Ain't She Sweet? (22 page)

“It’s late, Sugar Beth, and you’re tired.”

“It was funnier than hell. The minute I told Diddie that you tried to feel me up, she forgot all about the dent in the side of that car, and so did Daddy. They didn’t even dock my allowance for the repairs. I still laugh thinkin’ about it.”

She didn’t look like laughing. She looked soul weary and worn out. He walked toward her. “You were a kid, and you’d been spoiled rotten. Stop being so hard on yourself.”

He should have known empathy would be a mistake because she came up off the stool hissing. “Aren’t you just all Christian charity? Compassion and forgiveness pourin’ out of you. Well, I don’t need your pity, Mr. Byrne. I don’t need—”

“That’s enough!” In one swift motion, he scooped her off her feet and carried her from the kitchen. He was done fighting with himself. All night it had been building up to this, and now he was taking her upstairs, dumping her in his bed, and making love with her until neither of them could think straight.

“Well, well, well . . .” She gazed up at him, all tired eyes and provocative drawl. “This is more like it, big guy.”

That stopped him cold.

“What’s the matter, your lordship? Having second thoughts?” She mocked him with her weary coquette’s pout. “Maybe you’re afraid you can’t get it up for a girl.”

Sex and sass were the only weapons she had left. He understood that, just as he understood his solicitude must feel like slow poison to those proud veins, and this was the only way she had left to pay him back.

He was a cynical man aroused beyond bearing, but he’d once had the spirit of a romantic, and somehow he found the willpower to ease her to her feet. Then, because he deserved something for his restraint, he kissed her deeply and thoroughly.

She responded like a temptress—full tongue, breathy moans, hips rubbing against his, all of it phony, designed to let him know what he could do with his pity. Even so, blood throbbed in his groin, and his body demanded more. He needed all of his self-control not to lose patience with her, but he kept his lips soft and coaxing, giving her time to work out her anger. Gradually, the writhing stopped, and her tongue retreated into her mouth.

She curled soft and warm against him. He sipped at her lips. They tasted like velvet.

Sugar Beth felt the gentle pull of Colin’s mouth and knew he’d disarmed her, but she was too exhausted to struggle any longer. He was fully aroused, and it startled her to realize she was, too. Beneath her bone-deep weariness, her body had come to life.

He tasted of health and vigor, of the kind of male potency she’d nearly forgotten existed.

His kiss deepened. She felt the ropey muscles, the tensile strength of his body. Her lips parted, and he slipped his tongue into her mouth. She let her arms drift around his neck.

He dallied and stroked. She heard herself sigh as he abandoned her mouth to pick her up again.

But instead of heading for the stairs, he carried her across the foyer, then shifted her in his arms so he could open the front door.

“This may very well be the hardest thing I’ve ever done”—he was clenching his teeth

—“but when we make love—and believe me when I tell you we’re going to—it will be about pleasure, not some bloody contest to see who’s still standing at the end.”

It was cold outside. She rested her cheek against his shirtfront. He wasn’t even breathing hard as he carried her across the yard with Gordon leading the way.

“Furthermore,” he went on, “you will be rested. And”—he gripped her tighter—“
sweet-tempered.
”

“You had more to drink than I thought.” She yawned and closed her eyes. “Go ahead and admit it. You’re afraid of me.”

“Terrified is more like it.”

She burrowed deeper into his chest. “I’m a handful, all right.”

“My worst nightmare.”

The carriage house door stuck, and he had to put her down to open it. Once he got her inside, he kissed her again, but just the lightest brush of his lips, as if he didn’t trust himself to do more. That was when she realized he wasn’t fooling about leaving. She didn’t want him to, but she couldn’t come up with a way to tell him she was lonely, lost, and needed him to stay.

“You have no idea what this is costing me,” he said as he headed for the door, “so don’t expect me to be pleasant when I come to see you in the morning.”

“Who said you were invited?”

“Who said I need an invitation?”

This time when he left, he took her dog with him.

She barely dragged herself upstairs. She dropped her clothes in a heap and somehow managed to brush her teeth, but summoning the energy to sort through her jumbled feelings was too much to ask, and she fell into bed.

