by Debra Dixon
“Excuse me?”
“Not exactly,” she repeated more clearly, and settled back against the chair.
The way she retreated reminded Sam of an irritated feline, and the tiny rocking movements of her foot suggested the twitching of a cat’s tail. She hadn’t hissed or spat fire at him yet, but the night was still young. He could hope. And imagine. Anger would put sparks in her eyes and color in her cheeks. Passion would do that to her too, he decided. God, what a thought. Those legs. Wrapped around him.
Stunned, Sam jerked upright and pushed his chair backward across the hardwood floor. He wasn’t exactly shaking, but was damn close to it. So he added another case of scotch to Dave’s tab and reminded himself that he wasn’t interested in obsessed company controllers who couldn’t keep secretaries.
“Look, Tucker—” Clare began, mistaking his sudden movement for impatience. “What does it matter how they left? They’re gone.”
She pushed a few wisps of hair away from her face with well-shaped fingernails, and Sam noticed the wedding ring for the first time. For a split second, overwhelming relief flooded through him. Married meant off limits. Then he felt disappointment and a slight stab of envy for her husband.
“Dave strikes again,” he said softly, unaware that he’d spoken aloud.
“What does Dave have to do with this?” Puzzlement drew her brows together, and she tilted her head.
A breath of disgusted laughter slipped out of Sam as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Everything and nothing.”
Clare studied him as he prowled around the room and wondered why he looked like a man wrestling with disappointment. Suddenly his words echoed in her mind—take a good look at your partner; decide if you like what you see. She wondered if he regretted the impulse that made them partners. With horror, she realized she cared about his answer.
And not just because his class was the key to her continued employment at Racing Specialties. His opinion mattered because he felt like one of them. One of the ones who always fit in, who always had friends, who never made mistakes. One of the ones who sealed your social fate with a welcoming grin or a disinterested nod.
Dear God, she breathed silently. For the first time in years, she suddenly felt like she’d been sized up, found wanting, and put outside the circle by one of them. Dammit all! It wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to feel like that again; she didn’t want to care about other people’s opinions. But she did. One class and the wall of indifference that kept her safe was beginning to crumble. And Tucker was to blame. Or Ellie. Or both of them. Or everything.
Uneasily Clare shook off the old demons and forced herself to concentrate. She had to ace this ridiculous course so she could keep her job long enough to hire secretary number six. With that thought in mind, she studied Tucker, looking for a key to his personality, something that she could use to her advantage. He was restless now. Like a man who wanted something he couldn’t have.
Clare shifted, ran her tongue over dry lips, and recrossed her legs. Wondering why Tucker was restless made her nervous. Watching him pace played havoc with her whole nervous system. When he finally stopped beside a spiral staircase tucked unobtrusively in a corner, she whispered, “Thank God.” Louder she asked, “Where does that lead?”
Absently Sam looked up. “Bedroom alcove.”
“You live here?”
“No, but I sleep here occasionally.”
“Why?”
When he hesitated, Clare stood up, dropped her day planner into the chair, and reminded him of the rules. “We’re supposed to be finding out about each other. Over coffee. Since I don’t drink coffee, we can skip that part of the assignment, but it should at least be my turn to ask the questions.”
Sam considered that for a moment. “Okay. It’s been a long time since I played truth or dare, but I’m game.”
“Why do you sleep here?”
“Occasionally sleep here,” Sam corrected her.
“Why do you occasionally sleep here?” Clare walked toward one book-lined wall.
Sam tried not to follow the gentle sway of her body as she wove a path between the chairs strewn about the room. “Sometimes I lose track of time, and the porch light goes off at midnight.”
Intrigued, Clare turned and leaned against the high back of a Queen Anne chair. Sam’s expression was bland as he met her gaze, no help at all in deciding if he was setting her up for a punch line. Whether he was or wasn’t didn’t matter. She had to ask. “Why do midnight and a porch light affect your sleeping arrangements?”
Shaking his head, Sam ignored her question and walked toward her. “My turn. What happened to your secretaries?”
“What is it with you and Dave and my secretaries?” Clare asked in frustration, digging her nails into the plush flame-stitched upholstery.
A wide old-fashioned windowsill made a good seat, so Sam plunked his rump down on it and stared pointedly at Clare. “You’re the one who can’t keep help. I’m just trying to find out why. If they didn’t exactly get fired, then what exactly did happen?”
“They quit.”
“I guessed that much. Why did they quit?”
She didn’t answer immediately, and a blush began to stain her cheeks. Sam clasped his hands between his knees and called himself a fool. He had absolutely no business noticing how vulnerable she looked, because that made him want to hold her. And that was her husband’s privilege, not his. His sense of timing where women were concerned was less than perfect.
“The general consensus is that I’m difficult to work for and have no sense of humor.”
“That’s what Dave thinks,” Sam said gently. “And I can vouch for your sense of humor. So what do you think?”
“I think they didn’t like me.” Clare lifted her chin and waited for a reaction. She didn’t expect a pleased smile, but that’s what Sam gave her, a warm, approving, and slightly crooked smile.
