Georgie's Heart (23 page)

“You're not making any sense.” Zane frowned. “You're probably not thinking well due to an overall lack of nutrition. I'm ordering you a good meal from room service, and you're going to eat it.”

“My thinking is perfectly clear, thank you.” Georgeanne drew herself up and frowned back. “And I'm making sense, but you're not. What are you doing here, Zane? Did you come just to tell me I've lost too much weight, after you practically shoved me out the door for this tour?”

Her heart pounded so hard, Georgeanne noticed that she really was having trouble formulating thoughts. She wasn't making any sense to herself, and she trembled all over now that Zane was here. Oh, she was a mental wreck, and in another minute, she was going to fling herself into his arms, whether he liked it or not.

The way he frowned, she very much feared he wouldn't like it.

“What do you mean shoved you out the door?” His intense stare seemed to look straight through her. “I did no such thing, other than tell you what your agent had been saying for weeks, that you owed your readers more than what you were giving them.”

“I still say the book stands on its own. I have nothing more to add to it.” Georgeanne struggled with an urge to bean him with the nearest object. “If you're here because you think I was putting Fritzi Field's advice into practice when I slept with you, then you'd better leave now before I beat you to death with a pillow.”

His frown vanished into astonishment. “You think I thought you were faking your sexual response with me?”

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” Georgeanne said, her voice rising. “The minute you found out I was Fritzi Field, you couldn't get rid of me fast enough. But that's beside the point. The point is, why are you here now?”

“I came to grab you by the hair and drag you home, of course.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Are you going to come peacefully, or do I have to do the caveman act?”

Georgeanne drew in air and told herself she could not possibly be hearing correctly. “Have you been taking acting lessons from Hunter about how to be a caveman?”

“I don't need lessons.” Zane unfolded his arms and came toward her with purpose in every motion. “I do a great caveman act.”

Georgeanne took a few steps back and watched him approach with wide eyes as an impossible joy swept through her. “In that case, maybe I'm the one who needs lessons.”

He stopped in front of her and took her shoulders in his hands. “Georgie, I've missed you so much. Now I'm going to take up right where we left off over a month ago.”

“I thought — I was afraid you wouldn't want to.” Georgeanne watched his big fingers untie the knot in her robe and almost trembled with a powerful mix of joy and desire.

“Why on earth not?” Zane slid his hands up to push the robe off her shoulders. “You're mine. I've been wanting to kill every male talk show host who hugged up to you.”

“I hate talk shows.” She did tremble when he ran his hands down the sides of the silky nightgown she wore. “I was coming to your apartment as soon as I got home.”

“Were you.” He smiled at her. “What for?”

“To have it out with you, of course.” Georgeanne, filled with joyful disbelief, laughed breathlessly. “I hate book tours, Zane, but you were right. It was something I owed my publisher and agent, and my readers. It's over now, and I'm not going on another one. I've hired a personal representative to take care of all that for me.”

“Denise?” He ran his hands over her rib cage.

“Denise loves being Fritzi Field.”

“Are you sure, Georgie?” Zane asked.

She pushed back slightly and looked at him. “I was never more sure of anything in my life. It … occurred to me that maybe you thought … that maybe you thought I liked book tours and being a well-known author. So I decided that when I got home, I'd better come tell you how I really feel about it.”

“So how do you really feel about being a famous author?”

Georgeanne sought for words. It wasn't easy when Zane gently drew her nightgown off over her head. “An author's job is to write books, but when a book is as successful as
Faking It
, readers expect and deserve a lot more.” She stopped and swallowed hard. “I wanted to thank you for pointing that out to me. You were right when you said I had a responsibility to my readers.”

Zane nodded and tossed her nightgown aside. “Go on, please.”

“But before I left, I had already learned something else, something even more important. I learned that there really is one man for every woman, a man who can make her feel all the things people talk about and poets write poems about.” In fact, she wanted to add, she was feeling some of them now.

