She Drives Me Crazy (20 page)

It felt good to be bad. Good to be shocking. Good to have a guy like Johnny Walker—or some of the other men she saw every day who now stared at her like she was a complete stranger—give her appreciative looks. God, it'd been a long time since she'd felt like this.

Attractive. Desirable. Sexy.

Too bad not one of the guys making her feel that way was the one she was in love with.

Standing near the bar in the crowded banquet room where the reunion was underway, she nursed a glass of wine. Three guys she'd graduated with had come up to chat. All three of them probably had walked past her a dozen times on the street in the past year and had never given her the time of day.

Men. Bizarre how they went to pieces over women's breasts. All except her husband. She had the feeling he viewed them as pure milk-producing udders. Maybe she'd greet him with a "moo" if he showed up.

Watching over Emma's shoulder, Claire paid close attention to the door. Each new arrival made her tense a little, though she knew he might not come at all. This wasn't his reunion. He hadn't moved to Joyful until after Claire had graduated high school. Considering how mad he probably was at her for leaving, she suspected he might stay away.

She still couldn't believe she'd packed up and walked out yesterday. Wow. He'd been surprised. Stunned. Nice wifies didn't do such things.

Claire wasn't a fool. She'd been fully prepared for Tim to be upset about her going back to work. She'd been holding her breath all week, waiting for Eve to say something to her daddy about going to day care. But for some reason, her daughter hadn't. In fact, she'd been awfully quiet about it the two times she'd gone. Claire very much feared her daughter was learning a hard lesson: she really
wasn't
the center of the universe.

Eve's silence had stretched things out, until Claire was going crazy. That was why she'd asked Tim to come home from work early Friday, while Eve was at Claire's mother's. They needed to talk things out.

She'd talked. He'd listened. At the end of her explanation, when she'd waited for him to ask reasonable questions or voice reasonable concerns, he'd done the unthinkable. He'd practically accused her of not loving their daughter, or him. Then he'd stalked out, slamming the front door so hard their wedding picture had fallen off the wall in the living room.

It had seemed like an omen.

So she'd gone to her room, packed a bag, grabbed some of Eve's things and left. She could have gone to her mother's, but she'd gone to Emma instead. Emma, who'd faced the worst this town had to offer and had still come back here with her head up high. In spite of the rumors.

The rumors
... She'd really meant to tip Emma off about them, since someone was sure to say something odd tonight. Then again, it wasn't the easiest topic to bring up. Hopefully it'd died a natural death, anyway, and Claire could fill her in on it late tonight when they gorged on ice cream after the reunion.

"So did your mom say whether Tim has called again?" Emma asked.

"No, not since the first time."

Her mother said he'd called last night to make sure she was okay, but he hadn't come looking for her. Hadn't gone all Brando on her and stood in the middle of the street screaming her name. Not that "Claa-aire" would have sounded quite as good as "Stel-la." But it would have been nice to think he cared when she was coming home. At the very least she'd expected him to call to ask how to operate the stinkin' microwave.

So maybe he won't show up tonight
. Maybe he didn't miss her at all. Maybe he'd already decided he was better off. Maybe he
did
know how to heat up a frozen dinner. Maybe…

Oh boy…no maybe. She saw him walking through the door of the room, recognizing his sandy-blond head anywhere.

"He's here," she hissed.

Emma didn't even flinch, she just continued to sip her martini, cool as could be. "Oh? Be sure to give me a proper introduction, if you start speaking to him again."

Claire continued to watch her husband as he nodded some hellos, and scanned the crowd. His eyes moved right past her not once but three times. "He doesn't even recognize me, the jerk."

Then he did. Tim's hazel eyes widened and he stopped talking to Joe Brown, their neighbor. Joe followed Tim's stare, did a double-take of his own, then gave Claire an obvious wink.

When Joe nudged Tim to approach his wife, Claire had had enough. "He has to be pushed over here to talk to me," she whispered. "Boy I wish I had somebody to drag onto the dance floor."

She gave a frantic look around, saw no male bodies close enough to do any good, and almost groaned. Tim was within ten feet now.

Finally, stiffening her jaw, she grabbed Emma's drink out of her hand. "Come on."

Emma snickered. "We're not going to do the pathetic two girls dancing together thing, are we? I mean, we used to make fun of girls who did that in high school."

Claire didn't care. She strong-armed her friend out to the middle of the small parquet dance floor, where a deejay stood alone, sorting through CD's and looking completely bored.

