turned and slid back into line. Hank was right. They were ready to announce the finalists. Though an ominous feeling had settled in her gut—she couldn’t help but be filled with dread, couldn’t help but worry about what else Hank had done to “help” her win—Samantha nonetheless pasted a smile on her face and returned to the stage.

  “Our judges have chosen tonight’s finalists,” Mayor Flannagin announced with proper fanfare. He shook the little envelope meaningfully. “All right then… In no particular order, our finalists are…Tammy Nichols, Kim Patterson, Sophie Jenkins—”

  Samantha’s belly flip-flopped and she resisted the urge to wring her hands. She knew she didn’t stand a chance, but still some vain part of her wanted to be wrong.

  “—Chloe Waters, Lauren Walker, Annette Davies, Lucy Hartman—”

  Hank would be so disappointed if she didn’t at least make the final after all the trouble he’d gone to on her behalf. She wanted to final for him, not for herself. She wasn’t that shallow. Looks weren’t everything, despite the effort she’d put into being pretty. She knew that and yet…

  “—Lori Horn, Leslie Fowler—”

  Her shoulders sagged, certain that the last name called wouldn’t be hers. Who cared? Samantha told herself, fighting bitter disappointment. One of these women might win this contest, but she’d be leaving with Hank. That was better than any prize package anyone could ever give her. That was better than—

  “—and Samantha McCafferty!” Mayor Flannagin announced happily.

  There was a two-second delay between her ears and her brain, and in that two seconds, Samantha’s quivering stomach dropped to her knees and Hank vaulted from his seat and whooped like a madman. She was a finalist. Her—a finalist. Samantha couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t make the realization sink in.

  “I’d like to thank all of our contestants. Aren’t they beautiful, folks?” Mayor Flannagin said, gesturing to all of the contestants. “Just gorgeous. Now, finalists, if you’ll all step forward, we’ll ready ourselves for Redneck Jeopardy. Why?” he joked and wraggled his brows meaningfully. “Because there’s more to being a Belle than a pretty face.”

  Samantha had worn a fake smile for the entire evening, but the one currently stretched across her face was genuine. Out of all these gorgeous women, those judges had decided that she had some special quality that put her above the rest. Her. A light, warm tingly feeling moved through her chest.

  Samantha’s gaze found Hank’s once more. That sea-blue gaze glittered with equal parts happiness and pride, and he was still clapping wildly. He winked at her again, gave her a thumbs-up and mouthed, “It’s in the bag.”

  She didn’t know about that, Samantha thought, but for the first time this evening, she didn’t feel like she’d been wasting her time. In fact, she felt pretty damned good…right up until a telltale itch started at her wrist and quickly spread to her elbow.

  Oh, hell, Samantha thought as panic punched her dread level into the red zone. She felt her smile turn pained.

  Her damned antihistamine was wearing off.

  11

  OH HELL, HANK THOUGHT as he watched Samantha surreptitiously scratch her wrist, watched her smile momentarily freeze. He knew that look. She was at it again—scratching. He frowned. Mosquitoes, hell. Something else was at work here.

  He knew it.

  Samantha had never been a good liar and she’d looked entirely—unaccountably—guilty too many times in recent memory for comfort. Hank paused to consider her as that nagging inkling played hide-and-seek in his brain again. It was an important thought and for the life of him, he couldn’t catch it, couldn’t figure out what he was undoubtedly missing.

  But what the hell could it be? he wondered. As far as he knew, she’d never kept a secret from him. Other than the fact that she’d never had an orgasm—an injustice he’d already rectified, by God—and even then she’d finally shared that with him. So what could it be? A horrible thought surfaced—could she be sick?—but he dismissed the idea almost in the same instant. Samantha was the picture of health, had never looked better in her life. No, Hank thought consideringly. That wasn’t it…but as soon as this pageant was over, he fully intended to find out just exactly what was going on.

  Right now, however, a more pressing thought took hold—she’d made it to the finals. A smile inexplicably claimed his lips and a curious mixture of joy and pride moved into his chest, forcing him to expel a deep, satisfied breath.

  Hank had watched her face throughout the entire process, had watched the nervousness and anxiety dampen her nevertheless hopeful gaze. She’d pretended that this pageant hadn’t meant anything to her, but Hank knew better. She d
idn’t want to care—but she did.

