Summer Days

by Lisa Jackson

  Valerie’s eyes narrowed. “You really are a bastard. You know that, don’t you?”

  All kindness left his features. He jutted his jaw forward, and his eyes snapped with an inner fire. “Don’t ever,” he warned, his voice the barest of whispers, “call me that again.” He strode swiftly back into the apartment and reached for her jacket, hanging on the coat tree near the door, then flung it at her as she followed him inside. “Let’s go.”

  She caught her jacket on the fly. “I’m sorry if I—”

  “Forget it.”

  Realizing she’d touched a raw nerve, she slipped into her shoes. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You didn’t,” he shot back, waiting until she crossed the threshold, then closing the door firmly behind her.

  “But—”

  “Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen. Okay?”

  Valerie tilted her chin up and met his angry gaze with her own. “It’s forgotten, Hale,” she said slowly, “but the next time I try to apologize, let me.”

  “Hopefully there won’t be any reason to.”

  As she stood alone with him on the landing, the magnitude of what she’d agreed to do hit her full force. This man was handsome and powerful, and used to giving out orders that were instantly obeyed—no questions asked.

  Mentally Valerie crossed her fingers. They’d only been together half an hour and already they were at each other’s throats. How could they possibly spend two weeks cooped up on a boat together?

  His car was parked three streets away, a sleek black Jaguar glinting beneath the late-afternoon sun. “My mother will never believe we’re a couple,” Valerie said, eyeing the car as he unlocked the door for her.

  “Why not?”

  “I took a solemn oath never to date a guy with an expensive car.”

  His dark expression lightened as he slid behind the wheel. “Strange vow, isn’t it?”

  “Call it self-preservation.”

  With a flick of his wrist, the powerful engine thrummed to life. “Why?”

  “Most of the boys in college who drove around in flashy cars turned out to be self-centered, egotistical jerks.”

  “That’s a pretty broad statement.”

  She shrugged slightly as he eased into traffic. “I suppose.”

  “And prejudiced.” He shifted, putting the Jag through its paces. Fresh air, filled with the salty scent of the sea, blew in through a partially opened window. ‘’Where did you learn to be so cynical?”

  “Seems like a natural progression,” she said, staring out the window and trying to block out the image of Luke that invariably came to mind. Luke, blond and tanned by the southern California sun, with an all American face and roving eye. Proud owner of a flashy red Porsche and a surfer’s body honed to perfection. The quintessential boy who refused to grow up—the only man Valerie had ever come close to loving.

  She felt the weight of Hale’s gaze upon her and forced a smile. “So—what are we going to tell my mother?”

  “I’ve been working on that,” he said, cranking on the wheel. As they drove down the hilly streets, Valerie could see the sparkling waters of the bay, dark blue and shimmering. Sea gulls flew overhead, and boats sliced through the water, leaving frothy wakes.

  Hale parked near Ghiradelli Square, a former chocolate factory, which was positioned on the hill overlooking the bay. The series of brick-faced buildings had been renovated and now housed a maze of shops and restaurants.

  He helped her from the car, then took her hand and guided her up a flight of exterior stairs. Olive trees, flower beds and benches were interspersed between buildings with such names as Mustard Building, Power House or Cocoa Building. Shoppers and sightseers browsed through the alleys. Birds chirped and flitted from the shrubs to the walkways.

  “This isn’t the way to my mother’s, you know,” Valerie said as they passed a mermaid fountain.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “What’re we doing here?”

  He opened the double-oak-and-glass doors of an Irish restaurant tucked into a shaded corner of the square. “This is my favorite place in the city,” he explained.

  The smells of spices and smoke filled a cozy restaurant with bare, glossy tables, glass-encased candles and a long bar of dark wood inlaid with brass. The bar had no stools, and patrons bellied up to it and rested their feet on a genuine brass rail. Behind the polished wood, mirrors rose to a fifteen-foot ceiling. Green, brown and clear bottles were reflected in the glass.

