The Dirty Girls Book Club Read online

  SAVANNA FOX

  The Dirty Girls Book Club

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Content

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Author’s Note

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  THE DIRTY GIRLS BOOK CLUB

  Savanna Fox splits her time between her homes in Vancouver and Victoria, British Columbia. She has degrees in law and psychology, and has had a variety of careers, including perennial student, computer consultant and legal editor. Fiction-writer is by far her favourite, giving her an outlet to demonstrate her belief in the power of love, friendship and a sense of humour. Visit her website at www.savannafox.com for excerpts, behind-the-scenes notes, discussion guides, recipes, articles, newsletter sign-up, contests and give-aways.

  One

  It took me a while to get into it; then I was hooked.” Georgia Malone touched the cover of the trade paperback lying in the middle of the book club’s table at Rogue, a trendy restaurant/bar near Vancouver’s downtown harbor.

  It was just after four thirty on a warm May afternoon. The four club members had settled at an outside table and ordered drinks and appies.

  “The characters came to feel like friends,” Georgia added. “I like books that take me on an emotional journey.”

  Lily, who had selected this month’s book, said, “I enjoyed it too. Such beautiful writing.”

  Marielle gave a snort of disgust and shook back a curtain of wavy dark brown hair. “You mean pretentious. Masturbatory writing, where the writer’s only stroking his own ego and doesn’t give a damn about the reader.”

  “Aw, come on, tell us what you really think.” Kim’s near-black eyes danced.

  “It won the Man Booker.” Lily defended her choice, and Georgia nodded in support.

  In the three months the club had been meeting, it had quickly become clear that the four of them were quite different. That made for stimulating discussions, which was what Georgia had hoped for when she responded to the “Want to create a book club?” notice posted by Marielle at a downtown coffee shop. Though Georgia loved her job in marketing, the fast pace and hype meant that these chats over appies and drinks were a welcome break. The four busy women had decided that rather than commit to a whole evening each month, they’d meet Mondays for a quick get-together between the end of the workday and whatever they had planned for the evening.

  “I don’t know what the Man Booker is,” Kim said, “but it sounds pretentious too.” An art student from China, her spiky black hair streaked with tangerine highlights, she looked anything but pretentious.

  Lily frowned and tucked a breeze-blown wisp of short, stylishly cut blond hair behind her ear. “You didn’t like the book either?”

  Kim shrugged. “I couldn’t get into it. It was dense, too literary, and depressing. I’m so not in the mood for being depressed.” Although mostly the women talked about the book they’d chosen for the month, personal information occasionally slipped out, and Georgia had the impression things weren’t going well with Kim and her boyfriend.

  A ponytailed waitress in jeans arrived with calamari and yam fries to share, and drinks for each of them: a martini for Lily, a fruity cocktail for Marielle, a fancy lager for Kim, and a cup of coffee for Georgia. “Sure you only want coffee?” the waitress asked.

  Georgia nodded. “I have to work tonight.”

  “Bummer, George,” Marielle said. Two or three years younger than Georgia, she worked as a temp and her social life was her top priority.

  “No, it’s good. A new assignment, and I’m excited.” Her boss at Dynamic Marketing had just appointed her, not her competition, Harry, as account manager on a major new campaign. She’d worked her butt off to win this opportunity.

  The initial meeting with the client was tomorrow afternoon, and she had meetings all Tuesday morning, so that left only this evening to prepare. The client, VitalSport, was an American company that manufactured sports and leisure wear and equipment and was about to expand into the Canadian market. Her boss, Billy Daniels, had recommended a figurehead campaign. The figurehead—a Canadian hockey star—had just been signed. Billy had given her a video of an interview with the man and said, rather ominously, that he hoped she was up for a challenge.

  Of course she was, and she was happy to put in a long night of preparation. At least she could work at home, where she could peel off her tailored office clothes, free her hair from its businesslike knot, and curl up with her cat.

  Marielle took a healthy sip of her cocktail, said, “Yum,” then, “I agree. The book was depressing.”

  “Is there a rule that says a book club can’t ever read anything fun?” Kim asked.

  “Exactly,” Marielle agreed. Then, her attractive coffee-colored face lighting with mischief, she said, “Or sexy. What’s wrong with sexy? I just started a cool book.” She reached into her large purse, extracted her iPad, and clicked it on.

  A moment later, she turned it around. “Here.”

  The other three of them peered at the image. “You’re not serious,” Georgia said. The cover had all the romantic clichés. A blond woman with flowing locks, clad in a lacy, old-fashioned undergarment, was being untied down the front by a black-haired man, naked to the waist, his rippling muscles on full display.

  “The Sexual Education of Lady Emma Whitehead,” Kim read the title. “Now, that looks like fun.”

  “It’s historical erotica,” Marielle said. “Lady Emma’s a twenty-year-old widow. Her husband was an old guy who sucked in bed. Her father arranged the marriage. Emma didn’t love the dude, but at least she had some kind of life. Now she’s supposed to be in mourning, she’s running out of money, and no handsome, sexy young guy’s likely to marry her when he could get a lovely young virgin with a dowry.”

