A Sinner in Paradise Read online

  As the veterinarian anesthetized Esmeralda’s ear and stitched her up, Geneva watched the process with interest, for the muscles in Dr. Smith’s arms had the most charming habit of rippling as he moved his hands. Howard had not had such arms. His had been thin and sinewy, capable in their way, but not flagrantly masculine as these arms were. Geneva lost herself in the contemplation of what those arms might be capable of. Inwardly, she giggled as she found she had constructed an entire trashy romance novel revolving around herself and this gorgeous body who was stitching up her cat. After a while, she began to feel a little guilty for taking such intimate liberties with a total stranger, but the guilt dissipated shortly. He was just a good-looking, good-old boy. Nobody to take seriously, and it certainly did him no harm to appreciate his beautiful physique. She smiled and dropped her eyes, feeling superior and deliciously in control.

  He was speaking to her. Geneva dimly perceived that he had said something, “What is her name?”

  Oh, he must be referring to the cat in his hands. “Esmeralda,” she replied after an extended moment. She really didn’t expect him to catch the connection between the cat and her namesake, but he gently stroked the cat’s head and said, “Well, Esmeralda, I have a Quasimodo around here someplace. He’s a badger, but now that you’ve got that disfigured ear, maybe you won’t be so choosy.” He dropped his voice to a loving whisper,” and you’ll still be a good mom, won’t you?”

  Geneva was pleasantly surprised. She hadn’t met many people with her good taste in literature, fewer still who could recognize the literary implications of her cats’ names, and she certainly had not expected any good-old boys from the hills of West Virginia to catch on. She gave the man the benefit of her most delighted smile, but when he returned it, she found herself suddenly and inexplicably flustered. To cover her embarrassment, she asked, “What happened to your leg?’

  Looking soberly at the cast, he replied, “Well, I was on an errand of mercy, chasing a runaway horse with a damsel in distress on his back. I got hold of the bridle just as we all jumped a fence and got knocked off and sort of stepped on.”

  Geneva suddenly came tumbling from her own runaway high horse. Caught completely by surprise that this fellow had just described something similar to what she had just been thinking, she gasped, “Really? How awful!” But really, she meant, How wonderful! The thought of a modern paladin, risking life and limb, literally, for a woman on a runaway horse thrilled her to the ends of all her nerves. She had never met anyone in real life who had done such a thing, but ever since she had read Thundering Love last year, she had fantasized about being on a huge black stallion, wildly out of control, nearly fainting from the rush of wind, her hair streaming behind her like the subject of a pre-Raphaelite painting. She would be wearing a floating, white gown. No—something in virginal blue, in layers of silk chiffon cut on the bias, with a tight bodice that would accentuate her heaving breasts. And then from nowhere would come the thunder of galloping hooves, and a tall, broad-chested stranger would encircle her perfect waist with his muscular arm and pluck her lightly from the dangerous steed… She looked at John Smith more carefully. He certainly was shaping up to be far more interesting than she had expected.

  “Well, now,” he said briskly, “Esmeralda is all fixed up, practically as good as new. I’m afraid she’ll have a bit of a nick in that ear from now on, but that will just be a part of her charm. And what’s up with this old boy?” He plucked Dr. Zhivago from Geneva’s arms and scratched him under his chin. Dr. Zhivago purred so loudly that Geneva laughed.

  “This is Dr. Zhivago,” she said proudly, knowing how much this name would be appreciated by the literary veterinarian. “He has a cough, so I thought I’d bring him, too.”

  The vet’s response surprised her. “Well, old chum. You can’t help your name, though I daresay you’re not much better than the original. Let’s listen to your chest here.”

  Geneva was stung. “What’s wrong with his name? I like it.”

  “Hmm. Actually, now that I think of it, it is a very good name, very fitting for a tom cat.”

  “What do you mean?” Geneva bristled. Was he making fun of her hero, the man who epitomized the tragedy of unrequited love? She looked at Dr. Smith warily, through narrowed eyes. He could be one of those Rambo types who scoffed at tenderness in a man. If so, she’d have nothing to do with him.

