Authors: Susan Elizabeth Phillips
“It was a football game!”
“That didn’t make it right.”
“Not one more word!”
That night after her mom got home, they made her sit down in the living room. Her dad did most of the talking, going on about how disappointed they were in her, and how serious an offense this was. She kept waiting for him to say that, even though she’d done something wrong, he loved her anyway, but he didn’t.
“We’re taking away your telephone privileges for two weeks,” her mom finally said.
“You can’t watch television, and you can’t leave the house unless one of us is with you.”
“That’s so unfair! You don’t even like Chelsea. You think she’s a bad influence. But you
love
Kelli Willman!”
Her dad ignored her outburst. “You’re also going to be doing a lot of studying to make up for the classes you’re missing while you’re suspended.”
As if she couldn’t catch up in about three seconds.
“And you have to apologize to Chelsea,” her mother said.
Gigi jumped up. “She has to apologize to me first! She started it.”
“This isn’t negotiable. You broke her wrist.”
“I didn’t mean to!”
But neither of them would listen. They just started in again, not understanding that Gigi already felt like shit, and she didn’t need to hear any more about how evil she was. Her parents totally forgot what it was like to be a teenager, but everybody hadn’t hated them the way the kids hated Gigi. Her parents had been
perfect.
Well, Gigi wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t like them. She was . . .
She was like her aunt.
The word rolled around in her head like a big shiny marble.
Aunt.
She didn’t have a lot of relatives: Grandma Sabrina and Nana Galantine, her Uncle Jeremy, but he was a lot older than her dad and wasn’t ever getting married. That left only one other person. Maybe Sugar Beth Carey was only a half aunt, but still . . .
The Seawillows talked about her a lot when they didn’t think Gigi was listening and how everybody had totally kissed her butt in high school. One time she’d heard Colin say that Sugar Beth had also been one of the smartest kids in her class, but the Seawillows hadn’t believed him, since she got crappy grades. Still, Colin had seen everybody’s test scores, so he should know, even though he wouldn’t tell any of them what their scores were.
Sugar Beth would totally understand what Gigi was going through. But Gigi’s dad had forbidden her to talk to her. He’d said if Gigi saw her someplace, she couldn’t even say hello because he knew how Gigi was, and she wouldn’t stop at hello, and nobody wanted old history dredged up again.
But this wasn’t old history. This was Gigi’s life. And she had to talk to somebody who’d understand. Even if she got grounded for the rest of her life.
“You now belong to me—body and soul.”
GEORGETTE HEYER,
These Old Shades
Colin’s voice slid over Sugar Beth like a trickle of cold water. “What are you doing in here?”
“I’m making your bed.”
“Well, make it somewhere else.”
“You forgot to put on your happy face again, didn’t you?” She stretched her legs, balancing her weight on the toe of one foot, cocking her other knee, and leaning far enough across the bed to make him appreciate her bottom-line assets. This was the only weapon she had left, and she’d been using it as frequently as possible in the nine days she’d been working for him. So what if her sexual shenanigans were also making her more aware of him than she wanted to be? He didn’t know that. Or did he? That was the thing about sexual games. You could never be completely sure who was getting to who.
To
whom.
It was a bitch living with your old English teacher, especially when your old English teacher wasn’t old at all, and he had exactly the kind of body that most appealed to her, tall and lean, broad in the shoulder, narrow at the hip. Then there was his brain. It had taken her a lot of years to find that particular part of a man appealing, but she’d finally gotten in the habit, and she couldn’t seem to give it up.
She took her time arranging the last pillow. His dinner party was scheduled for tomorrow night, and the rental company’s truck would be arriving soon. Although the dining room at Frenchman’s Bride was large, it wasn’t big enough to seat the thirty people he’d invited, and she’d rented smaller tables to set up throughout the downstairs. His agent and editor were flying in from New York, but he’d done a lot of research at Ole Miss, and most of the guests would be driving from Oxford.
But not all of them.
“How many locals did you say you’d invited?” He hadn’t shown her the official guest list, and she couldn’t relax about this party until she knew she wouldn’t be forced to wait on anyone she wanted to avoid.
