by E C Sheedy
She was even more pleased when she realized he couldn't call her back because she hadn't left her number. She couldn't believe how rude the man was. Pompous ass.
Halfway back to her desk, the phone rang in her hand. She pushed the talk button and lifted it to her ear.
"How did you know I've got a high-stress job?" he asked without preliminaries.
"How did you get this number?"
"Ever hear of call display?"
Damn. While Rosie inwardly cursed modern technology, he went on. "Look, I'm sorry I was abrupt, but I'm on a tight schedule, and I don't have time for this Gardenia business. I'm damned fed up with being written to by a crazy woman—"
"You're sure it's a woman? Maybe it's a deranged bear with a thorn in its paw looking for a soul mate."
Silence.
"Okay," he said. "Let's say I deserved that. Can we start from the beginning?"
"We can, but my guess is we'll end up at the same place. I tried to tell you, Mr.—what was your name again?" She knew exactly what his name was.
He sighed into the phone. "Summerton."
"As I tried to tell you, Mr. Summerton, I think it's unreasonable of you to assume the letters came from Cyrano. Lots of people write love letters."
"Not like these. They have a... professional touch. And when I caught your ad in the morning paper, I thought—Hell, I don't know what I thought. I told you it's a long shot."
"Well, start shooting in another direction because—"
"Hold on a minute."
She heard paper rustling.
"My darling, I adore you. My dreams are crowded with your image, colored by the jade of your restless, loving eyes? At night, when you come to me, you fill my heart, my mind. You are so real, so powerful I can feel your hard—" He stopped as suddenly as he'd began. "Recognize it?"
Rosie's heart bumped down her ribs like a gutter-born bowling ball, and landed solidly in her stomach. She pulled a coil of hair loose and tugged on it. Her mom always said that she did this when she wanted a direct route to the logical part of her brain. If that were true, she'd picked the wrong strands. This hair seemed to be rooted in the what-do-I-do-now section. No help at all. No doubt about it, he had read her words.
When she didn't answer, he added in painfully patient tones. "Simple question, Miss O'Hanlon. Did you write that, or didn't you?"
"I'm thinking."
The man was a quick study. This time he left her to it.
She pondered her situation. Summerton was receiving unsolicited love letters. Her face warmed. Very explicit love letters. The woman who'd ordered them obviously wasn't engaged to him, as she'd claimed, and because of her lie, Rosaleen Fiona O'Hanlon was in the business of writing junk mail.
"Yes. I wrote it," she grumped, figuring she'd owed him that much.
"Great! Just tell me who you wrote it for; I'll contact her and put an end to it."
"I can't do that."
She heard him inhale his frustration and let it out on a long breath. "Look, I respect your need to protect your customer's confidentiality, but you've got to understand my position here. I didn't ask for these letters, and I want them stopped. Is that clear?"
It was clear the man was a horse's tail-flicking backside. "I can't tell you, because I don't know."
"Excuse me?" He sounded confused.
"She didn't give me her real name."
"I see. Her telephone number, then."
"Sorry. She always called me."
"Address?" He was beginning to sound wistful.
"Nope. She phoned me to order the letters—for her fiancé, she said—and I mailed them to a box number at the main post office."
"What about payment? She must have sent you a check or money order." He was all business again. Rosie imagined him reaching for a pen and paper, a nice clean piece of paper from one of those little plastic boxes sitting just so on a big shiny desk. He probably had one of those magnet things for his paper clips, too. And at least a five-tray file stacker.
"Are you there?" he asked finally.
"She made a one-time cash deposit to my account. It was enough for—" she stopped and, anticipating his reaction, grimaced "—fifty-two letters. That's what she wanted. I've already written them."
"Fifty-two..." he repeated, sounding awed. Silence spilled down the line. "Then I'm stuck," he finally said, his voice low. "I didn't want to involve the police in this, but—"
"Police? Why would you do that?" Rosie instantly imagined a dozen uniformed police clomping around her office, rummaging her files. The picture was irksome.
"Being stalked is not my idea of a good time, Miss O'Hanlon."
