Trouble In Triplicate

by Barbara Boswell

  "I can imagine," Juliet murmured. It hurt to hear Caine talk about another woman, even jokingly. It hurt even to think of him here with another woman. But she wasn't the first woman in his life, and it was foolish to agonize over a past that she hadn't been part of. She might not be able to wow the caddies as Sherry had, but she could concentrate on learning how to play golf and on being a good companion.

  And she did. All three of the Post sisters had a certain natural athletic ability—all were good swimmers and tennis players—and Juliet picked up the fundamentals of golf without much trouble.

  "You've got a good, strong swing," Caine said after they'd played several holes. "With some practice you could be a really good player." He was clearly surprised by his own observation. He glanced at his watch. "It's nearly five o'clock. I never dreamed we'd stay out so long."

  "Your golf lessons usually last a few minutes on the green and then a long time in the club's bar?" Juliet asked, teasing. She couldn't visualize

  Sherry Carson bothering to learn to swing a nine iron or, worse, working up a sweat.

  He grinned sheepishly. "Something like that. But you actually wanted to learn to play golf. You didn't once bat your eyes and ask 'Oooh, why are the balls white and not pretty colors?' or demand to sit in my lap and ride around in 'that cute little golf cart.' "

  "Were you expecting me to?" she asked indignantly.

  "Uh-huh. And I thought that when I'd put my arms around you to show you how to swing, you'd dissolve into mush and we'd end up necking on the fairway."

  "Oh!" For a moment Juliet was too incensed to realize that he was teasing. Then she saw the glint of laughter in his eyes and advanced upon him in mock fury. "You'd better beat a strategic retreat, Saxon, before I club you with this club." She brandished her golf club like a machete.

  Caine turned and ran off toward the clubhouse and Juliet chased him the whole way there, waving the club and calling out heinous threats. They drew quite a few stares from the more sedate golfers.

  They were both breathless and laughing when Caine easily disarmed Juliet outside the door of the men's locker room. "I've decided to let you live," she informed him, "on the condition that you never again lump me into the vapid mush-on-the-fairway category."

  His big hands closed over her shoulders and he stared down at her. The joking retort he'd been about to make died on his lips as he gazed at her flushed, upturned face. "I meant what I said about you becoming a good player," he said, his voice suddenly serious. "Will you come with me again? I'll bring my clubs along and play as I'm giving you pointers."

  Somehow Juliet knew that this was something he had never said to Sherry Carson, or to any other woman. Caine Saxon was a serious athlete, and she guessed he didn't mix women with sports, not even in his leisure games.

  "I'd like to," she said softly. She was exultant. "And now it's my turn to give you a lesson. A tennis lesson."

  "I have to be at the restaurant by six. Our manager is off sick and I'm filling in for him." He stroked the slender curve of her neck as he spoke, and a shower of sensual sparks seemed to glow within her. "How about tomorrow?"

  "I can't. We have to spend the day cooking for the Rivingtons' party tomorrow night." She sighed with real regret.

  "What about tomorrow morning? Can't you escape for just an hour or two?"

  His persistence thrilled her. "Maybe." She considered it. "Oh, well, why not? My sisters can spare me for a little while. From nine to ten-thirty?"

  "Great! I'll pick you up at twenty of nine. We'll come here. There's a beautiful set of tennis courts on the other side of the clubhouse."

  She nodded her agreement. "And wear white," she warned him. "I'll have to wash and iron my white shorts and shirt for tomorrow."

  "Don't you have one of those little tennis dresses with the cute ruffled panties?" His hands settled on her waist, only to slide over her hips to cup her rounded bottom.

  Juliet slipped out of his reach. There were too many people coming and going, and Caine Saxon was too well known by all of them. "Poor Caine," she teased. "How I've disappointed you! No lime green golf skirt with hot pink hippos today, and no ruffled panties tomorrow."

  She tilted her head slightly to one side and grinned up at him, her blue eyes bright with laughter. Caine felt desire rise within him with shockingly swift, explosive force. She was cute and flirtatious and he wanted her. He'd actually had fun teaching her to putt, chip, and swing this afternoon. She'd been a good student, learning fast. . . and he wanted her. Everything about her appealed to him, attracted him. He wanted her, all of her, her sweet body and her laughter and her love.

