Wife for Hire (9 page)

Hank put his arm around her. “Of course you're calm, sweetcakes. You've just been
working too hard. You've probably got eye strain from too many hours at the computer.”

“She works day and night,” Elsie said to Hank's parents. “It isn't natural for a body to sit in front of one of those machines like that. It's no wonder she's so pale and twitchy.”

Maggie gasped. Was she realty pale and twitchy? Maybe she
had
been working too hard lately.

Hank patted her on the top of her head. “Poor little girl. All work and no play.” His mouth curved into a seductive smile. “We'll fix that to night, won't we?”

There was laughter in Hank's eyes, and Maggie knew it wasn't directed at her. He was fond of these people, and he was tolerant of them. He found humor where she found pure aggravation. She liked him for that. And she liked him for his silent reassurances. His eyes told her that she wasn't the least bit pale. His eyes told her she was beautiful beyond belief, and the smile was frighteningly indecent. The smile also produced a flood of memories from the night before.

“We're gonna be late for the game,” Bubba said. “We'd better get going.”

Helen Mallone responded to her husband's
hand at her elbow. “We should be moving along too.”

Maggie waved good-bye to the Mallones and watched Hank follow them down the driveway in his faded Ford. The sun had baked the moisture out of the dirt road, and a cloud of dust rose like a plume, marking the truck's progress.

Maggie stood on the porch until the cars were out of sight and the dust had begun to settle. Excitement fluttered in her chest like a wild bird. She was going to a dance to night! With Hank! How could she have forgotten? Easy. She had a short memory these days, she admitted. For instance, she'd just forgotten she was supposed to be disenchanted with Hank as husband material. In fact, not so long ago she didn't even think he looked so great as friend material. Now here she was in a state approaching euphoria because he was going to take her to a dance.

She put her hand to her mouth and found the smile had returned. She wasn't surprised.

“Life is not simple,” she said to Fluffy, taking her into the kitchen for a dish of cat food.

Elsie was one step behind them. “You know, if I was after those diaries, I'd come get them
tonight. There won't be nobody home to night. They'll be easy pickin's. You don't just leave them laying around, do you?”

“I hide them under my mattress.”

“Amateur stuff. We got to do better than that. We got to find a real hiding place for them if we're all going out.”

Maggie popped open a can of kitty tuna. “I guess you're right. I'll find a better place as soon as I feed Fluffy. You have any ideas?”

“I read a mystery story once where they hid diamonds in the refrigerator. I always thought that was pretty dumb, because every man I ever met stopped at the refrigerator first thing. I figure you got to put it in something a man would never touch. Like a basket of ironing. Or maybe you could get a false-bottomed pail for the johnny mop.”

“The diary is too big for a false-bottomed pail. It's actually seven books.” She set the plate of cat food on the floor. “I guess I should hide my computer disks too.”

“Tell me the truth,” Elsie said. “Are those books worth stealing? Your Aunt Kitty know something the rest of us don't? She have trade secrets in those books?”

“I suppose there are a few trade secrets, but
I really don't think there's anything worth stealing. You can read them, if you want.”

“Yeah? Maybe I will. I got some time off this afternoon. Maybe I'll just spend an hour or two browsing through them. Then we can find a good hiding place before we leave.”

At six o'clock Elsie put dinner on the table. “I don't mind people not coming to the table to eat my food,” she said. “You don't want to eat, you don't have to eat. But I'm not waiting dinner. Dinner is served at six o'clock, and if you want to eat, you'd better not be late. I don't care if the truck broke down or aliens landed on the baseball field, I'm not serving supper all night long.”

An hour later Hank threw his cleats onto the back porch and ambled into the kitchen. “Smells wonderful in here, Elsie. I bet you made stew with homemade biscuits. I could smell it the minute I got out of the truck.” He put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “I'm sorry I'm late. The game went into extra innings.”

She gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Did you win?”

