Bed of Lies (17 page)

Chapter 16

C. J.

C. J. read the text on her phone screen and couldn't resist breaking into a grin. She surreptitiously looked around her, glancing at the other reporters in the press box at the county commissioner's meeting. She quickly typed Terrence a message.

Her cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. She pressed Send and dropped her cell phone back into her satchel before returning her attention to the meeting in progress, but she could no longer concentrate on what any of the commissioners were saying. It was just an endless string of nonsensical syllables from that point onward. C. J.'s thoughts kept drifting back to Terrence and the date they were going to have that night. He was taking her out to dinner to one of the nicest restaurants in Chesterton—Le Bayou Bleu. They had gone on a few dates already and each date had been better than the last.

C. J. hadn't realized how many wrong assumptions she had made about Terrence Murdoch. She had thought he was a self-involved, rich pretty boy who had as much depth as a puddle on the side of the road. But that wasn't true at all. He was gorgeous, of course, and charming, and an amazing kisser, but he was also funny, witty, and complex. He still seemed to be struggling with his recovery from the car accident, battling the physical damage as well as the psychological aftermath. He was a man at odds with his new identity as a “disabled person,” and it made him insecure and occasionally in need of reassurance that he was still a man, that he was still worthy. How could that not tug at her heartstrings? How could she not like him? In truth, she was starting to suspect she more than liked him. She was starting to suspect she was falling in love.

“Meeting adjourned,” the board president said.

As soon as she heard the bang of the ceremonial gavel, C. J. leapt out of her seat and bolted from the press box. She almost ran out of the building and to her car. She wanted to head straight to Main Street in Chesterton to one of the local dress shops. She had raided her closet yesterday in search of something nice to wear that evening, but she hadn't managed to find anything. This would be the first time she had gone shopping for a new outfit in months.

Her phone buzzed again as she walked across the parking lot to her Honda Civic. She eagerly dug into her satchel to retrieve it, wondering if it was another message from Terrence. Unfortunately, it wasn't.

C. J. rolled her eyes the instant she read the text. It was from her brother, Victor. Of course he was checking in on her, just like he had in the old days, to make sure she stayed in line, that she remained the perfect little preacher's daughter.
Hypocrite
, she thought angrily.

Got it
, she typed back before opening her car door.

Her reply was succinct, but no more needed to be said. She hated being dragged back into her family drama, but she didn't want everyone in town—especially the guys at the paper—to know about her past. They already called her “African queen” and “Your Royal Highness.” She could only imagine what they would say if they found out she was actually the daughter of the esteemed Reverend Pete Aston. She wouldn't hear the end of it! So she'd play along with Victor and her father's wishes for now. She'd answer the reporters' questions to appease her folks. She would just refuse to do video interviews—that was the deal she'd made with Victor.

A half hour later C. J. stepped through the door of a high-end boutique in town, the type of store that she usually avoided. Her mother had loved shops like this, dragging her to them constantly when she was a teenager.

“A young woman should always look her best and ladylike, Courtney,” her mother would admonish. “As God intended.”

Well, she had no plans to look “ladylike” tonight, but she certainly wanted to look her best. She knew the type of woman that Terrence was used to dating and though she had no hope of competing with those model types, she planned to come as close as she could.

C. J. instantly zeroed in on a rack of dresses with simple but flattering designs.

“Hi, can I help you?” someone said behind her.

C. J. turned to find a beautiful woman standing near an adjacent rack. Her dark hair was upswept. She had on a white tank top that showed off her perfect cleavage and a short skirt in a vibrant print that displayed her long, tanned legs. She smiled at C. J. She looked like one of the women Terrence usually dated. She looked like she'd just stepped out of a fashion magazine.

“Looking for something in particular?” the salesgirl asked perkily.

“Uh, n-no. I mean . . . yes.” C. J. laughed, feeling anxious all of a sudden. “I just . . . I just wanted to buy a dress.”

The salesgirl tilted her head. “Is it for a special occasion?”

“Sort of. I . . . I have a date tonight and—”

“A date! Oh, then we have to find you something really, really nice.” The salesgirl strode across the boutique, her high heels clicking on the gleaming cement floor. She passed the sales counter and a display table of hats and scarves before sauntering to another rack filled with sexy, alluring dresses that C. J. would never wear. “What are you? A size eight?” she shouted over her shoulder.

C. J. nodded. “Uh, yes I am. But . . .”
I really don't need any help
, she wanted to say.

“Oh, I have the
perfect
dress for you! Just perfect!” The salesgirl yanked a dress off the rack, then paused. “Wait. Is this a first date?”

C. J. shook her head. “No, it's the fourth, actually.”

The salesgirl's blue eyes widened.
“The fourth!
Oh, sweetie! This won't do. Not for a fourth date!” She put the dress back on the rack and grabbed another one. “This one is better.” She held it up in front of herself. It was a short, bronze bandage dress that looked like it would barely cover C. J.'s top and bottom. “I hope you have some sexy underwear to pair with it. If not, we have bras and thongs in the back.”

Why was what underwear she wore important? C. J.'s only rule was that as long as her underwear matched, it was fine. And sometimes she even bent
that
rule!

“I'm not wearing any special underwear. It's not like I plan on anyone seeing it,” she joked.

