Getting Over Harry (Harlequin Romance)

by Renee Roszel

  A taunting smile tipped the corners of his lips. “You mean you want me to have sex with you until you recuperate enough to jog again?”

  His eyes had become earthy, twinkling pools of mirth. And there was something else there, too. Was it pity? Had he read the fear in her expression and decided to be compassionate, pretending he thought she was joking? Or had the idea of making love to her been so disgusting he’d reacted in his usual, sarcastic way?

  She gritted her teeth. Of course she wasn’t naive enough to believe she’d seen compassion in his eyes. That was an insane thought brought on by lack of oxygen. Though she knew she should have been relieved, the rejection was painful. She’d just laid herself wide open before a man who probably thought nothing of a sexual tumble in the grass. And he’d repaid her by teasing her. Blood pounded in her temples, and she knew she must be crimson with shame and fury.

  If the truth was told, she was more angry with herself than with him. She shouldn’t allow his snub to upset her. She didn’t even know this man. So why did she feel almost as deflated by his rejection as she’d felt by her fiancé’s public abandonment at the church? How nuts!

  The whole idea had been foolish to begin with. Why had she listened to Meg? Evidently her emotional state over Harry’s betrayal had driven her a bit mad.

  Summoning every ounce of pride to her aid, she glared at him. “Look, buster, don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m attracted to you.” She shook a finger in his direction. She knew it was exactly the old-fashioned, schoolmarmish sort of thing she’d decided she must change about herself, but she was too mortified to care. “For one crazy minute, I thought I might try to learn how to become more exciting to men. And, since you’re moderately good-looking, I felt you might be able to show me a thing or two. Lucky for me, I’ve come to my senses. The idea was dumb, and if you want my honest opinion, you’re the last man on earth I’d—I’d...” For some reason she couldn’t say the explicit word again. She was too embarrassed.

  “You’d what?” he coaxed.

  She sensed compassion in his voice, and that knowledge hurt her worse than his rejection. She was sick and tired of sympathetic looks and whispers and couldn’t stand them from this arrogant stranger, too! “Don’t you dare pity me!” she cried, tromping off, cringing at the ache in her shin, but forcing herself not to limp.

  “What makes you think you need to change?”

  “Forget it!” She didn’t stop or turn back.

  “Look, sweetheart,” he called across the growing distance, “there are those who’d say having sex with somebody you don’t know won’t make you more exciting—just cheap.”

  She lurched to a halt at his blunt observation. He had a point. But she doubted he attributed that same philosophy to himself. She glared at him over her shoulder. “So, sex between strangers makes a woman cheap, but it makes a man a stud, right?”

  When he pursed his lips but made no response, she continued, “That’s what I thought you’d say.” Needing to strike back for the humiliation he’d caused, she bluffed, “I should thank you. You’ve helped me make a decision. I’ve decided to have an affair with the owner of this island.” She was flagrantly lying now, but what difference did it make? This irritating workman would never know the truth. “I can get expert experience at being wild and uninhibited from Lyon Gallant. I’ve heard he can be very accommodating that way.”

  The crooked grin returned to the carpenter’s face, causing an odd sizzle in the pit of her stomach. That smile held a cryptic ingredient she couldn’t fathom, but she decided it was probably for the best. The man had smut for a mind.

  He hooked his thumbs in his work belt with an accompanying ripple of tanned muscle. “Let me know how the seduction goes.”

  “Naturally!” she shouted. “Why don’t you bold your breath until I come back with the news?” As quickly as her bruised body would allow, she hurried away, vowing to jog anywhere and everywhere on Sin Island, as long as it was nowhere near this cove—and one particularly rude, offensive hired hand.

  After Emily showered and changed into a pair of slacks and a white cotton blouse, she headed downstairs, trying to block Mr. Jogging Is a Substitute for Sex from her mind. As was her habit, she joined Meg and her aunt Ivy in the housekeeper’s neat first-floor office, filled with sunlight and the most exquisite antiques Emily had ever seen.

  “Morning, Em,” Meg chirped, as she perched unceremoniously on the edge of her aunt’s Queen Anne desk. She looked leggy and lovely in a short red skirt, cropped knit blouse and sandals. “How was the jog?”

