Razzmatazz-DDL (19 page)

“Is something wrong, Kennie Sue?” Only the sheen of perspiration on his forehead and the pulse throbbing at the open neck of his shirt betrayed his own response to what he was doing to her.

She found his zipper with her hand, exposed the hard length of him and closed her fingers around him, savoring his shuddering reaction as her nails gently grazed him, top to bottom to top. His desperate glance swung from her hand to the place where his disappeared beneath her skirt, to the cramped quarters of a front seat not made for such activities. “What...what do you propose we do next, Mrs. Carruthers?”

A slow, deliberate smile curved her lips as she reached across him and opened his car door. Then, before he could move, she rose to her knees on the seat, unable to restrain a low, breathy moan of regret as his hand withdrew. She felt an awkward tug and shifting of weight, and her panties were gone. There were more awkward movements as she climbed over him, then, her skirt billowing around them, she straddled his lap with one knee resting on the seat, the other leg hanging out the open door, her foot on the ground bracing her weight.

“Why, Kennie Sue....” He tugged the buttons of her blouse open and freed her breasts from their inhibiting garments. He closed his mouth over one turgid nipple as she slid onto him, and all awkwardness was gone as she moved slowly, slowly up and down, creating her own rhythm, even as his lips and tongue tugged mercilessly at her and his hands closed over her bottom, lifting and lowering. She dug her fingers into his hair, arching her neck back and thrusting forward as he moved his mouth from one breast to the other, his low groans vibrating against her. Her pace quickened; his tongue stroked faster. Her pace slowed; his hot breath washed over her as he protested with wordless grumbles.

And then he slid one hand forward around her thigh and insinuated it between them, his fingers homing in on that tingling spot that even now was reaching a point of pleasure that was almost pain. She gasped as he found it, cried out as he arched off the seat and drove higher into her, releasing the coils of sensation to hurtle through her in spasms of blissful response. She couldn’t move, felt her legs giving out as mindless pleasure filled her, and still he ground into her, suckled her, stroked her, until gasping sobs of ecstasy escaped her lips. And then, only then, did he allow himself release, filling her with a torrent of hot desire.

She fell against him and his arms enclosed her, their chests rising and falling against each other as they fought for air.

“I’m—I’m glad....” Alex murmured against her collarbone.

“Glad about what?” she responded into the wavy hair above his ear.

His hoarse chuckle vibrated against her skin, sending warm waves of golden pleasure skittering through her. “Glad you couldn’t wait.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

KENNIE RUMMAGED THROUGH the closet in search of her other white shoe. But when she emerged with the shoe, half her hair straggled from the clip atop her head. She reached for a comb, and a jar of night cream crashed to the floor. She cast only a cursory glance toward the bed, where the quilt-hogging man still slept.

He stirred, rolled over, grumbled. “Do we have to get up with the chickens?” he growled.

“The chickens have been up for hours.”

“How quaint.”

“It’s Monday. I have deliveries to make. Some people still have to work for a living, you know.”

His breathing was even; he was asleep again. She scooped the jar off the floor and placed it beside Alex’s straight-edged razor. No disposable razors for Alex Carruthers, or anything else ordinary, she thought. Instead, his shaving brush and mug competed with her cosmetics for space on the cluttered countertop.

Somehow Alex had managed to ingratiate himself with half the town, beating the old men out of their nickels at dominoes and promptly losing them to her mother in poker. In fact, he had a knack for knowing who would respect him for beating them and who would never forgive him for it.

When she’d bought him a pair of jeans he’d paired them with his fuchsia Razzmatazz sweatshirt as blandly as if he hadn’t been snickering under his breath at the typical west Texas attitude toward a man in pink.

And somehow the insufferable clod had worked his way under her skin as well. How could she let him do this to her, make her hope for something that her mind told her was ridiculously impossible? When she probed him about what kind of business allowed him so much freedom and was he really so wealthy, so decadent, that he had no need for honest employment, he only replied with a laugh that he could support them indefinitely in the style she was accustomed to. It was only if he wanted to return to his old life-style that he’d need to replenish his funds.

The telephone jangled by the bed. Alex didn’t budge, so she answered it.

