Georgie's Heart (13 page)

Zane gave a passing glance at Hunter onscreen. He'd seen the movie a couple of times already, and each time he'd felt as though he was watching himself. He just hoped no one in the theater got the idea that he was Hunter Howell and ruined his first date with Georgeanne. He had forgotten the dark glasses he usually brought along for occasions like this.

He watched Georgeanne follow the movie events and enjoyed the feel of her hand clasped in his. Her hand had been made to fit his, he decided, just as her body fit his to perfection.

As if she detected his thoughts, Georgeanne reddened, but she never took her eyes from the screen. Perhaps the movie love scene called the afternoon's events to her mind.

The movie had a simple plot wherein Hunter Howell, hardened police detective, fell in love with the battered society wife he was assigned to protect and ended up killing her husband. Then Hunter took the woman he had fallen in love with to bed.

Georgeanne stared at the screen and audibly sucked in her breath, clearly experiencing the emotions of the two lovers.

Zane grinned into the darkness that fell over the theater while the couple interacted beneath the sheets. “Careful, Georgie,” he whispered in her ear. “You're about to crush my fingers.”

“Well?” Zane stuck his spoon into the banana split beside Georgeanne's spoon. “What did you think?”

Georgeanne was still too shaken from her own thoughts during the movie's single, well-choreographed love scene to reply with much sense. She felt Zane's intense gaze on her face and pretended great interest in the ice cream.

“I can see why his acting career took off. He's … very good.”

Zane hadn't said anything else about the way she'd squeezed his hand during the love scene, but Georgeanne knew he understood exactly what her thoughts had been. He had remained blessedly silent on the subject while they drove to the ice cream shop.

“Now, Georgie, I'm a doctor of little kids. Don't you think I know an evasion when I hear one?” He smiled and watched the color rise in Georgeanne's cheeks.

“I — ” Georgeanne abruptly gave up pretending she was a sophisticated woman of the world. “Zane, the truth is, he's so much like you, it makes me want to cry. But he also reminds me of a child who's been beaten one too many times.”

Zane's steady gaze held hers. “Yes. Go on, please.”

“There's no way anyone can get behind that facade of his without a crowbar.” Georgeanne drew in a deep breath. “Even while — even during the love scene, I kept feeling that he was hiding his real emotions behind what he imagined people expected to see. And he did a good job of it. For a minute there, I almost thought — that is, I could almost imagine … ”

She trailed off. For a moment, she'd been able to enter fully into the imaginary world of the pictured love scene because Zane had been looking out of his twin's eyes. Then the long dark lashes had swept down. When they lifted again, Hunter Howell was back, a man who had learned early that the only person he could count on was himself. She didn't need to be told that he kept the part of himself that was like Zane very carefully hidden.

Georgeanne sighed and concentrated on the ice cream. There she went again, psychoanalyzing a man she had never met. If ever anyone was unqualified to analyze another person, it had to be Georgeanne Hartfield.

“That's amazing,” Zane said. “Dr. Baghri was right about you.”

“No, he wasn't.” She looked up and laughed. “That is, I don't know what he told you, but I'm sure it's untrue.”

“He said you have what the country people in America call the second sight. You see into the heart of a person.”

Georgeanne kept her gaze focused on the ice cream. “Now, Zane, how can I possibly see into someone's heart when he's an actor on a movie screen? I'm probably looking at him and seeing you. It's amazing how physically alike the two of you are.”

“I should have worn sunglasses,” Zane said in resigned tones. “I'm not used to life as a celebrity.”

“Well, naturally people coming out of a movie that starred Hunter Howell are going to think you're him.” She glanced around the small ice cream parlor, relieved to note that they were the only customers at the moment. “And just as naturally, they're going to hope you're lying when you claim you aren't Hunter Howell.”

Zane scowled. Georgeanne noted that his good looks were unblemished by the scowl.

“Hunt is going to have to do something about this,” he said.

“Have you told him so?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.” Zane eyed her smiling face with mock annoyance. “He laughed.”