“Yup.” He grinned down at her and pulled a baseball out of his pocket. “And I brought you the game ball too.”

She slid the ball into her apron pocket. “Lucky for you I can be bought. I don't usually serve supper to people when they're late.” She ladled out a plate of stew from the pot heating on the stove and added biscuits she'd had warming in the oven. “There's layer cake for dessert. You can help yourself. I got things to do.”

Maggie was still at the table, lingering over a glass of iced coffee and a second piece of cake.

“How do you do it?” she asked Hank when he sat across from her.

“Do what?”

“Charm all the women. If I'd been an hour late, I'd be eating dry toast for supper.”

“That's not true. Elsie would have saved supper for you. She's like a hedgehog. All prickles on the outside and soft and warm at the belly.” He buttered a biscuit. “You weren't talking about just Elsie, though, were you?”

“No. I was talking about a lifetime of wrapping women around your little finger. Including your mother and me.”

“I didn't realize I had you wrapped around my little finger.”

“I'm resisting.”

“Are we having a serious discussion?”

“Pretty much,” Maggie said.

“Then we have to put all these women in the appropriate category. My mother doesn't count. Mothers spoil their children no matter how rotten they are. The girls I knew in high school were hardly wrapped around my little finger. When I came back home I was the bad boy returned, and every eligible female—and some that weren't—wanted to take a crack at reforming me.

“The truth is, that for the past five years I've allowed myself to be led around by the nose like Farmer Brown's prize bull, because it was the easiest thing to do. The only commitments I've made have been to the farm. And the only promises I've made have been to myself. I've been a safe companion for a whole flock of women who, for one reason or another, didn't feel ready to get married.”

He finished eating his biscuit and took another. “And that leaves you. You're feeling sort of helpless because you're in love with me.”

“I'm not!”

“Of course you are. It's only natural. Being in love is a debilitating experience.” He should know, he thought. All she had to do was smile at him and he went to jelly inside.

“What makes you think I'm in love with you?”

“The signs are all there. You let me use the shower first this morning. Then you stood on the porch and watched me drive away this afternoon. And of course there's the smile.”

“You think that's irrefutable proof?”

“A man knows these things.”

Maggie licked the last bit of icing from her fork. “Okay. I'll admit that I'm infatuated with you, but that's as far as I'm going to go.”

“Really sticking your neck out, huh?”

She wanted to tell him she had no intention of getting hung up over a man who preferred tinkering with an old Ford to tinkering with her, but she decided it wasn't a flattering comparison. So she took her empty cake plate to the sink and rinsed it. It gave her time to squeeze her temper back into its hiding place.

“Don't provoke me,” she said. “I'm trying to whip myself up into a good mood for the dance to night.”

An hour and a half later she worried that she might have succeeded too well at that task. She'd spent an unusually long time in the shower, enjoying the feel of the warm water, while she
thought about dancing with Hank. Now she was feeling
very
friendly. Friendly enough to want to look especially nice.

So she'd taken great pains to get her hair just right. She'd used a little blush, a swipe of apricot lip gloss, a smudge of eye shadow, and she'd applied a touch of perfume to strategic places. Maggie, she said to herself, you're wicked.

She wore a softly clingy black knit dress that molded to her breasts, was nipped in with a thin belt at the waist and had a full, swirly skirt. She considered it to be the most romantic dress she owned. It was one of those dresses that should have been boring with its high neck and simple lines, but on Maggie it was a knockout. The saleswoman who'd sold it to Maggie had swallowed and said it was flattering. Aunt Kitty would have approved.

Maggie was twirling in front of the mirror in her room, studying the movement of the skirt, when Hank knocked at her door.

“Maggie, are you alive in there? It's been hours since you got out of the shower.”

“That's an exaggeration. It's been forty-five minutes.” She opened the door and gave one
final twirl for his approval. “What do you think? How do you feel about this dress?”

“You know how in cartoons they show this big thermometer, and the red column of mercury goes shooting up the glass tube and blows the top off?”

