by Lisa Hendrix
“I’m sorry. Of course. It’s going to be wonderful.”
“That’s better. Paul knows where to take you and he’ll give you any help you need; however, please keep in mind that Miranda will probably grill him later. Don’t give him anything worth passing on, in case he’s tempted.”
Raine frowned at the back of the seat as it came back to her that there was nothing personal to Mason’s generosity; it was all just part of the scam. “Don’t worry. I won’t carry tales out of school.”
“If I really was worried about either of you, I wouldn’t let you go off alone together. Now, I have that client waiting in reception, so I’ll call you tomorrow morning to arrange to pick you up.”
“Make it early. I’m usually out of the house by six on market days.”
“Early it is. And have fun tonight, Raine.”
“I will. Good night.”
“Good night. Would you have Paul pick up the phone, please.”
Raine glanced at the intercom, but couldn’t figure out the controls quickly enough, so she knocked on the partition glass and signaled to Paul to pick up. When he nodded, she hung up and leaned back. A moment later, the car pulled away from the curb.
She tapped again and the partition went down with an electronic whine. “Yes, miss?”
“Would it violate some unwritten rule of chauffeurdom if you helped me pick out a dress for the Wilmott Foundation dance?”
“No. But you’ll have help there at the store.”
“I’d rather have you.”
“I’m not what you would call fashion conscious.”
“But you’ve at least seen what Miranda and Mrs. Alexander wear to these things. I have no idea. I’d really appreciate it if you’d come in and give me some advice. Please, Paul.”
“All right, miss.”
At the small but well-stocked boutique Mason had chosen, she tried to follow his advice to have fun, a feat that would have been easier if she hadn’t kept remembering Zoe’s comments about Pretty Woman. With sales clerks fawning and Paul loitering in the background, the whole scene took on tones of a cheap remake, starring Raine as the gold-digging prostitute.
What made it more uncomfortable was that the clerks were clearly thinking along the same lines, bringing out sexy little numbers that revealed more skin than they covered. She wanted to shout at them, “I’m not his sex toy,” but it would have blown her cover with Paul and the clerks wouldn’t have believed her anyway. Instead, she tried hard to project blushing future fiancée instead of brassy hooker and steered them toward more sedate choices until they got the message.
She finally found a gown that both felt comfortable and made Paul smile and nod, and quickly had them set it aside before the four-figure price tag could trigger an attack of the Minnesota Frugals. A matching pair of overpriced shoes and a tiny evening bag were produced by another saleswoman, and suitable undergarments by a third.
The process repeated itself for the everyday clothes Mason had specified, until Raine crossed her fingers in front of her face as though she were warding off a vampire and called, “Enough.”
Everything was soon bagged and placed in Paul’s capable hands; by the time they finished loading him down, he looked like a Sherpa.
“That represents my clothing budget for at least five years,” Raine muttered as they walked out into the cool late evening. “Maybe ten.”
“If Mr. Alexander weren’t prepared to spend that kind of money, he wouldn’t have chosen this store.”
“Does this a lot, does he?”
Paul stopped dead beside the rear bumper and shot her a critical look. “Never.”
Oops. In an effort to recover, Raine turned on a pleased, shy smile and examined the tips of her shoes as though they carried the image of her beloved. “That’s sort of nice to hear, actually.” And actually, it was.
Paul seemed satisfied. After he loaded the packages into the trunk, he came around to open the door for her.
“Thank you for your help in there,” said Raine. “You made a wonderful standin for Mason.”
“You’re welcome, but the evening isn’t quite over.”
“What could he possibly—”
“Dinner, of course.” He motioned her into the car. “Mr. Alexander had reservations for the two of you at the Hunt Club. The table is still available, but if you’d like to go somewhere else, I’m at your disposal.”
