One Week in Your Arms

by Patricia Preston

  Carson rubbed his hand over his hair. Did he still have a gun in the drawer?

  “What about it? Are you coming down here?” Truman asked, and Julia insisted he bring his new sweetheart with him.

  One week in paradise.

  “You know we consider you one of our sons,” Julia said. “We love you and we’ll love her, too.”

  Carson glanced at the monitor. He watched Marla give the magazines on the table a bored glance and once again, she looked toward the doors that led out of his office suite. The only thing keeping her pinned in the lobby was the blasted money she needed for her clinic.

  He leaned back in his desk chair. The soft buttery leather cushions embraced him as if they were the arms of a contented lover. He was the one with the money and the power. He was calling the shots.

  He grinned.

  “We’ll be there tomorrow.”

  Chapter 4

  Marla busied herself by looking at the watercolor landscape hanging over the lobby’s fireplace. She loved the beautiful painting of a sunrise stretching over a red canyon. Rich violets and pinks blended across a blue-gray sky, and yellow dappled over the rocks.

  She smiled as she thought of Sophie, who was a budding artist. At five, Sophie loved to paint and draw. It was her favorite thing to do, and Marla had Sophie’s artwork tacked up all over their house. Someday, she hoped, Sophie’s work would be featured in an art gallery for the world to see.

  “Doctor Grant, Mister Blackwell will see you now.” Carson’s secretary motioned for her.

  Marla struggled to look calm as she stepped over the threshold into Carson’s office. She reminded herself of her surgical rotation and the first time she’d cut into a live human. She had survived that. She would survive this.

  Gracie shut the door behind her. The click of the door closing echoed through the spacious office, and she clutched her briefcase tightly as she looked up. Her pulse danced wildly.

  Carson stood beside his gleaming black desk. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his charcoal slacks, and the top buttons of his pearl gray shirt were unfastened. His black silk tie hung loose around his neck.

  Physically, he had not changed much since he’d waved goodbye to her at Royal Oaks. At six foot two, he was a tall man with a stout build. His wide shoulders tested the seams of his broadcloth shirt, and despite the stern expression on his face, he had lost none of his good looks. As always, his dark wavy hair defied styling.

  Just like Sophie.

  “Hello, Marla.” He spoke first, his husky voice cold as he pinned her with an unrelenting gaze. There had never been anything subtle about him. A long time ago, she’d decided that was what made him sexy. She swallowed. It appeared that might still be true.

  “Hello,” she responded, hoping she didn’t sound as jittery as she felt. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I know you’re busy.” She fumbled with the briefcase. “I won’t take up much of your time.” The faster she got through this, the better.

  “Would you like something to drink?” He shoved away from the desk and walked over to the wet bar. “I can mix something. Gin and tonic?”

  “Just water. Thank you.” She might be able to get some water down. She crept across the thick carpet to his desk and placed her briefcase upon it.

  She wasn’t surprised by the size or the panoramic view. The office revealed he was a displaced Texan. Plants grew in southwestern pottery, and an antique map of Texas hung on the wall, along with two portraits of old cowboys.

  She opened the briefcase. Reports, tucked neatly in folders, lined the interior of the case. “I have some data regarding the clinic and information regarding our services.”

  “You like the office?” he asked as he dropped ice cubes into a crystal tumbler.

  She glanced up. “Yes. It’s very nice.” He seemed interested in small talk, and she had no choice but to humor him. After all, she was the one who’d come begging.

  “Your water.” Instead of bringing it to her, he put it on the bar beside him and proceeded to get a bottle of beer out of a small fridge beneath the counter.

  She eyed the glass on the bar. She couldn’t act like a scared mouse. Not when she’d thrown herself at him a few years ago. He might suspect something.

  She strolled over to the bar like sidling up to a bar was something she did every day. They stood only inches apart. Close enough that she felt a sudden charge in the air and the awareness a female feels when she is near a potential mate. Physiology 101.

  As he opened the bottle of beer, she glanced at his hand. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band. She had assumed that by now he had probably married some gorgeous actress or model. Of course, his current love life was none of her business. He was none of her business.

  She took a drink of water and then looked at the glass. She’d left cherry red lipstick and her DNA on the glass. “Not a good idea if you were going to commit a crime,” she said, in a weak attempt at lightening the atmosphere.

  He lifted his brows. “Are you planning to commit a crime?”

  “You never know.” She tapped her fingers against the glass. “Nothing wrong with being unpredictable,” she added. At one time, he’d brought the unpredictable out in her, but she didn’t add that.

  He stared at her, his blue eyes dark and brooding.

  She steered the conversation back to the office. Interior design. Such a safe subject. “I love the Western décor. It’s definitely you. And this is a huge office. It appears you have done really well.” She wondered if he remembered that he had not even hinted at his wealth when they were together. Then again, it wasn’t important. None of it was.

  He leaned against the bar and nursed his drink with a look of indifference.

  Time always changed people. She wished it had changed her more. She wished she didn’t long to touch him. To reach out and brush her fingers through his hair, play with his loose tie, stroke his jaw, and cover his mouth with hers. But she had sworn off meaningless affairs.

