Sweet Southern Trouble, page 21
His gaze slid from her sexy sandals, up around the bronzy fabric molded to her curves, to her breasts where the crisscross dress revealed way more than it covered.
Damn. He swallowed hard. Curls fell around her shoulders, with several strands gathered on top. His gaze landed on her full, glossy lips as her smile slightly dimmed at his scrutiny.
He returned his drink to the bar with a thud. Satisfaction spread through him better than any aged scotch. She was drop-dead gorgeous, and she was all his.
“Just in time.” He tapped the face of his watch. “Let’s go.”
Marabelle’s mouth gaped open. Nick kept moving as he herded her through the foyer toward the front door. She came to an abrupt halt, removing her elbow from his grasp.
“Is that it?” Brown eyes snapping.
“What?”
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
“I did. Let’s go.”
She rounded on him and exploded. “I’m going to give my mother a fatal heart attack at the biggest event of her life, wearing this dress with these shoes and my hair down, and all you can say is let’s go?”
Her chest heaved. He feared—more like hoped—her breasts would spill from the front of the dress. Please. He watched, fascinated. She stomped her foot.
Christ. Almost.
“Well?”
Nick peeled his gaze away from her world-class cleavage. What were they arguing about? Oh yeah. “I could say you look beautiful and sexy.”
She relaxed her stance.
He fingered one of her soft curls. “But you don’t want to hear that. I remember you telling me you didn’t want to draw attention to yourself. You magnanimously wanted all the attention to fall on me”—he ran his index finger along the slim column of her neck—“where it belongs,” he said with a crafty laugh.
Her eyes narrowed.
He bent and brushed her lips with a soft kiss. “You look amazing. If I see one guy look at you the way I am, I will break both his legs,” he murmured.
Marabelle’s full-wattage smile beamed back. “Good. My work is done here.”
“Are you wearing a bra?” He’d sure like to explore for himself but didn’t want to risk showing up late and ending up on Edna’s hit list.
“Can you see anything?” Marabelle peered down at the top of her dress.
“Are you?”
She checked her reflection in the mirror in the foyer. “You can’t see anything.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the jaw.
Damn. He was going to have to watch her like a hawk.
* * *
“Not so fast.” Marabelle snagged a second glass of champagne from a waiter passing through the crowd milling around outside the ballroom. She observed Nick, holding court with a group of men dying to rub elbows with a famous football player/coach and a few women dying to rub something else.
“Your Nick is very special,” her sister said. Phoebe wore a black strapless tulle cocktail dress and metallic silver heels, appearing cool and collected with her blond hair slicked back in a French twist. Phoebe epitomized tidy and elegant, something Marabelle hadn’t quite mastered.
“You could say that again.” Marabelle caught some older woman batting her big green eyes at Nick.
“Where’s Mother?” The last time she’d seen her, Ed had had to fan her face with the auction program to keep Edna from fainting over Marabelle’s dress.
“After Dad had her breathe into a paper bag, she went to check on the band. By the way, you look fabulous in that dress. And since Nick can’t keep his eyes off you, I think he agrees.” Marabelle glanced toward the stud in question and caught him smiling at something the older woman purred in his ear. He looked up at that precise moment and winked at her.
“You’re very brave. I don’t know if I could handle someone as handsome and famous as he is.”
“What do you mean?” Marabelle asked, surprised at her sister’s admission.
Phoebe shrugged her elegant shoulders. “All the men want to associate with him because of who he is, and all the women want a piece of him because of how he looks.” Phoebe leaned closer and whispered feverishly, “That’s Mimsy Peterson. She’s currently on her third husband and has slept with half the men in Atlanta. I wouldn’t trust her with my dog.”
Oh really? Just then, Mimsy made a big show of pressing her hand into Nick’s bicep. That did it. Marabelle lurched forward.
“Marabelle, don’t!” Phoebe reached for her but caught only thin air.
* * *
Nick looked up in time to see Marabelle push her way through the crowd with that bulldog look on her face. Not good. He quickly excused himself to head her off at the pass before she went postal and her mother never forgave her. Or him.