She supposed she and Emma made quite a picture, two snazzily dressed women alone on the dance floor, doing their white-girls-can't-dance moves to Hootie and the Blowfish while the rest of their former classmates looked on.

"Can I cut in?"

She'd braced herself for Tim. Not Johnny. Yet that's who stood there, giving Claire a look of understanding and sympathy, before shifting his gaze to Emma.

When she saw who stood behind Johnny, she understood why.

"Hello, Tim."

He didn't say a word, merely stared at her. She stopped dancing, hardly noticing as Johnny led Emma away. Her friend gave her a reassuring glance over her shoulder before she left.

"You look amazing," Tim finally said, his voice sounding shaky.

'Thank you."

She ran her hand across her chest, as if smoothing her dress. He didn't need the prompting to focus on the low neckline; he'd been less than discreet about staring her up and down.

Finally he frowned. "Don't you think you need to put on a sweater or something?"

"I'm not cold."

He looked so darned uncomfortable, so uncertain, and unhappy. Claire's heart clenched a little. Then she reminded herself of what was at stake. Her future. Her happiness. Her marriage. Everything. If she couldn't make him see that they needed to work together to find a solution to satisfy them
both
, they were doomed to fail.

Claire had come out of her box. She didn't think a crowbar and a chisel were going to be able to shut her back in. Tim had to make her believe he could still love the girl he'd married. Not the one he and motherhood and life had made her become.

"Want to dance?" she asked when the song changed to something slow and mellow.

Giving her a relieved nod, he tugged her into his arms, pressing his cheek into her hair. "God, you feel so good."

He couldn't have feigned the emotion in his voice. And Claire began to feel hope bubbling up inside her.

"Almost as good as the hug and butterfly kisses I got from Eve when I stopped by your mama's house to see her on my way here tonight."

And just like that, the hope bubbles popped.

Emma didn't know exactly when she became aware of the strange whispers and looks. But within a couple of hours of her arrival, she began to feel like she was missing something. Like a big joke had been told and she was the only one who hadn't gotten the punch line.

The evening had been going okay. She'd recognized several faces, and engaged some former friends in conversation. Still, people hadn't reacted as she'd expected. Nobody shrieked and hugged her. Nobody chatted a mile a minute, asking her where she'd been and if she was married or why she'd come back.

This was Joyful, so she knew better than to expect any former football stars to come back as women. The crowd seemed pretty much the standard. Geeks who were now computer programmers. Beefy jocks turned truck drivers who liked to relive their glory years. Lots of high school sweethearts who'd gotten married, bought a tract house, had a kid or two—or six—and never dreamed about leaving town. She could have predicted it.

But she'd expected at least
a few
people to seem genuinely happy to see her again. So far, they weren't.

It's Johnny
. She cursed the luck that had brought him here tonight. Because with the two of them both present, there was absolutely no chance of anyone forgetting about prom night.

She almost told them all to get a life. Really, what was the big hairy deal about two teenagers doing what millions of other teenagers did on prom night? It was only because he'd been the brother of her boyfriend that her situation was the least bit unique. And it still didn't seem nearly important enough to warrant the arched brows and the strange looks she'd gotten tonight. Two blondes whose names she couldn't remember had made some weird comment about how "demure" her dress was, then giggled as they walked away. And then there were the obnoxious pickup lines a couple of former classmates had used on her.

It seemed to go deeper than teasing or suggestive comments. She'd expected those, since a bunch of them had glimpsed her naked in the gazebo that night. But she'd anticipated flirtatious, not salacious. Two guys, Jason Michaels and Kevin O'Leary, whom she remembered from her Algebra II class, had actually made her a little uncomfortable when they'd cornered her coming out of the ladies' room.

The sheepish looks on Fred Willis's face whenever she'd met his eye made things even worse. Sharing an evening with a guy who'd locked her up twice in the past week wasn't her idea of fun.

Something else was bothering her. Johnny. He hadn't been cold, hadn't even been unfriendly. He'd been…distant. Like they were just two old high school friends who'd run into one another at this reunion. As if he hadn't been naked and panting and groaning with her the day before.

She was half-tempted to go to the ladies' room, take her panties off, then come back and hand them to him. That would get a rise out of the man, figuratively speaking. Although, literally might have been nice, too.

Might
? Who was she kidding?