  He was her first and her last. Every day she lived with a reminder of it, too.

  Cutting his eyes toward her, he asked, “So, how have you been?”

  “Good,” she responded. “And you?”

  “Good.”

  Well, they’d gotten that out of the way.

  She drifted from the bar on the pretense of looking around and being at ease with the situation. She stopped abruptly in front of a trio of ornate oak bookcases. They displayed several plaques and trophies representing achievements in architecture as well as business awards bestowed on Blackwell Enterprises. But those were not what caught her eye.

  On the top shelf of the third bookcase was an eleven-by-fourteen portrait of a beautiful young woman on her wedding day. She wore a lace veil over her black hair and delicate diamond necklace. Marla walked over to the bookcase and stared at the portrait, taking in every detail.

  The brunette had sparkling blue eyes, full of joy, and an angel’s smile that put a dimple in her right cheek. Her youthful face was unblemished and untainted by the worries that came with age.

  “That’s my mother. Kathleen,” she heard Carson say.

  Marla touched the shelf as she looked at the photograph of the young woman who had captured the heart of a Texas oilman decades ago. The woman who was Sophie’s grandmother.

  Sophie. She thought of her little girl. You look just like her.

  There was a striking resemblance between mother and son. But Sophie was the mirror image of her grandmother. It was startling to see it and to know that someday this was how Sophie would look.

  “She was so beautiful,” Marla said.

  “She was very special,” Carson replied in a fond voice as he walked over to the bookcase. He pointed to a photograph of a young man in a flight suit, posing beside a jet. “That’s my father, Gerald Blackwell,” he said with apparent pride.

  His father had been a tall, rugged man, and Carson had inherited his build.

  She looked at the other photos
on display. There was a family portrait. Gerald and Kathleen Blackwell posed with their two-year-old son. Carson had thick black ringlets of hair all over his head. “Look at your hair.”

  “Hey, I had no control over my hair back then. I don’t have much control over it now,” he said as the tension between them ebbed. “That’s my dad and his two brothers.”

  Other photographs included one of Carson and Miss Eva taken at his college graduation, and Miss Eva with her husband on their wedding day in 1943.

  Marla’s gaze shifted back to the portrait of Kathleen. She was haunted by the resemblance to her own daughter. “What was your mother like?”

  Carson shrugged. “She was a great mom. Very loving. She liked the outdoors. She liked to go horseback riding, and she always had paint on her hands. She was an artist.”

  “An artist? She painted?” Marla gasped.

  Carson gave her a bewildered glance. “Yeah.” He pointed to the oil paintings of the old cowboys. “My mother did these. Eli and Jim. They worked on my grandfather’s ranch.”

  Marla crossed the room to look at the paintings signed K. Blackwell. The essence of the two men, hardened by the wind and sun, was captured in remarkable details such as the squint of their eyes and scuffed boots. Nature had not been kind to them, but it had not beaten them either. “Did she do the watercolor in your lobby?”

  He nodded. “That was her favorite medium.”

  “Really?” Marla gushed as she pictured Sophie brushing watercolors on art paper.

  I love watercolors, Mommy.

  When Marla saw Carson’s puzzled frown, she quickly made an excuse for her odd behavior. “I don’t mean to carry on so, but I just admire people with artistic talent so much. I can’t even draw a stick man.”

  “Come, I want to show you something.” He motioned to a pair of folding doors. “This is one of my studios.”

  She followed him into the airy workroom where blueprints were tacked to corkboards and drawing tables flanked computer monitors displaying images of a building in 3-D.

  “Here.” He led her to a wide table that held a detailed model of a sprawling complex, complete with landscaping, trees, walkways, and parking areas.

  “This is the Kathleen Blackwell Center for Fine Arts. I’ve been working on the design for over two years. I guess you could say it’s my labor of love.

  “The main building will house art galleries. My mother’s paintings will hang in the entrance, and there will be two art galleries in the center building. Rotating exhibits will be featured upstairs. The courtyard leads to an open theater for concerts, ballet, and summer plays,” he explained as she bent to get a closer look at the model.

  “The two buildings on either side of the main building will feature first-floor classrooms and studios for art, music, dance, or writing classes. The second floor of these buildings will be housing for artists-in-residence.”

  She marveled at the style and detail. A small pond was located in the center of a garden. Perfect for an artist. For a moment, she imagined Sophie as a young woman, sitting on one of those benches, sketching.

  “Where are you planning to build it?”

  “In the Dallas area, I hope.” He rounded the table and stopped beside her. He was close enough that she caught a whiff of his sandalwood aftershave. Within, her body hummed and she made an artful step away from him. Distance was always a good thing when it came to danger.

  “Listen, I don’t mean to be taking up your time like this. I do have some reports I’d like you to see—” she began, and he cut in.

  “I know you’re not familiar with Truman Crawford,” Carson said. “But he’s a man of considerable wealth and influence in Texas.”

  Carson gestured toward the model. “I need Truman to help me make this project a reality. It’ll take Truman to pull strings when it comes down to acquiring land and permits, selling the project to local officials, helping find investors. That sort of thing. It’ll be no small feat to make this happen.”

