Synnamon frowned.
“Is something wrong?” Conner asked.
“I was just thinking that it might have been wiser to wait to make the announcement,” Synnamon mused. “Giving them a month to think about it, without the new boss present…”
“Oh, Nick will be in and out. And I have no doubt she can handle anything that bunch might do or say.”
Nicole looked less certain, Synnamon thought. That was odd. At the New Year’s Eve party she’d seemed to ooze confidence. But of course, things had changed since New Year’s—and not only where the job was concerned.
“The situation will have difficulties,” Nicole said. “But I’m looking forward to the challenge.”
“I’m sure you’ll do very well,” Synnamon said. It was almost a throwaway line, a social nicety, but it was true, she realized. It had always been the other members of the team she was concerned about, not Nicole herself. For no matter what Conner thought of her personally, he wouldn’t have given her the job if she wasn’t an able chemist.
Synnamon was startled when Nicole looked up from her grapefruit with a sudden smile that lit her eyes and turned her good looks into stunning beauty.
“You wouldn’t like to put that in the company newsletter, I suppose?” Nicole said.
Still a bit bemused by the woman’s sparkle, Synnamon said slowly, “I don’t quite know what you mean.”
“You see, it’s obvious that your opinion is very important to everyone at Sherwood.”
Involuntarily, Synnamon’s gaze slid down the length of the table to find Conner watching her thoughtfully over the rim of his wineglass.
Almost everyone, she nearly said. Except perhaps the boss. Instead, she shrugged. “Since I’m not officially on the payroll any more, I can’t see it making much of a difference. But if I can help—”
“Of course you can,” Conner said. “A few simple things should do it. You could have lunch together a few times, maybe.”
Synnamon would have given anything to be able to glare at him and announce that she had no intention of becoming friends with Nicole Fox. But to say so would be to admit that she wasn’t any more comfortable with the situation he’d created than Conner was.
In fact, she thought irritably, at the moment she was probably less at ease. How did the man do it, anyway? It wasn’t fair that he could turn the tables on her so completely and so effortlessly.
Somehow talking about the new job had broken the ice, and Nicole seemed to relax. Suspiciously, Synnamon replayed the conversation as she served the bourguignonne. She couldn’t help wondering if the whole thing had really been coincidence or if she’d been conned— manipulated into a public position of friendship.
Despite her best efforts to stay aloof, however, she found herself liking Nicole Fox. Though she was still quiet, the woman displayed a dry sense of humor, and under the influence of the bourguignonne she laughed now and then.
Eventually, Synnamon put her napkin down and began to clear the table. “I’ll be happy to help,” Nicole offered.
“Oh, no.” Synnamon smiled. “You’ve been very restrained, both of you, in not discussing chemistry over dinner, and I appreciate it. So I’ll leave you to it for a few minutes while the coffee brews.”
She loaded the dishwasher and sliced the chocolate cheesecake, and as soon as the coffee was finished, she loaded a tray and carried it into the living room.
She honestly wasn’t trying to be silent, but she succeeded better than she could have hoped. Conner and Nicole had moved to the wide bay window, where only a darker line marked the Rockies in the distance and a golden web of lights spread out across the high plain below the apartment tower. The redhead’s hand was on Conner’s sleeve, and she was looking at him intently. Her voice was low, but Synnamon had no trouble catching the words. “Are you quite sure you want to go through with this, Conner? You’re obviously miserable, and it isn’t likely to get easier.”
Conner didn’t answer. Something caught his attention—Synnamon’s reflection in the window glass, perhaps—and he shook Nicole’s hand off his sleeve and came hastily across the room to take the tray from Synnamon’s hands. “You shouldn’t be carrying things like this,” he said.
“Why not? It weighs less than my briefcase does.”
“Then you shouldn’t be carrying that, either.”
The irritation in his voice pleased Synnamon beyond all reason. Nicole’s question had obviously ruffled his composure, and that alone made the strain of the evening worthwhile.
Nicole looked uncomfortable. “I’m surprised you don’t have someone to help around the house,” she said finally.