If he was anyone else, she would have fumed and written off his aloofness with a disgusted "men" grunt. But she knew Johnny too well. Their out-of-control sexual encounter yesterday had meant something to
both
of them, not only to her. She'd bet her last dollar—which she was pretty close to reaching—on it.

It's for the best.

She kept telling herself that. Whatever the reason, it was just as well they'd cooled things off…no matter how much it hurt to constantly look around the room and see him chatting easily with one woman or another.

Unfortunately, her mental pep talks weren't working. The only things that helped were the martinis.

She didn't think Claire was having a very good time either, in spite of her brief dance with her husband. Something he'd said had set Claire off, and she'd pulled out of his arms, stalking out of the banquet room. Claire and Tim hadn't exchanged a private word since, though he'd hovered nearby for the past hour. Which was darned uncomfortable, since he'd been giving Emma hard looks all evening. Tim apparently hadn't forgiven her for the arrest incident.

"So, Emma," said a girl Emma had known from gym class, who was sitting across from her. "Seen any good
movies
lately?"

The guy sitting next to her—her high school boyfriend now chubby-faced husband—snorted a laugh. So did his former football buddy who sat with them.

Emma shrugged, surprised by the question, but glad someone other than Claire had tried to engage her in conversation. "No, not really. I don't have much time for movies."

The woman raised a brow. "Really? How…strange."

Beside her, she heard Claire make a funny noise. She glanced at her friend, who was actually trying to cut into the rubbery chicken and overcooked broccoli they'd been served for dinner. For some reason, Claire frowned across the table.

But that didn't deter the woman who, Emma remembered, was named Melanie. "You must find Joyful pretty slow compared to the life you've been living."

A normal sentence. But there was something hard in it that got Emma's hackles up. Once again, she had a feeling of not being in on the joke. It was starting to tick her off. But before she could reply, she felt someone's hands drop to her bare shoulders.

She didn't have to turn around to recognize the touch. Her entire body tingled, not just from the warmth of his fingers on her skin, but from the spicy scent of his cologne, and the brush of his jacket against her back. It was all she could do not to close her eyes, sigh and lean back into him.

Johnny.

"Dance with me, Em," Johnny said, not asking but ordering.

Emma pushed her plate away, and rose from her seat, glad to get away from these giggling people. Every set of eyes at the standard eight-person round banquet table was glued to her. Claire's were the only ones that looked the slightest bit warm. The others were all anticipatory.

"Thank you," she murmured as he took her arm and led her to the dance floor, where a few couples were gyrating. But once they got there, she found she wasn't much in the mood for dancing. The floor was the tiniest bit spinny.

Three martinis. No food. Not good.

"I don't feel much like dancing right now," she admitted. "Will you take a rain check? I think I'll go outside for some fresh air."

"Come on," he said, not giving her a chance to argue. He slipped his arm around her waist and led her out of the banquet room, and down a short corridor. They stepped outside, into the night, and found themselves beside the dark swimming pool.

Emma sucked in a few deep breaths, grateful for the chance to clear her head. "Thank you," she said. "I didn't realize how much I needed to be rescued from that crowd."

Though he said nothing, she felt his entire body grow stiff against hers. But she couldn't, for the life of her, think why.

"Your speech was nice," she offered, trying to keep things normal and cordial when what she really wanted to do was throw her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist and beg him to take her again.

"Thanks." He stepped away, closer to the pool, glancing into its blue depths.

Emma didn't follow. Her heels were high and wobbly. And her head was still a bit dizzy. With her luck…and her weak ankles… she'd likely trip and fall right into the water.

"You all right?" he asked, his voice low and noncommittal.

"Nope. Pretty rotten."

"I can tell. Not having a great evening?"

She shook her head. "High school reunions really are torturous. Whoever made up the reality show had the right idea. Because of all the people in the world I would
not
want to get stuck in a big house with, it's that crew."

He grinned. 'They're not
all
bad."

"Oh, no, they've all been so friendly and cordial. Why, I swear, if Daneen smiled at me one more time, I was just gonna faint from all the sweetness in the room."

He rolled his eyes at her sarcasm. Then he crossed his arms and stared at her. "Tell me about your job."

She had the feeling he wasn't referring to the nonexistent one here in Joyful. But, rather, the nonexistent one in New York. "I don't have one." She'd been going for flip, but, even to her own ears, her voice had sounded a little tense.

"Why not?"

