by E C Sheedy
"Do your worst. You'll find what you need down the hall off the guest bedroom."
The shower made him feel human. An idiot human, maybe, but it was an improvement.
Back in the kitchen, he ambled to the fridge in stockinged feet and poured himself the juice she'd offered. He leaned against the fridge, sipping and enjoying the sight of Rosie O'Hanlon in the morning. Nice. Very nice.
"I owe you an apology," he said.
She smiled at that, and her expression turned impish. "For what? Sleeping on my sofa or nodding off before I finished my first complete sentence. That was a first. Most men hang in there for at least a paragraph or two."
He grimaced at her teasing words, then drained the last of his orange juice. "Both."
"That's okay. Sit down, hotshot."
He watched her take a warmed plate from the oven, fill it with eggs, bacon, and fried tomato, then put it on a place mat at the same seat he'd used last night.
She gave him a stern look. "Eat—and then run." She took off the mitts and hung them on a hook by the stove. "I've got to get myself dressed for the corporate jungle. My ride's due in about a half an hour." She turned to face him. "If you need anything else, you're on your own. Okay?"
"Okay." He gestured toward the table. "This is nice, Rosie. You didn't have—"
"—to do it. I know."
Their gazes met and locked. Kent saw a faint blush color her cheeks. She looked pensive, as if unsure of her next move—or his. Kent wasn't.
He wanted the food, but he wanted something else a hell of a lot more. Something equally as basic. He walked toward her. He needed to touch her. To taste her. Right here. Now.
She stood, a flame-haired statue, still and waiting. At least he hoped she was.
"Rosie?" He touched her cheek with his knuckles, closed his eyes to imprint the softness of skin to memory. He heard her intake of breath. "Rosie," he said again, brushing his mouth over hers.
He wanted to slide his hand to the back of her neck, pull her close, but the brace was a barrier, so he took her face in his palms and slipped his fingers into her hair at her temples. Tendrils wrapped around his fingers like breeze-blown smoke.
He pulled back and looked down at her. "I have to kiss you. You know that." His voice came from a closed throat and sounded strangely uneven.
She gulped and tightened her lips, but she didn't move back. Not an inch. Thank God. Then she gave the barest of nods, her chin pressing into the brace. Her expression was wary—as if she were about to receive her first dose of an unknown medicine. Her hands fisted at her sides.
He smiled, sensing she hoped it would taste bad. That he would taste bad.
And he kissed her, determined to prove her wrong.
He took her mouth gently, willing her lips to ease and welcome his. He tamped his impatience, the knot of need forming in his gut. He slipped his fingers deeper into her hair, anchoring her head to better explore and savor. His eyes closed, shutting out the cheery kitchen, the breakfast on the table. Shutting out everything but Rosie and the sweetness of her mouth. His breathing thickened, and the knot pulled painfully. He felt her stiffen and pull back, and a stab of disappointment jolted him.
He was steeling himself to release her when he heard a low moan, and felt her breath rush across his cheek.
"Oh, Kent, this is—" She didn't finish. Instead, she wrapped her arms tight around him, pressed her body to his, and parted her lips.
His body hardened to aching, and he groaned into her mouth, pulling her closer. She came, rested flush against him until he could feel the heat of her. His tongue tested the warmth in her mouth, silk and moist. Then her hands moved over his buttocks.
His grip tightened—everything tightened—and he shifted his mouth over hers and tugged and nibbled at her lower lip, probed deeper, then deeper yet. He wanted more.
"Ouch!"
The word didn't fit. It took a second for it to register.
Her neck. Damn it, he'd hurt her!
He released her abruptly, but held her upper arms while he tried to even out his breathing. She eased back slowly, grimacing.
"I hurt you." He cursed. He was an idiot. Godzilla in heat. What in hell made men so damn clumsy, anyway? But he knew, in this case, it was Rosie. If he'd hurt her, he swore he'd never try anything like this again—until he had a permission slip from her doctor.