  He smiled again. “Dr. Zhivago was an old tom cat himself. Left a perfectly lovely wife and pretty babies and lit out after another woman. Some people think the story is romantic, but I think it’s a bunch of claptrap.”

  “Oh,” said Geneva, chastened. She hadn’t exactly seen it in that light before now, but she thought rakishly that he sure had a lot of concern over names. Must be because his own was so prosaic.

  “I suppose,” she said with exaggerated innocence, “that your name means something special?”

  “Oh, yes. John Smith,” he said proudly and somberly. “Smith is a venerable old name, a proud family, a noble profession. We are the sons of Vulcan, the fearless handlers of the most powerful of elements: fire and steel.”

  “Right,” said Geneva after a pause, wondering if the man were serious. “And what about John?”

  “John, beloved of Christ. Saint, apostle, visionary. The steadfast one, but with the greatest gifts.” He sighed and shook his head. “I have been burdened with a weighty name.”

  After another long pause in which Geneva decided it would not be appropriate to giggle, she gave him a sidewise glance and said with a self conscious little smile, “You sure know a lot about names. Mine’s a little different. Geneva. Geneva LeNoir,” she said, pronouncing it carefully. Of course, she was proud of her (properly pronounced) name. Not as proud as John Smith seemed to be of his, but she did like the sound of it. To her, it sounded exotic and mysterious, made more so by the fact that she had never set foot in the city for which she was named.

  “Ah, Geneva.” He locked his beautiful eyes upon hers and seemed to look into their depths with what appeared to Geneva an intense longing. It made her mouth water. “Beautiful alpine city, all cool and green,” he smiled. “Clean as a glacier. I like that.”

  “Oh, you’ve been there?”

  “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “But it sure provokes the imagination.”

  She laughed. “What about LeNoir?” she pressed, expecting a discussion about mystery and velvety darkness and midnight passion. She wanted that look again.

  He wrinkled his brow. “LeNoir. Noir. Let’s see. Blackness. Dark? Hmm. Doesn’t much suit you, does it?” Then he brightened. “Well, you can change it when you get married. I believe your cat here has bronchitis.”

  Geneva was torn between the desire to challenge his abrupt censuring of her name and concern over her cat. She felt more inclined to continue with the name issue, but John Smith obviously had turned his attention to Dr. Zhivago and was asking her questions about how long he had been coughing, and whether he had been out at night. He gave him a shot of antibiotics and gave her some pills to administer, then he leaned pleasantly against the counter and offered Geneva a cup of coffee.

  She didn’t quite know how to respond. John Smith made her feel full of contradictory emotions. On the one hand, he seemed to personify the literary (and her own) ideal: honorable, romantic, dashing, and handsome. Yet, he had glibly insulted her twice over something that seemed trifling but in such a way as to thoroughly rile her. The worst part of it was that she couldn’t think of a single comeback to sting him as smartly as she would like. So she accepted the coffee, then looked for an opportunity to needle him, perhaps embarrass him for his impudence. She wondered how he would fare if she declared outright war.

  She gave him a steely smile. “What makes you think I’m not married?” Ha! Now he would have to admit to looking at her left hand, which meant she had caught him thinking about her in a less-than-professional way. She hoped he would blush.

  “I asked your sister two weeks ago,” he replied cheeri
ly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yep. Saw you riding one evening and fell flat in love with you first thing. The way the sunlight fell on your hair gave you a halo, and I thought you were the most wonderful thing since penicillin. I went straight to the phone and called Rachel and asked her who that beauty was riding on Fairhope. She told me all about you.” He looked straight at her and grinned.

  Geneva was the one to blush. Normally she relished such compliments from men, but this man made her uncomfortable. He was too big, too handsome, too straightforward, too—everything. She realized that she was not in charge after all, and she was feeling more and more certain that she probably would not take charge today. She directed her attention to the kittens to change the subject.

  “These little guys were born eight weeks ago. I brought them in for all the necessary shots and such,” she said briskly, lifting each of the kittens from the basket. “This one is Simone, and the feisty one here is Scarlet. And these are the Three Stooges. Larry and Moe, and the fat one, of course, is Curly Joe.”

