All That Glitters

by Diana Palmer

  “Your neighbor buzzed me in so that I could surprise you with this. Are we going to stand here all night, or may I come in?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry!” She was flustered, fumbling with the door chain. She stood back and Curry walked in, followed by a second man who carried a fir tree wrapped in wire.

  Her mouth fell open as the man, in a neat suit, nodded politely, walked across the room and stood the tree against the far wall.

  “I’ll go and gas up the car, sir, and then I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready,” he told Curry politely.

  “I’ll page you,” Curry replied.

  “It’s a Christmas tree,” Ivory said in wonder, touching it lightly.

  “Looks like one, doesn’t it?” he said with an indulgent smile. “Do you always react like that to gifts?”

  She whirled, her face bright and open and happy. “How?”

  “As if you don’t expect anything, ever, from anyone.”

  “Well, I don’t,” she said honestly. “Oh, you shouldn’t have done this!” She touched the tree again. “It’s so lovely!”

  He chuckled, then went back out the door and returned with two large shopping bags. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so I brought an assortment. There’s a tree stand in this one.”

  She peered into the sacks, astonished at the variety of ornaments. Some appeared to be the kind that moved. She’d drooled over similar ones in department stores.

  Curry sat down on the sofa and watched her with more pleasure then he’d experienced in years. She oohed over one ornament, then another like a kid turned loose in a toy shop with an unlimited budget. Her sounds of pleasure were music to him after the bored acceptance of other, more sophisticated women.

  On the floor among the wrappings, heedless of the crumpling of her dress or the faint dust that was clinging to it, she examined every single item individually, handling each reverently.

  Dumbfounded, she lifted her face to his. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t have the words.” She fought tears and lost. They ran down her cheeks unashamedly. “No one ever...ever did anything like this for me.” She was remembering Christmases past, when Marlene refused to have a tree in the house, much less any decorations for it.

  He scowled. He hadn’t expected such an overwhelming show of feeling, and he didn’t know quite how to respond to it. She made him feel more masculine, somehow, with her unexpected vulnerability.

  “It’s only a tree and a few trinkets,” he said carelessly, hiding his faint embarrassment. “Nothing to get so excited about.”

  Suddenly, she felt childish, dimming the joy of the surprise. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and carefully put the ornaments back into the bag. “I’ll enjoy them very much. It was kind of you.”

  “You bought me a present,” he reminded her. “I don’t like owing things. Ever. So I reciprocate favors, or gifts.”

  That sounded stiff and almost unfriendly. She’d have to remember not to obligate him again. No wonder he’d bought her the tree and the ornaments. She’d put him in a difficult position and offended his pride.

  She rose to her feet, ignoring the helping hand he extended. “I made a cake and some coffee,” she said, without looking directly at him.

  “Coffee, black,” he said. “Thanks for the offer, but no cake.”

  She wouldn’t think about her wasted effort, to say nothing of the expense. There were plenty of friends to enjoy the cake. As for the cream...

  While she poured coffee he looked around the apartment. It was sparsely furnished. As he surveyed the small area she used for a kitchen, he realized suddenly that she’d probably had to borrow from her sleep time to make that cake since they’d been so busy lately. Unless he missed his bet, she had real cream in the refrigerator, too, and she’d probably bought that specifically for him. He had been thoughtless.

  He got to his feet, hands in his pockets, and sauntered into the kitchen. “On second thought, I think I will have a slice of cake. And if you have cream and sugar for the coffee...”

  She looked up at him, beaming. Yes, he thought, he’d been right on the money with that guess; she’d shopped for him. He’d have to make a point of doing something equally nice for her. He smiled back and watched her take the cake out of its wrapping.

  “Devil’s food,” he mused, emphasizing the first word, “with white icing. Well, well, am I being got at?”

  “You don’t look like a man who’d eat coconut cake,” she said, and laughed at his expression.

  She poured him a cup of coffee and put out the ceramic sugar dish and the matching creamer, filled with cream.

  “Real cream,” he said appreciatively. “I usually take my coffee black, but occasionally I like it sweetened and creamed.”

  “I didn’t know how you took it,” she replied.

  “You’ll know next time, won’t you?” he asked gently.

  That sounded promising, as if he meant to come back. She handed him a slice of cake on a nondescript saucer, with a fork, and they went back into the living room to eat it, using their laps for the cake and the coffee table for the coffee mugs.

  “I know that you’re used to a lot better than this,” she said apologetically, “but my budget really doesn’t run to silver and crystal and china just yet.”

  He studied her and then smiled curiously. “When I was ten, we lived in a tenement, two families of us in one room not much bigger than this,” he began, and the smile grew as her expression changed. “We had rats the size of small dogs, roaches that carried hardware. I had one decent pair of jeans that I wore all the time, except when Mama washed them at the coin laundry, a pair of boots with cardboard in the soles to keep the cold out, and two faded shirts that belonged to my uncle.” He looked around her apartment. “Lucky you, to have all this space and nobody but yourself to live in it.”

  She burst out laughing. “I’m sorry!” she said, when he gave her a questioning look. “It’s just that I’ve seen where you live, and you drive an expensive car. I thought you’d be horrified even to be seen here.”

