Georgie's Heart (12 page)

Georgeanne replaced the receiver. She would not feel better about it. She would never feel better about it, no matter how many clinics the money would fund, or how much dog food she could buy for the Humane Society. She'd like to pack the royalty check, the letters, and anything else identifying her as Fritzi Field and ship them all back to New York.

Someone knocked at the door. Georgeanne looked out and saw a brown delivery truck sitting in her driveway being checked out by her dogs.

“Two packages for Miss Georgeanne Hartfield,” the man said.

Georgeanne looked down. The delivery dolly held two large cardboard boxes bearing the logo of her publisher. She couldn't believe it. Two big boxes full of letters for Fritzi Field? When was she supposed to get time to read them all?

She had the postman unload the boxes just inside her living room door, intending to carry them to her bedroom and stuff them out of sight in her closet, but the doorbell rang again before the mail truck had exited her driveway.

The dogs didn't bark. That meant a friend. Georgeanne opened the door with a feeling of impending doom.

“Georgie,” Denise Devereaux said, “I mean it. I want you to read this book. I need someone like Fritzi to talk to about it.”

Georgeanne suppressed an urge to deny all interest in Fritzi Field's theories. “I'm awfully busy right now … ”

“I know.” Denise shoved a copy of
Faking It
into Georgeanne's hands. “You've got a date with Zane Bryant, right? The man has great taste. I will say that for him.”

Georgeanne, constitutionally incapable of saying no to her friends, resigned herself to a few nights devoted to Fritzi Field. “All right, Denise. I'll read it.”

Denise's lovely face glowed with gratitude. “I've marked the parts I want you to pay particular attention to. That's your own copy, by the way. I can't give mine up.”

Georgeanne looked down at the book in her hands with an inward shudder. Her author's copies lay safely hidden on the top shelf of her linen closet. Her pride in her accomplishment had lasted all of nine months, until the day she'd seen a display of the books in a local bookstore that had already been depleted by customers. She'd known then that her quiet, anonymous life in the country was in jeopardy.

“I'll do my best.” Georgeanne just hoped she could come up with a reasonable analysis of the book. How did one analyze her own work without dithering around like a complete idiot?

“I've decided to start a website devoted to
Faking It.
” Denise's normally dignified face now held the ardent look of a crusader. “If no one around here feels the way I do, I'll connect with some people online. I just know there are more women out there who love this book. Maybe we can get Fritzi to talk to us online.”

Georgeanne made a sound that even she recognized as something similar to the wheeze made by a dying duck.

“In the meantime,” Denise added, “your job is to read that book and let me ask you lots of questions.” Her gaze fell on the two newly delivered boxes. “Need some help moving those?”

“I'm keeping them for a friend,” Georgeanne thought Denise regarded the boxes a little too closely. “I'll see if I can get the first few chapters read this weekend.”

Georgeanne shut the door behind Denise and gave the book a glance of loathing. At least she didn't have to actually read it in order to know what it said. But a website? Maybe she'd better read the book in hopes that Denise's urge to seek out other devotees to
Faking It
would be assuaged before she started the website.

She glanced toward the kitchen, saw the time, and gave a small shriek. Zane was due in fifteen minutes, and she wasn't even dressed. Her hair was hopeless. Thank goodness she had perfected a system years ago for days like this.

The system worked so well that she went warm all over when she opened her front door and Zane's appreciative gaze rested on her.

“Georgie, you look more beautiful than ever,” he said. “I can see I wasted my time feeling guilty about the fact that I gave you so little time to get ready.”

Georgeanne had pulled her heavy mass of brown hair smoothly back from her forehead and had secured it at the top of her head with an ornamental clip. Then she simply let it tumble down to join the rest of her hair, and it didn't matter so much that most of the curl had fallen out of it.

She wore a simple dress of emerald knitted fabric that skimmed her figure and made the most of every curve she had. Men always turned to look at her in that dress as if they actually preferred a woman with curves.