Ooh, there was an interesting story. But not one she could tell after having had a few martinis. At least not tell and still maintain the illusion that she was something of a lady. Because in this slightly inebriated condition, her language was apt to approach sailor level.

Then again, she
would
be talking to the man who'd seen her playing with herself in front of an air conditioner twenty-four hours ago. So she didn't suppose she could shock him much.

"Short version, the company filed for chapter eleven after one of its executives and one of its accountants—who, by the way, was my best friend at the time—made off with several million dollars of our clients' assets." She shook her head in disgust. "Not to mention the contents of the mutual fund accounts of several employees. Including mine."

He whistled. "Nobody ever suspected?"

"Not until it was too late."

"Guess your friend won't be on your Christmas card list this year."

"More like my personal hit list."

"I don't think I'd want to hear who else is on that one," he said with a visible wince.

"Don't worry, you lost your original slot a while back. The guy at the FDA who insisted the sponge had to be taken off the market knocked you out of first place years ago."

Johnny chuckled. "Remind me to add him to
my
Christmas card list."

"Why? Because it knocked you out of first place? Or because you think that stopped me from having sex?"

"Did it?" he shot back, suddenly looking less playful. He stepped closer, reaching up to toy with the thin strap of her dress. His fingertips sizzled on her skin and Emma had to think for a moment to remind herself to breathe.

"Well?" he asked, his voice husky. Low. Sweet and sexy and as intoxicating as a hot summer night.

If she'd been a little drunker, she would have thrown caution out the window and kissed him like he'd never been kissed before.

If she'd been more sober, she would have tormented him as repayment for his aloofness all evening.

But she was neither. "Actually, I was kidding. The sponge thing was a little before my time." Then, just to goad him a bit, she added, "It was taken off the market in 1995. Which was, if you recall, the year you and I went to the prom."

His eyes narrowed, glittering in the semidarkness, and he stepped even closer, until his breath touched her cheek and his trousers brushed against her bare legs. "We back to talking about the prom, Emma Jean? You ready to hash that out?"

"Uh-uh. I don't want to fight with you tonight. I'm finally feeling relaxed and actually enjoying myself."

"Chicken."

But he respected her wishes, because he stepped back, far enough so she could breathe without inhaling his cologne and so her heart could try, at least, to return to its normal rhythm.

Then he tilted his head in concentration. "I think I read about your company. Or saw it on CNN or something."

"I'm sure you did."

"I guess I know now why you came to Joyful."

She nodded.

"You lost everything?"

Another nod.

"Damn, Emma, I'm so sorry."

Wow. This was the first time anyone had said that to her since the whole thing began. Even her attorney, who'd been awfully nice and supportive, had never tried to empathize and let her know how sorry he was about what had happened.

Only Johnny.

"Thanks. I'll be okay. It just might take a while for me to get another job in my field."

"Your field being?"

"Anything related to being trusted with other people's money," she said with a dry laugh.

"I'd invest with you. It I had a job which actually paid enough for me to live beyond paycheck to paycheck."

She saw the teasing sparkle in his eye, but knew he probably wasn't exaggerating by much. "So, we're both sad sacks when it comes to our employment." She looked away, gazing at the water, wanting to suck up some of its tranquility and smoothness. Because beneath her surface, Emma felt the emotion building and building.

She was alone, outside, laughing quietly and enjoying a conversation with someone she wanted to jump on.

Get a grip. The class of '95 does not need to see you naked again!

Before she could think of what to do—whether to jump or retreat, keep talking lightly or beg him to tell her why he'd withdrawn the night before, she noticed someone approaching from the other side of the pool. She hadn't even realized they weren't alone outside until the old man made his way closer.

"Oh, no," Johnny mumbled.

"I thought that was you," the man said. He actually clapped his hands together, looking inordinately pleased. "Who'da thunk it? I been lookin' for you all week, little lady, and here I stumble on ya thirty miles from town just when I'm cursin' about havin''t' come to this family reunion."

Now Emma remembered. He was the old man who'd been in the grocery store the day she'd arrived. The dirty old man. Who was now leering at her dress and giving Johnny a very obvious thumbs-up.

She cleared her throat. "We're here for the same reason. A reunion. Joyful High class of '95."

He didn't appear convinced. Instead, he leaned closer to whisper, "Sure, sweetie. Tell me true, are you the entertainment for the bachelor party goin' on in the bar?"

