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Authors: Rachel Gibson
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that I wasn’t stupid.”
John laughed. Damn, he was beginning to like her. “Come on.” He motioned with his head toward the house. “You look like you’re freezing.”
“I am,” she confessed, then fell into step beside him.
They walked across the cool sand without speaking while the sounds of crashing waves and crying sea-birds filled the breeze. When they reached the weathered stairs leading to the back door of John’s house, Georgeanne took the first step, then turned to face him. “I don’t ramble,” she said, her eyes squinted against the glare of the setting sun.
John stopped and looked into her face on about the same level as his. Several corkscrew curls were beginning to dry and dance about her head. “Georgie, you ramble.” He reached for his sunglasses and slipped them down the bridge of his nose. “But if you can manage to control yourself, we’ll get along fine. I think for one night we can be”—he paused and placed the Ray-Bans on her face—“friends,” he finished for lack of a better word, although he knew it was impossible.
“I’d like that, John,” she said, and pulled her lips into a seductive smile. “But I thought you told me you weren’t a nice guy.”
“I’m not.” She was so close, her breasts almost touched his chest—almost, and he wondered if she was playing the tease again.
“How can we possibly be friends if you’re not nice to me?”
John slid his gaze to her lips. He was tempted to show her just how nice he could be. He was tempted to lean forward just a little and brush his mouth across hers, to taste her sweet lips and explore the promise of her seductive smile. He was tempted to raise his hands a few inches to her hips and pull her tight against him, tempted to learn just how far she’d let his hands roam before she stopped him.
He was tempted, but not insane. “Easy.” He placed his palms on her shoulders and moved her to the side. “I’m going out,” he announced, and walked past her up the stairs.
“Take me with you,” she said as she followed closely behind.
“No.” He shook his head. There wasn’t a chance that he was going to be seen with Georgeanne Howard. Not a chance in hell.
Warm water ran over Georgeanne’s chilled flesh as she slowly worked shampoo into her hair. Before she’d entered the shower fifteen minutes ago, John had asked her to keep it short because he wanted to shower before he went out for the evening. Georgeanne had other plans.
Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back to rinse the suds away and cringed to think of what the cheap shampoo was doing to the ends of her spiral perm. She thought of the Paul Mitchell packed in her suitcase in the back of Virgil’s Rolls-Royce, and she felt like crying as she ripped open a sample packet of conditioner she’d found beneath the bathroom sink. A pleasant floral scent filled the steam of the shower as her thoughts turned from shampoo and conditioner to the bigger problem at hand.
Ernie had left for the evening, and John planned to follow him. Georgeanne couldn’t very well persuade John to let her stay for a few days if he wasn’t even in the house. When he’d announced that they could be friends, she’d felt a moment of relief, only to have it dashed by his second announcement that he was going out.
Georgeanne took great care to work the conditioner into her hair before she stepped back into the stream of warm water. For a brief moment she thought about using sex to entice John into remaining home for the night, but she quickly dismissed the idea. Not so much because she found the idea morally distasteful, but because she didn’t like sex. The few times she’d allowed men to become that intimate with her, she’d felt acutely self-conscious. So self-conscious that she couldn’t enjoy herself.
By the time she emerged from the shower, the water had turned cold and she greatly feared that she smelled like manly soap. She quickly dried herself, then dressed
John laughed. Damn, he was beginning to like her. “Come on.” He motioned with his head toward the house. “You look like you’re freezing.”
“I am,” she confessed, then fell into step beside him.
They walked across the cool sand without speaking while the sounds of crashing waves and crying sea-birds filled the breeze. When they reached the weathered stairs leading to the back door of John’s house, Georgeanne took the first step, then turned to face him. “I don’t ramble,” she said, her eyes squinted against the glare of the setting sun.
John stopped and looked into her face on about the same level as his. Several corkscrew curls were beginning to dry and dance about her head. “Georgie, you ramble.” He reached for his sunglasses and slipped them down the bridge of his nose. “But if you can manage to control yourself, we’ll get along fine. I think for one night we can be”—he paused and placed the Ray-Bans on her face—“friends,” he finished for lack of a better word, although he knew it was impossible.
“I’d like that, John,” she said, and pulled her lips into a seductive smile. “But I thought you told me you weren’t a nice guy.”
“I’m not.” She was so close, her breasts almost touched his chest—almost, and he wondered if she was playing the tease again.
“How can we possibly be friends if you’re not nice to me?”
John slid his gaze to her lips. He was tempted to show her just how nice he could be. He was tempted to lean forward just a little and brush his mouth across hers, to taste her sweet lips and explore the promise of her seductive smile. He was tempted to raise his hands a few inches to her hips and pull her tight against him, tempted to learn just how far she’d let his hands roam before she stopped him.
He was tempted, but not insane. “Easy.” He placed his palms on her shoulders and moved her to the side. “I’m going out,” he announced, and walked past her up the stairs.
“Take me with you,” she said as she followed closely behind.
“No.” He shook his head. There wasn’t a chance that he was going to be seen with Georgeanne Howard. Not a chance in hell.
Warm water ran over Georgeanne’s chilled flesh as she slowly worked shampoo into her hair. Before she’d entered the shower fifteen minutes ago, John had asked her to keep it short because he wanted to shower before he went out for the evening. Georgeanne had other plans.
Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back to rinse the suds away and cringed to think of what the cheap shampoo was doing to the ends of her spiral perm. She thought of the Paul Mitchell packed in her suitcase in the back of Virgil’s Rolls-Royce, and she felt like crying as she ripped open a sample packet of conditioner she’d found beneath the bathroom sink. A pleasant floral scent filled the steam of the shower as her thoughts turned from shampoo and conditioner to the bigger problem at hand.
Ernie had left for the evening, and John planned to follow him. Georgeanne couldn’t very well persuade John to let her stay for a few days if he wasn’t even in the house. When he’d announced that they could be friends, she’d felt a moment of relief, only to have it dashed by his second announcement that he was going out.
Georgeanne took great care to work the conditioner into her hair before she stepped back into the stream of warm water. For a brief moment she thought about using sex to entice John into remaining home for the night, but she quickly dismissed the idea. Not so much because she found the idea morally distasteful, but because she didn’t like sex. The few times she’d allowed men to become that intimate with her, she’d felt acutely self-conscious. So self-conscious that she couldn’t enjoy herself.
By the time she emerged from the shower, the water had turned cold and she greatly feared that she smelled like manly soap. She quickly dried herself, then dressed
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