“The Hunt Club, alone?” She visualized herself sitting, either solo or with Mason’s driver, amid the couples at what was reputedly Seattle’s most romantic restaurant. “I don’t think so. I’m in more of a hamburger mood. I need a chunk of meat to balance all that saccharine those clerks were dishing out.”
The corners of Paul’s mouth curved upward. “How about Zesto’s, over in Ballard?”
“Perfect. And Paul?”
“Yes, miss?”
“I’m buying.”
“I understand, miss.”
*
Nine
« ^ »
The Frugals set in around the time Paul finally got her home, and by the time Raine’s alarm went off Saturday morning they were in full uproar.
It all had to go back.
There was no getting around it. Raine stood in the golden glow of early morning, staring at the clothes that hung on the back of the bedroom door. They were beautiful, particularly the evening gown with its silk chiffon in layers of muted pinks and peaches, but she couldn’t accept a gift of this magnitude from Mason. Maybe Brynn would be willing to watch the stall for a couple of hours while she took it all back and went shopping for something else to wear tonight … but even as that idea formed, Raine rejected it. She’d never find anything suitable that she could afford in one afternoon.
She fingered the hem of the gown thoughtfully. Maybe if she were very careful and didn’t sweat all evening, Mason could return it Monday morning along with the other things. And as for the remaining evenings at the Alexander house, well, she’d borrow something from Zoe if she had to—with all the black Zoe wore, surely she’d have something dressy-looking that would fit.
Or if Mason really wanted to freak out his mother, she could go shop at one of the used clothing stores down on the Avenue. Something with a 1950s cowboy motif would probably do the trick. Yee, haw.
She showered and dressed quickly and swung into the kitchen to heat some water for tea and smear some cream cheese on a bagel. Holding half the bagel between her teeth, she stuck a picnic jug under the faucet to fill and pulled her little gray cash box out from behind the roasting pan on the bottom shelf. She opened it, only to groan at the sight of the paltry stack of ones. She should have cashed a check on the way home from work last night. Spending every evening with Mason was sure screwing up her routine.
It was screwing up more than that, she thought. She turned the tap off.
She was finding it harder and harder to keep the perspective she’d promised herself she would. This was a job, an arranged relationship with no basis in reality; Mason certainly saw it as nothing more. Yet every time he touched her, even for the most innocuous reason, every nerve in her body fired at once. Shoot, every time she so much as thought of him, she got the kind of all-encompassing spinal meltdown usually associated with a high school crush. It was as stupid as a crush, too—a purely sexual reaction, two bodies that found each other attractive, and oh, lordy, did hers ever find his attractive. She’d even dreamed he was in her bed last night, the second amazing, fiery night of dreams in a row, and it had left her aching with want, even now. A sudden wash of heat made her fan her face with a sweepstakes envelope from Friday’s mail.
The teakettle began burbling, and she took it off the burner before it could work up a full whistle. She dropped a bag of green tea into her biggest mug and started pouring the water just as someone knocked on the front door.
She looked out the window, expecting to see Zoe’s face, but Mason’s blue eyes greeted her instead. Desire fluttered low in her belly. Hands suddenly s
haking, she set the kettle back on the stove, then went to the door and pulled it open too quickly. “What are you doing here?”
“You are just charming in the morning, aren’t you? ‘What now, Zoe?’” He imitated her. “‘What are you doing here?’”
“Both legitimate questions,” she said. “And when you’re done making fun of me, you can come on in and answer the second one.”
Maybe it was the reddish sky behind him, but he looked even more like a Viking than usual, and she had a sudden sense that plunder was imminent. Already primed by the recollection of her nighttime fantasies, her lips tingled in anticipation of a good-morning kiss.
But he walked past her, smelling of soap and whatever that cologne was he favored, and her disappointment was unaccountably sharp.
“I interrupted your breakfast,” he said. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure what time to come.”
“Come for what?”
