Paul blinked, then covered his heart with his hand, as if he meant to keep it from leaping out. Impressed, he took the photograph from Bruce and studied it.
"Now that's what I mean by a woman." Several shades of disbelief had passed over his face when he looked up to are at Bruce. "That's Lance’s mother-in-law?"
Plucking a tissue from the dispenser on the side of his desk, Bruce offered it to Paul in trade. "If you’re through drooling..." He reclaimed the photograph. Though he told himself its only value was that it had been taken at his son’s reception, he still tucked it gently back into his pocket.
Paul slumped against the edge of his desk, pretending to be in shock. "Why didn’t they make mothers-in-law like that when I was married?"
Bruce laughed, remembering Paul’s description of his ex-wife’s mother. There had definitely been no love lost between the two. "Probably because she wouldn’t have been safe around someone like you."
Paul shot him a disparaging look. "I’m sure she feels safe around a choirboy like you."
She probably did at that, Bruce thought, though he had to admit that the comment left him far from flattered. Margo gave every indication of being at ease with him, far more than he was with her. And yet she seemed intent on pushing the envelope right to the edge of the table and beyond. He wasn’t really sure just what that was about, only that his reaction to her was in no way as minor as he would have anticipated. Or liked.
Something egged Bruce on to retort, "Don’t count on it."
Paul looked at him hopefully. He was always in the market to meet beautiful women and this one had taken his breath away. "Any chance of an introduction?"
The request rankled him. It shouldn’t have. He had no designs on the woman, though he did feel protective of her inasmuch as she was Melanie’s mother.
"Not on your life. It’d be like putting veal chops in front of a wolf." Bruce thought that over. "Although, in this case, l think the veal could pretty much hold its own." As a matter of fact, he was sure of it. Margo probably would have laughed at his Sir Galahad reaction.
Paul’s eyes had lit up. "A feisty woman. Even better. I like feisty women."
"You like breathing women," Bruce corrected.
Paul grinned. "Makes it more interesting. But, hey, look at you." He gave Bruce’s shoulder a friendly punch. "You’ve been holding out on me." Grabbing a chair, he pulled it around until it was at Bruce’s elbow, then straddled it. "So? Tell me everything. Have you two--"
There was no way Bruce was about to serve Margo up for dissection. He changed the topic abruptly. "Just how soon do I need to get started with those lessons, or don’t you know?"
Paul feigned umbrage at the lack of faith. "Of course I know. My educated. guess is yesterday. Weston wants someone with the right image to represent our interests overseas." He shrugged, though it was evident that it did perturb him a little. "I couldn’t make him change his mind, so l guess you’re elected."
"Italy." Bruce rolled the word around on his tongue. It didn’t make it any more palatable. He really didn’t feel like uprooting himself right now. Ten years ago he would have he thought the assignment a godsend. Now, it was an intrusion. He had renewed his relationship with his son, he had a brand-new daughter-in-law, and there were other reasons forming that made him want to remain exactly where he was. He didn’t like the idea of leaving it all behind.
"That’s the country," Paul agreed glibly.
Bruce knew he could always say no, but it did mean a step up in his career. "When would I have to go?"
Paul told him the rest of what he knew. It would all be made officially public within the next two days.
"That’s still up in the air right now, but the Italian rep is coming here in four weeks. If everything checks out to everyone’s satisfaction, my guess is that you’ll be Florence-bound in about five weeks." Rising, Paul pushed the chair back where he got it. "Unless, of course, you turn him down, and then Weston’ll have to pick second best."
They’d been hired within three weeks of each other. The only reason Bruce was ahead at all was because he’d buried himself in this job while Paul had continued to live a normal, active life outside the office. Still, he never pretended to pull rank. Except when he was getting back at Paul for getting on his case. "You’ll get your shot when he’s down twenty-ninth best."
Paul pressed two hands across his chest, wounded. "Ow, cruel, Bruce, very cruel. And here I thought you were so mild-mannered." He raised and lowered his brows like a latter-day Groucho Marx. "Must be more going on with you and Mama-in-law than you’re willing to admit."
Bruce raised his hands in surrender. though he had no intention of giving Paul any more information, no matter what he said, threatened or pleaded.
"I’m sorry l said anything. Now go, I’ve still got work to do on this project." A thought had occurred to him as he’d been verbally sparring with Paul. He pulled the report from the out-box and opened to the next-to-last page.
Paul began to reach for Bruce’s pocket where the photo lay only to have his hand batted away. "Think she’s ready to go out with a real man yet?"
Bruce never even bothered to look up. "She already is. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Paul." he murmured, writing in the margin.
He heard Paul laugh as he left the office.
