Janice had laughed, then said that Shirley’s attitude was as refreshing as a spring breeze.
“Hello, Shirley,” Janice said, smiling.
“Hi, kiddo,” she said, sitting in one of the chairs at the table. “How does a person sort of play hooky?”
Janice settled onto the other chair and poured tea into the glasses as she explained that she had a business dinner with her accountant.
“That’s my sort of playing hooky from the store,” Janice said. “I have to go back on duty at seven o’clock.”
“Makes sense to me,” Shirley said, nodding. “Accountant. I met him, right? I was here when he came one evening to drop off some papers for you. You had just arrived home from work and I followed you in the door with some muffins I’d made. Nice man, grandfatherly type? What was his name? Clem. Yes, that was it. Clem Sinclair.”
Janice frowned as she began to twist her hair into a single braid.
“Well, actually,” she said, “Clem retired recently. His son, Taylor, has taken over the business. It’s Taylor who I’m meeting with tonight.”
“Ugh.” Shirley wrinkled her nose. “I remember when my attorney passed the baton to his son. The kid was a pompous know-it-all. I switched to another lawyer so fast I left junior still yapping about how wonderful he was. Have you met this Taylor guy yet?”
Janice nodded and wrapped a rubber band around the end of the braid. “He came into the boutique yesterday.”
“And?” Shirley raised her eyebrows and took a sip of tea.
Janice delayed answering by swallowing some of her drink.
And? she mentally repeated. Well, Shirley, Taylor Sinclair is without a doubt one of the most ruggedly handsome, dangerous men walking this earth.
“He seemed pleasant enough,” Janice said with a little shrug. “He feels I’m paying too much income tax and wants to discuss ways to correct that.”
“How boring,” Shirley said with an unladylike snort of disgust. “Well, order the most expensive item on the menu. If you have to talk about something as dull as income taxes, at least get a yummy dinner out of the deal.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” Janice said, laughing. “Ready for a swim?”
“Oh, sure. I’ll do my doggy paddle bit.”
Janice got to her feet.
“That teeny bikini is the exact color of your eyes,” Shirley said.
“I know,” Janice said, glancing down at the skimpy bathing suit. “I just couldn’t resist it. How’s that for vain?”
“Yep, that’s you. Ms. I’ve-got-it-so-I-flaunt-it,” Shirley said, rising. “I’d do that, too, but I have a lot more pounds than I should be flaunting. The thing is, I really don’t give a damn.”
“Good for you,” Janice said, nodding decisively. “Besides, the only witnesses to our flaunting are each other and my darling hummingbirds.”
Shortly after six-thirty that evening, Janice stood in front of the wall of mirrors in her bedroom and checked her appearance.
She’d shampooed her hair and reinstated the severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her glasses were once again perched on her nose.
The pale gray suit she wore was a size-too-big duplicate of the one Taylor had seen her in, paired with a high-necked white blouse. The sturdy Oxfords on her feet were a shade darker gray.
Janice smoothed the lapels of the suit jacket and nodded in approval.
Yes, this was the outer appearance she wished to present to the world at large. Excellent.
She turned and crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed to switch her belongings into a gray leather purse.
But the inner woman? she mused, a small smile touching her lips. Well, that was an entirely different story. Beneath the boxy gray suit she wore peach satin.
Her camisole and the built-in bra were mere whispers of delicate lace, barely covering her full breasts.
The tap pants stroked her skin with satiny smoothness, making her acutely aware of her body, her femininity.
Which was how it should be.
She rejoiced in her womanliness on her terms. If a genie suddenly appeared before her and offered to grant her three wishes, she wouldn’t even consider using one to be transformed into a man.
No, she liked being a woman. She liked being Janice Jennings, with all that she had accomplished since escaping the manipulation of her mother and husband.
Three wishes from a genie? What a fun and whimsical game to play in her mind. One. Two. Three. What should she wish for? The magical genie was waiting patiently for her first request.
“Chill, genie,” she said, getting to her feet with the gray purse in tow. “I have to give this some serious thought. Get comfy, because this could take a while.”
She left the bedroom and started down the hall, realizing that her lighthearted mood was diminishing with each step she took in her clunky shoes.
By the time she entered the living room, Janice was frowning.
She did not want to go out to dinner with Taylor Sinclair, she thought, sinking onto the sofa. The evening ahead held no appeal whatsoever.
Butterflies. Those damnable butterflies were back, swooshing around in her stomach like an army intent on jangling her nerves to the maximum.
Being with Taylor was going to result in total exhaustion. She would have to be on full alert every second against the unwelcome and startling effect the man had on her.
Dangerous Taylor Sinclair.
Somehow, she had to mentally paint the word “accountant” in big letters on Taylor’s forehead, thinking of him only in those terms.
Janice got to her feet and began to pace around the large room.
She could handle this. She would be fine. What was throwing her for a loop was the fact that she was out of practice, hadn’t allowed herself to react to a man since she’d been a freshman in college.
What a disaster that had been. She’d made so many mistakes, born of naiveté due to being on her own for the first time in her life, due to the deaths of her mother and husband.
