Perfect Timing (30 page)

“And this
will
be fun,” Rainie said over her shoulder as she pushed open the glass door. “Quincy won’t know what hit him.”

“My poor brother,” Sam cried. “You guys don’t give him credit for all his fine qualities.”

“Yes, we do,” Mandy objected. “It’s just that he’s always been so uptight. It’s high time to make him loosen up.”

Jostled along by the giggling hens, Ceara entered the shop and was instantly dazzled by the displays. To her right, there was a rack of transparent lingerie with sparkly patterns that shone like diamonds in the rays of sunlight coming through the front windows. Another rack held more transparent garments trimmed in bright-colored feathers.

“Decadent, huh?” Mandy chirped with a grin. “Boy, I love this place. Every time I come, I make Zach’s eyes pop out of his head that night.”

Dee Dee chimed in with, “I like that they haven’t overlooked us older gals with mature figures.” She skimmed a palm over her well-padded hip, which looked delightfully round beneath what she called her go-to-town black slacks. “Even us dinosaurs like to look sexy.”

“You’re not a dinosaur,” protested Rainie who glimmered like a sun-drenched rainbow in a swirly hued blue skirt and a metallic gold peasant blouse topped by a multicolored shawl threaded with more shimmery yellow, which she’d chosen to wear that day to celebrate the spurt of warm weather. “You’re pretty as a picture, and I know Dad would second that vote.”

Dee Dee stopped at a glass box filled with odd-looking things that came in all different colors and were shaped like the corncobs Quincy had barbecued on the grill one night. A young woman, boxed in by other glass cases, moved close to smile at Dee Dee over the counter. “Anything particular in mind today, ladies?”

Rainie bent over to peer in. “Oh,
wow
! Look at this gold-plated one, Ceara. You could name him Mr. Midas.”

Ceara realized then that the shiny corncobs were what the hens called electronic boyfriends—proper nomenclature, according to Quincy,
vibrators
. Mildly disappointed because they didn’t look very impressive, Ceara joined Rainie at the glass and pretended to be more interested than she actually was.

The clerk smiled and said, “The gold one is top-of-the-line, with five different sensation settings. All my ladies who’ve bought one absolutely
love
it.”

“Test run,” Mandy piped in.

“Definitely,” Sam agreed.

The saleswoman used a key to open the backside of the case and plucked Mr. Midas from his black velvet perch. She handed the apparatus to Rainie. “Try the highest setting, the French Tickle. I hear that the men like it even more than the women do.”

Ceara gaped as Rainie pressed a button to make Mr. Midas come alive and then used a slide control to go through the settings with the gadget resting on her palm.
“Nice.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the other hens. “I mean,
ooh-la-la
. This thing rocks and rolls.”

She handed Mr. Midas to Ceara, who was so startled by the vibration that she nearly dropped it. “’Tis wiggling. What makes it wiggle?”

“Batteries,” Loni chimed in. “Always make sure you’ve got plenty of D batts, sister dear. There’s nothing more deflating than an electronic boyfriend in dud mode.”

“She’ll take it,” Rainie said. “Ceara, where’s your credit card?”

“You did bring it, I hope,” Sam said.

“I did! Quincy got me one of me own and says I can spend as much as I wish.”

“Well, we’ll make him wish he’d given you a limit,” Dee Dee said with a laugh.

Quincy had lent Ceara a leather coin pouch to carry the card, because she had no purse. As she reached into the pocket of her skirt, the saleswoman said, “No hurry with that unless you’re finished shopping.”

Rainie hooked elbows with Ceara. “Oh, she has heaps more shopping to do. Can we just bring all her selections here and leave them on the counter?”

“Absolutely.”

Ceara found herself being guided by the hens into the bowels of the shop. She felt like a bit of flotsam being swept along by a wave. An hour later, she and all the hens left the establishment with the handles of pretty purple sacks looped over their arms. Ceara carried three that were filled with sparkly, feathery, and lacy nightwear, several pairs of skimpy panties, three half-cup bras, and her very own gold-plated electronic boyfriend, already christened Mr. Midas.

“Now for some more practical shopping.” Rainie’s voice rang out in the sun-washed April breeze. “She needs some everyday underthings
and
at least a couple of outfits that will knock Quincy’s eyes out. The first time I helped her shop, I focused on modesty and layers. This time, I’m thinking tight-to-the calf black boots with heels, a skinny black skirt that hits just above the knee, and a dynamite top of some kind.”

