7 Days and 7 Nights (28 page)

As declarations of love went, it was somewhat lacking in hearts and flowers, but Olivia knew a breakthrough when she heard one. Happiness, love, and, okay, it was definitely relief, flooded through her.

Reaching up, she pulled Matt's mouth down to cover hers again. This time the kiss was deeper and definitely more thrilling and confirmed what Olivia had hoped: Matt Ransom might have left Never Land, but he still knew how to fly.

The sound of throat-clearing came from the control room and was followed by a tapping on the glass. Registering the silence in her headphones for the first time, Olivia opened one eye to peek over Matt's shoulder.

Diane stood in front of the audio board with a finger poised above it. While Olivia watched, her producer leaned forward and pushed a button on the console.

Smooching sound effects of the overdone cartoon variety went on the air and filled Olivia's headphones.

Before Olivia could blink, Diane leaned over the board again. A heartbeat later, the opening strains of the “Hallelujah Chorus” drowned out the cartoon kisses.

Still liplocked, but with both eyes wide open now, Olivia watched Diane adjust audio levels. Several long seconds of cartoon kisses and fervent hallelujahs followed.

Afraid that if she didn't do something, her show was going to end with Porky Pig's rendition of “That's all, folks,” Olivia unlocked her lips from Matt's and signaled Diane that she was ready to wrap things up. Leaning in to her microphone, she said with relish, “This is Dr. Olivia Moore, reminding you to get out there and live your life . . .
live
.” After a last thumbs-up to Diane, she concluded, “Which is exactly what I intend to do.”

When she was certain her microphone was off, Olivia removed her headphones and turned her full attention to Matt, who was still lounging casually against the table. Raising an expectant eyebrow, she waited for him to speak.

“So, are you ready to talk about moving to New York and arguing with each other for a living?” he asked.

“I still can't believe they want to pay me that much money just to disagree with you.”

Matt smiled; they both seemed to be doing a ridiculous amount of that at the moment. “I knew that would be a major selling point,” he said.

She cocked her head to one side and studied the face of the man beside her. “Yeah, but there's just one thing. What if we go ahead with this and one day we wake up and we're in such accord we can't think of anything to argue about?”

They looked into each other's eyes, looked away, and looked back again, their faces tight with barely suppressed laughter.

“You know,” he said as he slung an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “I think we can start worrying about that right about the time world peace is declared.” He brought his lips down to brush against hers.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Or when they go ahead and hold those Winter Olympics in hell.”

 

 

Can't wait to join

Wendy Wax

in her next
hilariously sexy adventure?

 

Read on for a preview of
her new book . . .

 

Available summer 2004

 

 

Miranda Smith was looking for a stamp when she discovered just how good her husband looked in ladies' lingerie.

It was six-thirty P.M. on the coldest January 8th on record, and the Truro post office was already closed. But for Miranda—who was now conducting a room-by-room search—the stamp was no longer just postage but a symbol of every New Year's resolution she'd ever made. And failed to keep.

One week into the new year she'd already given up on becoming a better daughter and reading her way through the classics. She wasn't going to wimp out on the only resolution she still had a chance of keeping.

Somewhere in this five-bedroom, four-bath, six-thousand-square-foot home—which she'd just tossed like a petty thief looking for loot—there had to be enough postage to get her credit card payment in on time.

Miranda stood in the foyer outside Tom's study debating her next move.

With less than twenty minutes to get ready for Friday night dinner at her parents', she should be heading upstairs to shower and change, not preparing to strip-search another room.

It was just a stamp, she told herself as she turned toward the stairs, not the Holy Grail. Paying an occasional late fee was not cause for shame.

Placing a hand on the banister, she took the first step and consoled herself with the fact that Tom's study had exceedingly low stamp potential, since she paid the household bills and he conducted all of his correspondence from the office.

On the next step, she decided that next year's resolutions would include buying stamps regularly, which would definitely enhance her chances of eliminating late fees in the future.

As if she'd be making any resolutions next year, when she'd
folded so easily this year.

The thought stopped her in midstep, turned her around, and propelled her back down the stairs determined to find a stamp or die trying.

Miranda marched through the foyer and into the study, where she snapped on the overhead light and crossed to Tom's desk. Finding the desk drawer slightly ajar, she pulled on the knob, gritting her teeth in frustration when the drawer didn't budge.

Beyond impatience, Miranda wrapped both hands around the knob and yanked with all her might. The drawer sprang free and sent a packet of photos, which must have been holding up the works, spilling across the floor.

Still in single-minded pursuit of a stamp, Miranda crouched down to gather them up. She duckwalked across the floor, cramming the photos back into their envelope, muttering to herself and trying to figure out where else she could possibly find postage in the next thirty seconds.

