Mine 'Til Monday (2 page)

“Wasn’t that a fluke?”

Without warning, Mud’s hand clapped her solidly on the shoulder, the impact nearly toppling her. Dorothy clutched at the counter for support.

“That’s my girl, Dot,” he laughed. “Got you in my corner again, eh? Glad to have you back.”

“I’m not in your corner,” Dorothy managed between clenched teeth. “I just asked a question.”

“Yeah, but you just assumed I was the real thing, when in truth it was dumb luck. I like that. A girl’s got to have faith in her guy.”

Dorothy stiffened, stepping back to put a little more distance between them. “I’m hardly your girl.”

“What do you mean! That’s exactly why I’m here. You summoned me, remember, Princess?”

“I assure you there is nothing personal—”

“Come on, Dot. You must know a lot of other guys. A good-lookin’ girl like you can pretty much call her own shots.”

The compliment registered, threw her off a little. “I needed a golfer, remember? A damn good one, one of the best.”

“That ain’t me. I told you. You want to know about a fluke? That day in Phoenix—now that was a fluke. The person most amazed that day was me.”

Dorothy didn’t know what to say. “I’m—sorry.”

His bellow of laughter confused her, caused her to shrink away just after a swell of empathy had allowed her to come a little closer. “Don’t be sorry, Dot. I’m sure as hell not. I had a good ride, enjoyed every minute. But I knew it wouldn’t last. To be honest, I was kind of glad when it was all over. Those tours can really take it out of you.”

Dorothy bit her lip. The way he played with her emotions, drawing her in and then pulling the rug out from under her, was way too familiar.

“Sure—the way you conducted yourself on them, it’s a wonder you didn’t have to crawl onto the green every morning.”

“I think the press greatly exaggerated my, uh, what would you call it?”

“Rowdiness? Conquests? General irresponsibility?”

His bleached blond eyebrows rose in a mild arc, and Mud shrugged. “You sure seem to have a bee in your bonnet, Dot. Makes a guy kind of wonder why he came on over in the first place.”

Dorothy felt her face flood with embarrassment. Why had she come down on him so hard? A headline from that period of his life came back to her—“Fairway Fave Wows ‘Em Downtown,” accompanied by a photo of Mud surrounded by a bevy of fans outside a popular nightclub. Women fans, gorgeous, tall women with gleaming teeth.

You’re jealous
.

She silenced her inner critic immediately. For there was not one reason in the world she would begrudge a beauty queen—or any other post-pubescent woman who wandered into his path—her moment with Mud. After all, the only thing she had in mind was business, pure and simple.

Well, maybe not exactly pure, and not really all that simple. If only...if she’d just thought things through before that ill-fated lunch with Miranda last week, she could have avoided this whole stupid ruse.

Well, she’d made her bed, and now she was just going to have to lie in it.

With Mud.

“Forgive me,” she managed to choke, as the image that came to mind caused a mini-cascade of electric sparks to ignite her senses. “You’re absolutely right. I am truly very grateful to you for coming here and for, you know, the rest of it. I think I’m just tense about the whole thing. Let me concentrate on dinner for a few moments. Why don’t you see if there’s anything you like on my iPod?”

Mud noted the hasty turnaround, the way she nervously combed her fingers through her short, glossy ebony hair. Women and hair—he’d concluded it was their secret code, the way they were always playing with it whenever their emotions ran high. Problem was, he wasn’t sure exactly what emotion he saw flitting across Dorothy’s face.

He filed it away to sort through later. Mud was a patient man. He’d learned to be content with his own counsel, and he intended to get to the bottom of this, all in good time.

He found a Duke Ellington album among her jazz collection, set it to play, and let the first cool tones spill over him like a welcome rain.

He was out of his element. But not in the way Dorothy thought. Sure, she considered him a dolt, and with his spotty upbringing and abysmal record at half a dozen universities before giving up for good, he couldn’t really blame her.

But it wasn’t her famously intellectual family or her carefully chosen antiques or the wall full of framed citations that had him on edge.

It was the woman herself.

“I hope you like seafood,” Dorothy called, interrupting his thoughts.