  The sounds of laughter and whispered conversation drifted over the hum of lazy paddle fans mounted high overhead. Hale didn’t wait to be seated, but tugged on Valerie’s hand and led her to a corner booth with a view of the street below.

  “You’re a regular,” she guessed.

  “You could say that.”

  A waiter appeared as they sat, and brought two frosted glasses of hearty Irish ale.

  “I don’t get a choice?” Valerie asked as the waiter disappeared between the closely packed tables.

  Hale grinned across his mug. “Consider it an initiation rite.” “One that all your fiancées go through?”

  Winking broadly, he settled back in his chair and eyed her over the frosted lip of his mug. “I’ve never been engaged before.”

  “What happened? Didn’t you offer enough money?”

  He lifted one corner of his mouth. “I guess not—until now.” “So who else have you initiated?”

  “Most of the women I’ve dated have been here at one time or another.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice and wondered why it was there. What did it matter if Hale had brought dozens of other women in here? This was all just an act—nothing more. To hide her feelings, she picked up the menu. “Do I get to choose my own meal?”

  “I’ll work on it, but it might be tough. The guy who owns this place, Tim Buchanan, is an old fraternity brother of mine. When he hears that we’re here, he’ll probably”—Hale glanced over her shoulder, and his grin widened—“well, speak of the devil.”

  “About time you showed your ugly mug around here, Donovan!” Tim Buchanan moved lithely between the tables. Over six feet tall, crowned with a thatch of blazing red hair that matched his neatly clipped beard, he wore a crisp white shirt, black slacks and bow tie. His face was dusted with freckles, and small blue eyes peered fondly at Hale. He reached across the table and clasped Hale’s hand in a grip that looked positively punishing. “And who’s this?” he asked, turning his attention to Valerie.

  “Valerie Pryce . . . Tim Buchanan. Valerie’s my fiancée.”

  Tim’s smile froze. He turned his head abruptly, and his gaze landed back on Hale. “The devil, you say! You? Married?” He turned back to Valerie, and a small smile played beneath his red beard. “Well, you’ve got yourself a handful, that you do, Ms. Pryce. If this guy ever gets out of line, you call on me!”

  “Oh, I won’t need any help, but thank you very much,” she said with a heartfelt sigh. “Hale’s just an angel. Anything I want and”—she shrugged her slim shoulders and lifted a palm—“there it is!” With what she hoped was an adoring expression on her face, she turned to Hale. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

  “An angel?” Tim hooted, and the back of Hale’s neck burned scarlet. “Donovan? Wait till I tell Father O’Flannery!”

  “Who’s he?” Valerie asked innocently, though she could sense Hale squirming in his chair.

  “Who’s he? The man who personally acquainted Hale with the wrath of God.” Laughing loudly, Tim turned, signaled to the bartender and said, “A round on the house—my best friend is getting married!”

  The men at the bar cheered, and Hale sank lower in his seat. Tim wasn’t finished. “Dinner’s on me—the house specialty!”

  “Hey, you don’t have to—”

  Tim cut off Hale’s protest with an impatient wave. “It’s not every day you walk in here and announce you’re getting married. I’ll be back in a minute.”

&nbs
p; Still chuckling, he headed through swinging doors that Valerie assumed led to the kitchen.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Hale demanded, the skin on his face stretched taut. “ ‘Angel,’ my eye!”

  “I just thought you should know what we’re going to be in for,” she replied, enjoying herself. It was time he found out this charade wasn’t going to be a bed of roses. “The next couple of weeks aren’t going to be easy on either of us.”

  “What does it matter? You’re being paid—and very well.”

  “Then you’ll want me to continue to play the part of adoring wife-to-be, right?”

  Hale frowned. “Just don’t overdo it.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, darling,” she replied, her hazel eyes twinkling mischievously as Tim brought back two steaming platters of crawfish smothered in a spicy brown sauce, spinach salads with lemon and bacon and a bottle of champagne.

  “May as well do this right,” Tim said as he uncorked the bottle. The cork popped, frothy champagne slid down the long neck of the bottle, and Tim poured three glasses, holding his aloft. “To the years ahead,” he said solemnly, “life, love, happiness and fertility!”

