by Nora Roberts
She hadn’t expected him to ask, even out of politeness. And she softened all over again. “Ali’s ten. Kayla’s seven.”
“You got started early. Girls that age usually go for horses. They can come by and see mine whenever they like.”
More of the unexpected. “That’s kind of you, Michael. I don’t want them to get in your way.”
“I like kids.”
He said it so simply that she believed him. “Then I’ll warn you, they’re both eager to see them. And I suppose you’re eager to see the stables.” Out of habit she glanced at her watch, and winced.
“Got an appointment?”
“Actually, yes, I do. If you don’t mind taking the rest of the tour on your own, I really have to change.”
To get her hair done, he imagined, or her nails. Or to make her fifty-minute hour with some society shrink. “Sure.”
“I left the keys in the kitchen,” she continued, juggling details. “There isn’t a phone. I didn’t know if you wanted one. There’s a jack. Somewhere. If you need anything, you—”
“I’ll be fine.” He slipped a check out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Rent.”
“Oh.” She slipped it into her own pocket, sorry that she couldn’t welcome one of her brother’s old friends as a guest. But the rent would go a long way toward new ballet shoes and drawing lessons. “Thank you. Welcome to Templeton House, Michael.”
She went to the door and down the steps. He walked to the side window and watched her cross the rolling lawn toward Templeton House.
“And there I was,” Laura muttered, “standing in the bathtub.” She sighed, grateful for a lull in the customer flow in Pretenses so that she could vent to her friends. “Wearing rags. Holding a scrub brush. Stop laughing.”
“In a minute,” Kate promised, holding a hand to her aching stomach. “I’m perfecting the image in my mind first. The elegant Laura Templeton caught fighting pesky bathtub ring.”
“Ring, hell. It’s more like bathtub plague. And maybe I’ll think it’s funny in a year. Or two. But right now it’s mortifying. He just stood there grinning at me.”
“Mmm.” Margo touched her tongue to her top lip. “And if memory serves, Michael Fury had one hell of a grin. Is he as wickedly, dangerously handsome as ever?”
“I didn’t notice.” Laura sniffed and gave her attention to rubbing a fingerprint off the glass display case.
“Liar.” Margo leaned closer. “Come on, Laura. Tell.”
“I suppose he looked a bit like a twentieth-century version of Heathcliff. Dark, brooding, potentially violent, and rough around the edges.” Her shoulders shrugged again. “If that sort of thing appeals to you.”
“It wouldn’t make me look the other way,” Margo decided. “Josh said he was a mercenary for a while.”
“A mercenary?” She’d forgotten that and remembering now, nodded. “Figures.”
“And I ran into him once in France when he was racing. Cars.” Margo tilted her head as she brought the memory back. “We had an interesting evening together.”
Laura lifted a brow. “Oh, really?”
“Interesting,” Margo repeated and left it at that. “Then it was stunt work in Hollywood. And now it’s horses. I wonder if he’ll stick around this time. I know Josh hopes he does.”
“At least the situation has pushed me into getting the stables in shape.” Wanting busy work, Laura moved to the shelves and began to tidy glassware. “I’ve neglected them too long. In fact, I may think about getting a horse myself once I can manage it. The girls might like that.”
“So what kind of horses does he raise? Breed. Own. Whatever,” Kate wondered.
“I didn’t ask. I just showed him around the apartment, gave him the keys. I suppose he’s competent. Josh seems to think so. And if his rent check doesn’t bounce, I’ll assume he’s reliable. I can’t imagine I’d want any more out of a tenant. Horses take a lot of time and work.” Which meant, Laura thought, she couldn’t even consider having them again for at least a decade. “He’ll be busy. I doubt we’ll see much of him.”
The door opened for a pair of customers. Recognizing them as regulars, Laura smiled, stepped forward. “I’ll take them,” she murmured to her partners. “Good to see you, Mrs. Myers, Mrs. Lomax. What can I show you today?”
As Laura led the customers into the wardrobe room, Margo considered. “She’s trying not to be interested.”