Judging from the expression on his lean, handsome face and lurking in his eyes, Zane liked her curves. Georgeanne's spirits, temporarily depressed from excessive contact with Fritzi Field's affairs, lifted immeasurably.

Her dogs sniffed cautiously at Zane's heels as he stepped across the threshold. “How long will it be until they decide I'm a friend?” Zane stepped inside at her invitation and his gaze fell upon the two boxes she hadn't yet moved. “Need some help with those?”

Georgeanne paled and mentally cursed herself for the way her ridiculous complexion insisted upon behaving. “Leave them there, please. I still have to decide where I want to put them. Would you like something to drink?”

“Better not. We barely have time to make the show.” Zane stared around the room. “This is a beautiful place. It feels like home.”

Georgeanne looked around at her comfortable, country-style furniture and the light, airy quality she had achieved with sheer curtains and cream-colored walls. She loved the plain and simple and felt inordinately pleased that Zane apparently did, too.

Too late, Georgeanne realized she had laid Denise's book on an end table. Zane picked it up. Her heart sank when his gaze went swiftly from the logo on the boxes to the matching publisher's imprint on the book jacket.

He turned the book in his big hands, studying the rave reviews decorating the back cover. “I see you broke down and bought a copy.”

Conscious of the absurd flushing of her skin, Georgeanne strove to concentrate on picking up her purse. “Denise bought me a copy. She wants me to read it and give her a report.”

“I see.” Zane thumbed lightly through the book. “She seems to have marked several places she wants you to pay special attention to.”

He opened the book to the foreword and skimmed it. Georgeanne felt sure he had mastered the entire contents of the foreword within the few seconds he spent reading it. He closed the book at last and laid it down. His penetrating gray gaze created extreme discomfort in Georgeanne's psyche.

“Interesting,” he said. “I'll definitely have to buy myself a copy. The author claims she wrote the book to save marriages.”

Georgeanne swallowed hard, but her throat was too dry for speech. She wasn't at all sure she wanted to know what Zane thought of the book, but the downfall of an author was ever curiosity about what readers thought of her work.

“What did you think of the foreword?” she asked, then added hastily, “I haven't read it yet, but Sandra and Denise were … quite impressed by it.” She reddened involuntarily.

Zane smiled, gray eyes warming when they rested on her. “I can see why. The author has the ability to convey honesty and caring without sentimentality. If the rest of the book reads like the foreword, this is an intensely personal book. The author probably wrote it on the strength of her own experience and convictions.”

Georgeanne experienced a sinking feeling. Perhaps she was suffering a belated crisis over the fact that readers actually recognized the personal nature of the book.

“We were wondering at the office if a man could possibly have written it,” she said. “Say, a doctor with a lot of anatomical experience.”

Zane grinned. “Is that right? I understand there are some graphic descriptions of female sexual response. Anyone with sufficient education could probably research whatever they needed.”

That was exactly what Georgeanne had done, even going so far as to request interlibrary loans. What if the head librarian read
Faking It
and remembered one Georgeanne Hartfield's preoccupation with that very subject about two years ago? Georgeanne's infamous complexion promptly paled.

Zane stepped closer. “Georgie, what is it? You look like you're about to faint.”

“It's just my habit of registering every stray thought on my skin.” Georgeanne turned toward the door. “All my life, people have wondered what embarrassed me or what was about to make me faint. Ignore it, Zane. It's a simple constriction or dilation of the arteries near my skin's surface. It may or may not have anything to do with what I'm thinking.”

Zane studied her face but said nothing more. He helped her into his car to the accompaniment of further inspection by her dogs, made a couple of good-natured remarks to the dogs, and came around. “This place has the loving look of an old family homestead. Was it handed down to you, by any chance?”

“As a matter of fact, it was,” Georgeanne said, surprised at his insight. “My grandparents used to farm rice on the land as far away as you can see in all directions. When my parents died, my grandfather left it to me.”

“How old were you when your parents died?” Zane held out his hand.

