Getting Over Harry (Harlequin Romance)

by Renee Roszel

  “I have no idea,” he said, sounding as though he meant it.

  She couldn’t help but turn and look at him. He was staring at the paint, too, appearing puzzled. It was the same expression he’d exhibited on the beach when she’d been angry at him, angry that he hadn’t realized he’d hurt her or didn’t care that he had. The memory brought back her feelings of regret and dejection, and she shook her head in sorrow. “Maybe it was her way of trying to leave a mark on your life.”

  He gave her a sideways glance, looking broadsided. “What?”

  She flinched at his malevolent tone, but was so upset she ignored it and flung a hand toward the blue stain. “Do you really not know why women get upset with you, or is it that you don’t care?”

  He didn’t respond, but his brows knit and his stare hardened.

  Apparently a man like Lyon Gallant, with such dynamic drive and shrewd business genius, found it difficult to believe that another person’s attitude might differ radically from his own, that a woman could be mad at him, frustrated by his lack of commitment. “Did you tell her you appreciated the use of her body but you had a meeting in Miami and maybe you’d see her again sometime?”

  Anger flickered to life in the midnight of his eyes. “Since you’ve made it clear you don’t want to be a part of my sex life, Miss Stone, I don’t see what business it is of yours.” His tone, though quiet, held an ominous quality. “Now, about my wall?” He arched an intimidating brow, effectively closing the discussion of his life-style.

  She burned with resentment and knew she must be a bright crimson. But she was no fool. She didn’t intend to argue with him, not about something she didn’t even want to think about.

  The smart course would be to get this over as quickly as possible. She had to try to carry on the sham, then get out of there without revealing the lie. Stiffly she faced the vandalism, inhaling to maintain control. She was no designer, but she wasn’t an imbecile. Surely she could make a sensible suggestion that wouldn’t give her away as a fraud. “Well,” she croaked, then cleared the anxiety from her voice. “You could move a dresser in front of it.”

  He was silent.

  “Or—or a big plant.”

  More silence.

  “Or both.” Unable to stand the extended quiet, she chanced a look at him. His brows were still knit, but his expression was more incredulous than angry. Oh, dear, he hated the idea. A dresser! What had she been thinking? There was probably a huge closet somewhere nearby with enough built-in drawers to accommodate a small country.

  Well, darn him, she didn’t care anymore, and her damaged pride compelled her to say so. “To be honest, Mr. Gallant, this room is so flawless it should be on the cover of every design magazine in the world. It would make an outstanding bank lobby. But it’s not a bank; it’s your home. You should add natural woods to warm the place. Maybe some flowers. Roses are especially nice. My mother raised them and I took over her gardens after she died. When they’re in season, I always have bouquets in my house. They smell wonderful and they cheer a room.”

  She swept her hand around. “This is a cold place, Mr. Gallant. There’s nothing warm and alive in here.” His nostrils flared, and she realized she’d insulted him. He lived here, after all. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, a little repentant that she’d allowed her hurt pride such free reign. But he always seemed to prick her just enough to drive her over the edge of tact. “Well...” She grimaced, knowing she couldn’t call back her words. “That’s the way I feel.”

  His jaws tight, he leaned against the smudge and cast his gaze to the wall of windows. His features carried little information as he stared into space, and she wondered what he was thinking. Surely her opinion didn’t matter to him.

  After a moment he chuckled morosely, his glance flicking to her face. “A dresser and a big plant?” His smile was more wry than amused. “That’s extremely practical for an interior designer, Miss Stone. I would have thought you’d suggest I have it commercially polished, or remarbled.”

  She felt deflated and leaned against the wall, registering its innate chill. It was growing depressingly clear that he knew more about the subject than she did. “Of course,” she muttered, wishing she was dead, “that’s another obvious option.”

  “I could burn it down, too.”

  She jerked to look at him in time to see a flash of teeth. “It would be warmer—at least for awhile.”

  He was teasing her! Affronted, she straightened. “If you’re through with me, I’ll go back to help Meg.”

