The Dirty Girls Book Club (7 page)

Kit-Kat tried to crawl onto Georgia’s chest, blocking her view of the e-reader. “Oh no, you don’t,” Georgia muttered. “I’m not stopping now.”

She nudged the cat aside and read on, enthralled, as the Comte skillfully seduced Emma, playing her body as if it were a beautiful instrument and he the most talented and appreciative of musicians. He overcame her embarrassment, her inhibitions, and taught her that sex could be an act of supreme pleasure.

Lying on the sofa in the library, surrendering to the caresses of
his deft fingers and tongue, Emma climaxed for the first time in her life.

And then, when he entered her slowly and tenderly, patiently teaching her the rhythm of intimacy, the dance of two bodies moving in perfect harmony, she climaxed again.

Lying in bed, Georgia’s body tingled with the memory of her own orgasms. She flicked off the e-reader. Two orgasms. What a strange coincidence.

Of course, her own circumstances were very different from Emma’s. Emma’s husband had been a cold, inconsiderate man, whereas Georgia’s Anthony had been warm and loving. And then Emma had been coaxed toward climax under the attention of a charming man, a subtle seducer, a skilled and patient lover who devoted himself to his partner’s pleasure. Georgia could, perhaps, understand how Emma had let herself be persuaded.

Her own actions with Woody made far less sense. She wasn’t even attracted to him. Not really. Only to a splendid body. He certainly wasn’t suave or charming, and his idea of seduction was to rub his erection against her. Admittedly, he’d been generous in giving her that first orgasm, but then the only thing he’d devoted himself to was getting his own rocks off. The Comte had ensured Emma’s second climax before finding his own release. Woody hadn’t even known if Georgia had come.

And yet she had. A second time. The memory of it, combined with reading about Lady Emma’s seduction, had her body all atingle.

She clicked off the light. The bottom line was, she’d been unprofessional. A part of her didn’t regret it, because the experience had been incredible, yet she knew it couldn’t happen again.

Orgasms weren’t like chocolate. She could enjoy those first two wonderful ones, and not become addicted.

Woody drifted into consciousness gradually and painfully. He lay absolutely still, inventorying the damage. Oh yeah, this hurt a lot, and it wasn’t just the shoulder he’d dislocated a couple of weeks ago, which hadn’t had time to heal and which had taken another hard hit against the boards last night. He opened an eye, winced, and then groaned as the movement shot splinters of pain piercing into his brain and gut. The last time he’d had such a massive hangover was almost a year ago, when the Beavers lost the Stanley Cup in double overtime in the seventh game of the finals.

He sure as hell couldn’t show up for practice like this. Gritting his teeth against nausea, he hauled his ass out of bed and into his jogging shorts. He added a ratty T-shirt and gingerly bent to put on socks and running shoes.

Each step was more agonizing than the one before. Out the door, down the hall, into the elevator where the sickening swoop downward from the penthouse floor almost made him toss his cookies. Into the street. Fresh air, thank God. His condo was in Vancouver’s Yaletown, and he always ran along the seawall. His trembling legs took him across the grass of David Lam Park toward the water.

It was a beautiful morning, which added insult to his injury. Sunshine stabbed his eyes like shards of glass, penetrating and lodging
deep in his brain. He closed his eyes, but that made the nausea worse.

For the first mile, he figured he would puke or die. Probably both. Sweat ran in rivulets off his body.

He spent mile two trying to remember why he’d tied one on. After handily winning the first game in the Western Conference finals on the weekend, they’d lost the second last night. A home game, with all those fans rooting for them and being disappointed.

Woody hadn’t played his best. The shield drove him crazy, and it reminded him of the fucking contract, and the fact that his near-naked body would soon be on billboards. Not to mention the fact that he’d nailed Georgia Malone with the finesse of a rookie at training camp. His performance in that boardroom had been …

As bad as his performance on the ice last night.

But none of it was an excuse for getting hammered, especially during the finals. He thought back. A bunch of the guys had gone for a beer after the game. He’d ordered a Granville Island amber ale. Usually, he drank out of the bottle, but before he’d noticed, the waitress had poured the beer into a glass. The amber bubbles had reminded him of Georgia’s eyes. And somehow one beer had turned into—

No, he didn’t want to remember. He was into his third mile and his stomach was almost steady.