“Mr. Right?” Zane asked, staring at her breasts.

“Yes.” Georgeanne found that everything inside her responded to his glittering, intent expression. For a writer, she wasn't exactly flowing with glowing prose just now when she needed it most. “Zane, I'm trying to tell you that I love you. And that I would never have left home if you hadn't showed me what I owed my readers.”

Zane dragged Georgeanne into his arms. “Thank God. I thought you never were going to say it. Georgie, I love you. I think I've loved you since you wrote me that first letter about the Saturday Clinic. I was afraid that you'd lose interest in me as soon as you realized you had a successful career as Fritzi Field.”

“Never.” She rode in his arms to the bed, glorying in his strength and the fact that he loved her. “What's a career compared to you?”

“I was afraid to find out the answer to that.” He laid her in the center of the bed and stepped back to shed his own clothing without taking his eyes from her. “I knew there wasn't much I could do to advance your writing career, even if I became a cardiologist.”

“You'd be wasted as a cardiologist.” Georgeanne could barely speak when he bared himself to her view. “Besides, you'd probably be personally responsible for a lot of female cardiac deaths.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “It would be irresponsible of me to let you become a heart doctor.”

“Good, because I would be equally irresponsible if I let you do any more talk shows.” He came to her, all rugged masculinity, and took her in his arms. “I'm surprised those talk show hosts aren't getting calls from men who want to meet you.”

“So they can show me what Fritzi Field is missing?” Georgeanne couldn't help herself and began to laugh softly. “They've gotten dozens of calls, and each of the male callers thinks he'll be the one who can turn Fritzi Field into a real woman.”

“What?” Zane sounded outraged. “That does it. You're through with talk shows, Georgie Hartfield.”

“That's what I've been trying to tell you.” She smiled up at him as he leaned over her. “Denise makes pancakes out of anyone who tries to come on to her or harass her. Talk show hosts love her. She creates the kind of controversy they adore.”

Zane gazed at Georgeanne's breasts and cupped one in his palm. “Good. I have a feeling Denise is going to shine as Fritzi Field. I'll bet she's having a great time.”

His mouth replaced his palm, and Georgeanne drew in a quivering breath. “She is, but not nearly as much as I'm enjoying the process of being turned into a real woman.”

*

Three months later, Georgeanne awakened early one morning to find Zane beside her with a tray in his hands. He set the tray on the bedside stand and she saw that it carried a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, and oatmeal, a vase that held a single rose, and a cup of fragrant coffee.

“Wake up, Mrs. Bryant,” Zane said. “The world awaits.”

She stretched and yawned, conscious of his appreciative gaze. “That's one thing nobody ever told me. Doctors have the ability to leap out of bed, fully awake and aware at an unearthly hour of the morning.”

“We learn it in residency.” Zane sat on the edge of the bed beside her. “You have to go from deep sleep to full diagnostic mode inside of two minutes. I have something to tell you as soon as you've had a few sips of coffee.”

“Oh?” Georgeanne sat up and stacked pillows behind her. “Does this have anything to do with my new book idea by any chance?”

“As a matter of fact, it does.” Zane stroked her tumbled hair back from her face. “Dr. Baghri wants you to accept a new position at the Saturday Clinic.”

“I don't know about that, Zane.” She studied his face, amazed at the strength of the emotions just the sight of him evoked. “The only position I understand at the Saturday Clinic is the front desk. I don't have any medical training whatsoever.”

“He wants you to take the position of Director. He says it's the only way to make sure you keep doing everything you've been doing.” He grinned at her expression as he transferred the breakfast tray to her lap. “I think he's afraid you're going to write another bestselling book and take off on another book tour. The Saturday Clinic nearly collapsed under the weight of patients while you were gone.”

“That's the least of his worries.” Georgeanne nibbled a piece of crisp bacon. “I finished my outline last night. Telling the story of the Saturday Clinic might get other clinics started all over the country. Plus, it's the only way I can memorialize what brought us together.”

