Georgie's Heart (19 page)

Georgeanne spoke at last. “If she was a man-hater, she'd advise women to get a divorce and stick the men with the bills.”

Zane hugged her. “Well said, Georgie.”

Georgeanne turned to him. “How are the children, Zane? Did you get there in time?”

“They weren't badly injured, thank God.” His face softened as he looked at her. “One had a broken arm I had to set, and the other had a cut that needed stitches. The parents weren't so lucky, I'm afraid. They're both in intensive care.”

For a long time, Zane's adoptive parents had been the only people who cared whether or not he helped a child. Looking into the deep brown wells of concern that were Georgeanne's eyes, Zane knew what he'd been missing for the past few years.

He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her, then rested his cheek against her silky hair, drawing in comfort like air. It felt so good to be with Georgeanne after the tense atmosphere of the hospital emergency room. He closed his eyes and let the stress and the memory of blood, anguish, and injuries drain out of him while he held her and thrilled to the gentle pressure of her hands on his shoulder blades.

Hunter, with the sixth sense he often displayed where Zane was concerned, said nothing. Only the steady crunch of popcorn betrayed his presence. Zane stood and soaked up the feel of Georgeanne's shapely body, the odor of lilies mingled with the odor of popcorn, and the soft sounds made by the brother he hadn't known he had until three years ago. He loved being among people who cared how he felt at times like this.

“That's better,” Zane said, at last. “Now I can be human again, until the next call. Georgie, we may as well entertain this bum, since it's obvious he isn't going to go away.”

“Not me. The food's too good here.” Hunter popped open another carton of flavored popcorn and sampled it. “Let's get back to this book.”

“I'm sick of hearing about that book,” Zane said. “Let me finish reading it, then I'll favor everyone with a pediatrician's learned opinion of it.”

He kept his arm around Georgeanne's waist and guided her to the sofa. He detected her discomfort with the situation but he admitted to himself he did not want to let her leave.

“Come on, Georgie,” Hunter coaxed. “You were doing so well. We've settled that the author isn't a man-hater. So what if she's like Zane's ex and would rather think about her career than how to please her man?”

“Let's leave my ex out of this.” Zane accepted a handful of cinnamon-flavored popcorn from his brother's box. “She only enjoyed sex with someone capable of advancing her career. Otherwise, she never bothered to fake a thing.”

Georgeanne flushed again. Zane started to apologize but thought better of it. Georgeanne deserved to know these things.

“We're embarrassing Georgie,” Hunter observed, clearly fascinated.

“I'm not embarrassed. My complexion has a life of its own.” Georgeanne sounded resigned. “Zane can tell you that.”

“That's definitely true when that book is discussed,” Zane said. “That's why I'm reading it. I want to see what it says that sends Georgie's complexion into such fits.”

Georgeanne promptly paled.

“So what about it, Georgie?” Hunter said, grinning, his gray gaze narrowed on her. “Do you think women like Zane's ex are reading this book and getting a few pointers?”

“Most women wouldn't be interested in going through all the trouble of tricking men into thinking they were enjoying sex,” Georgeanne said. “The women Fritzi Field is advising are women who want to save their marriages, women who feel that their lack of ability to experience sexual pleasure is a major problem in their marriages.”

“Everyone is right,” Hunter said to Zane. “Georgie is an expert on this book.”

“Well, I don't see what all the fuss is about.” Zane kept an arm around Georgeanne's stiff shoulders, as she looked ready to claim urgent business elsewhere. “Any man worth his salt would know if his woman was faking her fun.”

“What do you say, Georgie?” Hunter asked, as if he'd known her all his life.

“I think that's the whole point,” Georgeanne said, after a moment of silence. “The men Fritzi Field is talking about tend to be the sort who probably won't know. They … don't think any of the problem might be with them, and they demand that their wives respond to a technique that isn't working. So Fritzi tells those women to give their husbands what the husbands think they want.”

“Serves the husbands right, is that it?” Zane asked.

