Undercover Sir. Carolyn Faulkner

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      Ia frowned at that, mostly because she wasn't wrong. Among the other many ways in which her brother had won the genetic lottery, were his all-American man good looks. She tried not to be resentful of him but, especially now, was failing badly.

      But Taffy's comment set her to thinking about what she liked in a man. Elvis was great but unattainable—not that any other man in her life had seemed attainable, but he was less so than most. She did like her brother's physique—tall, broad and muscular. She didn't give a hoot about hair color, although she didn't much go for redheads. She was not a fan of freckles or paleness, not that she'd be picky if a ginger asked her out. And she had to admit that, even though she'd commit a multitude of sins with him if he but asked her, in all honesty, Elvis' build wasn't what she preferred, either.

      Once they finished dinner, the two of them stopped at a small variety store for the best foods to console them in their loneliness, chips, ice cream, and chocolate—a handful of Sky bars for Taffy and Mallow Cups for Ia—and more beer, not that there wasn't a well-stocked bar at home.

      Once there, they got out of their prim dresses and into their robes, nightgowns and slippers, meeting in the big living room that separated their bedrooms.

      Taffy already had drinks poured for them, as well as a beer on a coaster next to her, and all the snacks had been placed on the coffee table in pretty bowls she'd gotten from someone as a wedding present. Even the candy bars were strewn artfully around the bowls, and there were big, fluffy throw pillows on the couch that didn't usually reside there. There was even a fan of small napkins available, so that it looked as if she was expecting to throw some kind of combination cocktail and slumber party.

      "You are such a good decorator," Ia complimented as she grabbed a candy bar and a handful of Cheetos.

      "Use a bowl," Taffy reprimanded, pointing at the cereal bowls she'd pressed into service. "I'm not having your orange powdered fingerprints all over my sofa."

      "Yes, ma'am," Ia teased while reaching for one.

      Taffy got up and turned on the TV, standing there thumbing through the guide while it warmed up enough to show a picture, asking, as she flipped the dial around, "Lawrence Welk or Gunsmoke?"

      "Gunsmoke, please."

      It wasn't either of their favorites, but it was always great to watch something that they didn't have to pay to see and could watch in their pajamas, so they settled back, snacking absently and drinking more avidly until it was over.

      "Your Hit Parade or The Joseph Cotton Show?" Taffy crossed to the TV again.

      Ia wrinkled her nose. "Neither."

      "Then let's play some music."

      "We can't. My player needs a new needle."

      Taffy gave her a somewhat fuzzy grin. "Then let's use the console! It's so much better than your player—we can stack some forty-fives and just dance and sing for a long time!"

      Ia's eyes grew wide. "But Daniel told me that I was never to touch that stereo when he wasn't here!"

      Her sister-in-law's eyes rolled. She got a lot braver when she was drunk—and Daniel wasn't there. "Yes, he said the same thing to me, too. But we're not children, and we're not going to break it. We're just going to listen to some music. You go get your case of forty-fives and I'll get mine, and we'll put them on."

      Considering that she wasn't any too sober, Ia thought that was a stupendous idea.

      And it was.

      It was an eclectic mix. Jailhouse Rock, Sentimental Journey, Come and Go with Me, It's Been a Long, Long, Time, and Wake Up, Little Susie were all sung—badly—and danced to even worse. At one point, the Blue Danube came on, and they waltzed together, giggling the whole time as an unlikely Ia took the lead.

      When it was done, Taffy was more than wobbly, and Ia wasn't far behind her.

      "Ya know, we have brownies left over and homemade hot fudge. We could make sundaes!" Taffy headed to the kitchen on that note, and Ia followed her—weaving a bit but able to make it there without incident—while the older woman already had a pot on the stove to heat up the hot fudge.

      Ia wasn't too drunk to notice that as Taffy became more and more relaxed, she became less and less fussy-neat. The evening had started out with her chiding Ia about napkins, but by the time they got to the sundaes, she'd just left the kitchen as it was while they inhaled their sundaes, without making the slightest motion toward cleaning it. There was hot chocolate on the fridge and the counter; the remainder of the ice cream was left melting on the counter and the dirty pan never made it to the sink to soak.

      And the living room was worse. Much worse, not that she seemed to care in the least.

      "I still wish there'd been whipped cream for this," she said later when they were so stuffed, they could barely move.

      Ia thought she was going to throw up, but Taffy was still going, refilling her drink every time she refilled her own, whether it needed it or not.

      "I don't know how you stay so slim when we eat like this."

      Taffy rose at that as if she'd issued a direct challenge. "We don't eat like this…" She motioned to the bags of chips that had spilled on the floor, the candy bar wrappers that were strewn everywhere, and the empty sundae bowls perched precariously on the end tables. "…very often. But I'll show you how I do it normally, as long as I can trust you to keep it a secret from your brother." Taffy gave Ia a somewhat threateningly speculative look that was expectant at the same time.

      It prompted Ia to respond mindlessly, "Of course, you can," without knowing what it was that she was agreeing to keep from Daniel.

      She returned from her bedroom with something Ia never thought she'd see in this house—a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

      "Oh my word, you smoke? How could you possibly? You know how much Daniel hates smoking!"

      "Don't I just!" Taffy shrugged. "I picked up the habit before I met him, when I was working as a secretary, because if you didn't smoke, you didn't get a break. I've cut down a lot—because I enjoy sitting—but I keep a pack for times like this, when he's gone." She offered the pack to Ia. "Want one?"

      Ia hesitated. If Daniel found out, he would spank her again—or even give her the belt—and she wasn't at all sure that the reward was worth the risk.

      But then, in her newfound spirit of independence, she decided to throw caution to the wind. "Yes, please."

      "Okay, but we can only do this outside. Never, ever, ever in the house. We have to be sure to collect the butts and flush them down the toilet and wash and clean the ashtray. And when we're done, we're going to take off our nightgowns and our panties and I'm going to wash them. You'd do well to wash your hair, too. That man has the nose of a bloodhound. He's not due home until next Friday, but I'm really paranoid about him finding out."

      For someone who was drunk enough to uncharacteristically allow a bomb to go off in her kitchen and living room, she was positively obsessive about the rules surrounding smoking when she knew her husband didn't want her to.

      And Ia absolutely understood—and subscribed to—that level of paranoia. Daniel's punishments were to be avoided at СКАЧАТЬ