“And Dr. Baghri is the one who'll have to do the book tours?” Zane outlined her lips with one finger. “That's an excellent idea, because that brings me to my next piece of news. I've decided to join the Gant Clinic two days a week — the two days Dr. Baghri will be taking off to help start Saturday Clinics in other areas of the country.”

“I'm glad, Zane,” Georgeanne said. “It worries me, making you drive almost an hour every morning and evening, when we could have just moved into your apartment.”

“Not likely, when we have this house in the country. I wanted to live here with you since the first day I saw the place. Not to mention the fact that Roscoe and Jack probably wouldn't adapt very well to life in the city.” He watched her spoon up oatmeal with close attention.

“The dogs wouldn't know how to act in an apartment,” she agreed dryly.

“And I wouldn't want you to be the one on the road twice a day, so don't even think about it,” Zane said. “I'm going to maintain an office here and one in Pasadena for the next few years. Eventually, I'll close the office in Pasadena and move my practice here. I've decided I like country living.” He watched her lips as she sipped coffee. “So what are you doing today?”

Georgeanne moved the tray off her lap and put her arms around his neck. “I'm going to work, of course. Then I'm coming home and cooking a special dinner for you.”

“In that case, I'll try to get home early.” He looked into her eyes and gave her a smoldering smile. “Maybe you can model that new yellow bikini for me.”

“I'll wear anything you want, Zane,” she promised, smiling. “But I can't promise I won't blush while I'm wearing it. It's really tiny.”

“I've missed seeing you blush. Since Denise has taken over as Fritzi Field, your complexion has stayed on an even keel.”

Georgeanne laughed softly. “In that case, I'll add some fancy dancing to the display of the bikini. I can guarantee you'll see plenty of blushing.”

“I can't wait.”

Neither could she. Still amazed at her own thoughts, Georgeanne laid her open palms on Zane's shoulders. She almost felt she owed the world a follow-up book entitled something along the lines of
Finding Mr. Right
, but what could she say that hadn't already been said?

Unless, of course, she decided to title the book,
Love Means Never Having To Fake It Again
.

On second thought, Georgeanne decided as Zane sought her lips for a long, tender kiss, she would let well enough alone. Denise had already turned in an outline to Alice Anson for a follow-up to
Faking It
, and Georgeanne had high hopes for her outline of
The Story of The Saturday Clinic
. She didn't have time to write a book on finding Mr. Right. It was enough that she had actually found him.

Zane sat back and studied her figure appreciatively. “You'd better eat all your breakfast or there won't be anything left of you to fill out a bikini.”

Georgeanne's heart thrilled at the caring possessiveness in his voice, even though she had regained half of her lost fifteen pounds. “Are you saying I'm looking a mite peaked, Doctor?”

“Darned right I am.” Zane touched her cheek. “In fact, you look like a woman who needs a doctor.”

Georgeanne looked at him with her heart in her eyes. “Then it's a good thing I married one, isn't it?”

“The doctor is always in for you, Georgie.”

She saw the same vision of the future shining in Zane's eyes that she hoped he saw in hers, a future of shared love and laughter.

Together, they were strong — strong enough to make a difference in other lives, because of the power of their love.

Kathryn Brocato is a lifelong reader and writer of romance who lives with her husband, dogs, and chickens in Southeast Texas. Learn more about her at
www.kathrynbrocato.com
, and visit her Facebook page at
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Kathryn-Brocato-Author/130436237088005
.

Jeanie Baker's fingers tightened on the tiny black apron with the frill of white lace. No way. Out of the question. Nothing this side of hell would make her wear it. It belonged in a French porn movie, not in Oldbridge. Not in a café serving coffee, cake and sympathy to the small rural community. Groping around her back she wrenched off the offending scrap of material, screwed it into a very tight ball, and flung it at the coffee machine.