Honey and Smoke (11 page)

“Betty? You all right?”

Norma had come down the hall beside the wedding
parlor. Now she stopped. Betty swayed. “What’s in that punch?”

Norma gasped softly. “Don’t you know?”

“Uh oh. Bad news. Can you … can you turn this doorknob for me?”

“Wait here. I’ll get Max.”

“Okay.”

Norma hurried away and Betty fumbled with the door knob until it turned. She found her way onto the veranda and down the steps to the lawn. The cool night air cleared her head a little. She wandered around the lawn, looking up at the night sky, enjoying the stars.

She heard heavy footsteps on the veranda. Then they softened. She turned toward them unsteadily. Max crossed the lawn to her and grasped her under the elbows. He was a large, dark, comforting shape. “Earth to celestial navigator,” he said solemnly. “Are you off course?”

She clutched his shirtfront. Abruptly she felt foolish and afraid. But it was all right to tell Max. She could tell Max anything. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“How many cups of punch did you have?”

Slowly she held up one hand. “Pick some fingers. Four, I think.” She grabbed his shoulders and tried to shake him. “I didn’t know, Maximilian! I didn’t know. It all happened so quick. Zoom! Boom!”

“You drank four cups of punch one right after the other?”

“It was good punch!”

“Oh, babe,” he said sympathetically, and drew her into a deep embrace. She burrowed her face against his chest and made snuffling sounds. He stroked her hair. “That punch is a local tradition. Everybody knows about it.”

“ ’Cept me.”

“I thought someone had told you. It’s made with moonshine. A
lot
of moonshine, carefully disguised.”

“Agggh.”

“Be happy. I think you’ve set a record. I can’t recall anyone drinking that much that quick and still being able to walk. You’re one tough lady.”

As he finished, her knees buckled. “Bye-bye,” she said solemnly as she began sliding down his torso.

Chuckling, he bent quickly and picked her up. “Relax. I’ll take care of you.”

“Okay.” She patted his chest. “Good ol’ marine.” She tilted her head back, dug her fingers into his string tie, and gave it several jerks. “Don’t let anybody see me like this. Don’t. I’m so afraid. What would they think? My work. My reputation.” She emphasized each word by tugging at his string tie.

He coughed and said in a strangled voice, “Let go of my tie. Put your hand in your lap. Yes, like that. Thank you.”

“Hide me.”

Max chuckled. “Mind if I carry you up to my house and have my way with you?”

She flopped an arm over his shoulders. “Go ahead. No problem.” He was only teasing. But she could hope, couldn’t she?

Having a code of honor was hell. Max reflected on all the times in his life when he’d refused to take advantage of women who had imbibed a little too much for their dignity’s good.

His motives hadn’t been entirely selfless—when he took a woman to bed, he wanted her to remember him in glorious, crystal-clear detail the next morning. Rejecting what was recklessly offered hadn’t always been easy, but he’d never regretted doing so, and he’d earned a lot of morning-after gratitude from embarrassed women with hangovers.

None of those women, however, had been Betty Quint. Right now, with Betty’s taut, round hips snuggled against his outer thigh and her back curled against his side, he wondered if his honor could stand the challenge. Max rubbed his cheek on her rose-scented hair and shifted his arm on the back of the couch to curve the hollow of his shoulder closer to her.

His arousal became a torment. He propped his sock-clad feet on a black coffee table of oriental design and stretched a little, wishing that he had traded his black marrying suit for the accommodating comfort of sweatpants and a long-tailed football jersey.

Obviously unaware of the sublime pain she was causing,
Betty munched potato chips loudly, then sighed, “Hmmmm.”

The sensual sound made Max shut his eyes in dismay. He nuzzled her hair. “You’re enjoying your dinner, I take it?”

She wiggled her bare feet against a pillow on the sleek black couch and hiccuped softly. “Love the food. Love this place. What a surprise you are, Maximilian. You’ve turned this sweet old country house into a lovely samurai warrior’s den.” She leaned her head back on his shoulder and chuckled. “You need a geisha.”

“Oh, I’d rather have you, instead. A female samurai.”

She growled fiercely. “I’m tough. Gimme a sharp charge card, and I’ll leave a trail of destruction through Neiman-Marcus that you wouldn’t believe.”

“I can’t picture you as the type who cut her teeth on a silver spoon. That kind of woman usually wants to be pampered. You seem to thrive on hard work.”

