Tycoon Meets Texan!

by Arlene James

  She tilted her head at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do,” he said, unabashedly naked. He toweled off, while she tried not to be affected by what she saw. As golden as she imagined Greece itself to be, he was a man of pure masculine prowess. “You hide behind that sweet exterior of yours,” he went on. “I say, ‘Don’t go back to Texas. Stay with me,’ and you smile and say, ‘I want to.’ But what you’re really saying is, ‘I won’t.’“

  She smiled apologetically. “That’s not true. I do want to stay.”

  “Then do it,” he said and dropped the towel.

  Flustered, she finally looked away, saying softly, “No vacation lasts forever.”

  “No one suggested that it should.”

  “There you are then.” She turned and moved toward the dressing room, which was a marvel filled not just by drawers and closets and benches and slipper chairs but a lighted cosmetics console and a sink as well. “I won’t be long,” she promised over her shoulder, only to find herself brought up short at the end of her own arm, his hand clamped firmly around her wrist.

  “For the record,” he said intently, “I do believe that you want to stay, and yet you won’t. Why is that?”

  For an instant, just for an instant, she considered telling him that she feared she needed him too much, but she had let herself be trapped that way once already, and she would not let it happen again, however tempting the trap might be. She pulled free of him, realized that she was teetering on the edge of panic and dropped her voice to a pleasant whisper. “Please don’t ruin it, Lucien. We’ve had such a lovely time. You’ve been so generous and very, very sweet. That’s how I want to remember you.”

  He literally bared his teeth as he reached out with one arm and swept her against him. “And you,” he said, “are infuriating. Infuriating. Frustrating. Intoxicating.”

  He took her mouth, swooped down upon it. She didn’t resist, couldn’t hold back at all. He swept his tongue inside, time and again, fitting and refitting, bodies as well as lips. When he finally lifted his head, she looked up at him and softly said what she’d been putting off saying, “I’m leaving on Monday.”

  Three more days. No one said it, but the thought echoed around the room like a ricocheting bullet. His nostrils flared, and suddenly he curled his fingers around the top edge of her towel and tugged it away. “Then you can forget the damned theater.”

  It was already forgotten.

  She capitulated eagerly once more, but it wasn’t really about that. In an odd way, it was more about showing them both how much she could take, how much she could walk away from, for in the end walking away was her only choice. She knew it instinctively, had come to know it more and more every time they touched, that she could lose herself more completely to this man than she ever had to Kenneth. And that she must not.

  Once already she’d given her life to a man, the life she should have had. That future, all those possibilities, had evaporated like so much smoke the moment she’d committed herself to Kenneth. She would never let that happen again. Edwin Searle had given her a second chance, and she couldn’t squander that, but she feared that if she stayed too long with Luc, she would.

  “I can’t believe this.” Luc gestured to the luggage littering his foyer and made a concerted effort to tamp down his temper. Aware of the Baldwins wringing their hands in the background, he pitched his voice low and stepped close to Avis. “We talked about this last night.”

  “Yes, we did,” she conceded gently, “and I told you I couldn’t stay.”

  “That was before—” He bit back the words, glancing in the direction of the Baldwins.

  They didn’t need to know what had happened in the privacy of his bedroom the previous night, when he had dedicated long hours to pulling one gasped confession after another out of her. He was the best of lovers. He made her feel like the most beautiful and desirable woman in the world. London had become a magical experience for her. She felt pampered, appreciated, like a princess in a fairy tale, and she would love to stay in this beautiful house in this fascinating city for the next few weeks while he finished his business here. He had thought it was settled.

  Basically, he had spent the whole of Sunday convincing her not to leave, and never had he been more charming, more solicitous, more appreciative. He’d arranged a private tour of Buckingham Palace, for pity’s sake! He had taken her to lunch at the finest club in the city and watched her eyes widen as government ministers, rock stars and aristocrats had fawned over him. A viewing of one of the finest private art collections in the world had taken the afternoon, but the entire evening had been devoted to making love.

