She Drives Me Crazy (4 page)

"Johnny, please don't do this."

"I already did. Now shut up, Emma Jean, and let's get you X-rayed."

Over his shoulder, she saw a cluster of shoppers inching closer. They made no bones about trying to hear every word she and Johnny exchanged. Surely nothing this exciting had happened in Joyful since, oh, say, ten years ago. That would have been the night this bastard had seduced her in public, then roared away, leaving her to explain to a bunch of gawking onlookers while trying to fasten two-dozen tiny, silk-covered buttons up the back of her pink prom dress.

Before they could escape the store altogether, however, a female voice said, "Hey, Johnny, what about your sauce?"

Emma glanced at the cashier who'd spoken, a young woman with teased up bright red hair and a serious case of acne. The woman watched them with eyes as big as dinner plates, and a definite pout on her heavily glossed lips.

"I'll be back for it," Johnny informed her.

"You have to buy it. You bent it all up when you dropped it," the belligerent cashier exclaimed.

"Yeah, and your date's gonna be real disappointed if you don't make her a gourmet meal," Emma muttered.

The woman's voice rose in pitch. "My boss'll make me pay for it if you don't."

Right. As if her boss wouldn't have heard the whole sordid story within six-point-five minutes on the infamous Joyful grapevine. Every person in the store was practically shifting on their feet, itching for Johnny and Emma to get gone so they could spread the news to the four corners of the Joyful kingdom.

Emma tried to wriggle out of Johnny's arms. "Go pay for your sauce and I'll go out and get back in my car. I can drive myself to the clinic." Then, giving him a slightly malicious smile, she whispered, "You damaged the can. I wouldn't want you to get falsely accused of vandalism…
again
."

Direct hit. His eyes widened at the insult, and his lips thinned. He obviously remembered when he'd told her about being accused of vandalizing the town fountain as a kid. Another memory from prom night—during their hours of talking, he'd told her what it was like growing up a member of the trashiest family in town.

Not too unlike what it had meant growing up a rich kid in boarding school.

Lonely.

"Damn, you got bitchy while you were away, didn't you?"

The camera-hungry old man, whose pants were hitched up almost to his nipples, snorted with laughter. Yes, he probably approved of the caveman tactics. Emma shot him a glare and he quickly turned away, pretending to carefully examine a sign advertising a weekly special on toilet paper.

Over near a breakfast display, a harried-looking mother shoved a box of marshmallows and sugar masquerading as breakfast cereal into her toddler's hands to get him to stop crying. Heaven forbid she miss a word of Emma and Johnny's confrontation.

"And you got hard of hearing," Emma finally retorted, making no effort to keep her voice down. She didn't much care if everyone in the store heard and took notes. "I said put me down."

"Uh, okay, that'd be a big
no
."

Without another word to anyone, he strode out the automatic door, still holding her securely in his arms. Emma watched over his shoulder as the cashier, her co-worker and every shopper in the place rushed to the front window. They might as well have pressed their noses against the glass for a better look.

He didn't even pause as he passed by her convertible. When he reached a black SUV, he lowered her to the ground, effectively trapping her against the car with his long, firm body. Another flood of memories invaded her brain. She remembered what it had been like to dance with him, both vertically at the prom, and later, horizontally under the misty, moonlit sky.

"Don't you understand the meaning of the word 'no'?" she asked, wondering why she sounded so darned weak all of a sudden. "Or has it been so long since a woman said it to you that you've simply forgotten what it sounds like?"

He raised a brow. "Jealous?"

"Oh, puh-lease."

"Emma, answer me one question. That little car you squealed in here on. Manual or automatic?"

Flustered by the change of subject, not to mention his, umh…closeness…she admitted, "Manual."

He nodded, unsurprised. "Of course. You would never buy a car you couldn't drive like a screaming bat out of hell. Your poor gears are probably already ground down to nothing."

She couldn't deny it. An automatic transmission had seemed almost sacrilege in an eight-cylinder car meant to go from zero to ninety in the length of time it took to touch up her lipstick in the rearview mirror.

"Which ankle did you twist?"

