Wedding Fever. Susan Crosby
words were tossed over her shoulder as she stormed off, leaving behind a breeze scented with perfume and Magnolia.
He cursed himself with each stride she took. He needed her to appear unattainable in Hastings’s eyes. To do that, J.D. had to have her attention focused on him. He was just looking out for her—
So what was that adolescent move to grab a quick feel? he asked himself. Machismo, as she called it? Wish fulfillment? Long-demed need? All three?
He didn’t change his clothes, instead leaned against the wall and waited her out She finally emerged from the women’s locker room dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt proclaiming English Majors Are Novel Lovers. She carried her carton of presents, the still-wrapped box from Misty balanced on top.
“I parked a couple of blocks behind you,” he said. “I’ll meet you at your apartment.”
“You know where I live?” She tipped her head to one side. “How come I’ve known you all this time and I hardly know anything about you?”
“Maybe it’s time to find out.”
“Maybe it is ”
They walked silently to their cars. As she drove off, he started his engine and put the car in gear, then he noticed a dark sedan pull away from the curb a hundred feet ahead. He’d teamed to trust his instincts, so he tailed the sedan that slowed to almost a complete stop when Maggie pulled into the garage below the duplex she rented.
He followed the car until it disappeared into the valet parking area of the expensive hotel where Hastings rented the penthouse.
J.D. stopped at a pay phone and punched in a familiar number. “I’m sorry to wake you, boss,” he said in greeting.
“No problem. What’s up?”
He glanced around as he heard Callahan yawn. “He wants to deal tomorrow night.”
“We’ll cover you.”
“Okay. See you.”
“Wait a second, J.D. Did you give it to her?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to bring her in on it? If she’d go out with him—”
Creative Spanish epithets peppered the air within the phone booth.
“Lighten up, pal. I was kidding.”
“Don’t kid with me about Magnolia.”
“You’ll relax after you give it to her.”
“I don’t trust it,” J.D. said.
“Hey, it’s state of the art.”
“Yeah. Experimental state of the art.”
“So, figure out a backup.”
He glanced at his watch. Too much time had passed. “Already got it covered.”
“I figured as much. Relax already.”
“When this is over. Maybe.”
Two
Maggie eyed her mantel clock when it chimed once, a delicate ping that pierced her anticipation. Twelve-thirty. He should have been at her apartment twenty minutes ago.
She leaned forward on the sofa, resting her elbows on her thighs as she stared at the crystal bowl mounded with shimmering Christmas ornaments that sat on her coffee table. She had to face facts. He wasn’t coming.
She wasn’t surprised. Not really. He’d changed his mind. Probably decided it wasn’t worth spending time with someone who goaded him into an argument whenever he got close. They were so different, she knew they’d never have a serious relationship. What they really needed was to sleep together, to satisfy their curiosity, then the source of antagonism that hovered constantly would be wiped out forever.
Not here, though. They should go to his place. Better yet, to a hotel. Some neutral location where memories wouldn’t linger and taunt.
Spoken like a woman of experience, Magnolia Jean. She pushed her hair away from her face, then let it fall again. The sum total of her experience with the opposite sex wouldn’t constitute three pages in her autobiography, if she included her fourth-grade crush on Bobby Don Morgan. But she’d imagined making love with Diego so many times, she had choreographed the experience detail by detail. At least, what she would do to him.
Before he’d come into her life. she’d dated at least, hoping to meet her lifetime partner. But in the past year, she’d hardly gone out at all, finding flaws in every man who invited her, even though the word thirty seemed lit in neon across her forehead each time she looked in her bathroom mirror.
Thirty. Where had the time gone? She couldn’t wait much longer, didn’t have the luxury to deal with the attraction to Diego and still get started on a family before she was any older—as old as her mother had been.
The quiet tapping on her front door sent an avalanche of reaction tumbling over her. Boulders of relief, followed by pebbles of annoyance. She counted to ten, then opened the door. Desire rebuilt the mountain instantly. She resented it as much as she welcomed it.
“I figured you changed your mind.” Maggie feigned a yawn as she turned away, letting him close the door himself.
“I’m sorry. I was detained by a...by a—Did you decorate this, Magnolia?”
She turned around. Diego stood, his hands in his pockets, surveying her living room.
“Every bit of lit.” Was that a look of shock or wonder? She knew her voice held an edge of defensiveness, as if daring him to comment unfavorably. She glanced around the room with its framed counted cross-stitch samplers and groupings of baskets and candles and photographs. Pristine eyelet fabric draped small round tables on which Tiffany lamps glowed, the yellow and blue glass reflecting the dominant colors of the room, even competing with the Christmas free lights as they were.
“It’s a little crowded with all the holiday decorations,” she said as he moved around the room, inspecting without commenting. He picked up a heart-shaped pillow and it struck her how utterly feminine it—everything—was. Frilly, romantic, old-fashioned. Or maybe it was just that he was so very masculine.
“What color do you call this?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“Robin’s egg blue.” She watched him replace the pillow slightly askew, resisted the temptation to march over and straighten it.
“It matches your eyes.”
J.D. tried to align the overall impression of her home with his deep-seated image of her. He’d always thought of her as a contemporary woman, a feminist. Certainly, her sassy mouth was pure nineties. If he’d even once tried to picture the environment she lived in, he would have imagined white and chrome and glass, something modern and sleek, certainly nothing close to this... this Suzy Homemaker vision.
Except, of course, he’d known about the fund she’d been adding to for years, saving for the wedding gown of her dreams. Everyone at the Carola knew about it. But no one knew why the gown or the age-thirty goal was so important, except probably her sister, Jasmine.
“Would you like some wine, Diego? And I’ve got cheese and crackers, as well.” She didn’t wait for his reply but headed toward the kitchen. “Take off your jacket. Get comfortable.”
“Magnolia.”
She turned around, her brows lifted in inquiry.
“Come here, please.”
“Why?”
He chuckled. “You are so suspicious.”
“Well, honey, you’re behavin’ awfully different tonight.”
“Am I?” He ignored her Southern belle routine,