  He started toward her, oblivious to the people going in and out of the men's and women's locker rooms.

  "Caine, look!" Juliet suddenly whispered, halting him, and he followed the direction of her gaze.

  A rather large, sixty-ish matron was entering the clubhouse wearing—what else?—a lime green golf skirt printed with hot pink hippos. Caine and Juliet looked at each other and exchanged secret, conspiratorial grins. They left the clubhouse holding hands and walked the whole way to the car, talking and laughing, with their fingers tightly interlaced.

  ❧

  Caine arrived promptly at twenty to nine the next morning wearing white shorts, a white sweat shirt, white socks, and sneakers. "I feel like a walking commercial for Ivory Snow," he grumbled when Juliet opened the door to him. "If Coach Noll could see me now, he'd laugh his head off."

  "Each sport has its own dress code," Juliet said with a smile. "For Steelers football it's black and gold and mud and blood. For golf it's bright colors, and for tennis it's white."

  "While we're on the subject of sports dress codes, I have something for you." He thrust a box into her hands.

  She removed the lid. Inside the box was a white tennis dress with a demure round collar, short skirt, and ruffled panties. Under the tennis outfit were a yellow shirt and a brilliant blue golf skirt printed with bright yellow whales.

  "There weren't any hot pink hippos in your size," he said with mock disappointment. "But I thought that canary yellow whales were an adequate substitution."

  She stared at the clothes in the box, then at Caine. "But how did you—"

  "I called the pro shop at the club after I dropped you off yesterday and arranged for one of the caddies to bring the stuff down to the restaurant last night. I guessed at your size, but I'm fairly certain I got it right." His gaze swept over her. "After all, I'm quite knowledgeable about your figure," he added with a decidedly rakish grin.

  She blushed, as he'd known she would. His grin broadened.

  "Caine, I—I really can't accept this." She was totally flustered. "These clothes are very expensive and—"

  "Would you accept them if they were cheap?"

  "I—I didn't mean . . . that is . . ." She paused and took a deep breath. "It's not proper for a woman to accept personal gifts like clothing from a man," she said primly.

  He laughed. He was enjoying her confusion. "No doubt your mother told you that, and her mother told her the same thing. Did anyone ever stop to ask why it isn't proper?"

  "Well, because—because ..."

  "I have an inquiring mind, I want to know. Why is it all right for you to lie naked in my arms in bed and not all right for me to give you sports clothes?" he asked interestedly.

  This time Juliet blushed all over. "Will you please shut up? Liwy and Randi are right in the next room!"

  "If you put on the tennis dress, I swear I won't say another embarrassing word."

  "That's blackmail!"

  "Mmm, and so effective too."

  Five minutes later Juliet rejoined him in the living room, wearing the tennis dress. "You look cute," he said, nodding his approval. "And sexy." He pulled her into his arms, and his big hand went unerringly to the ruffled panties. "I have this fantasy about you on the tennis courts—"

  She quickly pulled away from him, ever conscious of her sisters, just a room away. "I have a fantasy about
you on the tennis court." she retorted. "That I teach you to play and then beat you soundly match after match."

  "Sorry, honey, it'll never happen. I'm a natural athlete and I'm a helluva lot stronger than you are. Once I pick up a few pointers you're not going to stand a chance against me."

  ❧

  "You didn't tell me you were an aspiring Billie Jean King," Caine said, panting, as Juliet served him another ball, which he swung at and missed. As a professional athlete he was extremely well coordinated, yet though he had picked up the basics of tennis fairly easily, it would take hours of practice before he could win a match against Juliet.

  She was a good player, he thought, watching her with a surge of pride. She was quick and graceful and strong. He decided that he was going to enjoy playing tennis with her, even if she did win. And they would play golf together and—

  His reverie was interrupted by the appearance of the club's tennis pro, a wiry, classically handsome blond in his early twenties with the most toothsome smile Caine had ever seen.