She followed his pointed stare toward her left foot, already looking swollen and tender. Then she knew where he was heading. The clutch would be a killer. "Oh."

"Right."

He opened the door, and lifted her, putting her in the passenger seat.

"My car…"

"Will be fine here," he insisted.

His tone allowed for no more arguing. It was time to admit the truth. To her eternal mortification, she really did have to accept the help of the one man on earth she'd hoped never to see again.

Correction. This day was going to her top
three
list of bad days. Maybe even top two.

"All right," she finally conceded, hearing the dismay she couldn't keep from her voice. "Let's go."

"You swore there'd be no more quickies," she told her reflection, angry at her lack of willpower when it came to Jimbo Boyd, her full-time boss and her often-times lover.

He'd had her in the palm of his hand for years. Whenever she tried to back away, knowing he'd never give her what she wanted—a real commitment—he always managed to seduce her back into their long-standing affair.

This latest time, she'd managed to resist for a month. Long enough to start looking beyond him, beyond the fruitless dreams of him leaving his wife for her. She'd begun thinking she could live without him, though he'd been a major presence in her life since she'd been young and dumb, wowed by the attention of a handsome, much-older man.

He was still handsome and she was still dumb, as evidenced by today's naked wrestling session on his desk.

He'd sounded so unhappy last night, that's what had done her in. He'd called her at home, telling her how terrible his life was without her.
That
she believed. Jimbo was the most put-upon man she'd ever known, controlled by his rich wife. The mayor would never admit it, but Joyful knew exactly who was in charge, at work, at home and at city hall. First Lady Hannah Boyd.

Jimbo might cheat on her, but he wouldn't leave Hannah. Daneen had thought the realization would give her the strength to stand firm when he started begging her to come back to him.

Uhh… wrong.

"Idiot," she called herself, then left the powder room.

She'd known this morning that Jimbo would lay on the charm today, wanting an after-hours
dick
—yuck, yuck, hardy-har-har, emphasis on the
dick
—tation session. Nope, no surprise there. Not after last night's teary phone call, and the loud argument Jimbo'd had with Hannah this morning. Fighting with Hannah always made Jimbo want to have sex…with someone else. Not that Hannah suspected that Daneen was the someone else these days.

Since it was after five-thirty, she began to gather her things to leave. Maybe she'd beat Johnny to the house and he'd never hear her phone message. She'd told him she was working late and he should heat up some leftovers in the microwave for supper.

Grabbing her purse and keys, Daneen knocked lightly on the closed door of Jimbo's office. When she didn't receive an answer, she pushed it open and saw him at his desk, talking on the phone.

"I told you it wouldn't matter," he said. "The paperwork is perfect. There's nothing she can do."

She waited, wondering who he'd called, knowing the phone hadn't rung. Five minutes ago, they'd been panting and naked on his desk. He must've reached for the handset before he'd zipped up his fly. Well, didn't
that
make her feel special.

"The tracks are covered. Nobody can do a thing. Do you think I don't know this town? Stop worrying."

"Jimbo?" she whispered.

He looked up and saw her standing there, then impatiently waved her out with his hand, not saying a word. Daneen stiffened, hot moisture rising in her eyes, to her absolute mortification.

God, it killed her that she loved the son of a bitch. At least, she usually loved him…on the days she didn't hate his faithless guts.

Backing out of the office, she blinked rapidly, righteous anger drying her tears. She turned on her heel and walked to the exit, prepared to give the door a good slam as she left. But as she reached it, she saw someone standing outside.

"Came to get paid," Cora Dillon said as soon as Daneen unlocked the front door, which Jimbo had locked shortly before their five-minute interlude in his office. The woman tried to push inside. "I did some cleaning for Mr. Boyd today."

Cora, one of Daneen's late mother's friends, was known far and wide as the nosiest busybody north of Atlanta. She'd just love to come inside and catch a hint of scandal, perhaps something as damning as Daneen's lipstick on Jimbo's chin. Not to mention the unmistakable aroma of illicit sex.

"Sorry, we're closed." Daneen stepped out and tried to pull the door shut behind her. "You'll have to come back tomorrow."