So we’re all just going to ignore that leading question, Synnamon thought with satisfaction, and pretend it was never asked. Well, that was all right with her—a question with no answer was an even more haunting one. It wouldn’t bother her any if it kept Conner awake all night.
“Only during the day,” she said. “Mrs. Ogden has never lived in. We treasure our privacy—I’m sure you understand. Do you take cream and sugar in your coffee, Nicole?”
Synnamon was sorry to see the evening end. She had to admit, however, that it wasn’t entirely because of that spark of liking that had sprung to life between her and Nicole Fox, but because she wasn’t looking forward to facing the music once she and Conner were alone.
She left him to finish the good nights, even suggesting that he walk Nicole down to her car, and retreated to the kitchen to attack the mess. She’d put the silver flatware to soak and was in the dining room, stacking the last of the china on a tray, when Conner returned.
It hadn’t been as long a farewell as she’d expected, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from asking what had brought him back so quickly. But it was best for her plan to appear not to notice at all.
He brushed her aside and picked up the tray. “You aren’t to be lifting things like this any more.”
The order annoyed her. “Says who? I’m not handicapped, I’m having a baby. And if you think me lifting a few pieces of china is going to hurt your child…”
“Would you rather I call Phoenix and ask the Hartfords to move up here and take over?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you’ll behave yourself.”
Synnamon went on as if he hadn’t said anything. “There’s no room for them.”
“There’s a housekeeper’s suite.”
“Suite! A bedroom and a tiny bath are hardly the sort of accommodation they’re used to.” She followed him to the kitchen and cleared a spot on the counter for the tray. “If what you’re really saying is that you’d be more comfortable with someone else around all the time so we’re never alone—”
His eyebrows drew together. “Is that why you invited Nick to dinner? Because you don’t want to be alone with me?”
Synnamon bit the tip of her tongue. It was just like him to take a straightforward comment and turn it around. “I didn’t say anything of the sort. I just thought it would be nice to get to know her better. I had no idea you’d object. But as long as we’re getting things straight, perhaps you’ll let me know what rules you’d like to set up.”
“Does that mean you have some in mind?”
“Well, yes. They’re not much different from the ones you’d propose, I’m sure. For instance, don’t feel that you have to account for yourself to me, any more than you do to your secretary.”
“Oh, I’ll happily keep you informed of all my plans,” Conner murmured.
What if I’d rather not know what you’re up to? Synnamon almost said it, but she bit the words off in time. That was hardly the way to convince him there would be no satisfaction in sacrificing his freedom just to annoy her.
“If you like,” she said mildly. “I’ll be happy to listen, of course.” She started to wash the silver flatware. “I thought you were going to get your clothes and things tonight.”
“I did. I left them downstairs with the doorman, because I didn’t think you’d be pleased if I stagger
ed in carrying a load of suitcases while Nick was here. Which reminds me, I’ll have to call and have him bring them up.”
He picked up the house phone.
The soapy silver was sensually slick in Synnamon’s hands, and the rhythmic motion of cleaning each piece combined with the rise and fall of Conner’s voice in a pleasant pattern.
Overall, she decided, she was happy with the evening. It hadn’t turned out quite as she’d hoped, that was true, mostly because of Conner’s uncomfortable tendency to twist anything she said around to his own interpretation. But even the fact that he was suspicious and prone to attack surely illustrated the effectiveness of her campaign. He was off-balance and ill at ease. Obviously he didn’t know quite what to think.
Perhaps, Synnamon thought dreamily, if I can keep on giving him the sweetly reasonable, noninterfering, slightly dull wife he seems to want, he might soon decide he doesn’t want her after all.
She finished the flatware and reached for the first crystal wine goblet, laying it carefully in the soapy water.
Or maybe she should go one step further. If she could convincingly portray a clinging vine who was threatening to smother him in unwanted attention, Conner would probably run for cover.
No, she decided, she could never carry that one off.
