“Leaving your car to burn up?” He shook his head in wonder. Women never failed to surprise him. An idea occurred. “You’re sure it was smoke?”
She frowned. “It looked like smoke.”
“Did it smell like smoke?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Scorched metal, burning oil?”
She shook her head. “If it wasn’t smoke, what do you think happened?” She gazed up at him like she actually thought he might have the answer.
This was a first, and Woody got off on it. He hoped he wouldn’t bomb out. “Any funny noises when you were driving?”
“Not today. Yesterday it sounded odd; then it was okay again.”
“Odd?”
“Kind of a clacking, whirling sound?” Her face scrunched up as she tried to remember.
“Where was the noise coming from?”
“How do you mean?”
He could do a lot of eye-rolling around this woman. But then, she probably felt the same way about him. “Under the hood?”
“I guess.”
“Any funny lights on the dash?”
“I didn’t look. I mean, I don’t know what lights there are supposed to be. All I look at is the fuel gauge. And yes, it does work.”
“Let’s check her out.” His best guess was a broken fan belt.
Georgia led him over to an older model Toyota sedan the same navy as her suit.
No signs of fire. He grinned to himself. Honestly. Couldn’t she tell steam from smoke? He hoped she did better in the kitchen. Speaking of which, he was starving.
He took the keys she handed him, unlocked the driver’s door, and popped the hood. One glance was enough, but he reached a couple of fingers in and jiggled things around, checked out the radiator. Piece of cake. He eased the hood down, wiped his fingers on his jeans, and turned to her.
“Well?” she asked.
“I’m hungry.”
“What?” she almost yelled.
“Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she admitted, “but what about my car?”
“Need to pick up a fan belt for this baby.”
“Fan belt?”
“Yeah, it’s the belt that …” Nah, what was the point? “Damn, Georgia, I’m hungry. I can fix your car, but I need some fuel in my tummy first.”
“You can fix it? Honestly?” Her amber eyes were wide and dazzly in the sunshine.
Yeah, intoxicating was the right word. He smiled at her. “Yeah, sunshine. Would I lie to a pretty lady?”
Her eyes narrowed and her mouth went all tight and prissy.
What the hell was wrong with her? It wasn’t like he’d mentioned sex.
Georgia rubbed the back of her neck. Her headache had been coming and going, and Woody’s insincere flattery didn’t help. No, he was definitely not the charming Comte de Vergennes.
He was right about food, though. It was well past noon, and her headaches got worse when she didn’t eat. “I suppose your idea of a lunch spot is McDonald’s?”
He gave an exaggerated shudder. “I got more respect for my body. There’s an Italian place nearby, Campagnolo, that makes good pasta and pizza.”
She hoped his taste in restaurants had more in common with his taste in cars than in clothing.
They returned to his Porsche. “Please don’t drive too fast.” He
had terrified her earlier. Since the accident and Anthony’s death, she never felt truly comfortable in a car.
Campagnolo was in an area of town she wouldn’t have ventured into alone at night, but it was almost full and the patrons were fairly upscale, mostly in their twenties and thirties. Some wore business suits; others looked more like artists, of the successful rather than starving variety; a few might have been students. Woody was among the most casually dressed.
Georgia settled herself in a minimalist chair that looked like it had come from a hospital waiting room, and found it surprisingly comfortable. Eyeing the décor, she said, “Industrial chic. It reminds me of the Chan Centre.”
“Huh?”
“The Chan Centre for the Performing Arts at UBC. It doesn’t have ice on the floor, so you’ve probably never been there.”
He chuckled, and that made her smile a little. “It has the same concrete walls and light wood,” she told him. “It’s supposed to be great architecture, but it reminds me of a parking garage.”
“Probably not what they were going for.”
She was beginning to relax. “I know stark décor is trendy, but I like something softer.”
“Wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“No? Why not?”
He gestured toward her. “Dark tailored suits, white shirts, hair all yanked back. You dress kind of like this place.”
It was a surprisingly perceptive comment. She did choose an image that was on the stark side, rejecting her mom’s notion that a woman should dress to attract men.
Woody’s eyes gleamed. “Of course, underneath it all, you’re curvy, warm, passionate.”