Johnny stepped closer, putting his arm around Emma. "You're way off base, Mr. Terry."

The man reached into his pocket and fiddled around. Emma wondered what he was up to, then had the sick feeling she knew. She instantly pulled her gaze away, staring up at Johnny, wondering if the nasty old thing was doing what it
looked
like he was doing. When he finally made a triumphant "aha" sound and pulled a pen from his trouser pocket, she breathed a quick sigh of relief.

It was short-lived.

"Here we go. Now, I want an autograph."

Autograph?

"That's enough, Mr. Terry," Johnny said, smoothly stepping between them and taking the old man by the arm. "You need to go inside now." Then he lowered his voice and looked around as if to avoid being overheard. "I think I saw Joe Bob Melton in there and he looked to be talking to Mrs. Kerrigan."

The old man dropped the pen and stuck his chin out. Then he made a raspy back-of-the-throat kind of sound. God, Emma hoped he wasn't about to hawk a spitball right out here by the pool. If so, she pitied tomorrow's swimmers.

"What's he doin' here? He's not a relation. And he knows I got my eye on her," the old man said, completely distracted, as Johnny had obviously intended. And without another word, he beelined for the door and disappeared inside the hotel.

Once he was gone, Johnny tried to shrug it off with a laugh. "Crazy old guy. He and Joe Bob have been competing for women since the forties when they both fell for some French singer during the war."

Emma wasn't distracted. Crossing her arms, she tilted her head back and met Johnny's stare to convince him she meant business. "Okay, what am I missing? Tonight he asks for an autograph. The day I hit town, he said something about a star." She ticked off point after point on her fingers, her voice growing in volume and in heat as everything came together. "Two guys almost brawled in the street over me." That one made his jaw go tight. But she rushed right on. "Every person at this reunion is acting so strange you'd think I'm an ex-con."

She stepped closer, and he took a step back. She followed, crowding him until their bodies nearly touched and he had nowhere else to go but backward into the pool. Then he finally stopped.

Emma ignored the sparks shooting through her from the tips of her breasts, which touched his chest—to the tips of her toes, which touched his shoes. "Give it to me straight. I want to know what is going on here. I know you know, so don't try to pretend otherwise. What exactly has the town of Joyful been saying about me?"

She held her breath, wondering if he'd laugh her suspicions off, if he'd walk away, if he'd leap in the pool.

He did none of the above. Instead, he did something even more shocking.

Johnny Walker told her the truth.

Daneen would have been having a grand old time tonight catching up with old friends and reliving the glory days of her teen years if not for two things: Emma Jean Frasier was here, and Johnny Walker was with her.

They'd disappeared outside a little while ago, and though Daneen had put her head together with friends to keep talking over the outrageous Emma-as-porn-star rumors, she watched every step they took out of the room.

They look good together.

She hated to admit it, but it was true. She hadn't seen her ex-brother-in-law looking so interested and protective of a woman in, oh, forever. Wherever Emma Jean had gone all evening, Johnny's stare had followed. He'd tossed back a few drinks, though he wasn't a drinker. He'd talked with people she knew he loathed. And he'd grown more and more tense as the evening wore on.

Because he was in love with Emma Jean. Any fool could see it, and Daneen Brady Walker was no fool.

"He loves her," she muttered as she sipped her beer, wondering why that left such a strange, achy feeling inside her.

It wasn't that she wanted Johnny for herself. She didn't. Well, she wanted to have sex with him, at least once before she died. He was at the top of the "want to have sex with before I die" lists of a
lot
of women in Joyful. Him and Brad Pitt.

But she didn't love Johnny, didn't want him as a husband or anything. For better or for worse, she'd lost her heart to Jimbo Boyd years ago and it wasn't big enough to love another man.

There was, however, still enough resentment inside her to not want Emma Jean to have him.

It was silly. She didn't resent Emma being involved with Johnny, it was her involvement with
Nick
that still rankled.

Nick. Her all-too-brief, all-too-absent husband. He was her first love, the one she'd thought would last forever. At least until he'd walked out on her during her eighth month of pregnancy. He'd enlisted in the Marines, preferring to go get his ass shot up in Bosnia—to play
hero
—than staying in their crappy little one-room efficiency apartment in Savannah with her.

On dark nights, when she was alone with Jack sleeping in his room right down the hall, she wondered how different things might have been if Jack really had been Nick's son. She could have made him love her, she
knew
she could.