  Samantha had self-preservation down to an art form, kept her expectations low in order to stem possible disappointment. How sad, Hank thought, that she couldn’t invest in the one emotion that everyone else took for granted—hope. He sighed. Another injustice that needed rectifying, and just one of many that he planned to correct.

  If she had any idea just how beautiful she was she wouldn’t hesitate to hope. Hank let his gaze linger on her for a moment, took in the slim yet curvy line of her body, that gorgeous face and those oh-so-tempting lips. Lust detonated in his loins, instantly pushing his rod up like a rocket awaiting a three-two-one countdown. Just the memory of kissing her, of sampling those lips—and other tasty areas—made him want to snag her hand, haul her around back and take her hard and fast against the stage. A small smile rolled around his lips.

  Not exactly in keeping with the lengthy seduction he had planned for tonight, but what the hell? Men were animals, himself included. He just wanted her—had wanted her forever, for pity’s sake—and the sooner the better.

  She wanted him, too, thank God, Hank thought, vastly relieved. She might not be sure of the outcome of this hellish attraction, might have reservations about it, but she wanted him all the same. Those pale green eyes had glittered with something more than anxiety a few moments ago—they’d glittered with pure, unadulterated lust. Hank had formed the mistaken impression that Samantha couldn’t get any sexier.

  He’d been wrong—Samantha turned on was lethally sexy.

  “Whose idea was the Redneck Jeopardy?” Jamie asked from the side of his mouth, drawing Hank’s thoughts north of his groin.

  Ten small lecterns on casters—which had been emblazoned with the Redneck Jeopardy logo—were rolled out and put in front of each contestant. Mayor Flannagin was presently doling out buzzers. If he got any happier, Hank thought, their portly little civil servant would undoubtedly burst.

  Hank resisted the urge to roll his eyes and blew out a breath. “Hell, who do you think? Mayor Flannagin. Said he wanted something ‘different.”’

  Jamie snorted. “It’s different, all right. How do you think Samantha will fare?”

  “Well,” Hank said with a succinct nod. “She’s sharp as a tack.” And she was. Samantha could converse intelligently about any given subject and had always been a trivia buff. The oddest, most insignificant little factoids stuck to her brain like flypaper, and the more bizarre the better. Hank was sure she’d rather play Redneck Jeopardy than answer a question. He caught her eye, frowned while he watched her covertly claw at a place on her arm. She flushed and immediately looked away.

  “What’s with the scratching?” Jamie asked, noticing her peculiar behavior as well.

  “I don’t know,” Hank said slowly. “She keeps scratching. She’s done it off and on since she got here.”

  Jamie hummed under his breath. “Looks like she might be having an—”

  Whatever Jamie had intended to say was cut off as Mayor Flannagin thumped his microphone to get everyone’s attention.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to begin.” The genuine Jeopardy tune began. “Each of our contestants have been given a buzzer and the rules have been explained. They’re simple, really. Buzz if you know the answer, and each answer must be phrased in the form of a question.” He gestured to Mrs. Flannagin, who sat at a small table toward the edge of the stage. “My lovely wife will be keeping score. The first contestant to successfully answer five questions will be crowned our winner.” He glanced at the finalists. “Ready, ladies?”

  A combination of murmured assents and nods moved down the line, Samantha’s among them. Hank watched her pull in a bolstering breath and then absently rub the elbow on her other arm. He frowned again. What the hell was—

  “Here we go… According to the Farmer’s Almanac, when is the best time to wean a calf?”

  To Hank’s immediate satisfaction, Samantha buzzed in first. “What is, when the signs are below the knees?”

  Mayor Flannagin grinned. “Correct. Question number two… According to Forrest Gump, life is like what?”

  Samantha hit her buzzer, but a mere nanosecond too late. Another finalist, a petite busty blonde with a tan like seasoned leather, beat her to the punch. “What is a box of chocolates?”

  “Correct.” He beamed. “Smart ladies we’ve got here folks, smart ladies.” He sighed. “Okay…what legendary southern belle swore that, as God as her witness, she’d never go hungry again?”

  There was a flurry of movement and startled gasps as every finalist knew the answer to that question. Thankfully Samantha was quicker with the finger and that no-brainer went to her.

  “Who is Scarlett O’Hara,” she said. She reached down and rubbed the back of her thigh.

  Okay, Hank thought. Two down, three to go. He leaned forward.

  Mayor Flannagin cleared his throat. “How many pecks are in a bushel?”