“Uh-huh.”

His attention fixed on the full swell of her breast under the soft jersey. “That's how I feel about this dress.” His gaze dropped to the cleft where the material seductively nestled into the curve of her thighs. “And I'm not taking you out in public until you put a slip on.”

She looked down at herself. “Static cling.” She shook the skirt out and spun around one more time. “There! Is that any better?”

Hank groaned. “There's no way I'm going to the dance with you wearing that dress.”

“It's my favorite dress!”

“It's a threat to my mental health. And you don't want to know the physical effect it's having on me.”

Maggie just looked at him and smiled a small feline smile.

It produced raised eyebrows and an
answering grin. “Maggie Toone Mallone, I think you're enjoying my discomfort.”

“Nonsense,” she assured him. “That would be mean.” Then she laughed. Of course she was enjoying it. She'd never known such power. And she'd never known such excitement. It hummed against the fabric of her red silk pan ties and sent a hot flush to her cheeks.

“That giggle could get you into a lot of trouble, Maggie.”

She liked the way his voice softened when his eyes grew hungry, and she considered that the dance might be dull compared to other activities that were available to her. A dangerous thought.

He ran a slow hand the length of her bare arm. “Elsie's already left.”

“Hmmm. So, we're all alone?”

He made no reply. He just looked at her with such intensity that she imagined his passion had condensed—the way leaves eventually become part of the strata, decomposed into oil, compressed into coal, stressed through the eons into diamonds. She figured Hank was at the coal stages—hard as anthracite and ready to burn.

When he pulled her to him, she knew she'd been right about the hard part. In seconds the dress was spread in a pool of black at her feet. The lacy red scrap of a bra followed. His hands trembled at her waist, but his mouth was firm. Firm and hot and voracious. He hooked his thumbs into the bikini pan ties, and they were gone. So was Maggie's resolve to keep him at arm's length. He backed her into her room, and by the time they reached the bed, he'd stripped off his clothes.

“Don't think I'm trifling with you, Maggie Toone Mallone. This is all-out lovemaking,” he said. “The kind that requires commitment.” He gently pushed her onto the bed and covered her. “I expect you to make an honest man of me.”

“I think it's too late,” Maggie murmured.

“I'm talking about marriage, Maggie.”

“Marriage? I thought we were talking about making you honest.”

“That's just an expression!”

His hands were at her breasts, stroking across the tips, and she wondered why he was talking when this delicious heat was flooding through her. “Do we have to talk about this now? I'm having a hard time concentrating.”

Hank decided that might be to his advantage. He supposed it was dirty pool to discuss marriage when she was in the throes of passion, but these were difficult times. And he was a desperate man. So he set about to disturb her concentration like it had never been disturbed before.

He moved slowly, using his body to exert pressure, teasing her with his fingertips, whispering words of love to her until she was wild and panting. She was almost on the brink, he thought, and he was almost at the point of insanity. He had to clench his teeth to momentarily stop the progress of his own passion. He'd been serious when he'd talked about commitment. He didn't want to make love to a fake wife. He wanted Maggie to be his. Forever. For really.

“Do you love me, Maggie?” He had to know. Had to hear it from her.

She could only blink at him. She wanted to tell him. Wanted to shout out her love, but her throat was tight and the words wouldn't come, so she nodded her head, yes.

“Will you marry me, Maggie?”

She licked swollen lips. “Really marry?”

He saw the flicker of doubt in her eyes, felt
the hesitation. He kissed her slowly, deeply. The restraint was costing him, but he continued the seduction. His mouth moved to her collarbone, caressed her breast and trailed kisses to her navel. She gasped and her eyes dropped closed, and he asked her again. “Will you marry me, Maggie?”

“Yes.” Weren't they already married? They were living in the same house, sharing the same bed, exchanging smiles across the breakfast table. Marriage wasn't a piece of paper. Marriage was a condition of the heart. It was an attitude. Wasn't it?