Summer Days

by Lisa Jackson

  “Oh, uh, sure . . .” Valerie scanned the menu quickly. “A Belgian waffle with strawberries.”

  “I’ll have the seafood omelet,” Hale said, then winked at Valerie. Her heart did a ridiculous somersault. “And a cup of coffee. Real coffee.”

  An hour later they walked to the dock and watched several magnificent white vessels sail through the water. Huge yachts raced against smaller sleek sailboats.

  “Stowell’s boat is moored at the yacht club, one of the closest berths.” Squinting against the sun, Hale stood behind Valerie and pointed, resting his arm lightly on her shoulder. “It’s one of the largest—see.”

  “They’re all large,” she said, slipping sunglasses onto her nose and following the extended path of his finger. Shining white vessels, their masts and rigging outlined against the blue horizon, swayed gently on the water. Smaller sloops were moored next to larger cutters, ketches and schooners.

  “I could take you over and introduce you today.”

  “I’d just as soon wait until tomorrow.”

  He slanted her a lazy smile and linked his arm through hers. “Chicken.”

  “That’s me,” she said with a laugh.

  “I think you’ll like the Stowells.”

  “Will I?” she asked, then shrugged. “I like most people.”

  “I thought maybe I’d scared you off—all the talk about their money—and their daughter.”

  “I won’t hold it against them that they’re rich, if that’s what you mean.”

  His smile widened. “You know, Ms. Pryce, if we try, we might just enjoy ourselves on this trip.”

  She doubted it. Two weeks cooped up with Hale while he was trying to negotiate a business deal? What would she do? Chitchat with Regina—a woman with whom she had nothing in common? Nothing, that was, except for Hale Donovan. Yep, it sounded like a rip-roaring good time already. She could hardly wait.

  Lost in thought, Valerie slid into the sunbaked interior of Hale’s Jaguar. She watched as Hale tossed his jacket behind the front seat and shoved his shirtsleeves over his tanned forearms. An interesting man, Hale Donovan, she thought as they drove through a dusty parking lot and turned toward Highway 101.

  Small drops of perspiration collected at her hairline, and she rested her arm on the open window, surprised at how at ease she felt with a man she barely knew. He reached into the glove compartment, found a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses and shoved them onto his nose.

  “You promised to tell me something about yourself,” she finally said.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything, I suppose.”

  “I graduated from Berkeley ten years ago, worked for someone else for a while and saved some money. I bought a company that was going bankrupt, for a song, turned it around, made a profit, bought another company the next year and just kept buying and expanding.”

  “The man with the Midas touch.”

  “I wish,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses.

  “What about your personal life?”

  “I don’t have time for one.”

  “But there have been women,” she hinted.

  “Not many.”

  “No?” Men as wealthy and handsome as Donovan usually had women crawling all over them.

  “If there were women—or at least one woman—I wouldn’t have had to find a stranger to pull off this charade, now would I?” he asked flippantly, his jaw clenched.

  “What about your friends?”

  “You met Tim. I have a few others. Most of them work for me.”

  “Your friends are your employees?”

  “Some of them. Some of the people who work for me don’t like me much.” He cranked hard on the wheel and turned south, toward San Francisco. “Anything else you want to know?”

  “Where did you go to high school?”

  Was it her imagination, or did he flinch? She couldn’t see his eyes, hidden as they were behind his glasses, but she felt a sudden coldness invade the car’s interior. “I went to a private school in Oakland. It’s not important. Stowell won’t expect you to know anything about it.”

  “But if the subject comes up—”

  “Change it!”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” she shot back, irritated at his dictatorial tone. “Since we obviously can’t talk about your personal life,” she went on, unable to hold her tongue, “why don’t you tell me about your business? Good ol’ Donovan Enterprises. Weren’t you in trouble with the IRS a couple of years ago?”

  Now he really did flinch. “A couple accounting errors. We cleared them up.”

