Chapter 13

ROB'S HOUSE was a forty-minute walk from the nearest bus stop, but Georgia didn't mind. The weather was wonderful, if hot, and she had plenty of thinking to do. Ken Medlock's interest in her was flattering, but fleeting, she was sure. She knew Ken's M.O.—the man saw her simply as a challenge, a conquest. Rob, on the other hand, had taken her out regularly for many months now. And they were finally progressing toward the kind of physical relationship she desired. She'd be crazy to mess it up now.

Her first thought when she saw Rob's beautiful two-story gray brick home was that she'd never seen his lawn so unkempt. Her second thought was that it must be driving him crazy, lying in bed with a cold while his Bermuda grass went to seed. But at the sight of the newspapers stacked on the stoop, alarm blipped through her. The fact that Rob hadn't been able to retrieve his beloved Wall Street Journal meant that he was more ill than he'd allowed her to think.

She stepped over the stack of papers, then balanced her purse and the canister of soup to ring the doorbell. After a couple of minutes with no response, she rang it again, perplexed. With no answer, she dug the copy of the door key he'd given her from her wallet and carefully unlocked the front door.

"Rob?" she called in the direction of the upstairs. She walked into the foyer, frowning at the dim lighting. "Rob?"

Concerned, she set down her purse and the soup, then jogged up the staircase and to the right of the landing into the master suite. Not only was he not in his bed, but the massive four-poster king looked as if it hadn't been slept in recently. Rob was nothing if not neat. She'd only been in the suite a handful of times, usually when Rob wanted to show her a new book in his collection of first editions or to retrieve a Band-Aid from the bathroom vanity, but everything appeared to be in place—not even signs of sickness, like medications or boxes of tissues. As always, his surroundings were impeccable.

She checked the other upstairs bedrooms, then descended to the first floor, once again calling his name. Moving quickly from room to room, she scoured the first level, then walked down into the daylight basement, which had been turned into a gaming area and bar, and finally opened the door from the mud room leading to the garage.

A little laugh escaped her. Why hadn't she checked here first? His black Lexus was missing—he'd probably gone to the office, or maybe even driven himself to the drugstore. Relieved, but disappointed to have missed him, she found a pen and a piece of paper to leave a note.

Rob,

I came by to cheer you up with chicken soup and TLC. Sorry I missed you—hope this means you're feeling better. Left soup in the refrigerator.

Georgia chewed on her lip, conjuring up the nerve to write something more provocative. She inhaled deeply. After what they'd shared together, she could be brave.

Call me tonight if you feel like having a little X-rated fun on the phone. See you at the wedding tomorrow.

Georgia

She propped up the note on the black granite counter against a state-of-the-art combination coffee grinder and brewer, moved the newspapers to a table inside the foyer, then locked the door behind her. On the way back to the bus stop, she rubbed the area just beneath her breastbone—that spicy hot dog wouldn't allow her to forget about the little tête-à-tête with Ken Medlock. Everything about the man was an inconvenience.

His face continued to haunt her as she shopped for a wedding gift from Stacey's twenty-seven-page registry at a housewares specialty shop. But she attributed the pesky vision to his wholly improper line of questioning at the park.

Have you ever been married?

No. You?

Absolutely not.

After hearing a response like that, any woman looking for a serious relationship would avoid Ken Medlock at all costs. Why even entertain the thought of being attracted to a man who was cocky enough to issue a warning up front about his commitment capacity?

From the endless selection of delicate china patterns, ringing crystal and mirror-shiny silver services, she chose a large pewter platter with a raised grapevine pattern. She'd read somewhere that people always gave the gifts they wanted for themselves, which was true in this case, she admitted. To her, platters connoted family gatherings and memories made, a blessing she wanted for her friend Stacey... and someday, for herself.

In her mind she pictured a Thanksgiving table featuring a perfectly browned turkey, a dazzling array of impossibly delicious side dishes, and dozens of sweatered arms reaching for more than their share. In-laws, friends... children.

She panned the smiling faces around the table, basking in the warmth of their love. Then she stopped and frowned. What the devil was Ken Medlock doing sitting at the head of her table?

He winked and lifted his hand in a little wave. Presumptuous sod.

She bought the platter and jockeyed it home via the bus, walking into her sauna of an apartment around seven o'clock. She deposited her bags in the living room with a sigh, then smiled at the flashing light on her message machine. Rob had probably called to thank her for the soup. She pressed the Play button.

"Thank you for buying this Temeteck product! This is a test message to allow you to adjust the volume. Press 1 if you don't want this message to play again."

Georgia pressed the "1" button five, ten, twenty times, each time faster and harder than the last. She broke a nail and her promise to stop cursing aloud. The owner's manual yielded nothing other than a headache and a dent in the wall when she threw it. First thing tomorrow, the blankety-blank phone system was going back to the place where she'd bought it.

She was still grumbling under her breath when the object of her consternation rang. Hoping it was her super telling her the month's rent would be waived due to the unbearable conditions, she snatched it up.

"Hello?"

"Georgia, dear, must you always answer the phone as if you just finished running a marathon?"

Georgia sat on the coffee table, which, she noticed, was more comfortable than the couch. "Nice to hear your voice, too, Mom. Are you having a good time with Fannie?"

"Of course. Her home is so luxurious, I feel like I'm on vacation."

"That's nice. How are the girls?"

"Precious."

"And Fannie?"