  Emily cringed inwardly. “Fine.” She decided the less said about her failed attempt at seducing handsome workmen, the better. “What’s on the agenda for today? Do we lie yet?”

  Meg’s chuckle was always surprisingly big, since she was such a petite woman. Both she and her aunt were tiny, and at five feet six, Emily felt like a lumbering dinosaur next to them. “Aunt Ivy was telling me our phantom host left a few minutes ago in his helicopter to spend the day in his Miami high-rise. So I guess we’re off the hook again.” Emily heard the wistfulness in Meg’s voice. Poor thing couldn’t hide her disappointment at not getting to see Lyon Gallant, even after being on his island for five whole days.

  Ivy Dellin looked up from her datebook. A woman in her early fifties, she had the same intelligent black eyes and hair as her niece, but she wore her tresses in a short, no-nonsense bob. There wasn’t a trace of gray in her shiny cap of hair, and Emily knew it was natural. Having gotten to know Ivy over the past week, she’d discovered the woman put on absolutely no airs. She never wore makeup. Even without it, she was striking, and every bit as sweet-natured as she was lovely. Emily had to give Mr. Gallant credit. He knew quality when he saw it.

  The major difference between the aunt and the niece was Meg’s incessant curiosity. Emily found that inquisitive trait in her friend endearing most of the time. But there were moments lately when her nosiness was downright shameful. She’d given her aunt the third degree over and over this week about what Mr. Gallant looked like. Though he was rumored to be a handsome, sexy scoundrel, the man didn’t have a single picture of himself in the house.

  Meg’s commando tactics on her aunt had done no good. Ivy always remained composed, explaining, “Mr. Gallant values his privacy, Meg, dear. If he wants you to know about him, he’ll tell you himself.”

  “Has he asked about us?” Meg asked for the thousandth time. “Has he noticed us at all?”

  “He’s asked nothing. And he knows just what I told you I’d tell him—that because of a computer malfunction at the interior design offices, there are two decorators here recalculating measurements for the remodeling of the west wing.”

  “Won’t he get suspicious when all the curtains and carpets and wallpaper and stuff come right on schedule?” Meg prodded. “I mean, since there really wasn’t a computer foul-up?”

  Ivy shrugged, but on her the move was elegant. “He’s too busy to concern himself with household details. He’ll merely assume they put a rush on the orders because of the inconvenience.”

  Meg nodded, seemingly satisfied. “And he doesn’t even think our being here this long seems—seems unusual?”

  “I told Mr. Gallant I’m also consulting the two interior decorators about redoing my quarters and his suite, since that awful movie star, Mona Sabrina, covered herself with paint and rolled her body along his bedroom wall.” The woman’s sweet, ever-poised face screwed up in a grimace. “The hussy should be spanked.”

  Meg’s laugh rumbled. “I’m sure Lyon handled that.”

  Ivy’s arched brows arched further. “What?”

  “I mean—if she wanted him to spank her,” Meg amended, patting her aunt’s lacy shoulder. “Honestly, Aunt Ivy. You must open your eyes to the real world.”

  Ivy stood up and brushed away imaginary wrinkles from her linen skirt. “Mr. Gallant’s personal affairs are none of my business—or yours, dear. All I know is, he said he didn’t care for Miss Sabrina
’s body autograph on his bedroom wall, and if my two interior decorators had the extra time, he’d like them to see to the renovation. But you two needn’t worry, I’ve already handled that by phone, and am in the process of picking out fabrics and wallpapers for my quarters from books Demetrius left for me. I can arrange it all by phone.”

  “Oh! Let me see his room!” Meg begged, taking Ivy’s perfectly manicured fingers and bouncing up and down. “Please, oh please! I must see his bedroom!”

  Ivy shook her head at her niece. “I’m afraid not. Besides, there aren’t any pictures of him in there, if that’s your ploy.”

  Meg flipped her long, thick braid over her shoulder in a fit of pique. “Phooey! Between your loyalty to your boss and his fanatical need for privacy, I’m going to get an ulcer from curiosity.”