  "You have a really strong backhand," the blond god said to Juliet, favoring her with a flash of those dazzling teeth, "but I'd like to give you a couple of pointers, if I may. ..."

  Juliet smiled up at him. "Sure."

  Didn't she realize that the idiot was coming on to her? Caine wondered as he watched the tennis pro instruct Juliet with—he thought—an excessive, unnecessary amount of touching. And she paid attention to his directions and smiled and seemed totally unaware that Mr. Teeth was flirting with her.

  Caine wasn't a jealous, possessive man, but he felt jealousy burn through him. The urge to pick Juliet up and carry her away from the court and the other man was so overwhelming that he actually had to force himself not to do it.

  "Want to hit a few volleys?" the pro asked Juliet, and she nodded with a smile.

  He wasn't the type of man whose ego demanded the constant and undivided attention of the woman he was with, Caine told himself loftily. When Sherry Carson had dumped him for the math professor at that party he hadn't even tried to interfere. But this . . . This was too much. He decided that he couldn't endure another moment of watching the tennis pro lust after Juliet, who was, after all, his woman!

  "We're leaving," Caine announced, striding to Juliet's side of the court. He caught her wrist. "Now." The ball, which the pro had just served to her, bounced off the court.

  Juliet stared up at him, and her blue eyes widened in surprise. Why, Caine looked angry, she thought. Furious, in fact. But why? He'd seemed to be enjoying himself earlier. They'd been having such fun. But now . . .

  "Come on, Juliet." He half dragged her off the court, enraged with himself for acting like a jealous, possessive fool.

  "Caine, what's wrong?" she asked. She sounded genuinely confused, and Caine felt even worse. He knew damn well that she hadn't been flirting with the tennis pro, hadn't even been aware that the jerk was flirting with her. She loved tennis and believed that she'd merely been given a few tips by a pro.

  Caine Saxon didn't relish the thought that he was acting like an idiot over a woman. It had never happened to him before. Through all the carefree days of his bachelorhood, his Steeler teammates had admiringly called him "Mr. Cool." If they could only see him now, dragging Juliet Post from the tennis court to get her away from a toothy, smarmy blond who wore three gold chains around his neck! Mr. Cool certainly had met his Waterloo!

  They drove back to the Post house in silence. Caine rebuffed Juliet's tentative questions with monosyllabic grunts. If she hadn't figured out that he was behaving like a jealous buffoon, far be it from him to enlighten her. She finally lapsed into an unhappy silence and wondered what had gone wrong. Caine wanted to be rid of her, that much was certain. He didn't want to spend another second in her company.

  When he dropped her off at the house they parted on mumbled good-byes. Caine sped off in his Ferrari and Juliet walked slowly inside to join her sisters in the preparations for the dinner party that night.

  Chapter 8

  The Rivingtons had ordered a cocktail buffet for fifty, and the triplets planned the menu accordingly. Something less than a sit-down dinner but more than hors d'oeuvres. With Bobby Lee's help they loaded the van and arrived at the Rivingtons' spacious white brick house shortly before six. Preparations went smoothly, and by eight the buffet was laid out on the antique mahogany dining-room table. There was veal piccata, prosciutto with melon balls, jumbo shrimp, terrine of carrots and broccoli, pasta salad, spanakopita cookies, and one of the Posts' specialty desserts, creme brulee.

  The triplets returned to the kitchen as the guests began to serve themselves, but Bobby Lee stood with the door slightly ajar to watch the action in the dining room. "Hell's bells!" he exclaimed suddenly, and abruptly closed the door.

  Juliet, Miranda, and Olivia exchanged apprehensive glances. Juliet's heart leaped into her throat to replace the lump that had been lodged there since Caine had dropped her off at the house that morning without a word.

  All day long, as she had prepared the food with her sisters, she'd been pondering Caine's angry silence. And had come up with no answers except one—Caine had obviously decided that he didn't want to be with her. Perhaps she had bored him or turned him off with her athletic prowess. But he'd seemed pleased when she'd shown promise at golf. Then again, in golf one didn't pant and sweat and run all over the court as in tennis. Did Caine like his women to be decorative and glamorous all the time? If he did, she was in big trouble, for she hadn't the slightest idea of how to hold a man's interest while remaining relentlessly glamorous.