“What took you so long?” He smoothly veered her away from enemy territory.
“You attract them like flies. I can’t leave you alone for one second,” she huffed.
“Exactly. Now let’s make your mother ecstatic and drive up the bids on all the auction items.” Nick steered her away from trouble toward the silent auction tables and entered bids on most of the items being offered. He noticed Marabelle over by the jewelry display, admiring a David Yurman silver-and-gold cable bracelet with diamonds. When she moved on to the next table, he bumped the bid on the bracelet high enough to discourage other bidders.
“Yoo-hoo! There you are. I’ve got wonderful news.” Edna glided toward them, wearing an emerald-green ball gown and a triumphant smile. “The ladies on the committee have decided to hold a live auction for the dancing later. Like Gone With the Wind.”
Nick squeezed Marabelle’s hand as she and her sister exchanged looks.
“The men have to bid on the lady of their choice to dance with her.” Edna clapped her hands. “And all the money will go to Magnolia House.” Edna patted Marabelle’s arm. “Mimsy Peterson wants to add ‘ladies’ choice’ so—”
And then it happened.
Marabelle blurted, “Mother, Mimsy Peterson is a slut. She’s not getting within a ten-mile radius of Nick.”
A few feet away, conversations stopped, and someone started snickering. Big Edna looked as though she had swallowed a sweaty athletic sock. Phoebe stared wide-eyed, and Marabelle slapped her own hand over her mouth. Nick almost choked stifling his laugh.
Ed approached just in time. He looked from Marabelle’s shocked expression to Edna’s pale face.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you.” Edna fumed. She motioned for Ed to lower his head and whispered in his ear. Poor Tinker Bell. She’d gone and done it now. Nick wrapped his arm around her waist and hugged her stiff form to his side.
Ed showed no surprise. “On this, Marabelle happens to be right. Mimsy Peterson is a slut. Nick, you’d be wise to stay away,” he said low enough for their ears only.
“Ed, you’re as bad as Marabelle. Do not encourage her outrageous behavior. And, Nick, if you don’t get her under control, I will hold you personally responsible.” Edna glared at him with a perfected evil eye. Nick appreciated its effectiveness. Edna grabbed Ed’s arm and marched toward the ballroom.
Nick dropped a kiss on Marabelle’s head. “Damn, honey. Now you’ve got your mother threatening me. What do you have to say for yourself?” She squared her shoulders in what he recognized as her stance of defiance.
“Just doing my job, Coach.”
He grinned. “Atta girl.”
* * *
Inside the ballroom, Marabelle and Nick wove their way through the decorated tables draped in cloths of varying shades of green moiré, with clusters of magnolias as centerpieces. The evening had barely begun, and Marabelle wanted nothing more than to go home, throw on her comfy sweats, and eat a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts. And when she said home, she meant Raleigh.
Marabelle knew this night would be a nightmare. And once again, she’d managed to embarrass herself. She didn’t care what her mother thought. But she didn’t want Nick laughing at her and looking at her as if she were some joke. Rounding the backs of gold ballroom chairs swagged with ribbon and more magnolias, they reached their assigned seats the same time as Phoebe and Tom.
“Mother has really outdone herself. Oh.” Phoebe hesitated, reading the place cards. “Mimsy Peterson is seated next to Nick and—”
Sweeping up the place cards, Marabelle said, “Over my dead body—”
“Excuse us, please.” Nick replaced the cards she’d grabbed up and hustled her toward the French doors leading out to the terrace.
“What are you doing?” She tried wrenching her arm free.
He closed the door and pulled her toward the railing away from the party. “Preventing you from making another scene and having the wrath of Edna come down on you. Again.”
So this was the thanks she got. “I suppose you’d rather have that black widow spider next to you, groping you under the table,” she snapped. “I was trying to protect you.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I think I can handle it.”
“But that’s my job.” And then it hit her like a gong to the head—Nick didn’t need her. Maybe he had enjoyed or even encouraged Mimsy’s come-on.