Zane sounded so injured, Georgeanne couldn't resist a chuckle. “I imagine he'll do interviews in which he tells everybody to leave his brother, the doctor, alone. He should enjoy that considerably.”

“You see? I knew you had his number.” Zane grinned at her.

“It isn't hard to draw the conclusion that if he'd had the opportunity, he'd be a doctor rather than a movie star, no matter how big his career might get.” Georgeanne looked down at their side-by-side spoons. There was something cozy about sharing a banana split with Zane. “I don't think he really likes being well-known. To him, stardom is probably a means to an end.”

Zane watched her with his intense doctor's gaze. “What do you think Hunter's ‘end' is?”

Georgeanne thought a moment. Impressions about Hunter Howell poured into her brain and she sorted them out. During the movie, she'd been so busy thinking how like Zane he was, she hadn't consciously noted any personality quirks.

“I think Hunter is probably interested in … Well, judging strictly from what you've told me of his background, I'd say he's interested in something to do with foster care. Or adoption follow-ups.” She made a motion of dismissal with her hands, suddenly embarrassed. Not even full-fledged psychiatrists had any right to go around making assumptions about people they'd never met. Since Georgeanne had never practiced as a psychologist, she was particularly sensitive about attempting to analyze people. “But I'm probably all wrong. Maybe he's interested in homes for unwed mothers.”

Zane threw back his head and laughed, obviously delighted. “Georgie, you've done it again. You know him better than I do. I'd never have guessed all that about him after watching one movie.” He laughed some more. “You even picked up on the homes for unwed mothers. No one but us knows that, so for God's sake, don't say a word. Hunt would kill me.”

Georgeanne blinked, surprised. Maybe she did have some form of ESP, although she preferred to think of it as educated guesswork. “Now, Zane, I had the advantage of knowing you, and of knowing a few facts about identical twins. I told you, they tend to grow remarkably alike no matter what their individual upbringings.”

Zane leaned back and smiled at her. “Tell me something personal, Georgie. Why are you running around alone and unattached?”

“I'm a divorced woman, and a very busy one. It's only when a man intrudes face first into my world that I sit up and take notice.”

“Thank God you've put away the blue toys,” Zane said, laughing again. “I don't want any other men entering your life face first. What are you doing tomorrow after work? Besides reading Fritzi Field's book,” he added.

Georgeanne propped her chin on her hand and pretended intense thought. It wasn't easy, now that Fritzi Field had reentered her mind. “I'll probably go by the clinic and make sure the new telephone system is working. The phone company supposed to be out bright and early Monday morning.”

He smiled. “Dr. Baghri approves of my new interest, by the way. I believe he assumes you're spending all this time educating me about his clinic idea.”

Georgeanne chuckled. “I should probably be feeling guilty for distracting you. It was inadvertent, I assure you.”

“Georgie, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I had given up on finding a truly honest woman.”

Georgeanne swallowed a bite of ice cream the wrong way and coughed violently for a few minutes.

“Are you all right?” Zane watched her with concern. “Do I need to perform the Heimlich maneuver or something?”

“Not on ice cream that went down the wrong way,” Georgeanne managed. “It was the shock of hearing you describe me as a truly honest woman that did it. Where on earth did you get that idea?”

Zane leaned forward. “Your face. Any lie you told would be instantly visible to anyone who isn't blind.”

“Oh.” Georgeanne considered investing heavily in makeup. An inch deep on the foundation might do the trick. “Well. I'm glad to know that.”

“Come on, Georgie. You look like you sat on an ant bed. What is it you're hiding? Confess.”

She met his gaze in one startled glance, and then looked down. “If I'm hiding something, you'll have to find a way to pry it out of me. And I'm invulnerable to tickling, I might add.”

“Is that right?” Zane laughed, clearly delighted. “The last person who told me that turned out to be the most ticklish person in the universe.”

Georgeanne eyed him reproachfully.

“Besides, there are better ways than tickling to get information out of you,” he went on.

“No, there aren't. I mean — ” Georgeanne stabbed the banana split with her spoon. “How did we get into this conversation?”

