by Arlene James
“I wouldn’t know. Haven’t they said?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Wouldn’t you like to meet Daniels, though?”
“I never expected to. This is your deal, Pete. Coeli Development was working on this long before C&L came into being.”
“Coeli Development is C&L Investments and Development,” Pete insisted.
“But it’s a limited partnership. You’re free to operate independently.”
“Why should I? This is a huge project, Avis. I need you on this. Don’t bail on me now.”
“I don’t have the passion for this that you do,” she admitted softly.
“So?” He hunched a shoulder and popped down onto the corner of her desk. “You have the brains and style for it. The suggestions you made to Rifkin were spectacular. Even he thought so, and he’s shot down every change in the plan that I’ve suggested since we first hooked up.” He pecked a finger on the top of her desk. “This is a C&L I&D job, and that’s all there is to it. No more talk of opting out. Okay?”
She smiled wanly. “Okay.”
Pete clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “This calls for a celebration. I was afraid to believe it until now, but come Monday the man will be standing in my office. What do you say to dinner? Let’s pull out all the stops. The Lariat Club?”
Avis bit her lip and inwardly sighed. Ever since the ill-advised cocktail party, he’d been asking her out, and time after time she’d put him off with one lame excuse or another. She really owed it to him to set him straight.
“Pete, I’m sorry. I prefer to keep business in its place, namely the office.”
“Aw, come on, Avis. We make a great team, you and I. Makes sense that we’d be good together in more ways than one.”
She looked him squarely in the eye. “Pete, you’re a great business partner and a real friend, but I’m not interested in anything more.”
He slumped, deflated. “You won’t even give it a chance?”
“To be blunt, no. I’m just not interested in romance, not with you, not with anyone. I’m happy alone.” Even as she said it, she felt a deep well of discontent opening inside of her, but Pete didn’t know that.
Sighing dramatically, he got up and wandered toward the door. Then, with his hand on the knob, he paused and flashed her a hopeful grin. “Doesn’t mean you won’t change your mind one of these days.” He winked, ever the upbeat, good-time pal, and swept out with a flourish.
Avis found herself chuckling as the heavy door silently swung closed behind him.
She walked into the office on Monday morning expecting Pete to be bouncing off the ceiling. Instead he met her with a grim smile and determined cheer.
“Change of plans,” he announced. “Guy won’t be here until tomorrow evening. Some snafu in his schedule, but he doesn’t want to wait until Wednesday to get the ball rolling, so he’s asked us to join him for dinner. Looks like we’ll be making the Lariat Club, after all. And don’t even think of trying to get out of it. He specifically asked that both partners be present.”
Avis sighed inwardly. She didn’t want to go out, but it wasn’t as if she had a choice. This was business. She didn’t normally come into the office on Tuesdays, but then she wouldn’t have to. She could work from home as usual and show up for dinner as requested. It was the least she could do since this thing was so important to Pete.
“Okay.”
He drew back a little and blinked, as if he’d expected an argument. “Shall I pick you up?” he asked hopefully. “Around seven? That’ll give us plenty of time to get to the club by eight.”
Avis smiled. “No, that’s not necessary.”
“I don’t mind.”
She shook her head. “It’s silly for you to go all the way down to Puma Springs and back again. I’ll meet you there.”
He shrugged, not quite his ebullient self. “Whatever you say.”
She folded her arms. “Now don’t start worrying just because the meeting’s going to be a day later than planned.”
“It’s just that I wore my good suit today,” he groused with a grin. “Now I’ve either got to go home and change, wear something less impressive or charm my dry cleaners into giving me a fresh press tonight.”
She had to admit that he looked very attractive in the stylish black suit and pale gray shirt and tie, the color of which brought out the distinguished silver of his thick, straight hair and the vibrant blue of his eyes. Though a little too heavily featured to be classically handsome, he did possess a rather dominant aura of masculinity. Not for the first time she wondered why it was that she couldn’t feel something more than friendship for Pete. A mutual acquaintance had once described him as a cross between a teddy bear and a shark, and that wasn’t far off the mark. She liked, trusted and respected Pete. Might it not become more if she gave it a chance?
