The Marriage Project

by Leclaire, Day

  “You overheard me,” she accused.

  “It was a little hard not to. You were speaking out loud.” She heard the rustle of clothing and guessed he’d removed his suit jacket. Another silky whisper warned that his tie had followed. “If you think the book is so bad, why did you buy it?”

  He had a delicious voice. Rich. Dark. Appealing. If their circumstances had been different, she wouldn’t have minded listening to it for a while. “I didn’t buy it. It was a gift. And I’m reading it because I’m curious to find out what all the talk is about. I’m also curious—or perhaps concerned would be more accurate—because my grandmother has bought into the premise. Did I explain how impractical my family is?”

  “I seem to recall you mentioning it. How far have you gotten in the book?”

  “I read the first three pages.”

  He chuckled, a deep rolling sound that provoked an actual tactile sensation. “I gather from the way you say that, that you were less than impressed. Are you sure reading three pages is sufficient to form an objective opinion about the entire book?”

  “It didn’t take much more than a single page.”

  “And what, in particular, is wrong with it?”

  Madison tilted her head against the wall and felt the knot in the pit of her stomach slowly unclench. Talking was proving beneficial, thank goodness. Or maybe it was Harry. He seemed to have a reassuring way about him. “Where should I begin? There’s so much material to choose from.” She considered some of the choicer tidbits. “Okay. How about this one? The first time you set eyes on your potential mate there should be an instant chemical reaction. No chemistry, no mating! Tell me, Harry. How do you suppose that’s determined? And what sort of chemical reaction does this Bartholomew Jones mean? When I see an interesting man am I supposed to check my pulse, blood pressure and temperature to see if there’s some sort of biological or chemical response?”

  “Too clinical?”

  “Oh, it’s not that.” If that were the only criteria, Harry would qualify as provoking a chemical reaction. He might be an average sort of man, but he’d gone out of his way to calm her fears and distract her with conversation. He couldn’t help it if she found his voice intensely appealing anymore than she could help it that her nervous system had gone out of whack. “It’s simply impractical.”

  “I gather being practical is important to you?”

  “Vital.” Perhaps that was why she found her claustrophobia so unsettling. It stripped away all she held most dear and forced her to deal with emotions she was ill-equipped to handle.

  “Does that mean that you find love an impractical emotion? Or are all emotions impractical?”

  “Uncontrolled emotions are impractical,” she corrected. As for love… “I believe in love. I just have trouble with romantic nonsense like love at first sight.”

  Harry remained silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Tell me how you think love should work.”

  As she considered how best to answer him, the strangeness of their situation struck her. How odd to be conducting such an intimate conversation with a perfect stranger. Perhaps the darkness encouraged the sharing of confidences. Or perhaps the manner in which Harry had tried to allay her fears had made the difference. Whatever the cause, she couldn’t remember ever having such a frank discussion with a man before, nor enjoying a conversation so thoroughly. Even her claustrophobia had eased, subsiding to a faint apprehension.

  “First of all,” she began, “love shouldn’t consist of a list of ten fundamental rules published in some silly book written so the author can make a fortune off TV appearances. It’s disgraceful. His target audience consists of naive, gullible women, desperate for love, seduced by a good-looking pitchman making promises he can’t possibly fulfill.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. If the book is wrong, how should love work?”

  She wished she could see Harry’s face. A steely thread underscored his voice and she didn’t understand what had prompted it. Men named Harry shouldn’t have so much as a hint of steel anywhere about them. They should be puppy dog friendly, woolly lamb innocuous and kind to terrified women. If he didn’t shape up soon, she’d be forced to hammer that point home in no uncertain terms.

  “Love should be something that’s built over time,” she explained. “There should be a solid basis between the individuals, founded on mutual trust, admiration and compatibility.”

  “It sounds like you’ve come up with your own principles.”

  He wasn’t far wrong. “I may have given it some thought,” she admitted.

  Maybe more than a little thought. After all, hadn’t she devised a blueprint for the perfect man, the sort of individual she could love with every fibre of her being? It was a theme quite dear to her heart, if one she kept secret from the rest of her family. And yet, she felt comfortable expanding on it with a total stranger. How peculiar.

  “As I was saying,” she tried again. “Love should be founded on mutual trust, admiration and compatibility. This compatibility should cover emotional affection, intellectual suitability and a general respect. And admiration, rather than love, is important because—”

  “You’ve never been in love, have you?”

  That stung. “I’ve never found the type of love that book describes, no. But then, I don’t really believe it exists. I think Mr. Jones is describing lust or infatuation or, most likely, wishful thinking.”

  “If you’ve never known love at first sight, how can you arbitrarily deny its existence?”

  “Personal observation.”

  “Combined with that practical nature, no doubt.”

  “Have you ever been in love?” she shot back. “Do you believe in the sort of instantaneous love Jones describes?”

  “I confess that I’m almost as practical as you.”