“To help you get to market,” he said, as though she should have been expecting him. He peeled off his blue blazer and tossed it over the back of a kitchen chair, and, with the jacket gone, it dawned on Raine that he was wearing a yellow T-shirt and jeans. They didn’t look anything like the sort of T-shirts and jeans she and her friends owned, but they certainly weren’t a Brooks Brothers suit, either.
“Wow. You’re serious.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Of course I’m serious. Haven’t Mother and Miranda convinced you that I’m way too serious about everything?”
“They’re working against personal experience.” She turned buck to her breakfast. “Would you like a bagel or some tea or something?”
“No, thanks. I stopped at Starbucks on the way over.” He started to pull out a chair, then stopped and looked around. “Where’s your attack cat?”
“He took off first thing. The chair’s a safe zone.”
“Good.” He sat on the rainbow-painted chair and leaned back, settling into the space as though he belonged there every day. “So, what’s involved this morning?”
“Mostly grunt work,” she said as she carried her meal over to join him. “Everything’s already packed up, so it’s just a matter of loading it into my truck and hauling it over to the market. I share a stall with a friend who sells flowers. We make sort of a garden setting with my art and her flowers.”
Mason nodded. “That sounds like a good marketing strategy.”
“Mostly it’s a way to share costs,” she admitted. “Plus we sometimes can take days off without losing our spots. Like last Saturday. If it hadn’t been for Brynn, I wouldn’t have been in your arbor to be recruited.”
“I’ll have to thank her,” he said, in a tone that made the breath catch in Raine’s throat.
She had to think to exhale. “Speaking of thanks, I owe you some. The shopping trip last night was pretty spectacular.”
“Paul said you found a dress.”
She nodded. “It’s gorgeous, but it’s also way too expensive. And the other things… I understand why you felt a need to outfit me—heaven knows I don’t have many decent clothes—but I realized when I looked at it all this morning that I can’t keep it. I can’t keep any of it.”
“Nonsense.”
“Mason, it’s just too much.”
“By whose standards?”
“Mine.”
“Then raise your standards.” He leaned forward and took her free hand between his. “You’re a beautiful woman who deserves to wear beautiful clothes. It so happens that I have both an excuse to buy them for you and the means to pay for them.”
“No, you don’t. You told me yourself that you’re broke. Those clothes are expensive. You could be putting the money into your company.”
Mason laughed. “I could buy you a gown like that every day for the next year and it wouldn’t touch the kind of money I need to turn Alexander Industries around.”
“But it all adds up. The clothes, the cars, Paul’s salary. That house, for heaven’s sake. It must cost a fortune to keep up. Can’t you—”
“The cars are all over ten years old, and I keep Paul because Mother doesn’t see well anymore and it keeps her off the roads. The house was paid for a couple of generations ago and it’s in trust, as are funds for the upkeep and the staff. My grandfather—Mother’s father—was smart enough to set that up when he realized my father was no businessman. He also set up personal trusts for Miranda and me, which is a good thing, considering I gave up my corporate salary three years ago. We tried breaking the trusts to get to the principal, but Gramps was a smart old bird with smarter lawyers. I’m afraid we’re condemned to this lifestyle at least until I’m fifty.”
“I don’t get it. If you can live off the trusts, then why are you so worried about the company?”
“First, because thanks to inflation, the distributions are just big enough to keep us in pocket change—rather splendid pocket change from your viewpoint, I know, but we have certain obligations and expenses necessary to keep our standing so I can have access to the people I need to keep AI on its feet. And secondly, I want to pass something on to my daughter other than a feeling of entitlement, which is all she’s likely to get from her mother.”
“You have a daughter?”
“I do.” He turned and fished around in the breast pocket of the jacket draped over the back of the chair. He pulled out a wallet and flipped it open in front of Raine. “Samantha. She’s eleven. She lives back in Boston with my ex-wife.”
Raine liked the face that looked out of the photo, full of mischief and resembling a small, black-haired version of Miranda. She closed the wallet.
