by Abby Green
“You are no one’s assistant.”
She sat back in her chair and rested her hands in her lap. “I’m an attorney. With a firm that represents a number of corporate clients.”
“An attorney. Of course. That, I believe.”
She picked up her fork, ate some of her salad. For a moment or two they shared a surprisingly easy silence. And then she asked, “And what about you? What do you do for a living?”
“I like variety in my work. At the moment, I’m in trade. International trade.”
“At the moment? What? You change jobs a lot, is that what you’re telling me?”
“I take on projects that interest me. And when I’m satisfied that any given project is complete, I move on.”
“What do you trade?”
“At the moment, oranges. Montedoron oranges.”
“Montedoran. That sounds exotic.”
“It is. The Montedoran is a blood orange, very sweet, hinting of raspberry, with the characteristic red flesh of all blood oranges. The skin is smooth, not pitted like many other varieties.”
“So soon I’ll be buying Montedorans at my local Wal-Mart Supercenter?”
“Hardly. The Montedoran is never going to be for sale in supermarkets. We won’t be trading in that kind of volume. But for certain gourmet and specialty stores, I think it could do very well.”
“Montedoran …” She tested the word on her tongue. “There’s a small country in Europe, right, on the Côte d’Azur? Montedoro?”
“Yes. Montedoro is my country.” He poured her more wine. And she didn’t stop him. “It’s one of the eight smallest states in Europe, a principality on the Mediterranean. My mother was born there. My father was American but moved to Montedoro and accepted Montedoran citizenship when they married. His name is Evan Bravo. He was a Texan by birth.”
She really did love listening to him talk. He made every word into a poem. “So … you have relatives in Texas?”
“I have an aunt and uncle and a number of first cousins who live in and around San Antonio. And I have other, more distant cousins in a small town near Abilene. And in your Hill Country, I have a second cousin who married a veterinarian. And there are more Bravos, many more, in California and Wyoming and Nevada. All over the States, as a matter of fact.”
“I take it that Calabretti is your mother’s surname?”
“Yes.”
“Is that what they do in your country, combine the husband’s and wife’s last name when they marry?”
He nodded. “In … certain families, anyway. It’s similar to the way it’s done in Spain. We are much like the Spanish. We want to keep all our last names, on both sides of our families. So we string them together proudly.”
“Bravo-Calabretti sounds familiar, somehow. I keep wondering where I’ve heard it before …”
He waited for her to finish. When she didn’t, he shrugged. “Perhaps it will come to you later.”
“Maybe so.” She lowered her voice to a more confidential level. “And I have to tell you, I keep thinking that you are familiar, that I’ve met you before.”
He shrugged in a way that seemed to her so sophisticated, so very European. “They say everyone has a double. Maybe that’s it. You’ve met my double.”
It wasn’t what she’d meant. But it didn’t really matter. “Maybe.” She let it go and asked, “Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“I do.” He gave her a regal nod. “Three brothers, five sisters. I’m second-born. I have an older brother, Maximilian. And after me, there are the twins, Alexander and Damien. And then my sisters—Bella, Rhiannon, Alice, Genevra and Rory.”
“Big family.” Feeling suddenly wistful, she set down her fork. “I envy you. I was an only child.” Her hand rested on the tabletop.
He covered it with his. The touch warmed her to her toes—and thrilled her, as well. Her whole body seemed, all at once, completely, vividly alive. He leaned into her and studied her face, his gaze as warm as his lean hand over hers. “And you are sad, then? To have no siblings?”
“I am, yes.” She wished he might hold her hand indefinitely. And yet she had to remember that this wasn’t going anywhere and it wouldn’t be right to let him think that it might. She eased her hand free. He took her cue without comment, retreating to his side of the table. She asked, “How old are you, Rule?”
He laughed his slow, smooth laugh. “Somehow, I begin to feel as though I’m being interviewed.”
She turned her wineglass by the stem. “I only wondered. Is your age a sensitive subject for you?”
“In a sense, I suppose it is.” His tone was more serious. “I’m thirty-two. That’s a dangerous age for an unmarried man in my family.”
“How so? Thirty-two isn’t all that old.” Especially not for a man. For a woman, things were a little different—at least, they were if she wanted to have children.
“It’s time that I married.” He said it so somberly, his eyes darker than ever as he regarded her steadily.
“I don’t get it. In your family, they put you on a schedule for marriage?”
Now a smile haunted his handsome mouth. “It sounds absurd when you say it that way.”
“It is absurd.”
“You are a woman of definite opinions.” He said it in an admiring way. Still, defiance rose within her and she tipped her chin high. He added, “And yes, in my family both the men and the women are expected to marry before they reach the age of thirty-three.”
“And if you don’t?”
He lowered his head and looked at her from under his dark brows. “Consequences will be dire.” He said it in a low tone, an intimate tone, a tone that did a number on every one of her nerve endings and sent a fine, heated shiver dancing along the surface of her skin.
“You’re teasing me.”
“Yes, I am. I like you, Sydney. I knew that I would, the moment I first saw you.”
“And when was that?”