“Kennie—I’m looking for Alex. Isn’t your annulment scheduled for next week? Have you heard from him yet?”

“Chris?”

“I’m in a bind. I need his...his advice on an important matter.”

“He’s here.”

“Thank God! Let me talk to him!” Chris said urgently.

“He’s asleep.”

“Here I thought I was doing you a big favor by getting you away from that rascal, and now you’re right back in his clutches.”

“That’s not exactly the way it happened,” she sighed.

“Well, I need to talk to him.”

“I’ll have him call you when he wakes up.”

“I don’t have time to wait—I’m leaving town in an hour. Listen, has he said anything lately about barley?” he asked hopefully.

“Barley?” She gave her head a shake. “No.”

“All right, all right. Just tell him that I’ll be getting back to him soon, and that—Wait a minute! Remind him that he’s supposed to be at the Hunters’ in Dallas on Friday night. I don’t care what excuses he makes—you’ve got to convince him to go. I’ll be there.”

“I’ll tell him.” She felt a strange chill as she replaced the receiver and stared down at Alex’s sleeping form, the lean angles of his face shadowed with overnight beard. The sunburn he’d acquired by driving in from Odessa two weeks earlier with the top down had faded into a deeper tan.

Her gaze traveled around the large, one-roomed apartment: a hodgepodge of furniture ranging from rough-hewn Texas antiques to a microwave in the tiny corner kitchen, from a braided rug and hardwood floor to the abstract print on the wall that she’d purchased because she liked its colors, purple and yellow.

Alex was expected at the Hunters’. Emmaline and Budd Hunter, who counted their millions by the hundreds. She wouldn’t know how to act around those people—what to say, how to dress.

“Who was that?” he mumbled.

“Chris.”

His curse was muffled by the faded quilt as he rolled over.

“He’s desperate for your advice on barley,” she told him.

“Tell him to consult one of his blasted textbooks. He’s getting paid for his M.B.A.,” he grumbled from beneath the covers. “Can’t he make his decisions without my advice?”

“Did you invest in barley?” she asked. He never mentioned his investments, though he had picked up financial magazines both times they’d gone into Odessa.

“Never.”

“Why not.”

“I don’t put my money where I don’t have any control.”

“Then why did you tell me you dabble in futures?”

“I also told you that futures weren’t risky for me. That’s because I never put my money in them.” He stretched, clasped his hands behind his head and grinned. “If Chris wants to invest his money on my hunches, that’s his problem. The idiot even tried to get me to form a partnership. His know-how, my hunches. Instant success, or so he claims.”

“But you aren’t interested.”

“Actually, I’ve been considering it lately.”

“Alex Carruthers, I’m ashamed of you. That sounds dangerously like real work.”

He groaned. “Don’t rub it in. Marriage does strange things to a man.”

She grabbed a Lady Ambrosia demonstration case and checked to see that it was sufficiently stocked with samples. “Chris also said to remind you of the Hunters’ party Friday night,” she said carefully.

His movement ceased. “What did he say about it?”

“Nothing, except that he’s going to be there.”

“I don’t think I’ll go.”

“Chris seemed to think it was important.”

“Chris wouldn’t know important if it slapped him in the face.” He reached across the open space between them and took her left hand in his, gently rubbing his thumb against the filigreed ring. “Or slugged him in the jaw.”

“I would think anything that had to do with the Hunters would be important,” she said.

“How about bridge?”

“Bridge?”

“Yes. Some people like nickel dominoes and penny-ante poker. Budd Hunter likes high-stakes bridge.”

“High-stakes?” She pulled her hand free, unable to hide her dismay. “You don’t put your money in the stock market, but you’ll risk it on a hand of bridge?”

“Budd and I are good partners. He likes to win, and so do I. He’s a pretty sharp old rascal, and me...well, I’m rather good myself.”

Kennie dropped into the small wicker chair beside the bed, stunned. “Does this have anything to do with statistics and MIT?”

Alex stretched elaborately, and she decided he was buying time. Finally he shrugged. “Everything, as a matter of fact. I’ve always had a knack for these things. Enough of a knack that they wanted to use me as a guinea pig. With what I picked up at the statistics center and with a little luck, I’m able to win far more often than I lose.”

