by Nora Roberts
Chapter Six
Margo had fallen hard for Milan at first sight. She had been dazzled by Paris, awed by Rome, amused by London. But Milan, with its busy streets, impeccable style, and easy panache had won her heart.
Her career had fulfilled her childhood dream of travel, tickled the wanderlust that had always been part of her soul. Yet, in her own way, she had needed roots, a base, a place to call her own.
She had chosen the flat on impulse, because she liked the look of the building, the charming terraces that offered a view of the street and a glimpse of the spearing towers of the Duomo. And because it was a convenient stroll from her door to the elegant shops of the Montenapoliane.
She stood on her terrace now, sipping chilly white wine, watching the late-evening traffic punctuated by the high, double-toned blare of sirens. The sun was setting, gilding the view and making her lonely for someone to share it with.
She had been right to come back. It was perhaps the first selfless thing she’d done in too long to remember. Though Laura had argued until the cab whisked Margo away, and Josh had simply stood eyeing her coolly with an expression that accused her of running, she knew she had done what was best.
Still, doing what was right wasn’t always comforting. She was miserably lonely. Fears of the present and the future weren’t nearly as difficult to overcome as the isolation.
In the week since her return, she hadn’t answered the phone, or returned any of the messages already crowding her machine. Most of them were from reporters or acquaintances hoping for a tidbit of gossip. Mixed among them were a few offers she was afraid she would have to consider.
If she were truly brave and daring, she mused, she’d shimmy into some little black dress and stroll into one of her old haunts to set the room buzzing. Maybe she would before it was done, but for now she had a few more wounds to lick.
Leaving the terrace doors open, she walked into the living area. Other than a few gifts, she’d chosen each and every piece herself. She hadn’t wanted a decorator, but had enjoyed the adventure of hunting down every pillow and lamp.
It certainly reflected her taste, she thought with a wry smile. Eclectic. Hell, she corrected—scattered. An antique curio cabinet crowded with Limoges boxes and Steuben glass. The japanned chest that served as coffee table was topped with a huge Waterford compote that was in turn filled with colorful handblown fruit.
There were Tiffany lamps, Art Deco ones, even a Doulton Flambe that featured a seated Buddha and had cost her some ridiculous amount at auction just to sit there and look ugly.
Every room of the two-bedroom flat was crammed with more. Inkwells she’d collected during some passing stage. Russian boxes, paperweights, vases, bottles—all purchased for no other reason than that they were what she had been acquiring at the time.
Still, it made a lovely, cluttered, and homey place, she thought, as she settled down on the deeply cushioned sofa. The paintings were good. She’d been told she had an eye for art, and the street scenes that lined her walls were clever and lovely and brought the world into her rooms.
Her world. Her rooms. Temporarily, at any rate, Margo thought and lighted a cigarette. But she wasn’t going to be able to hide in them for much longer.
Maybe she would take the offer from Playboy and drive the wolf back, away from her door. Her eyes narrowed in consideration, she drew in smoke. Why not? Why not sell her pathetic story to the tabloids that called daily to clutter her answering machine tape? Either way, she’d have money again. Either way, she would strip herself naked for the grinning world.
What were those few shreds of pride really doing for her?
Hell, maybe she should shock the civilized world and drag all her furnishings out onto the street for one wild, goes-to-the-highest-bidder bazaar.
Laughing, she envisioned how it would distress her very polite and proper doorman, her elegant neighbors. And how it would delight the ever-hungry press.
So what if she spread herself out on the centerfold of a glossy men’s magazine with a couple of strategically placed staples? Who would care if she prostituted her pride to whine about her troubles in a Sunday supplement or supermarket paper?
No one expected any more or any less from her. Perhaps, she thought, tiredly crushing out the cigarette, neither did she.
But to sell her possessions, to publicly barter things for money, that was so . . . middle-class.
Well, something had to be done. The bills were piling up, and she wouldn’t have a roof over her head much longer if she didn’t pass over considerable lire.