  “I see,” she remarked with a perfunctory nod.

  “The thing about Truman is that he and his wife, Julia, think it’s their duty to look out for me. They were very close to my parents. Like family,” he explained. “They are my godparents, and they think it’s time for me to settle down and get married. Julia is trying to find me Mrs. Right.”

  “Oh.” Now she knew he was unattached at the present, but she refused to let her heart rejoice.

  “I’m sure you’ve been subjected to matchmaking disasters, haven’t you?”

  “Some.” They weren’t actually disasters. A few of the men were great, but there was no spark. None of them had given her tachycardia. None of them had made her heart bounce in her chest like now.

  “Truman and Julia are at Kingsford, a resort I built on the island of Kauai, and he wants to meet with me about this project. The problem is that Julia has found another candidate for Mrs. Right.”

  Marla blinked. She knew all about being Mrs. Wrong.

  “I need to win Truman’s support for this project without having to fool around with some woman I could care less about,” Carson said bluntly.

  She decided to offer advice. “Just tell Mrs. Crawford that you aren’t interested.”

  “I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work.”

  “I see.” Marla studied him for a moment. “Oh, I know! Tell her you have mononucleosis. It’s a virus that most people think is transmitted through kissing, but that’s not always the case, and it does take a while to get over it.”

  “I know what mono is,” he retorted, annoyed.

  She sighed. “I don’t have any other suggestions, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to go ahead with my presentation about the clinic.”

  “Am I boring you?” He was definitely annoyed.

  “No, but there’s nothing I can do about your personal dilemmas.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” He smiled slowly like a poker player about to lay down four aces, and a strange sense of uneasiness spread through her.

  “Truman just called a few minutes ago, and I told him I had found someone special.” Carson gave her a pointed look. “You.”

  “What?” she gasped. “Carson, we haven’t seen or even spoken to each other in years. Why would you tell him that?”

  “Like I said, I need to win Truman’s support for this project without having to put up with Julia’s matchmaking.” He shot her a heartless glance. “Here’s the deal. You need money for your clinic. I need you to go to Kauai with me to appease Julia. If she thinks I’m in a relationship, she’ll leave me be.”

  For a moment, disbelief rendered Marla speechless. “Seriously?”

  “Yes.” He knotted his tie. “Go with me and the grant money is yours. And I’m not talking about trading favors here. You’ll have your own room. No sex required.”

  “Seriously?” she asked again. Had the man lost his mind?

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  Beyond words, she turned and walked back into his office.

  Her briefcase waited on his desk. Otherwise, there was nothing here for her except a ghost from her past who had the power to destroy her life. To destroy Sophie’s life. That was never going to happen. She would literally kill him first.

  He stood in the studio doorway, arms folded with serious etched all over his virile face. “Yes or no?”

  “I’ve never heard of anything so absurd.”

  “One week in paradise and the grant money is yours. It’s not a bad deal,” he said. “And it’s the only offer I’m going to make, sweetheart. Take it or leave it.”

  “We’re practically strangers.”

  “We weren’t always strangers.”

  Her senses zeroed on her former lover. His body. His hands that had once traveled every inch of her body. His tanned face. Stormy blue eyes and a mouth that had teased her unmercifully.

  “No we weren’t,” she said softly. For a short time, they had not been strangers at all. “But tha
t’s not now. It ended well between us,” she reminded him. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to the glass wall in his office that afforded a striking view of well-kept buildings, palm trees, and a blue sky. With his back to her, he spoke, “Are you willing to go home empty-handed?”

  “I can’t believe you don’t know a dozen movie stars or socialites who’d love to go off to Hawaii with you,” she said. “Call one of them.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her, his expression dark. “I don’t want to call one of them.”

  She stared at the neat stack of papers in her briefcase as desperation made her hands clammy. How do you hold your ground when it is cracking beneath you?

  “Truman and Julia will like you.” He turned from the window. “Julia definitely approves of you since you’re a doctor. She’s always lecturing me about raising the bar.”

  Marla stared at him. “Raising the bar?”

  He shrugged and she shook her head. “I have obligations,” she insisted. “I have patients who depend on me. Responsibilities. I can’t just up and go to Hawaii with you. That’s crazy.”

  He strode over to his desk like a man who had things settled. “Call home and take care of your obligations. Have your colleagues cover for you. Surely, your patients can live a week without you.”

  “You’re such an asshole.” She shut her briefcase with a thud.

  He grinned as he checked the messages on his smartphone. “I’ve been called worse.”

  She shoved away from the desk. Standing beside the bookcase, she looked at Miss Eva’s picture and went with a new tactic. “Miss Eva was well-respected in Lafayette Falls. She was known for her sense of honor, duty, and dignity. She would never approve of you using the clinic as leverage to get what you want.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m nothing like my grandmother.” He finished the sentence with a broad smile that put a crease in his right cheek. Sophie had his smile. Marla looked away as the burden she carried in her heart almost overwhelmed her.

  “Marla.” He closed the space between them and towered over her. She stared down at her hands and at his hands. A Rolex watch gleamed beneath the cuff of his white shirt, and he wore a beautiful platinum ring featuring black diamonds.