Page 26 of Mail Order Bride

“I want you, Joel,” she says. “I want you to fuck me.”

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Why not?” she demands, pulling back. She climbs off me with the precision of a wild animal. I watch as she slides over, her dress brushing my thigh as she moves. She looks at me, a challenge in her eyes. “Why won’t you sleep with me?”

“Because I respect you.” It’s both a lie and not. The truth falls somewhere in the middle. You can want a thing and know it’s not a good idea. Besides, giving into her is the worst move I could make. It’s exactly what she wants. That way she can write me off. Gina is playing in her masculine energy, but I know better.Mind of a fly, morals of a flea.

Some women want to pin a man down, and then there’s this type. She wants to know you’re worthy. She wantsproof.It’s either that, or something far worse. Only a desperate woman tries this hard, or has this little self-regard. I know, I’ve met plenty of them.

With her, I think I’m going to play the wait-and-see game. It would be effortless to give into her advances, and believe me, I want to. But if she’s the first type and this is a test, that would be a mistake. She’ll write me off faster than a speeding bullet, and I’ll have made it easy.

“What does respect have to do with it?” she asks, reaching for me, her hand sliding up my thigh. I lean in and kiss her deeply. Our tongues meet, and I am a goner. My lies are already forgotten.

I grab her, my fingers inching their way toward her panties, but I stop myself just shy of hitting gold. “It has everything to do with it.”

She pulls away, a coy smile on her face. “Good,” she says. “Then you'll respect my wishes.”

“Marry me,” I say again. It’s all Icansay.

She doesn’t answer, and I just sit there sort of pathetically grinning at her, until she pulls away further, slinking back over into the passenger seat of my truck.

“Joel, I want you to understand.”

“Understand what?” I ask, exasperated.

“I can’t marry you,” she tells me, shaking her head. “I’m just not suited.”

“No one is,” I say. “It's just something people do.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Journal Entry

Author Unknown

Chad Hensley died with an ice pick through his brain, and rumor has it that the woman he was supposed to marry found him.

The paramedics arrived within minutes, but it was too late. Chad was already gone. The ice pick was still lodged in his brain, through his right ear, even though the girl tried to pull it out. Rumor has it, anyway. Not too bright, that girl, but the circumstances of their “relationship” were rather shady, so maybe that was the best he could do.

The detectives arrived an hour later. They questioned everyone who was at the party, but no one had seen anything. The only clues they had were the ice pick and the empty vodka bottle next to Chad's body.

The detectives sifted through Chad's belongings, hoping to find clues to his murder. They found his suitcase, which was full of old clothes, dirty underwear, empty beer bottles, even more empty vodka bottles, and a dirty magazine. But that was it. There were no clues to what happened. The case may never go cold, seeing that Chad is a senator's son, but the situation is enough of a stain on the family's reputation that they don't press the issue too hard.

It's not easy having an addict son with a penchant for blow and prostitutes when you're supposed to be a pillar of the community. Threatening and blackmailing women is also not very becoming, even if you do run with the old money crowd.

Who knows? Maybe I did them a favor. Good riddance, and all.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Gina

It comes to me in the dead of night, what I’d sensed at the dance but couldn’t put my finger on. Joel Miller is the guy from my vision. The guy that Will Davenport said he had lunch with. He looked a little like the man I’d imagined, but different, kind of like how in a dream the person doesn’t look exactly like the person you know they’re supposed to be. I don’t know how or why this matters, only that it somehow does.

I liked Joel well enough. Enough that I tried my damnedest to seduce him, though it was to no avail. What kind of man turns down no-strings-attached sex? Certainly not the kind who could have written those letters.

It doesn’t make sense.

Something doesn’t add up about Joel Miller.

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