Woody’s head came up and he started to appreciate the blue sky and puffy white clouds. In the fourth mile, as he turned for home, the bark of a frolicking terrier, the shriek of wheeling gulls, and the glint of sunlight off the ocean barely made him wince.

Mile six. His legs pumped fast and strong, his shoulders had loosened up, and his head was clear. He’d call his mom in Switzerland and see how she was doing, then have breakfast in the players’ lounge and get in a good practice.

After practice, Woody drove to Dynamic Marketing.

At the reception desk, the same pretty Asian girl who’d been there yesterday gave him a stunning smile. “Good morning, Mr. Hanrahan!”

“Hey, sunshine. Call me Woody.”

She smiled even brighter. “I’m Sandra, and a huge fan.” She pumped her delicate hand in the air. “Bash ’em, Beavers!”

He returned the trademark salute.

“Go on in, Woody. It’s conference room B, beside the one you were in yesterday.”

As he headed down the hall, his stride faltered. He’d shoved Georgia out of his mind, but now she was back. Yesterday, she’d gone from snippy to businesslike to passionate—man, had she been passionate—to pissed off. And no wonder, after he’d plowed into her like a rookie.

Not knowing what to expect, he stepped into the conference room.

No Georgia. Just, sitting across from each other, a knock-your-socks-off blonde wearing a jacket in shades of pink and green that made him think of plastic flamingos on a new spring lawn, and a young man in a trendy shirt and tie who might or might not be the actor from
Slumdog Millionaire
.

“Sorry,” Woody said. “Got the wrong room.”

The young guy leaped up and hurried forward. “No, you’re in the right place.” He stuck his hand out. “Man, is it great to meet you, Mr. Hanrahan.”

“Woody.” He shook.

“Bad luck about the game last night.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You’ll bash ’em in Anaheim on Friday.”

They’d sure as hell better.

A female cough made him turn toward the woman. “Terry,” she said, “introductions?”

“Sorry. Woody, I’m Terry Banerjee, and this is Viv Andrews. It’s going to be so great to work with you.”

Woody turned to the woman, who didn’t rise but held out her hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“You too.” She gave him a warm smile and studied him intently, like she was analyzing him in detail.

Georgia must’ve been so mad at him, she’d bailed on the campaign, transferring him to these two. Maybe that was for the best. Working together would’ve been tough. “So,” he said, “Georgia …?” What had she given them as an excuse? What had she said about him?

Viv’s arched brows rose, maybe because he hadn’t used the nickname George. “I’m sure she’ll be here any moment.”

So she hadn’t dumped the campaign.

“Have something to eat?” Viv offered. “A cup of coffee?”

“Don’t drink coffee, thanks.” He went to look at the selection on a sideboard. High-fat muffins, which he ignored. He poured a glass of orange juice, then sat at the foot of the table.

When Terry started to talk about last night’s game, Viv steered the conversation toward world events. Watercooler chat. Woody’d never been good at that stuff. The women he went out with were usually happy talking about sports, or about themselves.

He gave Viv short answers, finished his juice, went for a refill. He hated the whole idea of the VitalSport contract, but he’d signed it. So could they just get on with things? Restless tension sent him over to the twentieth-floor window.

Vancouver Harbor was busy this morning. A red-striped float
plane bounced down onto the water. Sky was blue; sun was climbing; he could be out doing something. Georgia was fifteen minutes late. If that was some kind of pointed message directed at him, he wasn’t grasping that point.

The door crashed open and she rushed in, gasping for breath the way he’d done on the first mile of his morning run. She wore a suit that looked like the navy twin of yesterday’s charcoal one, except today the bottom half was a straight skirt that covered her knees. Her cheeks were pink, and loose tendrils of hair escaped the knot to straggle around her face. As she wheezed, today’s white shirt rose and fell in a manner that made him remember the pretty curves underneath. He’d been inside this woman. And been a crappy lover. They’d promised they’d put all that behind them, but it wasn’t going to be easy.

She choked out a few words between gasps. “Car broke down. So sorry.”

Broke down, he wondered, or just ran out of gas?