The steely-eyed old bat had the gall to stick her foot in the door and shoulder it back open. "Mister Boyd said I could get my money today. I know he's here, so I'll wait inside for him."

Daneen gritted her teeth, wishing she'd left earlier, or at least sprayed down Jimbo's office with some air freshener. Busybodies had the noses of bloodhounds. Since their eyes were almost as deadly keen, she didn't even dare to glance down at her blouse to make sure she hadn't missed a button.

That'd be the last thing she needed—for her father—or worse,
Johnny
, to hear rumors about her and Jimbo. He'd be devastated. Humiliated. And Daneen would die before hurting him.

"You're wasting your time," she said to Cora, trying to sound unconcerned. "It'll be a very long wait. He's been in on that phone all afternoon, I barely got a minute with him today."

God, it was hard to stay steady and meet the other woman's eyes. She did it, though, because Cora Dillon collected gossip the way some old ladies collected ceramic pigs or antique dolls: with single-minded precision.

Daneen didn't want anyone to know about her secret affair with Jimbo. Not Hannah Boyd. Not Cora Dillon.

And especially not Johnny.

Trying to escape the view of the onlookers still pressed against the front window of the Joyful Grocery Store, Emma sank into the passenger seat of Johnny's SUV. Through half-lowered lashes, she watched him go around to get into the driver's side.

Of all people in the world she hated to be indebted to, it was Johnny Walker. Well, him, and the bank that held her car loan. She'd have to figure out how to pay them
after
she figured out how she was going to buy her next meal.

But right up there in a close tie was Johnny Walker, the man she'd never been able to forget. Or forgive.

Getting in on the other side, he jerked the door closed, his every movement taut and tense. He obviously disliked the situation as much as she did. His jaw remained stiff as he yanked his seat belt across his lap and fastened it.

She watched, her eyes going where they had no business going before she managed to scrunch them shut. Johnny's lap was no man's land. No woman's land, at least.
Not this woman, anyway
.

Probably plenty of others, though. She imagined with his looks and smile and those wicked blue eyes he'd probably had a
lot
of women in his lap over the years. "Bastard."

He turned his head and quirked a brow. "Excuse me?"

"Hurts like a bastard," she mumbled.

He stared, practically daring her not to blink at the lie. She wouldn't. She couldn't. And she didn't. Not even when her eyes began to feel like they were full of sawdust.

When he finally looked away to start up the car, she almost cried with relief. She did not want him to know she had any feelings for him one way or the other. Sadness would tell him how much he'd once hurt her. Anger implied he meant something to her.

Complete indifference was definitely the best way to go.

"'Cause, you know, I felt pretty sure you couldn't be talking to me," he said as he backed out of the parking space. "The guy who just earned your ass out of not only a painful situation but a damned embarrassing one."

"Which wasn't entirely my fault."

"Wasn't mine, either," he countered. "In case, you know, you were, uh, cursing more than the pain in your ankle."

Darn. She hadn't fooled him at all with the brief staring contest. He was still too intuitive for her own good.

But he was also correct. "You're right," she admitted, the words dragged out of her throat almost against her own will. "Thank you. That wasn't quite the way I'd expected to renew my acquaintance with the residents of Joyful."

"How'd you expect to do that?" he asked with a frown. "On a stage wearing nothing but a big smile?"

She sucked in a shocked breath, then barked out a laugh. "Good grief, hasn't this town seen me naked enough?"

This time, she surprised a laugh right back out of him. He glanced over at her, good humor malting those irresistible dimples of his deepen in his lean cheeks. "Is that a trick question?"

She raised a brow.

"
Is
there such a thing as seeing enough of a naked woman?"

Deadpan, she replied, "I suppose it depends on the woman. Are we talking Lady Godiva naked here? Or the old lady from the Shoebox greeting cards naked?"

"How about porn star naked?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

Then she snorted. Porn star, indeed. "Is that how you're getting your kicks these days? Was the can of spaghetti sauce you dropped really supposed to be a dinner for two—you—and a two-dimensional date on your big-screen TV?"