“Good. That’s the first honest thing you’ve said tonight.” He hopped off the sill and stuck his hands in his back pockets. “Tell me something, Clare. Did these secretaries who didn’t like you give two weeks notice?”
The question surprised her, and she tried to find the trick in it. She couldn’t, so she answered. “They all gave two weeks notice.”
“Then it wasn’t you. People don’t volunteer to work another two weeks for bosses they dislike. They’ll work one because they need the good reference. But they won’t work two. Maybe they left because they graduated McGuire boot camp and were ready for higher-paying jobs.”
Clare’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, but she snapped it shut quickly before she said something sappy like Do you really think so? Tucker already knew too many of her secrets without her volunteering any insecurities.
“Your turn,” Sam said, and held his arms open, inviting her to take her best shot.
“I want to know about the porch light.”
Sam rocked back and forth for a moment. “The porch light,” he repeated. “You’re from the South. You should know about porch lights.”
“Born in New Orleans, but raised up north. I moved to Memphis only five years ago. Explain porch lights to me, Tucker.”
“Explain porch lights,” he repeated, and walked a few steps away. How did one explain southern tradition and old family retainers without sounding pretentious and hopelessly out of step with the modern world? As far as he could tell, his reputation was about to go right out the window.
“I live in the big house,” he began.
Clare laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear. “The big house?”
Sam made a shushing sound and pointed to a chair. “Sit and listen. Yes, I live in the big house. I’m sure you noticed it when you drove around the corner—three stories, lots of ivy. Antiques, one helluva staircase and curving banister on the inside. The kind of house all good southern sons inherit from their fathers. It’s a great house. The problem is that I also inherited the family butler, who turns off the porch light at midnight.”
> Pausing to make sure she was following him, Sam waited for her nod and then continued. “As far as he’s concerned, a southern gentleman will either be home by twelve o’clock sharp or not at all. If I go through that door after midnight, William’s liable to whack me on the head with a baseball bat and ask questions later.”
While Sam slid into a nearby chair and swung a leg casually over the arm, Clare digested his explanation. Disbelief warred with amusement. “You can’t go home after midnight because your own butler will attack you?”
“Well, not intentionally. He’d assume I was a burglar,” Sam quickly added with a grin.
“Oh, well. That makes all the difference.”
“I knew you’d understand. Now it’s my turn. Where do you go for ice cream?”
Sam draped himself over a chair like a discarded quilt, his ease contagious. Clare leaned back and settled in, her crossed leg swinging gently and her hands folded on her thigh. “I don’t go for ice cream.”
“Ah.” Sam nodded and touched his palm to his forehead. “I knew that. I’ll bet you’re the kind of woman who sends her husband for ice cream.”
“What a great idea,” Clare agreed enthusiastically. “Except I don’t have a husband to send.”
Every muscle in Sam’s body tensed, and he realized he was angry with her. Angry because she didn’t have a nice, safe husband. Angry because he liked her too much already. He didn’t want to schedule his love life around production meetings and budget projections. He didn’t want his breakfast table littered with spreadsheets and graphs. He didn’t want to hear “Hold that thought while I make one more call.” And he didn’t want Dave snickering I-told-you-sos.
He knew exactly what dating Clare would be like, because he used to be the one with the schedule. He used to be the one snuffing out the romantic candles and turning on the light so he could read marketing proposals. While he was busy being busy, his girlfriend walked out and his father died.
When Clare’s eyes widened, he knew some of his anger was showing in his facial expression. Sam undraped his leg and leaned his forearms on his thighs. He watched her closely as he said, “You wear a wedding ring.”
Immediately she reached for the plain gold band and twisted the ring on her finger. “It was my mother’s.”
Sam had a grip on his emotions now, and the guilty look in Clare’s eye prompted him to say, “You wear it on your left hand.”
“Doesn’t fit my right.”
“Isn’t that handy!”
Freezing, Clare said, “Excuse me?”
“Isn’t that handy,” Sam repeated as he leaned back in his chair and studied her. “Most women would have had the ring sized or put it on a gold chain. But not you. You wear a wedding ring on your left hand and let people draw their own conclusions.”
“What’s your point, Tucker?” she asked softly.
“You use that ring to keep men at a distance.” Sam pulled his chair up so that his thighs straddled her legs again. “I guess relationships are something else you don’t have time for.”
Seething, Clare flicked her eyes first at one long jeanclad thigh and then the other before raising her gaze to his face. She hated this feeling of exposure she got every time Sam invaded her space. She felt stripped naked and vulnerable beneath his patient gaze. Without warning, her pulse threatened to race out of control as she realized she wasn’t seeing patience in his gaze.
She saw restrained hunger as he asked, “Is there any part of your life that you don’t organize and control?”
“Ever had an impulse you didn’t act on?” Clare shot back before she could stop herself.
His long, slow smile took her breath away. “Some of my favorite impulses are the ones I don’t act on. Waiting is sometimes half the fun. Think about it. Anticipation and foreplay. One’s mental. One’s physical. Together they’re mind-blowing.”
Bells, whistles, and warning lights went off in Clare’s head. Foreplay. Her heart slammed against her ribs and her chest constricted. Instinctively, she reached for her appointment-filled day planner as if to reassure herself that there was a real world outside the intimate circle the man in front of her had created with his body and provocative words.