  “That is, of course, your problem, dear,” Ivy chided with a smile. “Now, since Mr. Gallant will be away today, why don’t you girls go have a leisurely breakfast?” She patted Emily’s hand. “Then relax by the pool. Emily needs to get her emotional strength back.” She gave her niece a stem but maternal look. “And you, young lady, need to remember the whole reason you came here was to help perk up Emily’s spirits, not invade Mr. Gallant’s privacy. In addition, Meg Dellin Dillburg, Larry would be appalled to know, while he’s away on an archeological dig in Brazil, his wife is consumed with curiosity about another man.”

  “Oh, Larry’s in his element when he’s digging up old bones. I’m just showing a little clinical interest in some newer ones, that’s all,” Meg objected with a pout. “My Larry is completely secure in our love. He knows I’m only interested in seeing the guy, not having his babies.”

  “And perhaps you shall—see him, that is. If he chooses.” She placed an arm about her niece’s shoulders. “You’re a nosy miss, but you’re my dear, departed sister’s little girl, and I love you.”

  Meg hugged her aunt’s waist. “And you’re a lovable—if tight-lipped—conspirator, letting us hide out here for awhile. I sure hope you don’t get into trouble.”

  “You know I’ve never been able to say no to you, Meg.” She smiled lovingly at her niece.

  Emily knew Meg was all the family Ivy had in the world, and that she would do anything her effervescent niece asked of her. She only hoped this obvious breach in Ivy’s strict moral code wouldn’t put her in hot water with her boss. Feeling a surge of guilt, she squeezed the older woman’s fingers. “If you get fired on my account, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Don’t fret, dear.” Ivy smiled at Emily. “Mr. Gallant spends very little time drawing and quartering his employees, and he never interferes with my operation of the household. Besides, he’s hardly ever here.”

  Meg moaned. “You sure know how to ruin a girl’s day.”

  The older woman’s low-pitched titter was contagious, and even in her dour mood, Emily joined in.

  The three women walked arm in arm down the long marble hallway toward the kitchen.

  “Okay, Aunt Ivy, just tell me this.” Meg had taken on her all too familiar inquisition tone. “Is he blond or brunet?”

  “I repeat, dear, you’re a nosy miss.” Ivy shook her head at her niece. “Why can’t you be like Emily?” She felt the older woman’s affectionate squeeze on her waist. “The dear child hasn’t asked one single question about Mr. Gallant.”

  Emily tried to smile at Meg’s aunt, but she felt like a hypocrite. The straitlaced housekeeper would be horrified to discover her outrageous vow to the carpenter in the cove—about seducing his boss. She regretted blurting that out, and breathed a silent prayer that she would never lay eyes on the elusive Lyon Gallant.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AFTER her shower, Emily felt unaccountably restless. There were still two hours before dinner, but Ivy simply wouldn’t hear of letting her help in the kitchen. She ran a comb through her damp hair, absently staring into the vanity mirror. The guest room she’d been assigned was reflected in the glass. She scanned what she could see of the room. Its colors were light, and a wall of windows made the place seem too airy to be indoors. Yet the eighteenth-century antiques gave the bedroom a solid, courtly feel. She shook her head in wonder, then caught the movement and glanced up to stare into wide, sapphire eyes.

  She focused on her face. The sun had put a blush on her cheeks, even through her sunblock, and left a trail of burnished freckles across her nose. She wished bringing out any latent desirability in her was as easy as freckling. She’d be a regular femme fatale by now.

  Though she was trying hard to keep her spirits light and block the dismal memory from her mind, the letter Harry had left her on their wedding day came vividly back. She’d read it in disbelief so many times, she’d committed it to memory whether she wanted to or not. “Emily, I’m sorry. I know you’ll be hurt, but I must follow my feelings. Your sister, Elsa, is so much like you in many ways, only she’s more exciting, what every man wants.”

  Emily’s best friend, Meg, had been a loyal shoulder to cry on after Harry’s abandonment, but Emily had paid the price for Meg’s comfort by being force-fed her counsel. “Sweetie,” she’d advised, “men are painfully simple creatures. Show ’em you have a great mind after you catch their attention with a well-toned butt and a naughty wiggle.”

  Emily knew Meg had a point, however crudely put. Jogging had been her first tentative step at improving herself, though she was naturally slender. And she’d decided it wouldn’t kill her to mix with new people, maybe even learn a point or two about seductiveness. She’d been shamed by the whispers she’d had to endure in her hometown—“Poor Emily Stone, the spinster schoolteacher who couldn’t hold on to the only man she’d ever caught.”

