Finally he drew a deep breath, opened the narrow green-painted door and stepped inside.
Amanda Walker’s business office was decorated in hunter-green and cream with touches of dusty-pink and gold. There were a couple of small consultation booths, a long table flanked by high stools and littered with catalogues, a green couch set against a wall covered with fabric samples, and a large desk.
Amanda herself stood at a filing cabinet with her back to him. She straightened and looked over her shoulder, her eyes widening when she recognized her visitor.
“Hello, Amanda,” Brock said.
She set a couple of file folders on her desk and came slowly toward him, still silent.
Brock grinned privately when he saw her outfit. She wore baggy gray pin-striped trousers and an oversize black blazer with white shirt and striped tie, a regular man’s tie done up in a businesslike knot.
Several irreverent comments sprang to his lips but died instantly when he saw the tension in her lovely face, and the cautious hesitant way she approached him.
And by the time she was near enough to touch, all thoughts of teasing her about the Charlie Chaplin look had vanished from Brock’s mind completely. He gazed at her in silent awe, his mouth dry, his head reeling at her beauty.
“Hello, Brock,” she said finally, her composure apparently restored. “Are you here to work on your image?”
Brock smiled. “I really doubt that I could afford the amount of work we’d have to do to improve my image, Amanda.”
She smiled back, glancing at his clean faded-blue jeans, his white shirt and well-worn brown leather jacket.
“That’s highly possible,” she agreed soberly.
“Actually, Amanda, I just came in here today to apologize.”
“Apologize?”
“It occurs to me that maybe I was a little rude to you the other night at the wedding supper. Maybe I got overly personal when I had no right to, and if you took anything I said the wrong way, I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
She was silent, gazing up at him with thoughtful blue eyes, obviously weighing his words. “I looked up that poem,” she said at last, her cheeks tinted suddenly with pink as delicate as mother-of-pearl.
“Poem?”
“‘Andrea del Sarto,’” Amanda said. “The line from the Browning poem you quoted to me. I looked it up as soon as I got home.”
“And?”
“And you certainly weren’t being very flattering,” she said, her blue eyes dark with emotion as she looked at him. “In fact, you made a pretty rapid and uncharitable assessment of my general character, didn’t you?”
“You’re right, Amanda,” he agreed calmly. “I think I probably did. That’s why I came to apologize. Let’s just forget that whole encounter and try again, okay? Let’s see if we can do it better next time.”
“Next time?”
“Yeah,” Brock said, gazing down at her intently.
“Let me take you out to dinner some evening, and I promise I won’t be rude anymore.”
She hesitated, standing there in her ridiculous outfit that somehow managed to be enormously flattering. The baggy clothing gave her a winsome, fragile appeal that Brock could hardly resist. He wanted to gather her up in his arms, carry her over to the green-striped couch right there beneath the fabric samples and make love to her for about ten hours.
“I really don’t think that would be wise,” she said finally.
Brock stared at her, still caught up in his daydream.
“It wouldn’t?” he asked blankly. “Why not?”
“Because we have nothing in common, Brock. Nothing at all. And I think that trying to spend an evening together would be an uncomfortable experience for both of us.”
Brock gathered his unruly thoughts. “Well, I think you’re wrong,” he said calmly. “I think we have a lot in common.”
Amanda gave him another quick startled glance. “Really? Like what?”
He held up a brown callused hand, ticking items off on his fingers. “Number one, we know a lot of the same people. Two, we’re both in business for ourselves, trying to make a go of it in a tough economy. And three, we read the same poetry.”
She smiled suddenly, a sweet shining smile that transformed her face and rendered him speechless once more.
Brock gazed at her, dry-mouthed and shaky with longing, his heart hammering noisily against his shirtfront.
“All right,” she said, still smiling. “You’ve convinced me, Brock. Is tonight okay for you? Let’s go out to dinner just to show there’s no hard feelings.”
“Great,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “You name the time and place.”
“All right,” Amanda said again, giving him a bemused glance, as if she couldn’t believe she was actually doing this. “Is eight o’clock all right? I have an appointment here at seven, and you could pick me up afterward.”
Brock calculated rapidly. It was midafternoon now. To pick her up at eight, he’d have to drive home more than forty miles, rush through all the evening chores and feed Alvin, then change his clothes and drive forty miles back. And he’d have to remember to…
“Brock?”
“Sure,” he said hastily. “Sure, that’s fine. Eight o’clock is great. I’ll see you then.”
He took her proffered hand and held it for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, drowning helplessly in the blue depths of her eyes. Finally he managed to extricate himself and hurried out, striding through the door and down the walkway, still feeling those beautiful eyes resting on him with a warmth more sweet and compelling than the sunny Texas sky.
AMANDA SKIMMED along the freeway in the waning afternoon light, glancing nervously at her watch. She frowned and switched lanes with automatic skill as she juggled appointments in her head. There was just time to slip by her apartment, change her clothes and touch up her makeup before the last two appointments, but she was cutting it pretty fine.
Still, she wanted to wear something different for the evening ahead.
