by E C Sheedy
"Mr. Summerton, please."
She expected another melody from the Blue Danube, but Kent came on the line immediately.
"Summerton," he said, sounding busy and preoccupied. Rosie sighed again, curled her fingers tighter over the phone. Even his voice affected her. Something was making her elbows sweat. Well, sweat or no sweat, she told herself firmly she would do this job and not make a damn fool out of herself while she was at it.
"Hello, I—"
"—Rosie?"
"Brace and all. Seems like you just hired yourself a technical writer, Summerton."
"And from what that Hennessy guy said, a damned good one. When can we meet?"
She heard him smile. She swore she did. "You'll have to come here."
"I'm getting used to that."
"Yes, well, don't get too used to it. This is a project, a business project, nothing more."
"Of course. Did I say anything to make you think otherwise?" he asked, his tone cool and satiny.
"No, I guess not," she said, wishing he was less smooth and she more sharp.
Then again, she was no doubt reading more into this than she should. All he'd really done was ask her out for dinner—a simple courtesy. There was the KISS, of course. But one searing kiss did not a relationship make. Besides, guys were preprogrammed to kiss any female within reach who fell short of gargoyle status. And they'd been known to drop the gargoyle standard in a pinch. He wanted to hire her. Not unusual. She was a technical writer, after all. What could be more natural?
But her instincts were sniffing the breeze. Okay, so she was up to her sock tops in attraction to this man. It didn't mean a thing. He'd run a mile if he knew what was on her agenda.
Maybe you should tell him.
Lady Brain was a real pain in the butt at times. But in this instance, she was right. It was time to tell Summerton her plan and exactly how he did not fit into it. But to do it, she needed to see the green of his eyes.
At least that's what Lady Brain said. Or was it that other, less reliable part of her anatomy?
"Then if you're satisfied I have no ulterior motive," he went on. "When shall I drop off this heap of manual I have sitting on my desk."
"You can come by tonight about seven-thirty—if that's okay with your scheduler."
"It's okay. See you then." A pause. "I'm looking forward to working with you, Rosie. And believe it or not, I really do need your expertise on this."
"You'll get it."
"Good." He paused, seeming reluctant to break off. "See you tonight, then." His tone would have fluffed silk.
"Tonight," Rosie confirmed, wishing he didn't have a voice that curled through the line and cut off her breathing, wishing her own voice didn't have whispers at its edge.
Neither said good-bye. Both disconnected.
Rosie glared down at Font, who had come in to warm her toes.
"I will not primp or preen. Do you hear me? And I will not have butterflies in my tummy like a star-struck groupie. And I will not make dinner for the man," she vowed, poking him with her foot. "This is absolutely, positively not a date. Is that clear?"
Font opened one bleary eye and winked it before closing it again.
* * *
She made salad and roast beef steeped in garlic, surrounded it with perfect new potatoes.
She baked a cheesecake.
She vacuumed.
She fussed with her hair.
She peeled her face.
She hated herself.
Kent arrived ten minutes early with a hundred-pound manual and a bottle of fine French wine.
She glared at him, leaving him to stand in the doorway. "What's that for?" she asked, looking at the wine bottle as if it were a vibrator and she a nun.
He studied her a moment. "Target practice?" he said, something close to a smile lurking about his mouth.
"That's good, Summerton. That's very good." She let out a breath. She was being a jerk and knew it. There was definitely no cause to be rude. Wine was a perfectly acceptable thing to bring to dinner. But then again, who'd said anything about dinner?
Still standing in the doorway, he lifted his nose and sniffed appreciatively. "Smells good. Expecting anyone special?" His gaze was steady.
"Just trying to save a life."
His expression turned quizzical.
"Yours, Summerton. Now that you're a paying customer, it's in my interest to keep you healthy."
He looked into her eyes and smiled. "I'm healthy, Rosie, very healthy." The fullness of his smile, its intimacy, made her breath gather in her throat. With no oxygen reaching Lady Brain, she made a quick exit. As for Hormone, the trollop, that smile had her putting on lipstick and a black teddy.
