He nodded. "Sounds like you have quite an operation."
She shook her head. "Not that big. Just select in the kinds of things I sell. I just moved to a new location for my boutique," she explained, "on the Back Bay. I design originals on orders and market a select line of clothes that I think are a little different from what you'd find in a department store."
He laughed. "Somehow you don't strike me as department-store quality."
She blushed. "Thank you. I like my designs to stand out."
"Is that one of yours?" he asked. "That dress you're wearing?"
Lacey glanced down as if she had forgotten what she had put on that morning. "Yes, it is."
"Very lovely," he said, meaning it. "I noticed you when you walked up to the ticket counter. I had no idea I'd be so fortunate as to get the seat next to you," he said, smiling, laughing to himself. "The color attracted me. What do you call that shade?"
"Blue."
He laughed. "I thought you fashion designers had strange and inventive names for colors and didn't call a zigzag a zigzag or a spot a spot."
"We don't call zigzags zigzags," she said, laughing with him. "We call the pattern herringbone. And spots are dots."
"Oh," he said, nodding grandly. "I'll have to remember that. Amazing what you can learn sitting next to someone on an airplane." He turned and smiled at her.
"Actually," she said, "I don't go in for all those cutesy titles for things. I like to call a spade a spade and an ace an ace. People can relate to the simpler things much better. When they don't understand something, they tend not to buy it."
He liked that attitude—straight, up front, open. Not at all like his sitting and talking with her right now, as if he had no idea who she was. "Have you done this sort of thing long?"
"I've had my own business about two years," she said, "but I've been working with clothes and designs and fashion merchandising since college." She didn't add how long ago that was, but guessing, he put her in her early thirties or possibly late twenties. She carried herself with assurance and maturity, but there was something intangibly youthful about her as well. She would blend well with any age group. He found himself wondering how Angela would like Lacey.
"How about you?" she asked.
"Oh," he said, searching quickly for a reply. He hadn't wanted to focus the discussion on his business. All he wanted was to know about her. He'd have to be careful and not give so much away that she'd get a hint of who he really was. "I'm a traveling salesman," he said, thinking that was the broadest term he could use for his work. In effect he was a salesman. He sold himself. He sold other people's ideas with his marketing research and consultation. And he was involved in so many different kinds of enterprises that it would be hard to describe what he did. But if he told her his usual job title, the "marketing consultant" might give him away. He wasn't sure what George had told Lacey about him.
"Then you must travel a lot also."
"It comes in spurts," he answered. Quick! Get the subject back on her. "How do you like New York?"
"Love it!" she said, smiling. "I get so filled up with ideas there I can only take three or four days at a time, then I have to come home to recharge. Living on the Gulf Coast has its advantages in being so restful after the pace of New York."
He nodded. He had spent enough time in the Big Apple to know what she meant. "Wonderful place to visit, but I agree. I like the country atmosphere of Biloxi."
Lacey frowned. "I never thought of Biloxi as the country," she said. "I think of it more as the beach, but I suppose it does have a lot of wide-open spaces, once you get away from the beach."
Careful, he warned himself. You almost gave yourself away. "I live a little way out," he said, "so I tend to think of my few acres as the country." Time for a subject change, he told himself. "Tell me, how did you get started designing clothes?"
"That's kind of hard to pinpoint," she answered. "I'd have to go back to my childhood."
"It's a long enough flight," he said, encouraging her to speak, anything that would take the conversation off himself.
"I always liked drawing and coloring as a child. That was probably the beginning. Nobody in my family can even draw a crooked line. When I was small I used to spend hours with paper cutouts and paper dolls, drawing more outfits onto the models than they came with." She stopped speaking a moment to look out the window as the plane lined up on the runway and the engines revved for takeoff. She turned back to him, a flush on her face from excitement. "I always love flying. There's something exhilarating about this huge piece of machinery lifting off the ground."
He agreed, and he wanted to tell her his own fascination with flight, but that would be hitting too close to home. Better just to shake his head and smile.
"Anyway," she said, once the plane had lifted off and climbed enough to give her a good view, "what really started my interest in designs was a yeoman warden's hat."
"A what?"
"You know, one of those hats the guards at the Tower of London wear."
He nodded. "What did that have to do with it?"
"Everything," she said, laughing. "Someone brought me one as a souvenir from a trip to England. I just liked the look of it and I wanted to wear it so all my friends would ask me where it came from. But I didn't have any kind of outfit that it would complement. So I designed one. Of course it was just adapting a dress pattern and making that my home-economics project for the school year, but it worked. That's when I started collecting hats also."
He smiled to encourage her to continue talking without his interruptions. It was easier to keep the conversation in her territory.
"In college one of my projects was to design something for every hat in my collection, which by then had become quite large. Friends who traveled knew I collected hats, so they would bring me one from wherever they had been. Some of the stories that went with how they carried the hats back to me are funny too. So each hat has its history. Then I did a little traveling myself and added to the collection even more. I have them displayed around my boutique now, and periodically I take on that original challenge to see how differently I can redesign something for each hat again." She finished speaking and grinned.
