“Maybe it was a storybook beginning.” Daniel Nayeri
For the second time in ten minutes Geneva Bach anxiously scanned her reflection in the antique dressing mirror. Large gray-green eyes stared pensively back at her, studying her delicately made-up features and ivory and roses complexion for flaws. Finally, reluctantly, she admitted to herself that from her upswept dark blonde hair to the hem of her vintage hobble skirt gown, she successfully radiated the romance of the late Edwardian era.
Reaching into a large hat box she withdrew what the costumer had declared the piece d' resistance, a matching hat decorated with satin, tulle, flowers, and plumes, and gingerly affixed it atop her hair with an ornate hat pin. After pulling on white gloves, she collected her parasol and reticule, and studied her reflection one last time.
The costume ball hosted by her publisher was a highlight of the convention and would be Geneva's first appearance since her husband's death of an aneurysm two years before. Those who believed her deep in mourning would be forgiven for their misconception, for that was precisely what Geneva wanted them to believe. Few knew that her marriage of five years had been a journey through hell, or that her much publicized collapse had been, in face, a nervous breakdown. Fewer still knew of her battle to overcome a nearly phobic fear of men. It was a legacy of the man the public had celebrated as the most romantic in America, thanks to the fantasies she herself had created in their minds.
Any moment now her as yet unknown escort would arrive to accompany her. Melinda, her agent since the sale of her first book almost twelve years ago, had been aghast by the notion of her most successful author attending the ball alone. Taking the matter upon herself she'd arranged an escort for Geneva, then refused to tell her anything other than that he was courtly in manner, devastatingly handsome, and completely trustworthy. When Geneva had asked for his name, Melinda had professed to forget, but the gleam in her eyes had said otherwise. That gleam still worried Geneva.
The doorbell chimed its Westminsterian melody, jolting her out of her reverie. With a deep breath, she switched off the bedroom light and walked downstairs to the living room. A tall, broad-shouldered form was silhouetted in the frosted glass of the front door and she couldn't decide if the shiver traveling up her spine was born of fear or anticipation.
As she opened the door, her eyes widened in surprise as they traveled upward. Clad elegantly in a black tux was the man who had adorned the covers of at least six of her early romance novels. His sensuously long mahogany mane of hair, now shot with a few strands of silver, was confined in a shoulder length pony tail. Heavily lashed sienna brown eyes and a devilish pair of dimples flashed as he smiled down at her.
He'd long been overshadowed in public by better known cover models and she'd always believed his appeal was underrated. Less flamboyant than other models and lacking an oversized ego, he'd been content with his popularity within the modeling industry and his anonymity without. Geneva had always taken great care not to meet him, as she'd feared both her attraction to him and her husband's inevitable reaction to her talking, however briefly, with any man other than himself.
“Mrs. Bach?”
She couldn't seem to tear her eyes from his warm gaze and it took a few moments to realize he had spoken.
“Yes?”
“I”m James MacGregor. Melinda asked me to escort you this evening.”
She continued to stare, lost in tongue-tied anxiety, until one dark brow rose in inquiry.
“Is that alright?”
“Oh! Oh, yes,” she shook her head, “I'm sorry. Just let me get my things.”
Flustered, she turned back into the room to search for the parasol and reticule, then remembered that she held them both in her hands. Feeling foolish, she glanced at the man in the doorway and caught the gentle humor in his eyes. Gentle or not, his smile stiffened her back and she faced him squarely.
“I forgot my wrap upstairs. I'll be right down.”
She fled up the stairs as fast as her hobble skirt would allow and ripped through her closet and dresser before spying her grandmother's shawl. Hand-crocheted decades ago of gossamer like yarn, its delicacy would blend well with her costume, while also restoring some of her dignity.
She returned downstairs and found him standing just inside the door, studying a trio of framed pictures on the wall.
“Whenever you're ready, Mr. MacGregor.”
Turning, he stepped forward to take the shawl from her hands.