Georgeanne moved uncomfortably, probably disconcerted by the twin gray gazes fixed on her face, Zane decided. If he had any sense, he would change the subject. Georgeanne looked close to bolting for the door.

“That was more or less my impression,” she hedged.

“Georgie, you're pretty good at this,” Hunter said, in admiration. “How would you like me to mention you to a couple of talk show hosts? I'm on my way to New York for some publicity shows.”

Georgeanne looked absolutely horrified. “Thank you, but no. I wouldn't go on a talk show if I'd written the book.”

“Ah-ha,” Hunter said, in the teasing tones of a little boy. “The psychologist needs psychoanalysis. She's scared.”

“Leave her alone, Hunt.” Zane saw the irrepressible fun in his brother's gray eyes and felt the incredible tension in Georgeanne's lithe body where it was pressed against his.

“He's right,” Georgeanne said. “Appearing on a talk show would probably give me a heart attack.”

Zane wondered why the thought of it unnerved her so much, since Georgeanne was unlikely to go on any talk shows, no matter how brilliant her analysis of
Faking It
.

“Be a sport, Georgie. I could give your name to a few of the talk show hosts I happen to know,” Hunter said, grinning wickedly. “You can be a resource person. You know more about that dumb book than anyone else I've heard. You'd be a hit.”

“If anyone calls me, I'll say I've never even heard of the book, much less read it,” Georgeanne said.

“Cease and desist, Hunt,” Zane said. Georgeanne's fingernails were actually digging holes in the soft skin of her own hands. “You're upsetting her.”

Hunter stared at Georgeanne's tense, pale face. “By God, I have. Sorry, Georgie. I mean, I know talk shows are definitely low-class entertainment, but they're nothing to be scared of.”

“I'm not upset,” Georgeanne stated, in the tones of one seeking to convince herself.

“I thought psychologists loved advising people,” Hunter said. “Just think of being able to advise thousands of people at one time.”

Georgeanne forced a smile, although Zane would have sworn the thought affected her much like being zapped with a Taser. “I've never practiced as a psychologist.”

“I thought psychologists automatically analyzed everyone,” Hunter said. “Do they ever psychoanalyze themselves?”

Zane decided Hunter's teasing had gone far enough. Then he noted that, for some reason, this question acted upon Georgeanne like a tranquilizer.

She smiled. “I read once that people majored in psychology in order to figure out what was wrong with themselves. Maybe it's true.”

Zane caught the gleam of fun in her deep brown eyes and closed his mouth again. He should have known Georgeanne wouldn't let Hunter's teasing get to her.

“So what have you found out?” Hunter stared at Georgeanne's face in obvious fascination.

“After deep analysis, I discovered that what I'd guessed all along was true,” she announced, in solemn tones. “I was so used to standing out when I didn't want to simply because of being so much taller than everyone else that I became very sensitive about it. Public speaking is a traumatic experience for me.”

“You need therapy,” Hunter decided. “An intensive session on the ‘Tonight Show with Jay Leno' would set you straight instantly.”

“There is no way that I will appear on any talk show and talk about any subject,” Georgeanne said. “For one thing, I am not an expert. For another, there are plenty of people out there who are. Let them do it.”

“But you make the most sense of anyone I've heard when it comes to
Faking It
,” Hunter argued. “You owe it to the American reading public.”

“Why is it people always drag in patriotism when they want someone to do something?” Georgeanne asked Zane.

“I don't know, but I'm sure a psychiatrist would have a field day with him,” Zane said. “Got any friends who wouldn't mind a Hollywood prima donna on their couches?”

“No one wants to hear what I think about
Faking It
,” Hunter said, “but they'll eat Georgie up. She made better sense in ten minutes than those psychiatrists did in a whole half-hour of arguing.”

“That's because she's well-trained enough to read the book before she tries to talk about it,” Zane said. “Right, Georgie?”

“That probably has a lot to do with it,” Georgeanne agreed, relaxing a little.

Hunter found that exquisitely humorous. “If you ask me, that probably has everything to do with it.”