“I’m dying to see her in a green knit top,” Sam said. “Jade, I think. With her hair, can you just imagine?”

“Lunch first.” Mandy placed a hand over her middle. “I’m starving!”

They ate at a place the hens called a fish house. Once seated at the large round table, Ceara glanced at the dining area, trying to determine
why
it was called a fish house, because she saw no fish anywhere. But she could smell what might be fish cooking somewhere in the building. Dee Dee helped Ceara order—halibut in a light butter-lemon sauce with baby red potatoes, steamed broccoli, a house salad, and a glass of white zinfandel.

Ceara enjoyed the food and wine, but the conversation was even more fun. The hens felt free to talk about anything and everything: sex, new recipes, sex, kids, housekeeping, sex, college courses, husbands, marital spats, and, of course, more about sex. Ceara discovered that people coupled in very strange places—closets, laundry rooms, on top of desks or tables, in the shower, and even in bathtubs. Ceara had only ever been with Quincy in bed, and by comparison, she felt boring. That led to an alarming thought. Did Quincy think she was boring?

Before she could agonize overlong about that, Rainie leveled a finger at her and said, “Hair.”

Mandy giggled. “I’ve been thinking exactly the same thing.” She sent Ceara an apologetic look. “Not that your hair isn’t beautiful. I mean, that color red is totally choice. Women probably pay a fortune to get anywhere close. But the length?” Mandy shrugged. “Ya got no style, sister.”

“Style?” Ceara repeated.

Rainie ran her hands back and forth over her blond-streaked tresses, making them go every which way, and then shook her head to make them fall back into place. “
That
is style. A little bit sexy, sort of bed-head once it’s mussed, and easy to keep up. It’s all about the cut.” She eyed Ceara’s face. “I’m betting you have heaps of natural curl with all those little wisps that aren’t tamed by your braid.”

“Just below the shoulder would look fab,” Loni inserted.

“And layered, definitely layered,” Mandy added.

“It
would
be lovely,” Dee Dee agreed.

“And so much easier to take care of if it were shorter,” Loni observed.

In Ceara’s time, women cut their hair only if they accidently singed it while cooking over the fire. Then again, women in her time never sank chin-deep in Quincy’s lovely whirlpool tub and got their tresses caught in the outtake valve. “Shorter,” she mused. “’Twould be nice, I think.”

“Unanimous?” Sam asked. Then she grinned. “If we’re going to loosen Quincy up, we may as well give him such a jolt we unseat all his bolts.”

Chapter Twelve

Q
uincy had washed up in the arena restroom, so as he paced off the distance from the arena to the house, the nip of the early evening April breeze sank its teeth through the damp shoulder seams of his work shirt, making him shiver. He’d chosen not to wear a jacket and now regretted it. As sunny as the central Oregon weather had been all day, it was now, with the arrival of twilight, turning colder than a witch’s tit after a long ride on her broom in freezing temperatures.

Bubba and Billy Bob weren’t snoozing on the porch, which told Quincy that both his mutts were inside with their lady. Ceara had won them over completely, and both dogs now preferred to forgo stable time to stay at the house with her. Quincy didn’t mind, not really. He loved his Aussies, but seeing the glow on Ceara’s face as she fussed over them pleased him. What made her happy made him happy. That was the long and short of it.

He stomped his boots as he scaled the steps and then wiped them as clean as he could on the hemp welcome mat before he entered the kitchen. After taking one step into the room, he froze. A slender redhead stood before the Viking cooktop. She was a vision, with burnished curls tumbling onto her shoulders and partway down her back. She wore a green knit top, a little black skirt that showed plenty of leg, and calf-hugging black boots with at least three-inch heels.

Quincy forgot to close the door behind him. “Where’s Ceara?”
And who the hell are you?
He bit back that question. The gal was cooking. Ceara had spent the day out shopping with the hens. Maybe they had convinced her to hire a full-time housekeeper. “My wife, Ceara, where is she?”

Billy Bob and Bubba, snoozing at her feet, both came awake at the rumble of Quincy’s voice. Tongues lolling, they gave him happy grins and lumbered erect before racing toward him, losing traction on the slate in the process and bumping into each other with ferocious play growls, eager for a hello rub and scratch behind the ears.

