The Dirty Girls Book Club (21 page)

“Thanks.”

So many things about him intrigued her. She chose one. “Would your friend be Judge Westin?”

“Yeah. Viv told you we saw each other last night?”

She nodded. “How did you get to know him?”

“Met at a fund-raiser. He played hockey as a kid. He taught me to play squash and we have a game every week or so.” He gave a wry grin. “Still beats me too, damn him.”

“You’re dinner friends as well as squash partners?” Last week, she’d have said they were an unlikely pair. Tonight, not so much.

Woody shrugged. “We’re getting to know each other better.” His eyes gleamed with humor. “He invited you over for dinner.”

“What? Me?” Woody had mentioned her?

“He said his wife and son want to meet me. Then, when I said, uh, I’m working with you, he said I should bring you along.”

How odd. But she could top him. She flipped a trailing end of her shawl over her shoulder. “My mother invited you for dinner. The moment she heard about the VitalSport campaign.”

“How about that. She a Beavers fan?”

Her mouth tightened. “She’s a fan of attractive men.”

He gave a smug grin. “You think I’m attractive.”

“
She
does.” He was so irresistible, Georgia had to grin back. “All right, you know I do.” She didn’t believe in dishonesty. And tonight, what woman wouldn’t find Woody attractive? As for a woman who’d seen that fantastic body naked, who’d felt his intimate touch, who’d climaxed so hard that it was a wonder her body hadn’t come apart—

“Your salad.” The waiter’s voice interrupted her thoughts and a beautifully presented salad appeared in front of her, a ribbon of red-skinned apple making it look like a gift.

Trying to ignore the needy ache between her thighs, she picked up her fork and took a bite, then sighed her approval. Beets, apple, chèvre cheese, candied pecans, herbs, and a delicious dressing.

Woody tackled his own appetizer, using the correct fork and slicing a bite off a scallop rather than swallowing it whole. Then he put down his fork. “Mine’s good. How’s yours?”

“Very nice.” Head tilted, she studied him. “Woody, you seem like a different man than the one I had lunch with. Were you having a joke at my expense?”

“A joke? No way.” He ducked his head and toyed with his fork. “Guess I had a lot to learn. Having dinner with Tom really helped.”

“You’re a quick learner.”

Still not looking at her, he said, “I wouldn’t have even thought about how I eat if you hadn’t said something.”

“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.” Last week, she’d wondered about his upbringing. If he’d had a tough one, as his bio suggested, that could account for poor table manners. Rather than come right out and ask, she instead ventured, “Is it a guy-sports thing to rush through your meal?”

He glanced up. “I guess. We’re usually either carb-loading before a game, or ravenous after one.” He drew a breath. “But honestly, I’ve always eaten like that.”

“Your parents …” She let the question go unfinished, hoping he’d pick up her hint.

He put down his fork again, and the muscles in his throat moved. Hard. “Guess we ate pretty quickly.”

“Do you have brothers or sisters?” She’d heard that siblings often fought over food. Woody’s bio didn’t mention any, but then, it said remarkably little about his family.

“No. It was just my parents and me.”

She waited, hoping he’d go on.

Finally, he said, “It wasn’t pretty, the way I grew up. I don’t talk about it. It’s one of the reasons I’ve avoided interviews and endorsements.”

His voice was steady, flat. That in itself spoke of the pain he carried inside, and her heart ached for him.

She touched his hand quickly, gently. “I’m sorry. It’s lonely when you can’t share with anyone.”

He took another deep breath, then let it out audibly. “Yeah. When I was a kid, I didn’t even tell my best friend. His dad guessed, and I guess his mom knew too. They helped where they could.”

Guessed what? Abuse? Drugs? She waited, but he didn’t go on. He hadn’t told anyone, so she shouldn’t be hurt that he wouldn’t tell her. “Are your parents still alive?” she ventured.

He ran a hand roughly across his neatly trimmed beard. “My father died five or six years back.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “Got in a fight he couldn’t win. Took a knife in his guts and bled out.”

Shocked, her breath caught in her throat. The grim satisfaction with which he said it confirmed her suspicion of abuse. Of him? Of his mom? “And your mother?”

