The Dirty Girls Book Club (12 page)

He unscrewed the cap from the radiator as she returned, awkwardly lugging a bucket. A gentleman would take it from her, but
she’d made it clear she didn’t see him as a gentleman. So he pointed. “Pour it in there.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she hoisted the bucket. Woody stepped back. Water gushed every which way, mostly onto Georgia’s skirt and legs, but probably enough got into the radiator to do some good.

“Thank you,” he said politely.

She put the bucket down. “What now?”

“Take off your panty hose.”

Her expression made up for everything she’d put him through.

“What did you say?” she spat, eyes huge and disbelieving.

Trying to sound innocent, he said, “You are wearing panty hose, right? Not stockings with a garter belt?”

Her eyes widened further. “What business is that of yours?”

Woody fought to control his laughter. “Can’t install the new fan belt without the right tools, which are at my place.”

“You tell me that
now
? I could have had the car towed to my repair shop.”

“No need. Easy to fix, just need the right tools. But for now, we need to move the car, which means jerry-rigging a fan belt. Panty hose works.” It was true that he needed proper tools, and true that panty hose made a fine short-term fan belt. Not that the car would need one to go a few kilometers.

No reason Georgia had to know that.

Her squinty-eyed look told him she was doing her best to read his mind.

He tried to look innocent.

Finally, she ground out, “Turn around.”

“You forgetting I’ve already seen what you’ve got?”

“Oh! Well, you’re certainly not seeing it again!”

Laughing, he turned around.

But then the joke was on him. When he heard the slither of skirt fabric against hose, his mind jumped to what he’d seen yesterday:
those slim, creamy legs, the fiery pubic hair, the slick, pouty lips of her pussy.

His body stirred, reminding him that a man and woman didn’t have to like each other to want sex. Not that she seemed to be inclined that way at the moment.

“Here,” she said grimly. A hand reached around him with a bundle of pale silky stuff.

He took the panty hose, which was damp from the water she’d spilled, still warm from her body. Was she naked under that skirt, or wearing panties?

“Well?” she demanded. “Do you need something else?”

Trying to focus on the unnecessary task he’d created, he said, “My pocketknife. Mind getting it? In the glove compartment, right?”

The same place he stored condoms.

If she brought a condom back … But of course she wouldn’t.

Against the fly of his jeans, his swollen cock throbbed insistently. He stared down at the empty bucket. Where was the cold water when a guy needed it?

Bending under the hood, he fiddled needlessly until she returned and handed him the knife. He improvised a fan belt, then straightened and looked at Georgia. If he expected admiration, he wasn’t getting it here. “Where do you live?”

“Why?”

“Trying to decide whether we take your car there or to my place.”

“Kits, between Fourth Avenue and Jericho Beach.”

Not much farther than his condo. If he took her to his place he’d have the home ice advantage, but she’d prowl around his apartment while he worked on the car. Nope, he’d rather have a chance to scope out her digs. “Here’s what we’ll do. You drive home slow and easy. I’ll follow, make sure you get there safely. Then I’ll whip over to my place, get the tools, and come back and fix her up for you.”

Brow furrowed, she said, “It’s nice of you to want to help, but if I can drive it, why not just take it to my repair shop? It’s not far.”

That made sense, but his pride was engaged. “Will they have it ready for you to drive to work in the morning? Don’t bet on it. Besides, we’ve already bought the fan belt.”

She tossed her hands up in one of those fluttery, female gestures. “All right, have it your way. I admit it would save me a lot of hassle.”

But you don’t want to be indebted to me.
His mind supplied the rest of her thought.
You don’t want to be indebted to a dumb jock. Tough. Guys like me are good for something, and it’s time you learned it.

It was an unaccustomed treat to be home—an apartment in an old character house that had been renovated to make six units—on a workday afternoon. Georgia shed her confining suit jacket and traded her damp skirt and bare legs for beige cotton pants. Normally, she’d also have let down her hair and put on a tee, but she didn’t want to get that casual with Woody.

Settling on the couch with Kit-Kat beside her, she turned on her laptop and checked e-mail. After responding to a few work messages, she clicked on a message from Marielle, addressed to the book club members.

