And here she was, thinking of Woody again, even when she wasn’t reading the book.
Did she want to go to book club and participate? Yes. So that meant she needed to finish the reading assignment. There hadn’t been any further e-mails among the club members, not after Lily complained that she hadn’t started the book and she didn’t want to be influenced by everyone else’s chatter.
Curled in her reading chair with half a Ritter Sport dark chocolate peppermint bar, Georgia picked up where she had left off. Emma had run from the Comte after they’d had sex.
Shocked by her wanton behavior, Emma pleaded a headache and remained in her room for the rest of the day. Perhaps she indeed was ill. Her body and her mind felt feverish, yet every time she lay down, a certain restlessness forced her to her feet. She must have paced her spacious chamber several hundred times, yet all that walking had brought her no closer to an understanding of what she had done.
She’d let a man touch her intimately, the way only a husband should do. But when the Comte had touched her, it was so very different from what she’d experienced in the marital bed.
What kind of woman was she, to take such pleasure in the act? Was she no better than a common harlot?
She paced, fanning herself vigorously with her ivory fan, though it failed to cool her heated body.
A knock at the door interrupted her tormented musings. “Yes?”
The door opened and Margaret swept into the room. Her expression, at first concerned, brightened. “Ah, you are feeling better, my dear?”
Caught out of bed, what could Emma say but, “I am somewhat improved, yes; thank you.”
“Will you take some soup? Perhaps a cup of tea? Or why not come down and join us for a nightcap? We have a sherry I’m sure you would enjoy.”
Go downstairs and face the Comte? No, she couldn’t possibly. And yet, tomorrow she would have to.
Yes, but that was tomorrow. Perhaps she would feel stronger then. “Thank you, Margaret, but I think it best to stay in my room. I could perhaps take a bowl of soup and a glass of sherry, if the maid has time to bring them up.”
“Of course. I’ll see to it immediately.”
As her friend turned to go, Emma found herself saying, “Wait. There is something I was wondering.”
“Yes? Come, let’s sit and talk.” Margaret guided her to two
chairs beside a neatly laid fireplace. Emma, feverish as she’d felt, had not lit it, but now her hostess did so, and it crackled to cheery life. “What is it, Emma?”Emma took the seat beside her. How on earth could she even hint at the question foremost on her mind? “It’s about the Comte. …”
“He makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t he? I noted that at breakfast. I am so sorry.”
“It’s … his reputation. This, er, married lady he, er, was involved with in France …”
“Yes?”
“
Why
, Margaret? Why would a woman do such a thing? A decent married woman should never be tempted by, well, by …”“By a charming man?”
“Charm is a superficial thing. It does not justify breaking one’s marriage vows.”
“No, of course not. And yet”—a knowing look crossed Margaret’s face—“if that charm promises certain delights, pleasures that perhaps the lady does not experience with her husband … Well, of course it does not excuse infidelity, but perhaps it makes it more understandable.”
Delights and pleasures? “Perhaps so,” Emma said tentatively, hoping her friend would elaborate.
“After all,” Margaret said, a smug smile curving her lips, “not every woman is blessed to have a husband like my dear Edgerton.”
“The Lord is certainly an admirable man,” Emma ventured, unsure exactly what Margaret was referring to.
The other woman’s smile widened into a mischievous grin. “Indeed he is.” She winked. “Admirable in all the ways that most matter to a woman, if you take my meaning. Oh yes, I am a
most
satisfied wife.”Heat spread through Emma’s body. She stood abruptly and paced away from the fire, again wielding her fan. “Dear me, I do believe I have a fever.”
Margaret rose promptly. “I will send the maid with soup and sherry, and she’ll assist you in getting into your bed gown. I do hope you’re not coming down with something.”
“I am sure I’ll be quite well in the morning.”
When her friend had departed, Emma strode even more quickly about her chamber. So it was true, what the Comte had said. It was not wanton for a woman to experience such pleasure.
Of course, it was indeed wanton to experience it with a man other than her husband.