She crunched another potato ship and nodded fervently. “When I turned eighteen, my parents kicked me out of the nest and told me to fly or fall.”

Max craned his head and studied her in amazement. “Why?”

“Because they didn’t want me to turn out like a lot of my friends—lazy, snotty little debutantes with no idea what the real world was like.” She hiccuped again. “I admit, I was headed in that direction.”

“Don’t feel bad. When I was a teenager, I stole cars.”

“How exciting! Did you ever get caught?”

“No. Norma’s son and I used to swipe whatever we could hot-wire, take it for a joy ride, then abandon it on a deserted back road. We were damned good at our little hobby, but we were headed for trouble. I think a lot of people were betting that we’d end up in jail someday. They were relieved when we joined the marines.”

She clucked in exaggerated rebuke. “You sound proud. But would you want
your
children to steal cars?”

Max grinned. “Only if they were as good at it as I was.”

“Bad! You’re so bad, Maximilian.” She sighed pensively. “You have so much fun. I’m so boring and normal.”

“Thank you for classifying me as abnormal,” he protested solemnly.

She laughed, the sound lovely and warm, then missed her mouth with a potato chip. The chip crumbled on her chin and flakes scattered over her sweater. Max fought a strong urge to pick up the flakes that landed on her breasts.

“What a slob,” she said cheerfully, find popped each broken bit into her mouth.

Max adored her comfortable earthiness. “No manners. I like that in a person.”

“What? No manners? I was schooled in etiquette by Miss Louise Vanagrette of the Greenbriar Cotillion. I have manners out the wazoo, Maximilian.”

She tilted her head so that she could peer up at him. Max looked at her half-shut eyes and flushed cheeks. In the cozy light of a floor lamp her full, wide mouth beckoned him with a crooked smile that was both comical and provocative. If he kissed her right now, she’d probably laugh—but she’d kiss him back.

While he considered the possibilities, he stroked a crumb of potato chip from her lower lip. “I’m glad you’re here. My house feels like it has life in it now.”

“It’s a fabulous old house, Maximilian. Your father left it to you?”

“Yes. Along with a lot of furniture that’s been in the family for decades. Most of it’s stored up in the attic. You’d probably love it, but my taste runs to this.”

He gestured around them at walls hung with bright Japanese wood-block prints. Most showed battles and warriors, but a few depicted wildly costumed Kabuki actors and sprawling Oriental landscapes. His furniture was sparse and simple, all sleek blacks and whites. “I collected this furniture and artwork over the years,” he told her. “But I kept most of it in storage until I had a permanent home for it.” He pointed toward a large,
muted tapestry on the wall across from the couch. “I like the lines of those abstract patterns. They’re both peaceful and aggressive. How you interpret them depends on your point of view.”

“I feel peaceful.” She drew a single chip from the bowl on her lap, brought it to her mouth with the slow grace of an unsteady hand, then laid the chip on her tongue. It disappeared between her lips without a sound.

“Very nice,” Max whispered, mesmerized. “I’m thrilled that you like my interior decorating.” He spoke to her in a low, seductive tone guaranteed to keep the kiss-me expression on her face.

She blinked swiftly, as if realizing that she was tiptoeing into dangerous territory. “Oh, I’m bad. I’m so bad. I feel so tempted. I could just go wild.”

“Sssh, Betty, nothing is going to happen until you’re—”

“Take these away.” She handed the bowl of potato chips to him. “Or I’ll keep eating until they’re all gone.”

Max felt disgusted, but had to strangle a laugh. At least she wasn’t worrying about other temptations. Good. Temptation could sneak up on her that way. “Betty, Betty,” he chided softly, setting the bowl of chips aside. “Why are you so afraid of indulging yourself?”

She hiccuped, then turned her face toward him and rested her forehead against his jaw. “You don’t understand,” she murmured. “You don’t have a monogram like mine.”

“A monogram?”

She let her hands settle loosely on her lap. He doubted that she was aware that the fingers of one hand trailed over onto his thigh. He decided to enjoy the torturous little pleasure in noble silence. “My monogram,” she repeated. She sighed. “My parents have terrible notions of what’s funny. My middle name is … is
Belle
.”

“So? Betty Belle … Quint.” He groaned, then began to smile. “So your initials are B-B-Q.”