She’d burst onto the Arizona State University campus with excitement she could barely contain, her entire future spread before her like a banquet of endless and wondrous offerings for her to choose from.
But she’d made a grave error in judgment.
She’d stepped into her new world with her hair tumbling down her back, light makeup on her smiling face, wearing snug, comfortable jeans.
And there they were, the young men, waiting to pounce, wishing to have the beautiful ornament named Janice on their arm as testimony to their superior masculinity.
Once again, no one bothered to look beneath the surface, to get to know the person inside.
And so, even before the first semester ended, Janice Jennings disappeared.
In her place, the new Janice materialized.
Wearing baggy sweatsuits, thick glasses, her hair captured in a tight bun, a closed expression on her once-smiling face, the new Janice was ignored by the male populace. They scratched their heads in confusion, wondering where beautiful Janice had gone, when she would be back.
But she’d never reappeared.
She’d buried herself in her studies, her focus, her purpose, clearly defined. The boutique she would name Sleeping Beauty became her hope, her dream, as she earned her degree in business management.
Step by step, it all took form, just as she’d planned.
And she’d accomplished it all entirely alone.
There had been no friends, no lovers, no dates, nor parties to attend. She was literally invisible to the crowds of students surrounding her.
She’d accepted, then came to cherish, the life she led, the solitary existence. It was hers. Under her control, her direction, her terms. The lessons learned from her mother, husband and the university students had held her in good stead.
And so it had been ever since.
“Enough of this,” Janice said, plunking back down onto the sofa.
Why on earth was she wasting her mental energi
es traipsing down memory lane, when her total concentration was needed for the evening ahead?
“Okay, Taylor Sinclair,” she said, lifting her chin. “Go for it. Do your worst. I’m geared up and ready, you accountant you.”
With a decisive nod, Janice patted the bun at the nape of her neck, folded her hands primly in her lap, and waited for Taylor to arrive.
Taylor drove slowly along the meandering street, nodding in approval as he saw the large, wellmaintained houses.
Classy neighborhood, he thought. Mega-money neighborhood. Well, he knew for a fact that Janice could afford to live in this neck of the woods.
Seeing the number that he was looking for posted on a mailbox at the edge of the street, Taylor drove into the driveway and turned off the ignition. He folded his arms on top of the steering wheel and swept his gaze over the house.
Very nice. If he was of the mind to own a home, which he wasn’t, Janice’s choice of residence would suit his taste.
However, he had yet to see how she’d decorated her abode. If the interior reflected her mode of dress, the rooms would hold dark, overstuffed furniture with those crocheted gizmos on the arms and backs.
There would be knickknacks set in every spare space and far too many dreary pictures on the walls. Within ten minutes after walking through the front door he’d be suffering from claustrophobia.
“Grim,” he said, pulling the key free and opening the car door.
He made his way across the wide front yard on the round stepping stones nestled in the white gravel landscaping.
This dinner meeting with Janice had been on his mind a good portion of the day, though he hadn’t found himself looking forward to it, nor dreading it. It had simply been there, popping into his thoughts at regular intervals.
He had a sneaking suspicion that he’d subconsciously focused on the evening ahead rather than the unsettling and nonsensical emotions Brandon Hamilton’s lecture had produced.
What he’d experienced in his office the previous afternoon was not something he’d wish to repeat.
But there was a small chance of that. He’d gotten a solid night’s sleep, exhaustion being all that had been wrong with him in the first place.
Centering his thoughts on Janice once again, Taylor stopped in front of the door and pressed the bell, hearing it chime inside the house.
Janice jumped to her feet, her heart racing as the doorbell rang. She hadn’t been aware of a car arriving, but obviously Taylor was here.
Oh, dear heaven, Taylor was here.
“Stop it right now,” she told herself. “You’re calm, cool and collected. There is not a man standing at your front door, there is an accountant. Got that? Good.”
She marched across the living room and flung open the door.
Shoulders a block wide, legs long and powerful, rugged features bronzed by the sun, Taylor Sinclair was most definitely a man...an absolutely magnificent man.
No, no, no, Janice thought frantically. Taylor was an—
“Hello, Janice,” Taylor said, smiling. “You have a lovely—”
“Accountant,” she said, then inwardly groaned as she felt a flush of embarrassment stain her cheeks.
“...home,” Taylor said, frowning in confusion.
“I’m sorry,” Janice said, raising both hands. “Could we start over? Hello, Taylor, would you like to come in?” She stepped back and managed to produce a small smile.
Taylor entered the house, took two steps, then stopped dead in his tracks. He started forward again slowly, scrutinizing all that was within his view.
Janice closed the door and watched Taylor as he visually examined her house. The butterflies increased their fluttering in her stomach, and she frowned in self-annoyance.
He was the first person, other than Shirley and Clem, to be invited over the threshold of her cherished domain, but she didn’t care diddly what Taylor’s reaction to her home was. She didn’t want, nor need, his approval.
She was hardly breathing as she awaited his response.
“This is sensational,” Taylor said, turning to look at Janice. “I really like what you’ve done in here. It’s open, airy, yet still homey and welcoming.”