  “Really?” For some reason that delighted her. So he really was a down-to-the-bones, rational sort of Harry, despite the rough-and-rumbly voice. Just as she’d thought. Perfect. “Then you believe the same as I do. This spiritual, everlasting love is nothing more than a myth perpetuated by dreamers, foolish romantics, and a few unscrupulous con artists.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’m glad we agree—” No, they didn’t agree. Impossible man! How could someone who claimed to share her practical nature argue with her, particularly when she was right? It didn’t make the least bit of sense. “Wait a minute. How can you—”

  “I’m reserving judgment,” he interrupted. “Because I haven’t experienced it myself doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

  “Piffle.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a word my grandmother, Sunny, uses,” Madison confessed. “I like it. It has a nice, defiant ring to it. It also sums up my reaction more precisely than any other word I know.”

  “Piffle.”

  An unexpected laugh escaped at the way he sampled the word. “Slides right off the tongue, doesn’t it?”

  “I’d say it’s more like trying to spit out a mouthful of feathers.”

  “I guess it’s not a man’s word.”

  “Not even close.”

  “Still…” Her defiance came through loud and clear. “It expresses my feelings about our discussion.”

  “About love, you mean.”

  For such an intelligent man, Harry possessed more than a few cockeyed notions. Perhaps she’d have time to set him straight before they went their separate ways. She shivered. Not that she wanted to spend any longer on this elevator than necessary, but she was enjoying their conversation. If nothing else, it was keeping her mind off their situation. He was keeping her mind off their situation, sweet man. Sweet, annoying man.

  “Normally I like people who are direct and to the point,” Madison informed him.

  “Just not so irritating?”

  She managed to laugh. “Should I regard that as an added bonus?”

  “Consider the entire package an occupational hazard. At least, the direct and to-the-point p
art is work-related. Being irritating comes naturally.”

  “Really?” He’d snagged her curiosity. She hadn’t pegged him as the irritating sort. Wrong on a few issues, sure, but basically nice. “What do you do when you’re not trapped in elevators or being naturally irritating?”

  “Prepare yourself.”

  Madison settled herself more comfortably on the floor, folding her legs against her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “I’m prepared.”

  “I spend my days conducting statistical analyses of economic structures and models.”

  “Impressive. What does it mean?”

  “I’m an economist. I guess you could say I’m part economist, part accountant with a pinch of analyst thrown in for good measure. I take complicated data and interpret it. Then I explain the facts as simply and exactly as possible.”

  He couldn’t have had a more “Harry” sort of job, unless he’d been a banker. Poor man. Did he mind being so average? “And who do you analyze these facts for?”

  “I’m an independent consultant.”

  “Got it. So you explain your economic models to whomever pays you.”

  “You want the specifics?”

  “I’d love the specifics.” Anything to keep her mind off the walls that periodically snuck up on her, threatening to steal away the hard-won vestiges of her control.

  “I consult with major corporations about economic growth and market trends.”

  She took a moment to digest that. “You tell people how and where to spend their money.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you good at it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good, I’ll bet,” she guessed shrewdly. It was a tendency of meticulous individuals.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “I have a confession to make. You and I have similar jobs.”

  She’d caught him by surprise with that one. “We do?”

  “Well…” Madison forced herself to be as accurate as possible. “My consulting is on a much smaller scale than yours. And I do a lot more than give economic advice. Although the advising part does seem to take up an inordinate amount of my time.”

  “And are you good at it?”

  She didn’t see any point in being modest. “Yes.”

  “Very good, I’ll bet.”

  Madison grinned. “I’m a natural. Or, so I’ve been told. Of course, it helps that I’m practical. I don’t allow emotion to affect my judgment.”

  “And who do you work for?”

  “Oh, I’m an independent consultant, too. But instead of consulting for corporations, I deal strictly with Sunflowers.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sunflowers. That’s our family name on my mother’s side. I’m an Adams. That’s where I inherited my practical streak—from my dad’s family. They’re all bankers and accountants and lawyers. I don’t have much contact with them.” She hurried over that part, unwilling to go into painful detail. “The Sunflowers have always been my main concern.”

  “And what do Sunflowers do?”

  “They’re not as easy to pigeonhole as my father’s relatives. They’re…” She shrugged. “They’re whatever they want to be. You could say a whim doesn’t exist that hasn’t attracted a Sunflower.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t misunderstand,” she hastened to add. “They’re wonderful. Loving. Generous. Fun. Amusing.”

  “But not practical.”

  “Not even a little.” She smiled fondly, her affection echoed in her voice. “It’s their worst failing.”

  “A failing you make up for?”

  “I compensate, I suppose.”

  “Overcompensate?”

  She took instant exception to the question. “Most certainly not.”

  “Piffle.”

  “I don’t know how we got on the topic of my family, anyway.”

  A ridiculous primness warred with an uncharacteristic grumpy note and she frowned at her reaction. What did it matter what Harry thought, anyway? She held a job of vital importance for a family she flat-out adored. If she tended to go a little overboard in her zeal to prove herself of use to the Sunflowers, it wasn’t anyone’s concern but her own. The arrangement suited those involved and that’s all that mattered. What right did Harry have to stick his nose in her family business, anyway? Not to mention that he’d gotten it all wrong, drawing ridiculous conclusions that held no basis in fact whatsoever.