“She’s still alive.” He cleared his throat. “They never traveled. She hated the long, cold winters and always wanted to go to Florida. After he died, I sent her on a long holiday there. She loved it. I’d have liked her to move to Vancouver, but she had some health problems. Cold and rain are hard on her.”

Health problems resulting from being abused?

“I got her a place in Florida and visit whenever I can.”

“She must be proud of you.”

“That’s what she says. Guess that’s what all moms say, right?”

Ha. Her mom cared more about whether Georgia was dating than about her career successes. The two of them were just too different to ever be close, yet it still hurt that they weren’t.

She was saved from answering when the waiter stopped by with a worried expression. “Is there a problem with the appetizers?”

She realized that, after those first tastes, neither she nor Woody had touched their food.

Woody smiled at the man. “No, they’re great. We got talking.” He picked up his fork.

How about that? Woody’d been so caught up in talking to her that he’d forgotten to eat. She reached for her own fork and her shawl slid off her shoulders.

Woody’s gaze caressed her bare arms, heating them, and this time she didn’t pull the shawl back up.

After a few mouthfuls, he said, “How about you? What’s your family story?”

“I’m an only child too. My father—well, I never really knew him. He was around for the first couple of years of my life; then he and my mom split up and he didn’t stay in touch. Since then, Bernadette’s been married four more times. I learned not to get attached to any of my stepdads because they wouldn’t be around long.”

“That’s rough. I’m surprised it didn’t sour you on marriage.” His tone made her guess that his parents were partly responsible for him being so anti-commitment.

She shook her head. “I’m the opposite of my mother.”

“You must’ve been pretty young when you tied the knot.”

“Twenty-one. And it would have lasted forever.” She hadn’t the slightest doubt.

He winced, and she figured that to him it must sound like a life sentence of hard time. But all he said was, “Your mom doesn’t believe in that happily-ever-after stuff ?”

“Kind of, but it never works. Bernadette is insecure, which you’d never believe if you met her. She comes off as vivacious, flirtatious, bodacious. Underneath, she needs men to give her validation. She meets a guy; he thinks she’s wonderful; she’s so happy and she thinks it’ll last forever. But after a while, he’s not paying her enough attention; he’s looking at other women. There’s always something. Either she leaves to look for another man, or the guy gets tired of her neediness and dumps her. It’s a nasty cycle.”

“Huh. Yeah, you’re different than her.”

“I believe that you should only marry if you find your soul mate.
I was lucky enough to find mine early on.” And unlucky enough to lose him.

“I don’t get it,” Woody said slowly. “The soul mate stuff and all. But I see how much he meant to you, and I’m sorry you lost him.”

Touched, she said, “So am I.”

Across the table, his eyes were clear, the blue lit by sparkles from the chandelier above and the candle on the table. “I think it’s great that you don’t whine about how life dealt you a low blow. You picked yourself up and got on with things.”

Pleased, she murmured, “Thank you. You’re like that too, aren’t you? You don’t let things get you down. Not your rough childhood, not being smashed onto the ice, not even having me pick on your manners.”

“Tough guy,” he reminded her. The humor in his eyes, the softness of his mouth, made him look anything but, yet she knew there was a core of steel inside the man.

The combination was seductive.

Yes, to hundreds of women. And Woody liked it that way. Women, in the plural. He didn’t even believe in serial monogamy. It was ridiculous to get moony over him. He wasn’t her type. It was good, though, that she found admirable qualities in him. That would assist with the campaign, and it made working with him a lot more pleasant than she’d anticipated. She just had to make sure she didn’t let it become so pleasant that she abandoned common sense.

Watching as he interacted with the waiter who’d come to clear their appetizer plates, bring Woody’s red wine, and serve their entrées, she reminded herself she was with Woody only for business reasons.

Not temptation. Not orgasms.

She should have worn a business suit. The silky dress Viv had helped her pick out rode high on her thighs, thighs clad in panty hose that shimmered as if her skin had been dusted in gold. Her
arms were bare, and she was aware that her V-neckline revealed a wedge of her upper chest, even a hint of cleavage. It was rare for her to bare so much skin, and that threw her off balance.

It was rare, too, to be in an elegant restaurant dining with a handsome man, feeling her body tingle and pulse with sexual awareness.

