“But you don’t want to tame him too much,” Kim said quickly. “Otherwise he’d lose his charm.”
Hmm. This was interesting information for the VitalSport campaign, and in line with what Viv had said, about needing to maintain some of Woody’s edge. Not that Georgia could imagine him being converted into a trendy metrosexual.
Marielle nodded vigorously. “So, Kim, that’s what your guy’s like? Only partially tamed?”
Kim shrugged. “Yeah, well, there’s fantasy and then there’s reality.”
“And the reality is,” Marielle said, “that there’s all kinds of guys and lots of them have their own charm.” She winked. “As for the bad boy, let’s face it—the true allure is sex. You absolutely know he’s had dozens of lovers and he’s fantastic in bed, and you want to get yourself a piece of that smoking hot action.”
A ripple of sexual awareness moved through Georgia. Was that why she couldn’t stop thinking of Woody?
“Because,” Marielle went on, dragging a slice of bread through the artichoke and cheese dip, “after all, it’s all about the orgasms.”
Georgia felt as if her entire body was flushing at the memory of the ones Woody had given her. “No, it’s not,” she protested. Her brain was
not
in her crotch. “There’s much more to a relationship, and to sex.” Feeling defensive about her marriage, she said, “It’s about having a true connection: minds and hearts and souls.”
“Wow.” Kim’s eyes widened. “Yeah, that’s the dream, isn’t it? You had that with your husband?”
She nodded.
“I’m so sorry you lost him.”
“Me too. But at least I had him for a while.”
Kim nodded. “It’s more than a lot of women find, I guess.” Her mouth twisted. “Or you think you’ve found it, but then it just kind of fizzles.” She tossed her purple-spiked head and said to
Lily, “You’re married. You have all that great connection stuff going on?”
“Of course.” Lily said it in such an unemotional tone that Georgia had to wonder if she was telling the truth. The blonde, the oldest in their group at thirty-two, had said little about her husband.
“Hey, girls.” Marielle waved red-tipped fingers at them. “There’s one thing George left out in that description. Physical connection.”
“Yes, of course,” Georgia said quickly.
“Which brings us back to orgasms,” Marielle said.
Georgia didn’t respond. She was okay with the conversation taking a personal turn, but she wasn’t about to confess that with her wonderful husband, her soul mate, she’d never climaxed.
“If a woman bases a relationship on orgasms,” Lily said, “that’s about lust, not love.”
Georgia nodded firmly.
“So many factors go into a good relationship,” Lily went on. “In my practice”—she was a doctor with a family practice—“I see lots of women who have great sex but unhappy relationships, and lots more who don’t or can’t achieve sexual satisfaction but have great relationships.”
“I’ve read that,” Kim said. “That a lot of women never climax.”
Until last week, Georgia had thought she was one of them. She listened with interest as Lily said, “That’s right. Sometimes there’s an actual physical problem, and treatments that can help. Or it’s just personal physiology, so some women can’t have orgasms through intercourse, but can through”—she glanced around as if she’d suddenly realized what she was talking about in the middle of a crowded patio, and lowered her voice—“clitoral stimulation.”
“Which is always a good idea,” Marielle put in.
“Sometimes, inability to climax is due to a horrible experience,” Lily went on, “like sexual abuse. Also, there are strict religions that don’t believe women should experience sexual pleasure. Then there
are women who react to social pressure that makes them believe their bodies are unattractive and inadequate.”
Georgia’s mind was stuck back on sexual abuse. When she was thirteen and one of her mom’s boyfriends groped her, it had traumatized her. She’d gained a lot of weight, started wearing boy’s clothes. But she’d gotten over that long ago. Besides, if that experience had been responsible for her inability to climax, surely the man who’d have helped her get over it was the one she loved, not the near stranger.
“Man, this stuff is complicated,” Kim said.
Georgia nodded, and Lily said, “Yes, sexuality is incredibly complicated.”
“Which is why every girl should masturbate,” Marielle said cheerfully, “and learn how her body works and what turns her on.”
Georgia had tried that a few times, but couldn’t arouse herself. Yet Woody’d done it effortlessly when she’d barely known him an hour.
So far, she’d held back from contributing to a discussion she knew so little about, but now she ventured, “Does it ever have to do with the partner? Some special chemistry or something?”