Ooh! How dare he use a line like that on her when yesterday
he’d said the sex was crappy? “Don’t say that,” she said stiffly, cheeks burning. “We agreed yesterday was a mistake and we’d put it behind us.”
The gleam died. “Yeah. Sorry.” He turned away and flashed a smile at a waitress, who hurried over.
“Like a drink?” she asked brightly. “And are you ready to order?”
“I’m starving,” he said. “D’you still have that pizza with salmon and spinach?”
“Sure do.”
Georgia opened her menu. Small, but enticing. She’d have lingered over it, but the complex aroma of garlic, herbs, and everything else that was cooking made her stomach growl. Besides, it was annoying listening to Woody banter with the waitress.
“I’ll have the risotto with calamari and fennel,” Georgia said when she could get a word in edgewise.
Woody chose the pizza and a salad.
“And to drink?” the waitress asked. “A bottle of wine? Beer?”
“Diet Coke for me,” Georgia said firmly.
“Just water.” Woody gave the waitress another smile.
Somehow, the girl managed to tear herself away and head for the kitchen.
“I would have taken you for a beer man,” Georgia said.
Was that a shudder? “Yeah, that’s what I drink when I’m drinking, but I don’t usually have alcohol during the day. It’s not a good habit to get into, even during the off-season.”
“I agree. But at some point we’ll have to educate you about wine.”
“How come?”
This was going to be an uphill battle. “Woody, it’s better to say ‘why’ rather than ‘how come.’ ”
“Oh. Uh, why?”
“Well, beer is—”
He interrupted. “No, I mean why is it better to say ‘why’?”
“It sounds more polished.”
“Polished. Shit.”
She wasn’t sure whether to grin or groan. “You’re supposed to be avoiding expletives.”
“Huh?”
“Swearwords,” she said, before noticing the twinkle in his eye that said he was having her on. “Let’s try to enrich your vocabulary with more descriptive words.”
The twinkle grew. “Seems to me words like ‘shit’ and ‘fuck’ are pretty descriptive.”
How could Woody be so annoying, so amusing, and so—okay, she admitted it—charming? His charm wasn’t the sophisticated style of the Comte’s, but it did exist. “Are you determined to make this difficult?”
“Seems to me that’s what you folks at Dynamic Marketing are doing. But okay, go on. Why do I need to learn about wine?”
“I know you’re a sports figure, and beer is big with men who are into sports—”
“Lots of women too,” he interrupted.
No doubt he’d gone drinking with dozens, maybe hundreds, of— what had Terry called them? Puck bunnies? “With the sports crowd, beer will often be an appropriate drink. However, there will be occasions—black-tie functions like the Boys and Girls Club event— where beer won’t convey the right image.”
“You mean it’s lower class,” he said grimly.
“Not so much anymore, with all the microbreweries and designer beer. It’s more about matching beverage selection to circumstance.”
“So you figure they’ll be drinking wine at these black-tie deals?”
“Try using ‘functions’ or ‘affairs’ rather than ‘deals.’ ”
“Affairs? Seriously? I thought that meant—”
“I know what you thought.” She was getting to know that twinkle, almost enjoying the sparring, and her headache had eased. But
they had work to do. “And yes, at events like that, wine will often be served. Or champagne.”
“I like champagne.”
“Oh. I hadn’t realized. …”
His eyes narrowed. “That a boor like me would drink champagne?”
That was exactly what Georgia had been thinking. “Of course not. I just gathered that you only drank beer.”
“Beer and champagne.” His deep blue eyes were steely. “I like champagne best when I’m drinking it out of the Stanley Cup.”
“The Stanley Cup?” The hockey trophy. “Are you saying that if you win it, you drink champagne out of it?” She had an image of a locker room and a bunch of half-naked, sweaty hooligans capering around, dousing one another with champagne and drinking out of some giant silver loving cup.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s just as bad as you’re imagining.”
She stared at him guiltily. “Sorry.”
“It’s a drunken brawl, except what we’re drunk on is success more than booze.” His eyes, his tone, were intent. They held her mesmerized. “We’re exhausted, injured. We’ve pushed ourselves way past our limits. We’ve fought with everything we’ve got; we’ve fought against another team that’s as skilled as us, that’s probably got as much heart. And we’re the ones who, in the end, triumphed. So, yeah, Georgia, we celebrate. We just about go out of our minds celebrating. Sorry if you find that so offensive.”