“You're very talented, Mrs. Bach.” He nodded toward the delicate pastels. “I assume you are the G. Bach who signed these.”
She nodded, “Yes.”
“The roses are so lifelike, I can almost smell their perfume.”
He settled the shawl around her shoulders, his breath teasing the small hairs around her ear as he peered beneath the brim of her hat. A frisson of fear trembled through her before she could control it.
“Thank you,” she murmured and stepped through the doorway, turning briefly to watch him close the door behind them. With a hand resting against her back, he guided her down the walk to the SUV waiting at the curb. The night was clear, the air sweet with honeysuckle. Smoky jazz music flowed from the townhouse next door.
Once on the road, she strove to break the awkward silence created in part by her own anxieties.
“I hear you've retired from modeling.”
He nodded as he reached toward the radio, “For almost two years now. What's your musical pleasure?”
With a faint click the car's cabin suddenly boomed with the hard-driving classic rock of ZZ Top, the din mercilessly buffeting already taut nerves until he hurriedly turned the volume down.
“Sorry,” he grinned sheepishly, “I forgot I had it that loud.”
Geneva's laughing eyes belied her sympathetic pardon.
“Not my first choice for a quiet drive, I must admit.”
She watched him punch a series of buttons until he found a station playing Debussy.
“Much better, thank you,” she approved on a sigh.
“You don't like ZZ Top?”
“When I clean house or drive the interstate, I love them. At night, I prefer something quieter, more relaxing.”
“I'll have to remember that.”
His very male smile sent little shimmers of warmth through her to bloom rosily on her cheeks. She decided to shift the focus of the conversation.
“So what have you been up to since getting out of modeling?”
“Enlarging my ranch mostly,” he replied, his voice a velvety growl over the music playing softly from the speakers, “It's about an hour's drive west of Fort Worth.”
“What kind of ranch is it?”
“Cattle mainly, but I also raise and train a few cutting horses. My sister breeds Andalusians out in California and recently gave me a filly from her line. She's a beautiful animal and should do well in the show ring.”
“Andalusians are gorgeous,” Geneva agreed, “but I'm partial to Tennessee Walkers myself.”
Their conversation flowed as they found common ground and the miles sped by. Soon, he was guiding the car to a stop outside the lobby of an elegant five-star hotel in midtown Dallas. A smartly dressed valet opened her door and helped her from the car. Her nerves returned as James took her hand and placed it in the crook of her arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze as he smiled down at her.
“I forgot to mention that you look lovely, Mrs. Bach.”
She managed a small smile, “Thank you and, please, call me Geneva.”
His gaze lingered a moment on her face, “If you'll call me James.”
After a moment she nodded once, shyly, “Very well, James.”
The lobby was classically understated, the lighting soft and inviting. Couples dressed in the finery of ages past and future made their way toward the grand ballroom in an opulent parade of color. Most smiled with pleasure when they spotted Geneva and James, a few hurrying over to welcome them back to the fold. Inside the ballroom, they were formally announced by a dour looking man dressed like a British Beefeater. The announcement unleashed another flood of welcomers, led by two well preserved old women, identical twins dressed as Scarlet O'Hara and Melanie Wilkes, who co-wrote some of the most erotic romances in print. Stage performers in their youth, both loved to play the stereotypical romance writer to the hilt with well-rehearsed flourishes of speech and limbs.
“Geneva, as I live and breathe, you look positively ravishing,” exclaimed Scarlet as she enveloped the younger woman in a Chanel-scented hug. “It's about time you were out and about. Are you writing again?”
As Geneva returned the hug, James found himself under the admiring eye of Melanie as she wound her arm expertly through his.
“James, you darling man, whenever are you going to pose for another book? I am, I mean, we are writing the most delicious pirate story and you would be just perfect on the cover.” She cuddled his arm kittenishly, not giving him a chance to respond. “Tell me, are you and Geneva an item?”