Mud hastily turned away from the speakers. Something smelled wonderful, and he was aware of a gnawing hunger. It had been another Snickers-and-Coke lunch down at the shop today.

“As long as it’s not moving, I’ll eat it,” he drawled, and was rewarded by a scowl.

Why did he do that? Why the heck was he so tempted to promote the image he was convinced she had of him—an overindulged, undisciplined hick? Lord knew she was in the minority in that opinion. Most women found him more than adequate, in intellect as well as nearly every other arena.

Maybe it was the challenge...?

As soon as the thought occurred to him Mud banished it. He wasn’t here tonight to pursue Dorothy. Not to woo her, nor to bed her, now or ever. Even if he had been caught off-guard by those thick-lashed dark eyes, the full lips that had to work hard to suppress the shy smile lurking at the corners, the gamine little haircut that contrasted in the most unsettling way with curves he might never get used to.

And he wasn’t even here to be nice, to help out an old friend for old times’ sake. No. He was here to fulfill a promise made years ago. Mud Taylor didn’t make a habit of promising anything to anyone, but when he did, he damn sure followed through.

“Sole muniere?” he corrected himself, willing the twang out of his voice. It was a lazy habit anyway, something he absorbed from the kids at the shop. He straightened, found a spot on the counter to park his elbows, and took an appreciative draw of the fragrant steam. “Broccoli, toasted almonds...”

“You’ve become a gourmand as well, then?” Dorothy inquired without turning from the stove. “You’re full of surprises. But actually that will help.”

“What will help?”

“You knowing your way around a fine meal. I doubt Miranda will be serving franks and beans next weekend.”

Irritation won over Mud’s resolve to let Dorothy keep her opinion of him, no matter how wrong-headed. “Come on, Dot. Y’know, they served a square meal or two up at Huntington Country Club. Come to think of it, there was that one housekeeper Dad hired...Scrawlins, Coggins, something like that...anyway, she put me through the paces around the dinner table for a good month or so. Napkins in the lap, the whole nine yards. Even made me quit chewing toothpicks, if I remember right.”

Dorothy sniffed disdainfully. “What made her leave?”

“Me,” Mud admitted cheerfully. “I was around nine or so, going through a few growing pains. She started in January and didn’t even make it six months. ‘Course, summers were hard, since I was home all day to pester whoever Dad had hired to subdue me.”

“I don’t recall anyone ever subduing you,” Dorothy said, laying down a spatula for a moment and turning to examine him.

A tiny spot of flour dusted one cheek, and a lock or two of her inky hair swooped down over one eye, which added a hint of mischief to her gaze. “On the other hand, I don’t recall your father ever being too worried about it, either.”

Mud chuckled. “Naw, you’re right. Pop was just happy if our household got through the day without flames or explosions or trips to the emergency room.”

Dorothy shook her head, her brows curved sternly but, Mud was almost certain, a ghost of an amused smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “I can’t believe my parents sent me up to your place for three weeks every summer. What were they thinking?”

“Aw, come on, Dot. You survived it. And if I recall it wasn’t always such an ordeal. There were a few good moments... remember?”

He caught her gaze, held on. Held on even when he saw her dark lashes tremble, then drift slowly down, drawing the curtains on a look he would’ve paid good money to know the meaning of.

Well, he’d just have to wait. Thanks to her crazy scheme, they’d be spending time together. Close together.

Mud clanked his glass down on the counter. “Enough reminiscing. Let’s get this here show on the road.”

Dorothy turned quickly back to her pots, but not before Mud noticed the color blooming on her cheeks. “You’re hungry?”

“Yeah. And if I understood that phone call correctly, we have exactly one night to figure out how to turn you into the future Mrs. Mud Taylor.”

CHAPTER TWO

Mrs. Mud Taylor.

In the dozens of hours she’d fretted and worried over her scheme, Dorothy had never once stopped to consider her new title. “Mrs.” It was so foreign, belonging to another woman, a married woman, a woman settled firmly into the path of her life.

Of course, it was all a farce. A ruse that would last a weekend, land her the job she wanted more than anything. And that would be that. Mud would be free to high-tail it back to his testosterone-driven, rough-edged world, and she—and she would do exactly what again?

