“That’s it?”
“No.” She quickly glanced at Ernie. “I have underthings and my wallet.”
“Where are your clothes?”
“In four suitcases in the back of Virgil’s Rolls-Royce.”
It figured he would have to feed, house, and clothe her. “Come on,” he said, then he set his beer on the coffee table and led her down the hall into his bedroom. He walked to his dresser and pulled an old black T-shirt and a pair of green drawstring shorts from the drawers. “Here,” he said, tossing them on the blue quilt covering his bed before turning toward the door.
“John?”
His name on her lips stopped him, but he didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to see that scared look in her green eyes. “What?”
“I can’t get out of this dress by myself. I need your help.”
He turned to see her standing within a golden slice of sunlight spilling in from the window.
“There are some little buttons at the top.” She awkwardly pointed.
Not only did she want his clothes, she wanted him to undress her.
“They’re really slippery,” she explained.
“Turn around,” he ordered, a harsh edge to his voice as he stepped toward her.
Without a word, she turned her profile to him and faced the mirror above the dresser. Between her smooth shoulder blades, four tiny buttons closed the very top of the dress. She pulled her hair to one side, exposing baby-fine curls just below her hairline. Her skin, her hair, her southern accent, everything about her was soft.
“How did you get into this thing?”
“I had help.” She looked at him through the mirror. John couldn’t remember a time that he’d helped a woman out of her clothes without taking her to bed afterward, but he didn’t intend to touch Virgil’s runaway bride any more than necessary. He raised his hands and tugged until one small button slipped from its slick loop.
“I can’t imagine what they all must be thinking right now. Sissy tried to warn me against marrying Virgil. I thought I could go through with it, but I guess I couldn’t.”
“Don’t you think you should have come to that conclusion before today?” he asked, then moved his finge
rs lower.
“I did. I tried to tell Virgil that I was having second thoughts. I tried to talk to him about it last night, but he wouldn’t listen. Then I saw the silver.” She shook her head and a soft spiral of hair fell down her back and brushed across her smooth skin. “I’d chosen Francis I for my pattern, and his friends had sent a good amount,” she said, all dreamy as if he knew what the hell she was talking about. “Ohhh-just seeing all those pieces of fruit on the knife handles gave me the shivers. Sissy thinks I should have chosen repousse, but I’ve always been a Francis I girl. Even when I was little…”
John had very little tolerance for girly chitchat. He wished he had a tape player and another Tom Petty cassette. Since he didn’t, he tuned her out. More often than not, he was accused of being a real bastard, a reputation he considered an asset. That way he didn’t have to worry about women getting ideas about a permanent connection.
“While you’re there, could you unzip me? Anyway,” she continued. “I almost wept with joy when I laid eyes on the pickle forks and grapefruit spoons and…”
John scowled at her through the mirror, but she wasn’t paying any attention. Her gaze was directed downward toward the big white bow sewn on the front of her dress. John reached for the metal tab, and as he pulled, he discovered the reason Georgeanne had difficulty breathing. Between the gaping zipper of her wedding dress, silver hooks lashed together an undergarment John instantly recognized as a merry widow. Made out of pink satin, lace, and steel, the corset cut into her soft skin.
She raised a hand to the bow and clutched it to her large breasts to keep the dress from falling. “Seeing my favorite silver pattern went to my head, and I guess I let Virgil convince me that I just had prewedding jitters. I really wanted to believe him…”
When John finished with the zipper he announced, “I’m done.”
“Oh.” She looked up at him through the mirror, then quickly dropped her gaze. Her cheeks turned red as she asked, “Could you unfasten my ah… ah, thing partway?”
“Your corset?”
“Yes, please.”
“I’m not a friggin‘ maid,” he grumbled, and lifted his hands once more to tug at the hooks and eyes. While he worked at the tiny fasteners, his knuckles brushed the pink marks marring her skin. A shudder racked through her as a long, low sigh whispered deep within her throat.
John glanced up into the mirror and his hands stilled. The only time he ever saw such ecstasy on a woman’s face was when he was buried deep inside her. A swift punch of lust hit him low in the belly. His body’s reaction to the bliss-filled tilt to her eyes and lips irritated him.