Southern Belle. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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he asked.
“Yes. Why not?”
Late that night, Elm curled under the duvet, her feet aching deliciously from hours of dancing, unable to wipe the silly grin from her face. Johnny was handsome, gallant and wonderful and not at all daunting. Still, all evening she’d been conscious of his strong masculine aura, the magnetic pull of his personality; all the things she’d imagined he would be when she’d scribbled her longings and dreams in her tattered high-school diary. It seemed so ridiculous, like a soppy novel, that he was turning out to be exactly the kind of man she’d imagined in her fevered schoolgirl dreams. She thought of the chaste kiss he’d dropped on her cheek as he brought her to Gioconda’s door, and realized wistfully that had she not married Harlan so young and for all the wrong reasons, she might have instead built a life with someone like Johnny.
She tucked her arms under the pillow, propped up her neck and stared at the silver moon piercing the crack in the curtains, picturing what people back in Savannah would say if they knew she’d danced the night away in the arms of an Irish viscount. She burst out laughing, imagining the shocked murmurs, the conjecturing gleam in the eyes of her peers, the rabid curiosity. It was liberating to realize she didn’t give a damn. In the past weeks her priorities had suddenly changed, and kowtowing to Savannah society, with its petty, restrictive rules, wasn’t even on the list.
Thinking of Savannah brought Harlan to mind, and she sighed heavily. Of course, the divorce wasn’t de facto yet. There would probably be some bitter battles up ahead, she acknowledged. Harlan wouldn’t easily relinquish all their marriage had brought him. For him, it had meant an entrée into a world that would otherwise have been far harder to broach. It wasn’t her that he’d wanted, she thought angrily, but rather everything that she represented. And if she hadn’t been so blind, so determined to maintain the fiction that her marriage was fine, she might have recognized sooner that, emotionally, it had been over for a while.
Had she ever really been in love with Harlan, or had she just fallen for his good looks and suave manner? Surely she’d felt true affection for him at the beginning? He’d been so charming and ambitious, had seemed so much like her father. Indeed, the two men had taken an instant liking to each other; they supported the same causes, and Harlan had flattered George Hathaway with assurances that he was the younger man’s role model. She’d known that by marrying Harlan, she’d be able to give her father the son he’d always wanted, one who could fulfill the ambitions he hadn’t believed his daughter could meet.
Of course, it hadn’t taken her long after the wedding to find out just how selfish Harlan could be, and to realize that his boyish good looks and suave manners were all part of the same facade he used with his electorate. And if you looked carefully enough you’d realize that his smile never reached his eyes.
Still, she’d spent a good part of her life at his side, and there had been some great times together. Moments of affection and intimacy that she still believed were real, especially before his political career took off and he’d begun to spend so much time in D.C. She sighed again. It was sobering to realize there just hadn’t been enough of those moments to make the marriage worth fighting for.
In fact, all that was left of her relationship with Harlan was the print on their marriage license, and soon that, too, would be gone; even now, Meredith was working on finalizing the details and paperwork for the divorce.
As for Harlan, it was undoubtedly the political ramifications of the divorce that would bother him most. Probably her father as well, she noted sadly. He didn’t know yet, and she would have to tell him soon, perhaps after Christmas. He had such high hopes for Harlan, she knew, feeling guilty for being the cause of such disruption and wondering if it was fair to do this to them when an election was around the corner. Harlan, for all his faults, was truly a brilliant politician, and had done a lot of good for the people of Georgia. Daddy was right. He had what it took.
Elm sighed and turned on her side, recognizing that there was never a right time and that she must go ahead, whatever the consequences. She’d spent a lifetime trying to please them all, trying to be the perfect daughter, wife and hostess—she would have tried mother, too, had life offered her the chance.
In a strange way, her evening out with Johnny tonight had helped clarify the issues for her. Her marriage was truly over, and she now had the freedom to make her own choices. It would be hypocritical to deny the riveting attraction she’d experienced tonight as Johnny had twirled her about the floor to the infectious beat of salsa, false to pretend she didn’t want to enjoy something more than Harlan’s selfish bursts of sex. The temptation of discovering what it felt like to be properly held in a man’s arms—a man who might actually think of her pleasure and happiness before his own—was devastatingly alluring. She swallowed, throbbing with anticipation, shocked to find her mind running ahead of itself when all they’d done was dine and dance together.
A smile touched her lips as she recalled the walk home afterward in the bitingly cold, starry night, arm in arm, sliding down the hill, catching each other on icy patches and laughing like kids. What if Johnny was right and, as he’d whispered when they’d parted, their paths had crossed again for a reason?
Elm sat straight up and tucked her knees under her chin, pulled the duvet closer and wondered what sort of a lover he would be. Generous? Giving? Tender? God, she was thirty-four years old and the only man she’d ever slept with was Harlan, her first real boyfriend. Still, she mustn’t let her naiveté run away with her. It was all very suave and sophisticated to have a passing fling with someone—if you were like Gio, that is, and that was the kind of world you moved in. But it wasn’t hers and somehow Elm wasn’t quite sure if she was ready for this yet.
With a yawn, she snuggled under the goose-down cover, half ashamed of her silly recurring schoolgirl fantasies as she recalled the feel of his arms about her as they’d swayed on the dance floor, the scent of his aftershave and the strange comfort it had afforded her. Maybe that was it. Maybe she was just seeking a comfort zone.
But Johnny was a gentleman and would never make a move without her consent, she realized. If she wanted something more than casual friendship, she’d have to signal that. What would he do, she wondered suddenly, if she let down her guard and was frank about her interest?
Realizing she would never get to sleep, Elm switched on the bedside lamp and popped a pill, still toying with the idea of crossed paths and destiny. Just before her eyes closed, she wondered about the consequences of flouting destiny.
Then she let out another sleepy yawn. There was no end to the justifications you could come up with if you really put your mind to it, she reasoned drowsily. The real truth, she acknowledged, eyes closing, was that even if she were bent on seducing Johnny, she wouldn’t have the first clue how to go about it.
9
She had a sensational body, Harlan reflected, letting his hand slide over Teresa’s voluptuous naked butt. And boy, could she move it. What a great piece of ass, he sighed happily. Now he understood why Tyler Brock had moved her into his Skidaway mansion so fast. She was as hot as chili pepper, even if she couldn’t speak a damn word of English. Anyway, who needed language to have good sex?
She stretched on the large bed like a cat, her dark hair brushing against his skin, and moaned in satisfaction. Turning her around, he lay back against the pillows and let her come down on him, her tongue playing havoc with his balls. Then she straddled him, and he let her guide him inside her, delighting in her damp heat, the way she rode him and the sensuous roll of her hips that caused all sorts of indescribable sensations. Closing his eyes, Harlan indulged himself. Then two delectable realizations hit simultaneously; that he was fucking a hot little whore in Elm’s very own bed, which was no more than she deserved for all the trouble she was causing, and that there was something wonderfully empowering about screwing a woman while Brock unknowingly picked up the tab. The combination made him come in a quick, hot spurt that left him incredibly satisfied.
Boy, Teresa was a good fuck. Best one he’d had in a while. And Brock couldn’t be taking care of business for her to be fucking like this off the record, he reflected smugly as