Mine 'Til Monday (3 page)

His first inclination that night at the wedding reception was to ask her to dance. He made it halfway across the room before he halted so abruptly that a tuxedoed waiter nearly tipped the tray of champagne flutes he was carrying.

He stopped himself because it was Dot. And that made her forever off-limits. Oh, she might not look like Dot any more, but he was sure that inside she was the same. So damn assured she was right—and most of the time, she was. So cantankerous.

And worst of all—so impervious to his charms. Chalk it up to chemistry—but for most of his life they’d set each other off like oil and water.

Her feelings for him hadn’t changed much, obviously. At dinner tonight, she’d seemed equally unimpressed with the charming and suave approach as with the hayseed/rogue thing.

And what the heck did it matter, anyway? Mud rose and stomped off toward his bedroom, tugging his shirt off as he went. He must have a few screws loose to be trying any moves at all. This was a business venture—for Dorothy, anyway. And for him, a chance to fulfill an old promise. Nothing more.

Besides, there were plenty of other women he could call.

By next Monday, he’d be done with this whole project. Might call for a celebration, even, with that gal he’d met at that party a few weeks back. The one whose number had been burning a hole in his pocket.

But now, for some reason, that phone number didn’t beckon him at all.

“Have you ever picked up a golf bag in your life?” Mud demanded.

Dorothy regarded the thing uncertainly. Examined the canvas with great interest. Avoided those blue eyes, steely now with frustration.

“I play tennis,” she said, a little defensively. “Pretty well, in fact.”

“How the heck have you gotten this far with Miranda?” he shot back. “The gal’s a golf nut. Got some of the old gents shaking in their shoes out at the club, from what I hear.”

Dorothy shrugged, shifted a step back on the close-cropped green. “We always have lunch at the tennis club,” she said.

“We talk a lot. You know. Besides, I, uh...”

Dorothy let her voice trail off. She looked down the fairway, where a foursome was making good progress toward the green. They were next. Even worse, an impatient-looking knot of men stood not far behind.

“You what?”

“I told her you’d been teaching me. For...a while.”

“Oh, man.” Dorothy snuck a glance at him. Mud wiped a hand across his brow, squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. When he opened them she read resignation there.

“Okay. Follow me.”

He turned abruptly and strode off, back toward the clubhouse. Dorothy struggled with her bag, trying to turn it on the little wheeled contraption, as he lunged further and further down the path.

“Wait!” she finally cried in desperation. “I can’t—I don’t know how—”

She could feel four sets of eyes on her as Mud stopped, then slowly, slowly turned around to face her, a hand shading his eyes from the sun.

“You need a hand, miss?” a voice drawled behind her.

“This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” Dorothy muttered under her breath, then arranged her features in the most pleasant expression she could manage as she turned.

“It’s just—I’m not familiar with this particular type of— of—” She gestured at the contraption. “Wheeled thingie” was probably not the proper name, but then again it hardly seemed substantial enough to be called a cart.

Dorothy hated to be wrong. Hated it worse than just about anything. She had been brought up to be an expert, to be tops in her field. To be the one other people came to for help, not the other way around. If Albrights didn’t know something about a subject, it was because it wasn’t worth knowing.

“Yes,” she mumbled, feeling her face flush with color. “I guess I need a little help.”

“Your, uh, friend know you’re just starting out?” one man asked, amusement sparking his query, while another adjusted the wheels for her and placed the handle in her hand.

“I suppose that he does now.”

Trying to ignore the warmth flooding her face, Dorothy murmured her thanks and then jerked much too hard, so that the cart propelled her along down the path toward Mud, who was waiting with a look of bemused resignation.

“Where are we going?” Dorothy asked, trying to match his long stride.

“Driving range.”

“Oh.”

The day was beautiful, at least, and the course gorgeous. That might be some small excuse for the game, Dorothy considered as she struggled to keep up with Mud, who seemed to be accelerating. And without a backward glance, either.

Over a ridge she found herself looking down on a row of golfers, each whacking balls far into oblivion. Mud ambled down the hill to an open spot and stopped.

“Wait here.”

Dorothy stood on the pad, feeling more foolish than she had in quite some time. Mud disappeared around a low wooden enclosure, and came out a moment later with a bucket of golf balls in each hand.