"No," she said, but her hand flew to the back of the brace and her face was all scrunched and rigid.
"Damn it, Red, I did hurt you. Get your coat. I'm taking you to your doctor."
"I'm fine," she repeated, her voice stronger now. "Just snarled up. Lend me a hand, would you? And get my hair out from under this conning tower I've got around my neck." She turned her back on him and lifted her hair from her nape.
As he carefully untangled her hair, he said, "You're absolutely certain I didn't hurt you?"
"Positive. You'd need wire cutters and a blow torch to get to me through this." She faced him then, her hair frazzled, her face delectably pink.
"Thank God." He touched her cheek, but she stepped away, her expression wary again.
"I knew you were trouble, you know. The minute I caught that scent you wear."
"I don't wear scent." He reached for her again, and she put a chair between them. "We shouldn't have started something neither of us can finish," she said, lifting her gaze to his, her expression stern as a preacher's.
He grinned. "Not true. I'm a great finisher."
"Then take up woodworking." She stepped briskly from behind the chair and headed for the door. "I'm going to get ready for work." She wobbled and bumped a shoulder against the doorjamb, but she didn't look back.
Kent watched her disappear through the kitchen doorway, disappointed she wasn't going to eat with him, but not surprised. Probably just as well, because he needed to cool down. And unless he was miles off base, so did she. He tucked into the breakfast she'd fixed him. Thank God he hadn't hurt her, because it would have been hell to keep that promise. He liked Rosie O'Hanlon. He liked her a lot.
It occurred to him that in less than forty-eight hours he'd eaten here three times. That put him dangerously close to freeloader status. Strange, too, that he was more rested after sleeping on Rosie's couch than he was after a night in his king-sized bed.
He looked at his watch. Over an hour late. He picked up his pace. Marlene probably had an APB out on him by now.
He was putting his dishes in the dishwasher when Rosie rushed back to the kitchen. If his kiss had made an impression, she gave no sign of it—other than to keep a good ten feet between them.
"Hennessy's outside," she announced. "Gotta go. Can you see yourself out? Do I look okay? There are no labels sticking out or anything is there?"
Gone were the outrageous socks and green pants. In their place were a long, loose skirt and an oversized white shirt tied at the waist. She'd pulled her hair into a topknot resembling a badly engineered waterfall and used a blue scarf to camouflage part of her neck brace. He lowered his gaze. And she was wearing shoes, sneakers with scorching yellow laces—and red toe caps. He shook his head.
"You look great. Corporate America will never be the same."
"Thanks. You can see yourself out, can't you?"
He nodded, and she rushed for the door.
"Oh, I almost forgot." She turned back. "Would you write down your email address and leave it on the kitchen table?"
"My email address?"
"I'm going to email you my idea about Gardenia's letters. Then, between naps and other distractions, you can read it and let me know what you think by hitting reply. Good idea?"
Kent thought it was a lousy idea, but neither he nor she had time to argue.
Chapter 4
Her email came at five o'clock that afternoon.
Kent:
Here's the plan. I still have Gardenia's post office box number. While there is no guarantee she's still using it, I suggest I send a letter there, telling her you've traced her to C
yrano and want the letters to stop immediately. I'll offer to return her money if she complies—and promise not to tear her hair out for lying to me (about you being her fiancé) in the first place. (That last bit is personal!) So, what do you think?
My inbox awaits your reply.
Rosie O'Hanlon
Kent quickly scribbled a reply.
Rosie:
Sounds good. Go for it. I'll let you know if it works. In the meantime, I owe you three—count 'em—
three meals. If Brace can go to business meetings, surely he can go out to dinner. Vin Santo's at seven sound okay?
Kent
P.S. I got another letter today. This makes number twelve and the second one this week. Gardenia, it seems, has decided to turn up the heat. You do have a way with words, O'Hanlon. I liked the bit about "lying naked in a storm of moonlight and music." Can I ask if this is something you've personally experienced?
Rosie replied immediately. There was no reference to the content of her letters—or Kent's question.