“I already told you. Two of the local librarians—you don’t know them. And Aaron Leary and his wife.”
Aaron was Parrish’s current mayor. She’d gone to high school with him, but since he’d been president of the chess club and black, they’d moved in different circles. She remembered him as a sweet, studious kid, so she probably hadn’t tried to screw him over.
Being forced to wait on a classmate was degrading, but since he was the mayor, she could handle it. “What about his wife?”
“Charise. A lovely woman.”
“Stop being difficult.”
“We’ve already had this conversation.”
She fussed with the corner of the duvet. “The name Charise doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I believe she’s from Jackson.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”
“I’m sorry. Have I given you the impression that I want to make things easier for you?”
“It’s just weird that you don’t have more friends in Parrish. No, on second thought, it’s not weird.”
He slipped off his watch. “The party tomorrow night is business.”
“I know. To thank the people who helped you with
Reflections.
But aren’t there a lot more people here in town who helped with your research than in Oxford?”
“Your aunt is dead, Hank Withers is in the hospital, and Mrs. Shaible is visiting her daughter in Ohio. Are we done with this conversation yet?”
He began unbuttoning his shirt and taking his time about it. As the person responsible for his laundry, she already knew he didn’t wear undershirts, just as she knew he favored jewel-toned designer boxers. She knew
way
too much.
“You could at least wait until I’m finished straightening up in here to undress.” She sounded testy, but she didn’t like the way his presence had encouraged her inner slut to come out of her coma.
“Is this bothering you?” The erotic peep show continued, one button giving way to another, his eyes watching her.
“Only because I saw that book you’ve been reading.”
His shirt fell open. “Which book would that be?”
“
The Erotic Life of a Victorian Gentleman.
Some gentleman. All-around dog is more like it. There are entire chapters devoted to masters and servant girls.”
He slipped a thumb into the waistband of his slacks, looking arrogant and dangerous.
“You think I might be getting ideas, do you?”
“I
know
you’re getting ideas. You were using a Hi-Liter.”
He chuckled and disappeared into the closet. She loved it in there, the extravagance of the polished cherry shelves and pewter fixtures, the tidiness of the drawers, racks, and compartments, the way it smelled of imported fabrics and stuffy attitude. “It’s research,”
he said from inside. “And what were you doing poking around in my office?”
“Picking up your crap.” And looking for the manuscript of
Reflections,
although she didn’t intend to tell him that. She straightened a lamp shade. “The chapter on auctioning off virgins is disgusting.”
“My, my, we have been snooping, haven’t you?”
“I need intellectual stimulation. This job’s more boring than dirt.” He hadn’t closed the closet door, so she wandered over and looked in. “I don’t think you’re doing research at all. I think you’re just being pervy.”
“Such a harsh word. Where are my gym shorts?”
He still wore his trousers, but the shirt was gone. She wondered how that skinny chest she remembered from high school could have turned into something so magnificent. He set his hands on his hips, and she realized he was waiting for a response.
She licked her lips. “Beats the heck out of me.” His gym shorts were on the shelf where he’d left them, but she tried not to make his life any easier than she had to. She spotted his belt draped over the teak bench in the middle of the closet. He liked things tidy, and she had a feeling he worked hard not to pick up after himself. “I thought you exercised in the morning.”
“In the afternoon, too, when I feel like it.”
“And you’re feeling like it today because you’re stuck again, aren’t you?”
“Don’t you have something filthy to scrub?”
“You’re throwing away so many pages that I need to buy you a second wastebasket for your office.”
“Would you mind turning around so I can take my pants off?”
“This is pretty much my only job perk, so yes.”
An outsider would have had a hard time telling whether the slight curling at the corner of his mouth was an expression of amusement or contempt, but she liked to tell herself that he found her a lot more diverting than he wanted to. She leaned against the edge of the door. “So tell me why you’re blocked. Normally I’d recommend a sex scene—you might remember I have a fondness for them—but after what I read in that book this morning, I’m leery about encouraging you.”
