Jodi O'Donnell - Real Marriage Material

Slightly mollified, Mariah took it. For a minute there, she’d felt like a McCoy who had crossed onto Hatfield property. Or, she revised as she continued to feel Jeb’s gaze on her, was she more like Blanche DuBois encountering Stanley Kowalski?

“Thanks for drivin’ all the way here outside of regular business hours, ma’am,” Wiley said.

“Accommodating myself to my clients’ needs is my job. But really, I can’t begin to imagine what two men living in God’s country might need someone like me for.”

“Yes, well…” Clearing his throat, Wiley tipped his head toward his nephew. “I guess you’ve met Jeb here?”

“In a roundabout way. At first I thought he was you, and he had no clue who I was.” She turned toward the younger man, only to find him scrutinizing her with the same if not a greater caution than he had before.

“I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place,” Wiley said quickly.

She shook her head. “Your directions were perfect That’s probably why I was a little early. I like to leave myself a few extra minutes the first time I’m going to a client’s house, in case I have to backtrack.” Remembering Jeb’s earlier doubt, she couldn’t resist adding significantly, even if the point was probably moot, “It’d be rather difficult to show someone why they should depend on me to bring a harmony to their unsettled lives if mine wasn’t in order.”

“That’s exactly what I thought when I saw you talkin’ about what you do on the local cable hour last week,” Wiley agreed with another glance at his nephew, whose countenance had grown, if possible, more guarded. And distinctly aggravated.

“Of course, organizing is just one of the things I can do,” she went on almost challengingly, her gaze meeting Jeb’s without falter, even if she wasn’t sure why she would want to sell her services to a man who seemed to have little understanding or appreciation for what she was trying to do. “That’s why I named my business what I did. I assist people in all kinds of ways tailored to their specific needs.”

She didn’t know why, but the next statement came out not with assertion, but revelation. “I like to think, too, that they need me to fill some function no one else can, because I truly care about making their lives more genteel…more civilized.”

She was unaccountably wounded when Jeb, still piercing her with his gaze, showed no visible reaction to her heart-felt disclosure. Instead, he asked, “What’s goin’ on here, Wiley?”

“Time’s running out, Jeb,” the older man said rather defiantly. “I told you, you need to do somethin’. And soon.”

“So you took it upon yourself to bring this woman out here to make sure I did.”

Focused on her, Jeb’s blue eyes grew brighter—and hotter—than the flame of a gas jet. Where on earth, she wondered, had she gotten her earlier impression he’d come to any appreciation of her? Because there was definitely none of that perception now, not even a close relation of such. Abruptly she was reminded of how she’d felt upon running into him: threatened on the most basic of levels. How she’d felt when encountering his probing, skeptical gaze, which heightened her sense of vulnerability—and not just physically.

The reminder provoked Mariah. On the most basic of levels.

“Either people perceive the value of my service, Mr. Albright, or they do not,” she said coolly. “Clearly you don’t.”

And just as clearly, he wasn’t fazed by her tone. No, Jeb Albright’s eyes still held her, more thoroughly than his strong hands had earlier, a searching out of the truth that made her want to hide, or at the very least turn away. Which brought all of her feelings of peril flooding back.

“Just so we all know,” he said, “what exactly is your business, Miss Duncan?”

“I’m…I’m…” Mariah could have cursed her hesitation, but for some reason unknown to her at that moment, she would have given anything not to have to tell him, “I’m from Saved by the Belle.”

Jeb didn’t believe his ears, so he asked incredulously, “Saved by the what?”

Mariah Duncan lifted her proud chin in a way that both irritated and stirred him, which only increased his irritation. “Saved by the Belle. I’m a professional organizer with a Southern touch. My qualifications include a degree in liberal arts and six years’ experience participating in nearly every aspect of some large philanthropic events in Dallas, as well as serving as a volunteer in several other capacities.”

“Well, and dang if I wasn’t just wondering where I’d find an ex-debutante to help me with my next charity ball,” he drawled.

“It’s not meant to be taken literally, Mr. Albright,” Mariah retorted. “I assure you I am able to offer a wide variety of services I tailor to each client’s specific situation. You might say I function like a combination of wife and secretary, doing the jobs they might. You know, the personal things everyone needs done for them now and then.”

He couldn’t help his reaction, he was just so aggravated. And embarrassed to the roots of his being. Jeb raised one brow suggestively. “How personal?”

Mariah flushed. Oh, yes, he’d been right about those looks she’d been giving him, yet he wasn’t all that gratified.

“Jeb,” Wiley said warningly.

He shot his uncle a lethal look. Dad-blast Wiley! Here was the person who deserved being hit with both barrels. He could imagine the lead-in his uncle had given this woman: Got a nephew here I can’t see as ever sprucin’ his ways up enough to be passable in polite society — or to attract a woman — and he needs to, real fast. So I figured it was time I took matters into my own hands and called in a professional.

“Well, Miss Duncan,” Jeb said, “sounds like you’ve got yourself a nice little concept there, but I don’t think anyone here would begin to mistake needing the services of some charm-school-educated Southern belle.”

She turned even redder, hugging her precious black leather date book tighter than a Bible. Then she lifted her chin a notch higher and said, with that starch in her voice he’d heard a couple of times already, “It’s just a name. That’s all.”

It was his own statement thrown back at him, from when she’d asked him about Bubba J.’s. Well. Score one for the lady, he thought with grudging respect, even if her snooty tone nettled him. He could see why she resorted to loftiness, though. At about five-two and somewhere in the vicinity of a hundred pounds, Mariah Duncan probably had a hard time convincing anyone she had the muscle to solve their problems, since she looked as substantial as a blue-bonnet in the breeze. And felt the same, he remembered, suddenly reliving the delicateness of her bone structure under his palms.

Yet her tailored slacks and silk blouse casual while businesslike, did lend her an air of professionalism if not competence, as did the way she wore her cinnamon brown hair, pulled back in a sophisticated braid. The style also accented the purity of the fine features in her heart-shaped face, her skin pale and glowing as the pearls at her throat:

A face that reflected her apprehension of him, though she tried to hide it.

Remorse stabbed him. Had he hurt her with his rough handling, either physical or verbal? Certainly he knew he’d repulsed her with his fresh-from-under-a-rock aroma and that shower of lake water, courtesy of Lucy. Recalling her distaste made Jeb want to crawl under something for real. Of course, then there had been the patronizing way she’d asked him, all the while idly fingering the pearls Daddy had no doubt given her at her coming-out, if Jeb was Bubba J. As if she found the name—and him—a bit too hick to believe on first examination, but just so darn fascinating.