Kent:
Brace and I thank you for the invitation, but Vin Santo's is out. I'll write Gardenia today. Let me know if the letters stop. If they don't, I'll go to plan B (if I can come up with one!)and email it to you.
Rosie.
Kent read the terse e-note, then continued to glare at it. So she wouldn't have dinner with him. Probably just as well. Rosie O'Hanlon wasn't his type anyway—all bright color and chaos. He could live without it.
Without her.
He walked to the window of his office, propped a shoulder against the frame, and looked out over the emerald green of the golf course. The dinner invitation was a courtesy. Nothing more. No need to see her again. Screw the eye contact—wireless would do. Much more efficient. He should be grateful O'Hanlon felt the same way. He scowled. So, why wasn't he? What he felt was rejected. And damn it, it hurt.
He heard a rap on his opened door.
"Kent, you busy?" Marlene asked. "Or are you still looking for Con?" She used her head to gesture toward the golf course view he'd been staring at, but not seeing, for the last few minutes. "If you are, you should know he just left for Hawaii."
"Hawaii? What's he doing in Hawaii?"
"I haven't a clue."
There was the usual stab of frustration at Con's growing lack of responsibility, but this time no anger. Just weary acceptance. He'd managed the workload so far. He'd just carry on. What tattered remains of a personal life he'd once enjoyed had long since disintegrated. In that department he had nothing more to lose.
A surge of regret swept through him, leaving in its wake a kaleidoscope image of red hair and a chorus line of wide smiles wearing Technicolor socks. Rosie was in there somewhere.
"Oh, and your mother called." Marlene glanced at the message in her hand. "She said to remind you it's your turn and to call if you need her help for anything."
The family barbecue. He'd almost forgotten. Of course there wasn't a chance in hell his mother would. It was a yearly event, and you missed it on risk of excommunication as he'd discovered last year. He'd had to leave on a business trip—and he was still hearing about it. No way out this year, because it was his year to host. Just what he needed. An AWOL partner, a madcap woman who'd managed to etch herself into his mind—and the damn barbecue.
"There's more." Marlene said.
"I'm sure there is." Kent sat in his chair and motioned Marlene to the one beside his desk.
"You remember that computerized tee-off system I told you about? The one for the pro shop? Con bought it."
Kent took a calming breath. "And?"
"And it's incomprehensible. From the write-up and initial spec sheets, the system actually looks okay. But as you know, I wasn't too keen about it in the first place and now I know why."
"So, what's the problem?"
"The documentation. It might as well be written in ancient Aramaic. And because the program's intended to book tee times from the pro shop, the hotel's front desk—and interactively from the rooms—the how-to aspect is critical. Without it we'll have a total screw up on our hands." She paused. "And hell hath no fury like a golfer without his appointed tee time."
Kent's spine wasn't the only thing straightening as Marlene continued to speak. So were his thoughts. For the first time in a long while, Con York had done something right. Kent tilted back in his swivel chair, looked at the ceiling, and smiled.
"You're taking this well." Marlene said. "I'd have thought you'd be walking on the ceiling rather than smiling at it."
"It happens I have a solution to this problem." He stood. "Leave it to me."
She gave him a questioning glance, shrugged, and stood, then put a sheaf of papers on his desk. "Given that you're in a problem-solving mood, take a look at these. The new wing is now officially over budget and behind schedule. Packard wants to see you tomorrow. To explain things, he says." Packard was the contractor.
Kent picked up the papers. His gut tensed. Packard was a problem he didn't need. Damn shifty-eyed—
"What shall I tell him?" Marlene asked.
"Tell him I can't wait to hear his latest excuse," he said wryly. He pushed a couple of keys on his scheduler. "Tell him six-thirty tomorrow morning."
"Will do." She hesitated at the door. "I'm having an early dinner in the dining room. Join me?"
"Not tonight. Thanks. I'll have Mae bring something to my office." He lifted the sheaf of papers she'd given him and dropped them again. "Looks like I'll be here awhile."