  “Then there was that takeover of some oil leases—”

  “That was straightened out by the attorneys. What’s the point, Valerie?”

  “I just want a feel for the company I’m going to be working for.”

  “A little late for that, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe not. There’ve been rumors that Donovan Enterprises walks a thin line with the law.”

  “Is that why you wanted a job with us?” he mocked.

  “Look, I needed a job. It’s that simple. You pay well and offer a good chance for advancement.”

  He twisted his mouth in a sarcastic grin. “So to hell with our ethics, is that it? You know, Ms. Pryce, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you might be an opportunist.”

  “Me? Oh, come on!”

  “If the shoe fits—”

  “Enough with the clichés,” she muttered, but couldn’t help grinning.

  “Then I’m to assume you’re through assassinating my character?”

  “For the time being.” She stared through the windshield. The Golden Gate Bridge loomed ahead, spanning the neck of the bay and leading across clear, sun-dappled water to the city. Hale drove straight to Fisherman’s Wharf, searched for a parking spot and settled for a place several blocks away.

  “Come on,” he said, climbing out of the car.

  “What’re we doing here?”

  “Consider it part of your training.” He drew his lips into a smug smile, and though she couldn’t see his eyes behind those sunglasses, she guessed he was laughing at her.

  They spent several hours wandering through the docks, eyeing fresh produce and seafood, trinkets and souvenirs. They walked slowly with the tourists crowding the sidewalk. The sounds of voices and automobile engines and the pungent scents of fresh fish and salt air, all mingled in the warm afternoon.

  Hale stopped at several spots, buying cooked crab and smoked salmon at one fish market, a loaf of crusty French bread and scones at a small bakery and two bottles of Chianti from a tiny shop that specialized in local wines.

  “Now what?” Valerie asked, laughing as they walked up the few blocks to the Jaguar.

  “Now we go to my place.”

  “Your place?” she repeated, her smile falling from her face and her confidence slipping.

  “Scared?”

  Yes! “Of course not, but I don’t see why—”

  “Because to make our story believable you’ll have to know where and how I live, right?”

  “There’s no reason—”

  “The Stowells have been to my house. All of them. Come on. I won’t bite. I promise.”

  She racked her brain for a logical excuse. Though she knew it was childish, she wasn’t ready to be alone with him in the privacy of his home—not yet. “I have to finish packing tonight.”

  “We won’t be late.”

  “I guess I don’t have much of a choice.”

  “Just consider it part of the job.”

  And the job was making her more uneasy by the minute, Valerie thought ruefully.

  Once they were inside the car, he drove southwest and up the steep, winding tree-lined streets of Pacific Heights.

  Hale’s house was an old renovated Victorian. With a brick facade and four full stories, the narrow house was taller than the maple trees in the small front yard.

  Inside, wood floors gleamed with a warm patina and thick Oriental ca
rpets in shades of earth tones lay in each downstairs room. The furniture was arranged strategically, and watercolors, largely of seascapes, adorned the walls.

  The original carved woodwork had been restored, and a travertine fireplace comprised an entire wall in both the living and the dining room. Chandeliers hung from the ceilings, and antique tables were placed around expensive, modern pieces.

  “Eclectic,” Valerie murmured.

  “Interior by Elaine,” he said, eyeing the rooms clinically as he led her to the back of the house. “She’s a decorator a friend recommended to me.”

  In the kitchen were gleaming granite counters and sleek, stainless-steel appliances. Large enough for a chef, a huge gas range was set into a long island.

  “A gourmet’s dream.”

  He acted as if he didn’t care, as if he barely noticed his own kitchen. Setting his bags on the counter, he glanced around, pulled off his sunglasses and grinned a little sheepishly. “I’m hardly ever here. I have an apartment at the office. So when I work late . . .” He shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to make much sense to drive all the way over here.”