  Hale nearly choked.

  Valerie laughed out loud.

  And Tim, smirking, winked at his friend, then gulped his drink. “About time you took the plunge,” he said before slapping Hale on the shoulder and heading back to the kitchen.

  “I thought you weren’t going to overdo it,” Hale reminded her, jabbing at his salad with his fork.

  “I’m trying not to, believe me,” she said, but felt the cat-who-ate-the-canary grin spreading across her face.

  “Just don’t push me,” he warned.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, ‘darling.’ ” She touched the rim of her glass to his. “Here’s to the next two weeks.”

  “May they pass quickly,” he muttered.

  “Amen!” She sipped from her glass, enjoying the feel of the champagne as it bubbled in her throat. Hale refilled her glass several times, but she didn’t care. The tip of her nose grew numb, and she felt the unlikely urge to smile giddily. And most unnerving of all, she couldn’t take her eyes off Hale. What would it be like to really be in love with him? she wondered as she studied his strong chin, his thin, sensual lips, his deep-set and brooding eyes.

  “Irish coffee?” Tim asked when he returned for their empty plates.

  “And dessert—chocolate mousse?” Hale suggested, glancing at her for approval.

  “I couldn’t—I’m stuffed,” she whispered.

  Tim lifted one brawny shoulder. “Then I’ll bring one serving with two spoons.”

  “Just like in a 1950s soda shop,” Valerie said with a giggle.

  Hale shot a murderous glance in her direction.

  “Right—for lovebirds,” Tim agreed, chuckling.

  A muscle worked in Hale’s jaw. Valerie thought he might explode and tell his friend the engagement was all an act, but instead, to her mortification, he reached across the table and grabbed her hand, stroking the back of her fingers with one thumb. “Then again, maybe we don’t have time for dessert or coffee,” he said huskily, his gray eyes smoldering with unspoken desire. “We’ve got better things to do.”

  Valerie blushed and felt her mouth turn to cotton. Licking suddenly dry lips, she jerked back her hand.

  “Well, don’t let me hold you up,” Tim said, sending Hale a knowing look as he was called back to the bar.

  “That was unnecessary!” Valerie hissed as Hale, taking her elbow in a proprietary grip, propelled her out of the restaurant.

  “You asked for it.”

  “I did no such—”

  “Oh, come on, you were really working me over in front of Tim. And you enjoyed every minute of it!”

  She couldn’t argue. She had felt a perverse satisfaction at making him squirm. There was something about knocking Hale Donovan down a peg that she couldn’t resist. “Okay, okay,” she agreed as he elbowed open the door, “maybe we should start over—with a truce.”

  He raised a cynical dark brow, and his hand never left her arm as he guided her through the crowds in the square, around a corner and up a short flight of steps. “A truce—you think that’s possible?”

  “Probably not, but it’s the only way we’re going to survive the next two weeks.”

  “Agreed.” He offered her a roguish smile that caused her heart to trip unexpectedly. “Now before the store closes . . .” Still holding her arm, he shoved open the door of a jewelry shop. A small bell tinkled as they crossed the threshold.

  “Mr. Donovan!” A reed-thin woman with thick dark hair pinned away from her face glanced up, smiled and quickly closed the glass case where she’d been arranging bracelets. She hurried across the small shop to greet Hale. In heels, she was nearly as tall as Hale, and her suit, a rich red silk, rustled as she stretched out a slender hand. “What can I do for you today?”

  “We need a ring—a diamond.”

  The woman raised her finely arched eyebrows a fraction. “A cocktail ring?”

  “Engagement.”

  “Oh.” She sounded vaguely disappointed as she moved over to a glass case where diamonds of every description were displayed in open, velvet-lined boxes.

  “This is my fiancée, Valerie Pryce.”

  “My best wishes,” the woman murmured.

  “Thank you,” Valerie ground out.

  “Now what kind of diamond would you like?”