No, that last thing, the sexual awareness, wasn’t just rare; it was unprecedented. Until she’d met Woody.

Once, he’d made her abandon not only her values but her common sense, and succumb to his wiles. Just like Lady Emma and the Comte. A second time, Georgia had been heading in that direction, but finally managed to pull back.

She wouldn’t—couldn’t—let it happen a third time. Though she hadn’t had a chance to read more of the book, she was sure Emma would give in to the Frenchman’s seduction. But Georgia wasn’t Emma, and this wasn’t fiction.

She had to make a success of the VitalSport campaign, and prove to her boss that he’d made the right choice when he picked her over her competition, Harry. Playing the role of puck bunny was
not
the way to do it, especially for a woman who believed that gender and sexuality didn’t have a place on the job.

Not to mention that letting herself care for a man who didn’t believe in marriage, much less even dating one woman at a time, would be purely stupid.

Woody finished dinner with a too-small yet delicious salad of exotic fruits and watched Georgia demolish something rich and chocolaty. The way she savored the chocolate and made soft moans of approval had him hard again.

Maybe there were good reasons for restricting their relationship to business, but hell, he was a guy. A horny guy, with a beautiful woman. “Feel like coming back to my place?” he suggested.

For a moment, he saw in her eyes the same naked hunger he felt; then she refocused on her dessert. “That’s not a good idea.”

God, she was frustrating. Tonight, she’d let herself look like the gorgeous, sexy woman she was. She’d shared with him, warmed to him, and he’d seen lust in her eyes. Yet she wouldn’t let herself cross that damned line she’d mentioned. Didn’t she know that the perfect dessert for tonight wasn’t chocolate but sex?

He wished she’d had too much to drink, so he could have refused to let her drive home and taken her himself. He’d have turned off the engine, reached out for her in the darkness, and then he’d have been able to persuade her. She’d have invited him in, and once there, they’d have had slow, thorough, blistering sex. His hard cock throbbed as he indulged in that fantasy.

Then he came to his senses and realized she’d asked for and was paying the bill. Expensing it, he knew, because of course this was a business dinner. A dinner to train and test him.

That rankled, but he knew it was for his own good. Much as he hated revealing his inadequacies to Georgia, it’d be worse doing it in public, as the figurehead for VitalSport.

Georgia rose, draping that pretty fringed shawl around her even prettier shoulders.

He stood up too. The thought of his inadequacies had made his erection subside, so he didn’t embarrass himself.

He rested his fingers on her lower back as they walked through the half-empty restaurant to the exit, and she let him. But once they were out on the sidewalk, she stepped away.

Turning to face him, she said in a rush, “That went very well. Congratulations, Woody. And good night.” She looked up at him. “I really hope the next game goes well.” A small laugh. “I suppose I should say, ‘Bash ’em, Beavers.’ ”

“How about a good luck kiss?”

“I—” She was tempted. He saw it in her eyes, and in the way her body tilted toward his. Then she jerked back. “That wouldn’t be wise.”

Damn. “Are you parked in the hotel lot?”

“No.” She waved a vague hand. “On the street.”

Remembering her idea of directions, he hoped she’d be able to find her Toyota. And he hoped she’d fed the meter or there’d be another visit to the tow lot. “I’ll walk you.”

Her chin tilted up. “There’s no need. I’m perfectly capable of getting to my car.”

“Sure you are.” He tried to sound like he really meant it. “But it’s what a guy’s supposed to do. It’s proper
deportment
.”

“I suppose it is. All right, if you insist.” She headed down the street.

He sauntered beside her, not even commenting when she took a wrong turn and had to retrace her steps. Finally, she said with a note of triumph, “There it is. Thanks, Woody, and good night again.”

“Night, Georgia.”

She didn’t offer him a ride. Because she assumed he’d driven, or she didn’t trust him, or she didn’t trust herself? Wondering about that, he turned and started to walk away.

An instinct made him look back, maybe to make sure she hadn’t locked herself out of her car, or maybe just because he wanted one more look at her, all sexy and feminine. Somehow he knew that tomorrow she’d be back to a business suit and pulled-back hair.

What he saw brought adrenaline surging through his veins. He didn’t stop to think. His body was in motion, pelting down the street toward her.