She frowned again, craning her neck to glance in the rearview mirror. Then she settled back into the driver’s seat and drummed her fingers restlessly on the wheel.
She felt a growing uneasiness about the prospect of a date with Brock Munroe, and a bitter anger with herself for getting involved in something so ridiculous.
What on earth were they going to talk about for three hours? Despite his skillful protestations, what did they really have in common, the two of them? The man was just a crude outdoor type with callused hands and rough speech, a rancher who lived his life by the sun and seasons, and who knew nothing of the social niceties that governed Amanda’s existence.
But, forcing herself to be honest, Amanda was able to admit to herself that his rugged exterior and lack of education weren’t what really bothered her the most about Brock Munroe.
If the man would just acknowledge his own shortcomings and be properly respectful, show that he looked on Amanda with a kind of reverent and awed worship for her grace and sophistication, she could probably forgive him his rough edges. The most irritating thing about Brock Munroe was the fact that, though he made it clear that he found Amanda physically attractive, he seemed to look at her with a kind of mocking judgment. His shrewd humorous appraisal always left her feeling defensive and angry.
These clothes, for instance. Amanda had actually felt quite jaunty and stylish when she dressed this morning. But when Brock Munroe looked at her outfit and she saw the merriment that sparkled in his dark eyes, she felt gauche and ridiculous, like a schoolgirl trying hard to be chic.
Still confronting her feelings with the honesty that was part of her makeup, Amanda found that she was disappointed in herself for her reaction to Brock Munroe.
If she didn’t have the confidence to defend herself and her life-style against this man’s mockery, then why was she living this way? And if she did believe in herself, then wasn’t it cowardly to avoid the man just because he mad
e her question her choices? Amanda Walker had no stomach for cowards.
So she’d accepted his invitation. And now what was she doing? Running home to change her outfit because she’d caught him looking amused at the clothes she wore.
Amanda shook her head as she turned off the highway. She drove along the city streets to her apartment, pulled into her parking spot and hurried across the lobby to the bank of elevators.
Just one evening, she thought. She’d give him this one evening, dazzle him with her charm and graceful sophistication, and leave the poor man flattened and painfully aware that a woman like Amanda Walker was completely out of his league.
Then she’d never have to see him again.
But even as she framed this thought, she had a vivid memory of the man’s muscular body filling her little office, his handsome face and appealing disheveled hair, his brilliant dark eyes. She saw his finely molded brown hands, and shivered at the thought of those hands touching her, stroking her hair and caressing her face….
“Oh, God,” Amanda muttered aloud, gazing with unseeing eyes at the brass panel of elevator buttons. “What a fool I am. What an absolute certifiable idiot.”
One of her neighbors, a tall military-looking gentleman with silver hair and mustache, glanced up in surprise when he heard her voice, then moved beside her into the elevator when the door opened. He stood calmly in the corner, holding a large potted plant while Amanda punched the button for their floor.
“Talking to yourself, Amanda?” he inquired politely. “Not a good sign, I’m afraid.”
Amanda smiled. “Sorry, Mr. Smithers. I’ve been a little preoccupied these days. There’s a lot of pressure out there, you know.”
Robert Smithers shook his head sadly. “What a shame. Look at you. Young and lovely, a dear sweet girl with a good education and the world at your feet, and what do you do? You burden yourself with pressure. You should be dancing till dawn every night, drinking champagne from your slippers and having a wonderful life.”
Amanda gave her elderly neighbor a fond smile. “I’m afraid those days are gone forever, Mr. Smithers. But it does sound lovely.”
They got off the elevator together and parted at Amanda’s door. She watched him proceed down the hall, shoulders erect, then she let herself into her foyer and shrugged off her topcoat.
The message light was blinking frantically on her machine. Amanda pressed the button and moved into the bedroom, stripping clothes off as she went, leaving the door open so she could hear the messages.
The bank manager wanted to see her again, but it didn’t sound ominous, just some papers she’d forgotten to sign when she refinanced her business loan. A parcel was waiting for her at the post office, and another at the bus depot. Her mother wanted her to call Dallas, and Beverly reminded her that she, Beverly, was going to Houston for a few days with Connie, a mutual friend, to do some Christmas shopping and possibly meet Jeff on the weekend.
“Christmas shopping!” Amanda scoffed aloud, spraying her neck and breasts with cologne. “If Jeff’s in Houston, I really doubt that Christmas shopping is Beverly’s main concern. I think…”
“Hi, Angel,” a familiar voice said, shocking her into silence.
Amanda stood still for a moment, one hand covering her mouth, blue eyes wide. Then she dropped her blouse on the floor and came slowly out into the hallway, staring at the machine.
“It’s Thursday afternoon, about two o’clock,” Edward went on, his flat New England vowels very pronounced, as they always were in a recording.
“Edward,” Amanda whispered.
“I’m in New York, at my office, and I assume you’re out getting rich and famous,” he went on.
“Just wanted to let you know that I’ll be in Austin tomorrow. My plane lands at four o’clock and I expect you to be at the airport showing some enthusiasm for my arrival.”
“Four o’clock,” Amanda repeated, feeling dazed, trying frantically to think through her Friday schedule of appointments.