  “We could go back to the other subject we were discussing, if you’d prefer,” he offered.

  Had he sensed her thoughts? She wouldn’t be surprised. He was a perceptive individual. Practical people often were. “I can’t even remember what that was,” she confessed.

  “We were talking about love.”

  Shoot. “I think we’ve exhausted that topic, too, don’t you?”

  “Not even close.”

  His voice had dropped, the intonation far too low and husky. She shivered in reaction, a hint of unease giving her pause. For the first time it occurred to her that she was trapped in an elevator car with a man she didn’t know, a man with whom she’d been discussing fairly intimate topics. Not practical! a portion of her brain screamed. Despite the conclusions she’d drawn about him, he could be anyone. He could be a thief or a murderer or someone unethical enough to take advantage of their situation. She didn’t often make errors in judgment about people, but considering she wasn’t operating at full efficiency, it was conceivable she’d made a mistake this time.

  The claustrophobia she’d experienced earlier returned full force. The intense darkness unnerved her, exaggerating the sound of her breathing. It came far too fast, in quick, shallow, panicked gasps. She could hear his breathing, too. It escaped with slow, steady regularity, carrying a strong, masculine edge. Was that even possible? Did men have a different mode of respiration than women? It sure seemed like it. His were manly-man breaths, Me-Tarzan, You-Jane sort of exhalations. Was it deliberate? Or did it emanate from some unconscious, testosterone-driven source that men weren’t even aware of?

  Idiot! she scolded. This was Harry the Economist. Mr. Practical. Mr. Safe. A puppy dog friendly, woolly lamb innocuous sort of guy.

  And yet… Somehow it seemed not only possible that he was somehow seducing her with his breathing, but probable. Maybe he didn’t even realize it was happening. She buried her face in her arms. Dear heaven! He could be unwittingly saturating the air with each lusty exhale and there wasn’t a darned thing she could do about it but drag the sweet, passion-laden molecules into her lungs with each helpless breath she drew.

  “You’re afraid again, aren’t you?” he murmured.

  “Yes,” came her muffled response.

  “How can I help?”

  She lifted her head. “Just stay right where you are.” The statement escaped without conscious volition. It was also a dead giveaway.

  And they both knew it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Principle 2: The voice of love

  can win the most stubborn heart…

  HARRY took far too long to respond. “I see.”

  What in the world did that mean? “What do you see?” Madison demanded nervously.

  “That you’re afraid of me. It’s rather amusing when you stop and think about it.”

  “I don’t find it the least amusing.” At least he hadn’t realized that her fear had somehow gotten wrapped around a confusing mixture of attraction. She relaxed slightly.

  “I apologize. It’s not the situation I find amusing. It’s that you’d be afraid of me.”

  “Why? Isn’t there anything intimidating about you?”

  “I’m very intimidating.” He paused a beat. “On a business level. In person, I’m pretty innocuous.”

  That’s what she’d thought. Harry had a presence, no two ways about that. But until recently she didn’t feel threatened by it. He’d been wonderful toward her, right from the start. The moment he’d sensed her claustrophobia, he’d done his best to alleviate
it. The fact that he’d gone out of his way to try and make her feel better should have told her something. Her breathing eased, the give-and-take far less panic-stricken. Maybe that explained the strange attraction she felt. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with Bartholomew Jones and his peculiar notions of instantaneous bonding and love at first sight. Thank goodness for that much.

  “Do you think we could talk about something else?” she suggested. Anything that might take her mind off her foolish behavior. Then just to prove how her claustrophobia had stolen every remaining vestige of self-control, she asked, “Do you really believe in love at first sight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though it’s so impractical?”

  “I realize it’s out of character,” he said with suspicious humbleness. “But, sure. I think it’s quite possible.”

  “Then you agree with Mr. Jones? You buy into all this stuff about love being chemical?”

  “I suspect chemistry plays a part. Think about it. Why are we attracted to one person and not another? There has to be some sort of subconscious or instinctive or chemical reaction happening.”

  “Is it happening now?” she whispered.

  She couldn’t begin to guess where the question came from. It simply spilled free of its own volition. Before she could snatch back the words, or soften them with a reasonable—if patently false—explanation, the phone in the control panel rang. Divine intervention at its best. She heard Harry make his way to the phone and answer it. There was none of the blundering or awkward scrambling she’d have expected because of the intense darkness. His movements were slow and sure and precise.

  “Yes, we’re stuck. No, there are two of us. Right. Hang on and I’ll ask.”

  “What? What are they saying?”

  “It’s going to be a little longer before they can release us. Is there someone you want them to contact? Family who’ll worry about you?”

  “I was on my way to the office. Could they call Rosy and let her know where I am? I’m sure my family’s in a flat-out panic by now.”

  Harry relayed the information along with the assistant’s number, refused their offer to contact anyone for him and hung up the phone. Then he settled in his corner of the elevator. Should he tell Madison that it would be several hours before they fixed the problem? Probably not the wisest move. The past half hour had been tough enough for her. No sense in spooking her with the unadulterated truth.