  “Groan,” Lily, the only married member of the club, said.

  Georgia could relate to Emma, at least a bit. She was a young widow too, though in her case her husband had been her soul mate. She’d married at age twenty-one and lost Anthony in a horrible car accident—one she’d survived almost injury-free—before she turned twenty-five. In the three years since, she’d learned to be happy living alone. From what she’d seen, few marriages were as wonderful as hers had been. A man like Anthony—and a connection so deep and special—was a rare thing. Maybe one day, if she was lucky, she’d find another soul mate, but she couldn’t imagine it happening soon. For now, she’d focus her energy on her career. And, like Lady Emma, she’d be celibate. Sex without an emotional connection didn’t attract her in the least.

  Marielle continued. “A married girlfriend invites Emma to spend a month at her husband’s family’s country home, and she’s thrilled to escape her boring rut. The first evening she’s there, the family entertains friends and neighbors for a musical gathering. Emma discovers that there’s another houseguest.” She clicked her iPad.

  “Don’t stop there,” Kim said.
r />   “No way. But it’s better if I read it.”

  Emma was late arriving downstairs due to the maid’s insistence on ridding her demure gray widow’s weeds of their travel creases. She entered the noisy, crowded music room nervously, unused to being alone at a social gathering, and gazed about for her friend and hostess. Margaret, Lady Edgerton, sat talking with two middle-aged women, and Emma hurried to join them.

  Marielle’s normal speaking voice had a slight Caribbean lilt and it was fun to hear her attempt an English accent.

  Once seated, she surveyed the room. A group of pretty young girls gathered in a corner, and with their fluting voices, silvery laughter, and colorful dresses, they reminded her of a flock of tropical birds. What had captured their interest?

  The crowd parted and a black-haired man walked from among them. Emma’s breath caught in her throat as the man strolled over to speak to Lord Edgerton, Margaret’s husband, with the flock of chattering girls trailing him.

  Emma could understand their fascination. This was no conventional English gentleman. There was a … je ne sais quoi … about him, from his stylishly cut Continental clothing, almost indecent in staid old England, to the cocky tilt of his head and his persuasive smile as he spoke to his host.

  Lord Edgerton nodded, and moved away purposefully.

  Sipping her coffee, Georgia thought that Woody Hanrahan, the hockey player she’d be dealing with, likely had little in common with the je-ne-sais-quoi man in the book. Hockey was big in Vancouver, but the appeal totally escaped her. She didn’t know one hockey player from another, so she’d studied the biography Billy had given her.

  Woody—Woodrow—Hanrahan was born in a small town in Manitoba twenty-eight years ago. He’d played hockey from a young age and been mentored by a friend’s father, who became his agent. Woody had been drafted into the NHL at age seventeen by the Atlanta Thrashers. Vancouver had traded for him seven years ago and, along with a couple of other players, he was credited for turning a second-rate team into one that had won the Stanley Cup four years ago and lost out by a single goal last year. This was his third season as team captain. He’d also played on the gold-medal-winning Team Canada in the 2010 Olympics.

  It all sounded relatively impressive—if athletes impressed you—but Billy had warned her that she’d need to transform a sow’s ear into a silk purse. Obviously there was more—or less—to Mr. Hanrahan than appeared in his bio.

  Realizing she’d become distracted by thoughts of work, Georgia focused again on what Marielle was reading.

  The cosmopolitan man gazed about the room, a sparkle in his dark eyes as he glanced past the pretty girls, on to a group of men rather loudly discussing politics in the corner, and then to Margaret, the two middle-aged ladies, and Emma.

  For a moment, his eyes met hers. She felt something extraordinarily disconcerting: a quick flush of heat, not just in her cheeks but all through her body; tingly prickles across her skin as if someone had stroked her with a feather; a pulse that throbbed in her throat, at her wrists, and—oh my!—at that secret feminine place between her legs.

  The man’s gaze moved on, leaving her hot, prickly, and throbbing. Oh dear, was she coming down with an illness? And yet, she didn’t feel ill, exactly. More … unsettled.

  “Oh, good God,” Lily broke in, rolling her eyes. “Enough.”

  “No, it’s just getting good,” Kim said. “Go on, Marielle. You can’t leave us hanging here.”

  Marielle grinned. “I told you her husband sucked in bed, right? The poor woman’s never had an orgasm, and she doesn’t even recognize arousal.”

  Georgia focused on the yam fry she’d lifted to her mouth, not daring to look at the others. Though she’d loved Anthony with all her heart, and intercourse with him had been emotional and wonderful, the truth was she’d never had an orgasm either. Nor was she all that familiar with arousal, or at least not the purely physical kind Marielle was talking about. For Georgia, sex was about an intimate sharing of heart, mind, body, and soul with a man she’d committed her life to and who had committed his to her.