He reached her side and set down the buckets.

“Okay. Let’s get started.”

“Right,” Dorothy said, and reached for the closest club, drawing it out of the bag. It was lighter than she’d expected, and she balanced it tentatively on the ground.

“You’re going to use a putter?” Mud demanded, frowning.

“Of course not!” Quickly, Dorothy stuffed the club back into the bag. “I’m not a total idiot.”

Mud sighed heavily, a long, dramatic intake of breath as his eyes rolled heavenwards. “For a gal who’s been in the sporting goods business all these years—”

“Sportswear, not sporting goods. There’s a big difference. Besides, my company makes fibers, not the clothes themselves.”

“But if you land this job at Finesse Sportswear—”

“Obviously, I’ll have to round out my knowledge. It’s no big deal. I have mastered a few more challenging concepts than sending a teeny little ball flying through the air, you know.”

“Yeah. You’re the genius. How could I forget? Dorothy Friggin’ Child Prodigy Who-the-heck were you named after again?”

While he spoke, Mud selected another club and placed it in her hands. Dorothy took it tentatively, but before she could heft it Mud placed his hands over hers and began moving them down the shaft of the club. His fingers were strong, well-callused with hard pads on his fingers. The combination of rough and warm seized her attention and suddenly Dorothy was aware of every sensation.

“Crowfoot-Hodgkin,” she replied, swallowing as heat seemed to travel right from his hands through her own, and right on into her body. Her fingers went limp as Mud arranged them on the smooth metal. “Dorothy Crowfoot-Hodgkin—”

“Nobel prize winner, what was it, 1910? Chemistry?”

“You remembered all along,” Dorothy accused, but with little venom. Once he had shifted her thumb so it met her other fingers, Mud circled around behind her, his body inches from hers. He was so close that she could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck, and she had worked to tamp down a delicious shudder.

“Heck, you never let me forget! You were always reminding me that your parents were professors, which automatically made you smarter than me.”

“Mmm.” Dorothy feigned distraction, bending over the club in an approximation of a ready stance.

Unfortunately, the movement pressed her backside squarely against Mud’s body. Rather than back away, he extended his arms along hers, adjusting the angle of her elbows, nudging one foot slightly closer to the other with the toe of his sneaker. With his chin practically resting on her shoulder, Dorothy let her eyes flutter shut for a moment and tried to fight off the powerful notion that Mud’s teaching style felt an awful lot like a lover’s embrace.

“Hey, relax. Tension will screw up your swing like nothing else.” Mud’s rough, low words in her ear felt like hot syrup, and she fought the crazy notion to angle her head just a little until his lips were aligned with her own. “Still, I think your sister Marie got the better end of the deal.”

“Oh...?” Dorothy waggled the club slightly in an attempt to prove she was concentrating on the sport.

“Well, at least everyone’s heard of Marie Curie. Most folks probably even know she discovered—what did she discover, anyway?”

“Mmm...radium, for one thing, “ Dorothy managed weakly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

If Mud noticed, he didn’t let on. Evidently satisfied with her stance at last, he guided her through a backswing. Her body twisted in concert with his, and somehow the contact remained unbroken even as she arced the club behind her right shoulder.

“Yeah, radium,” Mud repeated, making more adjustments to her feet by wedging his knee gently between her legs. “Important stuff. Sounds important, anyway. But what the heck did old Crowfoot-Hodgkin do?”

Without warning he suddenly stepped back. Dorothy, twisted in an unnatural position, thought for a second she might plummet backwards. Not only was the club way past what seemed like a reasonable place for it to be, her limbs seemed to have lost their ability to act independently of his manipulations.

But there was no way was she going to give him the satisfaction. He’d probably run dozens of women through this routine. A fairway seduction! Dorothy would bet most of them reacted the same way she had, melting into his skillful arms.

Well, even if she was the kind of girl who went for this whole dumb jock routine, she wasn’t here for seduction. Hardly.

“Any time now,” Mud called, his voice innocent, indifferent.

Practically bored.