“She’s cute. I, on the other hand, feel like an idiot.”
“Why? Because you tried to help?” He took her hand again. “I’m sure you didn’t want to sit here and justify your life to me.”
“No. But it’s not so terrible to remind myself what I’m doing, either. I just have one favor to ask.”
“What?”
“You probably know more about my finances now than anybody outside my accountant.”
“I was brought up not to discuss family finances outside the family, though I guess you’d never know it from the way I act around you. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“Good, I didn’t think you would.” As he talked, his fingers traced unconsciously over the back of her hand and along her wrist, playing complete havoc with her thought processes.
“But about that dress.” She stared at the invisible lines he drew on her skin and it was all she could do to get back on topic. “Back in Bemidji they have names for women who accept expensive gifts from men.”
His fingers tightened around hers. “None of which apply to you. Damn it, I know this relationship between us is odd—”
“To say the least.”
“—but you have nothing to be ashamed of other than getting sucked into my bizarre family life.” His eyes darkened for a moment, and then he released her hand and shook off the mood. “And that’s all we’re going to say about my family or your clothes. I’m keeping one, you’re keeping the other, and we’re both stuck. Now, finish your breakfast and show me what to start loading.”
An argument sprang to Raine’s tongue, but the determined way Mason’s jaw underlined his smile made her clamp her lips. She already recognized his no-nonsense look. Conceding defeat—and not altogether unhappily, if she were honest with herself—she popped the last of the bagel into her mouth, rinsed it down with tea, and stood up.
“Do you at least want to see what you bought?”
He shook his head. “Surprise me this evening.”
She looked at him, then sighed. “Fine. We’ve kind of gotten behind, here, anyway. Let’s get to work.”
She led him outside and around the end of the house to the garage that formed the other half of the building. Fitting the key into the padlock, she fiddled it open, then hoisted the door on its creaky track. Sunlight filtered through the whirling dust motes to reveal metal figures in all shapes and sizes, most crated or
in boxes. “You asked for it.”
Mason drifted in, examining the few freestanding pieces with the careful eye of a museum patron. He stopped in front of a big piece covered with a drop cloth. He reached for a corner of the cloth.
“Don’t,” said Raine.
“Ah. A mystery. You pique my interest.”
“A work in progress. I’m trying something new. I don’t want anybody to see it until I get it right.”
“All right.”
He moved on to her workbench, with its anvil and racks of hammers and various cutting tools, and touched her welding mask and gloves, which lay on one end of the bench. “Intellectually, I knew you needed all this to turn out those pieces in the garden, but face to face, it’s pretty intimidating gear.”
“Not very delicate and ladylike, that’s for sure.”
He turned. His eyes gleamed like blue diamonds from the depths of the garage. “A lady is a woman who can make the people around her feel comfortable, in any situation from a back street bar to the Queen’s tea. I’ve watched you for a week, and you’re very much a lady, Raine Hobart. Now, should I load all of this?”
She stood there feeling amazingly awkward and unladylike, her heart thudding, and it took her several beats to sort out the proper answer.
“Thank you. And no, not everything. Just those.” She indicated two big boxes that held an assortment of pieces. “And these four little ones, plus that big trellis and the birdbath in that crate. Drag them out in the alley while I pull around. And don’t hurt your back,” she added, grinning, as she headed for her truck. “I don’t carry workers’ comp.”
By the time she got back, he had everything out and the garage locked tight. Together they loaded the truck, packing pieces into the bed puzzle-style so they wouldn’t shift. They tied down the bigger pieces.
“Great,” said Raine. “I’ll meet you down at the market.”
Mason shook his head. “I’m riding with you. Just let me grab my jacket, and I’m yours for the day.” He laughed at the surprise on her face. “I told you I was serious.”
He got his jacket and the jug of water while Raine shoved a stack of cheap plastic drinking glasses into her backpack and grabbed the cash box. A few minutes later they were heading toward the highway.