“Or that bad-boy talent?” Marielle said. “You bet it does. I have much better sex with some guys than others.”
Kim said, “Don’t some cultures believe that virgins of either sex should be initiated by someone experienced?”
Marielle chuckled. “Good idea. I mean, can you imagine two virgins on their wedding night? Would they ever figure out what they were doing?”
Georgia busied herself spreading dip on bread. She and Anthony had figured out what they were doing. That was part of the wonder of the experience, both making love for the first time. But she’d sound hopelessly old-fashioned if she said that. These women weren’t the chastity club type.
“Ladies,” Lily said in her brisk doctor voice, “we’re straying off track. Let’s get back to the book.”
“Much as I’m loving the book,” Kim said, “talking about sex is more fun. But okay, here’s something I find interesting. It’s all in Emma’s point of view. We never get to know what the Comte is thinking.”
“That’s pretty obvious,” Marielle said with a laugh. “He wants to get into her—what did they wear back then?—knickers or bloomers or whatever, and he’s going to seduce her into agreeing.”
“But why?” Kim demanded. “He can have all those younger, vivacious girls.”
“Because she’s a challenge?” Marielle suggested. “The one who doesn’t immediately fall for his charms?”
“She’s not a puck bunny.” Georgia didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud until the three other women stared at her.
Marielle laughed. “Yeah, exactly. I see you’re really getting into the hockey thing, eh?”
“You have no idea.”
Hoping that a good, hard game of squash with a friend would burn off some restless tension and break him out of his bad mood, Woody bounded up the steps to the Chancery Squash Club on Hornby. He greeted the pretty brunette at the desk, and headed for the change room.
His partner wasn’t there, but he arrived a minute later, out of breath, his suit jacket already off and his tie loosened. “Sorry; had some orders to sign,” he said as he pulled off his clothes.
Tom Westin was a judge on the British Columbia Supreme Court, and a hockey fan. They’d met at a fund-raiser, hit it off, and been playing squash for the past two years.
“I’m gonna slaughter you today,” Woody announced.
Tom pulled on a T-shirt and shorts. “That’ll be the day. In this sport, I’m king.” More than a decade older than Woody, he was a big man too, and in great shape thanks to frequent games of squash plus early morning jogging.
“Prepare to be dethroned.”
“Take your best shot, pal,” Tom said as they headed for their court.
“Bet on it.”
Even so, Woody, pissed at himself for being off his game in the all-important Western Conference final, had trouble finding his rhythm. Didn’t help that his injured left shoulder had taken another beating in the last game.
It also didn’t help that Georgia’d been on his mind. Last Wednesday she’d been totally into sex; then she’d freaked out. What the hell had happened?
He’d always figured dating during playoffs was a bad idea because it distracted him. Now he was just as distracted by
not
having sex with a woman.
Seeing Tom’s ball hurtling toward him, Woody swung his racquet and connected perfectly, sending the ball off the front wall and down the side one.
Tom tried, but failed, to scoop it up. “Good one,” he said, wiping sweat from his face. “But your playing’s erratic today.” That was something Woody liked about Tom. He didn’t talk down to Woody, just used his regular vocabulary as if he figured Woody would understand. Mostly, he did. Even the legal jargon Tom sometimes dropped in.
“Today’s not the only time,” Woody muttered.
“The Beavers will get back on track,” Tom assured him. Then he slanted the ball to send Woody racing to the front of the court.
Woody missed and hurtled into the wall, smashing his bad shoulder. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He peeled himself off, rubbing his shoulder.
“You okay?”
“Sure. And yeah, you bet we’ll come back.” It was his job, as captain, to make sure of it—and to fix his own game. Since he’d been a kid, there was this thing that happened to him on the ice, like he could envision the individual parts of the game and the pattern they formed, even as it changed second by second. He sensed when someone was coming up behind to steal the puck, knew where his teammate would be to field a pass, saw the exact spot the goaltender couldn’t cover. For him, that was part of the beauty of the game, along with the crisp slash of skates against ice, the hard smack of a well-shot puck off his stick, and the knowledge that at that moment in time, nothing else in the world mattered.
His head coach used terms like “spatial and situational intelligence.” Said Gretzky and Crosby had it too.
