by Arlene James
“In Dallas,” he said pointedly. “I don’t think that’s very politic, do you?” She frowned. The two cities were often in a state of rivalry. It wouldn’t look too good for Fort Worth’s business community if their bright new star was known to be staying in Dallas. “Besides,” he went on, “it’s too far away. I’m a busy man, and we have work to do.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go stay with Pete, but she could just imagine where that would lead. She could almost hear the conversation now.
She fell right into my arms. Long baths together in my London townhouse. Making love on a bed older than most nations, on the floor in front of the fireplace, in her dressing room, in my dressing room, the back of a limo…
No wonder I couldn’t get to first base. Can’t compete with that.
She definitely didn’t want him to stay at Pete’s. Closing her eyes, she accepted the inevitable.
“This is not London,” she said waspishly. “I don’t have servants, and I don’t cook. Much. There is no elevator. The bathroom is small, and the hot water comes out of a single tank. Use it all, and I’ll kick your billionaire butt to the curb.”
He grinned. “Where’s your guest room? Or am I welcome in the master?”
She eyed him sternly. “The guest room is beneath the stairs, second door to your right. The first is the bath. No, it does not connect. Be sure you’re decent when you come and go.”
He hoisted his bags. “So this is that Southern hospitality I’ve heard so much about.”
“It’s all of it you’re going to get. And temporary. Very temporary.”
His dark eyes twinkled. “We’ll see about that.” He lumbered down the hall, dragging his luggage. She smugly bet herself that wheels would be on the agenda quite soon.
“Reciprocity my Aunt Fanny,” she grumbled, but then she stiffened her spine. No more sweet, soft-spoken Avis, going along to get along. Give that man an inch, and he’d take two miles. And figure he was entitled to them. Well, he was not entitled to her, and the sooner he got that straight, the better. Now all she had to do was hold firm until then.
Why, she wondered, did that feel akin to filling the Grand Canyon with a teaspoon?
Chapter Ten
“I’m leaving for the office in ten minutes,” she shouted through the bedroom door. “If you expect to go with me, you’d better shake a leg. I won’t wait.”
After a sleepless night, she’d risen early, dressed and drunk half a pot of coffee before pounding on the guest-room door. She could hear him grumbling behind that door now, then suddenly he yanked it open, wearing nothing more than hastily donned silk pajama bottoms. The man slept naked, as she well knew. He looked and smelled as inviting as a warm, rumpled bed, with his ash-blond hair adorably mussed, lids drooping over his exotic eyes and the shadow of a morning beard on his jaws.
“Am I not allowed even a single cup of coffee for breakfast?” he snapped. “Back in London, I gave you breakfast in bed nearly every morning, if you recall, not to mention—”
“I’ll pour the coffee,” she interrupted, not caring to recall what amenities he’d provided nearly every morning back in London. “You get dressed, or I swear I’ll leave without you.”
“It’s not nice to swear,” he groused as she strode away.
She did not deign to reply, but once she was a safe distance away she did let loose the grin tweaking the corner of her mouth. Carrying coffee, she returned to his room a few minutes later, surprised to find him suited and combed but unshaven. Electric razor in hand, he tucked his briefcase beneath one arm and reached for the coffee mug, crowding the doorway impatiently.
“Well, are you in a hurry or not?”
She spun on her heel and led him back through the house to the kitchen, where she picked up her purse from the counter. He slurped the hot brew as they moved to the door that led through the utility room to the garage. She ignored him and made for the car. After unlocking the driver’s door, she dropped down behind the steering wheel. He hastily pulled the utility room door closed, pocketed the shaver and walked around behind the coupe to the passenger side. She let him wait while she stowed her purse, buckled her seat belt, started the car engine and opened the garage bay with the punch of a button. Only then did she unlock his door. He shot her an accusing look as he eased down into the narrow seat, briefcase clutched awkwardly to his chest, coffee mug cradled in his hands.
She stalled for a moment, adjusting mirrors, before she said, “It’s a law in Texas that you have to wear your seat belt.”
“Oh.” He balanced the cup in one hand, twisted and felt around with the other until he got hold of the end of the belt. It snapped back twice before he finally managed to get it buckled.
Turning her head so he wouldn’t see her grin, she put the car into reverse and shot out of the garage. He exploded with something Greek, desperately grappling with the mug, over the rim of which sloshed hot coffee. It dripped onto his hands, knees and expensive leather briefcase.
“Oops,” she said, not in the least sorry, and braked to a halt, sloshing him again.
He brushed at the black twill of his suit pants and sent her a sideways glare. “You’re very beautiful when you’re vindictive.”
“Humph.” She backed the car into the street and adjusted the transmission into the forward gear before inquiring sweetly, “All set?”
He showed her his teeth. “All set.”
As she navigated through the small town, he drank his coffee and looked around. “Not much there,” he commented as they left Puma Springs behind.
“Enough,” she answered, intensely aware of him, the ease with which he held and carefully imbibed from his cup—and how his knees crowded the dashboard.