He chuckled again, shaking his head. Johnny always could get her to say the most outrageous things, when other people generally thought of her as the sweetest spoken, most ladylike girl around. Once upon a time she'd liked him for that.

With Johnny, she hadn't had to be an angel. And lordy had he tempted her to be a devil. On one night in particular.

"You haven't changed much," he finally said.

"You have."

"You're still a smart-ass."

"You're still a bossy, arrogant so-and-so."

He snorted. "You obviously still know how to be the center of attention."

"
You
obviously still have a hero complex," she responded.

They fell silent for a moment, then, she heard him say one more thing. "I've thought about you."

The absurd fluttering his softly spoken words caused in her stomach made her retort airily, "I haven't spared you one minute."

That shut him up. And officially upped her time in purgatory for lying. Big huge fat liar, that was Emma Jean's new title.

But it served its purpose and was worth a few more years of penance. Because it got him to quit being cute and teasing and playful and sexier than any man had a right to be.

Johnny angry she could handle. Johnny flirtatious and cute she definitely could not. No sane, reasonable, breathing woman could. It was bad enough that she was half-crippled and helpless, she hated to be emotionally helpiess on top of it. As emotionally helpless as only Johnny Walker had ever been able to make her.

Helplessness had never agreed with her, emotionally
or
physically. Nor, she realized as she thought about him taking her to a clinic with pricey X-rays, had poverty. An Ace bandage from the clinic would probably cost more than a bag of groceries. And right now, a little pain seemed preferable to starvation.

Having sprained her ankle enough as a kid, she recognized the symptoms. All she needed was a good soak, a strong bandage—which her grandmother had always kept on hand—and some aspirin. Or a belt of something strong to numb the pain in her ankle and the confusion in her brain.

She doubted her grandmother had ever stocked
anything
strong enough to numb the abject humiliation of the scene in the store.

"I don't need to go to the clinic," she said.

He just shook his head. "Don't start that again."

Knowing he probably figured she was arguing for argument's sake, Emma turned in her seat. She placed her hand on his arm, just below the rolled up sleeve of his dress shirt, to try to convince him she was serious. Bad move. Waaaaay bad. It was impossible to ignore the sudden blast of heat shooting through her fingertips at the feel of his smooth skin against hers. General Electric could have learned something about stoves from this guy's skin.

Hot. Fevered. Powerful.

She gulped away the momentary insanity. "I mean it," she finally said when she felt capable of speech. "I've sprained and twisted my ankle enough times to know what it feels like. This one's not bad." Even to her own ears, her voice sounded thin and unconvincing. Not surprising. She could barely focus on anything but the knowledge that she was really here, breathing the same air, actually
touching
him after all these years.

Though behind the wheel, he seemed unable to tear his gaze away from her hand, starkly pale against his own deeply tanned skin. She finally pulled it away, wondering why her fingertips still tingled even after she'd clenched her fists in her lap.

Then, noting where her fists had landed, she jerked her hands lower toward the knee part of her lap. Away from the, umh…upper
thigh
part. That territory was too alert already. It had been ever since she'd seen him in the grocery store.

Emma, you are one pathetic, sex-starved woman.

Yeah. She definitely was. Which was why she needed to get away from the six-foot tall walking pile of solid sin.

"My grandmother had a well-stocked medicine cabinet at the house," she mumbled, knowing the house wasn't too far away. "I can bandage it myself. I've had lots of experience. Can you just give me a ride to her place?"

He cleared his throat, gave one nod and turned at the next comer. They rode in silence for a few moments, but finally, as they pulled out onto Main Street, Johnny glanced at her again. "I'm sorry about your grandma. She's sorely missed. Most of the town turned up at her funeral."

She heard an unspoken question in his voice. "I was in the hospital after a car accident."

He cast her a quick look that might have been concern but was more likely curiosity.

"I'm fine now," she quickly explained. "But I was laid up for a few weeks." She glanced out the window, unable to hide the regret in her voice. "My parents didn't even tell me she'd died until two days after the funeral. Tfiey knew I'd have tried to get here."

"I'm sorry, Em."