  Though she’d dated a couple of men since Anthony died, she’d quickly realized there was no real connection and had broken things off.

  She was glad she wasn’t a very sexual being. Celibacy was easy.

  Marielle began to read again.

  Margaret leaned over and whispered to Emma, “That, my dear, is Comte Alexandre de Vergennes from France. He will be staying here too. He arrived this afternoon, while you were resting after your journey.”

  “I didn’t know there was to be another guest.”

  “Nor did I,” Margaret said tartly. “I am not best pleased, but in this I will bow to my husband’s wishes. They are old friends, although I cannot imagine why. The Comte is, to use the most polite word available, a rake.”

  Emma’s mouth opened in a silent “O.”

  Margaret’s lips kinked up and her eyes sparkled. “I must tell you the most delicious secret. The Comte was caught in the bedchamber of a married woman. Her outraged husband challenged him to a duel, and instead of doing the manly thing and fighting, the Comte fled the country. He sought refuge with my husband.”

  “Oh my!”

  Across the room, bottles of champagne had arrived and were being opened. The Comte, usurping the role of host, handed glasses to the colorful young ladies. “He is making free with your husband’s hospitality,” Emma commented.

  “Actually, he brought the champagne with him. Cases of it.”

  Margaret tsked as bright laughter rang out. “I see it will be my task to ensure that none of our innocent maids—or,” she added as two young married women headed over to join the fun, “married ladies—fall for the Comte’s charms and jeopardize their reputations.”

  “Surely no one would be so foolish.” Charm was such a superficial thing.

  Besides, there wasn’t the slightest chance the Comte would wield that charm on her, a drab widow.

  Marielle stopped reading. “You know they’ll end up in bed. Won’t it be fun seeing how they get there, and what happens when they do?”

  “I vote for this book,” Kim said promptly.

  “I vote against,” Lily said. A doctor, she could put on a brisk “I have spoken” tone.

  It didn’t daunt Marielle. “We went along with your last choice. I say it’s time to get dirty, girls.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Lily said. “George, back me up.”

  “Let’s read it.” The words just popped out.

  “Hurray! Three votes win,” Marielle said. “Thanks, George.”

  “Now,” Lily said sternly, “can we please get back to discussing this month’s book, before we run out of time?”

  As the blonde rattled off what sounded like a review from a literary journal, Georgia wondered at her own quick agreement with Marielle’s choice. Historical erotica? She’d never felt the slightest desire to read erotica. Yet the short passage had intrigued her. It might be fun to read something that was such a complete departure from her personal experience.

  Two

  Off balance—literally, since the one-inch heel of her sensible pumps had snapped off in a sewer grate five blocks away—Georgia opened the door to one of Dynamic Marketing’s conference rooms early Tuesday afternoon. She stepped inside to see a good six and a half feet of naked male back.

  Back, and backside. Naked backside. Naked, extraordinarily well-muscled back. And a tight, taut, amazing butt.

  Well, all right, not entirely naked. She noted a thin “T” of black fabric. What self-respecting heterosexual man wears a thong?

  No, wait. Shouldn’t the question be, Why am I gaping at a near-naked man when I’ve obviously entered the wrong room? She should be retreating quietly and sliding the door shut before anyone noticed her.

  She was about to do exactly that when the naked giant said, “No straight dude’s gonna wear a fucking thong. I didn’t fucking sign on for this.”

  “Woody,” a much calmer male
voice started, in a placating tone, “now, just—”

  “Woody?” Georgia exclaimed. This was Woodrow—Woody—Hanrahan?

  “George?” That was her boss, Billy Daniels’s, voice. She hadn’t even noticed he was in the room.

  “George?” the naked man said.

  She was dimly aware of the calm-voiced man, someone she didn’t know, joking, “Is there an echo in here?” But only dimly aware, because the giant had swung to face her.

  Her eyes widened. He was leaner than she’d thought a hockey player would be, but oh, my, did he have muscles. Shoulders, arms, torso, legs. Abs.

  Her gaze traveled south and fixed on the front pouch of that skimpy black thong. She had never, not in ads or movies much less real life, seen a man who filled out his underwear so impressively.

  The giant crossed powerful-looking arms across his broad chest. “Who’s George?”

  “I’m George.” Her voice came out breathy because, let’s face it, the sight of him had stolen her breath. She forced air into her lungs and went on. “It’s a nickname. I’m Georgia Malone.”

  Holding her hand out to offer a firm handshake, she stepped forward, forgetting that her right heel was no longer there. Her ankle wobbled, her knee buckled, her briefcase slipped, and she tumbled ignominiously toward the floor—only to be caught by one large, firm hand grasping her elbow.

  “You’re a woman,” he said disbelievingly.

  Woody Hanrahan no doubt intended to steady her. Instead, her heart jerked and her pulse raced like she’d been zapped by an electrified fence. Or a Taser.