  “Help her do what?” He stood away from the wall, his lips twitching into a determined line. “Your charade has gone on long enough. It’s time you told me what you’re really doing on my island.” She stared in shock as he raked her with a severe glance. “Well?”

  Pure, black terror spiraled through her. Oh, no! It was the stupid dresser idea that had given her away, she was sure. Why couldn’t she have kept her pride out of it and just said he’d have to replace the marble?

  “Oh, please,” she begged in a sickly whisper, touching his arm, then quickly rethinking that idea. It wasn’t wise to touch this man. “Please, whatever you do, don’t fire Ivy. She was just being kind,” she confessed unhappily. “It’s my fault. All my fault!” Her voice broke, and she began to shake with reaction, because he’d discovered the lie and because dark foreboding hovered in his eyes. Clutching her fists together, she made herself stare into his damning gaze, imploring silently.

  “Ivy?” He sounded more startled than angry that someone he trusted would conspire against him.

  “She was trying to help me heal after Harry left me at the—” She caught herself, pulling her lips between her teeth. The last thing she wanted was to dredge up the fact that she was a total washout at holding onto her own fiance. It was bad enough to have to talk about it at all, but worse—much worse—to have to admit it to this man, of all the people in the world!

  Mortified, she allowed the pad and pen to clatter to the floor as she rubbed her throbbing temples. Twisting away, she moaned, “I’ll leave immediately, naturally. Just—just don’t fire Ivy.”

  “You’re not from one of those tabloids?”

  That question stopped her, for she’d already started toward the door. Still unable to look at him, she sagged against the cold wall. “No, no. I’m a teacher.”

  She heard him draw near, but couldn’t move. “Who is this Harry?”

  Her insides twisted and she shook her head. “Just let me go, Mr. Gallant.” A tear trembled on her lower lashes, then slid down her cheek. Forlorn, she wiped it away.

  She couldn’t let him see her cry. Panicking, she started for the door again, but was halted by a hand on her shoulder. “Who the hell is Harry?” Though his tone was soft, there was a steely edge to his question. He meant to have an answer before she would be allowed to leave. “Why don’t we go out onto my patio and talk?”

  She resisted, shying away from his touch. “I’d rather—”

  “What kind of a teacher are you?” This time he took her by the elbow, guiding her toward the window wall. The middle window opened at the touch of a hidden lever, and he stepped back, indicating that she precede him. “English? Math?”

  She frowned in confusion, then realized he was asking about her occupation. Stepping onto a shady patio, she shook her head. “Biology.”

  He chuckled, and she peered at him. “What’s so funny about teaching biology?”

  He indicated a sitting area of two ornate cast iron love seats separated by a glass-topped coffee table. “Apparently you don’t teach sex education, considering—”

  “Can we get off that!” she cut in, surprised she could feel even more humiliated than she already did.

  Like a prisoner being led to her execution, she headed toward the seating area. Surreptitiously she scanned her surroundings for possible avenues of escape. The patio was cozy and built of stone. The adjoining pool looked like a natural pond, set in the same rock as the patio. A waterfall poured fr
om the hillside, spilling sparkling water into the pool’s deep end. The cascading gurgle gave off a charming, serene sound that mingled with the twitter of birds.

  It did truly seem like Eden amid the lushness of flowering tropical plants and exotic fruit trees. She recognized a few blossoms, the passion flower and a vivid medley of lilies, but much of the colorful foliage was foreign to her. The sultry summer air was heavy with sweet, musky scents, and she inhaled, somewhat calmed by nature’s healing grandeur. In spite of her mood, she smiled as she took a seat in the shade of the house. “This is nice,” she mused, unaware that she’d spoken until she heard her own comment.

  “Thank you.” Their gazes met, and he smiled lazily. “Should I hold off on burning it down?”

  She lowered her glance to her lap, going tense. “Okay, so I’m no interior designer.”

  “You’re a biology teacher with something against living in bank lobbies, I gather.” He surprised her by sitting beside her. Casually he stretched an arm across the back of the love seat, his forearm brushing her nape. She shifted away from his touch, leaning against the metal arm, hoping he’d assume it was to better face him.

  “Now, who is this Harry?”