He finished with a sarcastic edge, but she’d heard the truth: how important his sport was to him, and how much he hated to have it ridiculed.
Grown men chasing a black disk around the ice and getting paid a fortune to do it. Yes, but clearly there was more to it. She didn’t understand hockey, but he’d taken her a step closer. She did understand
sincerity, and the passion to do something well. Not to mention, he looked incredibly sexy when he spoke with that passion.
“I’m sorry. I had no idea. I never thought about it that way, and I should have. Woody, there are things you need to teach me too.” Without thinking, she reached across the table and rested her hand on his forearm, bare and muscular below the pulled-up sleeve of his jersey. His flesh was firm and warm under her hand and she could sense the energy just below the surface. Her palm tingled and a current ran up her arm and zinged through her body, straight to her sex.
This man had been inside her.
It had been a bad idea. They both knew that. She forced herself to remove her hand.
But she couldn’t look away from those indigo eyes.
Woody opened his mouth, but their waitress arrived with their lunches.
He must have been grateful for the interruption, because he began demolishing his food. Georgia turned her attention to her risotto, which was delicious.
Woody’s left arm was on the table, curved protectively around his meal. He leaned forward over the pizza plate and ate methodically, without a break.
She sighed. “No one’s going to take your food away before you’re finished.”
Bent forward as he was, his face was close to hers when he looked up, startled. “What?”
“A deportment lesson. You eat as if it’s a race to get through the meal before someone takes it away from you.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Something dark; a hint of pain, perhaps. It reminded her that his bio didn’t say much about his childhood, but suggested it had been rough.
Softly, she went on. “Meals—especially meals with friends or
colleagues—are supposed to be relaxed and social. People eat a bit, chat, eat some more. They take it slowly.”
He frowned as if he didn’t understand.
“Look around,” she suggested. “See how that man is sitting, listening, while the woman across from him talks? Then he takes a forkful of salad, sits back, says something to her. There’s a pace and balance.”
“Oh yeah? I never think about it when I’m out with the guys. We’re hungry; we eat.”
“What about when you’re on a date?”
His gaze flicked downward. “Guess I eat my meal, and talk before and after. No one’s ever said anything,” he added, a little belligerently.
“When you’re finished with your meal, what’s the woman doing? Is she finished too?”
“I guess not. Women are such slow eaters. You pick at food like you feel guilty about every calorie.”
Georgia chuckled. “I’m not suggesting you act that way either.” She had an inspiration. “When you tell sports stories, you do great imitations of people. You’re a good observer and mimic. Why don’t you use that man as a model, and try imitating him?”
Woody was still staring down at his plate. She’d embarrassed him and, while his table manners were poor, the blame likely lay with his upbringing. “It’s like what I said about wine and beer, and knowing what fits the circumstances. If you’re out with the guys on the team, and you’re all ravenous after a game, then it would probably be natural to, uh …”
“Chow down like pigs at a trough?” Now he looked up, a dangerous gleam in his eye.
He really did have a knack for reading her mind, and calling her on it. “Uh, well, maybe not quite like that.”
Fortunately, his gleam turned into a twinkle. “Whereas when I’m with a lady I oughta eat like a constipated Englishman?”
She remembered his imitation of a snotty English accent. “What have you got against Englishmen, anyway?” The thought of the novel she was reading flashed into her mind. Lady Emma might agree with Woody about the stodginess of upper-class Englishmen, especially when compared to the Continental charm of the Comte.
If Woody had the Comte’s flair, this campaign would be so much easier. And he’d be so much more appealing. Or would he? According to Viv, Woody’s raw masculine edge was part of his appeal. Georgia’s body—if not her mind—agreed. She was so physically aware of him, it was as though an energy charge, a sexual one, ran constantly through her body.
Forcing her mind back to the topic at hand, she said, “Okay, Woody, let’s look around the room and see if we can find a constipated Englishman.”
His laugh boomed out, hearty and very male. Heads turned. Most people smiled, then turned back to their meals, but several women, having noticed Woody, now had trouble keeping their eyes off him. One stylish young man in a business suit was also staring. He said something to his companion, another man like him, who turned to stare at Woody. The pair got up and made their way across the room.