“You’ve already forgotten?” He looked gorgeously forlorn. “I see I’m not so memorable, after all. Macy’s? I saw you going in?” The waiter scooped up their empty salad plates and served them rib eye steaks with Serrano lime butter. When he left them, Rule slid her a knowing glance as he picked up his steak knife. “Sydney, I think you’re testing me.”
Why deny it? “I think you’re right.”
“I hope I’m passing this test of yours—and do your parents live here in Dallas?”
She trotted out the old, sad story. “They lived in San Francisco, where I was born. My mother was thrown off a runaway cable car. I was just three months old, in her arms when she fell. She suffered a blow to the head and died instantly, but I was unharmed. They called it a miracle at the time. My father was fatally injured when he jumped off to try and save us. He died the next day in the hospital.”
His dark eyes were so soft. They spoke of real sympathy. Of understanding. “How terrible for you.”
“I don’t even remember it. My grandmother—my father’s mother—came for me and took me back to Austin, where she lived. She raised me on her own. My grandfather had died several years before my parents. She was amazing, my grandmother. She taught me that I can do anything. She taught me that power brings responsibility. That the truth is sacred. That being faithful and trustworthy are rewards in themselves.”
Now his eyes had a teasing light in them. “And yet, you’re an attorney.”
Sydney laughed. “So they have lawyer jokes even in Montedoro?”
“I’m afraid so—and a corporate attorney at that.”
“I’m not responding to that comment on the grounds that it might tend to incriminate me.” She said it lightly.
But he saw right through her. “Have I hit a nerve?”
She totally shocked herself by answering frankly. “My job is high-powered. And high-paying. And it’s been … important to me, to know that I’m on top of a very tough game, that I’ll never have to worry about where the next paycheck is coming from, that I can definit
ely take care of my own and do it well.”
“And yet?”
She revealed even more. “And yet lately, I often find myself thinking how much more fulfilling it might be to spend my workdays helping people who really need me, rather than protecting the overflowing coffers of multibillion-dollar companies.”
He started to speak. But then her BlackBerry, which she’d set on the table to the right of her water goblet the way she always did at restaurants, vibrated. She checked the display: Magda, her assistant. Probably wondering why she wasn’t back at the office yet.
She glanced at Rule again. He had picked up his knife and fork and was concentrating on his meal, giving her the chance to deal with the call if she needed to.
Well, she didn’t need to.
Sydney scooped up the phone and dropped it in her bag where she wouldn’t even notice if it vibrated again.
With the smooth ease of a born diplomat, Rule continued their conversation as though it had never been interrupted. “You speak of your grandmother in the past tense….”
“She died five years ago. I miss her very much.”
“So much loss.” He shook his head. “Life can be cruel.”
“Yes.” She ate a bite of her steak, taking her time about it, savoring the taste and tenderness of the meat, unaccountably happy that he hadn’t remarked on her vibrating BlackBerry, that he hadn’t said he was “sorry,” the way people always did when she told them she’d grown up without her parents, when she confessed how much she missed her grandmother.
He watched her some more, his dark head tipped to the side in way that had her thinking again how he reminded her of someone. “Have you ever been married?”
“No. I’m Catholic—somewhat lapsed, yes, but nonetheless, I do believe that marriage is forever. I’ve never found the man I want forever with. But I’ve had a couple of serious relationships. They … didn’t work out.” Understatement of the year. But he didn’t need to hear it and she didn’t need to say it. She’d done enough over-sharing for now, thank you very much. She added, “And I’m thirty-three. Does that seem … dire to you?”
“Absolutely.” He put on a stern expression. On him, sternness was sexy. But then, on him, everything was sexy. “You should be married immediately. And then have nine children. At the very least. You should marry a wealthy man, Sydney. One who adores you.”
“Hmm. A rich man who adores me. I wouldn’t mind that. But the nine children? More than I planned on. Significantly more.”
“You don’t want children?” He looked honestly surprised.
She almost told him about Trevor right then. But no. This was a fantasy lunch with a fantasy man. Trevor was her real life. The most beautiful, perfect, meaningful, joyful part of her real life. “I didn’t say I didn’t want children. I do. But I’m not sure I’m ready for nine of them. Nine seems like a lot.”
“Well. Perhaps we would have to settle for fewer than nine. I can be reasonable.”
“We?”
“A man and a woman have to work together. Decisions should be jointly made.”
“Rule.” She put a hand to her breast, widened her eyes and asked him dramatically, “Could this be … oh, I can’t believe it. Is it possible that you’re proposing to me?”
He answered matter-of-factly, “As it happens, I’m wealthy. And it would be very easy for me to adore you.” His dark eyes shone.
What was this feeling? Magical, this feeling. Magical and foolish. And that was the beauty of it. It was one of those things that happen when you least expect it. Something to remind her that life could still be surprising. That it wasn’t all about winning and staying on top—and coming home too late to tuck her own sweet boy into bed.
Sometimes even the most driven woman might just take a long lunch. A long lunch with a stranger who made her feel not only brilliant and clever, but beautiful and desired, as well.
She put on a tragic face. “I’m sorry. It could never work.”
He played it stricken. “But why not?”