“Run on home and change,” she advised. “In fact, why don’t you take the day off? You’re not going to be any good around here now anyway.”
He brightened. “I just might do that. It’s a great day for a game of golf.”
“There you go.”
“Why don’t you join me?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Golf’s not my thing.” She wondered briefly if she should go shopping for something to wear to dinner, but then she owned a couple of dresses that she’d never worn anywhere. Except London. She pushed aside the pang that such thoughts still elicited even after all these weeks and firmly made up her mind to wear something from her closet.
Pete turned toward the door, but it opened before he got to it, and their perpetually late secretary/receptionist Candy breezed into the small antechamber that was their lobby, her short, platinum-streaked hair standing on end in a fashionable spike.
“Is Mr. What’s-his-name here yet?”
“Meeting’s canceled,” Pete announced glumly.
“Until tomorrow evening,” Avis amended, seeing Candy’s horrified expression.
“Tomorrow evening at the Lariat Club,” Pete added with a wag of his brows.
Candy brightened immediately. “Ooh. The Lariat Club. Did you suggest that?”
Pete scratched an ear. “Uh, no, actually, they did. I had an e-mail this morning.”
“Well, somebody’s got good taste.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything else,” Pete insisted. “Well, I’m out of here. See you tomorrow.” He exited the suite with a jaunty wave.
“Where’s he going?” Candy asked, dumping her enormous handbag behind the sleek, ebony counter that hid her messy desk.
“Taking the day off,” Avis muttered, thinking of something else. “By the way, what is his name, this guy from Corydon?” Seemed to her that they ought to know by now.
Candy shrugged. “Dunno. All their e-mails since the first one are signed the same way, just Corydon, Inc.”
“Haven’t you spoken to anyone at Corydon?”
“Once, but all he said when he called was, ‘This is Corydon, Inc.’“
“Well, who do you ask for when you call there?”
“Never called there. Never had to.”
“I see, and Pete hasn’t mentioned a name?”
“Not to me.”
Avis tried not to frown. What difference did it make anyway? She put the small detail of the Corydon rep’s name out of mind, except to wonder if it might actually be Daniels himself. It didn’t seem likely, but given that she couldn’t rule out the possibility, she decided she’d best dress for the dinner meeting with great care. She spent the rest of the day trying not to think about where she had worn each appropriate garment in her closet. And with whom.
That evening she made herself take an inventory of her wardrobe. The gown she had bought in London and never worn was too formal. The violet had bagged a little and should be cleaned. She laid it out to drop off at the dry cleaners. She passed over another as too heavy for spring and rejected unilaterally the little black dress that she had wor
n to the cocktail party. She considered one or two others purchased for the summer but ultimately came back to her favorite sapphire blue, as she had known she would.
It was two dresses really, attached just at the sides. The underdress was strapless and made of that wondrous knit that clung to the body like second skin. Anything more than seamless pantyhose worn beneath it would show, even through the sheer, fitted overdress, the decided Oriental flare of which was demonstrated in the Mandarin collar and long, tight sleeves trimmed at the wrists with delicate, dyed-to-match embroidery. The bodice buttoned at a slant with tiny, odd-shaped bits of sapphire glass like rough-cut, polished stone, from left shoulder to below the right breast, and both under- and overskirts were slit on the left side almost from the hip to the knee-length hem. With nude stockings and embroidered, pointed-toed, high-heeled mules, she never felt better or more lavishly dressed than when wearing this unique ensemble.
She had worn this dress twice for Lucien, and both times he had undressed her afterward, working the tiny glass chips through the delicate holes one breathless button at time, then sliding the bodice from her shoulders and shoving the underdress to her waist. Before he’d finished, he had turned both the dress and her inside out.
