The Dirty Girls Book Club (22 page)

Frozen in a streetlamp’s spotlight, Georgia cringed away from a man in dark clothing and a hoodie. The man’s posture screamed aggression, and something in his hand glinted silver. As the sound of Woody’s sprinting feet brought the mugger swinging around, Woody saw it was a knife.

Woody’s entire being focused on that knife, only a couple feet away from Georgia, and he kicked out, hard and fast, aiming for the mugger’s forearm. He heard the unmistakable crack of shattering bone. A howl split the night, almost drowning out the sound of the knife clattering to the pavement.

Woody needed that guy on the ground, out of commission, so he smashed his fist into his solar plexus, putting all his body weight behind the blow, and the man crumpled.

Woody drew a breath, the first he was aware of since he’d seen the mugger. He turned toward Georgia. “You okay?”

Out of nowhere, a body smashed into him, his bad shoulder taking the brunt of the attack. Caught off guard, his reaction was a moment slow, and in that moment a fist exploded into his face and he went down. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, the gush of blood from his nose, he leaped to his feet, on the ready.

He didn’t see a knife this time. But what if there was a third, even a fourth man? He had to deal with this asshole quickly.

When the second guy rushed him again, Woody dealt him one-two body blows, cracking ribs and punching him in the gut until he buckled to the ground.

Pumped, flying, Woody spun, doing a full circle, ready to take on any other attackers that materialized out of the night. But no one else came.

Relaxing a little, barely breaking a sweat, he took a quick inventory. Georgia was huddled against her car, her arms wrapped around herself, trembling and gasping, but he was sure neither man had hurt her. The muggers were out of the game, both curled up on the ground, moaning.

Yeah, he’d given them what they deserved. Woody smiled grimly.

He went over to Georgia. “You okay?” he asked again, his voice coming out nasal and choked.

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Yes, they never touched me. Oh my God, you’re bleeding.”

Nasty throbbing behind his left eye and in his nose led him to probe gingerly. His nose, though gushing like a fountain, wasn’t broken again, thank God. “I’m okay.” He bent his head forward, pinching his nostrils, and heard the wail of sirens.

She fumbled a tissue out of her purse and began poking at his face. “Put your head back to stop the bleeding.”

He batted her hand away. “I know how to look after a nosebleed.”

Sirens whooped, stopped, and the police were there, rescuing him from her attentions.

When statements had been taken, the two attackers cuffed and dragged away, and the cops had wished him good luck in the game tomorrow night, Woody and Georgia stood alone by her car. His nose had stopped bleeding and he’d mopped most of the blood off
his face with her tissues; then she’d fussed around, cleaning up the rest. His left eye was half swollen shut. Adrenaline was still a faint sizzle in his veins, taking the edge off the pain.

“We’ve got to get you to emergency, like the police said,” Georgia said.

“Nah, nothing’s broken. I’ll be okay.”

“But what if you have a concussion?”

He snorted. “I didn’t hit my head.”

“But that man hit you pretty hard. Maybe you’ve got whiplash or something.”

Offended, he said, “He didn’t hit me that hard. And he only got me at all because I didn’t see him coming.”

She nibbled her lip. “At least let me drive you home and make sure you’re okay. There might be some kind of delayed reaction.”

Her concern was sweet, but she was treating him like a wimp. “You don’t know anything about injuries, do you?”

“Enough to know a person shouldn’t be left alone if they haven’t been checked out by a doctor.” Her face was pale, her eyes huge and strained, yet he read determination in them. She might try to come across starchy and professional, but at heart she was a nurturer.

She was also sexy and beautiful. Even though the adrenaline was wearing off and Woody was feeling far less than 100 percent, he was still a guy. And it dawned on him that Georgia’d given him an opening. “Okay, Coach. I surrender. If taking on two muggers is what it takes to get you to go home with me, then it’s a price I’ll pay.”

Her lips twitched. “I said I’d drive you. I didn’t say I was coming in.”

“What if I pass out in the elevator? Loss of blood makes a guy faint.”

“I think you really must be concussed,” she returned. “Or else you’d never admit you might faint.”