“It’s a complicated story, and I’m trying to introduce a new character. She’s giving me a bit of trouble, that’s all.”
“Cherchez la femme.”
“Precisely.” He picked up the belt he’d abandoned for no other apparent reason than to make her nervous. “Fannie is pivotal to the book. She’s young, well bred, but strangling on the conventions of Victorian society.”
“I can identify with— Hey, that’s my name!”
For once she seemed to have caught him by surprise. “What are you talking about?”
“My real name. Frances Elizabeth Carey.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Of course you did. Nobody ever calls me Frances, but it was on all my school records.”
“I’m sure I’ve forgotten it long ago.”
“I’m sure you haven’t.”
He slid the belt through his fingers. “Go back to work. You’re annoying me.”
“She’d better not be a beautiful blonde with impeccable taste.”
“These pants are coming off, whether you’re looking or not.” He abandoned the belt, unzipped, and dropped his trousers.
She caught a glimpse of firm, long-muscled thighs just before she turned away. A shiver passed through her, and she reminded herself that she had more important things to think about than his body.
She went into the bathroom and pressed one of his wet towels to her face before she hung it up. Nine days had passed, and she still hadn’t been able to find a way into the attic.
Twice she’d asked him about the door, making the question casual so he didn’t get suspicious. The first time, the phone had rung before he could answer. The second time, Gordon had gone ballistic over a squirrel and stopped the conversation cold. A squirrel, for God’s sake! She hated that dog.
The dinner party gave her a good excuse to bring it up a third time, and she returned to the bedroom, speaking just loudly enough so he could hear her in the closet. “I called the florist again this morning. I told her what you said about not wanting the arrangements to be too girly because you don’t want to keep feeding those lingering rumors that you’re gay. She’s a Christian, so she understood completely.”
She thought she heard him sigh, and she smiled to herself as he emerged from the closet wearing a pair of gray cashmere gym shorts and carrying a navy T-shirt.
“Fascinating,” he drawled, “but I don’t remember saying a word to you about the flowers.”
She dragged her gaze away from his chest. “If you’d show a little more interest in football, I’m sure those rumors would die a natural death. Plus you need to stop talkin’
like a sissy.”
His lips twitched, which irritated her, because she wanted to aggravate him, not entertain him. She put a hand on her hip, fingers pointed backward, a bored look on her face. “The party’s tomorrow night, and I’m thinkin’ Diddie’s Spode might still be in the attic. I’ll go up this afternoon to check.” She held her breath.
He pulled his T-shirt over his head. “Don’t bother. The caterer is bringing dishes.”
“As a foreigner, you can’t be expected to know this, but in Mississippi, using caterer’s china instead of perfectly lovely family heirlooms is considered tacky.”
“Whatever family heirlooms were in the attic are long gone.”
“What do you mean? What happened to everything?”
“Winnie sold whatever was up there before I moved in.” He didn’t make any attempt to soften what even the most insensitive person would know had to be a blow to her.
“Sold?” There it was again. That alarming sense that she’d lost everything. She conjured up an image of Delilah’s big smile to hold herself together.
“She had the right,” he pointed out.
“Yes, I guess she did.” She made a fist behind her back and dug her fingernails into her palm. “Still, she might have overlooked some of the serving platters. Diddie had her hiding places.”
But he was already walking out.
The steady cadence of the treadmill usually calmed him, but it felt too tame today. He needed to be outside. Do something with his hands. Fighting off Sugar Beth’s sexual allure was difficult enough without having to fight off her charm, too, especially since he knew it was calculated. He didn’t like it. Just as he didn’t like that wicked sense of humor she was as likely to turn on herself as on him. Or the sharp intelligence that kept surfacing beneath her good ol’ girl demeanor. He’d known it was there, of course, but he’d never expected her to discover it, too.
And where had she found her grit, not to mention that quirky, but nonetheless impressive, competence? She produced acceptable meals, better than what he made for himself, and while she ignored most of his instructions, they were generally the ones he’d conjured up to antagonize her. Somehow she winnowed out the sensible from the nonsensical and got things done. No, he didn’t like it at all.