From This Day

by Nora Roberts

  explaining that?”

  “She told me you were inexcusably rude, that you made some comments on her relationship with me, refused to serve her a drink, made yourself generally unpleasant, and told the staff not to cooperate with her.”

  “She said that, did she?” B.J.’s eyes, darkened, with rage. She set her pen down carefully and rose despite Taylor’s proximity. “Isn’t it odd how two people can view the same scene from entirely different perspectives! Well.” She stuck her hand in her pockets and planted her feet firmly. “I have news for you—”

  “If you’ve another version,” Taylor returned evenly, “I’d like to hear it.”

  “Oh!” Unable to prevent herself, she lifted her fist to give his chest a small, inadequate punch. His eyes dropped to it in amused indulgence. “How generous of you. The condemned man is given a fair trial.” Whirling, she paced the room in a swirl of agitation, debating whether to give him a verbatim account of her meeting with Darla. Finally, her pride won over her desire to clear herself in Taylor’s eyes. “No thanks, your honor. I’ll just take the fifth.”

  “B.J.” Taylor took her shoulders and spun her to face him. “Must you constantly provoke me?”

  “Must you constantly pick on me?” she countered.

  “I wouldn’t have said I was doing that.” His tone had changed from anger to consideration.

  “That’s your opinion. I’m the one who’s constantly in the position of justifying myself. I’m tired of having to explain my every move, of trying to cope with your moods. I never know from one minute to the next if you’re going to kiss me or sit me in the corner with a dunce hat. I’m tired of feeling inadequate, naive and stupid. I never felt like any of those things before, and I don’t like it.”

  Her words tumbled out in a furious rush while Taylor merely looked on, politely attentive.

  “And I’m sick of your precious Darla altogether. Sick of her criticizing every aspect of the inn, sick of her looking at me as though I were some straw-chewing hick from Dogpatch. And, I resent her running to you with fabricated stories, and, I detest your using me to boost your over-inflated ego while she’s floating around half naked waiting to warm your bed. And . . . Oh, blast!”

  Her torrent of complaints was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone. Ripping the receiver from its cradle, B.J. snapped into it.

  “What is it? No, nothing’s wrong. What is it, Eddie?” Pausing, she listened, her hand lifting to soothe the back of her neck where tension lodged. “Yes, he’s here.” She turned back to Taylor and held out the phone. “It’s for you, a Mr. Paul Bailey.”

  He took the receiver in silence, his eyes still on her face. As she turned to leave the room, his hand caught her wrist. “Stay here.” Waiting for her nod of agreement, he released her. B.J. moved to the far side of the room and stared out at the insistent rain.

  Taylor’s conversation consisted of monosyllabic replies which B.J. blocked from her mind. Frustrated by the inability to complete her outburst, she now felt the impetus fading. Just as well, she admitted with a sigh of weary resignation. I’ve already said enough to insure the job at that dog kennel Darla mentioned. Blast! She rested her forehead on the cool glass. Why did I have to fall in love with an impossible man?

  “B.J.” She started at the sound of her name, then twisted her head to watch Taylor cradle the phone. “Pack,” he said simply and moved to the door.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to tell herself it was better that she leave, better not to be connected with him even as an employee. Nodding mutely, she turned back to the window.

  “Enough for three days,” he added in afterthought as his hand closed over the knob.

  “What?” Thrown into confusion, she turned, staring with a mixture of grief and bewilderment.

  “We’ll be gone for three days. Be ready in fifteen minutes.” Halting, Taylor’s features softened suddenly at her clouded expression. “B.J., I’m not firing you. Give me credit for a bit more class than that.”

  She shook her head, washed with relief and the knowledge of the inevitable. He started to cross the room, then paused and merely leaned against the closed door.

  “That was a call from the manager of one of my resorts. There’s a bit of a problem, and I’ve got to see to it. You’re coming with me.”

  “Coming with you?” Her fingers lifted to her temple as if she could smooth in understanding. “What on earth for?”

  “In the first place, because I say so.” He folded his arms across his chest and became the complete employer. “And secondly, because I like my managers well rounded. No pun intended,” he added, smiling as her color rose. “This is a good opportunity for you to see how my other hotels are run.”

  “But I can’t just leave at a moment’s notice,” she objected, as her mind struggled to cope with the new development. “Who’ll take care of things here?”

  “Eddie will. It’s about time he had a bit more responsibility. You let him lean on you too much. You let all of them lean on you too much.”

  “But we have five new reservations over the weekend, and . . .”

  “You’re down to ten minutes, B.J.,” he informed her with a glance at his watch. “If you don’t stop arguing, you’ll only have the clothes on your back to take with you.”

  Seeing all of her objections would be overruled, she tried not to think of what going away with Taylor would do to her nervous system. Business, she reminded herself. Just business.