Just as she drifted off to sleep, she heard them.

“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar . . .”

At first, she thought she was dreaming, but as she rolled to her back, their calls grew louder.

“Sugar . . . Sugar . . . Sugar Pie . . .”

Cubby Bowmar and his drunken friends were out front, baying for her just like in high school.

You’re going to be a woman for the ages,
Diddie had said.

Sugar Beth pulled the pillow over her head and went to sleep.

Winnie awakened to the sound of Ryan showering. Not long after, she heard him rousing Gigi for Sunday school along with her predictable protest.

“I was suspended, Dad. Remember?”

“Not from church.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“She isn’t feeling well.”

“Me either.”

“Get dressed.”

Winnie drifted. She caught the faint scent of coffee . . . dishes clattering in the kitchen . . .

a door slamming . . . a car driving away . . . the world going on without her. Finally, she roused herself enough to get out of bed.

She stepped over the black teddy she’d shed last night in favor of an old T-shirt of Ryan’s and a pair of pink sweatpants she’d stashed in the closet for the church collection box.

She made her way to the bathroom and managed to brush her teeth, but a shower was beyond her. She gazed at herself in the mirror: puffy-eyed, pasty-faced, hair smashed to one side of her head. Her life was unraveling like the seat of the pink sweatpants, one thread at a time.

“Feelin’ better?”

She jumped as Ryan’s reflection appeared in the mirror over her shoulder. He was wearing khakis and the Old Navy rugby Gigi had bought him for Christmas. “I thought you left.”

“I was worried about you, so I asked Merylinn to take Gigi to church with them. How are you doing?”

“All right.” The isolation of the guest room bed called out to her—a place where she couldn’t hurt either one of them. She wanted to creep back in and bury herself under the covers.

“The concert’s this afternoon. The reception. Are you going to be up for all that?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. She knew why he’d stayed home from church. He wanted to make up for what he’d done at the party. Everything had always been so effortless for Sugar Beth: her beauty, her charm, her ability to hypnotize the most decent of men, even Colin. As for Ryan . . . One look at Sugar Beth was all it had taken for him to be run down by a whole truckload of the might-have-beens.

Winnie’s anger choked her. She’d sacrificed the very essence of who she was in a futile attempt to compete with the ghost of a spoiled eighteen-year-old girl. She was so sick of herself she couldn’t bear it.

Ryan glanced at his watch. “Gigi won’t be back for a while. Let’s—”

“Don’t you ever think about anything but sex!”
The words erupted from her as if they’d been shot to the surface by some prehistoric geyser.

He couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d slapped him. The geyser sputtered, then retreated as remorse swamped her. “I’m sorry. Oh, dear, Ryan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

But no easy apology would fix this. His warm brown eyes had grown wintry. “I was about to suggest you throw on some clothes so we could drive to the bakery and get some of the cherry fritters you like.”

The unfairness of her attack sickened her, but the simmering anger wouldn’t go away. All her life she’d believed she didn’t deserve anything better than everyone’s emotional leftovers, and she was tired of it. She breathed hard, choked the anger back down. “I’m sorry.”

“Contrary to what you seem to believe, sex isn’t all I think about.”

“I know that. I’m just . . . out of sorts.” She pressed her hands to her waist, trying to hold the bubbling geyser in. “Let me get cleaned up, and I’ll go with you.”

“Forget it. I have some paperwork to do.” He took a step, then stopped. A slash of morning light threw his face into shadow, and for a moment, he looked like a stranger. “If you’re mad about last night, why don’t you just come out and say it instead of going through all this drama?”

The geyser rumbled. “I’m not.”

“Sugar Beth deserved the cold shoulder, but what happened went beyond that. You all behaved like children, and I won’t have any part of it.”

“Of course you won’t.” The geyser churned inside her, searching for a weak place to push through her skin.

“When are you going to let the past go?”

“Like you have?”

“Damn right I have.”

“You couldn’t take your eyes off her! All night. Every time I looked at you, you were watching her.”

“Stop right there.” His hand shot out. “We’ll talk about this when you’re ready to make sense.”

His dismissal cut through what was left of her self-control, and the geyser erupted again.