  Samantha again. “What is four?”

  Pleased, Hank elbowed Jamie in the side. “What’d I tell you?” he whispered. “She’s sharp.”

  Jamie nodded, but didn’t speak. Tension tightened the back of Hank’s neck as he shifted closer. He’d known that she could win this contest—had never doubted it—but, aside from admitting to her that he wanted her, watching her do it had to be one of the most nerve-racking things he’d ever done. His damned stomach was practically in knots.

  “What’s the snack of choice with an RC Cola?”

  Samantha’s buzzer sounded first. “What is a Moon Pie?”

  “Correct again, Samantha,” Mayor Flannagin told her, his face wreathed with a smile. “If my calculations are correct, Ms. McCafferty is one point away from being crowned our first Belle of the Beach and as such, will go home with our grand prize package.” Quiet anticipation moved through the crowd as he studied the next question.

  Hank had scooted to the edge of his seat. He stared at Samantha, silently willing her to look in his direction, and was rewarded when she finally found his gaze. She wore a hopeful, nervous smile that was just vulnerable enough to make him wish that he could storm the stage and kiss her. He gave her an encouraging grin and made a lazy slam dunk gesture that edged up her wobbly smile.

  “Quite possibly for the win,” Mayor Flannagin announced with the appropriate amount of gravity and enthusiasm, “what substance is used to season a cast-iron skillet?”

  The sound of sharp inhaled breaths echoed through the contestants and crowd. Any southern cook worth her salt knew the answer to that question. Hank all but vaulted from his seat in an effort to find out who buzzed in first, and to his abject disappointment soon realized that it wasn’t Samantha. It was the petite blonde with the leather tan again, Samantha’s only real competition in this category.

  “Shortening,” she said.

  Mayor Flannagin winced regretfully. “Sorry, darlin’. You forgot to phrase it in the form of a question.”

  His thoughts exactly, Hank thought, and settled back down once more. Jesus, this was maddening. He speared his hands through his hair. Tension crawled up his back. She was one away from winning, one measly question away from being able to move back here, one measly question away from the end of this contest. Which put him mere minutes away from each and every one of his desires. His desire to see her win, his desire to have her back in Orange Beach, and his desire to root himself firmly between her thighs.

  “Ms. McCafferty buzzed in second, so the question goes to her.” He paused dramatically. “Samantha, for the win…what substance is used to season a cast-iron skillet?”

  Hank’s gaze swung back to Samantha who wore a disbelieving absolute smile of delight. She swallowed, scratched the inside of her wrist and said in a somewhat small voice, “What is shortening?”

  “Correct!” Mayor Flannagin boomed. Hank sprang from his seat and cheered wildly. She’d done it! She’d won! Beside him, the normally sedate Jamie had also vaulted from his seat. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great ple
asure to present our very first Belle of the Beach…Samantha McCafferty!”

  Samantha’s expression wavered between thrilled and astonished, but the smile she wore was absolutely blinding in its beauty. Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” intro launched from the speakers but was barely audible above the roar of applause and catcalls from the crowd. Mrs. Flannagin hurried forward and placed a sparkling rhinestone crown on Samantha’s head.

  It was in that moment that her misty green gaze inexplicably slammed into his, rooting him to the sand where he stood. Hank’s breath left him in a quiet whoosh and he found himself sucked into a vacuum, away from the din, from the noise—from everything but her. Some unnamed emotion winged through his chest, tripped his heart rate into overdrive. His palms tingled, his throat tightened and for all intents and purposes the rest of the world simply receded, faded into insignificance. Which seemed disconcertingly appropriate because she was the most significant thing that had ever happened to him.

  That frighteningly clear realization jolted him and he blinked, breaking the special connection. Seemingly startled as well, Sam blinked and turned her attention to Mayor Flannagin who was enthusiastically pressing a set of keys into her hand while Mrs. Flannagin presented her with the prize check and vacation voucher.

  Mayor Flannagin enthusiastically nudged Samantha forward, presenting her to the still-riotous crowd. “Our Belle,” he said appreciatively.

  No, Hank silently amended—his belle.

  Starting tonight.

  “YOU COULD HAVE DRIVEN, you know.”

  Samantha settled back against the cool leather interior of her new SUV, closed her eyes and sighed softly. “I know…but since I don’t know where we’re going, what would be the point?”

  “It’s called a surprise, Sam,” Hank said drolly.