Viv went over to her, face anxious, and touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, except I speed-walked from Robson and Burrard.” The gasping was easing.

“What did you do about the car?” Woody asked.

Defensively, she said, “No, I didn’t leave it sitting in the middle of the road. I pulled off—” She shook her head. “Forget the car. I’m sorry to delay the meeting.”

She sat at the head of the table, yanked her hair back into its neat knot, then pulled a laptop out of her briefcase.

Figuring she could use a glass of water, Woody poured one.

When he put it down in front of her, she froze, staring at his hand. It made him remember stroking her pussy, thrusting a finger inside her steamy depths, teasing her clit.

Realizing he was getting hard, he let go of the glass and took a
seat. Thank God for the loose Beavers jersey that hung down over his swelling fly.

“Thanks,” she muttered, then took the glass and downed half the contents. “Terry, can you hook up my laptop to project?”

“Sure.”

While he did, Georgia went over to the side cabinet and returned with coffee and a chocolate chip muffin. “We’ll start with a little brainstorming.” She turned to Woody, her gaze sliding past his without meeting it. “Brainstorming, Mr., uh, Woody, is a creative process where we toss out ideas without worrying whether they make sense.” There was an edge to her voice that said, “You should be good at that.”

Yeah, he got the message yesterday: she didn’t think much of his brain. It was true he’d never done well in school, preferring to be outside and active. True, too, that he’d always been more interested in the sport of hockey than the business side, so he’d left contracts and finances to his agent. He used to think that playing well was all that mattered. Now he was learning differently.

Damn it, he wanted to impress this woman, and if he’d failed in the sex department, he didn’t stand a hope in hell when it came to smarts.

Why did she get to him? Why were those amber eyes more intoxicating than beer?

“I’ll type up our ideas as we go along,” Georgia said briskly. She clicked through menus until a document appeared on the wall screen, blank but for the title “VitalSport Canadian Campaign—Brainstorming Notes” and today’s date. “We want to be creative and open to discussing ideas, not critical.”

Woody chose to stay quiet and listen. The best strategy was to size up the opposition, and even if this marketing campaign wasn’t exactly opposition, it was a challenge.

He learned that Terry was a sports junkie and knew as much
about the Beavers and hockey as Woody did. The women weren’t into sports. They were smart, though, and creative.

Would Georgia be creative in bed? No, he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about sex with her, but how could a guy concentrate on business when his throbbing cock kept telling him it wanted to get back inside that woman? Not that she’d allow it, after his miserable performance.

Viv caught his attention when she said, “Woody, let’s look at what you’re wearing now. Old jeans—not designer ones, am I right?— and a rather worn Beavers jersey.”

“Nah, not designer.” The concept of
designer
jeans was stupid.

“He wore the same clothes yesterday,” Georgia put in as she got up to refill her coffee. She’d demolished the muffin. Fat, sugar, caffeine. She’d never survive on the ice.

“Different jersey,” he said, offended. Did she think he didn’t do laundry?

“On the video clips,” Viv said, “you and the other players wore suits when you went in and out of the stadiums.”

“They have to,” Terry said. “They’re going to work, they’re paid a lot to do that work, and they’re supposed to look professional. Right, Woody?”

Woody nodded. “Yeah, and it sucks.” He hated those uncomfortable suits. He also hated having the press shove microphones in his face. Why couldn’t a guy just play hockey?

“Okay, then,” Georgia said. “Let’s talk about the concept of uniforms.” She typed the word and it appeared on the wall screen.

“Uniforms?” he asked.

She glanced at him, then away again. No, even if she wanted to forget yesterday, he could see she wasn’t succeeding. “You wear one on the ice, for the game,” she said, “and I assume it’s mostly about safety, right?”

He nodded.

“You wear another—a suit—going to and from games. That’s about professional image.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He’d never thought of those suits as a uniform, but she was right.

“You’ll have to wear VitalSport clothes, not just for the photo shoots but when you’re out in public.”

“My jeans and jerseys are comfortable.” Did he sound like he was whining? He really wished they hadn’t had sex. Especially bad sex. It made things way too awkward.

Viv jumped in. “Woody, here’s my take on it. You’re wealthy and could dress however you want, yes?”