*

Georgeanne did not know what would be worse, going on a talk show as Fritzi Field or spending the rest of the evening in Zane's living room with Hunter Howell quizzing her about
Faking It
. She began searching for reasons to hasten home immediately.

She had no idea how long Hunter would remain and she didn't like to ask. She hadn't even had a chance to think on what she had shared with Zane in the bedroom earlier, and something told her the experience had changed her in ways she needed to consider.

“Forget it, Georgie,” Zane said, narrow-eyed. “You are not leaving.”

“Why does she want to leave?” Hunter asked. “Is my face putting you off, Georgie? I can put on my dark glasses if you think that'll help.”

Georgeanne wondered why everybody in the world could read her thoughts. “I'm not leaving.” She seized a carton of flavored popcorn and dug in. “But I am getting hungry.”

Hunter jumped up and headed for the kitchen. “She needs coffee. I'll go make some. What about a frozen dinner? He's got loads of them in his freezer. I'll fix one for you.”

Georgeanne stared after him, and then looked at Zane. “What on earth was that all about?”

“I think he's decided I need a few minutes alone with you to talk you out of leaving. I told you Hunt has a sixth sense.” Zane tilted her chin up with one big hand and cupped the other around her shoulder. “Sorry about his showing up like this. He isn't used to finding a woman in my apartment.”

Georgeanne laughed. “So I gathered. I enjoyed talking to him.” She added, smiling, “By the way, everything I said in my analysis of him still goes. He's very concerned about your happiness, which is why he decided he'd better check me out thoroughly.”

“Remind me to kill him,” Zane said. “This isn't the weekend I had planned for us, Georgie. For one thing, I didn't intend to fall into bed with you right off. For another, I didn't plan to introduce you to Hunt until after we were well established as a couple.”

“You'd have run into a problem there.” She smiled at him, well aware that memories of their lovemaking probably showed on her face. “Your brother is very protective of you.”

“I'll definitely have to kill him.” He brushed his lips over hers. “The thing is, I didn't want our first time together to be a quickie, and that's what it's turning out to be.”

“It still ranks as the most memorable experience of my life.” Georgeanne felt the telltale heat radiating from her face when the meaning of her own words registered in her head. “We knew you were on call, so please don't blame yourself.”

“Georgie, that is without a doubt the best thing a woman has ever said to me.” Zane kissed her in earnest. “I'll have to find some way to reward you.”

So much for hoping Zane had not picked up on her statement. “I'll look forward to that reward.”

“Mexican or turkey?” Hunter called from the kitchen.

“Mexican,” Georgeanne answered, without hesitation.

“I think I like being the one to show you everything you missed during your marriage,” Zane said.

Georgeanne flushed and looked away. “Is it so obvious? I thought I was more mysterious than that.”

Zane laughed. “Confess, Georgie. You were hoping for a one-night stand.”

“A what?” Georgeanne's mouth dropped open. “Me?”

Zane chuckled. “I'm only teasing. If there's one thing a biology major such as myself usually runs from, it's casual sex. And sex with you is anything but casual. That's why I want to be sure you understand that this is a relationship, and there's nobody but you in my life.”

Georgeanne stared into his determined gaze in wonderment. All the books said men were a lot more casual about sex than women, and that women tended to place too much importance on going to bed with a man.

On the other hand, what did she know? The more books Fritzi Field sold, the more ignorant Georgeanne considered herself about sex, marriage, and everything else that had to do with men.

“Why do biology majors such as yourself run from casual sex?” she asked.

“Have you any idea how many hours I spent peering at germs through powerful microscopes?”

“Oh.” Georgeanne smiled and wished she had known Zane in his student days. “Maybe microbiology should be a requirement for high school students. It might turn out to be the best sex education tool in existence.”

“Speaking of sex education,” Hunter said from the kitchen door, “I'm contacting my agent tonight. I've got to play the lead role when
Faking It
is made into a movie.”

Georgeanne felt the blood leaving her face as the bottom fell out of her stomach.

“It's my new career goal,” Hunter added. “I've got to play the man who convinces the author of
Faking It
that she no longer needs to fake it.”