  “Surprise,” he returned. He sipped his coffee and his expression was flattering. “Just right! So many people think coffee should taste like hot brown water.”

  “I didn’t mean for it to be so strong, but I made it a half hour ago.”

  “I had a dinner meeting,” he explained. “A business deal had almost fallen through, and I was busy persuading the other party that it would be mutually beneficial. I won. But I couldn’t get away as quickly as I wanted to and then I had to stop at a tree lot and the store. That’s why I was late.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mind,” she said quickly.

  He gave her a level look. “Of course you did. I have good manners. I don’t forget appointments.”

  “I didn’t think you did.” She looked at the tree lovingly. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a tree,” she mused.

  “You surprise me,” he murmured. “I thought most people had them.”

  She caught herself, remembering almost too late the pose of sophistication she’d adopted, with her invented wealth and social standing. “Well, we traveled so much, you see, when I was younger. It wasn’t practical to put up a tree when we weren’t home to enjoy it.”

  “I see.” He’d wondered at her emotional reaction to his gift. It seemed rather odd that a monied young woman would be so overcome by such a small token. He would have expected her unusual delight if she’d been poor as a child and never had expensive trees or decorations. But perhaps if her family had traveled often at Christmas, it was the newness of being home to celebrate that had brought tears to her eyes.

  “Where are your people from?” he asked casually. “You don’t seem to have an accent.”

  “They’re from...Louisiana. From Baton Rouge.” She smiled, and the lie even sounded real. “My mother’s people were French. My fat
her’s were British. At one time, our family owned one of the largest plantations in the state. After the Civil War,” she added hastily.

  “Then you had a wealthy upbringing?”

  “Oh, yes. I could still have anything I want, you understand,” she said, “but it’s very important to me to prove to my moth...to my people that I can make my own fortune. I don’t want to count on inherited wealth, you see. I want to develop my talent and make a name for myself.”

  “And enough money to buy a Rolls and a few diamonds,” he teased.

  “Yes!”

  “Do you still have relatives there, besides your mother?”

  She sipped her coffee without answering, and her face paled. “My mother?”

  He frowned. “You said that she was only traveling in Europe, didn’t you? She doesn’t live there?”

  “Oh! Oh, of course not, no, she lives in Baton Rouge.”

  “You’re very reticent about yourself.”

  “I’m not used to talking about myself, that’s all,” she prevaricated. “I’d really rather know about you.”

  His eye narrowed on her flushed face. “I don’t have to know every single thing about you and I don’t pry. You’re safe with me. Safer than you might realize, and that’s not a statement I make lightly. I’ve thought of pretty young women as fair game for years. When I was younger, I fancied myself the Latin lover—I was here today and gone tomorrow, never any ties. I’m older now, and I don’t have to seduce every woman I meet. Does that reassure you?”

  “You don’t want to seduce me?” she asked. “Why, how insulting!”

  He chuckled. His dark-eyed gaze ran over her slowly, appreciating the slender curves of her body and the fine bones of her face. “Well, that isn’t quite true,” he confessed. “I would like to seduce you. But you’re off-limits.”

  “Because I work for you?”

  He looked solemn. “Because of that, and because despite your wealthy background, you don’t seem particularly sophisticated, or worldly,” he corrected, faintly curious about the way she paled when he said that. “You really are green for your age, and I don’t like taking advantage of it. Besides that, I’ve just had a fairly traumatic event in my life and I’m not emotionally stable enough right now for a love affair. My mother comes first. She has to.”

  She searched his face quietly, curiously. It was odd how at ease she felt with him, how secure.

  “What are you thinking so intently?” he queried gently.

  “That you’re beautiful,” she said, grimacing when he burst out laughing. “I shouldn’t have said that. I meant that you’re remarkably handsome.”

  The smile faded and cynicism replaced it. He’d heard that line too many times from women who wanted something from him. He’d become distrustful over the years. “Do you think so?”

  “The eye patch only makes you look dangerous,” she added.

  He didn’t smile. If anything, he looked angry. “If I took it off, you’d faint.”

  She hated the pain in his face. Presumably, the women he knew were squeamish. In her young life, Ivory had seen worse than a cut eye. “Do you think so?” she replied gently, turning his own question back at him. She folded her hands serenely in her lap. “Go ahead, then. Call my bluff.”

  The serenity pricked at his hot temper. “All right. Feast your eyes!” he snapped, and, impulsively, he ripped off the patch.

  Her expression didn’t change. She studied the damaged eye with quiet curiosity, but no revulsion. She moved closer, to his surprise, and her fingers came up lightly, hesitating at his cheek. He didn’t move, or try to catch her wrist, so she touched the scar that ran through the eye. The lid was closed, and she imagined that it concealed a glass eye now, considering the obvious depth of the wound. He shivered faintly, to her surprise.

  “How did it happen? Or don’t you like to talk about it?” she asked softly.

  His jaw tightened even more. She was the first person, outside his family, who hadn’t flinched at the sight of him like this. Powerful emotions ran shuddering through him at the feel of her soft fingers on that ugliness.

