Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (19 page)

  "That was a joke." Her voice came out low and tight, every instinct desperately needing to tell them to fuck off.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah, I'm sure."

  "Is Mike your new lover?"

  "No." Her breath came faster. Damn it, damn it. She'd like to rip every perfectly coiffed strand of hair off Sarah's scalp and burn it in front of her.

  "Must be pretty tempting having a single man next door."

  "I'm past that."

  "You brought him breakfast the other day, stayed quite a while. That sounds pretty romantic."

  She clenched her teeth. Did the woman have a goddamn telescope trained on Vivian's door? No matter how Vivian answered that one, it would come out damning.

  What was the point? What was the fucking point? She couldn't win. Nothing would sway them from the twisted crap they'd print about her, whether she fed it to them or not.

  "You want something to print in your papers?"

  They leaned forward eagerly. Her brain scrambled; she had to squeeze the car door handle tight to keep from shaking. "Then print this . . ."

  Her eyes caught movement in Mike's living room window. He was standing there, watching her.

Crap.

  She could read the tense message in his face as if he were right here shouting at her.

  He was right. She knew it. The satisfaction would be short lived. The consequences long and wearying.

  A leaf from the elm between their houses drifted onto her car, yellow and vivid and perfect. She bent and scooped up a handful, threw them into the air, and smiled in conscious imitation of Sarah as they rained gently down.

  "Vivian Harcourt is turning over a new leaf as a model citizen of Kettle, Wisconsin." She beamed, mentally giving each man the finger. "And for once, you're welcome to quote her on that."

Sixteen

EXCERPT FROM ARTICLE ENTITLED

"WHERE IS LORELEI NOW?"

COMET WEEKLY NEWS

Anyone wondering where Ms. Lorelei Taylor, hot off her not -guilty verdict, has holed up? Wonder no more. The Sublime Ms. L has hightailed it back to live in her grandmother's house in, believe it or not, a small, tightly knit community in northwestern Wisconsin, under her real name, Vivian Harcourt. Kettle residents had plenty to report regarding their new neighbor.

  It seems shortly after her move, Lorelei was seen at the local watering hole, Harris's Tavern, consuming whiskey as if there were soon to be a shortage. But that's only the beginning. On her way out, Lorelei proved you can take a girl out of the strip joint, but you can't take the strip joint out of the girl. Male patrons of the bar got a boobs -eye view of exactly what she'd been hiding under her sweater.

  That not enough? An anonymous source indicated

Vivian intends to set up a booth at the town's annual Halloween party to perform manual sex acts on local men.

Did anyone really think she'd try to fi t in?

  Vivian opened the middle drawer of her old -lady antique dresser and stared at the contents in disgust. Social Club meeting this morning, day three of Media Hell. What horrendously ordinary article of clothing should she put on to blend in with the other horrendously ordinary residents? After her lofty announcement that she was turning over a new leaf, she'd jumped into the car and taken off for a demonic shopping spree at the closest generic mall, buying the least Vivian like clothing she could fi nd.

  Paisley button shirts; long -sleeved, nontight tees; loose sweaters with high necklines. Even a pair of pleated pants. And—shudder—sensible shoes at reasonable prices.

  Help.

  But if she was going to convince the idiot media and the idiot American public that she had changed into a subject unworthy of coverage, she had to start with the package.

  At least she could still wear exciting underwear. Leopard print today, with matching bra and panties. Her little secret. Over that, the beige pleated pants. The loose, multicolor, horizontal striped shirt. The cream -colored cotton cardigan. And, God forgive her for the sin she was about to commit, the brown, low -heeled, nondesigner pumps.

  Gag.

  She added light makeup and studied herself in horror. She could pass as Sarah's stepsister. Maybe she should cut her hair in a bob and buy an assortment of pastel headbands.

  She rolled her eyes at her reflection. Going to another Social Club meeting was fairly low on her list of things she wanted to do, like . . . oh, say . . . last, but she was going for two reasons. One, so the reporters Velcroing themselves to her life would see her engaged in a healthy and community minded activity here in her new prison—er, home. And two, so she could fi nd out which bitch leaked the crack about the hand-job booth.

  She'd bet her ugly clothes it was Sarah, little Miss Self Righteous, who couldn't wait to spread tales of the dreadful intruder into her perfect world.