“Hmm?”
“Laura. She had the look of a woman who’s been intrigued by a man and is trying not to be.” After a moment’s thought, Margo smiled broadly. “Good.”
“And why would that be good?”
“It’s time she had a little distraction in her life. A little male distraction.”
“And do you ever think of any other kind of distraction?”
“Kate—” Amused, Margo patted her friend’s hand. “From a woman newly married to a certified hunk, that’s a very stupid question. Laura’s never let herself cut loose when it comes to men. I think Michael Fury might just be the perfect thirtieth birthday present.”
“He’s a man, Margo, not a pair of earrings.”
“Oh, but darling, I think he might look wonderful on her. So to speak.”
“And I don’t suppose it occurs to you that they might not be interested in each other, in a sexual way. Wait.” Kate held up a hand. “I forgot who I was talking to.”
“Don’t be snide.” Margo tapped her fingers on the counter. “You’ve got a man and a woman, both unattached as far as we know, both attractive. Josh has put them in close proximity. Though I doubt it was his intention, he’s created a very interesting situation.”
“When you put it like that.” Concerned, Kate glanced toward the wardrobe room. “Look, I always liked Mick, but he was a wild child. We could have a lamb and wolf situation here.”
“I certainly hope you’re right. Every woman needs at least one close encounter with a wolf. But . . .” They were talking about Laura, after all. “I’ll have to invite Michael over for dinner. Check him out myself.”
“And I suppose we’ll have to bow to your greater judgment and experience.”
“Naturally.” The door jangled open again. “Back to work, partner.”
In the wardrobe room Laura was patiently showing their selection of cashmere sweaters. If she had been aware of the direction her friends were taking she would have been both amused and appalled.
Men in general simply weren’t of interest to her. She didn’t hate them. Her experience with Peter hadn’t turned her into a shrew, made her frigid, or narrowed her vision so that she considered men the enemy. Too many good men had touched her life for that. She had her father as a prime example. Her brother was another. And over the past months, she had come to love Byron De Witt.
Family was one thing. Intimate, even casual, relationships were another. She didn’t have the time, inclination, or energy for one. In the two years since she had ended her marriage, she had been struggling to rebuild her life on all levels. Her children, her home, her work for Templeton. And Pretenses.
While her customers debated their selections, she eased back to give them room, musing on the events that had led to starting the shop. It had been an impulse, a step she’d taken for Margo as much as for herself.
Margo’s career and finances had been in ruins when she returned to Monterey from Europe. The idea of liquidating her possessions and creating an intriguing space in which to sell them had been a risk, but it had paid off from the first moment.
Not just in dollars, Laura thought, as she wandered back into the main showroom. In pride, in confidence. In friendship and fun.
When they bought the building, it was an empty space, dusty, scarred, smelly. Their vision, their effort had turned it into the remarkable. Now the glass of the wide display window sparkled in the sunlight and teased passersby with clever hints of what was offered inside.
A sassy cocktail dress in emerald, with the nostalgic touch of peacock feathers
at the shoulder, was draped over the elegant chair of a woman’s vanity. Colorful bottles stood on the glossy surface, along with a jeweled collar. One of the drawers was open so that glittery rhinestones and shimmering silks spilled out. There was a lamp shaped like a swan, a single crystal flute beside an empty bottle of champagne. A man’s cuff links and carelessly tossed formal black tie mingled with the woman’s trinkets. A pair of red spike heels was artfully positioned to give the impression that their owner had just stepped out of them.
The little vignettes in the display were usually Margo’s domain, but Laura had designed this one. And was proud of it. As she was of the shop as a whole. Throughout the spacious showroom was scattered the unique, the fanciful. The warm rose walls complemented glass shelves filled with treasures. Porcelain boxes, silver services, gold-ringed stemware. A velvet settee—the third they’d had to stock—provided customers a chance to sit, enjoy a cup of tea, a glass of champagne.