But she hadn’t experienced it with that esteemed and unbearably stodgy gentleman, and in all likelihood she would never wed again. Indeed, she would rather be the widowed aunt and glorified servant in her brother’s household than to be forced into marriage with another man such as her first husband.
So, this one moment—no, two extended moments—of physical bliss were all she was to ever know?
That was where the chapter ended, and Georgia reluctantly clicked off her e-reader. She’d finished the first third of the book, and the club’s pact was that they’d read only a third each week, then discuss it before anyone moved on.
Sitting cozily in her chair with Kit-Kat on her lap, she mused about Emma’s story. It was different in many ways from what was going on in her own life, yet the similarities were intriguing. Emma, she was sure, would let herself be seduced again by the Comte. The book couldn’t be erotica without sex.
As for herself, she got to write her own story. It wouldn’t include sex with Woody. That would be unprofessional, and she wouldn’t risk her career. Her pride mattered too. She wasn’t another puck bunny. She wasn’t pathetically desperate for pleasure, for a man’s touch, for that amazing feeling of sexual tension cresting in her body, for— Oh, damn.
She’d last seen—and run away from sex with—Woody on Wednesday afternoon. Four days ago. She wouldn’t see him again until Tuesday; tomorrow the Beavers would be traveling back to Vancouver.
She had, strictly in the name of business research, turned on the Friday and Sunday night games in Anaheim, watching bits and pieces while she did work and chores. The things Woody had said over lunch had helped her view the sport differently. She still thought it was ridiculous to get so obsessed over shooting a puck into a goal, but she saw how excited the fans were, and how seriously the teams took it. It wasn’t rocket science, they weren’t saving the world, but they were pouring their strength and drive—and maybe even their hearts—into what they were doing.
The Beavers lost the Friday night game, and tonight they’d lost again, when the Ducks scored a goal in overtime. This meant, the announcers said, that the Beavers were down one to three and would have to win the next three games to clinch the Western Conference title. Georgia worried about the impact on the VitalSport campaign if the Beavers lost, and particularly if they lost badly.
She worried about Woody too. The game meant a lot to him. His team meant a lot to him. How would he handle it if they lost to the Ducks?
He wasn’t playing his best, according to the announcers. She winced every time he smashed another player into the boards—and winced even harder the times he got slammed. Tonight, his left shoulder had hit hard and he’d crashed to the ice. It had taken him only a second or two to rise, but those seconds had gone by in agonizing slowness.
He’d said everyone was playing injured but taking pains to hide that fact. Was he, and was that why he wasn’t at his best?
And here she was again, spending not just her work hours but her free time thinking about Woody Hanrahan.
She was getting ready for bed when the phone rang. Call display showed her mother’s number, and she groaned. No point in not answering. Her mom would keep trying until Georgia picked up.
“Hi, Bernadette,” she said resignedly into the phone. Her mother had never wanted to be called Mom, figuring it made her seem old.
“Hey, baby, how are you?”
Before Georgia could respond, her mother was going on. “I want you to come over for dinner. There’s someone you have to meet.”
“Let me guess. It’s a man.” Her mother had broken up with her last boyfriend a month ago, so it was time to find a replacement.
“Well, of course.” As if no one other than a man was worth meeting.
“And this one’s special.” Georgia had heard that story so many times she’d lost count. Bernadette’s marriages numbered five now, but there’d been many men besides her husbands.
“He’s the best,” her mother gushed. “I’ve never met a man like Fabio.”
“His name’s Fabio? Seriously?”
“It’s a perfectly good Italian name,” her mother said huffily. “And who are you to judge? I bet you’re not seeing anyone, are you?”
No, I only screwed a man named Woody. I can top you in the silly name game.
“Why is that the only thing you ever ask me?”
“Because you’re still moping over Anthony. You need to move on.”
“I’m not moping. Yes, I miss him, but I’m busy and happy.”
“Women weren’t designed to live alone.”
“Better to live alone than to settle for second best.” Why did she bother arguing? She and her mom were black and white when it came to their opinions on pretty much everything, and most definitely on relationships. More out of habit than any hope of changing Bernadette’s mind, she found herself saying again, “I don’t believe a woman’s life is somehow
less
if there’s no man in it. We can be strong and independent.”
