It was one of his old routines, too, but it was different for him. He wasn't sure how. He just knew it was. "If you don't change your ways, one of these days some hotel housekeeper is going to find you with your lovely throat slit ear to ear."
"I'm available, not reckless."
"Yeah? Tell me what you know about Greg Everett."
She leaned toward him, the deep V neckline giving him a view that made his throat go dry. It was nothing he hadn't seen a dozen times before. Just the beginning swell of her breasts, the shadowy valley between them, the soft creamy skin. And it made him hot. Made his hand unsteady and his heart beat faster.
"I know he's a lawyer," she said in a husky, seductive voice. "He works in your building across the street. He's divorced, has no kids, makes six figures a year, drives a Lexus, and thinks he's the best thing to ever happen to a lonely woman on a Saturday night. I also know that I had no intention of going anywhere but the dining room with him." Sitting back, she raised her voice to normal. "You, on the other hand…"
She didn't need to finish. His imagination was way ahead of her, in an anonymous hotel room, clothes scattered everywhere, the two of them naked in bed. Aw, hell, why had he been telling her no for months? He couldn't remember.
Truth was, he didn't want to remember that she was Maggie's friend. He didn't want to remember that she wasn't his type. Wasn't tall enough, blond enough, thin enough, greedy enough. He didn't want to remember that she had plenty of money of her own and wasn't interested in his. Money was what drew women to him, what made them stay, and, in the end, it was money that made them leave.
He damn sure didn't want to remember that she was the only woman who attracted him, tempted him—hell, just flat-out tormented him—and whom he hadn't used and discarded. She was the only one of all those women for whom he felt some measure of … respect.
Tom Flynn feeling respect for a woman he wanted in the worst way. That was an event to remember.
"Where's Deborah?"
He shrugged.
"So another affair bites the dust." She traced the rim of her glass with one fingertip. "How long did this one last? Eight weeks? Nine?"
"About that." For some reason, he wasn't comfortable discussing Deborah with her. He wasn't sure why. They'd talked about his women and her men before, but now it felt…
Felt. There was that damned word again.
Holly slipped off the tall stool and picked up her handbag. "I'm going to the ladies' room. Listen for my name, and I'll let you share my table."
Along with half the men and women in the place, he watched her walk away, then he downed the rest of his drink in one swallow. With one hand, he tugged his tie, loosening the knot that was strangling him. Unfortunately, the extra inch of breathing space didn't ease the constriction in his throat, or his chest.
"She's lovely, but I wouldn't have thought she was your type."
He glanced idly at Sophy as she placed his empty glass and Everett's mostly full one on a tray, then wiped a water ring from the table. "She's not."
"I don't believe in types myself. If you limit yourself to a certain type, think of all the wonderful people you miss out on. You might never meet the woman you were meant to spend the rest of your life with just because she doesn't match your preconceived notion of your type. Wouldn't that be a pity?"
He turned his narrowed gaze on her. "What makes you think I'm looking for someone to spend the rest of my life with?"
"A man can spend every waking hour working for only so long. He needs someone there when the work's finally finished. Someone to grow old with. Someone to make all that money, power, and success worthwhile. Do you deny that you've given it a thought?"
He neither denied nor confirmed it.
"Is she the woman you've chosen?"
Marry Holly? He choked back a laugh. She'd made it clear she had no desire for a husband, wanted no children of her own, and was perfectly capable of taking care of herself with no help from anyone. Even if he could change her mind, she would have no patience for his moods or his selfishness, none at all for his long hours at work. She was too independent, too capable, and too intelligent ever to consider spending the rest of her life with him. Plus, she would never give up Bethlehem for the city.
But she also met or exceeded every requirement on his short list for the perfect wife. She was beautiful and sophisticated. She was the perfect hostess—people didn't keep coming back to her inn for the chocolate mints on the pillows—and she was intelligent and well educated. She had opinions on every subject under the sun and didn't mind sharing them, and would probably understand his reason for marrying as well as, if not better than, he did.
The only question was her emotional needs. How much of a burden would they be?
"Not answering me, huh?" Sophy grinned. "That must mean the answer's yes. You've made a wise choice. She'll make the right man a wonderful wife."
"You can tell that by seeing her for ten seconds."
"I'm a great judge of character. I was right about you, wasn't I?"
"I have no character. I'm a lawyer, remember?"
"Here she comes. Her table's ready in the dining room, so why don't you deny these juvenile males the pleasure of seeing her climb up on that stool in that dress?"
"What if I want to see it, too?"
"You'll get plenty of chances in the next sixty years." Picking up the tray, she disappeared into the crowd before he thought to ask how she knew Holly's table was ready when she didn't know Holly's name.
Then Holly was standing in front of him, and he didn't care how Sophy knew anything. She was easing the short, tight skirt of her dress a little higher to climb onto the stool. He stood up and caught her arm. "Our table's ready."
"Oh, well, drag me away then."