Yes, it had to be this dress, if only to invest it with less poignant memories.
She wondered, to her surprise, what Pete might think of her in this. Shaking her head, she laid it aside and took herself downstairs to dine on canned soup and crackers.
The bulk of the evening was devoted to an orgy of grooming, beginning with a facial. She scrubbed, plucked, exfoliated, clarified and creamed, before dealing with her hair. It always behaved better the day after washing, and she wanted to look her best for Pete’s sake, so she shampooed and conditioned and brushed until it dried glossy and full. That done, she softened her hands and feet with paraffin baths, then waxed her legs and, finally, applied frosty pink polish to her finger and toe nails.
By the time she slipped into bed she felt delightfully clean and feminine. Sleep, thankfully, was not then long in coming.
She woke the next morning to sunshine and optimism. The thought came to her out of nowhere that this was going to be a life-changing day. C&L was on the verge of big things. Some of Pete’s enthusiasm for the TexBank project began to permeate the odd gloom in which she’d been floundering. They were going to negotiate a deal tonight that would eventually make them both very wealthy, not that the money really mattered. It was success, achievement, that she wanted now. For so long she had merely existed, now she was finally her own person, with a chance to prove what she could do, and she had the late Edwin Searle and good old Pete to thank for it. She wasn’t going to disappoint either of them. Throwing back the covers, she hopped out of bed.
Looking forward to an excellent dinner, she skimped on breakfast and lunch while diligently studying the TexBank prospectus. Intending to do her partner proud, she determined to learn every detail of the project. Corydon, Inc. would leave the table tonight knowing that C&L I&D was very much on the ball.
In late afternoon she put aside the paperwork and went upstairs to get dressed. At precisely seven o’clock, she walked down the stairs, a small silk handbag tucked under one arm, hair coiled and twirled artfully. Fifty-five minutes later, she walked into the opulent marble and chrome foyer of the renowned Lariat Club and told the maître d’ that she was meeting two gentlemen.
He tugged at the cuffs of his plain white shirt beneath his black coat sleeves, and Avis noticed that he wore a black string tie and alligator cowboy boots with the tuxedo that comprised his uniform. “Ms. Lorimer?” he inquired politely.
She was not surprised that she was expected. “Yes.”
“This way please.”
He immediately turned and led her through a beveled-glass door. As she followed, she glanced around unobtrusively, taking in the eclectic mix of horn chandeliers, tanned hides, chrome sculptures and chili-pepper-red table linens and rugs. They wound past a massive stone fireplace and a burbling fountain then a pierced tin screen overlaid with copper figures before the maître d’ stopped in front of her and bowed slightly.
“Gentlemen.”
Avis heard the sound of chair legs scraping across granite. Then her escort stepped to one side and lifted an arm toward the sheltered table. All charming gentility and feminine confidence, Avis smiled at him and turned her head.
Her heart stopped.
Every molecule of oxygen escaped her lungs.
She shook her head disbelievingly.
For a long moment, no one said a word, but then Pete anxiously stepped forward and cupped her elbow with his big hand as if she were a fragile old lady who needed his help to cross the street. She felt herself begin to tremble.
“Avis,” he said, an urgent edge to his voice, “I’d like you to meet Lucien Tyrone.”
Chapter Eight
“Hello, Avis.”
Twin waves of longing and panic hit her from different directions. She spluttered for a moment, overwhelmed. “L-Lucien?”
Luc ignored her discomfiture and raked her from head to toe with an assessing gaze. “You’re looking splendid, as usual.”
She finally got her bearings. “What are you doing here?”
A smile flitted across his mouth. “Conducting business, of course.”
Corydon. It slapped her like a cold hand, boggling her mind and at the same time implanting definite information. He had known with whom he was dealing. He had planned it this way. She trembled now with outrage as much as horrifying delight. Stepping away from Pete, she laid her handbag onto the table. “Funny, you never said anything about a company called Corydon.”