Until she actually looked at the photo in her hand, the one of her husband, the former linebacker, in a red satin bustier and matching bikini panties.

Miranda's brain froze. Then it raced, sputtered, and ceased functioning altogether. Unable to think or move, she crouched on the study floor, staring at the picture clutched in her hand.

Her first clear thought was that there had to be some mistake. As president of Ballantyne Bras, her family's bra and lingerie business, her husband was expected to supervise the design and production of a comprehensive line of women's undergarments.

He was not supposed to wear them.

And yet here he was in a black lace teddy. And a fuchsia merry widow—with some woman's hand on his rear end.

Miranda squinted at the hand, hoping to recognize it, but except for its French manicure and obvious familiarity with her husband's derriere, it could have belonged to anyone.

The next photo revealed Tom in a cream-colored thong that looked as if it had been custom-made for him. Her head began to pound as she realized that it probably had.

Unable to tear her gaze from the sight of Tom's rugged torso sheathed in such feminine trappings, Miranda gathered up the rest of the photos and pulled herself up into the chair.

She thought of all the times she'd seen her husband smile and wink and say “Hi, I'm Tom Smith, and I'm in ladies' underwear,” and never imagined he was telling the truth.

Or that he looked as good in lingerie as she did.

Drawing in one shaky breath and letting out another, she dragged her gaze from the photos to stare out the study window. Porch lights twinkled from the house across the cul-de-sac, and snow glistened in the arc of a streetlamp. It clung to the rain-slicked branches of the oak out front and coated the shiny layer of ice in the next-door neighbor's birdbath, though it was hard to fully appreciate the winter landscape with her brain occupied by the vision of Tom decked out in Ballantyne's biggest sellers.

Her thoughts moved slowly, and she felt strangely detached, as if someone had swabbed her with novocaine. There was no sharp, stinging pain, no specific point of impact, only a spreading ache of hurt and disbelief. And the sixty-four-million-dollar question: How could she not have known?

In this town, where her family's business had been the largest employer for more than a hundred years, someone should have known . . . and blabbed. And yet until a moment ago, she would have sworn her husband's interest in ladies' underwear was limited to manufacuring it.

The images ricocheted through her brain, bouncing off each other, raising more questions she couldn't answer.

Who had taken the pictures? Who did the female hand belong to? And how could a man who'd spent much of his waking life in a jockstrap and cleats look so good in a pale pink corset with tiny rosebuds down the front?

Miranda laid the pictures out on the desk. This was her husband. The man she'd met her first miraculous year at Emory University. The man her family had deemed perfect for her . . . and whom she'd married twelve years ago in the biggest wedding Truro had ever seen. The man with whom she'd been trying to have children for eight of those twelve years. The man who'd turned out to be somewhat . . . less . . . than she'd expected, but with whom she'd fully intended to grow old.

Icy tendrils of fear and dread wrapped themselves around her as she realized that no matter what happened next, her life would never be the same. If her husband wasn't who she thought he was, then who did that make her?

She fanned the photos out the way a card player might, forcing herself to look at them one more time. Lifting the last one to the light, she studied the disembodied woman's hand—with its flawless French manicure— resting so possessively on her husband's bare buttock, and a hot flash of anger melted some of the ice.

Another woman had fondled her husband's naked buns while he was dressed in women's lingerie.

Her stomach clenched, and she asked herself again how this could have happened. It was normal for married people to fall into their individual routines, normal for the excitement to dissipate after so many years together. It was not normal to miss something as big as this.

Had there been a “Gee, honey, I hope you don't mind but I really get off on dressing up in women's underclothes—which is really convenient, since I run your family's brassiere and lingerie business—and I especially like to do this with other women's hands on my butt”?

Had she smiled over the morning paper and her to-do list for the Ladies Guild and said, “That's nice, Tom. Can you pass the preserves?”

She sat, still numb, staring out the window, trying to see . . . something. Trying to imagine what in the world she was supposed to do now.

When she finally looked at the clock, it was eight P.M. and she and Tom were late for dinner. For a few long moments she tried to imagine where Tom might be—out being fitted for a new bra? Busy baring his butt to the woman with the long nails? Winking and telling people he was in ladies' underwear?

She dropped her head into her hands. There was no way she could face him right now—whatever he might be wearing—nor could she imagine what she would say to him when she did.

For a wild, wonderful moment she contemplated pretending she'd never found the pictures. Even with the grapevine in working order, the wife was usually the last to know. What if she just pretended she didn't?

She peered at the photos more closely but couldn't find a date. Maybe Tom didn't even dress up like this anymore. Maybe it had grown old for him, like the whitewater rafting and the iron-man triathlons. Who knew how long those pictures had been stuck in that drawer?