  He showed her the rest of the house, a weight room, bath and study on the third floor and on the fourth a loft that housed the master bedroom. Complete with sloped ceilings and skylights, the bedroom stretched from the front of the house to the back. Another fireplace was nestled between cherry-wood bookcases, and a cluster of burgundy-colored chairs filled one corner, while a massive, king-sized bed dominated the room.

  “Don’t tell me,” Valerie said, eyeing the color-coordinated pieces and artfully arranged potted plants. “Elaine again.”

  “Bingo.” Hale laughed, and the sound echoed against the high ceilings overhead.

  “Does she put your suits and ties together, too?”

  “That I handle on my own.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.”

  “Are you?” he asked, and his gray eyes glinted suggestively.

  “Of course I am,” she said, refusing to lick her lips, though she suddenly felt nervous. “It’s nice to know a thirty-year-old man can do a few things for himself.”

  “More than a few.” His voice had lowered an octave.

  “I’d hope so.” Her skin tingled a little.

  Leaning a hip against the rail surrounding the stairs, he crossed his arms over his chest. The fabric of his shirt was stretched tight, pulling at the seams. “You really do push it, don’t you?”

  “Push what?”

  “Me, for one thing. But I suspect that you push and push and just keep pushing in everything you do.”

  “Not a bad attribute for an employee.”

  “But a decided fault in a wife.”

  “I’m not going to be your wife. Remember?”

  “Just be careful—around the Stowells.”

  “On my best behavior,” she mocked, lifting her hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  Before she could react, he reached forward and clasped his fingers around her wrist. “This Stowell deal is important to me.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “Don’t blow it.”

  “Oh, I won’t, ‘sugar,’ ” she replied tartly, and saw him wince at the sarcastic tone of her endearment, “because it’s important to me, as well.”

  He didn’t release her, just stared straight into her eyes. Though she wanted to shrink away, she met his gaze with all the willpower she possessed. She thought she felt a change in the room temperature as he pressed his fingertips against the sensitive skin inside her wrist. Her pulse fairly fluttered and her heart was slamming against the inside of her ribs, but she managed to keep her hands steady.

  “Just so we understand each other,” he whispered, his voice husky and raw.

  “Oh, I’m sure we do.” She inched her chin up mutinously.

  “Now if the tour’s over, maybe we should end this for tonight. I’ll call a cab.”

  “Before dinner?”

  “I didn’t know I was staying.”

  “Consider it part of the job.”

  “Are you trying to make this unpleasant?” she asked, wishing she could think of a way to get out of staying longer. Lingering in his bedroom was just plain crazy! Conflicting emotions tore at her, and she knew it was dangerous to prolong any intimacy whatsoever. His touch made her blood race; his gaze made it hard to breathe.

  “Relax, Valerie. We have a lot of work to do.” He slid his fingers against her skin as she yanked her hand back. “And we still have things to talk about.”

  “Then let’s get it over with.” Trembling inside, she marched down the stairs with all the bravado she could pull together.

  Once in the kitchen again, she relaxed a little. While he cracked the crab, she cut French bread and slathered it with garlic butter, then concocted a red cocktail sauce from lemon juice, herbs, catsup and Worcestershire sauce.

  They ate outside on a balcony off the kitchen, with a view of the bay. The water was dark under the night sky; the winking lights of the city glowed like fireflies on the hills sloping down to the water.

  Half lying on a chaise lounge, Valerie sipped wine from a stemmed glass and snacked on crab, salmon and bread. The sounds of the city floated through the air.

  Hale propped his shoulder against the railing. “I think we should tell the Stowells we’re not sure when we plan to be married, but probably around the first of the year.”

  “For fiscal reasons?”

  He ignored her jab. “We’ll tell them that when we get back to San Francisco, you plan to start working for me, as my assistant, to learn as much as you can about the business—just in case anything happens to me. You, of course, will be my sole beneficiary.”

  “You think he’ll believe that?”