He lifted a hand to his head. “Man, maybe you’re right. I went
down hard and all I was thinking was that I had to get back up and get that guy before he attacked you. Maybe I did hurt my head.” It was all true except for that last bit, and yeah, he was being manipulative, but he didn’t give a damn.

“Then you’re going to the hospital,” she said firmly.

He shook his head, and didn’t have to fake a wince. “They’d just send me home and say I shouldn’t be alone. I know about concussions. Someone needs to check on you every couple of hours, make sure you’re not disoriented. Be there if you do pass out and don’t wake up, so they can call an ambulance.”

“I can do that,” she said, eyes huge and serious.

Woody didn’t feel the least bit guilty.

Georgia was so upset that she could barely force herself to get behind the wheel of her car and turn on the ignition. She glanced at Woody, who’d lowered himself slowly to the passenger seat, buckled up, then put his head back and closed his eyes. He must be in serious pain to admit that he needed help.

She gritted her teeth and pulled away from the curb. The man had saved her from two muggers. The least she could do was get him home safely. “Woody? Where’s your place?”

“Yaletown.” Not opening his eyes, he gave directions.

Though her hands—her entire body—wanted to tremble, she forced herself to focus entirely on driving and following his instructions. One thing at a time. Get to his building.

She pulled up at the security gate to an underground parking lot. “We’re here. How do we get in?”

He opened his eyes, pulled a key ring out of his pocket, and pressed a button on a fob.

The gate lifted and she drove in and parked in a guest spot.

Inside the elevator, he hit the button for the thirtieth—and top—floor. “Thanks for doing this.” He glanced at her, then away again, looking uncomfortable.

Her heart softened. Poor Mr. Tough Guy, hating to admit weakness. Little did he know, she was flattered that he would reveal his vulnerability to her and ask for her help. It made him even more
appealing. And, though she was still traumatized by the attack, she would be there for him the way he’d been there for her.

He sure looked the worse for wear, his hair messed up, that lovely jersey stained with blood and dirt. His nose had begun to swell, his left eye was puffing, and a bruise was coming up. He looked like a total bad boy, which shouldn’t appeal to a woman like her and yet it did. In a very sexual way.

How could she think about sex at a time like this, when she could have been seriously hurt and when Woody was injured and in pain— and all because she’d been silly enough to park her car on the street rather than in the hotel’s nice, safe underground lot?

On the thirtieth floor, she realized there were only four apartments. Penthouse apartments, it dawned on her.

When he unlocked the door and she stepped inside, the windows drew her. Such an incredible view. She oriented herself, realizing his apartment was on the northeast corner. The living room windows showcased downtown Vancouver, Coal Harbour, and False Creek. Scattered across the dark nightscape was the yellow gleam of dozens of lit-up windows. But the darkness reminded her of the street, of the man who’d come out of the shadows, light glinting off the blade of his knife.

Shivering, she hugged her arms around her body and turned her back to the windows.

The room was filled with relatively masculine furniture, heavy on the leather, a large TV, a sound system, and a few large paintings of winter landscapes featuring frozen lakes.

Subconsciously, she’d expected a small, messy, bachelor pad. Woody didn’t act like the typical rich person, and she’d almost forgotten about the money he earned. “What a lovely place.”

“Thanks. I like lots of space.” He caught the hem of his caramel-colored jersey in both hands and peeled the shirt upward.

Unable to look away, Georgia tracked its progress as it cleared
his lean waist, rose up his six-pack, and revealed the lower curves of his pecs. The sight of blood matting the dark curls of chest hair brought her back to reality, and she hugged her body more tightly, wishing she was wearing a heavy sweater rather than a flimsy shawl.

When his face emerged from the crumpled fabric, lines of pain bracketed his mouth. “I need a shower. Get yourself a drink; put on some music.”

“All right.”

As he walked from the room, his movements were slower and less fluid than usual. Her fault. This was all her fault. Yes, she could use a drink. A double shot of something strong, something that might warm her frozen body.

A couple of minutes later, she heard the distant thrum of a shower. She imagined Woody, naked and sleek under the spray. His golden-brown skin wet, drops of water tracking down the center of his body.

She shouldn’t be thinking of him this way. The man was hurt, and he’d quite possibly saved her life.

