by Barbara Daly
"Ha!" said Hope. "You wanted to play the video games."
"I won." He gave her a supercilious look over the rim of his martini glass, then smiled. "Thanks for going with me. Think the kids are going to like that stuff I got them?"
"How could they not love it? PlayStation consoles, games galore, those skinny little scooters… They are boys, right?"
"All four of them. I saw you sneaking around to the doll section. Sorry."
She flushed. "Just wanted to take a look at the inventory and the display techniques. How old are the boys?"
"Twelve, eleven, ten and nine. Kris and Betsy got married young, had the kids young."
Hope examined the expression on his face. For a moment he'd seemed depressed. "What made you different?"
"Somebody in the family had to have some ambition. Everybody else has the 'all you need is love' philosophy."
"Sometimes I wonder…" Hope began, then fell silent. Sometimes she wondered if that was what happiness boiled down to, simply loving and being loved.
Her biological mother had sacrificed everything for love, had estranged herself from her family when she married the wild, handsome, romantic pilot who had been Hope's and her sisters' father. She'd even sacrificed her life to be with him on the day their father's passion for the sky took them away forever.
But she'd loved her daughters, too. She'd left them, not to her family, but to her childhood friend Maggie Sumner and her husband Hank. While Maggie and Hank might suggest that you needed more than love to live a fulfilling life, it was love that ran their home.
Faith and Charity wanted both, professional success and love, while she'd always felt love was something you couldn't have until you'd achieved the professional success. Now she was starting to wonder.
The Irish coffee—and something else, perhaps—was sending a comfortable warmth through Hope's insides. She eased back into the leather banquette, relaxed into the dimness of the gracious wood-paneled room. Beyond the windows, the snow fell fast and furious, magnifying and reflecting the tiny lights that wound around the trees from trunk to top and feathered out among the branches. Could there be a better way to spend a wintry afternoon than to watch snow falling on Christmas lights and contemplate love?
Feeling a blush heat her face, she was careful not to look at Sam as she rephrased her question. "What happens to people like you and me to make us put love on the back burner, behind a pot of ambition at full rolling boil?"
"For me, it was my first look at what you can do when you have money. The power that comes with it." His face darkened. "What happens when you don't have it. People may respect you as a person, but in a fight, you're helpless."
It was as though he heard the bitterness in his own voice, as though he were appalled at himself for letting the conversation drift into personal matters. A series of expressions shifted across his face before a curtain dropped to obscure the man inside.
"Wow," he said, "shopping is harder than racquetball."
"Racquetball's your game?"
"Most exercise in the shortest time," Sam said.
"Figures," Hope said, and smiled at him. She welcomed the shift in the conversation. She'd been intrigued by the glimpse of what made Sam run, but she was more than happy to move away from her own thoughts of love.
* * *
In another minute he'd have told her the whole sad story of his family's slide from prosperity to bare subsistence. It wasn't the martini talking, either. He hadn't had enough gin to blame it on that. It was the sense of comfortable familiarity he'd felt with Hope almost from the moment of meeting her.
Comfortable talking to her. Uncomfortable in other ways.
He hadn't intended to let himself feel desire for her. He couldn't afford to. He had to stay focused on nailing down his partnership. He couldn't let himself get sidetracked by her warm smile, her occasional blush, the way she'd kissed him, as if she wanted him with something close to the desperate wanting he felt for her.
She couldn't want him as much as he wanted her. Nobody could want anybody as much as he wanted her. God, how long had it been? He'd been a fool to make himself this vulnerable to a woman.
It was dangerous to get so close to her. There were things he didn't want to have to explain to her, like his small, inconvenient, cheap-for-New York apartment. He earned plenty. He didn't want her to know he only spent it on the things he needed to to keep up his successful - and - soon - to - be - more - successful image. There were too many things he had to do before he could relax and admit he was a rich man.
If, God forbid, it didn't happen, he had no intention of being caught unprepared the way his father had been when the crop failed, and failed again, until there wasn't anything to fall back on. His father had ended up working at the local John Deere distributorship, repairing tractors. There were times when all Sam could hear in his head was his mother's voice saying, "But we still have each other. That's all that matters." It was what she said each time she told him and the girls they couldn't afford whatever it was they wanted.
Like college. The girls had gone to work at the beauty shop and the grocery store right out of high school. They'd married local boys when they were way too young, before they'd learned anything about the rest of the world. He'd dared to be different, had worked his butt off to get where he was today, so close to his goal.
The partners would meet just before Christmas to go over their profit-and-loss reports, distribute bonuses and make decisions about new partners. Then he'd know where he stood.
He had to slow things down with Hope. He wouldn't let himself make up another excuse to see her until the party Friday night. He'd remain within the boundaries of the deal they'd made.
Of course, there was that one aspect of the deal they'd never quite finalized.
He was too far gone to kid himself. He wanted to make love with Hope. It had nothing to do with the deal.
But maybe he could convince her it did.
He reached his apartment building, let himself in, climbed three flights of stairs and opened the door to his one-room studio apartment. Dropping his Christmas presents on the bed, he wondered what Hope was doing right now.