Rosie O'Hanlon finally admitted she was on a slippery slope with no handrails. Kent Summerton might not be the man of her plans, but he came frighteningly close to being the man of her dreams.
"So, do I come in or are you giving me take-out?"
She realized then, that he was still standing in the open doorway. She waved him in, took the manual from him, and directed him to the living room. "Make yourself comfortable." She gave him a stern look. "But not too comfortable. No sleeping until you're safe in your own bed."
He raised his right hand, nodded solemnly.
"Sit down, I'll just be a minute."
She closed the front door after him and turned to watch as he took a seat on the sofa, resting an ankle on his opposite knee in that peculiarly male way. There was a rightness to him being in her house, sitting on her sofa that baffled her. He wasn't right at all.
When he looked up and caught her watching him, she hustled herself into the kitchen. Once there, Lady Brain took over, reminding her of her plan to lay some straight talk on Mr. Button-Down. After that, she expected the last she'd see of Kent Summerton would be the blur of tail lights and a blast of exhaust fumes. But it could wait until after dinner.
* * *
"Did you get a letter today?" Rosie asked. They'd finished eating and were back in the living room. She in the recliner, Kent back on the sofa. Both were sipping wine. They'd discussed the documentation project through dinner. That topic exhausted, Gardenia was obviously next up.
"Not today. But I'm due for one. Our Gardenia is reliable to a fault. Did you mail your letter?"
"Last night. If she gets it—and if she pays any attention to it—the letters should stop by the end of next week." She ran her index finger inside and along the top of the brace where it chafed her neck.
"Uncomfortable?" Kent asked.
"A nuisance more than anything. I can't wait to get rid of the darn thing. There are times I think an out-of-whack disc would be easier to deal with."
"I doubt it." He shifted and leaned his head against the sofa back, studying her through narrowed lids. "When it comes off, are you going to be a hundred percent?"
"So the doctor man says."
"I'm glad."
The way he said "I'm glad" made it sound as if he had a vested interest in her recovery. She reminded herself he didn't. "Let's talk about Gardenia. She's much more interesting than my back."
He lifted a dark brow and grinned. "Oh, I don't know. I think your back is fascinating."
Okay, that was definitely seductive. She eyed him, knowing she looked leery and suspicious. "What exactly do you want from me, Summerton?"
"Want?" He drank some wine.
"Do you want to go to bed with me? Is that it?"
He didn't move a muscle, just continued to gaze at her from under those enviable long lashes of his. "You really cut to the chase, don't you?"
"I'm not going to, you know," she stated firmly. "You should know that up front. I'll help you with the Gardenia business. I'll do the project for Beachline, but the bed bit is definitely out."
"Why?"
"Why?" she repeated, taken aback by his calm question.
"That's what I said."
"How about because I don't want to?"
He appeared to consider that.
"I don't think so."
"No one can say you lack in the self-esteem department."
"No. They can't." He waited, his gaze unnervingly direct. "So, why won't you go to bed with me?"
Okay, she thought, here goes. "Because the next man I sleep with will be either my husband or my husband-to-be."
"I see. No more test flights, is that it?"
"You got it."
"Too bad. I'm a hell of a pilot."
Rosie stifled a grin. That was her problem. She was always too lighthearted, too willing to laugh. But not about this new plan of hers. She had an agenda, and she intended to stick to it.
"There's more to life than flying," she said, determinedly sober.
"Like what?"
"Kids. Lots of kids." She waved a hand to gesture around the big old house. "I want to fill this place with children, and I want a husband who wants that, too."
"Kids," he repeated vacantly, as if the concept of procreation was entirely new.
"No, not just kids. Lots and lots of kids." She was on a roll.
"Define 'lots.' "
"Ten. Preferably a dozen," she said, using the double digits for effect. It worked.