He smiled back.
"That's a nice hat you have," she said, looking at the cavalry-officer hat he was wearing this trip.
Damn, he thought, I hope she doesn't ask me about it. With luck, she won't know what the gold ties around the band mean. "Thank you," he said, hoping he could head her off at the pass with an explanation that wouldn't relate to the military. He couldn't help it if his favorite hat was the one he'd worn in Vietnam. "It's a Stetson."
"Really?" she said. "They're quite legendary."
"It's a good hat," he confirmed. "They hold up for years. I send them to a hat cleaner periodically, but can you believe this one's almost twenty years old?"
"May I?" she asked, holding her hand out to touch his hat.
He handed it to her. All it said on the inside was "Stetson." There weren't any dog tags hanging from the brim.
"That's a quality hat. Quality is something I try to put into my work. I want it to last. Because fashions keep swinging around in cycles if you give them long enough. Very nice hat," she said again, handing it back to him.
"Thank you."
"You know, in all the hats I have, I don't think… no, I don't," she said, pausing, then resuming what she was saying, "have a cowboy hat, or western hat—or what is the proper term?"
"Stetson," he said, smiling.
She laughed. "I'll have to add one to my collection. The best way to do it would be to go to Texas, I suppose, and pick one up on my next buying trip."
"What you need to do is to go to the Stetson factory outlet in St. Joseph, Missouri."
"Where's that?"
"Near Kansas City."
She nodded. "The western look was big a few years ago, and last year it was the Santa Fe style that was popular. But I suppose that rugged-cowboy appeal will never trul
y die down."
"Hope not," he said, touching his hat. "I'd hate to find my horse riderless."
"Do you have a horse?" she asked, looking at him.
Rafe hesitated. They were hitting close to home again. Tread carefully, Chancellor, he told himself. Don't give yourself away. "I grew up on a ranch," he said, which was true enough. "My family always had horses around. Once you get ropin' and ridin' in your blood, I guess you never get rid of it. Kind of like traveling."
"But you can burn out on anything," she said, reaching up to massage the back of her neck.
Rafe watched her movements without her being aware of how interested he was in her. "Is there a problem?" he asked.
"What? Oh. My neck? My back's stiff. It's from carrying my suitcases. It happens every trip. This is the tiring end of the journey."
He smiled his "I-know-what-you-mean" smile. What he wouldn't give to put his hands on her bare skin and give her a back rub and massage… and make long passionate love to her through the night. He smiled. George sure knew how to pick a woman for him. He couldn't wait to have dinner with her on Saturday evening. And although he could wait, he didn't want to wait to make love to her. But he would, of course—the discovery would be half of the adventure.
Chapter Five
Lacey hummed as she went into the boutique on Friday morning. The memory of meeting R.C. on the plane still weighed on her mind. She still didn't know his last name. But that would come. He knew hers, plus her phone number, and he had said he would give her a call to have dinner with her sometime soon.
Interesting man, she thought now as she sorted through the stack of mail waiting for her return from Atlanta. Not the kind of man she would have looked twice at had he appeared as the centerfold of a women's magazine, but better. He was the kind who stood out from the crowd. He had style; he had flair; he stood alone.
Yet he was so friendly, so interesting, so likable, so… She searched her mind for further adjectives to describe someone she had talked with for less than two hours. He was so much a man.
He had offered to carry her bag for her when they got off the plane, and had waited for all of her tons of luggage to come through the baggage claim just so that he could help her take it out to her car. And all the while she had felt like a clumsy elephant next to him with his compact saddlebags thrown over his shoulder.
She tried to picture him in her mind now, and had only a vague image. The Stetson and the saddlebags were as clear as the picture on cable TV, but his physical image wasn't as sharp, except for the scar slashing across his left cheek. She couldn't even remember the color of his eyes.
It was probably because she hadn't spent much time staring at him. During the flight she hadn't noticed the scar because of the way they had been seated. Afterward, when they had left the plane and she had seen it, it had shocked her. It wasn't that it made him unpleasant to look at, but it embarrassed her. She could only begin to imagine the kind of pain he must have endured. He might also feel sensitive and self-conscious about it, so she had tried to pretend she hadn't noticed.
That had been difficult to do whenever she had looked at him. She had concentrated on looking into his eyes. They were expressive, warm eyes, prone to smiling, even when his lips weren't. She thought that was surprising too, that he could seem so cool and unconcerned when he was branded with such a devastating feature. That impressed her even more, to think what sort of terms he must have had to come to, to adjust to living with that scar for the rest of his life.
She wondered why he didn't grow a beard. He had a mustache, and his firm, square jaw would look even more rugged with a beard. And the beard would hide that scar. It was as if he was announcing to the world, "This is it—faults and all—take it or leave it."
She smiled thinking about how pleasant he had made the trip for her. She suspected, just judging by the way he had deliberately kept the conversation on her, steering away from himself whenever she tried to silence her rambling tongue, that he was a generous man. She had shaken his hand as they stood by her car after he had loaded all of her luggage inside. "Please do call," she had told him. "I'd enjoy talking with you further."