“But it's the
fourth date
,” the salesgirl repeated, looking dire. “You know what that means!”

“Umm, no. What . . . what does it mean?”

“Well”—the salesgirl walked toward her and dropped her voice to a whisper—“if you guys haven't had sex already, that's usually when a man makes his move. I don't know. It's like a rule nowadays.”

C. J.'s mouth fell open. “That's not true, is it?”

The salesgirl shrugged. “It's been true for every guy
I've
dated.” She shoved the bronze dress at her again. “Go to the dressing room and try it on. I bet you'll look like a knockout!”

C. J. stared dumbly at the dress. It practically screamed, “
You can have me any way you want, boy!
” She couldn't wear that. She couldn't give Terrence the wrong impression about her. She wasn't ready to have sex with him. Not yet! “You'll have to do it at some point,” the voice in her head countered. “You've been a virgin for way too long.”

C. J. cursed her conservative background and her hypocritical father's constant lectures about “keeping yourself pure for your future husband.” She even used to wear a sterling silver chastity ring. The ring was long gone, but thanks to all her father's brainwashing, she was now a twenty-six-year-old virgin who was paralyzed with fear at the idea of sex. She had successfully managed to avoid it for years, dodging men's advances, never letting any of them get too close—but would she be able to do it tonight? She gnawed at her bottom lip, wondering what she was going to do.

C. J. stood on the welcome mat in front of Terrence's condo and fought the urge to nervously wring her hands. She glanced down at her low-cut sundress with its delicate spaghetti straps and the flowers around the hem—the same dress she had nearly talked herself out of buying because she had thought it was too sexy and just plain not “her,” but the salesgirl had talked her into it. She raised her hand to ring the doorbell.

It's just a date, C. J.
, she told herself for the umpteenth time.
It's just a date, like the others we've already had.

“No, it's the
fourth
date,” a voice countered in her head. “Remember what the salesgirl said?”

It meant sex. It meant sweaty, athletic, swinging-from-the-rafters sex—knowing Terrence and the many women he had probably bedded over the years. There was no way C. J. was ready for that.

C. J.'s finger hovered over the doorbell, inches away from the silver button.

But maybe he doesn't want sex yet
, she told herself desperately.
Maybe the salesgirl doesn't know what the hell she's talking about! Terrence has just had a car accident. He needs more time to heal. Maybe he's willing to wait longer.

“Are you kidding?” The voice in her head laughed. “His leg, arm, and eye may have been hurt in the accident, baby girl, but I bet one appendage is working just fine! And he probably can't wait to use it . . . if he hasn't already.”

She grimaced. If Terrence was dating other women—more experienced women—then she didn't stand a chance. She felt inferior enough with her average looks and lack of allure. She was painfully aware that she wasn't one of the glamazons he usually dated. How the hell could she also compete with women who knew more positions than the Kama Sutra, who were the embodiment of every man's sexual fantasy, when she was still a virgin?

I'm so in over my head with this
, she thought, her shoulders slumping with glumness.
What the hell am I doing?

Maybe it was better to just beg off, to gracefully walk away from her budding relationship with Terrence. They had lots of fun and of course she found him attractive, but it was so obvious that they weren't compatible. She was C. J. Aston, the disowned preacher's daughter who put on the bravado of being worldly but who was really still as innocent as a babe in the woods. And he was Terrence Murdoch, a rich playboy who could probably have just about any woman he wanted. So why on God's green earth did he want
her?

She lowered her hand from the doorbell and let it rest at her side.

She hated these feelings of self-doubt. She had worked so hard to become more confident, to stop questioning herself. But it had only taken a few dates with this man to make her insecure.

C. J. took a step back from the door, contemplating making an excuse for not seeing him tonight. Just as she was about to turn on her heel, Terrence's front door opened. He stood in the doorway in black slacks and a simple white, button-down shirt. He couldn't have been more handsome.

“Hey,” he said with a charming smile, and all her doubts instantly disappeared. “Where are you going?”

“Uh, no-nowhere! I was just about to knock,” she lied, then began fiddling with her hair. When she realized she was twirling a curly lock around her finger like some dippy schoolgirl, she dropped her hands to her sides.

“Well, you're right on time.” He stepped forward, looped an arm around her waist, and drew her close to him, making her breathe in sharply. “You look amazing, by the way.”

“Thanks. You look nice t—”

Her words halted in her throat when he leaned down and kissed her. She melted, going mushier than a marshmallow on an open flame.

The feel of Terrence's full lips against hers, the tickle of his goatee against her chin, the sensation of his tongue in her mouth, and his warm, manly smell all joined to overwhelm her senses. She couldn't think straight. She looped her arms around his neck and pressed against his chest to steady herself. She heard his cane clatter to the floor as he wrapped his other arm around her. They fell back against the doorjamb and continued to kiss, almost panting with eagerness. C. J.'s heart was racing. A fire caught inside her and she could feel herself growing hotter and hotter. She could barely breathe. She had to come up for air. She abruptly wrenched her lips from his.

“So . . . uh . . . so, are we still heading to Le Bayou Bleu?” she asked.

Terrence slowly opened the eye that wasn't covered by his eye patch. “Huh?”