She supposed the logical step would be to find a discreet and reputable jeweler and sell her glitters. It would hold her level until she decided what step to take next. She toyed with the square-cut sapphire on her hand; she didn’t have a clue what she had paid for it.
It hardly mattered, did it? she decided. Kate had calculated the worth, and it was what she could get for it now that mattered. She pushed herself up and hurried into the bedroom. After unlocking the safe built into the cedar chest at the foot of her bed, she began pulling out boxes and pouches. In moments, the lamplight beamed on a pile of glittering treasures worthy of Ali Baba’s cave.
Dear God, did she really own a dozen watches? What was wrong with her? And what had possessed her to buy that jeweled collar? It looked like something out of Star Trek. Marcasite hair combs. She never wore hair combs.
The tension began to ease from her shoulders as she examined, separated, began to make decisions. There were dozens of pieces, she discovered, that she could part with without a qualm. Certainly she would reap enough to keep her head above water until she had time to think.
And clothes.
With manic energy she leapt up, scattering jewelry and dashing to her closet. It was enormous, lined with dresses, suits, jackets. Lucite shelves held shoes, bags. Built-in drawers were packed with scarves and belts. A triple mirror ringed with lights reflected her image as she frantically pushed hangers to and fro.
There were secondhand shops that specialized in designer clothes, she knew. Indeed, she had purchased her first Fendi bag at one in Knightsbridge a lifetime ago. If she could buy from a secondhand shop, then by God, she could sell to one.
She tossed jackets, blouses, skirts, slacks over her arm, rushed out to drop them on the bed, dashed back for more.
She was giggling when the doorbell rang, and she ignored it until the constant buzz cut through what she realized abruptly was the edge of hysteria. It was a struggle to swallow the next bubble of laughter, and for the life of her she couldn’t remember the deep breathing exercises from her yoga class.
“Maybe I’m having a breakdown.” The sound of her own voice was tight and nervy. The doorbell continued to buzz like a swarm of angry bees. “All right, all right, all right!” she snapped as she stepped over suede boots that had fallen out of her arms. She would face whoever was at the door, get rid of them, and then deal with the latest mess she’d created.
Ready to fight, she yanked the door open and stared. “Josh!” Why, she wondered, was he always the last person she expected to see?
He took a quick survey of the tousled hair, the flushed face, the robe that was slipping off her shoulder. His first jealous thought was that he’d interrupted sex. “I was in the neighborhood.”
She folded her arms. “You’re checking up on me.”
“Laura made me.” The charming smile flirted around his mouth, but his eyes were hot. Who the hell was in the flat? Who’d been touching her? “I had a little problem to iron out at Templeton Milan, so I promised her I’d swing by, see how you were.” He angled his head. “So, how are you?”
“Tell Laura I’m fine.”
“You could tell her yourself if you’d answer the phone occasionally.”
“Go away, Josh.”
“Thanks, I’d love to come in for a while. No, no,” he continued as he nudged by her, “I can’t stay long.” When she stood firm and left the door open, he shut it himself. “All
right, but just one drink.”
God, he was gorgeous, she thought. Arrogance fit him as sleekly as his linen shirt. “Maybe I’ll call security and have you tossed out.”
His quick laugh had her clenching her fists. As he wandered the room, she measured him. In leather bomber jacket and snug jeans, he looked tougher than she would have expected. She wondered if cheerful little Marco, who manned the door, could bite him on the ankle.
“This oil of the Spanish Steps is new since I was here last,” he commented, eyeing her painting with mild avarice. “It’s not bad. Sixty-five hundred for the French Quarter water-color.”
She arched a brow. “You go up five hundred every time you make an offer. I’m still not going to sell it to you.”
It belonged in the lobby of Templeton New Orleans. He shrugged off her refusal. He would pry it away from her sooner or later. He picked up a paperweight, icy white shapes swimming inside icy white glass, passed it from hand to hand. He hadn’t missed the way she kept glancing back toward the bedroom.