It was bad enough that she’d almost fallen for his smooth moves. But for him to act like he was totally unaffected by their touch—

Dorothy brought the club crashing down toward the hapless ball with all the force she could muster. It glanced off the ball, lodging into the turf instead. A clod of dirt flew a couple of feet, while the ball only rolled lazily to the left a few inches.

Dorothy whirled around, jamming a fist to her waist. She bit her lip in frustration and embarrassment. Mud, on the other hand, seemed to be trying hard to contain a smirk.

“Not that you would be able to comprehend this,” she sputtered, “but Dorothy Crowfoot-Hodgkin used x-rays to determine the structures of biologically important substances.”

“Yeah? Well, she probably couldn’t hit worth beans either.”

“That was my first shot,” Dorothy protested.

“First of many,” Mud said, placing his hands on her shoulders and spinning her around. “Back in position. We’ve got two days, and we’re going to make the most of it. This is a seven. Say it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Say ‘seven iron’,” he repeated.

“I don’t see how—”

“Who’s in charge here?” Mud closed his hand on her wrist, and his hand slid lightly down her forearm. The breeze gusted slightly, and Dorothy could feel the fine hair on the back of her neck stand up again. Deep inside something melted even as her nipples hardened in response to the breeze.

Or to Mud. Heaven help her. She yanked her arm away from his grip. “Seven iron,” she managed.

“Better. Now. Like this...”

As he guided her again through the motion of the swing, Dorothy vowed not to notice the warmth of his skin next to hers, the tantalizing brush of his denim-clad hips against her bottom.

Right. It was going to be a long morning.

“Hey, Pops, we’re nearly out of register tape.”

Mud grimaced as the door creaked slowly shut behind him, the dim cool of the shop a welcome shift from the heat he hadn’t been able to shake since the driving range.

“Hey there, Tony.” The rangy teen looked genuinely happy to see him. Wednesday afternoons usually weren’t a particularly busy time; poor kid was probably bored out of his mind. “It’s ‘Mr. Taylor’ to you,” he added in mock severity.

“Hah! That’s a good one,” Tony hooted, pushing a stack of mail across the counter to him.

“Yeah, well, ‘Pops’ makes me feel about a million years old.”

“Sounds ‘bout right. Give or take a few years.”

Mud shook his head. “Smart-ass,” he sighed. “I’ve just about given up making a dent in that thick skull of yours.”

In truth Tony had been a God-send. Mud’s permanent staff consisted of himself and Gus Weaver, who’d spent the first half-century of his career selling shoes. Gus was a good old guy, but by the time afternoon rolled around, he needed to put his feet up in the office and take a nap.

There’d been other kids who helped in the shop after school over the years. Nice kids, mostly—Mud still heard from them from time to time. But Tony was special.

“Any calls?” he asked, fishing around under the counter for the box of register tape rolls. A cloud of dust drifted up from the stores of office supplies and other junk stored haphazardly there.

“Yeah, I wrote ‘em all down. Uh, Sheila Ruiz called. She said to tell you ye-e-s.” Tony sing-songed the last word in a falsetto, then let a beat go by. “She’s pretty hot, you know, for a mature lady.”

“Out of your league, boy, at any age,” Mud growled, grinning a little despite himself. Getting a call from Sheila was a coup—but not because he hoped to date the gorgeous news anchor. “Well, make sure you put her on the list.”

“Done, boss.”

“What are we up to?”

“Lessee...” The boy deftly swiped a notebook from the murky under-counter depths and ran a finger down the page. “Sheila makes eighteen.”

“Okay,” Mud nodded. Not bad. His goal was twenty-five celebrities, twenty-five big names to auction off for the golf tournament. People would pay all kinds of cash to go a round with the likes of Sheila, and it went to a great cause: with luck the town would soon have enough money to start work on the Vietnam War Memorial. It had been Mud’s dream for years, and now it seemed as though it might finally be realized.

“What’s this,” Mud demanded, noting the gaming magazine the boy had folded up beside the register. “Are you done with your homework?”

He could sense more than see the boy stiffen up. Tension arced between them.

“Who are you, my father?”

For a moment the lightness of the banter evaporated, and a dark cloud passed over Tony’s face. Mud knew that look well, had seen it on so many of the kids he’d recruited from the troubled high school on the west side of town.