Sensing her withdrawal, Sam twisted her own words and asked, “Ever had an impulse you did act on?”
Clare’s chin came up. “Not that I’m particularly proud of.”
“Well, at least you admit to having impulses.”
“Are you done?” Clare asked, refusing the bait and eyeing the door. Without words she made her desire to leave very plain.
Sam scooted his chair back and watched her graceful exit. But when the door clicked softly behind her, he promised, “Lady, I’m just getting started.”
TWO
“Last night? You want to know how last night went?” Clare asked, and leaned back in the no-nonsense executive chair that matched the functional furniture in her office.
Dave Gronski, owner and founder of Racing Specialties, grinned and shut the door. “Yeah. I’m your employer. I paid for the class. I’d like a report.”
Feeling testy, Clare snapped, “I’ll put it in a memo.”
“Oooh!” Dave stretched out on her sofa, “Not so good, huh?”
“Why don’t you ask your buddy?”
A chuckle rumbled across Dave’s ample belly, which had been considerably larger thirty pounds ago. “How long did it take you to figure that out?”
“About three seconds. He called me Clare. Before we’d been introduced. Dammit, Dave. Did you have to give him a description? Didn’t you trust me? I told you I’d show up for class.”
“I didn’t give him a physical description.”
Clare tossed her mechanical pencil on a stack of computer printouts and steepled her fingers. Dave appreciated the value of plain speaking, and he was considerably less volatile since his heart attack a few months back, but Clare doubted his tolerance extended to being called a liar. She contented herself with pressing her lips together and looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
“Honest, Clare.” Dave, mischief written all over his face, tucked his thumbs behind his paisley suspenders. “I didn’t even tell him the color of your hair.”
“Then how did he know me?”
“Lucky guess. Now, how did last night go?”
“Probably not as well as you wanted. Something about me rubs that man the wrong way.”
“No kidding,” Dave murmured. Clare thought he looked like the Cheshire cat would have looked if he’d swallowed Alice’s canary.
“I tried, Dave. Really. But every time I thought things were going well, I’d say or do something that put him on edge. For the life of me, I don’t know what I did.” Casually, she picked up the pencil and rolled it between her thumb and forefinger. “If things weren’t bad enough, I got stuck with him as my class partner.”
Dave’s eyebrows arched toward the ceiling. “Partner?”
“You heard me.”
“And?”
“And we’re supposed to research ice cream joints for Saturday’s field trip. Dave—” She propped her elbows on the desktop. “Let’s rethink this class idea. You know that if I don’t work Saturday, we won’t be ready for the new computers.”
“I don’t care if we’re ready or not,” Dave said bluntly, and got up to leave. “I’ll give you credit, Clare. Five years ago you walked into my office and told me there wasn’t a job you couldn’t do. Well, you’re the company controller now, and you can do every job around here, up to and including rebuilding a racing carburetor, but—”
“That’s my point! It took a lot of hard work, but we are finally making some money around here. I don’t want to blow it now. That’s why it’s so important for me to be here doing my—”
Dave cut her off. “Clare, no. You can do every job, but you can’t do them all at once. Not twenty-four hours a day. I think one stress-induced heart attack per company is more than enough.” Dave pulled open the door. “By the way, I like th
e new guy. Can we keep him?”
Clare hedged with a smile, “If he learns how to spell.”
“Buy him a dictionary.”
The big man wandered out of her office, having said what he came to say. He might sugar-coat his words with praise, but Clare understood the message. He had no intention of allowing her addiction to work to go any farther.
Alone again, she tried concentrating on the back-order printout. Initialing the report should have been a simple task, but she stared at the list for half an hour while Tucker’s voice whispered to her, People don’t volunteer to work two weeks for bosses they dislike. One maybe because they need the reference, but not two.
Clare pushed the intercom. “Joshua, come in here.” As an afterthought, she pushed the button again. “Please.”
“William!” Sam bellowed, and hung over the second floor railing. There were times when he could positively choke his butler. Now was one of those times.
With great dignity the elderly man entered the marble-floored foyer below Sam and stopped. Before answering, he carefully adjusted a vase of flowers on a small table that dripped crocheted lace. To an innocent bystander, William might look like the perfect butler—starched white shirt, bow tie, pale parchment skin, hair peppered with gray, and a concerned facial expression that promised discretion.
But Sam knew better. Beneath that calm exterior lay one of the sharpest tongues on God’s green earth. Forty years of employment with the Tucker family gave William the freedom to speak his mind, and he considered the Tucker children especially in need of guidance and wisdom. William didn’t care that Sam was pushing thirty-three, or that his sister, Pamela, was closing in on thirty-five. William had known them since they were babies, and that was that. He might look like a butler, but he sounded more like a Dutch uncle.
“William—” Sam struggled to control his voice. “Have you seen my boxer shorts?”
“Why? Have you lost them?”
“No, I haven’t lost them!”
“There is no call to raise your voice. I asked you a question, that’s all. You leave those wild things all over the house as if you were raised in a barn.”