“Something else on your mind, Josh?”
Murder. Mayhem. But he smiled easily. “Hunger. Got anything to eat around here?”
“There’s a nice trattoria just down the street.”
“Good, we’ll walk down later, but I’d love a little wine and cheese now. Don’t trouble yourself,” he added when she didn’t budge. “I’ll just make myself at home.” Still carrying the paperweight, he headed for the bedroom.
“The kitchen’s back here,” Margo began, panicked.
His mouth turned grim. He knew exactly where her kitchen was. He knew where everything was in her flat, and whoever was in the bedroom was going to discover that Joshua Templeton had staked prior claim.
“Damn it.” She caught at his arm and was dragged along with him. “I’ll get you a glass of wine. Just stay out of—”
But it was too late. She let out a frustrated groan as he strode over the threshold and stopped dead.
Looking at the scene now, she could hardly believe it herself. Clothes were in a stream from closet to bed, sequins piled on denim, cashmere heaped on cotton. Jewelry was spread in a sparkling lake on the rug. It looked, she realized, like some bad-tempered child had thrown a tantrum. But Josh’s observation was closer to the mark.
“It looks like Armani and Cartier went to war.”
One of those tricky bubbles of laughter tickled her throat. She nearly managed to clear it away, but her voice stuttered dangerously. “I was just . . . sort of . . . organizing.”
The look he sent her was so dry and bland, she lost her slippery hold on control. Holding her stomach, she stumbled to the chest and collapsed onto it in a wild explosion of laughter. Casually, Josh reached down to pick up a slate-blue jacket, fingered the material.
“The man is a god,” he said, before tossing the Armani onto the bed.
That sent her off into fresh peals. “Joshua.” She managed to hitch in enough breath to speak. “You have to be the only living soul I know who could look at this and not run for the butterfly net.” Because she loved him for it, she held out a hand to invite him to sit beside her. “It was a temporary episode,” she said and let her head tilt against his shoulder. “I think I’m over it.”
With an arm draped around her, he surveyed the chaos. “This is all your stuff?”
“Oh, no.” She chuckled. “I have a closet in the second bedroom, too. It’s packed.”
“Of course it is.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, frowned at the scattered gems. “Duchess, how many earrings do you figure you own?”
“I haven’t the foggiest. I didn’t get into the costume stuff yet.” Feeling better, she sighed. “Earrings are like orgasms. You can never have too many.”
“I never thought about it quite that way.”
“Well, you’re a man.” She gave his knee a friendly pat. “Why don’t I get that wine?”
She was wearing nothing under the robe, and his fingertips were beginning to tingle against the thin silk. “Why don’t I get it?” Distance, he told himself, was the key. The last thing she needed him to do just then was to lose his mind and start to slobber.
“The kitchen—”
“I know where the kitchen is.” He flashed a grin at her narrow-eyed stare. “I was hoping to come in here and intimidate your lover.”
“I don’t have a lover at the moment.”
“That’s handy, isn’t it?” He strolled out, certain that he’d given her something to mull over. When he came back, pleased to have found an excellent Barola in her wine rack, she was kneeling on the floor, carefully putting jewelry back in boxes.
The robe was flirting off her shoulder again. Josh was tempted to tug the sash tight himself, double-knot it so the fabric wouldn’t continue to slip and slide so devastatingly.
When she saw him and rose, he couldn’t avoid seeing the flash of long, slim leg. Every muscle in his body groaned.
The worst of it was she wasn’t trying to drive him to his knees. If she had been, he could have, without qualm, tossed her onto the bed and finally fulfilled his fantasies.
But that careless sexuality was pure Margo.
She took the glass he held out, smiled at him. “I suppose I have to thank you for interrupting the insanity.”
“Want to tell me what started the insanity?”
“Just a stupid idea.” She walked to the doors of the bedroom terrace, threw them open. Night poured in, full of sound and scent. She drew it in as she drew in the wine. “I really love Milan. Almost as much as . . .”