He grimaced, eased his grip. "Sorry." As he followed her toward the door, he saw the admiring looks she drew from damn near every man they passed. Messy emotional needs aside, marrying Holly just might be an interesting experience. At least he would never get bored—or too comfortable, he thought, noticing the dazzling smile she turned on a few of those men.
And being neither bored nor complacent wouldn't be a bad way to live.
* * *
Dinner was incredible, and the food hadn't been half bad, either—at least, what Holly remembered of it. That part of the evening was something of a blur, though she'd bet she could recall every word Tom had spoken, every expression that had crossed his face, every movement he'd made. To say he was dynamic was a major understatement. He could very easily fascinate her, if he wanted to. If she wanted him to.
Their dinner dishes had been cleared away two hours ago, their dessert plates an hour later. They'd talked their way through a bottle of wine and two cups of black coffee and had ignored the waiter's eagerness for them to leave. The young man had discovered great reserves of patience once Tom had slipped him a folded bill.
With a sigh, she gazed out the window at the millions of lights below. It was the same view from her hotel window, similar to what she saw in every other city she visited. It was impressive and breathtaking, but it was nothing compared to home.
"Thinking about Bethlehem?"
"How did you guess?"
"You have this look Ross gets after he's been here a few days. Maggie comes here wearing it." He shook his head. "I can't believe they're happy living in a—"
"Watch it. That's my hometown you're about to malign."
He thought better of what he'd been about to say. "It's not a bad town. I guess, as small towns go, it's fine. It's just so small. And intimate."
"We like it that way."
"You know what struck me most about it when Ross and Maggie first moved there? The trees. Where I grew up, the only place to see trees was in a park, and there for damn sure weren't any parks in our part of town. Even now, the only trees where I live are in containers on balconies and in the lobby. All those millions of trees around Bethlehem impressed me."
That was sad, though of co
urse she didn't comment on it. "Where did you grow up?"
His mouth thinned, and his jaw tightened. "Here in Buffalo."
"Where?" She looked out the window again. "Can we see your neighborhood from here? Point it out."
He didn't bother looking or pointing. "It was a place called Flaherty Street
, and it's not worth talking about."
She wanted to know more, but something in his eyes stopped her. She couldn't identify it exactly. Bleakness. Bitterness. Wariness. He wasn't proud of where he'd come from—only of where he'd come to. But one didn't have much meaning without the other. Surely growing up poor on Flaherty Street
was a large part of what made his success so sweet. But he obviously didn't want to discuss it, so she changed the subject. "Do you think we've tied up their best table long enough?"
In answer, he stood up. After a stop to pick up their coats and his briefcase, they got in the elevator together.
"Can I get a cab downstairs?" she asked.
"I'll give you a ride."
"A cab's no trouble."
"Neither is a ride."
She suppressed a smile as she watched the numbers flash on and off. When they reached the lobby, he steered her out the east door and across the street.
"What would you have done if I'd decided not to eat at that restaurant tonight?" he asked as they were buzzed into the lobby by a security guard.
"I told you. Greg Everett was my entertainment for tonight. I would have had dinner with him, then caught a cab to the hotel, ordered ice cream and chocolate from room service, and seen if The X-Files was on any of the two hundred channels available."
"And that would have been…?"
Was he fishing for compliments? Wanting to hear that an evening with him far surpassed the best possible evening with any other man? She suppressed another smile. "Not bad. Not the best time I've ever had, but not the worst, either. But I'm glad you did decide to eat there."
They took an elevator to the top level of the parking garage. It was a vast, empty, shadowy place, and it gave her the creeps. "I know you think Bethlehem is a tiny little burg without much to offer, but at least there's not one of these things for miles around. I'm happy parking my car in my own driveway."
"You don't have a driveway. You park in a lot."
"Yes, but it's my lot, and it's only a few feet from my door, and it's open to the sunlight—"
"And the wind, rain, and snow." He unlocked the doors, then started to circle around to the driver's side. Abruptly he came back, scowling, and opened the door for her.
She wasn't sure what to think of his behavior tonight. When he'd first joined her in the bar, if she hadn't known better, she might have thought he was jealous. But a man had to care about a woman before he could get jealous over her. It wasn't as if Tom wanted her for himself. He'd certainly turned down plenty of opportunities to have her. No doubt, when they got to the hotel, if she invited him to her room, he would turn her down yet again.
But that would be all right. She'd had a lovely evening. It had been almost like a real date, and a woman with her reputation didn't get many of those. There was always the expectation of "payment" before the evening was over. Tom, she was sure, didn't expect anything more than a thank-you.
He stopped at the garage exit. "Where are we going?"
"I honestly don't know," she answered absently. Then, realizing what she'd said, she forced a laugh and gave him the name of her hotel.
When he pulled into the hotel driveway, she expected him to drop her off at the door. Maybe, if he was feeling chivalrous, he would see her to the elevator. She didn't expect him to hand the keys to a valet, walk inside with her, and turn toward the bar at the rear of the lobby
"Need another drink?" she asked dryly.
"No." He gestured at the dance floor. "Want to dance?"
"Dance."
"You know, music, rhythm, moving together. I know you know how."