"I wrote those letters, remember? And you're hardly being stalked. In danger of being flattered to death, maybe. But stalked? I don't think so."
"Not yet, perhaps. But my guess is this is how it starts, a few letters, then phone calls, and the next thing you know, Gardenia is peering in my bedroom window."
He had a point, but she still didn't like the idea of a herd of detectives stumping through her house. She decided to head them off. "I've got an idea. Interested?" Actually she had a half-baked notion, but it was better than zilch.
"Given that I'm fresh out? Absolutely, but—hold on a minute. I've got a call on the other line."
Click. One minute. Two. He was back.
"Look, I've got to go. I've wasted too much time on this call, as it is. Would you reconsider coming to my office... say, tomorrow around eleven? We can talk about your idea then."
"Sorry, you'll have to come here." She didn't bother to explain about the neck brace and her temporary inability to drive.
"Fine." He spit the word out as if it were a bad nut, but he didn't argue. "Give me directions."
She gave him her address, told him to come at noon, and hung up. Rosie studied the phone a minute before replacing it on charge. She wasn't looking forward to meeting Summerton—but she did have a responsibility to help him sort out his problem. As for Gardenia, the poor fool, she must be on desperation's sharpest edge. Why else would she want to communicate with a corporate type who probably needed a crowbar to get out of his shirts?
* * *
Kent glared at his recradled phone. He didn't have time for this cat-and-mouse game. He glanced at the mountain of work on his desk and let out a harsh breath. He didn't have any time at all.
And he wasn't sure Rosie O' Hanlon was being straight with him, but he planned to find out.
When the unwanted letters first started coming, he'd ignored them, but as the prose grew more personal, and a hell of lot more torrid—thanks to O'Hanlon's over-sexed pen—he'd decided to do something. He hated wasting valuable time on some fixated fruitcake, but the letters had to be checked out. He hadn't bothered to tell this woman that he'd already contacted the police, and all he'd got for the effort was a wink and a nudge. Call them, they'd said, if the problem escalated. No damn help at all.
* * *
The clock struck noon and the doorbell rang. Rosie rolled her eyes. No doubt it was Summerton. He would be right on time. She glanced down at Font, who briefly lifted his great head from the pillow she'd put down for him this morning. The lift said, "Do you want me to do anything? Bark? Growl?" When he received no instructions, his head crashed back onto the pillow.
She ran a finger under the edge of her brace in the gesture of a man loosening a tight collar. Might as well get this over with. She drummed up a facsimile smile, walked to the door, and opened it wide.
The smile started a slow chinward slide. She caught it just before it attained full gape status. For the first time, she was glad of the unsightly contraption wreathing her neck. Without it her jaw would have thudded to her chest bone.
Kent Summerton was major hot. A perfect six feet, thick mahogany-colored hair with honey streaks, bleached by either a kind-hearted sun or a team of professional color consultants—her money was on the sun—and eyes the color of a forest in twilight. A misty, mysterious green, they were darkly l
ashed and directly, disconcertingly focused on her.
As she surfaced from her momentary stupor, she became aware he was speaking to—and scowling at—her.
He didn't appear to have mastered the basic introductory smile. His lips were ruler straight, his jaw square and rigidly composed. Rosie had the impression if he ever smiled fully, he'd black out from the effort. Maybe, but he was definitely top-grade eye candy. Looking at him, she had a sudden wave of empathy for the poor, besotted Gardenia.
"Miss O'Hanlon?" He bent his head, gave her a puzzled look, then slowly raised his silky, dark eyebrows. She couldn't tell what he was questioning: her hearing, her sanity, or her IQ.
She managed to twist up another smile, one wide enough to sell toothpaste, and bright enough to conceal stupefaction. "Uh—huh. That's me. And you're Kent Summerton, of course. Come in, please."
He nodded and stepped in. The subtle scent of his aftershave trailed him. Rosie leaned on the door, closed her eyes, and inhaled—deep. Clean, sharp, and woodsy. Lord, but she loved it when a man smelled as good as he looked. She had a sudden image of him standing in front of a mirror, splashing his jaw with aftershave, grimacing the way men do when the astringent bites their freshly shaven skin.