“At least you didn’t intentionally ruin the coffee,” he said cheerfully, draining the last drop. He looked around for something to do with the empty mug and finally found the cup holder beneath the dash before laboriously extracting the electric razor from his coat pocket. Getting at the mirror in the visor required him to tilt his head back while folding down the shade.
She took pity on him. “You can let the seat back by pressing the big button on the side there between the seat and the door.”
“So that’s where they’ve hidden it.” He slid the seat all the way back, adjusted the visor so he could see himself in the mirror and began to remove his morning beard with the electric razor. Apparently he saw no reason to forego conversation in the process. “So you like small cars, eh?”
She spoke up to be heard over the buzz of the razor. “This is considered a mid-size.”
“No? Really? Huh.” He finished shaving in silence, folded up the visor and stashed his razor in an outside pocket of his briefcase, which now rested comfortably between his feet, then settled back to enjoy the ride. “This is interesting country.”
“Yeah, if you like grassy hills and a few stunted trees.”
“It’s very open. The sky seems rather, well, immediate. I quite like that.”
“This is nothing. If you like open skies, you should see West Texas or the Panhandle. Flat as a pancake for as far as the eye can see, at least on the Llano Estacado.”
“Staked plains,” he translated, and she nodded, unsurprised that he knew Spanish.
“West of the Pecos you get into the tail end of the Rockies,” she told him. “It’s mostly desert, but pretty dramatic in its way.”
“What do they do there?”
“Ranching mostly.”
They turned onto the highway and joined a steady stream of traffic heading into the city. Within minutes empty fields and the occasional house gave way to the suburbs, which flanked the road with gasoline stations, convenience stores and other businesses, some prosperous-looking, some not. By the time they reached the outskirts of Fort Worth itself and turned east, traffic had congested considerably but not slowed down. They sped bumper-to-bumper ten miles per hour over the limit past a highway patrolman who didn’t blink an eye.
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��You do this every day?” he asked, sounding appalled.
“Lately, I do. Before TexBank took off I worked from home two days a week.”
“Now that sounds like a very good idea,” he said. “How well set up is your office there?”
“Well enough.”
“Do you have video-conferencing capability?”
She looked at him. “We don’t even have video-conferencing capability at the office.”
“I’ll have it installed,” he decided, “both places.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I find it convenient,” he said, as if that settled it, which was probably the case.
She gritted her teeth and counted to ten.
No one said a word when she showed up at the office with Lucien Tyrone in tow. In fact, they greeted him like a conquering hero, a very welcome one, much to her irritation. Pete even offered him his office.
“No, no, I’ll squeeze in with Avis for the time being.”
She rolled her eyes at that. “There’s only one desk.”
“We’ll rent another,” Luc said.
“There’s room,” Pete chimed in.
Luc just smiled.
Avis bit her tongue and gave in.
To her surprise, they actually got quite a lot accomplished that first day, though the morning was consumed with setting up Luc’s work space. He didn’t let that deter him, however, juggling two and sometimes three tasks at once. The phones rang constantly, including the one in his coat pocket, which he turned on only after nine o’clock. His assistant Lofton seemed to call every twenty minutes, and it began to grate on Avis’s nerves.
“Shouldn’t he be here anyway?” she asked after he interrupted their conference call with the architect for the fourth or fifth time. “What’s the point in having an assistant if he’s off somewhere else?”
“I do have other business interests,” Lucien replied calmly. “Besides, I have you here.”
Irritation flashed through her. “I am not your assistant.”
“No,” he agreed smoothly, “more like my good right arm in this.”
What could she do but bite her tongue after that?
Lucien kept up a bruising pace that kept Avis running in and out of the office all day, ferrying papers and figures, while Pete showed in those whom Lucien deigned to see and stood between Luc and those he didn’t. Candy fetched coffee and soft drinks and saw to it that lunch was catered right at Luc’s newly delivered desk. At times, half a dozen people were in that office, installing, delivering, writing, fawning, talking over those already talking over the speaker phone. It was chaos, with Lucien at its center, as calm as the proverbial eye of the storm. When the last of the bedlamites had drifted away, Lucien pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.
“Time to call it a day.” Avis nodded, too tired even to comment. He stuffed papers into his briefcase, seeming as energized as ever. “Want to stop off for dinner?” She managed to shake her head. “You need to eat.”
“I intend to. But first I want a cup of tea and a long, hot bath. After that, I’ll have a sandwich or something. Then I’m going to bed. Alone. You do as you please.”
He chuckled. “I always do, and it pleases me to drive, provided you don’t object.”
She eyed him suspiciously as she dug out her keys. “Are you sure you know how?”
“I think I can manage.”
She handed over the keys, secretly delighted that she didn’t have to drive herself home tonight, but as they walked out into the hall and headed toward the elevators, she reminded herself that it wouldn’t do to get too used to having Lucien Tyrone around.
Lucien listened to the water draining overhead and tried not to think of Avis getting out of the tub naked upstairs. It took every ounce of his self-discipline not to climb those stairs and slip into the room with her, but it was too soon for that. He’d flattered himself that she’d learned to trust him in London, but he knew now that was not the case, and he had to wonder just how bad her marriage had been to make her so wary. The whole thing was confusing, and not just where her feelings were concerned.