After a few minutes, when Geneva began to feel overwhelmed by the attention, James led her onto the dance floor and turned her into his arms beneath a massive crystal chandelier. It had been years since she danced but her feet seemed to remember how.
“Thank you for rescuing me,” she murmured, then grinned impishly as she caught sight of Melanie over his shoulder, “or should you be thanking me for your rescue?”
His chuckle played along her skin on a warming shiver.
“We'll polish one anothers shining armor and call it even.”
As the hours passed, he seldom strayed from her side. She noticed that he often touched her, almost without thought. Some part of her, long thought dead, began to revive and then to flower, and she found herself frequently touching him in return. Over hors d' oeuvres they chatted with old friends or grew better acquainted with each other as they discussed horses, cattle, his ranch and her writing. When the music allowed and lights were dimmed, they danced in dreamy silence.
She discovered that he possessed a wry wit that was very much to her liking and that he liked to gently tease smiles out of her. He found that she possessed a rapier-sharp mind and a quirky sense of humor. They were both opinionated but open to other convictions, which helped fuel several animated discussions.
Midway through the evening, upon returning from the ladies room, Geneva chuckled as she watched the ever flirtatious Melanie drag James onto the dance floor. After a good-natured roll of his eyes over the old woman's shoulder, he carefully led her in a two step around the room to an ever popular George Strait classic. Occasionally their laughter rose appealing over the din of the room, attesting to their enjoyment of the dance and one anothers company.
As Melanie had promised, he was proving himself the courtly gentleman. All evening Geneva had witnessed his inbred charm and impeccable manners. An attentive escort, he'd seen to her comfort without hovering and provided discreet support in those moments when old anxieties threatened. He seemed to know intuitively when she needed a comforting touch, a wink of encouragement, or to escape to a quieter corner of the ballroom. Her trust, a gift grudgingly given, began to make its first tentative offerings.
An idea she'd had for her next book germinated and she went in search of Melanie, who she'd seen earlier dressed as a spear-toting Amazon, to convey her intent to resume writing. She was rewarded with a warm hug.
“God, Geneva,” the statuesque redhead exclaimed in relief, “I was beginning to think I'd never hear you say that! Tell me more!”
“I want to do a story on battered women,” she watched the smile fade from Melinda's face and hurried on, “Maybe it's passe but...”
“No! No, I think it's a great idea.”
“But?”
Melinda sighed and switched her spear to the other hand.
“Are you sure you're up to it? Emotionally, I mean?”
“Yes,” Geneva's smile bloomed with confidence.
“Then when can I expect it on my desk?”
“First draft in six months or less.” Her smiled dimmed a bit. “After all, I don't have to go far from research, do I?” She sighed. “I can't help feeling that maybe I can help other women with my story.”
“I think it's a wonderful idea.”
Sniffing back much despised tears, Melinda wrapped Geneva in a tight hug then quickly pulled away to blink the moisture from her eyes. “Damn! There goes my makeup!”
Snatching a paper napkin from a passing waiter's tray, she carefully dabbed at her lashes before pasting on a determinedly breezy smile. Noticing the mistiness in Geneva's eyes, she handed her the napkin.
“I'm very happy for you, Geneva.”
She glanced toward the dance floor where a tipsy Scarlet was teaching James to bump, her hooped skirt swinging dramatically in rhythm.
“So how do you like James?”
“He's nice.”
“Nice? Honey, you forget who you're talking to. I've seen how you two are looking at each other. Think you'll make it home fully clothed?”
“Go sit on your spear, Melinda.”
The final dance came sometime long after midnight. Many, including James' elderly admirers, had already called it a day and made their farewells. A stalwart few remained to slowly circle the confetti littered floor as the band ended the evening with a romantic standard.
Nestled tiredly against his broad chest, Geneva enjoyed the soothing caress of his hand as it moved slowly up and down her back. As he'd drawn her into his arms, he'd lifted her hands around his neck and clasped them where they brushed against his pony tail. Her fingers ached with a surprising need to loosen the band holding his hair in place and comb through the heavy silken locks.