So, have you started the book? I’m dying to know what you think.

Kim had responded with,

I got it on my Kindle Monday night and I’m totally loving it. How come I never meet men like le Comte? Wasn’t that first sex scene hot? I mean, he started out as a stranger, she didn’t even like him, and he seduced her so totally and she loved it. When you think about it, it’s pretty unbelievable, right? A terrific
fantasy—and yet I totally bought it. And I want some for myself!!! LOL.

Was Kim joking or, as Georgia suspected, was all not well with her and her boyfriend? Although the four women’s reason for getting together was to read and discuss books, Georgia liked the way they were slowly getting to know one another.

Though she had a couple of close girlfriends who went back a long way, the three of them didn’t get together so often these days. One was a newlywed, the other a new mom, and they were tied up with their own lives. Though Georgia was busy with her job, and liked her own company and that of her cat, sometimes she felt lonely.

Turning back to her computer screen, she read Marielle’s reply to Kim.

Hey, no one wants to read about a normal, boring life, right? Besides, I don’t think it’s pure fantasy. I could totally see myself doing it.

Georgia smiled at that. Marielle was gorgeous, vivacious, and fun. Her motto was to enjoy life. She sampled drinks, jobs, and men with abandon.

Marielle’s e-mail ended with:

Lily, George, what do you think?

Fantasy or reality? A stranger who seduced the prim Lady Emma and awakened her sexuality. On Monday night, Georgia would have agreed with Kim that it wasn’t believable. Yet she was living proof that it could happen, even when the man was far less suave than Le Comte de Vergennes.

Lily had chimed in with a brief message:

Haven’t bought the book yet, but I will. That’s what the club’s about. We have to read everything, even if it’s not something we’d choose ourselves.

Marielle responded:

Yeah, you gotta give it a try. Lady Emma tried something different, and hey, she liked it a lot! George, you out there? Have you started the book yet?

Slowly, she typed:

Yes, and I’ve read the scene you’re talking about. It did seem out of character for Lady Emma, but I bought into it. Why do you think she did it, though?

If she better understood Emma’s motivation, maybe she’d be clearer on her own.

She didn’t expect an immediate response, but an e-mail from Marielle popped in:

For me, good old chemistry would be enough. But for Emma, I think it’s more than that. She’d never been treated that way before. Never been appreciated for being a beautiful, sexy, desirable woman. And also, she’d never had an orgasm, never really even been turned on. How could she resist?

How indeed?

A double knock sounded at the door. Kit-Kat, who was shy around strangers, took off in a tortoiseshell blur. Georgia typed quickly:

Have to go. Business meeting.

Before she could rise to answer the door, it opened and Woody invaded her peaceful living room. His jeans and jersey were streaked with dirt, his skin was glossed with sweat, there was a dark smudge across one cheek, and his face wore a satisfied grin. “All done. Purring sweet as any kitten.”

“Thank you.” She put her laptop on the coffee table, feeling both gratitude and resentment. She had vowed to never be like her mother, to never need a man. But of course she did need a car mechanic, so perhaps it shouldn’t be an issue that the man was someone she knew, not an anonymous guy in the back of the repair shop.

Of course, Woody wasn’t just someone she knew; he was the man who’d given her orgasms. Who had, in his own un-suave fashion, made her feel sexy and desirable—at least until he’d made it crystal clear he was sorry they’d had sex.

He waved his hands, smeared with black grease, in front of her face. “Need to wash up.”

Definitely un-suave. She wrinkled her nose. “Use the kitchen. I suppose you opened the door with one of those?”

A brow went up. “Nah, with my tongue.”

She refused, absolutely refused, to think of that tongue tangling with hers. “Don’t be any more disgusting than you need to be.” She followed him into the kitchen. While he scrubbed busily, she took household cleaner and a roll of paper towels to the front door.

Returning, she handed him paper towels to dry his hands on. “You have a smudge on your cheek.”

He reached up and she said, “No, the other cheek.”

When he missed it again, she said, “Stop; I’ll do it.” She wet a paper towel and stretched up.