  John Smith laughed. “Interesting choices,” he said, then fell silent as he examined and vaccinated them. When he tried to replace them in their basket, they became uncooperative, so Geneva helped him, then closed the lid and swiftly scooted toward the car. But before she got there, Larry and Curly Joe got out, clinging precariously to the outside edge of the basket before they flopped to the ground and fled. Geneva stamped her foot and started to swear at them, but noticing Dr. Smith chuckling, she threw her head back and smiled saucily.

  “I’m afraid you have just inherited two kittens, Dr. Smith, unless you want to go under the house and get them out. They’re half wild by now, because they’ve been living in Rachel’s barn since we got here.” That ought to wipe the grin off his face!

  The vet remained leaning against the doorway and drawled, “Well, okay, but I hate to break up the set. Can I have Moe, too?”

  Geneva tried not to gape. Was he really willing to take three of her cats? She paused a moment, collecting her thoughts so she could reply casually. He might change his mind if she followed her first impulse to squeal and jump up and down.

  Apparently he misunderstood her silence, for he continued, “I need some mousers around here, and I figured you really didn’t need this many cats, especially since Esmeralda will be giving you a new batch in a week or so.”

  “What?” said Geneva in a small voice? “Esmeralda?”

  “Sure,” he smiled. “You mean you didn’t know?”

  “No,” she said faintly. There was a silence while she counted backwards. Damn that Howard! “I always kept her in.”

  “Well, I’m reasonably certain she’s pregnant. Congratulations.”

  An uncomfortable image leapt into her mind. She saw herself as the victim in an Ionesco play, surrounded by cats, inundated, suffocated by cats, meowing, purring, hissing, scratching cats. Hundreds of them, burgeoning and growing bigger until they popped, spewing more cats out in every direction. “Rats,” she muttered, eyes dilated.

  “Does that mean I can have Moe, too?”

  “Yes,” she replied, breathing hard. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Let’s call it an even swap. But this will be the last time,” he warned. “I usually don’t accept kittens in exchange for services.”

  Geneva picked up Esmeralda, who was rubbing against her legs, probed her stomach gently, and she did feel the swelling there. Carefully, she pushed the cat through the half open car window and placed her beside the basket.

  “This womanizer needs to come back in a week so I can check him again,” Dr. Smith said as he lightly gathered up Dr. Zhivago and tucked him under his arm. “Esmeralda should come, too and I’ll take out the stitches.” He walked awkwardly to the car. “Just call me Richard the Third,” he added, apologizing for his halting walk with a wink. “I’ll grow a hump next week. I bet you’d like that.”

  Surprised and a little riled at his misplaced intimacy, his insinuation that he knew what she liked, and piqued about the new information concerning Esmeralda’s impending multiplication, Geneva straightened her back and said good-bye to him with as much dignity as she could muster, then used her practiced walk getting to the driver’s side. She had intended to appear regal and confident, but the effect was lost on John, who raced ahead of her as well as he was able in order to open the door for her.

  What a bizarre man! He seemed so contradictory, flickering between solemnity, gallantry, lightheartedness, and what seemed like mockery. But her distrust of him vanished as he reached across her to claim Moe and gave her a radiant smile, his marvelous eyes once again turned upon hers. Geneva thought he looked as if a laurel wreath belonged on his head. His face was very close, so close she could smell his skin, clean and real. It reminded her of the smell of spring rain and a warm, dry hayloft. Geneva could swear she fibrillated. She felt herself grow warm and dizzy, then once again she blushed, angry with herself for appearing so foolish.

  Violently, she cranked up the car, intending to cavalierly spin out of the drive; unfortunately, the car died before she could get her foot onto the accelerator, then it lurched drunkenly forward and died again on her next attempt. She finally got the car going, and drove rather sedately and sheepishly down the driveway, cringing in her humiliation and watching John Smith in her rear view mirror the whole way. She didn’t notice that she had veered off the drive until she had driven into the ditch flanking the main road.