He took a few steps into the house and turned to face her. Surprisingly, he wasn't wearing either a suit or the button-down collar she'd been expecting. He wore gray slacks and a black golf shirt. Its soft cotton molded over his chest, draped easily over his lean torso, then disappeared under the belted waistband of his pants. Her admiration of his much-too admirable pecs led her gaze to the gold Beachline logo on his shirt, reminding her what he was here for.
Business, Rosie. Think about business. She stepped away from the door, only slightly off balance.
He looked down at her, which wasn't hard. Rosie's sock height was five-three.
"Accident?" He nodded at her brace.
"Service and repair on a couple of discs. It'll be off soon. This way," she said. He followed her lead, stepping casually over the swath of Irish wolfhound forming a roadblock at the entrance to her living room.
"Please sit down." She indicated her recliner. "Can I get you a coffee?"
As he sank into her most comfortable chair, he looked decidedly uncomfortable. "No, thanks, anyway. I don't have much time." He glanced at Font. "Nice dog. I have a female. Same breed."
"You have a dog?" she blurted.
He frowned.
"I guess you don't look like a dog kind of guy," she added awkwardly. She'd have guessed the closest thing to a pet a man like Summerton would have would be an alligator briefcase.
"What kind of 'guy' do I look like?"
Rosie opened her mouth and closed it, thereby giving it a whole new experience. No need to tell him she couldn't see him and a clump of dog hair sharing the same universe.
"Like a busy one, Mr. Summerton. Shall we get on—"
"Kent. And Rosie, if that's okay. Considering the letters you wrote me, I think we can dispense with surnames." He leaned back in the chair and studied her, fixing his gaze on her mouth with enough intensity to smudge her lipstick.
Her heart got all skittery. Untrustworthy thing!
"I didn't write you," she protested. "I mean, uh, not for myself. You know that. And I had no idea the woman was lying to me. No idea she wasn't writing to the man she loved and was planning to marry. Those letters were strictly business."
"You're in a damn strange business, Rosie O'Hanlon." He tilted his head and gave her a thoughtful look. "And, judging from your letters, you've got one hell of an imagination. Or do you draw from first-hand experience?" His voice was low, husky, and his gaze never wavered.
Her protest flopped over on its back and died somewhere deep in her throat as her face warmed to fuchsia. This time it was easy to keep her mouth shut. Temporarily, at least, she was at a loss for words. How could a man look so good, smell so good, and still be obnoxious?
"Do you actually make a living writing love letters?" he asked, his tone implying the activity was a link short of performing live sex for a sailor's stag.
"No. Most of my cash comes from writing smut on the walls of public washrooms." She smiled broadly and took control. "But a girl's gotta eat."
"Okay, okay. Sorry."
He didn't look sorry, but she forgave him because of his aftershave.
"Actually, the letters are a sideline," she conceded. "I'm a technical writer for MooreWrite Inc. And I'm truly sorry about the letters you've been getting... Kent, but I think I know a way to stop them."
"I thought you said she'd bought fifty-two, and that you'd already written and sent them to her?"
"Well, yes, that's true, but—"
"Is that your real hair color?" he asked suddenly.
"Excuse me?" She automatically raised a hand to touch her crowning headache. It had woken up with an attitude this morning. Rosie had accepted long ago that her hair had a life of its own. Somedays, she left it to wander. This was one of those days.
"I asked if that's your natural hair color?"
"You think I'd pay for this?" She wondered if all the man's neurons were firing. And she wasn't too crazy about the way he was studying her, either. Feature by feature, as if he were committing her to memory. His scrutiny made her stomach rickety.
He paused, then dipped his chin. "I like it," he said finally.
She wasn't sure he was saying it to her or himself. She stared at him through her glasses and blinked. Having a conversation with Kent Summerton was like navigating a maze with a bag over your head. Come to think of it, the idea of being stuck in a maze with this man wouldn't be too hard to take.