“What’s the fun in that?”
“Your generation invented women’s lib. How can you be such a throwback?”
Her mother ignored that. “So, what night works for dinner?”
“I’m really busy. I’ve been put in charge of my first marketing campaign.”
“And working all the time’s more rewarding than sharing your life with someone special?”
“I knew it was too much to hope for congratulations.”
“Oh, baby, I’m sorry. It’s great that you’re doing well at work. I just hate to think of you being lonely and unloved.”
“I’m not!” Occasional loneliness was better than being with the wrong man.
“Okay, okay. So what’s the big campaign?”
“This is a secret for now, okay? We don’t want word getting out before the official launch.” One thing she’d say for her mom: she didn’t spill other people’s secrets.
“Ooh, exciting! Tell me.”
“It’s the Canadian launch for an American sports and leisure company. We’re doing a figurehead campaign based on a hockey star who plays for the Vancouver Beavers.”
“Yeah? Who’s the player?”
“Woody Hanrahan.”
“Woo-hoo, girl! That man’s hot. Now I see why you’re so excited.”
“It’s not about the man!” Georgia drew a breath. She really, really must have been switched at birth. “This is a step forward in my career.”
“Why don’t you bring him along for dinner?”
“Sure, fine, I’ll do that,” she said, tongue in cheek. “I’ll ask him what night works, and get back to you.”
“You don’t really mean that.”
“You got it.”
Monday after work, the book club met at Steamworks, again lucking into fair weather and an outside table. After putting in long hours on the VitalSport campaign, Georgia figured she could take the night off. And so, when the others ordered alcoholic drinks, she joined in with a glass of pinot grigio.
When the drinks arrived, Marielle took a sip of her Hemingway Daiquiri. Her attitude toward drinks was the same as her attitude toward men: if it looks like fun, give it a try. “Ooh, nice.” She peeled off her suit jacket—these days she was temping as receptionist at a law firm—and said, “Well, girls, are you loving the book? I sure am.”
Lily flicked her short, wheat-colored hair back. “I’m confused. Has anyone figured out exactly when it’s set?”
“When?” Kim, her spiky black hair streaked with purple today to match the long, skinny top she wore over black leggings, frowned in puzzlement. “It’s historical.”
“I mean, is it Regency, Georgian, Victorian, or what?” Lily demanded. “I don’t think the author’s done her research. I’m sure there are inconsistencies in the descriptions of clothing, décor, and social customs.”
“Jeez, Lily,” Marielle protested, “it’s fiction. The author made up the characters, so who cares if she makes up other stuff ?”
Lily frowned over the rim of her martini glass and turned to Georgia. “What do you think?”
Usually, the two of them—the older, more serious women—had similar opinions, while Marielle and Kim thought more alike. This time, Georgia said, “That hasn’t bothered me. I’m more interested in the characters. I’m trying to understand Emma’s motivation for being so tempted by the Comte.”
“The classic allure of the bad boy,” Marielle said promptly.
“Who can resist?” Kim put in, her dark eyes sparkling as she sipped a light beer called an Ipanema.
“A woman whose brain is in her head, not her crotch,” Lily said sharply.
Marielle hooted. “What’s the fun in that?”
Georgia, who had, until last week, always believed her brain was firmly lodged in her head, asked Marielle, “What’s the classic allure of the bad boy?”
“That he’s kind of dangerous.”
“Yeah, he’s a real man,” Kim said with relish. She gestured around the bar. “I mean, look at these guys. They’re either metrosexual, which, sorry, just isn’t very sexy”—her smooth brow furrowed for an instant, then she went on—”or they have beer bellies, or they’re immature students like the guys I go to art school with. Do you see a single ‘real man’?”
If Woody’d been there, he would have caught Kim’s eye—as he caught so many women’s eyes. Even if he didn’t dress well, he radiated masculinity. Tomorrow, Georgia would see him again, and she was antsy with nervous anticipation.
“By ‘real man’ you mean a caveman?” Lily asked. “No, thanks.”
“But that’s the fascination,” Marielle said. “You want to be the one woman who can tame him.”