Marabelle silently counted to ten. “You’re right. I’ll stay out of your way.” Rigid with fury, she turned to leave, but Nick spun her around to face him.
“Listen, you need to exercise some self-control. Your actions affect other people. What do you think will happen if you change the seating arrangement and pick a fight with Muffy?”
“Mimsy.”
“Whatever. You go in there half-cocked, and your mother will never forgive you, not to mention half of Atlanta.”
The party’s muffled noises filtering through the French doors brought her back to reality.
More than embarrassed and wishing she’d never agreed to this charade, Marabelle lowered her head. “You’re right. Mother would kill me. I won’t make a scene.” She lifted her head and locked gazes with the man she loved but would never have. “But you’re on your own.” Quietly, she turned and went back inside the ballroom. This time Nick let her go.
* * *
The cool night breeze brushed past Nick, but he was too tied up in knots to appreciate it. He’d do anything not to return to the stuffy party. He leaned his arms on the stone railing overlooking the golf course. The smell of fresh-cut grass lingered in the air.
He knew Marabelle’s outbursts stemmed from jealousy and not from the game they were playing. He was flattered. What guy wouldn’t be? Marabelle didn’t do anything half-assed. No, she forged full steam ahead, bulldozing anything in her path. And he would give anything to have her unbridled passion directed at him in bed.
But when the fireworks died down, what then? He winced as he pictured her chocolate-brown eyes all hot and bitter. What next when the romance fizzled? His chest tightened at the thought. No way Marabelle would blast her hurt on Twitter or make false accusations. She made scenes, but only because she believed she was righting a wrong. Not because she was vindictive or out to get revenge.
Marabelle was protecting her heart. Suddenly Nick felt all of his thirty-eight years. A part of him couldn’t exactly blame her.
“It’s getting chilly out here.” Lost in his mental tirade, he hadn’t heard Phoebe approach. She stood, poised by his side, wrapped in a silver cover-up. “She gets to you, doesn’t she?” He lifted a brow, not giving anything away. Nick didn’t know whose side Phoebe was on: Marabelle’s or Edna’s. “Marabelle has always marched to the beat of a different drummer.”
“You can say that again.”
“Even when we were kids, Marabelle did things her way, no matter the consequences. I’ve always admired that about her.” Phoebe’s gaze drifted over the dark golf course. “Mother never understood her, and Marabelle refused to bend.” Her voice was solemn. “I used to wish I was more like her. Still do. She’s always so brave.
“When we were younger, this neighborhood kid used to bully me all the time.” She laughed. “He wanted my attention because he liked me, but at the time, I was terrified. One day he backed me up against the fence, because I wouldn’t let him walk me home, and threatened to steal my books and papers and rip them to shreds. Even back then, the thought of anything of mine not being perfect was horrifying,” she said deprecatingly. “Suddenly Marabelle bounded around the corner and knocked him to the ground.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Nick replied wryly.
“That boy was much bigger than she was, but Marabelle got in a few good licks before I had to pull her off.”
“Now I understand her insatiable desire to fight.”
Phoebe fiddled with her wrap. “Marabelle fights for the people she loves. You know, she even warned Tom when we were engaged that if he did anything to hurt me, he’d have to answer to her.”
That didn’t surprise Nick either, but he kept quiet.
“At the time, I was furious with her. But she did it because she loves me.” Phoebe’s eyes darted around the terrace as if she had revealed too much. “What I’m trying to say is, that’s why she’s protecting you. Marabelle thinks with her heart, not her head.”
Nick understood, but where did that leave him and Marabelle? Did they have what it took to survive the long haul?
Phoebe sighed. “We should go inside before we’re missed.” Looping her arm through his, they moved toward the doors. “Oh, before I forget”—Phoebe pierced him with her sharp blue eyes—“if you do anything to hurt her…you’ll have to answer to me.”
As threats go, it worked.
* * *
The live auction had begun, and Marabelle had become painfully aware that Nick had made no move to bid on her. She straightened in her seat, facing the dance floor, her back to the table, hoping she didn’t look like a loser. Would this evening ever end?