This time it brought everything with it, including the secret she’d kept locked away for so many years. “I can’t do this!”

He began to walk away.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me!”

He kept going.

She rushed after him, a wild-eyed harridan, shrieking, hysterical, out of control. “I got pregnant on purpose!”

“Settle down.”

“I lied to you!”

He stopped at the top of the stairs and turned back to her. For the first time, he looked genuinely alarmed. “Winnie, stop this.”

“I got pregnant on purpose so you’d marry me!”

“I know.”

She pressed her fingers to her lips, swallowed her bile, tried to breathe, couldn’t. “You
know
? You
know,
and you never said anything?”

“What was the point?” He thrust a hand through his hair. “There’s no reason to talk about this.”

“I trapped you!”

“I don’t feel trapped. Gigi’s more precious to me than my own life. Now go take a bath.

You’ll feel better.”

As if a bath could wash away her sin.

“Ryan . . .”

But he was already disappearing down the stairs.

She slumped against the wall. Her darkest secret . . . and he didn’t want to talk about it.

Numbly, she returned to the bathroom and sank down on the side of the tub. She’d never planned to trap him. But then one night she’d heard herself say that she was on the pill, and he didn’t have to worry. Since she was Winnie Davis, he’d believed her.

She had responsibilities, so she turned on the faucets. The concert was this afternoon, the reception. If only she could be like Sugar Beth—callous and self-centered, utterly without conscience. She began to cry. How long did a person have to pay for old sins? Her lie had made Gigi, so she couldn’t regret it. Why, then, did she keep hating herself?

Maybe because Ryan had never done the job for her.

Sugar Beth smelled coffee. And bacon. She loved bacon. She rolled over, saw that it was nearly eleven, and headed for the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, she was on her way downstairs wearing clean underwear, a black satin Victoria’s Secret robe she’d had forever, and her oldest pair of cowboy boots. She’d washed her hair, but she hadn’t taken the time to dry it. She also hadn’t bothered with makeup. After yesterday, Colin Byrne didn’t deserve more than clean hair and a little moisturizer.

Her muscles ached from hard work and righteous indignation, but more than that, she felt relief. Whether Colin knew it or not, he’d finally forgiven her. The burden she’d carried for so long had been eased at last.

He stood at the stove in the small kitchen, his back turned to her, his presence dominating the small space. Just looking at him made her want to rip off his clothes and drag him upstairs.

“I was getting ready to wake you up.”

She wished she’d stayed in bed longer and let him do it. That ol’ black magic—falling for the wrong man. Except she wasn’t so stupid now. It might have taken her awhile, but she finally knew the difference between lust and love. “Good Lord, are you really wearing jeans? Give me some coffee fast.”

“They’re custom made,” he said as she pulled one of Tallulah’s Wedgwood cups from the shelf and helped herself. “French. They cost over three hundred dollars a pair, but I think they’re worth it.”

She studied the way the denim conformed to his hips beneath the Gap label. “Those Frenchies sure do know something about making jeans,” she said dryly.

“I heard your admirers last night.”

“Cubby and the boys?”

“Celebrating their graduation from idiot school, no doubt. One egg or two?” He cracked two into the skillet.

“Tell me there’s a box of Krispy Kremes hidden somewhere.”

“You’re lucky the toast isn’t whole wheat.” He took in her satin robe and the cowboy boots. “Fetching.”

“You are the only man in Parrish with the nerve to use a word like that. Where’s my dog?”

“Outside. He doesn’t seem inclined to wander.”

“Too obstinate.” She carried her coffee to the kitchen table and sat. “I smell bacon, so why am I not seein’ it?”

“I’ll make you a fresh batch.” He scooped her eggs onto a plate with surprising competency, added toast he’d already buttered, and set them on the table in front of her.

“What are you doing eating bacon? Your arteries have probably gone into shock.”

“A moment of weakness.”

“I sure know how that feels.” The toast was cold, but he hadn’t spared the butter, so she didn’t complain. And the eggs weren’t bad. The bacon sizzled as he tossed it into the skillet, every motion efficient. She spoke around her first bite. “I hope nobody finds out you’re providing aid and comfort to the enemy.”