What the Heart Wants (What the Heart Wants, #1)(64)
“You’re welcome,” he returned, tucking her ruffly skirt in and shutting the door like a proper gentleman should, when what he really wanted to do was push her down on the car seat, shove up that bubbly skirt, and bury himself in her in her sweet, welcoming body.
Later, Redlander, later.
Circling around the car, he caught his foot on the kickplate as he got in.
Shit! She was still the princess and he was still a frog. Couldn’t he even get into his own car without tripping?
After turning around in the parking area, he guided the car down the driveway and out onto the street. The ring was burning a hole in his pocket. When exactly should he pop the question? He was usually good at strategizing, but he didn’t have any experience asking a woman to marry him.
He’d thought about doing it while they were at the club, but that was too public. Some idiot might interrupt them at the wrong moment, or he might spill a drink on her. Or, worse yet, she might turn him down, which would pretty much kill the evening.
At the house afterward would be better. Should he go the old bended-knee routine? It was all over television. Seemed to be the style right now. But she might be tired from the evening out. Maybe after lovemaking? That was it—catch her when she was mellow.
Laurel motioned with her hand. “Make a left turn here.”
He swung the wheel toward the setting sun and yanked the visor down when he was momentarily blinded. What if he’d had an accident? He could see Art Sawyer’s headlines now: Redlander son kills Harlow daughter in car wreck.
Pulling the Cadillac to a stop at the valet stand in front of the club, he walked around the car to open the door for his lady fair. Her dress edged up as she angled onto the sidewalk, giving him a good view of the curve of her legs in those nosebleed heels.
Down, big boy!
“This is something new,” Laurel said, looking around. “We used to park our cars ourselves. Daddy always tried to get a space under a streetlight.”
Jase handed his key over to a teenager in a black T-shirt with “Bosque Club” printed on it in silver curlicues, then offered Laurel his arm. “Big-city ways, sweetheart. Bosque Bend is growing up.”
To his surprise, she clung to him like she was on the Titanic and the deck was beginning to tilt. Searching her face for clues, he noticed her jaw was set for battle. Did she expect them to get tossed out? Craig Freiberg’s ass would fry in a pan if that happened.
He glanced up at the front of the two-story building as they neared the front door and noted that, unlike First National, the Bosque Club hadn’t changed in the least. Fluted bas relief columns still rose on either side of the entrance, and two hitching posts were permanently embedded in the sidewalk next to the curb. As a kid, he used to imagine he was a cowboy tying his horse to one of the wrought iron rings before sauntering off to the nearest saloon for a sarsaparilla, which sounded a lot more interesting to a nine-year-old than the beer Growler stocked in the fridge.
Maxie had told him the shotgun-style building started out as a bank and later housed a dry goods store, but stood vacant for several years until the Bosque Club, which had been meeting in its members’ homes, moved in and got it a state historical medallion.
His eyes swept the brass plaque at the entrance. “The Rev. Edward Harlow” was listed as one of the club’s founders, but someone had drawn a line through his name with what looked like red lipstick. Jase frowned in confusion and disapproval.
A tall, thickset black man, dressed in a uniform that reminded Jase of a naval captain’s, stood under the short canopy, guarding the door. Knowing hired muscle when he saw it, Jase produced his guest card. The doorman examined it for several long seconds before looking up at Jase and handing the card back.
“Welcome to the Bosque Club, Mr. Redlander,” he intoned. His face was deadpan. “We hope you enjoy your evening with us. If you have a cell phone, please turn it off it at this time.”
Jase patted his pockets. “No phone. It’s a social evening.”
As he opened the door for them to enter, the doorman’s eyes registered Laurel’s identity and flicked wide for a split second. “Miss Harlow!”
He should have bowed, Jase thought, walking the princess of Bosque Bend through the town’s most sacred secular portals.
*
Entwining his hand with hers, Laurel guided Jase down the hall toward the collection of rooms beyond.
So far, so good. Jasper had recognized her as they came in, of course, but at least he hadn’t barred the door. Maybe Bosque Bend was too engrossed in whatever new scandal had erupted to pay attention to her anymore.
She could feel herself relaxing as they moved into the first room. It was all so familiar—the piano music coming from the dining room beyond, the gold-toned bamboo wallpaper above the dark wainscoting, the squat, deep-cushioned couches and chairs upholstered in bold persimmon and saffron prints, the collection of original oils on the walls—mostly by members of the Bosque Bend Art Guild—all depicting bluebonnets, live oaks, broken-down windmills, or picturesque outhouses.
But if the decor was relaxing, the family throng occupying most of the room rang all her alarm bells—Dave’s two sisters-in-law and their families.
Laurel tugged at Jase’s hand. “It’s so crowded here. Let’s try the next room.”
Persevere, Laurel Elizabeth.
Four middle-aged black men who looked only vaguely familiar were the only people in the next room. Hunched around a coffee table and talking in low, intense voices, they didn’t even look up as she and Jase came in. Probably working out some kind of business deal. A lot of deals went down over drinks and appetizers in the Bosque Club.