  She avoided his inquisitive eyes. Her perusal skittered about, to his powerful shoulders, his broad chest, the light blue knit shirt masking very little of his physique. He wore tan slacks, and her eyes were drawn down as he crossed an ankle on his other knee, his calf grazing her leg as he shifted. His shoes were beige tassel loafers that gave off the sheen of success.

  She found herself staring at his bare, male ankle. It never occurred to her that a bastion of big business would go without socks. That sort of behavior seemed a bit nonconformist for a member of Fortune’s Five Hundred, but she supposed Lyon Gallant was not a man to be dictated to, about socks or anything else.

  As she drank in every tanned contour, she wondered if he had any idea that the skin and bones connecting his foot to his leg were such a blatant turn-on? Probably not. Nevertheless, it was a sin that this man had such charisma that even an ordinary hunk of flesh like an ankle became a stimulating feast for female eyes.

  “Miss Stone?” he coaxed. “Are you that fascinated by my foot, or are you trying to avoid the subject?”

  She snapped her gaze up, flushing. He’d been kidding about her interest in his foot, but unknowingly he’d been right. Fidgeting, she crossed her legs to put greater distance between them. His smile told her that her skittishness hadn’t slipped by him. She doubted that much did.

  “I really don’t think Harry is your business,” she tried, looking toward the waterfall.

  “the fact that you’re on my island under false colors makes it my business.”

  She didn’t like to admit it, but he had a point. She realized she’d grabbed up wads of her skirt, and smoothed the fabric over her knees. “I—I suppose you do deserve an explanation.”

  “And that would be?”

  “I...” This time she twisted completely away from him, grasping the metal arm of the love seat with both fists. “I...”

  “You sound like a sailor.”

  She almost smiled at the unexpected joke, then merely shrugged. The story wasn’t funny. “Harry was my— fiancé,” she began falteringly. “We were to have been married on the twentieth of May. A week before that, my father died and my sister, Elsa, came home from New York for the funeral. While she was there, she and Harry—met, and then, on the day of our wedding, he—he and Elsa...” She shook her head, unable to go on.

  The waterfall bubbled and gurgled in the drawn-out quiet. A flock of noisy, black and white plumed scaup streaked the sky above them, and was long gone before Lyon finally spoke. “So, this Harry ran off with your sister on your wedding day,” he repeated, as though making sure he had his facts right. She detected no inflection in his tone.

  Nodding, she clenched the metal until her fingers ached. Having to admit her failure as a woman was humiliating beyond her wildest dreams. Still, if it would keep Ivy from being fired, it had to be done.

  “That’s why you thought you needed to learn more about being sexy?” His voice was low, almost harsh. “To hold onto a man?”

  Her head was bowed, her body slumped, but with his direct question, she jerked up, nausea rising in her throat. She wanted to cover her face with hands that were trembling badly, to scream, cry, give vent to her shame and disgrace, but she tried to hold on to her pride—just long enough to deny the awful truth.

  Spinning, she glared at him, disconcerted to discover he was blurry before her. “No, I—” she began, but her breathing was coming so hard, so heavy, she couldn’t talk. Pushing up from the bench, she broke eye contact and stepped away from him, knowing her tears had already given away the truth. “Okay—okay. It was stupid, I know, but I just thought...” Her words became a sob. She couldn’t hold onto her composure one second longer. What did it matter? He was a bright man. He could put two and two together. “Please don’t fire Ivy,” she pleaded in a faulty whisper.

  “Sit down, Miss Stone,” he commanded softly.

  She stiffened, resisting the order, but found that she was so shaky, it was the only choice she had. Though she did as he stipulated, she didn’t look at him.

  “And who is Mrs. Dillburg?”

  Emily sniffed and was startled to find herself presented with a handkerchief. “Thanks,” she mumbled, making loud use of it. “She’s Ivy’s niece. My best friend. She thought getting out of town would be good for me. And Ivy can’t refuse Meg anything. So she let us come here.” Dabbing at her eyes, she chanced a glimpse at him. His handsome mouth was thinned in displeasure, his eyes sharp and appraising. “They were just thinking of me,” she added in a last-ditch effort to save Ivy’s position.