“Ah-ha. I was right.” Zane pretended to twirl an imaginary mustache. “You are ticklish. But don't worry, Georgie. When I'm ready to hear the truth from you, I'll just find a grassy nook and kiss you into submission. Something tells me you'd sing a lot faster.”

Georgeanne smiled, a purely feminine smile. “I probably would. When I'm tickled, all I do is scream bloody murder.”

Zane stared at her. “I'll remember that.”

Two women entered the shop, chatting energetically.

“Her husband dumped her,” one said. “I knew it the minute I read the first paragraph. Why else would a woman think faking it was the only way to go?”

Georgeanne's head came up like a startled deer's, and she knew she must resemble a doe facing a shotgun.

“Wait till you read the tenth chapter,” the other woman said. “That's where she goes into detail about the physical signs. Can you believe anyone would go through that much trouble just to hold on to a man?”

“Beats me. I don't have trouble with that sort of thing.”

Georgeanne smiled involuntarily. Then she realized what she was doing and strove to wipe all expression off her face. If Zane were to read the passage in Fritzi Field's book that dealt with modern women's compulsion to pretend they enjoyed every sexual encounter, he would have to realize she knew a lot more about Fritzi Field's book than she let on.

“Neither do I,” the first woman said. “That book is nothing but a commercial plot. You can mark my words.”

The two women reached the counter and ceased talking to concentrate on which ice cream to order.

“Georgie, you look like someone's holding a knife to your throat,” Zane said. “What is it about Fritzi Field's book that scares you so badly?”

“Scares me?” Georgeanne repeated faintly. “Nothing about it scares me, except the fact that Denise wants me to read it, preferably tonight.”

“I suppose that's enough to scare anybody.” Zane was silent a moment, studying her face as she focused on the ice cream. “Georgie, what's your opinion of women who fake sexual enjoyment?”

Her gaze lifted to meet his. “I haven't formed an opinion yet. Wait until I read the book. Fritzi Field might succeed in giving me a whole new outlook on the subject.”

“I gather Denise Devereaux has gained a whole new outlook already,” Zane said.

Georgeanne noted the austere note in Zane's voice and shivered. Of course, he was a man, and no sane man would approve of a woman who had to put on an act in order to keep her husband. What man would like to think his woman was faking enjoyment of his caresses?

If Zane should ever realize who wrote
Faking It
, anything between them would be over. Her every response to him would be suspect. Why would he believe her when she swore he was the only man ever to evoke such a response from her?

“You're right. Denise has formed a whole new opinion of the subject,” Georgeanne said, in faint tones. “That's why she wants me to read the book. I think she's hoping I'll agree with her that a woman has a right to do whatever is necessary in order to save her marriage.”

“Georgie, are you sure you're all right? You look like you're about to faint again.”

“I'm fine. Just fine.” Georgeanne swallowed and strove for control. “Don't pay any attention to my complexion. It has a life of its own, believe me.” She might as well know the worst at once. It was obvious she was going to be up all night doing some heavy thinking. “What do you think, Zane? About women who fake sexual enjoyment, I mean.”

Zane watched her face closely. She hoped he saw nothing in her expression to arouse his suspicions, but she feared he might.

“I don't think you need to worry about my opinion of that, Georgie,” he said. “It's obvious enough that there's a lot of chemistry between us. When we make love, you're going to enjoy it as much as I will, never doubt it.”

Georgeanne noted his use of “when” rather than “if,” and tried to ignore her doubts. Just because she felt things so intensely when Zane kissed her didn't necessarily mean she was capable of experiencing full sexual pleasure.

“I gather you don't approve,” she said. “Being a man, I don't suppose you would.”

Zane shook his head. “Two people ought not get married if there's no sexual excitement between them. One or the other is bound to feel cheated.”

“You're right, of course.”

She said nothing more. No one agreed with that statement more thoroughly than the author of
Faking It,
but Georgeanne knew now was not the time to bring up the question of women who found themselves in a marriage where lack of sexual enjoyment on their part was one of the major items plaguing their marriages. Zane would simply reply that said women should have known better than to marry men they felt no physical response toward.