Gilded tightwinder stairs spiraled up toward the open balcony that ringed the room and led to the boudoir where negligees, peignoirs, and other night apparel were displayed in a gorgeous rosewood armoire. Everything was for sale, from the rococo bed to the smallest silver trinket box. And nothing was duplicated.
The shop had quite literally saved all three of them. And though she wouldn’t have thought it possible, it had brought them even closer together.
As she hovered outside the wardrobe room, she watched Margo show a customer a sapphire bracelet from the display. Kate discussed the origins of an Art Nouveau lamp with another. A new customer studied an opal snuff bottle while her companion perused the selection of evening bags.
Mozart was playing on the stereo, softly. Through the window, Laura caught glimpses of the busy traffic on Cannery Row. Cars chugged or streamed or jockeyed for position. People strolled by on the sidewalk. A man passed with a young boy giggling from his perch on Daddy’s shoulders. A couple, arm in arm, stopped to admire the display—and moments later came inside.
“Ms. Templeton?”
Pulling herself back from her reverie, Laura turned to the wardrobe room. “Yes, Mrs. Myers, did you find something you like?”
The woman smiled, held out her choice. “I never leave Pretenses disappointed.”
The glow of pride was swift and satisfying. Laura accepted the cashmere. “We’re here to see that you never do.”
Chapter Four
“Pretty good digs, right, boy?” Michael groomed Max, his pride and joy while the enormous buff-colored Tennessee walker snorted in agreement.
The Templeton horse palace was a far cry from the simple working stables that Michael had built in the hills, then watched collapse under walls of mud. Not that it had looked much like a palace when he stepped inside that first afternoon, when he ran into Laura. Then it bore more than a slight resemblance to some fairy-tale cottage long under a wicked spell, deserted by all who had once inhabited it.
He had to grin at the thought, and at the fact that everything about the Templeton estate made him think of fairy tales with golden edges.
What he found in the stables was dust, disuse, and disrepair.
It had taken him the best part of a week to ready the building. No easy task for one man and a single pair of hands, but he wasn’t willing to move his horses in until their temporary home had been cleaned and organized to his specifications.
On the other hand, for that week he’d had to endure the public stables, the painfully high fee for boarding, and the fact that his own lodgings were miles away from his stock. But the results were well worth the investment of a few sixteen-hour, muscle-aching days.
It was a good, solid building, with the stylish touches that the Templetons were known for. The loose boxes had plenty of space and light and air, a more important feature to Michael than the intricately laid brick flooring, the decorative tiles around the mangers, or the ornate ironwork above them, with its center stylized T in polished brass.
Though he did consider the fancy work a nice touch.
The layout was practical, with the tack room at one end of the block, the feed room at the other. Though he was baffled by the obvious neglect and disuse, he put his back into it and dug in to correct the situation. He hauled and hammered, swept and scrubbed until every stall met his stringent standards for his babies.
He thought of them as such, secretly.
He’d had fresh hay and straw delivered that morning and had been grateful that the boy who delivered it had been willing to make a few extra dollars by helping Michael store the bales.
Now each stall was deeply bedded with wheat straw—expensive and difficult to come by, but these were his babies, after all. Some tools and some ingenuity had put the automatic drinking bowls back in working order. He oiled hinges on stall doors, replaced hooks that had rusted away.
Since he’d lost all of his supplies in the mud, he had to restock grain, electrolytes, vitamins, medicines. He’d managed to salvage some tack, some tools. Every piece had been cleaned and polished, and what couldn’t be saved had been, or would shortly be, replaced.
His fifteen horses were housed as royally as he could manage, but as yet, he hadn’t done more than sleep in the upstairs apartment.
“You’ve come up in the world, Max. You might not know it, but you are now a tenant of the Templeton estate. That is one big fucking deal, pal, take my word for it.”
He slapped the horse affectionately on the flank and pulled a carrot out of the pouch tied at his waist. “I’ve already started designing your new place. Don’t worry. Maybe we’ll add a few of the fancier touches ourselves this time around. But in the meantime, you can’t do much better than this.”
Max took the carrot politely, and the dark eye he turned to Michael was filled with patience, wisdom, and, Michael liked to think, affection as well.