  “Nothing too flashy, just a nice stone without a lot of frills.” Hale glanced at Valerie. “That okay with you?”

  “It doesn’t really matter to me, remember? I’m not all that crazy about being here in the first place.”

  The saleslady did her best to keep her expression bland, but Valerie could read the questions in her eyes—a million of them.

  Hale shot Valerie a warning look, then asked to see the ring.

  “Any special cut?” the saleslady asked. “Square? Pear-shaped?”

  “How about that one?” Hale pointed to a ring near the front of the case, and Valerie had to bite her tongue. The setting and stone were gorgeous.

  With great care, the woman pulled out a platinum ring crowned by a winking marquis-cut stone and slipped it on Valerie’s ring finger. The diamond looked huge—not gawdy, by any means, but still it felt like a deadweight on her hand.

  “It’ll need to be adjusted—just a little, but I can have that done while you wait—”

  “Fine,” Hale said. “Charge it to my account.”

  “Will do.”

  Valerie handed the ring back to the saleslady, who walked crisply to the back of the store. “Don’t you think you’re pushing this too far? What’re you going to do with that ring when this is all over?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “I don’t believe you. I think you’ve thought this all out very carefully.” She studied him through narrowed eyes. “But you really don’t have to buy that ring. Can’t you just rent one or buy an imitation?”

  “And have you appear cheap to the Stowells?” he mocked. “No way. This has got to be the real thing.”

  “You must want Stowell’s company very badly.”

  “I do.”

  “And it doesn’t matter what it costs or that you have to lie in order to get it?”

  “It’s worth it.”

  “So it all comes down to money, right?”

  “Doesn’t everything?” he asked.

  Valerie wanted to ask him about love and happiness, but she bit her tongue. The man was obviously jaded. He thought money could buy him everything he wanted or needed in life, and maybe it could. It had bought her, hadn’t it?

  As she watched him move impatiently from one glass case to the next, she realized he was a man who didn’t believe in love and didn’t have time for it. He was too busy amassing his next million to get involved in anything as complicated as love.

  Within minutes the saleslady reappeared, wearing a satisfied sm
ile. “Here we go—let’s see if this is any better.” She tried the ring on Valerie again and it fitted perfectly, the bright stone catching the light.

  “Great,” Hale said.

  “It’s a beautiful ring,” the saleswoman agreed as she motioned to another case. “Could I interest you in a necklace or earrings—”

  “No!” Valerie said quickly.

  Hale grinned wickedly. “Not right now, but we’ll think about them.”

  “Do.” The saleslady pressed a card into his hand. “Just give me a call. And congratulations.”

  Valerie didn’t say a word all the way back to the car. This engagement thing was getting totally out of hand.

  “You don’t like the ring,” Hale said as he slipped the Jaguar into the tangle of early-evening traffic.

  She slid a glance in his direction and noticed the smile toying at his lips. Damn the man, he was enjoying this. “The ring’s beautiful. It’s the sentiment that bothers me.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’ll try not to. All part of the deal, right?”

  “Right.” He grimaced tightly as he shifted down. “Okay, so where does your mother live?”

  Valerie rattled off the address, and Hale turned south. “Have you come up with a plausible story yet?” she wondered aloud. “Mom will ask a ton of questions.”

  “How about the truth? You fell hopelessly in love with me and threw yourself at my feet.”

  Valerie smothered a smile. “Oh, that’ll work.”

  “Or maybe you’re after my money—that’s closer to the truth.”

  “You’re pushing it, Donovan.”

  “‘Honey,’ remember? From now on it’s ‘honey.’”

  “Oh, right.” Good Lord, what had she gotten herself into? “Well, ‘honey,’ you’d better come up with a good story, because Mom will expect one.”

  “By all means.”

  She settled back in the Jaguar and watched him from the corner of her eye. A handsome, intelligent man, he showed a spark of humor, which softened the hard edge of his arrogance.

  “How about we met at the beach a few weeks ago, but we kept our affair—”

  “No affair. This is my mother, remember?”