A long, cold shiver rippled through her body. Alone for the first time, she relived those moments by her car. She’d been utterly terrified, facing that mugger with the knife. She couldn’t even draw a breath and call out for help.

But Woody’d known, somehow. He’d been there. If he hadn’t—

No, she couldn’t think about that.

She hurried to the kitchen, all silver and black, and checked the freezer to make sure he had an ice pack. In fact, there were assorted ice packs and a bunch of ice cubes. No chocolate ice cream, like in her freezer, just some frozen veggies, a steak, and a couple of packages of chicken breasts.

Clutching her shawl around her shoulders, she opened the fridge door, then didn’t know why she’d done it. She stared at a carton of
milk, juice, electrolyte drinks, eggs, multigrain bread, loads of fruit and vegetables, and a bottle of champagne. Champagne? Not, likely, for drinking on his own. That was probably his “date night” drink.

How many women had he brought to this penthouse, fed champagne, and taken to bed?

And why should that thought give her a pang of jealousy? If she wanted sex with Woody, she could have it. He’d made that pretty damned clear. And it would be utterly meaningless to him, not even a blip on his radar. It wouldn’t be a distraction, and he wouldn’t care if it was unprofessional.

No, she didn’t want to be one in a long string of notches on his hockey stick. Maybe instead they could be friends.

She opened a couple of cupboards at random, finding a half dozen bottles of alcohol, and chose brandy. She didn’t care for it, but it would warm her. She poured a couple of ounces into a glass and took a hefty slug, grimacing as the fiery taste nipped at her mouth and throat, then burned a path through her body.

Back in the living room, it was impossible not to glance out the windows. The landscape was glittery and golden, but there were dark spots too. Dark places where danger lurked. The kind of danger she’d faced less than an hour ago.

She wished Woody would hurry up. She didn’t like being alone.

She took another drink and headed over to the sound system. Music, she needed music. Something with vocals, words that would fill up her mind so she couldn’t think about what had happened. Couldn’t remember how terrified and helpless she’d felt. If she let herself think about that, she might fall apart. She could feel it inside her despite the alcohol—a trembling tension that told her she was close to the breaking point.

Georgia drew a ragged breath and determinedly studied the array of black boxes and silver dials. Woody’s system looked more
complicated than the instrument panel for a jet, not that she’d ever seen one. “I can work this out,” she muttered, and concentrated on the task.

“You figure out how to work that thing?” Woody’s voice, coming from behind her, made her start. Her finger inadvertently jabbed a button, and the haunting notes of a saxophone poured into the room. He must’ve had a CD in the player.

“I guess so.” She turned to face him.

Oh, my. He wore a terry-cloth bathrobe in a rich shade of royal blue a little darker than his eyes. The fabric was thick and bunchy, and even though it hid much of his body he still looked impossibly sexy. Maybe it was the damp, uncombed hair, or the vee of brown chest, or the well-shaped calves on display below the knee-length robe.

Was he naked under there?

That sax music was sexy and suggestive. It made her think of untying that loosely knotted belt, peeling back the sides of his robe, and all sorts of other things she had no business thinking. “What’s that CD?” she blurted.

“Not sure. Haven’t had music on for a while.”

Dragging her gaze off him, she opened the cabinet and found an empty CD case on top of a stack. “
Sax for Lovers
. To go along with the champagne, and set the mood for seduction.” She should replace the record with something less sultry, but she liked it.

“You got it.” He walked to the kitchen, returned with a couple of ice packs, and sank into an armchair.

“How do you feel?”

“I’ve felt a hell of a lot worse.” A flicker of pain creased his forehead. “Got a doozy of a headache coming on. Better take something before it gets worse.”

He made as if to get up and Georgia said, “No, I’ll get it. Tell me what, and where.”

“Thanks.”

On his instructions, she walked down the hall, past a room that, as she glanced through the door, seemed to be full of hockey trophies and pictures, and into a plainly furnished bedroom. Seeing the huge bed, she tried not to think about how many women he’d pleasured there.

The en suite bathroom was done in terra-cotta tile, and featured a huge whirlpool tub. The steam from his shower had dissipated but there was still a moist, warm quality to the air. Balmy, tropical. And a tangy herbal scent from his soap or shampoo.