  Somewhat annoyed that he was already walking through the door, having taken it for granted that she was going with him, she called after him, “I can’t simply pack because you say to.”

  He turned back, his temper fraying. “B.J.”

  “You never said where,” she reminded him. “I don’t know if I need mukluks or bikinis.”

  A ghost of a smile played on his lips before he answered. “Bikinis. We’re going to Palm Beach.”

  ***

  B.J. was to find her surprises were not yet over for the morning. First, her last minute flurry of instructions was cut off by Taylor’s order as she was bundled out of the dripping rain and into his car. On the drive to the airport, she mentally reviewed every possible disaster which could occur during her absence. She opened her mouth to enlighten Taylor only to be given a quelling look which had her suffering in silence.

  At the airport, she found herself confronted not with a commercial jet, but with Taylor’s private one, already primed for take-off. B.J. stood motionless staring at the small trim plane as he retrieved their luggage.

  “B.J., don’t stand in the rain. Go on up.”

  “Taylor.” Unmindful of the rain which pelted her, B.J. turned to him. “I think there’s something you should know. I’m not very good at flying.”

  “That’s all right.” He secured cases under his arm and grabbed her hand. “The plane does most of the work.”

  “Taylor, I’m serious,” she objected, as he dragged her inside the plane.

  “Do you get air sick? You can take a pill.”

  “No.” She swallowed and lifted her shoulders. “I get paralyzed. Stewardesses have been known to stow me in the baggage compartment so I don’t panic the other passengers.”

  He rubbed his hands briskly through her hair, scattering rain drops. “So, I’ve found your weakness. What are you afraid of?”

  “Mostly of crashing.”

  “It’s all in your head,” he said easily as he helped her off with her jacket. “There’s a term for it.”

  “Dying,” she supplied, causing him to laugh again. Miffed by his amusement, she turned away to examine the plush luxury of the cabin. “This looks more like an apartment than a plane.” She ran a hand over the soft maroon of a chair. “Everyone’s entitled to a phobia,” she muttered.

  “You’re absolutely right.” His voice trembled on the edge of laughter. B.J. turned to snap at him but found his smile too appealing.

  “You won’t think it’s so funny when I’m lying in a moa
ning heap on your shag carpet.”

  “Possibly not.” He moved toward her and she stiffened in defense. Brooding down at her a moment, he searched her wary gray eyes. “B.J.,” he began, “shall we call a moratorium on our disagreements? At least for the duration of the trip?”

  “Well, I . . .” His voice was soft and persuasive, and she lowered her eyes to study the buttons of his shirt.

  “An armed truce?” he suggested, capturing her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifting her face. “With negotiations to follow?” He was smiling, his charming, utterly disarming smile. She knew resistance was hopeless.

  “All right, Taylor.” Unable to prevent her own smile from blossoming, she remained still as his finger lifted to trace it.

  “Sit down and fasten your seat belt.” He kissed her brow with an easy friendliness which left her weak.

  B.J. found that the easy flow of his conversation from the moment of take off eased her tension. Incredibly, she felt no fear as the plane soared into the air.

  ***

  “It’s so flat and so warm!” B.J. exclaimed as she stepped off the plane steps and looked around her.

  Taylor chuckled as he led the way to a sleek black Porsche. He exchanged a few words with a waiting attendant, accepted the keys, unlocked the door, and motioned B.J. inside.

  “Where is your hotel?” she asked.

  “In Palm Beach. This is West Palm Beach. We have to cross Lake Worth to get to the island.”

  “Oh!” Enchanted by roadside palms, she lapsed into silence.

  The white, sandy soil and splashes of brilliant blossoms were so far removed from the scenery of her native New England, she felt as though she had entered another world. The waters of Lake Worth, separating Palm Beach from the mainland, sparkled blue and white under the afternoon sun. The oceanside was lined with resort hotels. B.J. recognized the elaborate initials T.R. atop a sleek white building which rose twelve stories over the Atlantic. Hundreds of windows winked back at her. Taylor pulled into the semi-circular macadam drive and stopped the car. B.J. narrowed her eyes against the streaming rays of the sun. The archway which formed the entrance was guarded by palms and semi-tropical plants, their tangle of color obviously well planned and scrupulously tended. The lawn spread, perfectly level and unbelievably green.

  “Come,” said Taylor, coming around to open the door for her. He helped her out of the car and led her inside.

  To B.J. the lobby was a tropical paradise. The floor was flagstoned, the walls a half-circle of windows at the front. A center fountain played over a rocky garden, dotted with lush plants and ferns. B.J. saw that the interior was round, an open circle spiraling to the ceiling where a mural emulating the sky had been painted. The effect was one of limitless space. How different from the cozy familiarity of the Lakeside Inn! she thought.