There was still so little she knew about him. R.C. Period. She didn't even know if he was married. She should have asked that up front. Odd that he hadn't asked that of her either. But nice, too, because it was usually the first question off a man's lips when he was only interested in an amorous relationship.
"Lacey," Jane said, poking her head into the back office where Lacey was daydreaming and sorting through the mail. "This package just came for you from UPS."
Lacey frowned. She wasn't expecting anything until next week or so, and certainly nothing so small. "Thanks," she said, taking the package and looking at the return address. Biloxi. Who locally would be sending her something? she wondered remembering Rafe Chancellor for the first time since her return from Atlanta. After meeting R.C. on the plane, the prospect of the blind date with Rafe paled. This was probably another of his promotional schemes to make certain she didn't forget their date tomorrow night, which, in effect, she had done until just now. She wondered if there was any way she could get out of it. What would make a good excuse?
It was too late to try to send him a note. If a person was going to stand up another person on a date, she should at least have the courtesy to do it with advance notice. Twenty-four hours was too soon. If she called on the phone, it'd be more difficult to put her reasons into words. It would just be better, and easier, to grin and bear it for one night. Besides, it would save the nightly routine of rummaging through the refrigerator.
She tore the paper off the carton and opened it to reveal a hat box. Lacey's excitement peaked. This couldn't be Rafe Chancellor's style. It was probably more like R.C.'s, especially after their discussion on the plane about her hat collection and how it had started her designing career.
She picked up the packaging and looked again at the return address. It was a post-office box here in Biloxi. That would qualify as a business address. And she had given him her business card when she had gotten off the plane. It would only be logical that he should try to reach her through the boutique, either on the phone or by mail. Rafe Chancellor had always written to her at home.
She pulled the hatbox out of the carton and looked through the cushioning packaging to be certain she wasn't missing anything like a card or letter. Nothing.
She untied the strings from the box and lifted the lid as if something alive would spring out. More tissue paper, but with a card lying on top this time. She picked it up and read: "Thought you'd like to add this to your collection. R.C."
All but the signature was typed. Lacey smiled. What a delightful man, and so thoughtful after such a brief meeting. She turned over the card, looking to see if there was any return address or phone number, anything other than the post-office-box number she could use to get in touch with him.
Shoving the tissue paper aside, she lifted a gray felt hat from the box. The hat band was red, black and white in an Aztec design, with a small grouping of feathers sprouting from one side. She turned the hat over. A Stetson.
Grinning, she put it on her head. The man had an expert eye for size. Or maybe he had just bought something from the "small" category. Either way, it fit. And glancing at herself in the mirror, she saw that it suited her too. But how had he been able to guess her size and pick out a style so quickly? she wondered, then quickly dismissed the thought.
R.C. struck her as the kind of high-powered executive, even if he was just a traveling salesman, who knew how to get results. He probably had picked up the phone, described her to someone, given an idea of what he was looking for, and said, "Send half a dozen and I'll return the ones I don't like." He was a leader, and an extravagant one at that. Who else would send a stranger a Stetson after talking with her for less than two hours?
"Jane," she called, "come see what I got!"
Jane appeared in the doorway, a look of curiosity on her face. "Where did that
come from?" she-asked, laughing. "I mean, who sent it? I don't remember ordering anything like that."
"I didn't. We didn't. It came from someone I met on the plane coming back from Atlanta."
"Really?" Jane asked, stepping closer and turning Lacey around to admire the hat from different angles. "It suits you, cowgirl."
Lacey laughed. "It does, doesn't it, but I've never pictured myself that way. This could set off a whole new line of designs."
"Who is this person who sent the hat?"
"A man," Lacey answered.
Jane put a smug look on her face and folded her arms across her chest. "I thought as much. Well, who is he? Tell me about him."
"I don't know much about him. We only talked on the flight back. All I know is his name is R.C. and he lives here. But he has my address and phone number."
"Obviously," Jane said, grinning. "And expensive tastes. That's no dollar-ninety-nine special out of the five-and-dime."
"I gathered that," Lacey agreed. "Can you imagine!"
"And all you know is that his name is R.C?"
Lacey nodded.
Jane laughed. "I don't believe you. First you get all these mysterious messages from a complete stranger here in town who sends you flowers and return postcards and cassette tapes and wants to take you out to dinner. He's even sending a car to pick you up, which is like something straight out of a movie. I can't even get anyone to rendezvous with me at the drive-in window of a hamburger joint. And now you're getting a Stetson hat from somebody whose last name you don't even know. Where do you shop for your men, anyway?"
Lacey laughed. "Weird, isn't it? Because I stay at home so much. It looks like I do all my shopping through the mail, doesn't it?"
"You're going to end up as a male-ordered bride if you don't watch out," Jane said. "And I don't mean m-a-i-l."
Lacey wasn't paying attention. She was admiring how well the gray hat went with her hair color. A perceptive man too. Now she was more excited than ever because the hat said he was interested and he would follow through and call her, just as he had told her he would when he had left her in the parking lot.
Male Order Bride Page 7