Back to business, Rosie!
"Do you think we could leave the subject of my hair and talk about your problem now?" She fervently wished he'd quit staring at her. Those green eyes of his were doing the most outrageous things to her nervous system, which was none too reliable in the first place.
He continued to stare until she waved a hand in front of his face. "Mr. Summerton? Kent. Are you okay?"
"Huh?" He gave her a vacant look. "Oh... yeah, the letters."
Rosie tapped her index finger against her chin and waited for him to dredge up what wits he had. How sad. For a guy so good to look at, he had a regrettably short attention span.
He leaned forward then, rested his elbows on his knees, and riveted his smoky jade gaze to hers. "Tell me your plan, Rosie. I can't wait to hear it."
Chapter 3
Kent couldn't take his eyes off her. Rosie O'Hanlon was the glowingest woman he'd ever met. It was as though he were looking into a prism; a brilliant tumble of red hair, bright lively blue eyes framed with auburn lashes, and the whitest, smoothest skin he'd ever seen, spattered with golden freckles. Add to that she had on green jeans and a sweater—he briefly closed his eyes against the glare—in a pink strong enough to cure blindness. Then there were the oversize glasses, sort of a marine blue, that she kept pushing up a nose that looked too delicate to even hold the things. One arm on the glasses had a piece of wire holding it to the frame. He glanced at her feet. Checkered black and white socks—no shoes.
He blinked and forced his gaze back to her face. Was that a mole on her cheek, just below her right eye, or was it an enlarged freckle?
"...not sure it will work, of course. But we can give it a try. What do you think?"
He tore his brain from the mole/freckle question and caught her puzzled gaze. He had no idea what she was saying.
"Could I have a glass of water, please?" If he'd been wearing a tie he'd have loosened it. He wasn't just warm, he was stunned by his over-the-top reaction to a woman who probably kept a stash of Mickey Mouse hats in her closet. Freckles. He'd never cared for freckles. Now he couldn't help wondering how much body surface they actually covered.
Yeah, he was warm all right.
She gave him a thoughtful look, then let out a breath. "Sure. Just a minute." She got up from the sofa and headed through a door he assumed led to the kitchen.<
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Kent leaned back against the big soft chair, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was tense. Overtired. That was it. And too damn long without a woman. He must be, if he was susceptible to Rosie O'Hanlon. A woman in a foolish business who wore checkered socks and broken glasses. What the hell was the matter with him?
She came back and handed him a tall glass of water with ice and a twist of lemon. "Are you all right?" She eyed him warily before going back to perch on the edge of the sofa.
"Fine. Sorry. I'm not usually so scattered."
She stared at him a second, then stood as if she'd made a decision. "I think you need to eat. I'm going to make us lunch," she announced. "You sit there and relax. It won't take me a minute."
"No, thanks. I'd better go." He started to get up. He didn't need lunch, or more time with this woman. He needed to leave. He only wished he'd been listening when she'd told him her idea about stopping the letters. Irritated with himself, he decided he'd call her later, say he wanted to go over it. She'd repeat what she'd told him and that would be that.
"Sit!" she ordered, peering at him through her ridiculous glasses. "It's almost twelve-thirty. You have to eat. I have to eat. We'll eat together."
Font groaned from the doorway and whomped his tail on the hardwood floor. "Yes, and you too, Font," she added.
"Look," Kent protested. "You don't have to do this."
"I know." She gave him a direct look and a sunny smile that hit his chest like a medicine ball. "I want to. And I'm predicting if you don't eat now, you'll skip lunch entirely. Right?"
He nodded. "It's been known to happen."
"I'll bet." She shook her head as if she disapproved, then headed toward the doorway she'd used to get the water. When she was through it, she popped her braced head back out. "You're in luck, Summerton, my cooking is even better than my love letters."
When she was gone, Kent sank back into the chair, his gaze on the empty doorway. A line from one of her letters jumped to mind. "I'm hot, so fiercely hot! And I need you. Deep. In the moist place only you can know. Only you can have. Only you—"