  It was impossible to discreetly extricate herself; with a sinking stomach and with hot chills working their way down to her fingers and toes she got out of the car and watched as John Smith hobbled toward her, his white cast swinging out in a wide arc with each step he took, his arms flailing upwards as the arc reached out and downward as it swung in again. Even in her humiliation, Geneva saw the absurdity of their situation, and she began to laugh. At first it was only a suppressed snort, but the closer John grew, the funnier he looked, with his earnest face growing larger with each ridiculously balance step, so that she began to laugh outright. She held her sides and threw back her head, and all but pointed at him as he came closer and closer.

  “Laugh all you want,” he grinned at her. “Meanwhile, Esmeralda and Tomfoolery are absconding.”

  Geneva whirled in time to see the cats darting off through the pasture toward home. Simone and Scarlet were trying to wriggle out the half-open window to join them. Dr. Zhivago did not look nearly as peaked as he had earlier in the morning.

  John began to laugh, too, and the two people who had been strangers, awkward at their first introduction, stood gasping helplessly, pointing at each other, at the car in the ditch, and at the long-since disappeared cats. Geneva felt as if a door were opening and she was standing on the threshold of something startling new and fresh. The misty morning air hummed and danced around her, and the silvery light swarmed with energy, sweeping her up and making her feel drunk with exhilaration. There was something to this John Smith, she decided. She would get to know him better. For the moment, she had forgotten that other guy’s name.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll tow you out with my Jeep.” And then, much to her relief, for she was still embarrassed at her incompetence behind the wheel, he added gently, “That ditch is an awful problem. I’ve driven into it a couple of times myself.”

  Geneva walked slowly beside John, trying not to giggle at his ungainly stride, and suddenly she felt awkward again, caring very much that she might say the right thing. So far, everything he had said to her had taken her off balance, and she was more afraid than ever of sounding foolish. All the façades she had so carefully cultivated over the years, the masks among which she instinctively could pick to impress a variety of people, had mercilessly deserted her. She did not know whether to flirt, to be coy or shy, or bold or frank. For the first time in her life she was afraid to open her mouth.

  John was quiet, too. She kept giving him sideways glances, but noticed only that he seemed uncomfortable
with his damaged leg. She began to feel guilty that she may have caused him to hurt it again, and then she wondered who the woman was that he had rescued. Perhaps she should not be so capable astride a horse in the future.

  “I hope you didn’t hurt your leg running like that. Shouldn’t you use a crutch or something?”

  “Well, to tell the truth, I guess I shouldn’t be running on it. But it’s pretty close to mended by now.”

  “Just can’t keep from running after a damsel in distress, can you?”

  “Like a moth to the flame.”

  After John’s Jeep had pulled the car out of the ditch, he waved at her and called out the window, “See you in a week, provided you catch them.”

  “Thanks,” Geneva replied. “They’re probably back at the ranch by now.” She drove off carefully, not caring to repeat her earlier attempts at a dramatic exit. All she wanted to do now was to think about the way she felt when John Smith leaned close and looked at her, smelling so warm and alive. She remembered with a smile the fact he had said he loved her.

  Geneva liked the notion of men being in love with her, and in fact, had pretty much become an expert at finding ways to coax such admissions from them. She had always had admirers, usually several of them at a time, and had always enjoyed watching them jockey for position among themselves, challenging one another like boyish rivals over a rich prize. Geneva understood that the games she played with them often made her seem superficial, particularly to less beautiful women, but it had never bothered her enough to stop her from playing them. Until Howard, she had never really given her heart to any of them. Perhaps that’s why he had been so attractive—he had been so damn hard to get—and why his desertion had wounded her so severely.

  Of course, this business of love at first sight was only a joke. She had learned long ago not to become too excited over such pretended gallantry. Once a gorgeous Canadian actor named Terrance had asked her to marry him immediately after they were introduced. She had been flattered, even though she knew he was jokingly referring to the green card she would be able to provide for him. She had made light of it, but secretly she had toyed with the idea of getting a real proposal from him (at that time in her more frivolous past, she had been keeping an informal tally of proposals). To that end, she had flirted outrageously with him for a week before a mutual friend gently pulled her aside and informed her that Terrance was homosexual.