  “A knife fight,” he said tautly. “In my late teens.”

  “I’ll bet the other fellow looked worse.”

  “Considerably.”

  Her forefinger traced the thick black lash over the eye. It moved slightly under the contact. “Can you open it?” she asked.

  “It’s not glass,” he said shortly. “There’s no artificial eye because its uncomfortable for me to wear a glass one.”

  “Of course.” She smiled at him softly.

  He took a slow breath and levered the eyelid up.

  She studied it quietly. It wasn’t as horrible as he seemed to think. She thought of his pain, though, not of the scar and puckered flesh. The smile was still there. “It isn’t so bad, you know. You could leave the patch off.”

  He glared at her. “People would stare at me!”

  “Of course they would stare,” she said impatiently. “You look like some Latin movie star.”

  Both eyebrows jerked down this time, and stayed there.

  “You aren’t that unsightly, at all. Heavens, one of my favorite actors has a glass eye and you’d never know it to look at him. You could probably even get used to one if you tried.”

  “The scars are too bad,” he said irritably.

  “And you won’t have plastic surgery on them, of course,” she agreed impishly, “because then you wouldn’t have an excuse to go without that rakish eye patch.”

  “Damn you!”

  She never saw it coming. He had her across his lap in a heartbeat, and his hard mouth ground into her lips before she could get out a protest. It wouldn’t have done any good, anyway, because the hunger and passion of the kiss worked very quickly on a body that had never known either. The shocking thing was that she wasn’t offended, or repulsed. In fact, she did something totally unexpected. She went pliant in his arms and her hands went up to tangle in the cool, clean strands of his thick, wavy black hair. He tasted of coffee and faintly of some after-dinner liqueur, licorice-flavored. His mouth was warm and hard and exciting. She felt a lean hand in her own hair, angling her face just where he wanted it. The other hand smoothed with shocking possession right over her breasts.

  She struggled a little and his head lifted.

  That one good eye was shattering as it stared down at her red face and swollen mouth. “I didn’t tell you the other night that you taste like a virgin, did I? But you do.”

  His hand smoothed up past her rib cage and her frantic fingers caught at his.

  He just looked at her, without lust, without amusement. “Grass-green, aren’t you?” he murmured gently.

  “Please...!”

  He smiled. “You’re very old-fashioned,” he said. “Most women can’t wait to open the buttons for me.”

  She pushed at his hand and he let her move it. “I’m not most women!” she said, angry at the innuendo.

  “So I noticed.” He traced her cheek instead, but he didn’t offer to let her up again. He leaned back, still holding her against his chest, and pulled her protesting hand to his mouth. He kissed it. “You had a bad experience,” he recalled. “Was it bad enough that you don’t want to be a woman?”

  The easy tenor of his voice was comforting. She felt less threatened and relaxed a little. “I don’t think it was that bad,” she said honestly. “It frightened me, although I was very young when it happened. But intimacy is dangerous, isn’t it, even if I weren’t old-fashioned about that sort of thing...” She flushed at the expression on his face. “Don’t laugh.”

  “I’m not.” He pushed back her disheveled hair. “I’m thirty-seven. I haven’t lived so long without learning a lot. I always, always, use protection when I’m with a woman,” he said firmly. “I have no diseases of any kind that I could give to yo
u. Maybe a cold in winter,” he added, teasing. The smile faded. “If we made love together, I’d use something or I’d insist that you use something—maybe both. I never want to make a woman pregnant.” He didn’t add the word again. There was no need to bare his soul to her. Not yet.

  The vehemence in the words was puzzling. “You mean, out of wedlock,” she fished.

  “I mean ever,” he said shortly. “I don’t want children.”

  She wondered if it was because of his mentally challenged brother, if it was a genetic thing that worried him. She didn’t know him well enough to pry. She could understand his feelings, though. Childhood could be so terrible. She wasn’t sure that she wanted a child, either. But, then, she didn’t want marriage. The thought of her childhood made her wary of any sort of family life. Her mother and father had hardly been any sort of advertisement for happily-ever-after.

  He touched her soft mouth. “What?” he prompted.

  “I was thinking that I don’t want to get married.”

  “Why?”

  She shifted. “I can’t tell you.”

  “We both have secrets,” he replied with a soft sigh. He traced her eyebrows and then her straight nose. His lips tugged into a smile. “Will you want a lover one day?”

  Her body tingled with the thought of it. “Yes, I think so. But...”

  “But?”

  “I haven’t felt that way with anyone, except you.”

  His chest swelled. He traced her soft mouth and then bent to brush his lips over it in a way that made her spine tingle. “When you’re ready to take that step, you can tell me.”

  “And be one in a line,” she said on a sigh.

  “Never.” His gaze was steady and unblinking. “If you take me as a lover, I won’t have women on the side. It will be you and only you.”

  “For as long as it lasts.”

  He looked thoughtful, searched her face and scowled. “I don’t even know that I could live with myself if I had an affair with a virgin your age,” he said, thinking out loud. “It might be a very lengthy love affair. It might last a long time.”