Her fear of this man had diminished greatly over the course of the night. With the lowering of her defenses an inner voice sought to assure her that he would never hit her, never force her into demeaning acts, never terrorize her with his threats and actions. Hope, so fragile and young, grew timidly from the ashes of the past, daringly drawn by the whispers of her heart.
Looking up into his ardent eyes, she could almost hear the snapping of the chains binding her to the past. Finding the notion oddly disquieting, she searched for some comment to break the spell.
“James...”
A gentle finger across her lips stopped her, “Shh. It'll be alright.”
Cupping the back of her head, he eased it forward to rest against his shoulder, then resume the slow caressing of her back as they swayed beneath the chandelier.
In the car a half hour later, Geneva relaxed in her seat and eased her aching feet out of her shoes. Her hat, shawl, and parasol shared the back seat with is jacket and tie, and cool air blew refreshingly over her face from the vents. The glow of the dashboard and the music of Mozart on the radio helped create a quiet intimacy as they left Dallas behind.
Studying his profile in the dim lighting, Geneva wondered idly what it would be like if they made love. Having known only raw, brutish sex, she found herself unable to imagine the act any other way. But with him, maybe it could be different. Her toes curled at the thought.
Catching her watching him, James smiled and traced a tender knuckle down her cheek.
“Did you enjoy tonight?”
She returned his smile as he caught her hand for a quick squeeze before returning his attention to the highway.
“Yes, I did, thank you. I noticed you seemed to have a good time as well.” She grinned teasingly. “You've quite a fan club.”
“Must be my youth and animal magnetism.”
“Not to mention your humility.”
“Don't forget my dashing good looks.”
Geneva snorted sarcastically though her eyes sparkled in merriment.
“As I said, your humility.”
They laughed companionably and shared remembered moments from the evening as the minutes and miles flew by.
Arriving back at the townhouse, he shut off the engine and let the quiet settle around them. Only the street lights illuminated the parking lot, their glow an irresistible lure to an array of nocturnal insects.
“Sometimes,” Geneva began wispily, “I wish I had a big farm house with a veranda and a porch swing. I love a clear summer night when I can sit outside and watch the stars.”
“How did you end up in Denton?”
“I never have liked living in large cities. New York's okay as cities go but I felt so, claustrophobic, I guess. When my husband died I couldn't get out of town fast enough, and going home to Tennessee didn't seem like the right thing to do. I'd visited Texas a few times in the past and loved it. So I followed my heart and here I am.”
She paused to watch a luna moth alight on a pole.
“It's been more than two years now and I've never regretted anything but buying a townhouse instead of a real house.” She turned in her seat to face him. “How about you? Are you a native?”
“Born and bred. My ranch has been in the family for four generations.”
“Is that why you went into modeling? To save the family farm?”
James laughed.
“Hell, no. I went into modeling because I'm a natural ham. Like you, though, I felt suffocated in New York and I got tired of the life, so I finally came home.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Modeling? Or New York?”
“Either one.”
“Just once, right after I got back,” he chuckled as he rubbed his chin, the evening's growth of beard making a faint rasping sound. “The first time I cleaned a stall after having been gone for fifteen years I had a serious rethink with myself. But then, when I staggered outside for a breath of fresh air I saw new calves running the pasture and realized I'd made the right choice. Dad died a few months later and I was glad I'd come home and been able to spend some time with him.”
“Is your mom still alive?”
He shook his head, “No. She died of a stroke not long after Dad passed. The doctors said it was relatively mild but she'd lost her will to live. They'd been together a long time and I guess she couldn't bring herself to go on without him.”
“I'm sorry.”
He smiled softly and caressed her cheek.
“Your folks still living?”
Geneva answered his smile with one of her own.
“Yeah. Back in Tennessee.”
Time passed as they talked and the horizon began to lighten. Her yawns became more frequent. They in turn triggered his, giving them something more to laugh about.