  Every ounce of skill, every erotic technique, every romantic impulse he possessed had been employed with single-minded dedication until his repertoire, his mind and his body had been utterly exhausted. Deeply satisfied, he had gone to sleep believing that they would have weeks yet. Just that morning he had happily announced to Mrs. Baldwin that Avis would be staying, only to be called away from an important meeting less than two hours later by the panicked housekeeper with the news that Avis was on her way out the door! Confounded, he felt a fresh surge of anger, which he again fought to suppress.

  “Avis,” he began much more reasonably than seemed possible, “there is no good rationalization for you to return to Texas today.”

  She sighed and smiled that sweet, compliant smile that he was beginning to hate. “Lucien, it’s time for me to go. I have a business and a life that I need to get back to, and I’ve already made the flight arrangements.”

  “I told you last night that I would put my private jet at your disposal when it was time.”

  “It is time, and I’ve already paid for the ticket.”

  “Forget the damned ticket!”

  She spread her hands. “I can’t do that.”

  “Can’t?” he exploded. “You mean you won’t!”

  She bowed her head. “All right, I won’t.”

  “Why?” he demanded. “Last night you said you wanted to stay!”

  “I do.”

  He knew better than to think that he had won at this point. Thoroughly exasperated, he took her by the arm and steered her into the nearest room, which, by chance, was the formal sitting room. When they were alone, he pulled her into his arms. She went willingly, as she always did. “Why go when you want to stay?”

  She brushed a hand across his chest and looked up at him. “Lucien, I can’t expect my business partner to carry on indefinitely without me, and I can’t live in a fantasy.”

  He pulled her closer. “This does not feel real to you?”

  She smiled almost sadly. “This has been a lovely dream, Lucien, a fabulous, almost unbelievable dream, but now it’s time to wake up and get back to business.”

  Business. If he understood anything, it was business, and this had nothing whatsoever to do with her business. His, however, was going to keep him right here in London for some time. Perhaps it was selfish of him to want her here with him, but he didn’t really care, and he couldn’t help feeling angry and, yes, hurt that she could so easily walk away.

  “What can I say to make you stay?” he asked softly, but she merely shook her head.

  “I’m no happier about it than you are, but it’s time for me to go. It’s really just that simple.”

  He almost laughed. This was anything but simple, and if she thought she could walk away from him this easily, she was very sadly mistaken. Short of locking her in a closet, however, he had no other option at present than to let her go. For now. He released her and walked over to lean against a table that had once graced the home of King George II.

  “You are still a puzzle to me,” he admitted tautly, “a beautiful, compelling puzzle.”

  She lifted her hands as if confused. “What is it you think I’m keeping from you?”

  “Why you insist on going when you really want to stay.”

  “But I’ve told you over and over.” She bowed her head, wrapping her
arms tightly around her slender middle. “Please, Lucien, let’s not do this. I don’t want to miss my flight, and I don’t want to part on bad terms, not after the incredible holiday you’ve given me.”

  He breathed deeply through his nostrils and finally nodded. Defeat always left a very bitter taste in his mouth, but it never lingered for long because the success to follow was always so very sweet. Meanwhile, it was time for a strategic retreat. He opened his arms. “Come and give me a proper good-bye then.”

  As always, she almost flew to him. He made it a kiss that she would never forget. When he released her, tears stood in her eyes, but determination was there, as well. He found, to his surprise, that he could not easily speak again, so he stayed where he was while she hurried from the room. When she suggested to Baldwin that it might be best if she called a cab, his trusted driver sounded understandably and predictably horrified, so Lucien put him out of his misery by walking to the door and giving him a nod. Then he turned back into the room and stayed there until she had departed his house. He was not surprised to find Mrs. Baldwin standing behind him when he turned again, a militant look in her disapproving eye.

  “I can’t believe you just let her go.”