“Stop that. Stop it. I can feel you smiling. My forehead can feel your jaw muscles moving. Stop it.”

He raised a hand to the black luxury of her hair and playfully tugged at one of the combs that swept it back from her face. He slipped the comb free. “Relax, Betty Belle.” Max tossed the comb somewhere on the smoky gray carpet behind the couch. He ran his splayed fingers across her temple and into the loosened strands. “Relax. Keep talking.”

“Mmmm. Mmmm. Max. No. Oh, Max. Oh, hell.” She turned a little more toward him, and her willful hand moved an inch across his thigh. “Nice.”

“Talk,” he ordered. His voice was strained with desire. He stared at her hand.

“Ol’ B-B-Q. That’s me. It’s funny now, but when I was a child, it was a horrible name. I was, shall we say, a bit short for my weight.” She cleared her throat and amended drolly, “Oh, let’s be honest. I was a baby whale. Whenever my parents took me on vacation to the ocean, I felt an urge to migrate and search for my herd.”

Max bit his lip and struggled not to laugh out loud. “Babe, if it’s any consolation, you look fantastic now. All that blubber has become one helluva pretty body.”

She patted his thigh heartily. “And I have great fins.”

Max sucked a deep breath. His voice came out a dry rasp. “I hope you remember how to surface for air. It might come in handy when we really get into deep water.”

Her hand lay still again. “So, anyway, I was fat.” Her voice was a little bitter and sad. “And my initials were B-B-Q. I suffered through an awful list of nicknames. Spare Ribs. Pork Belly. Betty Burp. Anytime another kid got mad at me, I heard those names.”

He winced a little and stroked her hair in sympathy. “If we were both ten years old, I’d go out on the playground tomorrow and blacken some eyes on your behalf.”

Her soft giggles were disarmingly pleasant. “Where were you when I needed you?”

“Waiting. Just waiting to meet you.”

They were both silent for a minute. She curled and uncurled her hand atop his thigh, not really squeezing the muscle there, but creating languid waves of sensation nonetheless.

“Max, I didn’t lose weight until I was in college. I started exercising and eating right, and I haven’t had a problem since. But I’ve had a lot of trouble learning to love myself.” She hesitated, then added softly, “I think that’s why I was so vulnerable when I met my musician, Sloan Richards. I still felt like a homely dumpling, and he taught me to feel pretty. He was every daydream I’d ever had come true.”

Max didn’t like the wistfulness in her voice when she discussed the musician. Sloan Richards. He filed the name away for future inspection. “Look at me,” he commanded.

“Bossy.” She raised her head, frowning.

Max caught her chin in his hand and held her still as he searched her heavy-lidded eyes. “Forget the musician. You learned what you needed to learn from him, and that’s all he was good for. You’re beautiful. Believe it.”

Her expression softened. “I’ve already forgotten him.” Her voice was breathless. “Now I’d like to know what I can learn from you.”

She shoved past his restraining hand and kissed him. Her tongue slid inside his mouth like a slow, lazy river, filling him with her erotic energy. Honor was temporarily forgotten as he pulled her to him and clasped the back of her head, urging her to continue.

They both shivered, and as she angled her mouth in new directions she inhaled with quick, ragged puffs. Max felt adamant needs rise inside him, but he forced himself to keep control.

This woman was heaven and hell, like no other. Her kisses were bawdy, but from the back of her throat came sweet, almost keening, sounds. Her hand trembled on his thigh, but then moved upward, stroking him through his trousers and feathering excitedly over
the part of him that immediately strained toward her caress.

Honor. It taunted him. Her mouth held the poignantly sweet taste of grape juice, and he thought of the damned Grape Surprise, with its enormous volume of moonshine.
She’s drunk
, he reminded himself fiercely.
You can’t let her do something she really will regret
.

Oh, but for a minute longer he did, until he had to push himself away from her eager mouth and take her hand in his for self-protection. “We don’t want to do this tonight,” he told her, but silently cursed the lack of conviction in his voice.

Disappointment filled her eyes. “Parts of us certainly do.”

“Those parts don’t have brains. What happened to your determination to stay away from me?”

Her face flamed with embarrassment, and she frowned sadly, looking confused. “I know; I’m being irresponsible.”

He shook her gently. “You’re not irresponsible. You’re human. I don’t want you to avoid me, but I don’t want to wake up in the morning and have you tell me that what we’ve done is a mistake.”