* * *
Hope had half wished he'd suggest following up their day of Christmas shopping with dinner, but he didn't, merely mentioned he'd see her next Friday, which made her feel half-relieved. Unaccustomed to feeling half anything, she felt vaguely unbalanced as she stepped through her door into her living room, and knew she couldn't blame the feeling on the unwieldy bag of Christmas wrappings she'd lugged home.
She sensed a difference even as she wisely—she'd learned her lesson—switched on the light before taking another step. In the course of a single afternoon, a tree had sprung up in the corner of the room behind the sofa.
Its small, delicate leaves cast shadows on the ceiling and almost seemed to shade the sofa from the lights of the city beyond the windows, to shelter her from the bustle and noise, to cradle her in its branches.
She put down her shopping bag with a resounding thump. For heaven's sake, it's just a tree. Maybelle had struck again.
* * *
"We're not going to reach settlement in the Palmer case."
Sam leaned back in his chair. "Too much human interest involved. It's really the media's case now."
Phil nodded. "And you know, you can't help looking at it from Magnolia Heights' point of view. Water system's not working right, leaks everywhere, mold, mildew…"
"But we're convinced Palmer's not liable."
"We represent Palmer Pipe." Phil looked at him levelly. "We make our case on the evidence they've given us."
"I realize that," Sam murmured.
Phil sighed. "The truth is, we've had our experts run test after test on that pipe, and it's exactly what Palmer claims it is."
"Number 12867," said in the voice of a fond mother, came to Sam's mind, and he had to keep himself from smiling.
"The reason I called you in," Phil went on, "is that the
Executive Board wants you to head up the litigation team, argue the case in court."
Sam's heart thudded in his chest. "Thanks, Phil, I'm honored."
"This says a lot about how the firm feels about you," Phil said.
He didn't need to be more specific. He was saying the firm was giving the case to Sam because they were seriously considering him for the partnership. Palmer was the pipeline—Lord help him, he was getting as bad as Hope—to his future, to a level of security that might give him the confidence to take the deal with Hope to another level.
"You got Charlene's vote, too," Phil said. "She said you passed her test."
"Test?" Sam tried to hide his embarrassment.
Phil waved a hand. "I don't know what she was talking about either. All I know—" he paused, looking thoughtful "—is that any test Charlene dreams up is going to be damned hard to pass."
"I'm, um, flattered," Sam murmured, ducking his head.
"She was really impressed by Hope Sumner. You still seeing her?"
Sam's head shot up. "Ah. Yes. That is, we see each other fairly frequently."
"I thought it might be more serious than that." Phil gave him a fatherly glance. "You're Benton's choice to argue the case in court. He tells me Hope's a hairs-breadth away from a vice presidency. It's getting to be like family around here, with Benton and me watching the kids graduate."
This would be a good time to confess to Phil that he and Hope had simply struck a deal. But the image of her came into his mind. Her straight, smooth auburn hair shining like silk as it moved in the cold winter wind and settled back into place at once. Her green eyes shining like jewels as they sat together in the back seat of a limo on the way to a party, planning their strategy. Her slim, neat body in a simple, expensive-looking black dress or suit, her long, elegant legs—the passion that had bubbled up so unexpectedly when he kissed her.
But most of all, the passion for life, the pure energy that emanated from her. She'd be a great woman to come home to. All he had to do was convince her that's where she needed to be—at home, waiting for him.
No, that was too much to ask. They could work something out, though, if— "It's too early to say anything," he said, getting up to leave, knowing it was time. He smiled at Phil. "You'll be the first to know. Thanks again, Phil. I'm excited about this case. I'll clear my decks and get right on it."
* * *
"I haven't forgotten you, hon." Maybelle's voice shrilled incongruously into the hush of the office where Hope gazed with growing concern at her borrowed laptop.
Hope jerked her attention away from the screen. "Oh, I know," she said absentmindedly. "I've been busy, too. Incidentally, I was rather expecting a bill from you."
A predictable snort came from Maybelle. "Plenty of time to settle up," she said cheerfully. "I'm a little slow on this billin' stuff. My clients don't seem to mind."
"I'm sure they don't." Even worried, Hope couldn't help smiling. "The tree's nice," she added.
"Glad you like it. In fact, I called to tell you I'm bringin' a few more little things by this week. Okay with you if I just pop in and out?"
Since Maybelle had consistently added to Hope's inventory—free, to date—rather than carting things away, she had lost her fear of burglary. "Sure. I'll tell the doormen."
"Well, them and me's gettin' along much better since I talked the super into fixing up a little coffee room for 'em in the basement," Maybelle said. "These cold days—" a shiver sound came from the speaker phone "—a little hot coffee on their breaks makes 'em happier than a raise."
Hope stared at the desk phone as Maybelle rang off. She wondered if the woman slept, or ate, or did anything, in fact, except organize lives and drink coffee.
But then her gaze went right back to the screen, which was filled with Benton Quayle's unread e-mail messages.
Half of them, easily, were from "CWal" and someone at the plumbing contractor's company who was identified only by a number and the firm's name.