The woman turned from the stove, and Quincy forgot all about greeting his dogs.
Ceara? Sweet Christ.
What had happened to his precious sixteenth-century lady with that incredibly beautiful face bare of cosmetics, impossibly long hair, and layers of clothes to hide her body? Now—dear God—he felt a little faint. Her hair was a gloriously shorter flame of riotous curls that showcased an absolutely perfect countenance, artfully enhanced with shadow, blush, mascara, and a glimmer of lipstick. And from the neck down? Holy hell, a digital billboard flashing,
SCREW ME
, couldn’t have sent a louder message.

Quincy closed the door by going weak at the knees and collapsing back against it. She wore a dark green top that clung to every curve, enhancing her small but delectable breasts. The black skirt hugged her hips and dived pencil-straight to just above her dimpled knees. Skintight calf boots with kick-ass spiked heels completed the outfit. His mouth went dryer than arena sand, and his tongue felt as if it had been glued to the roof of his mouth. The first time he’d ever seen Ceara, he’d known that she was world-class in almost every way, but never had he imagined she could look like this. If he took her into one of his old honky-tonk haunts, he’d end up in a fistfight, because every cowboy in the joint would be drooling over her—literally—with their collective saliva pooling in the cleavage of her breasts.

“Holy hell, what have you
done
?”

She dimpled a cheek at him and shot out a hip to provide a perch for her splayed hand. Quincy’s gaze snapped to the spot like metal shavings reeled in by a strong magnet. Something else snapped to attention right along with his gaze. Her slender fingers were tipped with shiny, natural nails. No painted acrylic tips, thank God. He
hated
them.

“The hens got me a done-over.” Still wobbly on the toothpick heels, she stepped out from the stove and did a slow, slightly precarious twirl to show herself off. Quincy prayed to God she didn’t fall and snap a fragile anklebone, even as he noted that the slight sway accented her legs and hips. “What do ye think, Sir Quincy?”

He thought he’d died and gone to heaven. Well, scratch that. He really,
really
liked what he saw, but what had she done with all her beautiful
hair
? It took a lifetime to grow a braid that long, and as big a pain in the ass as it had been to wash, dry, and braid again, he’d still thought it was beautiful. Not that the new cut wasn’t equally pretty. Hell, it was downright stunning.

“I donated me braid,” she informed him. “To a charity called Locks of Love that makes hairpieces for children who have no hair because they are ill.”

He moved slowly toward her. His tongue still wouldn’t come loose from the roof of his mouth. The unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5 drifted to his nostrils.
Man
. He liked roses a lot, but Chanel totally blasted his olfactory senses. And on Ceara, the expensive perfume had its own allure, different somehow than it smelled on other women.

He finally got his tongue pried loose. “You look drop-dead . . .” He couldn’t think of an adjective to do her justice. “Drop-dead . . .” Where was his brain, in his hip pocket? “You look—”

Her blue eyes quickened with tears, and she wobbled on the high heels in a speedy attempt to sweep past him. Quincy snaked out a hand to catch her by the arm.
Language barrier.
She didn’t get what
drop-dead
, followed by any adjective, meant. “Gorgeous,” he blurted. “You are
gorgeous
—you totally
eclipse
any woman I’ve ever clapped eyes on. You look so beautiful I can barely think.”

She turned a questioning gaze on him, her eyes still shadowed with hurt. “Truly?”

She looked and smelled so fabulous that Quincy wanted to devour her right there on the spot. “Oh, yeah.” He released his hold on her arm. “Way too beautiful to eat in. Turn off the stove and give me fifteen to clean up. I’m taking you out to dinner. Someplace
incredible
. We’ll go into town by cab, wine and dine, and come home by cab. A lady as beautiful as you are deserves . . .” He honestly couldn’t think what she deserved. A charter flight to Paris for dinner, maybe? “The sky is the limit. Just let me get cleaned up.”

Her worried expression dissolved into an adorable, pleased smile that made his heart jerk. Smoothing her hands over her top and tight skirt in a way that nearly made his Adam’s apple stick to the back of his tongue, she said, “I canna go out in
this
. ’Tis a fer-home outfit. An outfit only fer ye. The hens say that is okay, to dress this way only fer ye.”