“Marabelle Fairchild! Come on down! You’ll be dancing the first set with one of Atlanta’s finest…Trey Stone,” the auctioneer boomed into the microphone.
And her night went straight to hell. What had she expected? She’d shamelessly flirted with him all through dinner to get back at Nick. She’d made her bed, and now she had to lie in it.
Marabelle and Trey found their place on the dance floor, when the auctioneer called out again. “And the highest bid for the evening goes to none other than the belle of the ball, Edna Fairchild. Ed, you’ve been outbid, my friend. By a much younger man.” The chattering ballroom grew quiet as the guests looked on with interest. “Edna, our famous guest from North Carolina has just bid twenty-five hundred dollars to dance the first set with you this evening.” Everyone oohed and aahed.
Marabelle whipped around in time to see her mother smiling and waving as Nick led her to the floor. Good Lord. Images of Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler flashed through her head. Edna actually curtsied just like Scarlett when she got to the center of the dance floor. Unbelievable. Just when Marabelle thought the night couldn’t get any suckier.
After the first set, the guests switched partners, and Marabelle danced with her dad, Peyton Carter, and even Tom, her brother-in-law. But not once with Nick.
On aching, crippled feet, she headed back to her seat for a rest. Manolo Blahniks were made to look great, not boogie the night away.
Phoebe plopped down next to her, moaning, “I can’t feel my toes. Why do we have to dance just as hard as the men, but in three-inch heels? Life is so unfair.”
“Try four-inch heels.” They both burst out laughing. Neither dared to remove their offending footwear, knowing Big Edna would admonish them for their inappropriate behavior. Phoebe snagged two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and handed one to Marabelle.
“A toast. To you and your adorable Nick.” Phoebe raised her glass, but Marabelle didn’t respond. “What’s the matter?”
Did she dare confide the truth to her sister?
“Nick is a wonderful guy, and you’re lucky to have found him,” Phoebe said in earnest.
“I guess. Right now, he’s a real jerkwad.”
Phoebe’s eyes flew open. “Why would you say that? He’s charming and absolutely dotes on you. Don’t ever take that for granted.”
“Yeah, well, so much for doting. He hasn’t once asked me to dance tonight,” she said as she sulked.
“Oh, Marabelle. He’s been graciously dancing with all the women, because everyone is so enamored with him. Give him a break. He even danced twice with Margie Carter.” Phoebe said “Margie Carter” all gravelly, mimicking Margie’s smoker’s voice. Marabelle couldn’t help but chuckle. “And he paid twenty-five hundred dollars to dance with Mother. We should’ve paid him!” The sisters snickered together.
“Now you’re making me feel sorry for him. Stop singing his praises. He loves having women swoon all over him.” Marabelle snorted in disgust.
“You have nothing to be jealous over. Nick adores you,” Phoebe said.
Marabelle straightened in her seat. “Who said I’m jealous? I don’t care who—”As the crowd parted, she zeroed in on a drunk Mimsy Peterson plastered to the front of Nick, swaying to the band’s rendition of “Sexual Healing” by Marvin Gaye.
“That bitch.”
Phoebe looked up, alarmed. “Marabelle, it’s not what you think,” she said, her tone doubtful.
“If she gets any closer, we’ll have to pry her off with the Jaws of Life.” Marabelle scooted to the edge of her seat, ready to pounce like a cat on an unsuspecting mouse.
Phoebe pressed her hand on her shoulder. “Stay. I’ll handle this.”
Marabelle’s gaze never wavered from her prey.
“Here. Drink this.” Phoebe handed her the remainder of her champagne. Gliding to where Nick and Mimsy were grinding it out on the dance floor, Phoebe tapped Mimsy on the shoulder. Marabelle couldn’t hear a thing over the music, but whatever Phoebe said must’ve been pretty powerful. Mimsy unglued herself from Nick’s front and scurried off like a rat. To his credit, Nick looked relieved. Phoebe finished the dance with him with the proper distance of six inches between them.