“I don't want to but I guess it's time I went in,” she conceded and straightened in her seat. Reaching for her shoes, she slipped them on her feet as he slid from beneath the wheel. Rounding the hood, he opened her door and helped her out before reaching into the back seat for the rest of her things, then followed her up the walk to the front door.
“Can I see you again?” he asked in a husky voice.
Her heart gave a little trip despite her fatigue.
“If you like.”
“Oh, I would definitely like,” he assured her then moved closer until their bodies brushed and lifted her chin.
“Do you know how badly I've wanted to kiss you all night?”
Her heart, already skipping, began to thunder. Screwing up her courage she laid a gloved hand lightly on his solid chest.
“Whose stopping you?”
The first touch of his lips was tender, almost hesitant, and frustratingly brief. Pulling back, he scanned her face with eyes and fingertips.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured and cradled her face between his hands. Her parasol and hat dropped to the sidewalk unnoticed, her shawl fluttering after them, as she closed the distance between them with a moan. Lips parted, mouths melded, and she felt the chains of her past fall away as, with a tender touching of tongue to tongue, they pulled apart once more.
“I'd better go in,” she whispered regretfully, caressing the fabric over his chest before taking a step back. “Melinda said she'd be by first thing.”
“Are you busy tonight?”
“No.”
“How about dinner with me?”
“Fancy or cheap?” she asked impishly and grinned.
“Anything you want, darlin'.”
“Anything? How about, um, barbecue?”
“How strong is your stomach?”
“Cast iron.”
“Then I'll introduce you to Bubba Mangrum's World Famous Mesquite Pit Barbecue. Ever been to Bubba's?”
She shook her head.
“Then you best wear something old. His recipe's delicious but kinda messy.”
“I think I can come up with something suitable,” she assured him with a Mona Lisa smile.
“Then I guess we've got ourselves a date. About seven?”
She nodded then rummaged in her reticule for her key. Taking it from her hand he unlocked then opened the door, leaving the key in the lock while he stole a breathtaking kiss. Bending quickly, he retrieved the hat and parasol before using the shawl to pull her close for one last embrace.
“Sweet dreams,” he whispered with a final stroke of her cheek.
Stepping inside, she turned and wished him a good night before watching him turn away. Heart filled to aching she watched him return to the car and slide behind the wheel. Moments later, he gave a last wave and drove away as she closed the door behind her. Leaning against it, she closed her eyes and smiled softly to herself as she remembered the night just past and the evening to come. The smile broadened to a giddy school girl grin and she chortled as she hobble skipped to the stairs.
Now where was that bustier Melinda sent her last Christmas?
You certainly got Texas straight in this one. About as idealistic as a first date could be. Beautiful writer of romance novels, abused by her former husband, has a date with her cover model and learns that he is much more than just a model.
Idealistic but unrealistic. I guess the kind of stories that women who have dull lives like to read.
Superbly well written and some of the phrases are outstanding like, "A frisson of fear trembled through her before she could control it." I'm just not into this kind of romance.
Although I must admit, I am not much into romance stories, this one caught my eye and I found it both realilistic, colourful and with enough twists and descriptions in it to make it appealing. Well done Rebecca...
Felix
Enjoy twists and surprising turns in this erotic collection of sexy love stories based on seven classic fairy tales. There are romantic interludes to touch your heart and plenty of scorching sex to warm your coldest nights.
A young widow joins her aunt’s house-restoration project in the wilderness, determined to take a stand for independence, but two men have different plans for her—and so does God.
For the second time in ten minutes Geneva Bach anxiously scanned her reflection in the antique dressing mirror. Large gray-green eyes stared pensively back at her, studying her delicately made-up features and ivory and roses complexion for flaws. Finally, reluctantly, she admitted to herself that from her upswept dark blonde hair to the hem of her vintage hobble skirt gown, she successfully radiated the romance of the late Edwardian era.