Rosie swore he turned pale. Her heart twisted painfully. She had to admit she was disappointed. Some addled part of her had hoped he'd say, great, let's get started. Instead, he looked dazed.
"That's not a family, O'Hanlon, that's a regiment—and perpetual pregnancy. You're kidding, right?"
"Wrong. I want those kids, every single one of them."
He took a deep breath and shook his head. "I don't believe it." She had the feeling he was talking to himself.
She soldiered on. "The point is I intend to be a fulltime wife and mother. And I want a man who wants me to be that and is willing to support it with his heart, his head, his time, and his wallet."
"Don't forget sperm count."
She lifted her chin. "That, too."
He almost smiled, then turned serious. "So, you don't want to work after you get married?"
"You don't think raising kids—especially today—is work?"
"You know what I mean. Most women today want a satisfying professional life."
"Exactly. And what I want is to raise my kids with all the dedication and professionalism I can muster. Name one thing more satisfying than that."
"Kids are expensive. Today's economics—"
"Hah! I knew it. Money. Trust someone who doesn't like kids to talk about how much they cost."
"Did I say I didn't like kids?"
"You didn't have to."
He let out a long breath. "I was just trying to make the point that there's a monetary component to every decision we make, like it or not."
She snorted in a most inelegant way. Her world was already crammed with people who reduced everything to economics. She didn't need another one.
He leaned forward, his look speculative. "Tell me something, O'Hanlon, is there a practical bone in your body?"
She grinned, giving him a proud look. "Not one."
He frowned as if her answer was exactly what he expected, then asked, "Why are you telling me this?"
"I'd think it was obvious."
He smiled thinly and nodded. "You've decided my sperm count isn't up to the job?"
"I'm sure your, uh, count is perfectly adequate for—let me guess—one child. Later, of course, when it's convenient and there's enough saved for the lonely little soul's college fund?"
Her heart held its place while she waited for his denial. It didn't come.
"Any idea where you're going to find this supportive father figure?" he finally asked.
"Not a clue. But I know he's out there. And as soon a this—" she tapped her neck brace "—is off, I'm setting out to find him."
He gave her a speculative look. "How much longer do you have to wear the brace?"
"Less than three weeks."
Kent's frown deepened to a scowl. Rosie had no idea what he was thinking.
Chapter 5
Monday morning, Rosie woke up with the cold of the century. She was convinced that sometime during the night she'd had a brain transplant, and the new one didn't fit. She sneezed, blew, and coughed her way to the bathroom. She wouldn't feel so bad had she'd managed to get some sleep. But sleep was in short supply ever since Kent left her house last Friday. He'd nearly sucked her and Font up his exhaust in his haste to get out of her driveway. The irritating part was he hadn't left her thoughts. Hormone, the sleazy harlot, woke her at all hours. Summerton might as well have played pilot after all. At least then she'd have a concrete reason to feel like an overused sponge.
In the kitchen she downed a tall glass of orange juice, then, between nose blowings, made herself tea and toasted a crumpet she couldn't eat. She sat at the table and tried to make sense of the morning crossword. No go. She shoved it aside and carried her mug of tea into her office. The Beachline manual stared at her from beside her computer. Darn thing was the size of a New York phone book. She sighed. It was after nine o'clock, and Jonesy was due at ten. She should get started.
Font ambled in and leaned into her side.
Together they blearily eyed the lump of manual. "We're gobing for a balk, Font. A log balk."
Font gave her a you-don't-have-to-ask-me-twice look and switched to puppy mode, everything twitching at once. With a better than hundred-pound dog, this wasn't cute. Rosie picked up her pace, and in seconds they were on the porch, just in time to see Kent's Audi pull up to the lower step.
Just what she needed—a heart rush to go with her head cold.
What was he doing here? He'd hardly said a word after her announcement about the family she planned to have someday. He'd turned quite surly in fact. She'd figured from there on their relationship would go completely electronic. But here he was, opening his car door in her driveway.