  “Who cares? It’s plausible. That’s all that matters.”

  “What about children?”

  “What about them?” he asked, his voice gruff, his eyes growing dark.

  “People always ask. Even if you’re not married.”

  “We haven’t discussed it. We’ll say we’re taking one step at a time, that sort of thing.”

  “Okay.” She leaned back, letting the wine slide down her throat, forgetting that this was all just an elaborate deception. With the help of the wine, she pretended that this fantasy of becoming Hale’s wife was real. What would she do if she were really Mrs. Hale Donovan? How would her life change? Studying him from beneath the sweep of dark lashes, she smiled. Above his head a slice of silvery moon hung low in the sky, and the leaves from the trees in the tiny front yard rustled in the moist wind from the bay. “I suppose we’re going to live here—after we’re married?”

  “You’re the bride—you decide.”

  “Let’s make it easy. We’ll stay here. What about the honeymoon—it should be somewhere exotic, don’t you think?”

  “The Bahamas?”

  She shook her head. “How about a couple of weeks on the Riviera and then another week in the Alps?”

  “Stowell won’t believe I’d take that much time away from business.”

  Smiling lazily, she said, “Well, I guess you’ll have to find a way to convince him. After all, a sophisticated woman with my expensive tastes wouldn’t be satisfied with a weekend at the beach.”

  “You’re a working woman, remember?”

  “But I’m marrying the boss. I expect to be treated like a princess.”

  “Touché, Ms. Pryce.” His gaze, bright with amusement, touched hers. “You’re learning quickly.”

  “Must be because I have such a great teacher.”

  “Must be.”

  Hale studied her thoughtfully. Her face, radiant in the moon’s silvery glow, was turned up toward him, her smile flashed gently, and though she seemed slightly nervous, she never let up—always kept him guessing. That was what he liked about her best, he decided as he leaned his elbows back against the rail. And liking her was dangerous. He didn’t want to feel anything for her—not friendship, not compatibility, not affection. She was
just someone who worked for him—someone he had to put up with for six months. Someone who could help him fend off Regina Stowell’s attentions while he went about his business.

  “Maybe I should call a cab.”

  He felt a wayward urge to ask her to stay. Though he knew the notion was foolish, he wanted to prolong their time alone together. “I’ll drive you.” Seeing the protest forming on her lips, he added, “It’s no bother, really.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Just let me get my keys.”

  All too soon they were speeding through the city in his car, the scent of her perfume wafting to him, her leg only inches from his. For the first time he realized just how difficult spending the next two weeks alone with her might be. She had a way of touching his emotions—making him laugh or igniting his temper with one little comment.

  At her apartment, he walked her to the front door and wished he could come up with a reason to stay. “I’ll see you in the morning—about ten-thirty.”

  “I’ll be ready,” she said with a smile that quivered a little as she unlocked the door and hurried inside. “But ready for what?” she wondered aloud as she trudged up the stairs.

  Only time would tell.

  CHAPTER 5

  “The last thing we need is that cat,” Belinda grumbled as Valerie set a rather grumpy Shamus on the floor of her mother’s apartment.

  Valerie chuckled. “You’ll love him. Besides, he’ll liven things up around here and keep the rodent population under control.”

  “We don’t have a rodent problem,” Belinda said, but reached forward to pet the cat’s head. Shamus ducked away from Belinda’s hand and hid behind the couch. “Friendly as always, I see.”

  “He’ll calm down,” Valerie predicted as Belinda snagged her jacket out of the closet and waved goodbye.

  “He’d better,” her mother said. She was sitting in her favorite rocker, a beat-up antique she’d owned for as long as Valerie could remember. “So—you’re taking off this morning?”

  “Yes.” Valerie sketched out what she knew of the trip.

  “I’ve been reading up on your fiancée, you know,” Anna replied, pointing to a stack of magazines on the table. “He’s quite a man.”