  "It's Grant, isn't it?" Miranda's shaky voice intruded upon Juliet's gloomy speculation. "He's here with another woman, isn't he?" She pushed open the kitchen door, and all three sisters crowded around to peek through the crack.

  They saw Grant Saxon, sportily dressed in plaid slacks and a bright green blazer, standing with his arm around a lovely young blonde who gazed up at him with admiring eyes. A small crowd was gathered around Grant, and he was expounding on the Post Sisters' Catering Service!

  "Personally, I think the Posts overcharge," they heard him say. "And frankly, their selections aren't as exciting to taste as they are to view, if you get my drift. Take this veal . . . please." Grant paused as the group laughed politely at his small joke. "I mean, it's tender, but bland. ..."

  Bobby Lee closed the kitchen door firmly. "I think we've heard enough."

  "Why would he malign us professionally?" Olivia asked in astonishment.

  "How dare he malign us professionally?" Juliet raged.

  "Oh, how could he?" Miranda wailed. "What are we going to do?"

  "You're going to serve the food and smile at the guests and act like you didn't hear a word he said," Bobby Lee said calmly. "Your stuff is good, you know that. People will judge for themselves."

  The triplets followed Bobby Lee's advice, but the pleasure had gone out of their work and their smiles were determinedly forced. Back in the kitchen they didn't smile at all. Miranda seemed numb. Though her eyes were dark with pain, she didn't cry or mention Grant's name. All three sisters worked in grim silence, and even the usually effervescent Bobby Lee was somber.

  The hours during a working party normally flew by, but tonight they seemed to drag on interminably. Juliet was serving the creme brulee when she overheard one of the guests ask Grant, "Where's your brother tonight? I know Faith and Tim invited him."

  Grant, whose arm seemed perpetually glued around his little blond friend, smiled and shrugged. "Our manager is off, so Caine filled in for him down at the restaurant. I hear he's got a hot date lined up after closing." Grant winked, the blonde giggled, and the guest chortled conspiratorially.

  His words hit Juliet with the intensity of a physical blow. Her hands faltered, but she forced herself to keep serving. Flinging the creme brulee at Grant Saxon and running screaming from the room—her preferred course of action—would be detrimental to the Post Sisters' Catering Service, which had already come under fir
e tonight. So Juliet smiled and served, although she was dying inside.

  Hot date. The phrase burned in her brain. Caine had already tired of her and was seeking his pleasure elsewhere, with another woman. He'd found her sexual inexperience uninteresting and easy to resist. He'd found her uninteresting and easy to resist! No wonder he'd dropped her off at the house this morning without a backward glance. No wonder he hadn't called her all day. He'd undoubtedly raced home to arrange for his hot date tonight.

  "I told Randi to stay in the kitchen," Liwy whispered as she joined Juliet at the serving table. "Lord, Julie, just look at that girl hanging all over Grant. I feel like poisoning their creme brulee. How I wish this stupid party would end!"

  "That definitely makes three of us, Liv," Juliet said fervently.

  ❧

  Eventually, finally, the party did end, and after helping to unload the van at the Posts' house, Olivia and Bobby Lee left for his apartment. A downcast Miranda took a sleeping pill and went directly to bed. Juliet changed into her nightgown, an ankle-length blue cotton one with a peasant neckline and puffed sleeves, and tried to watch an old movie on television. It didn't hold her interest. Her mind was racing, and visions of Caine with some gorgeous, sexy beauty chased through her brain, along with worrisome images of Miranda slipping deeper into depression. Tonight wasn't the first night her sister had taken a sleeping pill to "blot out everything." Suppose she continued to feel the need to do so?

  It was after one o'clock when Juliet turned off the television set to sit alone in the quiet darkness. A shaft of pale moonlight from the bay window was the only illumination in the room. She was so lost in thought that she didn't hear the first chimes of the doorbell. When it rang for the third time she roused herself with a sigh. Liwy had undoubtedly forgotten her key again. She often did.