  Vivian should fire a warning shot across her bows, ask within earshot of the media if she was picking up any good vibrations lately and watch her fall apart. Except the tabloids would find a way to make the comment reflect badly on Vivian. They couldn't disappoint millions of readers with stories that didn't support her harpy -of-the-year image.

  Something more compelling than a prude with a vibrator would be necessary to deflect interest from Lorelei Taylor. When you didn't want a kid playing with the old toy, give him a new one. A shame no other scandals had cropped up recently to engage the nation's short attention span.

  Her back doorbell rang and she jumped like a teenager in a horror movie. Damn reporters. She crossed to her bedroom window and raised it. "Who's there?"

  "Mike. I have your paper tiger."

  Oh great. She had to open the door as Helen Housewife and it was Mike. "Coming."

  She ran downstairs and opened the door slowly, already annoyed at how he'd tease.

  "Hi." She stuck out her hand, staring at his chest. "Thanks. I couldn't stand this wallpaper another—"

  "I'm sorry, do I have the right house?"

  She sent a warning look up to his smug grin. "Hand over the tool or risk damage to your other one."

  "I'm looking for a Miss Vivian Harcourt? Is she not at home today?"

  "
Mike
."

  He chuckled and backed her into the kitchen. She tried to stand her ground, but that would put them in full frontal contact, which was not a good idea. Well it
was
a good idea in the abstract, but not with her dressed like a PTA mother.

  "You look incredible," he whispered. "Sooo sexy."

  "Oh pleez."

  "I'm
serious."
He did some pretty convincing heavy breathing. "Like a centerfold . . ."

"You're
not
serious."

  ". . . from a Sears catalog." He barely finished the last word before he started laughing again.

  She put both hands to his chest and shoved. "Cut it out."

  "Okay, okay." He stopped laughing. "You look fi ne, Vivian. Thought about what I said?"

  "What you said?"

  "About hiding behind the clothes and attitude."

  "Oh, bite me. Typical male, taking credit for everything." She glared at him, grabbed the sides of her cardigan, and stretched them open. "This is not change, this is 'let's show the paparazzi Lorelei is no longer worth reporting on.' Okay?"

  "Um, yeah, okay." He stepped back. "Guess I hit a nerve."

  "I don't like looking this way. It's not me."

"So you keep saying."

  She could cheerfully slug him, but the tabloids would probably hear about that, too. "Okay, it
is
me. I've discovered my inner dullness and I can't get enough."

  "Hmm." He looked her up and down. "Any chance you bought gray sweats and plain white T-shirts?"

  "No. Way." She emphasized each word by poking him in the chest.

  He grabbed her fi nger. "Do."

  "Why?"

  "Because . . ." He rubbed her finger over his lip, then gave the tip a brief, sucking kiss that shouldn't have shot thrills through her, but since when did her body react the way her head wanted it to? "Seeing you dressed that way is my secret fantasy."

  "Right." Vivian snorted and yanked her finger out of his grasp. "What's got
you
all whupped up today?"

  "You looking real."

  "Give me a break."

  "Okay, okay." He grinned, blue eyes shooting sexy amusement. He was going to drive her insane. "Where is this wallpaper?"

  "Up where I've wanted you for weeks, sailor."

  He gazed at her, brow lifted, until her insides started to cha cha. Damn it, these yearnings were bullshit. She wanted to stay in control and have fun.

  "In your bedroom. I might have known." He sighed as if he were resigning himself to the slaughterhouse. "Lead on."

  "My pleasure. And if you're lucky, yours." She headed up to the blue -and-brown bedroom, where she turned and leaned provocatively against the wall. "Okay, Mike. Show me how to use your tool."

  He held his hands up in surrender and let them slap down against his jeans. "Okay, you haven't changed."

  "Did you think I would?"

  "I was hoping."

  She frowned. "Seriously?"

  "Of course not." He moved to the wall next to her and started whistling Billy Joel's "I Love You Just the Way You Are."

  She fought giddy laughter. "What is up with you today?"

  "Just being Mr. Sunshine. Thought you might need some today." He held up the roller. "Ready to learn?"

  "Sure." Sunshine? Had he read the article? She wanted it to go away. Everything about the world felt more manageable and more hopeful when she was around Mike. She wanted to roll in that like a dog in a favorite scent, so the feeling would cling to her after he left. "Show me how."

  "You roll the paper tiger over the very ugly wallpaper to perforate it. The more holes, the easier to get it off."