Whatever it was, Woody had to get it back. He wasn’t playing badly, but his team deserved his best. Each of the men had his own strengths, but they needed him to be on top of his game, not to mention keep them motivated and focused. And he’d damned well do it. “We’re always up for a challenge.” Besides, it’d be a home game and Vancouver fans were the best.
“We’ll be rooting for you Wednesday night.” Tom grinned. “Bash ’em, Beavers.”
They whacked the ball around some more; then Tom said, “Something else on your mind?”
“Nah. Well, yeah, maybe,” Woody confessed. “A woman.”
Tom served. “That figures. You ought to get married, my friend. It settles a guy down.”
Woody smashed the ball with all his strength. It cracked against the front wall, flew up in the air, and fell neatly into the angle where side wall met back wall. Where it was virtually impossible to hit. Tom left it alone and Woody whooped.
“Don’t wanna be settled,” he proclaimed, retrieving the ball for his own serve. His parents had soured him on marriage for life. Besides, he couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life with any of the women he’d dated.
He won the second match, put up a good fight in the third, but lost to Tom’s superior skill. He slapped the other man on the back. “Not bad for an old guy.”
“Better than you can do, superstar.”
“One of these days,” Woody threatened.
Back in the change room, they headed for the showers. Warm water sluiced the sweat from Woody’s body; hot water eased the ache in his shoulder; cold water invigorated him.
“You’re tone-deaf,” Tom shouted from the stall next door. “What the hell are you trying to whistle?”
Woody hadn’t even known he was whistling. He thought back. Damn, it had been “Sweet Georgia Brown.” His palm slammed the shower off.
Next door, the shower stopped too, and both men emerged, toweling off.
“Do you have plans for the evening?” Tom asked. “Maybe with the woman?”
“No way. Want to go for a beer?” They sometimes did that.
“How about dinner?”
“You don’t have to get home?” Both busy guys, the most they’d done before was play squash and go for an occasional beer. They had little in common, yet they’d always been able to talk. Woody had learned about Tom’s family life and his work on the court, and the judge always seemed interested in what was up with Woody.
Tom grinned. “Maureen’s out of town, Jason’s at a friend’s, and I’m in the middle of a trial and am actually caught up with my work. In other words, I have the evening completely free.”
Woody, remembering Georgia’s lessons, said, “A rare occurrence.”
“Indeed. And worthy of celebration. Let’s go for a nice meal.”
All set to agree, Woody remembered his poor table manners. Would he embarrass himself? Then he thought of Georgia’s suggestion that he find a model to imitate. He grinned at Judge Westin. “Sounds good.”
“Do you like French food?” Tom asked. “There’s a restaurant Maureen and I like. Small, one of the old standbys rather than a trendy newcomer. Not too much chance either of us will be pestered.”
When the two of them went for a beer, it was a toss-up whether more people came to kowtow to the judge or to beg autographs from Woody. “Sounds good, but alls—all—I brought to change into is shorts and a tee.”
“We’re about the same size. I brought jeans, but I guess I could live with climbing back into my work clothes.” Tom took neatly folded clothes from his gym bag and handed them over.
Woody pulled the jeans on over his underwear, finding they were a bit tighter than he was used to wearing. He held up Tom’s beige shirt, which was classier than anything he owned, enjoying the rough texture. Wondering what it was made of, he read the label. Cotton and linen. He squinted at the name. “Zeg-na?”
“It’s pronounced ‘Zenya,’ ” Tom said matter-of-factly. “Italian.”
“Nice.” Woody put it on and started to do up the buttons. “Nicer than that suit you’re stuck wearing. Sorry, man. I’d have brought proper clothes if I’d have known.” Proper clothes meaning one of the suits he hated.
“No problem.”
As they walked out together, Tom said, “So tell me about the woman.”
Woody groaned. “Name’s Georgia.”
“Pretty. Images of southern lushness come to mind.”
Nah, that was more Viv’s style. “She’s more, uh, confusing. All buttoned up tight for work, but when she lets her hair down, man.”
“Confusing. I hear you.”
Out on the street, Tom said, “You’re on foot?” He knew that was Woody’s habit, since the squash club was less than a mile from Woody’s condo.
“Yeah.”
“My car’s in the courthouse lot.”