Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy (10 page)

He chose that moment to pull away.

She took three deep, agonizingly slow breaths, before she muttered a raspy, “Oh, my.”

Even Jeff sounded a little strained as he rested his head against the creaking chain. "'Oh, my?’ Is that the best you can do?”

“I... I just can’t help remembering...”

” Remembering what? ”

“How I yearned, how I plotted, how I fantasized about kissing you.” She turned a startled face to him. “Good grief, I don’t think I would have survived it at fourteen!”

His voice amused, Jeff said, “And to think I ran from it.” He placed a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. Even in the darkness, she felt the intensity of his gaze boring into her. “I wonder now, what would you have done with me if you had caught me?”

“Oh, Lord,” she whispered.

“I know exactly what I’d do with you if I caught—”

“No, you don’t!” She pushed at his chest. “You can just forget that right now. I don’t have time for, for whatever this is. I’m a mother—”

“I know.”

“With children and responsibilities—”

“I noticed.”

“And I’ve changed. So let’s forget this ever happened.”
 

He refused to answer, only smiled that slow smile she had to steel herself against.

She struck his chest for emphasis. “Do you hear me?”
 

His mouth sought hers once again, but she twisted away. “I’m not fourteen now, and I’m not chasing you. What’s more, I’m not interested in being chased, or seduced, or whatever you want to call it.”

“You sure talk a lot, kid,” he murmured, finally letting her go. And then added with a wicked grin, “I’m beginning to see exactly how much fun chasing can be.”

Cecilia leaped to her feet. The swing careened wildly as he stood, as well. “I mean it, Jefferson Smith! I’m going to go into the house, put my children to bed and forget that you made a pass at me. I’m not interested! Is that clear?” She strode to the door. She had her hand on the handle when Jeff joined her.

“Go right ahead with your exciting evening.” He pressed his palm against the door.

She pulled but couldn’t budge it.
 

“But as for forgetting what just happened between us...” He raked her body with his eyes before planting one last, lingering kiss on her forehead.

“You can try.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE CHILDREN HAD been asleep for hours. The wind was picking up; she thought that a cold front must be coming through. Outside on the porch, an occasional gust caught the swing and sent it creaking; it slowed and quieted; another gust, and the creaking started again.

Cecilia raised up on one elbow and studied the digital clock across the room: midnight. The witching hour. And she’d be a witch tomorrow unless she got some sleep. Her shoulders ached from tossing from one side to the other, and her neck was getting stiff.

This is ridiculous.
She switched on the radio, sat upright in the bed and folded her arms across her knees. Resting her cheek on her arms, she stared out the window.

“Flashback to the nineties...” droned the late night deejay in sultry tones, and her bedroom filled the soundtrack of her youth. It was an age of divas, with Whitney and Madonna at the top of their form and Mariah and Janet exploding onto the scene. An age of dreams of fame and riches, of singing along with the radio, with tapes, in every talent show and every stage that she could reach.
 

And not just the divas. She’d been just as likely to grab her guitar and sing Tracy Chapman or Jewel, Etheridge or Clapton. Memories tugged at her, threatening to pull her under, plunging her back to her high school years. And of course, those had begun with... with a freshman girl tripping over a senior boy and sprawling, geeklike, at his feet.

He was the last thing she wanted to think about now. His sudden return into her life was keeping her awake in the first place.

And, of course, those memories also included Robert.
 

She jerked out of the bed and to her feet.

The past held no solace for a sleepless night.

She slipped into her terry robe and padded through the house to the kitchen. Dreading the blinding ceiling light, she used the diffused glow from the light above the stove to see. On the top shelf of the corner cabinet she found what she wanted: a dusty bottle of wine that had been waiting for a celebration for two and a half years. A gift from a well-meaning friend after her divorce. Somehow Cecilia had never felt like the failure of her marriage was something to celebrate.

So tonight it would serve a far more useful purpose: calm her frazzled nerves and help her sleep. She had two recording sessions tomorrow, nine to twelve at Ad-Com, Inc., and one to four at RPM Productions. A wine-filled juice glass cupped in her hand, she grimaced. Had she remembered to find a place for the kids after school?

It was funny how wide-awake she had felt in bed, and how tired she felt now that she was on her feet. A steady scraping noise drew her to the living room window. She pulled back the lace curtains and peered into the yard. The pecan trees needed trimming again. Every three years Robert had climbed up with a chain saw and cut the branches away from the house. This must be the third year, and Robert wasn’t here to do it. She pictured herself on the highest limb with the roaring chainsaw and had to stifle a giggle. She supposed she’d have to hire someone. Damn. She certainly didn’t want to see her money go out for such mundane things as tree trimming. Maybe Jeff...

Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself, and pivoted away from the window, inadvertently splashing wine down her neck. It tickled down the valley between her breasts, and she dabbed at it with a corner of her robe. One way or another Jeff kept her awake, and she didn’t have time for such nonsense.

She tipped the glass to her lips and drained it, determined to sleep at all costs. But her sleep was haunted all night by his lips, his eyes, his gently taunting laugh.

~o0o~

Next morning, driving to the recording studio, with the windows rolled up tight and the music blaring, Cecilia warmed up her voice. She parked in the shadow of the skyscrapers and dashed seven blocks to the studio in one of the older Dallas skyscrapers. Breathless, she rushed into the building at 9:02.

“Lookin’ good, darlin’,” came a peppy male voice. Mitch Delaney, Stan Delaney’s nephew, motioned to her from across the marble-floored lobby.

“Hi, Mitch.”

Short of stature and stout like his bandleader uncle, the younger Delaney was a music student at SMU. He sometimes played trumpet in the band when his uncle needed someone on short notice, and he also worked as a producer for Ad-Com and some of the other production companies in town.

