What I Did for Love (Wynette, Texas #5)(24)

SCOOTER

You could kiss me. I know you don’t want to. I know you’re going to say that I’m—



SKIP

Trouble.



SCOOTER

I don’t mean to be.



SKIP

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

(SKIP looks searchingly into SCOOTER’s eyes, then slowly kisses her.)



Georgie felt the hard touch of his lips, and this time the magic didn’t work. Skip’s lips should be soft. And Skip shouldn’t taste of cigarettes and insolence. She pulled back.

“Cut,” Jerry called out. “Is there a problem, Georgie?”

“There’s a problem, all right.” Bram scowled at the camera. “It’s eight f*cking o’clock in the morning.”

“Let’s do it again,” the director said.

And they had. Again and again. It was only a simple stage kiss, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make herself believe Skip was kissing her, and each time their lips met, she felt as though she was shaming herself all over again.

After the sixth take, Bram stormed off and told her to go take some “f*cking acting lessons.” She shouted back that he should swallow some “f*cking mouthwash.” The crew was used to temperament from Bram, but not from her, and she was ashamed. “I’m sorry, everybody,” she murmured. “I don’t mean to push my bad day off on you.”

The director coaxed Bram back. Georgie reached inside herself and somehow managed to use her own churning emotions to show Scooter’s confusion. They finally had their take.

And now here she was again, doing something she’d never thought she’d have to repeat. Kissing Bram Shepard.

Bram’s mouth closed over hers, his lips soft as Skip’s should have been. She began her mental retreat to the secret place she’d hidden in so many years ago. But something was wrong. Bram no longer tasted of late nights and seedy bars. He tasted clean. Not clean like Lance, who had an Altoids addiction, but clean like—

She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she knew she didn’t like it. She wanted Bram to be Bram. She wanted the sour taste of his condescension, the tainted bile of his disdain. Those were both things she knew how to handle.

She waited for him to try sticking his tongue down her throat. Not that she wanted him to—God, no—but at least it would be familiar.

He nibbled at her lower lip, then slowly set her back on her feet. “Welcome to married life, Mrs. Shepard,” he said in a soft, tender voice even as his hand, hidden in the folds of her skirt, pinched her bottom.

She smiled with relief. Bram was finally acting like himself. “Welcome to my heart…,” she said just as tenderly, “…Mr. Georgie York.” Beneath his jacket, she jabbed him in the ribs as hard as she could.



It was dark outside when Duffy left, and the management had slipped a message under the door. The switchboard was swamped with calls, and a horde of photographers had gathered outside. She turned on the television and saw that the news of their marriage was out. While Bram changed his clothes, she sat on the edge of the couch and watched.

Everyone was shocked.

No one had seen it coming.

Since only the bare-bones details were available, the cable news outlets were trying to fill out the story with comments from a string of so-called experts who knew absolutely nothing.

“After the devastating end to her first marriage, Georgie has returned to the comfort of the familiar.”

“Perhaps Shepard’s grown weary of his playboy lifestyle…”

“But has he really reformed? Georgie’s a wealthy woman, and…”

Bram came out of the bedroom in a fresh pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. “We’re leaving tonight.”

She muted the remote. “I’m not exactly anxious to drive to L.A. with a herd of photographers chasing us. As Princess Diana would say, ‘Been there. Done that.’”

“I’ve taken care of it.”

“You can’t even take care of yourself.”

“Let me put it another way. I’m not staying here. You can either come with me or explain to the press why your new husband is leaving alone.”

He was clearly going to win this skirmish, so she conjured up a sneer. “You’d better know what you’re doing.”

As it turned out, he did have the situation taken care of. A paneled plumbing van waited for them at the darkened loading dock. He tossed their suitcases inside and slipped the driver a couple of folded bills from his wallet. Afterward, he gave her an arm-up into the back, then climbed in himself and shut the door.

The interior smelled like rotten eggs. They wedged themselves into a space near the doors, drew up their knees, and set their backs against their luggage. “We’d better not be going all the way to L.A. in this,” she said.

“Were you always so whiny?”

Pretty much, she thought. At least this past year. And that was going to change. “You worry about yourself.”

The van lurched away from the loading dock, and she fell against his side. Her life had come to this. Sneaking out of Vegas in the back of a plumbing van. She rested her cheek on her bent knees and closed her eyes, trying not to think about what lay ahead.

SCOOTER