Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.) by Sheri Whitefeather, Dixie Browning Page B

rocking, wondering how he could find out. They’d only just met. With some women, all you had to do was buy ’em a beer and it was off to bed, but Maggie was different. In spite of that impulsive kiss he’d stolen, she really wasn’t his type. He usually went for long legs, big boobs and lots of bleached hair. Dolly Parton on stilts. Women who were good for a few laughs, a few rolls in the hay, but nothing more serious, because he was nowhere near ready to settle down.
    Trouble with Maggie, the more he got to know her, the more he wanted to know. Whatever the attraction, it sure as hell wasn’t her legs or her boobs. Although her hair was nice, even if it wasn’t piled up like a bleached blond helmet. He had a sneaking suspicion she had brains and heart and all those other organs he tried so hard to steer clear of in his relationships with women.
    â€œYoo-hoo, y’all want some dessert?”
    Saved by the bell, Ben thought. Good thing, too, because he didn’t particularly like the way his thoughts were wandering all over the road. He was definitely losing his edge.
    He said, “Sure, Janie, what’re you offering?”

Six
    D essert was store-bought cake that was too dry and too sweet. Maggie ate it anyway, because it was something to do and she was feeling edgy. Ben poured himself a glass of cold coffee, iced it, and stayed with her while the other stragglers left the kitchen and wandered into the large front room where someone was playing records. Not CDs, or even audiotapes, but vinyl.
    Tapping rhythm on his glass with the blade of a table knife, Ben hummed along while Maggie finished her cake. He had a deep, gravelly voice—nice, actually, and only a few notes off-key.
    â€œCare to join ’em?” he asked.
    â€œMight as well,” she allowed, feeling a shimmer of tension at the thought of dancing in Ben’s arms. Slow dancing, not line dancing. Then maybe theywould wander out onto the porch and he would kiss her again.
    Several of the women were dancing together while Charlie looked over a selection of records, including some old 33 1/3s and even a few 78 rpms. Janie was dancing alone, clicking her fingers and swaying to the tune of something Maggie remembered her mother singing a long time ago.
    Perry was nowhere in sight, nor was Ann.
    Suzy came up behind them and said, “You wouldn’t believe this record collection. If they weren’t all scratched up, they’d probably be worth a bunch.” She touched Ben on the arm and said, “Dance with me, cowboy. You don’t mind, do you, Maggie?”
    Maggie minded more than she cared to admit, but she smiled, nodded and knelt beside Charlie, who said, “Look at this, will you? I haven’t heard this one since I was in grad school.”
    Maggie must have said something appropriate, but disappointment ate at her. Ed Ames tried to remember and the Mamas and the Papas went through their repertoire while Ben danced with Janie, with Georgia and with half the other women in the room, apparently having a wonderful time. She refused to look over her shoulder, but she could hear their laughter over the sound of the scratchy old records.
    Someone called out, “Play ‘Moon River’ again, will you? It was my husband’s favorite.”
    All dressed up and nowhere to go, Maggie thought, dismally amused. The dress she’d worn tonight was one of her favorites, bought on sale last fall. Shehadn’t been sure it would still be in style this year, but it was.
    For all the good it did her.
    Janie hadn’t even changed for supper, much less for dancing. She was still wearing tights and a sweatshirt, but she’d slipped off her shoes. She had bunions, Maggie noticed, and then felt horribly guilty for being jealous of a woman who was more than twice her age.
    Charlie was still making discoveries in the stack of old vinyl when someone tapped her on the shoulder. “My turn,”