“You live in Montedoro.” Grave. Melancholy. “My career—my whole life—is here.”
“You might change careers. You might even decide to try a different kind of life.”
Hah. Exactly what men always said. She wasn’t letting him get away with it. “Or you might move to Texas.”
“For you, Sydney, I might do anything.”
“Perfect answer.”
A moment ensued. Golden. Fine. A moment with only the two of them in it. A moment of complete accord.
Sydney let herself enjoy that moment. She refused to be guarded or dubious. It was only lunch, after all. Lunch with an attractive man. She was giving herself full permission to enjoy every minute of it.
Chapter Two
The meeting on the Binnelab case was half over when Sydney slipped in at two-fifteen.
“Excuse me,” she said as she eased through the conference room doors and they all turned to stare at her. “So sorry. I had … something of an emergency.”
Her colleagues made sympathetic noises and went back to arguing strategy. No one was the least angry that she was late.
Because she was never late—which meant that of course there had to be a good reason for her tardiness. She was Sydney O’Shea, who graduated college at twenty, passed the bar at twenty-four and had been made partner at thirty—exactly one year before her son was born. Sydney O’Shea, who knew how to make demands and how to return a favor, who had a talent for forging strong professional relationships and who never slacked. She racked up the billable hours with the best of them.
If she’d told them all that she’d been sidetracked in Macy’s housewares by a handsome orange salesman from Montedoro and allowed him to talk her into blowing off half of the Binnelab meeting, they’d have had zero doubt that she was joking.
She knew the case backward and forward. She only had to listen to the discussion for a few minutes to get up to speed on the direction her colleagues were taking.
By the end of the meeting, she’d nudged them in a slightly different direction and everyone seemed pleased with the result. She returned to her corner office to find her so-capable assistant, the usually unflappable Magda, standing in the middle of the room holding an orchid in a gorgeous purple pot. Magda stared in dismay at the credenza along the side wall where no less than twelve spectacular flower arrangements sprouted from a variety of crystal vases.
The credenza was not the only surface in the room overflowing with flowers. There were two vases on the coffee table and one each on the end tables in the sitting area.
Her desk had six of them. And the windowsill was likewise overrun with exotic blooms. Each arrangement had a small white card attached. The room smelled like a greenhouse.
Rule. She knew instantly. Who else could it be? And a quick glance at one of the cards confirmed it.
Please share dinner with me tonight. The Mansion at Turtle Creek. Eight o’clock. Yours, Rule
She’d never told him the name of her firm. But then again, it wouldn’t have been that hard to find out. Just her name typed into a search engine would have done it.
“Smothered in flowers. Literally,” she said to her nonplussed assistant. She felt that delicious glow again, that sense of wonder and limitless possibility. She was crushing on him, big-time. He made her feel innocent and free.
And beautiful. And desired …
Was there anything wrong with that? If there was, she was having trouble remembering what.
“They started arriving about half an hour ago,” said Magda. “I think this orchid is the last of them. But I have nowhere left to put it.”
“It would look great on your desk,” Sydney suggested. “In fact, take the cards off and leave them with me. And then let’s share the wealth.”
Magda arched a brow. “Give them away, you mean?”
“Start with the data entry crew. Just leave me the two vases of yellow roses.”
“You’re sure?”
“Pos
itive.” She didn’t think Rule would mind at all if she shared. And she wanted to share. This feeling of hope and wonder and beauty, well, it was too fabulous to keep to herself. “Tell everyone to enjoy them. And to take them home, if they want to—and hurry. We have Calista’s party at four.”
“I really like this orchid,” said Magda, holding out the pot, admiring the deep purple lips suspended from the velvety pale pink petals. “It looks rare.”
“Good. Enjoy. A nice start to the weekend, don’t you think? Flowers for everyone. And then we send Calista happily off to her tropical honeymoon.”
“Someone special must be wild for you,” Magda said with a grin.
Sydney couldn’t resist grinning right back at her. “Deliver the flowers and let’s break out the champagne.”
Calista loved the heart-shaped casserole. She laughed when she pulled it from the gift bag. “I guess now I’ll just have to learn how to cook.”
“Wait until after the honeymoon,” Sydney suggested and then proposed a toast. “To you, Calista. And to a long and happy marriage.”
After the two glasses of wine at lunch, Sydney allowed herself only a half glass of champagne during the shower. But the shortage of bubbly didn’t matter in the least. It was still the most fun Sydney had ever had at a bridal shower. Funny how meeting a wonderful man can put a whole different light on the day.
After the party, she returned to her office just long enough to grab her briefcase, her bag and one of the vases full of yellow roses. Yes, as a rule she would have stayed to bill a couple more hours, at least.
But hey. It was Friday. She wanted to see her little boy before he went to bed. And she really needed to talk to Lani, who was not only her dearest friend, but also Trevor’s live-in nanny. She needed Lani’s excellent advice as to whether she should go for it and take Rule up on his invitation to dinner.
At home in Highland Park, she found Trevor in the kitchen, sitting up at the breakfast nook table in his booster chair, eating his dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. “Mama home! Hug, hug!” he crowed, and held out his chubby arms.