Stupid move. He was so tall compared to Anthony, and his raw masculinity was unsettling. Especially when it was raw masculinity she’d been up close and personal with, in that moment of temporary insanity. No wonder her heart was thudding like it wanted to burst
out of her chest. Marielle had mentioned chemistry. Was this what it felt like?

When she inhaled, his scent was raw and masculine too. There was a tang of something like pine or cedar, and the distinct odor of male sweat. Not bad, just not something she was used to. The most exertion Anthony’d ever engaged in was walking and lovemaking, and she couldn’t remember ever seeing him sweat.

Oh yes! She smiled. Right before he had to defend his master’s thesis.

“What’s so funny?” Woody asked.

Startled, she gazed into those mesmerizing blue eyes, far too close to her own. “Nothing.” She stepped back. “We need to get back to our communication lessons.” She eyed his grubby clothing dubiously. “I’d suggest the living room because it’s more comfortable, but your clothes might stain the upholstery.”

He glanced down, apparently surprised to find dirt all over himself. “I’ve got clean clothes in the car.”

“Oh.” It was a sensible, considerate suggestion. Why should it make her uneasy? Yes, the last time he’d taken his clothes off, the consequences had been … Her brain sought for the right word. Disastrous? Amazing? But neither of them was going to go insane again. They both regretted yesterday. “Thank you, Woody. That’s good of you.”

“Shower’d feel good anyway.” He was out the door again.

She gaped after him. A shower? She hadn’t offered a shower.

A few minutes later, he was in the bathroom with the water running, whistling. Badly.

She listened. She couldn’t not listen. Any more than she could avoid imagining him naked, with water streaming over him. Soaping up his hands and slicking them over his bulging muscles.

His body was so different from Anthony’s. Her husband had been five foot nine, two inches taller than her. She’d loved his body,
in all its subtlety and ascetic fineness. Woody was the opposite. Blatant, not subtle.

Not that he was overdeveloped, like the steroid-pumped men who built their muscles to the point of absurdity. Woody’s body really was quite appealing. For marketing purposes, she reminded herself. That was what counted.

When Woody had said clean clothes, she’d assumed jeans, but he emerged from the bathroom in baggy gray, mid-thigh-length gym shorts and a loose black T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out. Oh no, he was not fine-boned and ascetic. There was so darned much naked flesh, tanned and toned and utterly masculine.

He caught her staring. “My squash clothes.”

“Is there any sport you don’t play?”

“Sure. Cricket, lacrosse …” Looming above her, he rested his hands on his hips. “Is there any sport you do play?”

“No. I walk, but I don’t play sports.”

“How come? Oops, I mean, why?”

She bit her lip. “I don’t mean to offend you. Honestly. I heard what you said at lunch about hockey. But I never saw the point to ball-chasing, ball-throwing, ball-hitting.” Not to mention, she had no skill in any sport. Anthony was the same. They’d had so many things in common and had truly been soul mates. “I’m more into reading.”

Woody stood in the middle of her room, gazing around, not bothering to hide his curiosity.

She felt a little vulnerable, having him check out her place. Yet she could work with this. Rather than let herself react to all those tanned muscles, she’d concentrate on her job. “Let’s work on powers of observation and analysis. What do you see when you look around, and what does it tell you?”

“It’s cozy,” he said on a note of surprise. “Homey. I hadn’t figured you for the nest-building type. Nice comfy furniture, everything
easy on the eye, lots of different, pretty colors.” He turned to her. “How come—I mean, why—don’t you dress in colors like that?”

He, whose idea of style was a ratty jersey, was critiquing her wardrobe? “Plain, tailored clothes are appropriate for business.”

“Viv disagrees.”

“She and I have different approaches.” And who cared that he obviously preferred Viv’s?

He looked around some more. “Nice paintings. They show that you like flowers and the Pacific Northwest. And you can’t stand to throw out plants when they get old and sickly.”

“What’s wrong with that?” she demanded.

He flashed her a grin. “Nothing. I’d say it’s good news for your parents, and whatever guy you end up with. You won’t toss them when they’re old. Got a high loyalty quotient, Georgia.”