  "Can I make a more -holes-easier-to-get-off joke?"

  "Not unless you're dressed for it."

  She sighed loudly and watched him roll the funky little tool over the brown -and-blue paper.

  "When that's done, you soak the paper with hot water. Use a spray bottle, hot as you can stand it." He handed her the paper tiger. "You try."

  "Mmm, hot and wet." She winked and pushed the spiky roller over the paper, glorying in the rows of tiny holes starting its ruination. Even her clock Jesus couldn't forgive this print.

  "When it's good and wet, use the scraper to peel off the paper. It should come pretty easily. The worst part is scrubbing the glue residue off the wall after. There are all kinds of solvents on the market, but nothing beats hot water, a little detergent, and elbow grease."

  "Got it." She stopped rolling. "Thanks for this, Mike. I'm sure you had other things to do this morning."

  "You're welcome." He faced her, hands on his hips, features troubled.

  She felt suddenly nervous and didn't know why, and that made her more nervous. "Now get out of here, I have a Social Club meeting to go to."

  "A what?" He looked incredulous, not that she could blame him. "Why?"

  The bile started rising again. "Because a certain prissy Kettle missy is leaking everything I do to the press, and I want to teach her about accountability."

  "You think it's Sarah."

  "Who else?"

  He frowned. "Actually, it would surprise me if it was her. Underneath the Sarah -thing she's got a strong sense of decency."

  "Decency?" She blinked faux sweetly. "You mean you couldn't get any?"

  "Vivian."

  "Ye -e-es?"

  "Cut the shit."

  She took a deep breath and let go. He was right. She'd been a brat. Again. "Did you see the article?"

  "Yeah." His voice dropped. "I wanted to punch something."

  
Ohhh no.
Nothing got to her like a man willing to rush to

her defense. It was so . . . female of her. "I don't deserve this after the crap I've been through."

  He shrugged. "To them you're a product."

  "I know." She brandished the paper tiger, imagining reporters riddled with holes. "And the way I was, I played right into their hands."

  "Was?"

  "
Am
."

  He grinned. "Couldn't resist."

  "Maybe I should borrow Rosemary's clothes, save me having to shop a whole new wardrobe, what do you think?"

  "I think that was low."

  She exhaled, suddenly out of steam, tossed the paper tiger onto the bed, and sank down on the eyelet spread. "You're right. It was. But you deserved it at least a little."

  "I guess." He sat next to her, put his arm around her shoulders. "You'll make it, Vivian."

  "Yeah, I'm a goddamn survivor." But tired of just surviving. She wanted to live.

  "With a mouth like a sailor." He squeezed her in a brief hug. "At least you're on the right track with the mother-ofthe-year outfi ts."

  "Yeah, um, thanks."

  "You're welcome." He leaned close, pressed a brief, warm kiss to her temple.

  Oh God. The kiss was so innocent, so restrained, so tender, it was twice as sexy as the usual male assault.

  She wanted to turn and start what they should have started the night he followed her home from Harris's. Back then it would have been simple. But nothing about it felt simple now. She wasn't herself. She felt confused and vulnerable, and as if her only strength was anger.

  "What was up with you and Rosemary?" She asked because she wanted to know, and she asked because bringing up Rosemary would push him away, and she asked because she wasn't sure she had the resolve to push him herself.

  His body tensed. "Why does Rosemary come up every time we're together?"

  "Because it doesn't make sense."

  "What doesn't?"

  She couldn't explain. Because she couldn't picture Mike with some goody -two-shoes chick he had boring sex with? She couldn't picture herself with Ed, but there you had it, fourteen years of nonmarital occasional bliss. What did she really know about Mike?

  She was probably trying to turn him into as much of a fantasy of what she wanted as he was of her, going all sweet on her dressed like this. "The two of you. What people talk about. Like you were Mr. and Mrs. Perfect Love."

  "That's what people saw."

  "There was more?" She made the stupid, horrible mistake of turning to look at him, and he was so close to her, she could imagine how his lips would feel on her mouth and skin, and how his unshaved cheek would feel on hers, and how about on her inner thighs while she was at it.

  "Why do you care, Vivian?"

  Busted. She shouldn't. She didn't want to. But she had a visceral bitchy need to see Rosemary de -haloed, and she really didn't want to know why. Because she had a feeling it was starting to run deeper than cattiness. "I don't care."

"Right." He whispered the word and bent forward.