Still Lake - Anne Stuart [89]
As long as she kept away from everyone she’d be fine. Doc might not agree, though. He didn’t have to know she’d left the house. As far as he was concerned she could be sound asleep upstairs.
“Call me if you need me,” she said.
“I won’t need you. Grace trusts me, deep in her heart, despite her current delusions. I promise you, we’ll be just fine.”
Sophie leaned forward and kissed Doc’s soft, shaven cheek. “Thank you for everything, Doc. I can’t imagine where we’d be without you.”
18
Sophie really did try her best to avoid temptation. She took a hot bath, and afterward, for some reason, decided to wear some of the ridiculous underwear Grace used to buy her. It had been an ongoing family joke—every Christmas and birthday Grace would swoop back into their lives and present her staid daughter with lacy, impractical underwear, which Sophie would leave in her drawer. Looking at them tonight, she remembered her mother as she was before, slightly naughty, sharp-tongued and clever. Now she was a poor lost ghost of that vibrant woman, and Sophie wanted to cry.
Tears were a waste of time, she reminded herself. On a whim she pulled the scandalous underwear from her top drawer, took off the tags and put them on. The bra made her look even more voluptuous than she already, unfortunately, was, and the panties were just this side of a thong. She slid them on, anyway, staring at her reflection in the wavering mirror above her dresser.
Not bad if you liked well-built women, she decided impartially. She was never going to be fashion-model thin, but all those muffins and slices of peach pie hadn’t done any noticeable damage to her curves. She just needed to find someone she was willing to take her clothes off for and she’d be fine. Unfortunately, the only person she wanted to strip in front of was John Smith.
She was pretty enough, in a bland way, she decided. Blue eyes were boring, though at least hers were reasonably big. On the other hand, her mouth was definitely too large, and she didn’t care much for her full lips, either. Nose and skin were good, except for that mark on the side of her neck. He’d probably done it on purpose, she thought darkly. Branding her, just so everyone would know what she’d been doing in her spare time. Son of a bitch.
She should have gone to thank Mr. King for towing her car earlier in the day, but the man made her uneasy. She should offer to pay him, though chances were she’d get it wrong. She either offered to pay for things that were simply considered neighborly, or she didn’t offer to pay for acts that were considered services rendered. Maybe eventually she’d get it right, but for now it would have been better to offend Mr. King than cheat him.
She could walk down to the Whitten cottage, leave an envelope on the porch for Zebulon King, and then take off before she ran into anyone. Anyone at all.
Anyone like John Smith. Who the hell was she kidding? The only reason she wanted to go down there was in hopes that she might run into him, that he’d put his hands on her and override any common sense that might get in her way.
She’d be crazy to go, as crazy as her mother. She was courting danger, and she was much too wise to do that. And she was going, anyway.
She pulled on the rest of her clothes, covering up the naughty underwear, and tried to read a book to get her mind off him. Why in the world did women actually choose to wear this kind of stuff on their bodies, she thought restlessly? She preferred her underclothing in plain white cotton so she didn’t have to think about it. She kept trying to concentrate on the book, and all she could think about was the way the bra cupped her breasts. Hell and damnation.
She should take her clothes off and put on her nightclothes. And then lie