She was in a quandary. Because she'd opened that one message and deleted it, Benton had probably missed a meeting and must have inferred something was wrong. She hadn't opened any more of his messages, but she couldn't keep herself from staring at the sheer volume of conversation going on between Benton, Sam's competitor Cap Waldstrum and someone from the plumbing firm that had laid the pipe in Magnolia Heights.
Merely detail work, she was sure. Related to the case, undoubtedly. Even that first message could have indicated nothing more than a missing invoice, something simple like that. But why a special meeting place?
Hope chewed her lip and worried. One thought lightened her spirits. Tonight she'd see Sam again.
The week had seemed like a century.
* * *
Chapter 6
« ^ »
He'd kept his promise and spent a week away from Hope, but instead of helping him calm down, it had given him too much time to think about her.
Mainly he'd thought about how to present his current state of raging lust in the reasonable terms of a man who was merely involved in an arrangement, an arrangement whose boundaries he deeply desired to expand.
Explode was more like it. Because that's what he was going to do if he couldn't convince her that sex with rules was better for both of them than sex without rules. That sex would be a sensible thing between them because they both knew the rules. So they would have sex and feel better and less tense, and then their lives would go on as usual.
He didn't have to go very deep into his heart to realize he was talking nonsense. Hope would see right through him.
Unless… Unless she was looking for an excuse, too, some reason she could let herself give in to the womanly needs she had to have. How could she not have them? He had felt the attraction between them when they kissed. It was a rich, deep thing that vibrated the air, warmed his heart, heated his blood. A sensation like that couldn't be unilateral, could it? She had to be feeling it, too.
He was afraid the doorman had caught him talking to himself as he advanced into Hope's apartment building, a warrior determined to claim his prize. At least to give it his very best shot.
* * *
She'd longed for the moment he'd appear at her door all dressed up and ready to go with her to yet another party. As always, his impact was more dramatic than she'd imagined. But one look at him and she knew something had changed. For the first time since they'd met, he seemed uneasy.
Her anxieties went into overdrive. It's not working for him. My social life is impacting his working time. He's found—oh, please, God, don't let it be that—a woman he actually wants to spend time with, work be damned.
"I'm trying out a red wine," she said. No one would ever guess I'm wasted. "We have time for a glass."
"Fill it to the brim," Sam said.
Hope blinked. Something in his voice made the heaviness deep inside her add weight. It was a struggle to get herself into the kitchen, pour the wine.
"Bad day?" she asked, waiting to hear the worst and at the same time, fighting a crazy desire to throw him down on the sofa and ravish him. Not that she knew how to ravish, or even how to appear ravishable to an experienced ravisher. But she had a sudden interest in learning.
"Interesting day. Interesting week. But…"
But what? Her mind, usually so serene and organized, was a jumble of conflicting, irrational sensations. They were too animal to be called thoughts.
He didn't gulp the wine, slam the glass down and bleat, "God, I needed that." Instead, he took a deep, appreciative sip and said, "This is great. Where'd you get it?"
"Burgundy dot com." They were down to that—sharing Web site discoveries.
"I should be able to remember that."
"Is something wrong?" Even in her present condition of mindless lust, she remembered the principle of getting straight to the point.
He frowned. "Not wrong, exactly."
"We'd better talk about it. Clear the air." Thinking hard, Hope came up with a reason to clear
the air. "We'll get to the party, people will think we're fighting, treat us like we're about to go on the market again."
Right. Not that I care if you're through with me. I just want to keep up the façade, that's all.
"No, no, it's nothing like that. Quite the opposite."
This time Hope simply waited. They still stood outside the kitchen door. He nudged a small potted plant aside to put his wineglass down on a crescent-shaped table that stood against the wall.
Hope frowned at the table. It used to be square, didn't it?
The mirror sent back a glimpse of his face, its muscles taut, eyes hooded by downcast lashes. "Remember I asked you how you felt about sex?"
Hope felt a stillness come over her as all her energy, all her will, went toward maintaining a serene expression while sensations—a deep, throbbing pleasure, a sharp stab of anticipation, a touch of something that was either fear or excitement—attacked from the inside.
"You didn't really give me an answer, but, well…"
He cupped her shoulders with his hands. She could feel their heat through the sheer silk of her dress, could feel the power in the fingers that held her so lightly.
"It's been a long time for me."
For me, too. Hope nodded dumbly. Like never. She felt her lips parting as anticipation built up inside her—a roiling reservoir behind a dam that threatened to break at any moment.
"Recently," he paused again, "I can't seem to think about anything else."
He meant anything else but sex, not anything else but her. Just because she couldn't think about anything but him didn't mean he felt the same way.
"So I'm asking you again. Can we do this one more thing for each other without … you know…"
"Letting our emotions get in the way?" Her voice sounded rough from disuse. She tried to clear her throat, but it felt too tight to do even that. She turned her head, unable to look him in the eye while she told such an out-and-out lie. "I've been thinking about it, of course. I realized we'd tabled that part of the agenda…" Oh, Lord, can't I even talk about sex in anything but business-speak?