  “I did not just let her go, Hettie,” he retorted more sharply than he intended. “I never let go of anything that is mine. You know that.” She suddenly beamed at him, a reaction he found inexplicable until he rethought those words. “Now, don’t go planning any wedding,” he ordered impatiently. “I’m simply not ready to let go of her yet.”

  “Does she know that?”

  “She’ll know soon enough.”

  “My, my,” the housekeeper said smugly, “she’s really worked up a head of steam in you, hasn’t she? You’ll pardon my saying so, but your mother’s not going to like that.”

  “I will not pardon your saying so, and it’s no more my mother’s business whom I choose to sleep with than it is yours.”

  Hettie just smiled, damn her. “There now,” she said soothingly, “I’ll make you a nice shepherd’s pie for dinner. That’ll make you feel better.”

  He smiled despite himself, but it was going to take a lot more than a good dinner to make this night better. He wouldn’t even think of the weeks ahead.

  Chapter Six

  Avis stared at the bound, printed prospectus. The soft, blue cover folded back in a roll perfectly suited to her left hand. The neat black letters and colored charts practically jumped off the crisp, stark white page, but try as she might, and despite a degree of natural expertise, she hadn’t been able to decipher a word thus far. The thing might as well have been written in Greek.

  Greek.

  Sudden remembrance washed over her in waves: Lucien dropping smoothly down into the airplane seat next to her. Lucien smiling gaily, his dark eyes heated with sensual intent. Lucien above her, driving into her, his flexible mouth moving over hers, long-fingered, square-nailed hands molding her flesh. Wet, golden skin. Hard muscles. Lucien cradling her in his arms, his heart beating beneath her cheek. Lucien. Lucien. Lucien.

  She dropped the prospectus and covered her face with her hands. For nearly a month she had been unexpectedly carried off by these unwanted memories. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. London should have faded into a safe, pleasurable recollection that could be taken out, dusted off and enjoyed at her leisure, not this ambush of relived sensation. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she manage this? Just how self-destructive was she?

  The telephone on her dark, shiny desktop rang. She jerked, then snatched up the wireless receiver with a helpless sense of relief. Bringing it to her right ear, she rotated her chair, turning her back to the door. “Avis Lorimer.”

  “Hey!”

  Sierra’s happy voice pierced Avis to the heart. “Hey, yourself. How’s married life?”

  “Amazing. Oh, my gosh, Avis, I am so lucky. Sam is just…amazing.”

  Amazing is about six-two, blond and half Greek. Avis turned off that treacherous thought by asking, “How are you feeling?”

  “Never better. And how about you?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, just busy.”

  “We’ve noticed that,” Sierra said lightly. “Haven’t seen much of you in the past few weeks. We’ve barely even heard about your trip. Please say you’ll come to dinner.”

  “Of course, I’ll come to dinner. I’d love to come to dinner. Just as soon as I can.”

  “How’s Friday?”

  The polite thing would have been to say yes, but somehow she couldn’t make herself do it. Instead, she stalled by turning in her chair and checking her desk calendar. “Friday. Friday.” The page was blank, but she didn’t let that influence her answer. “Mmm, I really should attend this business thing on Friday evening. Sorry. You know how it is.” She made a mental note to call Pete as soon as she hung up with Sierra and rescind her refusal to accompany him to a certain cocktail party.

  “Okay,” Sierra said. “Saturday then.”

  Avis pinched the bridge of her nose and resorted to an outright lie. “I’m taking Gwyn to dinner on Saturday.” She grimaced at the silence that followed and added lamely, “You know she doesn’t get out enough.”

  “Avis,” Sierra asked softly, “are you avoiding me?”

  “Goodness, no. Don’t be silly.”

  Her office door opened, and her partner Pete breezed through it, speaking. “Avis, can you…oh, sorry.”

  She couldn’t have been happier to see him. “Sierra, my partner just came in. I have to go. Listen, I’ll call you in a few days, and we’ll set something up. Okay?” She hung up quickly and literally beamed at Pete, who seemed taken aback.