Georgeanne automatically placed her hand in his. “I was ten.” She forced a smile. “My father's brother took me to live with him and his wife in Shreveport. They were very good to me.”

“But?” Zane asked, as if certain there was a “but” somewhere.

Georgeanne reminded herself that Zane was a pediatrician accustomed to obtaining information from his little patients by using the sixth sense many doctors had lost with the advent of blood tests and modern machinery. “They had expected to have children of their own. When that didn't happen, they jumped at the chance to take me, but my poor aunt didn't know what to do with a child like me.”

“What do you mean, Georgie?” Zane studied her face thoughtfully while he started his car. “You don't strike me as the sort of person who had a troublesome childhood.”

“Oh, no,” she assured him hastily. “I went out of my way to avoid causing my aunt and uncle any trouble.” How could she explain the real trouble, which was that her height and intelligence had been an embarrassment to her aunt? “It's just that I wasn't the sort of child my aunt had in mind when my uncle brought me home to her.”

“What sort of child did she have in mind?” Zane looked at her as if he couldn't imagine any adult not appreciating Georgeanne as a child.

“She had hoped I'd be a cute little thing who would grow up to be popular and sought-after,” Georgeanne said in a rush. “Instead, I was shy and quiet and bookish. On top of that, I was taller than every boy in class. She didn't know how to dress me, or even how to talk to me. I was a great disappointment to her.”

“If she was expecting to live her life through you, I should hope she was,” Zane said. “Every child is an individual.”

“They did their best.” Georgeanne overall considered herself lucky in life. “They gave me a good home and a good education, and — “ She broke off before she could say, “a big wedding.” Her aunt had been thrilled about her marriage to Tony Rollins, and Georgeanne preferred not to think or talk about her marriage. “For the most part, I had a happy, normal childhood and a lot of good friends.”

*

Zane heard Georgeanne's unspoken words almost as unerringly as if she had said them aloud. Dr. Gant had been a regular fount of disgust when it came to describing Tony Rollins. Zane had formed the image of a man too strikingly handsome for his own good, a spoiled boy who had taken one look at Georgeanne Hartfield and had grabbed for her and all she represented.

If Georgeanne had spent much of her childhood disappointing her aunt, she must have jumped at the chance to please her when Tony Rollins appeared. That explained why Georgeanne had married a man who had obviously never bothered to please her in any way.

Feeling as if he understood Georgeanne much better, Zane told her about his adoptive parents, who were alive and well in Dallas, and who had unofficially adopted Hunter Howell the day Zane had brought him home for the first time.

“I'll always wonder what our lives would have been like if Hunt had grown up with me in my parents' home,” he finished. “He's a wary sort, but he warmed to them at once. They have a knack for taking in strays.” He smiled at her. “Rather like you, Georgie.”

“I hope they have a big yard and lots of money for dog or cat food,” Georgeanne said, in humorous tones. “When you have a knack like that, you'd better have the income to support it.”

“My dad's a doctor. Like me, he'll never be a particularly rich doctor, but he makes a good living. My mother was a nurse, but she stopped working when they adopted me.”

“They sound like wonderful people,” Georgeanne said and smiled. “Maybe it's a good thing you and Hunter didn't grow up as brothers. Together, you might have been holy terrors.”

Zane turned the car in at a movie theater and parked. “In about an hour and a half, you can reassess that statement.” He smiled tenderly at her, well aware that her light tone covered deep emotion. “You could be right. There's something about having company in deviltry that encourages boys to outdo themselves.”

Inside the darkened theater, Zane held Georgeanne's hand and made himself comfortable in a position where he could watch her expressive face. He never tired of watching the constant fluctuations of color in her cheeks, or the way her dark eyes widened or narrowed with her emotions.

Her hand rested in his, and he stroked his fingers over the elegant bones of her wrists and fingers. She wasn't used to having her hand held in a movie, but she adapted well. He fed her popcorn and enjoyed himself watching her face while she experienced the events of the movie along with Hunter Howell.