“I also wanted to warn you,” Edward went on calmly, “that I don’t intend to leave Austin without you, Angel. You’ve proved your point, and I give you full marks for your intelligence and enterprise. But I need you here to take over as my head buyer. And I need you for other reasons, too,” he added, his voice dropping intimately, taking on a sudden husky inflection that made Amanda shiver.
Oh, God, she thought. Edward…
“So I’ll look forward to seeing you, darling,” he concluded briskly, all the disturbing tenderness vanishing from his voice. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
The machine beeped and whirred, and went silent. Amanda stared at the instrument as it rewound, her mind whirling rapidly.
Edward was coming to Austin. Tomorrow at this time he’d be here, back in her life, probably right here in her apartment.
Feeling dazed, Amanda stood in the hallway and looked around her.
At least, she thought with a brief smile, Edward was going to like her apartment. He’d definitely approve of this cool decor, the urban minimalist look that Amanda had first learned from him.
“Forget cozy, Angel,” Edward had told her long ago. “We don’t strive for a cozy look. We strive for a cool look. We don’t want our visitors to feel comfy and at home. We want them to feel a little chilled, and ever so slightly intimidated by our good taste.”
“Why?” Amanda had asked, back in those bouncy innocent days when she still occasionally questioned Edward’s pronouncements.
“Because,” he said, giving her one of his wintry smiles, “that’s how we retain the upper hand, my darling. And retaining the upper hand is vital in all relationships. You’ll learn that, you sweet child, as you get older and more cynical.”
Edward had certainly retained the upper hand in their relationship. In fact, it wasn’t until Amanda had torn herself away from him and begun struggling to make a life of her own that she realized how much influence he’d had over her. The way she dressed, the shows she went to, the furniture she chose, even the friends she associated with, were all selected on the basis of what Edward might think.
And even now, though he was far away in New York, it seemed that his dry wit and impeccable taste still governed most of her decisions.
Amanda wandered through the living room with its pearl-gray carpet and sparse furnishings of charcoal leather and gleaming stainless steel.
“Not cozy, Edward,” she murmured aloud, fingering the black metal stem of a tall floor lamp with a big naked bulb. “Definitely not cozy.”
She switched on the lamp and stood gazing at it, picturing Edward, recalling his fine patrician features, his compact graceful body and elegantly barbered hair.
There’d been a time when just the thought of that handsome aquiline profile could send shivers all through her body, make her feel weak and shaky with desire. Edward Price had always seemed so much older and wiser, so glamorously suave and sophisticated, so much the essence of everything Amanda longed to be.
When he first noticed her, began asking her out, took her to bed and finally invited her to move in with him, Amanda had been utterly swept off her feet. Years later, she’d still remained almost completely captive in the man’s spell, his graceful charm and smiling hard-edged power.
But gradually she’d begun to resist that power, to fight the sense of being swallowed up and destroyed by Edward. Finally, in her mid-twenties, Amanda began to fight him as well, making a tentative effort to assert herself and develop her own personality, to create a tiny private world for herself that was separate from Edward’s influence.
The ultimate result of that struggle had been the move to Austin. But if she’d hoped for resistance and pleading from Edward Price, Amanda had certainly been disappointed. He had let her go without a fight, because Edward didn’t believe in fighting.
“Conflict is so destructive,” he always said. “It puts ugly lines on your face, Angel. Never fight if you can walk away.”
That was Edward’s style.
He always just walked away. Graceful and unsullied by messy arguments, he moved serenely forth to conquer new fields.
Yet now, incredibly, it seemed that he wanted her back. Amanda crossed the room, still in her lacy bra and panties. She curled up in the cold depths of a gray leather chair and shivered at the touch of the bare metal arms against her flesh.
She’d never expected Edward Price to invite her back into his life. In fact, he’d told her as much.
“I don’t beg, Angel, and I don’t follow. If you want to come back, let me know. Otherwise, have a nice life, my sweet girl.”
And now he was coming to see her. He’d even broken down sufficiently to admit that he needed her, both in his business and in his bed.
Amanda shivered again, wishing there were a soft cushion somewhere in the room that she could hug for comfort. But the whole apartment was spare and elegant, devoid of any superfluous touches like cushions and knitted afghans that could detract from the classic beauty of chrome and leather.
“Cozy might be nice, actually,” she muttered aloud, her blue eyes rebellious. “In fact, I could definitely stand a little touch of cozy, right at this minute.”
Suddenly she remembered her dinner date. Edward’s message had driven Brock Munroe completely from her mind, but now he was back, his tanned face hovering at the edge of her consciousness, regarding her with a teasing sardonic grin.
Amanda flushed with irritation and got up quickly, wondering if she could phone him and cancel their evening. Probably not, she decided. Even if she caught him at home, he’d likely be outside somewhere on his ranch, doing whatever cowboys did in the late afternoon.
Besides, when she thought about cancelling the dinner date she felt a puzzling stab of disappointment that surprised her. Surely she wasn’t looking forward to having dinner with that man? Especially when the love of her life was due to arrive within twenty-four hours?
New Way to Fly Page 8