The butterflies were pushed into oblivion by a swirling warmth that suffused her. “Thank you, Taylor,” she said, unable to curb a genuine smile. “I still have a great deal of decorating to do, but I’m pleased with what I’ve accomplished so far.”
“As well you should be,” he said, nodding. He glanced around again. “If this was mine, I wouldn’t change a thing. I would be very comfortable in this room.”
“You would?” He would? Taylor could settle in, put his feet up and feel at home? Fancy that. “Well, I have yet to decide on what I want for the walls. I only have one picture of hummingbirds. It’s hanging over my bed.”
Taylor snapped to attention and looked directly into Janice’s blue eyes.
Over her bed? his mind echoed. That slide-itright-in-there statement made by one of the women he dated would be an invitation to proceed to the bedroom on the pretense of seeing the picture of the hummingbirds. The exit from said room would take place hours later.
But this was Janice. There was no coy, sexual message in her eyes, on her face, to indicate she had been implying anything other than telling him where she happened to have hung the only picture she’d purchased thus far for her home.
It was as though Janice had emerged from another era, a time of honesty and innocence. She didn’t play the swinging singles game, because she didn’t know how!
She needed someone to protect her, to watch over her. She couldn’t announce to every Tom, Dick and Harry that she had a picture of birds hanging above her bed, for cripe’s sake.
Well, Janice was safe with him. Nobody would get within ten feet of her while he—
Taylor tore his gaze from Janice’s mesmerizing eyes and cleared his throat.
He’d felt them again, the rushing emotions of protectiveness and possessiveness. And he was also painfully aware of the coiling heat low in his body produced by gazing too long into those incredible eyes of hers.
“Taylor?” Janice said, pushing her glasses up with one finger. “Is something wrong? You’re looking at me as though I have a bug on my chin or something.”
“Don’t those heavy glasses make your nose hurt?” he said. Where in the hell had that come from? “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”
Janice removed the glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I suffer from tired-nose syndrome.” She smiled, shrugged, and started to put the glasses back in place.
“Wait.” Taylor eased the glasses from Janice’s hand. “What do you need these for tonight? I’ll be driving, so you don’t have to worry about that.” He held the glasses up to the light and peered through them. “Are they for close work? I can tell you what’s on the menu at the...” His voice trailed off and he frowned.
Oh, no, Janice thought, feeling the color drain from her face. Where was that genie when she needed him? She wished... Oh, saints above... she wished she’d never taken off her glasses because Taylor was about to say...
“There’s no prescription in these,” he said, then looked at Janice again. “This is clear glass, Janice.”
“Yes, well, yes, it certainly is, isn’t it?”
Janice averted her eyes from Taylor’s intense gaze and picked an imaginary thread from the lapel of her jacket.
“Why?” he said. “Why do you wear these things if you don’t need them?”
A flash of anger rushed through Janice and she looked up at Taylor.
“More to the point,” she said coolly, “is why you believe it’s any of your business, Mr. Sinclair. May I have my glasses back, please?”
“No.” He squinted into space.
Janice planted her hands on her hips. “Now what are you doing?”
“I’m thinking of an answer to your question as to why this is any of my business,�
� he said. “Shh. I’m concentrating.”
He was concentrating, all right, Taylor thought, but on far more than the question at hand. He was also zeroing in on regaining control of his body, and the spiraling heat that had rocketed through it at the sight of Janice without the heavy-framed glasses crowding her face.
She was even more lovely than he’d already concluded. The glasses had obscured the overall picture he could now see.
Sensational. Janice Jennings was, without a doubt, one of the most exquisitely beautiful women he’d ever had the pleasure of feasting his eyes upon.
“Allow me to assist you,” Janice said, an angry edge still ringing in her voice. “Try the old saying, ‘Men don’t make passes at women who wear glasses.”’
“Aha,” Taylor said. “So that’s it.” He waved the glasses in the air. “You’re hiding behind these things.” And the way she dressed? Was her total appearance her attempt to keep men at bay? That, he didn’t know for certain. Yet. “Right?”
“I’m not hiding,” she said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “That sounds very childish. I’m simply a woman who can’t be bothered with the testosterone-induced antics men go through when they encounter a pretty face.”
“Then you admit that you’re pretty?” Taylor said, raising his eyebrows.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she said, nearly yelling as she flung out her arms, “who are you now? My shrink? This conversation is ridiculous. Give me my glasses and let’s go to dinner. I’m hungry.”
“Let’s see if I have this straight,” Taylor said. “You’re suffering from tired-nose syndrome from wearing glasses you don’t need. That’s not good, not good at all. That’s very bad.”
“Oh, pray tell, why?” she said.
“Because we have some heavy-duty things to discuss tonight regarding the future of Sleeping Beauty. You can’t devote yourself to said discussion if a part of you is tired. In this case, your nose.”
“You’re totally bonkers, you know that.”
“I’ll ignore that,” Taylor said. “This is very sound reasoning I’m presenting here.”
The Irresistible Mr. Sinclair Page 5