Midnight, at least, he figured. By morning he'd have memorized every number in the file.
"See you tomorrow then."
When she'd left, Kent shoved the papers aside. For the moment, his priority was finding the telephone number for MooreWrite Technical Writers, Inc.
* * *
Rosie sealed the letter to Gardenia and put it with the one to her mother, one she'd finally finished writing after a week of stops and starts. Of course, she could email or phone her, and mostly did, but she knew her mother enjoyed receiving her breezy handwritten letters as much as she enjoyed writing them. She always mailed them to the hotel, and Rosie could see her mother's smile when this one arrived on her desk.
Today her envelope of choice was a fluorescent sunrise yellow with a polka dot rainbow. Just the thing to brighten a busy executive's day. Rosie knew it would be the first piece of mail she'd open. In contrast, Gardenia's letter was in a plain white number ten. Very businesslike. She hoped, for Kent's sake, her plan would work.
She gave the letters a final straightening and went to the window. The day was light gray, the sun a pale glow behind the curtain of cloud. Rosie was certain the sun would take center stage by noon. Her gaze fixed on the dimly lit cloud.
You should have gone to dinner with him.
The thought bounced into her head and thudded to a hard stop. She couldn't budge it. While her Lady Brain, rational as always, told her Kent Summerton was a suit and most definitely not the man of her dreams—or her plans—Hormone, the unconscionable tart, put up an argument from below. What suit? she asked. The man didn't even wear a suit. Maybe he didn't wear it on the outside, Lady Brain said knowingly, but inside? A three-piecer, including club tie and wing tips.
Mom would love him. She could see them now, discussing the economy, management theories, return on investment, marketing strategies and—God forbid—the current price of real estate. She shuddered and shoved the ugly image aside. Brain was absolutely right. Going to dinner with Kent would be a waste of her time. And at twenty-eight, considering her agenda, she couldn't afford to waste a minute on the wrong guy.
"Thank you, Lady Brain," she said aloud, then headed to the door to let Font in before settling down to work. Nothing like a blinking cursor to nail down a wandering mind.
* * *
The next morning at breakfast her phone rang.
"Rosie, it's me." The me was Hennessy.
"Hey. What's happening?" She shoved aside the crossword she was working on and s
ipped some coffee.
"At the meeting you said you'd take on an extra project, if one came along."
"I did. I live for my work, Hennessy."
"Don't we all," he said. "Anyway, I've got one for you. Actually, the guy requested you specifically."
Rosie picked up a pen and idly tapped it on the newspaper. "Nice to be recognized," she said. "Who is it?"
"Beachline Resort. That posh place where I took you to lunch when you first signed on with us? Remember?"
Rosie dropped the pen and leaned back in her chair. "I remember. Let me guess. The guy who called was Kent Summerton, right?"
"Right. How'd you know that?"
Okay, so she was pleased. A gut female reaction. Nothing more. "Never mind. But satisfy my curiosity, Hennessy. What on earth would a resort like that need a tech writer for?" Be interesting to see just how inventive the man was.
"The usual. They bought a computer application with lousy documentation, and they want it rewritten so their people can work with it. Interested?"
"Not. Tell Mr. Summerton he'll have to get someone else. I've got a full schedule as it is." Thank you again, Lady Brain, Rosie said silently. Nice to know you're there when I need you.
"Am I missing something here? Did you, or did you not, want extra work?"
"I did. But a piece of that government stuff will do fine."
"No can do."
"What? Why?"
"Assigned. Besides, they cut back the contract by about forty percent."
"Damn!"
"That's what I said. So back to this Beachline thing. You want it?"
"No."
"They'll pay a premium. Said they want it done pronto."
A vision of her bank statement danced in her head. She sighed. "Okay, okay. I'm had."
"Want the telephone number?"
"No. I've got it. Thanks, Hennessy."
"Thank you, Rosie girl. The company can use the revenue. See ya."
Rosie clicked off then clicked on. She ignored it, but something a lot like anticipation wriggled in her chest.