For a moment Dorothy couldn’t quite remember what plum waited at the end of this crazy adventure, what could be so important that she’d subject herself to this roller coaster.

Because, truth be told, her mind was a little too full of “Mrs. Taylor”.

Dorothy gritted her teeth and forced a smile, dimly aware of Mud gazing at her expectantly. The job. Director of Marketing, or Strategic Planning, or some such, but everyone would know that really meant Heir Apparent to Finesse Sportswear. There would be a brief announcement in the business pages, a farewell luncheon at Gilford Mills, where she’d spent the last ten years rising through the ranks of the sales force. And then everyone would know: Dorothy Albright had managed to springboard herself from a healthy if rather dull fiber manufacturer to one of the most profitable sportswear companies in the country.

That was it. Focus on the job. “Toss?” she inquired, offering Mud a pair of beech-wood tongs.

“Excuse me?”

“The salad. Would you mind tossing the salad? I just have to baste one more time and check on the soufflé, and then we can sit down.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Dorothy managed a peek at Mud. She’d half expected him to plunge into the greens with the wrong end of the implements, but he was managing rather expertly, she had to admit.

Full of surprises, he was. Far from being the deliberately unpolished cad she’d believed him to be, Mud Taylor had actually managed to pick up some class.

Dorothy bent to open the oven door, letting the outpouring of heat flush her skin.

Maybe this crazy scheme had a chance after all.

Mud thoughtfully fingered the St. Christopher’s medal that hung permanently around his neck. “I don’t know, Dad,” he muttered. “I just don’t know.”

The medal had been a gift from his father. “Got me through, son,” he’d said. “This, and Max Albright. Best friend I ever had.”

By the time Mud was 16, his father evidently figured he didn’t need the medal anymore. One night he pressed it into Mud’s palm accompanied by a beery hug. High living, it seemed, didn’t need the constant protection that ‘Nam did.

Mud had never been sure what his father hoped the medal would protect Mud from. Despite his constant scrapes and mischief, Mud was a lucky kid, always finding a foothold in the nick of time. He rarely took the heat for his pranks; people always seemed to want to believe the best about him.

He’d certainly never taken a bullet to the chest and been dragged near-dead through the jungle by his best friend. On the other hand, he had no relationship like his father and Max had, friendship strong enough to bind them for life in a crazy, lopsided, incomprehensible pair.

“Lucky son of a bitch,” Mud murmured affectionately. True enough. Without good fortune smiling on him, how else could his father have built an empire when he returned from the war? With no money, no wife, no family, and nowhere to live, and a six—month-old baby to boot.

He had to hand it to his Dad—Simon had never missed a beat when Mud announced he had no interest in continuing the family plumbing business. Never hounded him during those few lost years after college when Mud was figuring out what he wanted to do, or during that crazy season on the pro tour.

Simon never batted an eye when he first took sight of the ramshackle golf shop Mud eventually bought, even though it looked like it was about to collapse under years of neglect. Simon even pitched in fixing the place up, and renovating the apartment up above the shop. When the last nail was driven he presented his son with a custom-made neon sign that read, simply, Taylor Golf Supply.

Mud’s living room was lit from the sign below, in fact.

The green letters glowed all night long, even after the last kid had gone home, the last customer pushed reluctantly away from the glass display cases. Mud kind of liked the way it bathed his apartment with a flickering, gentle glow.

“Don’t know much, Dad,” he repeated. “But that Dorothy’s something else.”

He heaved a sigh and retracted his feet from the coffee table, one knee grinding a little painfully in the process. Old climbing injury, from those crazy days.

Dorothy had not—had definitely not—been anything like what he had expected. He’d been pulling her leg a little about the wedding. He remembered exactly when he’d seen her last, because that was the day he’d had to admit to himself that Dot had grown up. That his long-ago best friend and nemesis had shed her bony elbows for expanses of deep-gold skin. Had traded her fussy braids for a short, chic crop that somehow managed to curl perfectly around her ears and stop just short of the most graceful long neck he’d ever seen.

That somewhere along the way she’d grown curves and swells and hollows of the most entrancing sort. She’d acquired a body that commanded attention even in yards of gaudy pink taffeta.