“My house in Copalis.”
“Mr. Duffy isn’t going to like it.”
“Too bad,” was his unconcerned comment as he walked around the side of the three-story brick mansion toward his 1966 Corvette parked in front. A year ago, the convertible had been a present to himself after he’d been traded to the Chinooks and had signed a multimillion-dollar contract with the Seattle hockey team. John loved the classic Corvette. He loved the big engine and all that power. He figured once he got on the freeway, he’d open the Corvette up.
As he shed his blue blazer, a flash of pink at the top of the wide brick steps caught his attention. He tossed his jacket in the shiny red car and paused to watch a woman in a light pink dress slip through the massive double doors. A beige overnight case banged against the hardwood, and a breeze tossed dozens of dark corkscrew curls about her bare shoulders. She looked like she’d been shrink-wrapped in satin from armpit to midthigh. The large white bow sewn to the top of the bodice did little to hide her centerfold bosom. Her legs were long and tan, and she wore a pair of flimsy strapless high heels on her feet.
“Hey, mister, wait a minute,” she called to him in a slightly breathless, distinctly southern voice. The heels of her ridiculous shoes made tiny click-click sounds as she bounced down the stairs. Her dress was so tight, she had to descend sideways, and with each hurried step, her breasts strained and swelled against the top of the dress.
John thought about telling her to stop before she hurt herself. Instead he shifted his weight to one foot, folded his arms, and waited until she came to a halt on the opposite side of his car. “Maybe you shouldn’t run like that,” he advised.
From beneath perfectly arched brows, pale green eyes stared at him. “Are you one of Virgil’s hockey players?” she asked, stepping out of her shoes and leaning down to pick them up. Several glossy dark curls slid over her tanned shoulder and brushed the tops of her breasts and the white bow.
“John Kowalsky,” he introduced himself. With her full, kiss-me-daddy lips and tilty eyes, she reminded him of his grandfather’s favorite sex goddess, Rita Hayworth.
“I need to get out of here. Can you help me?”
“Sure. Where are you headed?”
“Anywhere but here,” she answered, and tossed her overnight case and shoes on the floor of his car.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he slid into the Corvette. He hadn’t planned on having company, but having Miss January jump in his car wasn’t such a bad fate. Once she sat in the passenger’s seat, he pulled out of the circular drive. He wondered who she was and why she was in such a hurry.
“Oh God,” she moaned, and turned to stare at Virgil’s rapidly disappearing house. “I left Sissy there all by herself. She went to get her bouquet of lilac and pink roses and I ran out!”
“Who’s Sissy?”
“My friend.”
“Were you supposed to be in the wedding?” he asked. When she nodded he assumed she was a bridesmaid or some sort of attendant. As they sped past walls of fir trees, rolling farmland, and pink rhododendrons, he studied her out of the corner of his eye. A healthy tan tinted her smooth skin, and as John looked at her, he noticed that she was prettier then he’d first realized-younger, too.
She turned to face the front again, and the wind picked up her hair and sent it dancing about her face and straight shoulders. “Oh, God. I’ve really messed up this time,” she groaned, drawing out the vowels.
“I could take you back,” he offered, wondering what had happened to make this woman run out on her friend.
She shook her head and her pearl drop earrings brushed the smooth skin just below her jaw. “No, it’s too late. I’ve done it now. I mean, I’ve done it in the past… but this… this beats all with a stick.”
John turned his attention to the road. Female tears didn’t really bother him much, but he hated hysterics, and he had a real bad feeling she was about to get hysterical on him. “Ahh… what’s your name?” he asked, hoping to avoid a scene.
She took a deep breath, tried to let it out slowly, and grabbed at her stomach with one hand. “Georgeanne, but everyone calls me Georgie.”
“Well, Georgie, what’s your last name?”
She placed one palm on her forehead. Her sculpted nails were painted light beige on the bottom and white at the ends. “Howard.”
“Where do you live, Georgie Howard?”
“McKinney.”
“Is that just south of Tacoma?”
“Cryin‘ all night in a bucket,” she groaned, and her breathing quickened. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”
“Are you going to get sick?”
“I don’t think so.” She shook her head and gulped air into her lungs. “But I can’t breathe.”
“Are you hyperventilating?”
“Yes-no-I don’t know!” She looked at him with nervous, wet eyes. Her fingers began to claw at the pink satin covering her ribs, and the hem of her dress slipped farther up her smooth thighs. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it,” she wailed between big, hiccuping breaths.
“Put your head between your knees,” he instructed, glancing briefly at the road.
She leaned slightly forward, then fell back against the seat. “I can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“My corset is too tight… Good Lord!” Her southern drawl rose. “I’ve done it up good this time. I can’t believe it…” she continued with her now familiar litany.
John began thinking that helping Georgeanne was not the best idea. He pressed the gas pedal to the floor, propelling the Corvette across a bridge spanning a narrow strip of the Puget Sound, quickly leaving Bainbridge Island behind. Shades of green sped past as the Corvette chewed up highway 305.
“Sissy is never going to forgive me.”
“I wouldn’t worry about your friend,” he said, somewhat disappointed to find that the woman in his car was as flaky as a croissant. “Virgil will buy her something nice, and she’ll forget all about it.”
A wrinkle appeared between her brows. “I don’t think so,” she said.
“Sure he will,” John argued. “He’ll probably take her someplace real expensive, too.”
“But Sissy doesn’t like Virgil. She thinks he’s a lecherous old leprechaun.”
A real bad feeling tweaked the back of John’s neck. “Isn’t Sissy the bride?”
She stared at him with her big green eyes and shook her head. “I am.”
“That’s not even funny, Georgeanne.”
“I know,” she wailed. “I can’t believe I left Virgil at the altar!”
The tweak in John’s neck shot to his head, reminding him of his hangover. He stomped on the brake as the Corvette swerved to the right and stopped on the side of the highway. Georgeanne fell against the door and grasped the handle with both hands.
“Jesus H. Christ!” John shoved the car into park and reached for the sunglasses on his face. “Tell me you’re joking!” he demanded, tossing the Ray-Bans on the dash. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he were caught with Virgil’s runaway bride. But then, he really didn’t have to think about it too hard, he knew what would happen. He knew he’d find himself traded to a losing team faster than he could clear out his locker. He liked playing for the Chinook organization. He liked living in Seattle. The last thing he wanted was a trade.
Georgeanne straightened and shook her head.
“But you’re not wearing a wedding dress.” He felt tricked and pointed an accusing finger at her. “What kind of bride doesn’t wear a damn wedding dress?”
“This is a wedding dress.” She grasped the hem and tried to yank it modestly down her thighs. But the dress hadn’t been made for modesty. The more she tugged it toward her knees, the farther it slid down her breasts. “It’s just not a traditional wedding dress,” she explained as she grabbed the big white bow and pulled the bodice back up. “After all, Virgil has been married five times, and he thought a white gown would be tacky.”
Taking a deep breath, John closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. He had to get rid of her-fast. “You live south of Tacoma, right?”
“No. I’m from McKinney-McKinney, Texas. Until three days ago, I’d never been north of Oklahoma City.”