  He watched her for a long minute, his features grim, his eyes penetrating as though deciding if he believed her or not. After an interminable amount of time, he shook his head, one corner of his mouth twisting upward. “I thought you two were either the most thorough interior designers in the world, or the most inept.”

  She bit her lip, afraid to gather any hope. She couldn’t tell from his expression if he believed her story, but at least he wasn’t shoving her at gunpoint into the sea. “We’ll leave today, Mr. Gallant,” she promised in a whisper.

  He crossed his arms before him, studying her for an additional moment. “No, you won’t.”

  Fear gripped her again. “What are you saying?”

  One brow rose in a shrug. “If I sent you away, I’d lose the best housekeeper I’ve ever had, because Ivy would quit. I can’t have that.”

  She was amazed, and her expression no doubt reflected it, for his handsome features eased. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” Surprising her, he stood, looking at his watch. When his glance returned to her face, he was all business. “I’ve got to go.” He turned away, then stopped and shifted around, his dusky eyes speculative. “One thing. Did you want the sex lessons to get Harry back?”

  She didn’t know why she should be shocked by that question. She should be accustomed to his bluntness by now. Glancing away, she shook her head, very sure of her answer. “No. Not after...” She shrugged, unable to say it. When he didn’t respond, she peeked at him. “Why?” She decided she had as much right to be blunt as he did.

  “Because Harry doesn’t deserve—” He stopped himself and pursed his lips as if to temper his remark. “Lesson four.” With an odd little smile, he turned away. Seconds later he disappeared into his house, leaving her to ponder the message in his quiet remark. She’d never had lesson four. Surely he wasn’t still suggesting they might...

  She shivered, uncertain if it was dread or anticipation that engulfed her body. Surely it was dread. Surely she had no intention of allowing this playboy to make love to her!

  Released from the lie, Meg and Emily accompanied Ivy to town the next two days in a row, more for Emily’s benefit than Ivy’s need. The women had taken Emily on as their pet project, insisting s
he buy clothes to better enhance her figure and her coloring. Emily had to admit that she felt more confident about herself, but it wasn’t totally due to the transforming wardrobe. She’d learned things about herself in Lyon’s capable arms. She’d seen real passion, real desire in his eyes, and she’d come to realize that even a man who’d known the most sensual women in the world could find her desirable. That knowledge gave her a new womanly power, a growing feeling of self-worth.

  Still, she refused to buy any Gallant’s underwear. Meg was fit to be tied when she couldn’t explain her reasons. Or wouldn’t. She didn’t dare tell Meg that if she relented, she’d be giving in to her desire to attract him in his own arena, on his own terms. She wouldn’t even think that way, let alone say it out loud. She would not be another sexual victory for Lyon Gallant’s trophy case.

  Meg took the defeat as well as she took any defeat. With nagging, ranting and more nagging. She went so far as to buy some, tossing it on Emily’s bed almost challengingly. But Emily stuck the scanty things in a drawer and stood fast in her stick-in-the-mud decision, as Meg liked to call it.

  Luckily, Lyon was having a party tonight, and they’d both been invited. That news had taken Meg’s mind off the underwear war for the time being. Emily was grateful that thoughts of another gala evening had shifted her friend’s thoughts away from undergarments. She decided not to muddy the waters by telling Meg she didn’t intend to accept the invitation. Her friend would blow an artery.

  At nine o’clock, the party had been going on for two hours. Emily could hear the music from where she wandered on a stretch of pristine beach. Some distance behind her she could see the great house, like a dark jewel gleaming in a setting of strategic outdoor illumination. More golden light spilled from every tall, arched window on the ground floor.

  The mansion was a beguiling sight under the sun or the moon. Much like its owner. She felt foolishly sad as she stared, her heart wishing she was inside, dancing with the magnificent master of Sin Island. But her brain kept counseling her that it would be folly to allow herself to be so dangerously close to the man. His effect was instantaneous and all-consuming. Turning away, she reminded herself for the thousandth time that she was better off out here alone.