“Dominoes and poker,” she said carefully.

“Gin rummy. Craps. Blackjack. You name it.” He rolled over to face her, his expression one of studied nonchalance. “I simply happen to prefer bridge.”

She felt him watching her, ready to read her reaction, and fought for a noncommittal tone. “But you don’t like casinos.”

“I prefer the more genteel company of gentlemen. Of friends. People who can afford to lose. Like me.”

“Exactly how much can you afford to lose, Alex?” she demanded.

His smile slid into place. “To me, losing isn’t a matter of dollars and cents. Losing is something I do gracefully, because I don’t have to do it often enough to hurt me.”

“While we’re on the subject of money,” she said, hands on her hips, “exactly what is the status of your inheritance?”

“So you want specifics.” He grinned. “If we stay married another forty-nine weeks, I’ll collect seven hundred sixty-four dollars and thirty-seven cents.”

Kennie stared at him in disbelief. “That’s it?”

“There were a lot of nephews. Like I said, it was never enough to quibble over.”

“But—but Chris acted like it was a fortune!”

“Chris assumed it was.” Alex shrugged. “I never bothered to disabuse him of that notion.”

Kennie let the tension seep from her body. “So Friday night is nothing more than a bridge game?”

“Emmaline is chairing a benefit dinner at the Hyatt Regency. She and I share a charitable interest, a local children’s hospital. So I’ll spring a couple of thousand for the banquet. Bridge comes afterward at the Hunters’ home for a select few.” He grabbed her hand and pressed his lips against her palm, sending tingling responses to the furthermost reaches of her body. “Are you trying to send me to Dallas to get rid of me?”

Kennie felt another chill. She had assumed she would be included. He obviously had other ideas.

“What’s wrong?” He raised himself on one elbow. “Why are you so tense? I’m not going.”

“But you should go.” She pulled her hand away from him.

“What’s wrong, Kennie?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong. I just know that whatever is happening in Dallas Friday night is important, and you should be there.”

He didn’t meet her gaze. “Chris shouldn’t have called.”

“Of course he should have. How long are you going to stagnate out here in the boondocks? How long until you get back to the real world?”

Alex stretched back across the pillows, crossing his long arms behind his head to stare at her. “This is the real world.”

“Mine, but not yours. And we said no more fantasy, remember? That means living in both real worlds, yours and mine.” She lifted her demonstration case and a large carryall filled with cosmetics. “I’ve got deliveries to make. If you need cream, you can either borrow some from Mama or drive into town. I’ll be gone a couple of hours.”

Leave it to Alex Carruthers to use real cream and imported gourmet coffee when she had a full stock of budget generic, Kennie mused. And leave it to Kennie Sue Ledbetter to fall in love with someone she didn’t know and, worse, to stop caring that she didn’t.

~o0o~

Alex snatched his sweatshirt from the stack of clean clothes Kennie had left on the foot of the bed and slipped it over his head. He wore it not out of vanity but because she’d chosen it for him.

He sat on the corner of the bed and stared at the opposite wall. There wasn’t even enough room to pace in. He scanned the bookshelf and found nothing new. He’d already pored over her old yearbooks, irritated that there was hardly a photo that didn’t link her with Rusk Delaney. As for the other books, Alex and Kennie didn’t share the same taste in literature.

But thinking of his sweatshirt popped an intriguing thought into his head. He crossed to her desk and flipped her well-worn dictionary open. When he found the right page the word he was searching for practically jumped out at him.

The definition on his sweatshirt told only half the story. He ignored the vim-and-vigor part, the ebullient-energy part and went straight to the heart of the matter:

 
3 : a flashy action intended to bewilder, confuse or deceive.
 

 
4: double talk

He stared down at the page until the words blurred. “Razzmatazz” was a far more accurate and damning description of him than he cared to face. But the time to face up to his double-talking deception was drawing nearer every day.

Alex slammed the book shut with a curse and shoved it back into place between Gone With the Wind and Anna Karenina. It was no wonder she had such a pessimistic attitude about love, he thought miserably, considering her choice of reading material.