He stepped out of the stall, latched the bottom half of the door with its foot bolt, then moved down the block. The floor might have been fancy enough for a garden party, but it sloped perfectly. His boot heels clicked. In anticipation, a chestnut head poked over the adjoining stall door.
“Looking for me, baby?” This was his sweetheart, as kind and gentle a mare as he had ever worked with. He’d bought her as a foal, and now she was heavily pregnant and had been assigned to the foaling stall. He called her Darling.
“How’s it going today? You’re going to be happy here.” He stepped inside and ran his hands over her enormous sides. Like an expectant father, he was filled with anticipation and concern. She was small, barely fourteen hands, and he worried about how she would fare when her time came.
Darling liked to have her belly rubbed, and she blew appreciatively when Michael obliged her. “So beautiful.” He cupped her face in his hands as a man might hold the face of a cherished woman. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned.”
Pleased with the attention, she blew again, then lowered her head to nibble at his pouch. Chuckling, he took out an apple—she preferred them to carrots. “Here you go, Darling. You’re eating for two.”
He heard the voices—young, excited, almost piping—and stepped out of the stall.
“Mama said we’re not supposed to bother him.”
“We’re not going to bother him. We’ll just look. Come on, Kayla. Don’t you want to see the horses?”
“Yeah, but . . . What if he’s in there? What if he yells at us?”
“Then we’ll just run away, but we’ll get to see the horses first.”
Amused, wondering if Laura had painted him as an ogre or a recluse, Michael stepped out of the shadows of the stables and into the sunlight. If he’d been a poetic man, he would have said he’d encountered two angels.
They thought they were looking into the face of the devil himself. He was all in black, with shadows behind him. The hard, handsome face was unsmiling and dark with stubble. His hair reached almost to his shoulders, and he had a black bandanna tied around his forehead, like a wild Indian, or a pirate.
&n
bsp; He seemed big, huge, dangerous.
Her heart jittering, Ali put a hand on Kayla’s shoulder, both to protect her sister and to steady herself. “We live here,” she stammered. “We can be here.”
He couldn’t resist playing it out a little. “Is that so? Well, I live here. And I don’t look kindly on trespassers. You wouldn’t be horse thieves, would you? We have to hang horse thieves.”
Shocked, appalled, terrified, Ali could only shake her head vigorously. But Kayla stepped forward, fascinated.
“You have pretty eyes,” she said, dimpling into a smile. “Are you really a troublemaking hoodlum? Annie said so.”
All Ali could do was whisper her sister’s name in mortification and fear.
Ah, he thought, Ann Sullivan, sowing his youthful reputation ahead of him. “I used to be. I gave it up.” Christ, the kid was a picture, he thought. A heart melter. “Your name’s Kayla, and you have your mother’s eyes.”
“Uh-huh, and that’s Ali. She’s ten. I’m seven and a half, and I lost a tooth.” She grinned widely to show him the accomplishment.
“Cool. Have you looked for it?”
She giggled. “No, the Tooth Fairy has it. She took it up into the sky to make a star out of it. Do you have all your teeth?”
“Last time I checked.”
“You’re Mr. Fury. Mama says we have to call you that. I like your name, it’s like a storybook person.”
“A villain?”
“Maybe.” She twinkled at him. “Can we see your horses, Mr. Fury? We won’t steal them or hurt them or anything.”
“I think they’d like to see you.” He offered a hand, which Kayla took without hesitation. “Come on, Ali,” he said casually. “I won’t yell at you unless you deserve it.”
Biting her lip, Ali followed them into the stables. “Oh!” She jolted back, then giggled at herself when Max stuck his huge head over the stall door. “He’s so big. He’s so pretty.” She started to reach out, then stuck her hand behind her back.
“You can pet him,” Michael told her. The older girl was a little shy, he decided, and pretty as a picture in a book. “He doesn’t bite. Unless you deserve it.” To demonstrate, he hauled Kayla up on his hip. “Go ahead, meet Max. He’s a Southern gentleman.”