She watched him through a gray mist, stirred by an undeniable longing. Why couldn't he have been the one? But he wasn't. She knew that the moment he free-associated the word "kids" with a cost-benefit analysis.
Why couldn't he have looked out and imagined the pastures around her house filled with happy children, safe and loved? Why couldn't he have wanted what she wanted?
She blew her nose. Well, it didn't matter. Things were as they were, and she wasn't about to try and convince Kent Summerton, or any other man, they should have a pack of kids. Her future husband, whoever he might be, had to want them as much as she did. Otherwise, it would be a recipe for disaster.
Kent got out of his car and made a dash for the front porch. He shook the rain from his dark hair and a drop of it hit Rosie's cheek. He looked surprised to see her there.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I lib here," she said, poking at her nose with a tissue. One thing about having a cold: she couldn't smell his delicious aftershave. Every defense helped.
"I know that, Rosie," he said with an irritating lift of his eyebrows. "I mean what are you doing outside—" he waved a hand "—in this. Where are you going?"
Until now, Rosie hadn't noticed it was raining, really raining. She lifted her chin. "Bor a balk. Wanta gum?"
"Excuse me?"
Rosie sneezed and nearly blew what was left of her brains out. The top of her head definitely loosened.
Kent took her arm. "I'm going to enroll you in Nutcases Anonymous if you don't get your buns in there—fast." He opened the front door and steered her inside, his hand firmly in the small of her back. Font's tail dropped earthward. He gave them a baleful look before following them inside.
"Sorry, big guy, but the lady comes first."
Rosie sneezed again, but she took her jacket off. He was right. It was a deluge out there, and she couldn't afford to die of pneumonia. Jonesy would kill her.
"I'm going to make you a hot drink, and you're going to take it easy. Got that?"
"You're gonna bhat?"
"Make you a hot drink."
"Dobn't that neeb a stobe?"
"You have
a stove, and for your information I know how to heat an element."
"Burrumph." Rosie blew her nose. Kent looked skyward.
"I take that—whatever it was—as an insult. But I can boil water, and that's what I'm about to do. Hot water, lemon, and honey." He steered Rosie to the kitchen. "And some time in bed. According to my mother, it never fails."
"Sounds goob." Rosie was thinking her mother would have bought her a box of tissues and headed to the office. Running a business and having to support a daughter on her own had never left her with any alternative.
The suggestion of time in bed sounded good, too, rolling as it did from a pair of lips that tasted like spearmint and midnight promises.
Kent commandeered her kitchen while Rosie watched dully. He was surprisingly efficient, and in minutes she was downing the Summerton cure for the common cold. Not exactly ambrosia, but soothing.
"What are you dobing here, anyway?" she finally asked.
"You sound better already," he said, looking smug. "Good thing I came along in time to save your miserable life." He took a drink of the coffee he'd made while Rosie sat watching him like a Monday drunk. "When did you go into self-destruct mode, anyway?"
"I neebed some fresh air."
Kent looked at the window where rain coursed over the glass as if someone had turned a hose on it. "Fresh, huh? Normal people would notice that it's a bit damp out there."
"I dibn't look before I leabed." She blew again.
"Now why doesn't that surprise me? Drink up, O'Hanlon. Then go back to bed for an hour or so."
Rosie sniffed and stood. "Okay. But you dibn't answer me. What are you dobing here?"
He hesitated. "I can't find my... phone. I thought maybe I'd left it here."
Rosie shook her head. "Nob here. Guess you'll hab to geb along widout it, Hobshot."
His lips twitched. "Guess so. Now hit the sack, Red. If you don't mind, I'd like to make a couple of calls before I go."
"Be my best." Rosie headed for the bedroom. He'd called her Red, but then every man who ever spent more than ten minutes in the company of her hair usually did. Normally, she hated it. His using it should have irritated her. It didn't. Get a grip, Rosaleen, the man drove all the way out here in a monsoon looking for his dumb smart phone. There was no hope for him.