Experimentally, she picked up the photos and dropped them into the trash can. Then she turned her back on the trash can and leaned against the desk with studied nonchalance. Okay, so her husband liked to dress up in women's underwear. And he'd never mentioned this to her. And he did it with other women. Okay. Things could be worse. Things could always be worse.

Right.

Miranda bent over to retrieve the packet of photos, which now had strips of shredded paper clinging to it. She knew without thinking what her mother would say. “Make him give up Miss Manicure, Miranda. And do your best to forgive and forget.”

Sure. Then they could get matching underwear made—they owned the company, after all—and . . . and . . . well, she wasn't sure exactly what you did once you were dressed up that way with your husband, but maybe it would be fun. Just because she didn't dress up didn't mean she didn't have an adventurous spirit.

Maybe her mother had a point. Maybe she could just show Tom the pictures and ask him to explain why he liked to do that. And why he'd never mentioned it. And who the hell the woman with the manicure was.

Right.

Miranda set the packet of photos in front of her. Idly, as she tried to follow that scenario through to its logical conclusion, she peeled the strips of shredded paper off the packet and began to shuffle them around the desktop. Words began to leap out at her. Words that pushed the images she'd just confronted right out of her mind. Words like “Ballantyne,” and “receivables,” and the truly alarming, “auditors to investigate.”

No, no way.
Desperately needing to see her glass as half full, Miranda stole a quick peek over her shoulder to check for a hidden camera, but there was no Allen Funt. And no one jumping out to shout, “Smile, you're on
Candid Camera
!”

With trembling fingers, Miranda retrieved more shredded pieces from the trash can and began to fit them together like pieces of a puzzle. They all appeared to be part of a letter from Ballantyne's primary lender, and though there were some gaps, the end result was every bit as life-smashing as the photos.

Not only did her husband like to dress up in women's underwear with other women helping, he had put Ballantyne—the company that had been passed down by the women in her family for generations—in a precarious position with its bank.

She couldn't seem to get any air into her lungs, and despite the snow outside, little beads of sweat popped out on her forehead.

The phone on the desk in front of her rang and she jumped. Heart racing, she brought the receiver up to her ear.

“Miranda, the pot roast is starting to resemble shoe leather. Your father and I were expecting you at seven-fifteen.” Her mother, who rarely bothered with a greeting, sounded like her usual imperious self.

Miranda let out the breath she'd finally gotten ahold of. She tried to think lofty, composed, queenlike thoughts, as she'd been taught when she first started competing in pageants. She pictured the crown on her head and imagined Bert Parks asking her the inevitable question about world peace.

“I know, Mother. Is, uh, Tom there?”

“No, dear. I thought you were driving over together.”

“Well, actually, I'm not feeling all that well.”
Not exactly
a lie.
“I think Tom may have misunderstood our plans.”
And me. And our life.
“Will you ask him to call me if he shows up there?”

“Of course, Miranda. But I want you to call me in the morning and let me know how you're feeling. You don't think you're . . .”

“No, Mother.” Miranda winced at the raw hope in her mother's voice.

She doubted she was pregnant. She never was. And this was the first time she was glad of it.

As she hung up the phone, Miranda's gaze flitted around the study she so rarely entered. For the first time she noticed how bare the desktop was, except for her carefully laid out cache of evidence; how empty the drawer had been, except for the obviously overlooked pictures.

Miranda's mouth went dry. Not at all regally, she shoved back from the desk and stood, her knees wobbling.

Slowly, with the bad feeling in the pit of her stomach spreading bodywide, she forced herself up the stairs to the master bedroom. Stopping at the dresser, she drew a steadying breath and pulled Tom's top drawer open. Though she wouldn't have been surprised by satin or lace, she found neither. Nor did she find anything in white cotton. The drawer was empty.

Miranda opened each drawer in turn, but all of Tom's clothes were gone. Trying not to hyperventilate, she moved to the walk-in closet and found more of the same. Or was that none of the same?

Like a zombie, she turned and walked back into the bedroom stopping at the king-size bed she'd shared with Tom Smith for the last twelve years. A man she'd evidently never known nor understood.

There, propped on her pillow, sat a small square envelope. Miranda sank onto the edge of the bed and reached for the envelope. Maybe it was an invitation to some event somehow gone astray. Or instructions to smile because she was, in fact, on
Candid Camera
, not watching her life swirl steadily down the toilet.

Murmuring a small prayer, she picked up the envelope and pried it open with clumsy fingers.

The message was brief and to the point. Once again some part of Miranda's mind cried “foul,” because after this many years a woman deserved some warning. And she definitely deserved an explanation.