  Something about him always put her in mind of the actor Spencer Tracy. He was an attractive man by anyone’s standards, taller than average with the build and mannerisms of a heavyweight boxer, piercing blue eyes and a thick head of prematurely silver hair that showed only traces of its original medium brown. Most importantly, he was a smart, savvy businessman. If she had a complaint it was that he tended to let his social life spill over into business, something with which he himself had no problem. Indeed, he often tried to entice her to do the same. And now she was about to accommodate him.

  “What can I do for you, Pete?”

  He scratched his ear uncertainly. “Uh, could you dig out your Hollow Ridge file so I can copy it? Guess I left mine at home.”

  “Sure.” She rose and walked to the bank of file cabinets along one wall. Within moments, she had extracted the requested file and was holding it out to him.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking it from her hand. “Don’t know where my brain was this morning.” He opened the folder and began thumbing through it.

  “I know what you mean,” she told him. “I’m having trouble concentrating myself today.”

  He looked up at her words. “Everything okay?”

  She wrinkled her nose, hating herself. “I think I’ve just been working too much lately.”

  He closed the folder and lowered it. “You have been hitting it pretty hard since you got back from London,” he agreed. “It’s like you have to work twice as hard to make up for going off and having a little fun. I keep telling you that you need to loosen up.”

  She smoothed the lay of her collarless, buff-colored suit jacket and forced a smile. “I think you’re right. In fact, if the offer’s still open, I just might go with you to that party on Friday, after all.”

  Clearly stunned, he gaped at her so long that she had to fight to keep from nervously plucking at the creases of her slacks.

  “Great!” Pete finally reacted. “That’s great! What, uh, made you change your mind?”

  She looked away and moved back toward her desk. “Guess I’m just feeling a little restless.”

  That was true, but what she didn’t, couldn’t, tell him was that she was avoiding one of her best friends. Sierra and Sam had married while she was in London, and she couldn’t be happier about it, especially since they were expecting a baby, but just watc
hing the happy couple together made her ache with an emptiness that she hated yet couldn’t hold at bay. All she seemed able to do about it was keep her distance until her emotions somehow got back on an even keel, and if that meant nursing a single drink for hours at a crowded, boring cocktail party with a weary smile pasted on her face, well, so be it.

  While Pete chatted excitedly about who would be there and what a good time they would have, Avis made herself listen and nod at all the appropriate moments, until finally he swept out of her office behind a gleaming white grin. She felt like a grade-A heel, but that didn’t stop her from picking up the telephone and calling Gwyn Dunstan to make a dinner date for Saturday night.

  Of the friendly group of four women who had operated small businesses out of the strip mall that Edwin Searle had patronized, only Gwyn had not been named in the will, and she had adamantly refused to let the other three cut her in, despite the fact that she worked long and hard to make a minimal living from the coffee shop where the four had once gathered on a daily basis. Now both Val and Sierra were happily married, which seemed to leave Avis and Gwyn with a special bond. It was only natural that Avis should spend more time with her than the other two.

  Gwyn gladly agreed to meet her but insisted that a simple pizza would suit her better than steak or a hamburger. Besides, her two teenagers would be thrilled when she brought the leftovers home to them. Avis laughed and said they’d have to order a large pie, then, maybe even one apiece. She didn’t realize how very much she was looking forward to spending time with Gwyn until after she hung up the phone, but then why should that bother her? It wasn’t as if she was lonely, after all, just unsettled.

  The weeks had simultaneously flown and crept by, busy yet somehow empty, too. Soon the paralyzing heat of summer would be upon them, and she found herself dreading it this year as she never had before. Maybe she ought to think about going someplace cool. Like London. No. She quickly put that thought away and walked around her desk. Picking up the prospectus again, she reached for a pen. She was going to get the numbers she needed out of this thing if it killed her. And then she would find something else to do and something else after that until one day thoughts of London would bring only the same vague pleasure as any standard holiday memory.