"Of course I do. I just never imagined you getting away from your desk long enough to learn."
"My job requires that I attend a lot of boring parties. If you don't dance, you have to actually talk to people."
"And so you'd rather not talk to me anymore?" she teased.
"If that were the case, I would have dropped you off at the door." He made an impatient gesture. "Do you want to dance or not?"
She glanced from him to the couples on the floor. The music was familiar, old jazz standards, and the dances were intimate. "Yes, I do."
They checked their coats, then moved onto the floor. Dancing, she believed, told her a lot about a man—at least, about her and that man. When they stumbled, unable to match each other's rhythm, the sex between them was usually awkward, too. Some of her partners were technically accomplished on the dance floor but lacked passion for the music, the movements. Sex with them lacked passion, too.
But Tom… When he took her in his arms, it was as if she'd been there a million times. Her could knew his, recognized his steps, anticipated his moves. Having his arms around her was the sweetest, most natural thing in the world. Even her fingers knew the feel of him.
Sex with him would be so fantastic, it might not be mere sex. It would be so incredible, so intense it might demand to be called by another name. Like making—
Harshly she shoved that thought out of her mind. Sex was sex was sex. Sometimes it was mediocre, usually passable, and on occasion it was toe-curling fabulous. But it was still sex. Nothing more.
She was working on convincing herself of that when Tom brought his mouth close to her ear, and murmured, "Did I mention I like your dress?"
His breath was hot and made her shiver. It was all she could do to shake her head.
"I do." He rubbed his hand slowly up and down her spine, generating more heat than the simple gesture could account for. "You're a beautiful woman, Holly."
She'd heard the words before, more times than was fair. So why did they sound more sincere, more significant, coming from him?
Wishing the temperature in the room were about twenty degrees cooler, she cleared the hoarseness from her throat. "If you like this dress, I have another one that you'll love. It's quite amazing."
"A dress is just fabric and thread. It's the woman wearing it who makes it amazing."
"Such flattery," she said with a nervous chuckle. "I never would have guessed you were capable of it."
He gave her a long, steady look. "I don't flatter. I just tell the truth."
And the truth was he'd never paid her so much attention, never made her feel so … special.
They danced silently through three more songs. When she caught him covering a yawn, she laughed. "I believe it's time to call it a night before your carriage turns back into a pumpkin." And the charming, attentive date turned back into the keep-his-distance man she knew better.
"A pumpkin?"
"You know, Cinderella and the pumpkin? Or wasn't your mom big on fairy tales?" she teased.
"No," he agreed as they left the bar. "She worked one job full-time and another part-time. There wasn't much time for fairy tales."
Not for living them, Holly thought somberly. He might view Bethlehem through a critical big-city eye, but it was too bad his mother hadn't lived there. She could have found help, could have made her own life and her son's life easier. She might have lived long enough to actually enjoy life.
She thought he might say goodbye in the lobby. He didn't. Not at the elevator, either. And not once they reached her floor. He walked her to her door and waited while she unlocked it. When she turned back to him, he simply stood there, studying her intently. Then, as if he'd reached a decision, he cupped her face in his hands and bent forward, bringing his mouth within a whisper of hers … and then stopped. So close she could feel his breath against her lips, so close she could imagine the taste of him, and he stopped. "Good night, Holly," he murmured. "Sweet dreams."
Then he walked away.
* * *
The weariness that had struc
k him on the dance floor was gone by the time Tom got home. Despite the fact that it was late and cold outside, he went onto the balcony, rested his forearms on the railing, and leaned comfortably to think.
He wouldn't credit Sophy with too many good ideas. After all, she thought walking on Flaherty late at night made perfect sense, and she hadn't given a second thought to stepping out into the street without checking for traffic first.
But his marrying Holly… That just might be the best idea Sophy Jones had ever had.
So, what now? He'd never considered what he would do when he found the right woman.
If Holly was the right woman. There were still minor problems to consider. She didn't want to get married. She wouldn't show him much tolerance. She wouldn't leave Bethlehem.
The last was easy. He could live in Bethlehem, at least part of the time. It wasn't much more than an hour away by plane, less than two if he took one of the company helicopters. As for her insistence on staying single… The secret to successful salesmanship was to convince your target that she wanted or needed what you were offering. So he would convince Holly that she not only wanted to marry but wanted to marry him. And as for tolerance… If she couldn't tolerate certain behaviors of his, there were only two courses of action—increase her tolerance, or change the behaviors. Simple in theory, likely to be a little tougher in practice. Still, he'd always liked a challenge.
The question at the moment was what to do next. He suspected Holly would respond to a proposal of mutually beneficial marriage with anything from hysterical laughter to smashing something over his head. Though he preferred blunt honesty, this situation might require more finesse, maybe even a little trickery. Fortunately, he'd been known to excel at both when necessary.
So… He would pop the question, have the wedding. And then what? Hell, if he succeeded with this plan, he might turn his attention to the other goal on his list.
He might learn how to fall in love.
* * *
FIRST KISS Page 6