"Me too," she whispered, then she cleared her throat. "But at least I got to see her right before she died. She came to visit me in New York while I was in the hospital."

"What happened? Were you in traction? Broken legs?" he asked, glancing at her thighs, exposed to an almost indecently high level due to her short skirt. Then he quickly glanced away and a funny tick started in his temple.

Johnny always had been a leg man.

She thrust the thought—and the flash of unmistakable heat it caused—out of her head. Swallowing hard, she forced a note of nonchalance in her voice. "Nope, not legs. Broken head."

He gaped. "Are you kidding?"

"Minor swelling on the brain knocked me out but good for a few days. I woke up after surgery bald as a cue ball, a little confused about who I was and wondering whether Brad Pitt really had been painting my toenails while I slept."

This time, he hit his brakes, coming to a stop in the middle of the street. Darn good thing they weren't being tail-gated, or he would have been rear-ended for sure. "You're serious?"

"Yeah," she said with a rueful sigh. "Unfortunately, Brad hadn't been visiting me during my unconscious state. That part was just a dream. Did you know they take off your nail polish when you have surgery? I didn't know until I woke up and peeked at my toes. They were dreadfully bare, so that's how I knew Brad hadn't come around."

He shot her a glare. "Would you shut up about your nail polish and get back to the bald part? Jesus, Emma Jean, did you have brain surgery?"

"The swelling had to be relieved." She fingered a short curl beside her cheek, twisting it around her finger. "Ah, well, I'd always wanted to do something drastic with my hair."

"Baldness is pretty drastic."

"So are scars on your head. Believe me, this hairdo is positively lush in comparison."

He stared at her hair, at the curl wound around her index finger. At her face.

Emma's heart skipped a beat in her chest as she took stock of the moment. God, of all the things she'd envisioned about her homecoming, there'd never been anything close to this.

Alone with Johnny. And him looking at her with the same old combination of interest, frustration and aloofness that had always driven her crazy. She wondered what he could be thinking to make his eyes sparkle such a brilliant blue, a vivid color she'd only ever before seen in the waters of the Caribbean.

Behind them, someone laid on a horn, and Johnny jerked his attention back to the road. Emma took the moment to order her heart to get back to doing its job, regular and even. And she reminded herself to breathe.

In. Out. Slower. Deeper. Calm. Relax.

Hitting the gas, Johnny took off down the street, shaking his head and muttering something beneath his breath.

"Ahem, if you're going to speak to me, could you do it louder? I didn't quite hear you."

He mumbled again, then glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She grinned.

"A lush hairdo? You always were one to see the silver lining, weren't you?" he finally said.

Not always. Not on prom night, anyway. Not until he'd
shown
her the silver lining. And a lot more.

"So you don't like my hair?" Emma wasn't particularly vain, but she'd thought the Marilyn Monroe look suited her. And at least, it got people to stop seeing her only as the sweet, long-haired golden girl.

The hairdo had inspired other changes, including a wardrobe renovation. Not to mention her cute sporty car. Within weeks, Emma Jean had transformed into a slightly bad girl. That was one positive thing to come out of her accident, anyway.

"I like your hair Emma Jean," he admitted. "But I meant the other silver lining. I guess you bless your accident a bit, since you got to see your grandmother one last time."

Definitely. "Yes. I'm very thankful I got to see her again."

It hurt to think of their last visit, fourteen months before, and not just because it had been the last time they'd been together. A very concerned Grandma Emmajean had said she was thinking of making some changes. She'd talked about leaving Georgia. Someone was interested in buying her land, and she'd thought to sell the house, too, and buy a small place in New York to be near her family. Namely her.

Those words had shocked Emma. Joyful was her grandmother's life. The house and the grove had been in her family for decades. It had been heartbreakingly clear how lonely Grandma Emmajean had become, and how selfish Emma had been to stay away just because of some embarrassment she'd suffered as a teenager.

She'd asked Grandma Emmajean not to do it, and had promised to come for a long visit once she was well enough. Nothing would have stopped Emma from keeping her promise. Nothing…except the twist of fate that caused her much-loved grandmother's tired heart to stop beating in her sleep the following week.