Lucien calmly smoothed his silk tie. “It’s a recent acquisition, very recent, as it happens.”
Pete emitted a nervous chuckle. “Turns out old Luc here actually bought the company from Daniels immediately after he approached us.”
“Oh, I’m sure the deal was struck beforehand,” Avis said, quietly seething now. What did this mean for Pete’s dream of TexBank?
“As a matter of fact, it was,” Lucien admitted easily. “May we sit now?” He reached over and pulled out a chair for her.
Avis hesitated a moment, torn between walking, running away and Pete’s hopes. Finally, she dropped down into the chair, telling herself that she had to find out whether or not the TexBank deal was viable or if this was merely some terrible ruse on Lucien’s part. Punishment for her leaving him perhaps? The men took their seats.
A waiter appeared and placed a filled water goblet in front of Avis, followed by an empty wineglass, into which he poured a fruity red wine.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for all three of us,” Lucien said smoothly. “I feel certain you won’t be disappointed.”
“Are you kidding?” Pete said heartily. “The chef here is renowned.”
“So I am told.” Lucien picked up his own wineglass and drank. He smoothed his napkin across his lap. Avis didn’t look at him, but she felt his gaze on her. “How have you been?”
Her mind was whirling so quickly that she couldn’t manage to open her mouth at first, but then Pete cleared his throat and touched her ankle with the toe of his shoe beneath the table. She caught her breath, swallowed and softly answered. “Fine. And you?”
“Busy.”
“And your son? How is Nicholas?”
He shifted in his seat. “As well as can be expected.”
“He must miss you when you’re gone.”
Lucien’s smile was fleeting and tinged with concern, but his reply seemed flippant. “Perhaps. It did not seem so when I left him this morning. He was preoccupied with his finger painting.”
She folded her arms across her waist and said nothing more. After an awkward pause, Pete bluffly asked, “So, how do you two know each other?”
Lucien sipped from his glass again before saying carefully, “We met quite by chance.”
“Oh? Where?”
Lucien smiled at Pete’s
unsubtle prodding. That smile held something lupine. Avis briefly closed her eyes, certain that Lucien was about to announce their affair. Instead he said, “I had the great good fortune of touring London at the same time as Ms. Lorimer.”
“Ah.” Pete weighted that single syllable with a wealth of understanding.
“Imagine my delight,” Lucien went on, “when I discovered that she was part of your company.”
She shot him a look from beneath her lashes. “Yes, what a coincidence.”
Pete could be heard gulping from his glass. “Small world, isn’t it?”
“Very small,” Lucien stated flatly. The appetizer arrived just then, shrimp in pastry cups filled with a spicy salsa jelly. Lucien smiled expansively, the gracious host. “Let’s eat first and discuss business later, shall we?”
Pete hummed awkwardly over the tasty concoction, but Avis merely nibbled at hers, forcing out appropriate sounds. They followed that pattern through a salad of chopped jicama, peppers, pecans and corn on a bed of lettuce with an avocado dressing, a soup course of spicy creamed pumpkin laced with cinnamon and a main dish of pork and rice roasted inside a ring of oranges and jalapenos in a stingingly hot and superbly sweet sauce, in addition to side dishes of charro beans, squash and hearts of palm. It was a superb meal which Avis could do little more than taste while Lucien sent her silent glances and Pete chattered with nervous determination, mostly about TexBank and what an excellent project it was. By the time the waiter placed dessert before them—a praline flan with a plantain crust accompanied by coffee—Avis felt strung as tightly as a barbed-wire fence and Pete had come to the end of his patience.
“So,” he asked, twirling his fork, “what do you think about the project?”
While Avis held her breath, Lucien dabbed at the corners of his mouth and replaced his napkin in his lap. “The plan is definitely innovative, but four floors of mall space is a lot of shopping when the retail rental market is depressed nationwide.”