“As?”
Annoyed with herself, she shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m working on ways to stay here, with some level of comfort. Going home to Templeton House isn’t an option.”
“You’re going to let Peter lock you out?”
She bristled at that, turning. The fairy lights on the terrace twinkled around her and dazzled through the thin silk of her robe. “I don’t give a gold-plated shit about Peter Ridgeway, but I’m not going to complicate things for Laura.”
“Laura can manage. She doesn’t let Peter dust her around the way she used to. If you had bothered to hang around, you’d have seen that for yourself.”
She felt her hackles rise again. Damn him. But she spoke smoothly: “Regardless, she’s got a marriage to worry about. For some ridiculous reason, marriage is what matters to her. Christ knows why she wants to be tied down to one man, especially a pompous jerk like Peter.”
Josh took a contemplative sip. “Weren’t you planning on marrying Alain, the slick, lying drug smuggler?”
She tried for dignity. “I didn’t know he was a smuggler.”
“Just a slick liar.”
“All right, fine. You can say that experience gave me a fresh viewpoint on and a general dislike for the institution. The point is, Laura is married and I’m not going to make it more difficult for her.”
“It’s your home too, Margo.”
Now her heart swelled, and broke just a little. “He can’t change that. But you can’t always go home. Besides, I’ve been happy here, and I can be again.”
He moved closer, wanting to read her eyes. “Kate says you’re considering selling your flat.”
Her eyes were simple to read. They were filled with annoyance. “Kate talks too much.” She turned around to study those last gilding lights. He turned her back again.
“She’s worried about you. So am I.”
“You don’t have to be. I’m working on a plan.”
“Why don’t I take you to dinner? You can tell me about it.”
“I’m not sure I’m up to the telling stage, but I could probably eat. We don’t have to go out. The trattoria will deliver.”
“And that way you don’t risk bumping into anyone who knows you,” he concluded and shook his head. “Don’t be a coward.”
“I like being a coward.”
“Then you’d better get dressed.” Deliberately, he skimmed his fingertip over the bare skin of her
shoulder, up her throat. And watched her eyes go dark and wary. “Because you’re asking for trouble right here.”
She nearly tugged her robe into place before she stopped herself. Odd how the skin could tingle. “You’ve already seen me naked.”
“You were ten.” He slid the robe into place himself, gratified when he felt her quick shiver. “It doesn’t count.” To test her reaction, he hooked his fingers in the belt of the robe, gave one gentle tug. “Want to risk it, Margo?”
Danger had snapped into the air, abruptly, unexpectedly, fascinatingly. Struggling to be cautious, she stepped back. “I’ll get dressed. We’ll go out.”
“Safe choice.”
But she didn’t feel safe when he walked out and closed the door behind him. She felt . . . stirred.
* * *
He’d done it to push her into going out. That was the simple, rational conclusion Margo came to. It seemed the only conclusion when he settled into the busy little restaurant and dived into his first-course selection of antipasto di funghi crudi with exuberance.
“Try one.” He held a marinated mushroom to her lips, nudged it through. “Nobody does vegetables like the Italians.”
“Nobody does anything edible like the Italians.” But she toyed with her salad of tomato and mozzarella. She’d grown so accustomed to denying herself full meals that eating heartily still felt like cheating.
“You need a good five pounds, Margo,” he said. “Ten wouldn’t hurt.”
“Ten and I’d have a whopping bill from the dressmaker for alterations in my wardrobe.”
“Eat. Live dangerously.”
She nibbled on cheese. “You’re sort of a businessman,” she began and made him laugh.
“Oh, if you stretch the point.”
“That wasn’t meant to be an insult. It’s hard for me to picture you as an executive, making corporate decisions. Your father’s always had this aura of power. You’re more—”
“Feckless?” he suggested.
“No. Relaxed.” Impatient with herself, she huffed out a breath. “I’m really not trying to insult you, Josh. What I should say is that whatever it is you do, you make it seem easy. Take Peter.”