"Margo would be perfect for it." Lance affirmed as soon as Bruce told him about needing lessons that evening.
"Margo would be perfect for what?" Margo called out from the kitchen where she was making root beer floats.
They’d all spent the better part of the last four hours dismantling the furnishings she’d borrowed from the studio and returning them to the proper warehouses. It’d taken two trips to get everything back.
"Mama has ears like a bat when her name’s mentioned," Melanie confided.
"What a lovely image." Margo shuddered as she walked into the room. carrying four tall. frosty glasses on a tray. Bruce rose to his feet and took it from her, placing it on the coffee table. She smiled her thanks before looking at Lance. "So, what is it that I’d be perfect for?"
Bruce could think of a number of things, none of which he could share in present company. He had a vague feeling, though, that Paul would have been proud of him. Not that that was a sterling endorsement.
Instead, he turned toward her and said, "I need to learn Italian, fast. Do you--"
"Like a native," she assured him. She picked up one of the glasses and made herself comfortable on the love seat. "How soon do you need to get started?"
Bruce picked up a glass. "As soon as possible."
She took a long sip, letting the thick liquid cool her throat before saying, "Well, you’re in luck. I’m available. The employment agency I’ve been working with hasn’t called about any positions yet, so I’m all yours." She raised her eyes to his, her mouth curved in a smile that could be interpreted in as many ways as her words.
Suddenly feeling parched, Bruce tried to take a long sip and found his progress impeded by ice cream lodged in his straw.
"I’d pay you, of course."
The offer surprised her. "I couldn’t take your money, Bruce. We’re family, remember?" It seemed strange, having spent so much time strengthening her independence, that family could mean so very much to her, but it did. Had to he where she came from. You could take the girl out of the small town, she thought, but you couldn’t take the small town out of the girl.
"It wouldn’t be my money," he told her quickly, "it’d be the company’s." He didn’t want her putting herself out for no compensation. "They want me to learn Italian, and they’re willing to foot the bill." He’d had his meeting with Weston by the end of the day and had been told pretty much everything that Paul had already alerted him to.
"Why are they so eager for you to learn Italian?" Melanie wanted to know.
He hadn’t gotten to that part in his narrative. Bruce watched Lance’s expression when he answered, "They want to send me to the office they’re
setting up in Florence."
"Permanently?" Lance asked. They had so many years to make up for.
Bruce tried to read his expression and failed. "It’s all up in the air right now. But the airplanes fly both ways, and even if it’s a long stint, I can come home for visits."
"Well, if your company’s paying, that’s different. I’ll give you my corporate rate." She quoted a sum and saw the surprise that registered on his face. It made her grin. "I don’t come cheap."
He found himself smiling at the affirmation. "Now why doesn’t that surprise me?"
Margo knew there had been companies that had refused to meet her price. Those were the companies she hadn’t worked for. But she wasn’t thinking of her reputation right now, she was thinking of a very compelling man who needed her services. The fact that it was only temporary made it that much better. No time for problems to arise and ruin things. "lf they say no--"
"Yes?" Bruce fully expected Margo to tell him that she could probably recommend someone else to him whose rates were less expensive.
Margo took another long, languid sip before continuing. She’d never outgrown her love of the basics in life, and ice cream came under that heading. "We’ll discuss a private arrangement." The idea of their working together intimately pleased her. "One way or the other, we can start when you take me back to the apartment."
lf he didn’t know better, he would have said that she was straining at the bit to begin. "We came in separate cars," he reminded her.
The correction left her unfazed. "Then you can follow me." Margo looked around the room and sighed as she finished her drink.
Melanie studied her mother now. Margo looked almost wistful. Was it because Bruce was going to Italy? Or was there something else at play here? Something more personal? "Anything wrong, Mama?"
Margo placed her empty glass on the tray. "No, I was just thinking how bare the room looks without the swords and the shields."
Though she loved memorabilia, and had loved indulging in impromptu fantasies this last week, of late Melanie had felt a desire to leave her own stamp on things. Hers and Lance’s. "Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like seeing the walls."
She glanced at the sofa they had put back just an hour ago. "The throne was nice."
"But there was only one," Lance pointed out. He and Melanie exchanged looks. They’d made love on it that first night, not even making it to the bedroom.
"Maybe I could--"
Lance held up a hand before she was off and running. In that respect, she was a lot like Melanie. He felt a little outnumbered. "No, that’s okay. The sofa’s fine. And it has all those fringe benefits, too." The throne had been nice, but there was a lot more room for creativity on the sofa.
Margo didn’t have to ask what those fringe benefits were. She could guess just by looking into their eyes.