  “Ah, Mr. Reynolds.” Her meditation was interrupted by the appearance of a slender, well dressed man with a shock of steel gray hair and a lean, bronzed face. “So good to see you.”

  “Paul.” Taylor accepted the proffered hand and returned the smile of greeting. “B.J., this is Paul Bailey, the manager. Paul, B.J. Clark.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Clark.” B.J.’s hand was engulfed by a smooth, warm grasp. His eyes surveyed her fresh, slender beauty with approval. She found herself smiling back.

  “See to our bags and I’ll take Miss Clark up. After we’ve settled in a bit, I’ll get back to you.”

  “Of course. Everything’s quite ready.” With another flash of teeth, he led the way to the registration desk and secured a key. “Your bags will be right up, Mr. Reynolds. Is there anything else you’d like?”

  “Not at the moment. B.J.?”

  “What?” B.J. was still admiring the luxurious lobby. “Would you like anything?” Taylor smiled at her and brushed a curl from her cheek.

  “Oh . . . no, nothing. Thank you.”

  With a final nod for Bailey, Taylor secured her hand in his and led her to one of the three elevators. They glided up in a cage of octagon glass high above the cluster of greenery.

  When they reached the top floor, Taylor moved along the thick carpeting to unlock the door. B.J. entered and crossing the silent plush of ivory carpet, stared down from the dizzying height at the white beach which jutted out into an azure span of sea. In the distance, she could see the churning whitecaps and the flowing grace of gulls as they circled and dove.

  “What an incredible view. I’m tempted to dive straight off the balcony.” Turning, she caught Taylor watching her from the center of the room. She could not decipher the expression in his eyes. “This is lovely,” she said to break the long silence.

  She ran a finger over the smooth surface of an ebony bar and wondered if Darla had decorated the room. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself if this were the case, Darla had done a good job.

  “Would you like a drink?” Taylor pushed a button cunningly concealed in the mirror tiles on the wall behind the bar. A panel slid open to reveal a fully stocked bar.

  “Very clever,” B.J. smiled. “Some club soda would be nice,” she said, leaning elbows on the bar.

  “Nothing stronger?” he asked as he poured the soda over crackling ice. “Come in,” he responded to the quiet knock on the door.

  “Your luggage, Mr. Reynolds.” A red-and-black-uniformed bellboy carried in the cases. B.J. was conscious of his curious gaze and blushed self-consciously.

  “Fine, just leave them there.” He accepted the tip from Taylor and vanished, closing the door with quiet respect.

  B.J. eyed the cases. Taylor’s elegant gray sat neatly beside her practical brown. “Why did he bring it all in here?” Setting down her glass, she lifted her eyes. “Shouldn’t he have just taken mine to my room?”

  “He did.” Taylor secured another bottle and poured himself a portion of Scotch.

  “But, I thought this was your suite.” B.J. glanced around the luxurious room again.

  “It is.”

  “But you just said . . .” She faltered, as her color rose. “Surely you don’t think I’m going to—to . . .”

  “What did you have in mind?” Taylor inquired with infuriating amusement.

  “You said you wanted me to see how one of your other hotels was run, you never said anything about . . . about . . .”

  “You really must learn to complete a sentence, B.J.”

  “I’m not sleeping with you,” she stated very positively, her eyes like two summer storm clouds.

  “I don’t believe I asked you to,” he said lazily before he took an easy sip of Scotch. “There are two very adequate bedrooms in this suite. I’m sure you’ll find yours comfortable.”

  Embarrassment flooded her cheeks. “I’m not staying in here with you. Everyone will think that I’m . . . that we’re . . .”

  “I’ve never known you to be quite so coherent.” His mockery increased her wrath, and her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “In any case,” he continued unperturbed, “the purity of your reputation is already in question. As you’re traveling with me, it will naturally be assumed that we’re lovers. As we know differently,” he went on as her mouth dropped open, “that hardly matters. Of course, if you’d like to make rumor fact, I might be persuaded.”

  “Oh, you insufferable, egotistical, conceited . . .”

  “Name calling can hardly be considered persuasion,” Taylor admonished, patting her head in an infuriating manner. “I assume, therefore, you’ll want your own bedroom?”

  “As this is off season,” B.J. began, gaining a tenuous grip on her temper, “I’m sure there are a surplus of available rooms.”

  Smiling, he ran a finger down her arm. “Afraid you won’t be able to resist temptation, B.J.?”

  “Of course not,” she said though her senses tingled at his touch.

  “Then that’s settled,” he said, finishing off his drink. “If you’re harboring the notion that I’ll be overcome by lust, there’s a perfectly sturdy lock on your bedroom door. I’m going
down to see Bailey; why don’t you change and grab some time at the beach? Your room’s the second door on your left down the hall.” He pointed as he moved to the door and slipped through before she had time to frame a response.