Conner put the house phone down. “Jack’s on his way up. Where shall I have him put my things, Synnamon? In the guest suite—or in our bedroom?”
The wineglass Synnamon had just picked up slipped out of her soapy hands and shattered against the edge of the sink. Crystal fragments sliced through the bubbles and rattled against the stainless steel. Almost automatically Synnamon scooped both hands into the water to retrieve the pieces.
Instantly, Conner was beside her, pulling her away from the sink. “Stop it, Synnamon! The goblet is gone, and you’ll cut yourself to ribbons for nothing.”
“That was Waterford crystal. And it was a wedding gift.”
“Well, now it’s only broken glass. Watch out for your hands.” He gathered her hands into his, cupping them between his palms to inspect each line, each joint for cuts.
His fingers felt cool against her skin after the intense heat of the dishwater. The contrast was like a sudden wave of cold running straight up Synnamon’s arms to paralyze her brain.
“I’m dripping suds all over the floor,” she said, only half-conscious of what she was saying.
“The floor will survive.” Conner raised her hands almost to his face, turning the palms as if to cup them against his jaw. Synnamon thought a bit breathlessly that it was almost as though he intended to kiss her fingertips, soap and all.
“Your hands are like silk,” he said, and stroked the edge of her palm with a gentle fingertip.
Synnamon had never realized that the band of skin between her wristbone and the base of her little finger was so sensitive. His touch was as soft as a whisper, but the rhythmic movement sent sensation up her arm in a pattern as distinct and unavoidable as ripples of water across the surface of a pond. Except this rhythm, instead of fading slowly away, intensified with each wave.
“So soft,” Conner whispered.
The door bell chimed. To Synnamon’s ears, the notes sounded flat and almost harsh, as if the bell had developed a chest cold. Or was it her hearing that had gone berserk?
Idiot, she told herself. He was only holding her hands because of her accident. It was crazy to let herself get carried away. She drew back.
For a moment Conner didn’t move. Then he cleared his throat and said pragmatically, “Of course, your hands won’t be soft for long if you keep doing dishes without rubber gloves.”
“I like to feel what I’m doing.”
“But that’s Mrs. Ogden’s job, isn’t it?” He turned toward the foyer and paused. “Guest suite or master bedroom?” She couldn’t get a good look at his eyes, and there was not a hint of emotion in his voice—nothing to give her a clue to which answer he would prefer.
Synnamon’s fingertips were twitching. With the urge to hit him, she told herself. He’d set her up with absolute perfection. If she asked him to use the guest room, he’d no doubt make some comment about it being a silly choice not to want to share a room, since she’d caused the whole problem in the first place by sharing a bed. And if she was crazy enough to suggest that he return to the master bedroom—well, wouldn’t he have a field day with that invitation!
She had to take a very deep breath before she could say, steadily, “Guest suite.”
He didn’t answer for a long moment. “Very well. Whatever you prefer.”
That’s all? Synnamon thought in astonishment. No smart remarks? She stared down the hall after him.
She felt almost chilly. The temperature in the kitchen had seemed to drop with his departure, and cool air teased her flushed skin. The twitch in her fingertips hadn’t gone away, but she no longer had the urge to strike him. Instead, she could almost feel the smooth strength of his jaw, the faint stubble of his beard, the warmth of his cheek against her palm.
She shook her head in disbelief and turned to the sink, carefully fishing out the broken bits of crystal to discard.
I can’t want to touch him, she told herself. It’s insane even to think about holding him, caressing him… making love with him.
She left a note for Mrs. Ogden to warn her about the bits of broken glass that might remain, dried her hands and started down the long hall to her bedroom.
The door to the guest suite was open. On the bed a suitcase lay open, and Conner was stacking shirts in the armoire. Obviously he heard her, for he paused and turned toward the door as Synnamon approached.
She couldn’t just ignore him, of course. That didn’t fit at all with the image she was trying to maintain. An image, she reminded herself, that she had come close to ruining a few minutes ago. Standing in the middle of the kitchen going all soft in the head because he was holding her hands, for heaven’s sake.