Bruce lost sight of her car. The low-lying fog had settled in like a thick boa along the city’s streets, blocking his view of everything but the closest of objects. The low beams he thought belonged to Margo’s car turned out to be the tail-lights of a BMW that had cut in between them.
Muttering a few choice words under his breath, Bruce passed the BMW and inched his way along until he finally arrived in front of Dreams of Yesterday. Thank God there was a streetlight in front of the shop, illuminating his way, Bruce thought.
She’d made it to the building ahead of him. It hardly surprised Bruce. There were lights coming from the second floor, slicing through the fog like a razor-sharp light saber.
As he pulled his car up along the curb, the light shining from the window reminded him of a beacon guiding lonely ships in from the sea.
Was that what he was, Bruce thought, a lonely ship if adrift, lost in the fog? He’d been out to sea for so long, he’d forgotten his way back. Or what it felt like to finally dock in a port.
He shook his head. Now Paul had him doing it, coming up with strange similes.
Getting out, Bruce shook off the encroaching mood. He couldn’t let Paul’s little routine get to him like this. He was fine, just the way he’d always been.
Or was he?
Was he really line? Or was he, as Bess had once told him, just marking time?
A life was a horrible thing to waste, he thought, walking up to the side door. Maybe he should stop wasting it.
He felt his gut tighten ever so slightly as he raised his hand to knock.
lt was a moment before the door finally opened in response to his knock. Combing back her hair with her fingers, Margo stood aside to let him in. As she did, the pad of paper she had tucked under her arm dropped to the floor.
Bruce stooped quickly to pick it up. He came face to knee with her bare legs and had the strongest desire to slid his hand along her skin.
Suppressing the urge, he forced himself to look down a the pad instead. She’d made an extensive list of different places. "What’s this?"
She took the pad back from him. " ‘That’ is our itinerary."
Had he missed something? What did going to the museum and renting videotapes have to do with learning Italian? "What itinerary?"
The smile she gave him was positively beatific. "The one we’re going to adhere to while I’m teaching you. These aren’t going to be stationary lessons, Bruce, where we gather around a book on a desk and absorb a bunch of words on a page. Language is a living, breathing thing. When I teach, it’s a hands-on experience."
Which was, he thought to himself, exactly what he was afraid of. A hands-on experience. With his hands on her.
It was the first time, to his knowledge, that he had ever coveted a teacher.
"Come on." She linked her hand with his. "Let’s get started."
He had a hunch they already were.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bruce sighed. Feeling frustrated and somewhat foolish, he rose from the sofa. He was going to tell Weston no on Monday.
When he’d come over to Margo’s after dinner. he’d expected her to just hand him a few books on ltalian to let him get acquainted with the look of the language. Perhaps try out a few words in the privacy of his own home where, if he sounded like an idiot stumbling over letters that didn’t look to him as if they belonged together, there’d be no witnesses.
Instead, Margo had insisted that they actually get started tonight. She called it getting his feet wet. He could think of another body part being involved in it.
Margo watched him as he crossed to the window. His shoulders looked rigid enough to land a single-engine Cessna on them. He was being hard on himself, she thought.
When it came to the lyrical quality of the ltalian language, she had to admit that Bruce’s accent was as flat as Eliza Doolittle’s when she first walked in through the professor's door. But the professor’s experiment had ended in success. As far as Margo was concemed, there was no reason in the world to believe that this would end any other way. He just had to have a little faith and a little patience.
By the expression on his face, she had a feeling that at the moment his quantity of both was far below the standard issue.
"They’re just going to have to send someone else," he announced with feeling. Weston could send Paul in his race. "I’m not any good at this."
Margo got up and crossed to him. Standing behind Bruce, she reached up and placed her hands on his shoulders. Very slowly, she began to knead. It wasn’t easy at this angle. lt didn’t help that he was as solid as a rock.
"Of course you are," she said soothingly. Bruce wasn’t first discouraged student. He wouldn’t be her last.
"Every baby is born with the ability to speak any language it hears. Are you going to tell me that a baby has a better ear for sound than you do?"
He turned around, taking her hands in his. "I’ve spent forty-seven years wrapping my tongue around English. It won’t lend itself to another language now." Suddenly conscious that he was still holding her hands, Bruce released them.
Margo surprised him by taking one of his hands in hers. She drew him back t
o the sofa and sat down. But he felt too restless to join her.
‘You must have studied some foreign language in high school."
A single shoulder rose, then fell, dismissing the detail before he’d even confirmed it. There was a framed panoramic scene of the chariot race from Ben Hur directly behind her. He stared at it. "Yes, Spanish." He didn’t want think about how that had gone.
Margo was pleased. The two languages were exceedingly similar in sound and a great many of the words were close. "Well?"
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