"Missing Albert—he's traveling for business. They adore each other, you know."

"Yes, Mom, I know."

"Did you get my letter?"

"Yes, thank you for lighting a candle for me."

"A mother's job."

She frowned. Weren't those Ken's words?

"I saw on the news that Birmingham is under a dangerous heat wave, and I wanted to see if you were okay."

"It's hot, and my air conditioner isn't working, but I'm surviving."

"Good. Do you and Bob have big plans for the weekend?"

"It's Rob, Mom, and as a matter of fact, we're going to a wedding."

She clucked. "Are you getting serious about this young man?"

Georgia reached for a cord to fidget with, then remembered the phone was cordless. "I... don't know. He's... nice." And safe. She frowned. Where had that thought come from?

"Nice? He has his own business and a home—you'd better snap him up."

Her mother saw the world in such simple terms. "But I'm not sure I'm in love with Rob."

"Love?" Her mother made a tsk-tsking sound—she had an entire repertoire of chiding noises. "You're not getting any younger, Georgia."

"Mom, I'm only thirty."

"By the time I was your age, I'd been married for thirteen years."

Georgia bit her tongue to keep from uttering something regrettable—her mother couldn't help that she'd fallen for a smooth-talking philanderer. "Mom, I still have lots of time to settle dow—"

"Oh, there's Fannie, I have to go, dear. Tell Bob I said hello."

She sighed. "Okay, I'll tell him."

"Toodleoo."

"Toodleoo." She disconnected the call, shaking her head. No doubt her poor mother had endured a rocky marriage, although she'd never discussed it with the girls. It was obvious that she was living vicariously through her daughters, mainly Fannie, but Georgia knew she truly wanted them both to be happy.

But she sorely missed her father.

Georgia gave the thermostat a swat as she walked toward the shower, peeling off her clothes. Her earlier thought sprang to mind. Rob was safe? Safe wasn't a characteristic, safe was a, a, a... place.

Had she been so affected by her father's indiscretions that she'd projected love on to a man who was as opposite from George Adams as was earthly possible?

She stepped under the cool spray and tilted her head back until her hair was saturated and heavy. She sighed as the day's stress began to wash away.

And conversely, had she shunned the interest of the man who reminded her very much of her irresistible father? Ken Medlock's dancing brown eyes mocked her, challenged her.

You did a bad, bad thing, Georgia. You know you want me. I can take you places you've only dreamed of going. Unsafe places.

"I went there with Rob," she murmured.

But you were thinking of me. I was in your mind before you even met me.

She slid the loofah glove over her hand, reveling in the nubby texture and the bulk, the glove resembling a man's hand... a lover's hand... Ken's hand. She resisted the pull of him, his smile, his big body, seemingly built to plague her. Georgia ignored the alarms going off in her head. Perhaps a little fantasy would help get him out of her system. He owed her that much...

Georgia leaned over and began sudsing her feet with the loofah in little therapeutic circles. The water, the rhythmic movement, the aromatic soap. Inch by inch, she rubbed the cleanser into her ankles, calves, thighs, wondering if Ken had a slow hand, or would rush to pleasure her.

Whichever you like, Georgia. I'm at your bidding, ma'am.

He was so earthy, definitely a man in tune with his body. The sheer size of him sent a thrill through her. His mouth... He was a wonderful kisser, strong, firm, insistent. She lifted her head and allowed the water to pulse over her mouth and spill off her chin. She resumed her massage, methodically moving over her thighs, to her buttocks, to her stomach, moving in circles around her navel, triggering a slow grind of her hips.

Happy Birthday, Ken.

She closed her eyes and imagined putting on a show for him alone. He stood outside the shower in his uniform, barred from entry, able only to watch through the fogged glass.

With the loofah, she touched her breasts, outlining their contours, working inward in slow, firm circles.

Do you like?

He could only nod, which made her smile, smug with feminine power. Such a big, strong man. So malleable in her hands.

She moved the glove over her nipples and moaned, rubbing until they glowed bright pink beneath the white suds. Then she removed the hand-held shower head, turned the water to pulsate, and rinsed the soap from her body, moving slowly from neck to waist, lingering at her thighs before she leaned over seductively to give him a shocking angle while she finished her calves and ankles.

Come out here. I want to touch you.

She turned off the shower and stepped out of the glass stall to towel off slowly and prolong his torture. But when she looked up, he was gone.

The rush of disappointment was keen, overridden quickly by reality. She laughed, a hollow little sound in the confines of the tiled room. Of course he was gone. It was her subconscious speaking to her—men like Ken Medlock didn't stick around for long.

But her body still shook from the stimulation, and her breasts fairly ached. She stumbled to the bedroom, longing leadening her limbs. She felt... engorged, ready to come out of her skin.

The light from the bathroom cast just enough illumination for her to find her way to the bed. She fell across the comforter and hugged herself, squeezing her eyes shut against the fantasies that played behind her eyes. Ken Medlock was in her fantasies only because she had seen him so many times over the past couple of days. His face and body were fresh in her mind. She just needed to see Rob, that's all. To be reminded of his blond good looks, his lanky build, his well-shaped hands. She rolled over and stared at the phone in the dark.

Maybe he'd called and wasn't able to leave a message on that fouled-up machine of hers.

Her womb clenched with pent-up desire. It was either call or fly solo with Ken Medlock's kiss in her head.

She reached for the phone.