He’d told himself that he was coming after her as a matter of pride. He’d even scolded himself for it, wondered if his ego was getting out of hand, but all along he’d known that he would do what he had to do to make her understand that she was his. It was just that simple. And that complicated. He hadn’t allowed himself to think that he might be in love with her, and he didn’t intend to. He’d distracted himself, with business and now with one of his favorite but rarest indulgences, cooking.
Turning away from the fresh vegetables spread out atop the island work space, he bent to peek into the oven. Checking the casserole, he found the “crust” browning nicely. Too bad all she’d had in the pantry was bow-tie pasta instead of something substantial like penne. Her provisions, in fact, were woefully inadequate. Well, it couldn’t be helped. He’d made do. He’d even managed a simple dessert.
He was tossing the salad when Avis finally wandered into the room, zipped from toe to chin in a fleece robe, her hair pulled into a bouncy ponytail atop her head. It was all he could do not to cup her freshly scrubbed face in his hands and kiss every square inch of it.
“What,” she asked, parking her hands on her hips, “are you doing?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “Making dinner.”
She laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“You don’t think I can cook?”
“Why would you?”
“Because I like to putter around the kitchen almost as much as I like to eat.” The timer buzzed just then, and he turned away, snatching up oven mitts to open the oven door. He lifted the dish from the hot ovenrack and turned with it to the island, where he set it on a trivet retrieved from the top of the refrigerator. “You don’t seem to have any cream,” he said, “so I used fat-free canned milk and threw in a couple of extra egg yolks, which reminds me. We should stop by the market tomorrow. And the liquor store. I’ll make a list. We need eggs and cheese, bread…everything, really.”
“I have cheese.”
“I used it.”
“But I had whole bricks of Romano and Parmesan.”
“I used the Romano for the sauce. What’s left of the Parmesan is on the table.” He pointed, and she followed with her gaze to the table he had set earlier, using matching dishtowels in place of napkins. “The rest is in the crust.”
Her eyes were wide when she turned back to him. “Mrs. Baldwin would be impressed.”
“She’d be appalled. I used canned salmon. And you only have paper napkins.”
Avis laughed, and he took that as a good sign. Lifting an arm, he ushered her to the table and watched her lower herself onto the chair. “Pour the wine while I bring the food to the table.”
She reached for the bottle, grumbling, “You certainly have made yourself at home in my kitchen.”
“It was that or call out for a pizza,” he retorted, placing a salad plate in front of her.
“Have you ever actually called out for pizza?” she asked skeptically.
“Once or twice. Mine is better.” He set a cruet of salad dressing on the table
She clucked her tongue. “I do have salad dressing.”
“Bottled,” he said dismissively.
“I like bottled.”
“You’ll like this better,” he told her, “even though your olive oil is of an inferior grade.”
She rolled her eyes and picked up her fork. Using matches he’d found in the cabinet, he lit the candles he’d brought in from the living room, then reached behind him for the light switch.
“What?” she quipped. “Afraid to let me actually see what I’m eating?”
He gave her a droll look. “You’re eating salad. When you’re done, I’ll serve you a unique casserole baked with vegetables and salmon in a cream sauce.”
She poured dressing on her lettuce and forked up a bite. She froze, and he smiled, knowing that the flavor had burst into her
mouth in a perfect blend of sweet and sharp. She tilted her head appreciatively as she chewed. “You really made this?”
“I did.”
She had a second helping of salad before she was ready for the casserole, but when he finally dished it up for her, she inhaled with obvious relish. He was pleased to see that the sauce had thickened appropriately and that the vegetables were as perfectly cooked as frozen could get.
“It’s really best with fresh produce and real cream,” he said, but the way she closed her eyes when she first tasted it pleased him immensely.
When she was done, she wiped up some of the sauce with her finger and carried it to her mouth. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“Mmm-hmm, including dessert, which needs to come out of the freezer.” He rose to remove the dishes from the freezer and set them on the island to warm slightly. “At least you have a good blender,” he told her. “I don’t know how anyone gets by without a good blender.”
She laughed long and hard at that for some reason, and though he couldn’t imagine what was so funny about it, he smiled all the same, glad just to see her happy. She openly praised his frozen dessert, then watched attentively, sipping her wine, while he stashed the leftovers. Afterward, she insisted on cleaning up. “It’s only fair. You cooked, after all.”
He shrugged. “We can do it together. Most of it will go into the dishwasher. Keep your glass, though. I’d rather finish the wine than try to preserve it.”
They made short work of the cleaning, him washing, her drying and putting away. Then as she started the automatic washer, he poured them each another glass of wine.
“Do you recycle?” he asked, holding up the empty bottle.
She stared at him for a moment then shook her head. “We don’t have a program for it out here. I had a friend once who hoped to change that, but after his wife died, he sort of lost interest in the project.”
“Tell me about that,” he urged, leaning a hip against the counter. He had learned much about her, but not enough to satisfy his insatiable curiosity.