She hardly slowed for him to catch up with her. “I’m running late. I can’t talk.” As she hurried to the elevator, he fell in step beside her.

“Take it easy. There’s a big pileup on Stemmons Freeway and Karla’s bound to be stuck in the middle of it. You’re safe.”

“Thank goodness.” She sighed, the tension in her shoulders loosening.

“Rough night?” he asked as the elevator doors shut them into a Muzak-filled cocoon.

She leaned against the walnut-paneled wall and nodded. “But I’m here. That’s the main thing.”

“I hope you’re in good voice.”

Something in his tone clued her that the remark was not idle chitchat. “What’s up?”

“Dondi Cramer got called out of town. Family problems.”

Cecilia’s pulse raced. “Too bad. Hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Serious enough to keep her in Michigan for a week or two.”

Muted bells binged as they passed one floor after the other in silence. Mitch was doing her a big favor by letting her know about Dondi’s absence. Dondi was one of the elite, one of the dozen or so singers in Dallas who got the majority of radio-jingle work in the city—no small feat, as Dallas was known in the industry as the “commercial jingle capital” of the nation. Cecilia had filled in on rare occasions when one or another of the female singers was unavailable. But if Dondi was going to be out for over a week... Her palms itched just thinking about it. Dondi’s absence might give Cecilia a chance at more jobs, more money, and boy, did she need it.

The doors opened, and Cecilia and Mitch stepped into the swank waiting room of Ad-Com, Inc. Cecilia passed through the mauve-and-gray room with scarcely a glance, her mind racing. Should she play it dumb and just sing her heart out, or take the bull by the horns and ask up front for Dondi’s work?

She was about to turn into the hallway to the studio, when Mitch called to her.

“Cecilia, has Uncle Stan talked to you about the April 1 gig yet?”

She halted in midstride. April 1. She turned slowly. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“The podiatrists’ convention.”

She shook her head. “What’s up?”

Mitch’s face crinkled into a double-chinned grin. “Uncle Stan and Aunt Marge are going out of town that weekend for their thirtieth anniversary. I’m leading the band for him so he won’t have to back out of the convention. I’ll get back with you later about a few ideas I have.”

“Sure, sure.” Cecilia nodded impatiently, then pushed through the double doors to the studio.

To her chagrin, Karla was waiting for her, clipboard and frown in place. The large clock on the wall behind the producer read an accusing 9:07.

Cecilia grabbed a set of headphones and headed for the mike. No time for bullfighting, she decided quickly. Karla handed her a sheet of music and headed for the control booth. The taped background, a gentle twang of country guitar, played into her ears, and Cecilia hummed along as she read the music. Two takes later she felt the appropriate huskiness in her voice, the right “catch” when she slid into the upper register. “’K-Shine on my shoulder makes me happy..” Karla nodded her approval and put on another spot.

Cecilia sailed through the morning in record time, completing several variations of three different spots, one country, one upbeat pop and one “plain vanilla” for an all-news station in Eugene, Oregon. The different spots were sent to customer stations all over the U.S. The voice-overs were added later by one of the client stations’ deejays.

She was reapplying her lipstick, using the glass window of the control booth as a mirror, when Karla stepped out and approached her. “How are you for Friday morning and all next Tuesday and Wednesday? Wednesday may be a late session. I have a hole to fill, and I think you might work.”

Cecilia made a show of pulling her agenda out of her shoulder bag, an act that probably didn’t fool Karla one bit. She flipped it open, studied it a minute, then her face fell. “Friday’s fine, and so is Tuesday—” She forced a smile. “I can make it Wednesday, too.”

“Be on time,” Karla warned, and headed back to the control booth.

Cecilia wrote the new sessions on the small calendar, but her hand paused at the 6:00 soccer game penciled in for Wednesday. Then, squelching her guilt, she marked Wednesday for Ad-Com and snapped the book shut. Somehow she’d figure something out.

In the meantime, she’d see if Dondi Cramer had also left holes at RPM that Cecilia Evans might conveniently fill.
 

~o0o~

The alarm pulsed relentlessly until Jeff hit the right button and shut it off. He squinted up at the ceiling, his eyes aching from too many long hours staring at spreadsheets on a computer screen. He stretched, yawned, rubbed his eyes and breathed a contented sigh. The last thing he wanted to do on this Saturday morning was drag himself out of bed, much less spend the day in the glaring Texas sun.

He sure as hell didn’t want to go to that blasted soccer game. He rolled over, pulled the pillow over his head and prepared to dig back into some serious sleep time.

The alarm sounded again. He had hit the Snooze instead of the Off button. He slammed his hand down, hitting several buttons at once, and pulled the pillow tighter over his head. Sleep. Pure and simple, it was all he wanted, all he needed.

A muffled screech came down the hall. Too damn bad, he thought rebelliously. Let the bird wait for his food; it wouldn’t kill him. He sank deeper into the covers. No luxury compared to stealing extra sleep in the middle of the busiest tax season in memory.

Whatever had Cecil done about hers? Visions of Cecilia Greene Evans hauled into tax court and then to jail ricocheted through his mind. And she deserved it, too, the way she and that obnoxious kid of hers thought they could handle the current year’s credits and boondoggles and other amendments since the last tax overhaul.

Toulouse squawked, Jeff clenched his teeth, and sleep slid from his grasp. He rolled over and kicked the covers off his legs. Old habits break hard, and he’d gotten up early too many days for too many consecutive weeks.

With Toulouse perched on his shoulder, smelling of banana and chattering meaninglessly, Jeff downed a quick glass of juice.

“Bang, bang!” the bird squawked.

Jeff tried to ignore him as he pulled a pair of khaki shorts out of his drawer.

“Bang, bang!” Toulouse tightened his talons, and Jeff winced and cursed, and gave in.