She paused in the doorway and said, “I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Conner. Good night.”
“Synnamon.”
“What is it?”
“About this bedroom business,” he said gently. “Just let me know when you change your mind.”
Mrs. Ogden was so tight-lipped she hardly said good morning at all, and she mopped out the kitchen sink with irritable efficiency.
Synnamon drank her first cup of coffee in silence, studiously ignoring the housekeeper’s glare. She was still thinking about Conner’s parting shot last night. The sheer gall of the man, to suggest that she would inevitably invite him back into her bed. Hell would freeze before that happened—she’d make good and sure of it.
It didn’t help, however, to know that a good deal of her annoyance rose not from Conner’s confidence but from her own reactions last night. She wouldn’t be nearly as furious if she hadn’t caught herself woolgathering about the way his face would feel, slightly rough and bristly against her heat-sensitized hands…
And she was doing it again right now, she reminded herself in exasperation. What on earth was wrong with her?
Mrs. Ogden cleared her throat. “It’s not my place to ask, of course,” she began.
Synnamon sighed. “Probably not,” she agreed. “But what’s the problem?”
“I was just wondering if you had a nice evening.”
“Just lovely,” Synnamon murmured. Her mind slid once more to Conner. If you keep this up, she told herself, there's no longer going to be any doubt about who won the first round. And it’s not you, my girl.
“And did your guest enjoy the bourguignonne?”
Synnamon snapped back to the present. “Guest?”
“There’s an extra napkin—covered with lipstick, I might add. And you didn’t put the silver back quite the way I always do.”
So that was what was bothering Mrs. Ogden this morning, Synnamon realized, not the bit of additional laundry, but the fact that the romantic little twosome she’d envisioned hadn’t turned out quite as she thought it should
. Well, Synnamon thought philosophically, the sooner the housekeeper realized her employers were not exactly Cinderella and her prince, living happily ever after together, the less aggravation she’d cause herself by trying to treat an ordinary apartment as if it was an enchanted castle!
“Yes, she did enjoy it,” Synnamon said mildly. “There was plenty, and the flavor was outstanding. It would have been such a shame to waste the extra serving.”
Mrs. Ogden grumbled. Synnamon was glad the sudden shrill ring of the telephone kept her from hearing clearly. She ignored the housekeeper and picked up the cordless phone.
“Good morning,” Conner said. “Sorry I couldn’t stay for breakfast with you.”
I'll try to survive the disappointment, Synnamon wanted to say. But sarcasm was guaranteed to get her nowhere. “I hope Mrs. Ogden took good care of you.”
“It wasn’t the same, of course. I waited as long as I could, but you were sound asleep when I looked in.” He’d looked in on her? Make a note to put a lock on the bedroom door, Synnamon ordered herself.
Conner went on, “I was just talking to Hartford, and—”
She exploded. “Dammit, Conner, I told you I don’t want them! If you bring them up here, I—I’ll fire them!”
“Then it’s just as well the subject didn’t come up.”
She was startled and almost ashamed of herself. “Then why did you call him?”
“I didn’t. He phoned me. Actually, he asked for you, but since Annie’s new secretary didn’t know what to do with him, she transferred the call to my office.” His voice dropped into a starkly sober tone. “He asked me to tell you that the Contessa’s ashes have been delivered.”
Synnamon bit her lip, and tears stung her eyes. There were times now, six weeks after the Contessa’s death, that she could forget the sadness for a few minutes and revel in the happy memories. Sometimes she forgot for a little while that the Contessa was gone. She could pretend that the woman was still only a phone call away, enjoying a balmy winter in Phoenix.
Always, however, something happened to remind her that she could never confide in the Contessa again. This particular reminder was the most painful of blows. The only good thing she could think of was that she could escape from Denver—from Conner—for a few days, and have a chance to think. In Phoenix, surrounded by the Contessa’s things and the Contessa’s spirit, perhaps she could get hold of herself once more.
The Perfect Divorce! Page 10