  That was why she’d jumped at the chance to leave for awhile. That was also why she hadn’t asked Meg many questions about where they were going when her friend suggested this trip—not enough questions, as it turned out. If she’d known they would have to be secreted here under false pretenses, she would never have agreed to the trip.

  Recalling this morning’s fiasco in the cove, she felt more like a failure as a woman than ever. She had a feeling that encounter had everything to do with her restlessness. With a sigh, she lowered the comb to the dresser top, running her fingers through her shoulderlength brown hair. A rapping at her bedroom door startled her, and she spun around on the velvet bench. “Who is it?”

  “It’s the King of Mongo Pongo!” came a joking female voice. “Who do you think it is?”

  Emily had to grin at her friend’s banter. Slipping into a robe, she cinched the sash. “Okay, come in, Your Majesty.”

  The door burst open, and Meg rushed in, an intent expression on her pixie face. In pink shorts and matching top, she was fresh from the shower, her waist-length black hair pulled back into a still-damp braid.

  “Thank goodness!” Meg barreled across the carpeted floor. “My room faces the heliport, so I saw the big chopper land, but I can’t see the pool at all.” Flinging open one of the tall windows, she dashed onto the balcony and leaned so far over the metal rail Emily worried that she might fall.

  “What in the world are you doing?” She followed her friend to the door but didn’t move any farther out when she noticed a crowd around the pool.

  “I’m sure he’s out there, and I’m determined to see him.”

  “Mr. Gallant?”

  Meg straightened and leaned against the metal gridwork. “They’re doing a photo shoot, and I heard Margo Tempest is going to be on the cover. So he must be down there. All those starlets? Where else would he be?”

  Emily was confused. She’d heard of Margo Tempest, the newest Hollywood sensation, but that was about all she could decipher from Meg’s ramblings. “What do you mean, photo shoot?” Pulling her robe closer about her, she dared a step onto the balcony to get a glimpse of what was going on three stories below.

  “You know, Gallant’s!” Meg emphasized that one word with a flourish of her arms, apparently assuming that was explanation enough.

&
nbsp; Emily chanced another peek at the people below. Sure enough, there were a dozen shapely women down there, all clad in scanty, see-through things. “Why, they’re not even dressed,” Emily whispered, backing away from the rail. She had an awful thought. “What does Lyon Gallant do, anyway?” Meg had mentioned he owned a catalogue business. She’d pictured the periodicals she received every few months like Baxter’s Seed and Bulb Review and Mother Anderson’s Preserves.” Apprehensive, she clutched her hands together. Why did she suddenly have the feeling Lyon Gallant didn’t sell anything as tame as grape jelly or periwinkle seeds?

  Meg laughed her deep laugh and shook her head. “Emily, you amaze me. Don’t tell me you’re the only woman in the world who doesn’t get Gallant’s! Good grief, you’re more out-of-touch than I thought.” She leaned over the balcony again. “I see some men in suits, but I can’t tell...darn that Lyon Gallant and his passion for privacy.”

  Emily frowned, refusing to let the subject be changed. “Just what does Gallant’s sell? X-rated movies? If that is what he sells, then I’d just as soon not meet him.”

  “That’s the old, dumped Emily talking.” Meg shook her head at her friend. “Don’t be such a prude.”

  Emily’s stomach clenched. “Good lord. Then he does sell indecent movies?”

  “Well, indecent, maybe, but movies? No.” Meg’s laughter was sharp and quick. “Undies, Em. Expensive, indecent lingerie. Gallant’s is such a sleek operation, movie stars and famous models fight to be photographed in it.”

  As Emily absorbed this news, Meg twisted away and was bent nearly double, straining to see. “Margo’s the one in the red bustier and thong panties. Oh! Oh! There’s a man in a beige sport coat that she’s talking to. Tall, dark and to die for. I bet that’s Lyon Gallant.” She lurched up and motioned for Emily to come out, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Emily, come here. I’m sure that’s him.”

  Emily had only been half-listening to her friend’s gushing. “He owns an underwear catalogue business?” Relief rushed through her. Everybody wore underwear.