by Leanne Banks
One week later Talia set the oven on preheat to bake the brownies she’d just mixed. The lights dimmed. “Oh, great,” she muttered, then watched with resigned futility as the lights went out in her small Cape Cod. Daylight Saving Time didn’t kick in until next week, so the house was covered in a veil of darkness. Turning, she groped through the kitchen drawer that held extra fuses.
Was that a knock at the front door? “Give me just a minute,” she called. It was probably one of the members of the Planning Committee arriving for their scheduled meeting that night.
She felt an assortment of pens, rubber cement, paper clips and coupons, but no fuses. Muttering to herself, she headed for her bedroom. She kept a few in her nightstand for emergencies.
Someone pounded on her front door again. “Hold your horses,” she yelled. It was probably Lou Adkins, the printer. The guy couldn’t stand waiting. Reaching into the bottom drawer of the nightstand, she stretched her fingers to the back and found a fuse. “Thank you, Lord.”
“Having problems?” a deep voice said behind her.
It wasn’t Lou.
Talia whirled around and just barely swallowed back the scream in her throat. A squeak came out in its place. Her heart beat wildly; her knees all but knocked together.
She stepped backward. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The man walked toward her and she gulped. Where was her flashlight? She could tell by his shadow that he was quite tall and broad-shouldered.
Strange how the brain functioned in moments of crisis. Her mind raced a million miles in a few seconds as she considered what man would enter her bedroom.
The only man who’d overtly attempted to woo her lately was Mick Ramsey from the auto parts store. The last time he’d come in for lunch, he had reeked of garlic. Upon his departure, he’d informed her, with nauseating suggestiveness, that the Chinese considered garlic an aphrodisiac. Talia figured he’d retrieved that scintillating bit of information purely by accident. Mick wasn’t the type to stretch his reading past the sports page or the back of a cereal box.
She sniffed suspiciously, but the faint scent she caught was an intriguing blend of woodsy aftershave and man. “Mick?”
The intruder reached for something on her nightstand. “No. But if that’s who you were expecting, I can pretend to change my name.” Amusement wove its way through his dark voice. “It’s Trace. Trace Barringer.” He turned on her flashlight. “Is this what you were looking for?”
Blinking, Talia reached for the flashlight and tried not to dwell on how her pulse had picked up when she’d heard his name. “Yes. How did you get in?”
“Your door was unlocked. I saw the lights go out and thought you might need some help.”
“Oh,” she mumbled, resolving to lock her door in the future. “The wiring in this house is ancient,” she said nervously as she made her way into the hall to turn off the air conditioner. “If I use the air conditioner and the oven at the same time, it often blows the fuse for the ground level of the house.”
“So replace the wiring,” Trace suggested.
“There’s this small matter of college tuition for my brother,” she answered before realizing that Trace Barringer wouldn’t understand the concept of having to choose carefully how to spend one’s money. She felt him prowling along behind her and tried to shove aside her discomfort at having him in her house. It would be easier to ignore a lion following her.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“For the planning meeting. There was a list of the meeting times on the memo Ms. Taylor sent me. With your busy schedule, this seemed the only way to meet with you.”
Darn. Talia had been so eager to be rid of anything relating to Trace Barringer, she’d asked another committee member to keep him informed. If Talia had sent him the information, she would have been careful to omit the meeting times.
Distracted by her thoughts, she stumbled over the edge of the hall carpet and pitched forward. “Oh!” Her knees hit the floor and pain shot through her legs. Before she had time to throw out her hands, Trace wrapped an arm around her waist and drew her up.
“Hey, what happened?” His voice was edged with husky concern.
Talia’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t know which was worse, the pain in her knees or the sensation of Trace’s hard body pressed against her back. “I tripped over the carpet,” she finally said.
“Are you hurt?”
“Just my knees.”
“Let me see. Sit down.” He released her and retrieved the flashlight that had flown out of her hand.
“No. It’s not that bad, and it’s dark,” she protested. She was uncomfortable with the darkness and his nearness. She also wished she hadn’t given in to a fit of spring fever earlier and put on shorts.
He grabbed her hand and gave a gentle but firm tug. “I can use the flashlight. Come on.”
He joined her on the floor and began to examine her knees with his hands. It was strange, sitting in the middle of her hall with Trace’s hands on her bare legs. She couldn’t see his face clearly. He used such a gentle touch, she could almost forget he was a Barringer.
One of his fingers grazed the inside of her thigh. She gasped at the provocative thrill that ran through her.
He stopped, then touched her the same way again. “Does this hurt?”
“N-no. I guess my legs are just sensitive,” she said, honestly.
The following silence hung thickly between them, and a weird tension zinged through the air. She wondered if he felt it too. It was only the darkness, she told herself.
Pulling her leg away she scrambled to her feet, damning the sound of her quickened breathing.
Trace followed, his large frame looming over hers. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. I just got a little shook up. The fall,” she added quickly, and turned away.
Back in the kitchen, she concentrated on replacing the blown fuse. She was glad to have something to do with her hands. Instantly the lights came on. “Voilà,” she said, smiling and extending her arms dramatically.
“Incredible,” Trace murmured. What had happened, he wondered, to the French twist, conservative suit and pursed lips of the disapproving woman who’d been in his office? At least, he thought, the legs were the same: long, shapely, silky, the kind of legs that led men to dream wild fantasies. Her hair was a mass of tempestuous waves, and her brown eyes sparkled with fire. And her lips… His mouth went dry at the sight of her rosy lips.
He looked back at her eyes and held her gaze for several seconds until she looked away. Shy, he concluded, until she spared him another glance. With surprise, he noted the banked hostility in her eyes.
She turned and bent, placing the brownies in the oven. It took enormous control, but he unglued his gaze from her tempting rear end. Feeling the heat for the first time that evening, he tugged at his collar and studied the daisy-print wallpaper.
“Mr. Barringer, do you have some questions about the plans we’ve made for Lung Awareness Month?” Talia asked as she turned on the coffeemaker.
“Trace,” he corrected her. “I have a few. But they can be answered during the meeting. I’m actually more curious about you.”
Her polite smile didn’t reach her eyes. He found himself longing for the alluring smile she’d given him just moments before.
“As I told you before, Mr. Barringer, I appreciate your interest in LAM, but the Planning Committee is already formed. I’ll be happy to keep you informed. However, your presence isn’t really…” Her voice drifted off, and she bit her lip.
She’d done that in his office, and he wondered if she knew how sensual the gesture was. He sensed something familiar about her, but couldn’t put a label on it. Shoving a hand in his pocket, he stepped closer. She took a step back. “You’re saying my presence isn’t necessary,” he said in a low, challenging voice.
She raised her chin. “I have to believe the CEO of Barringer Corporation has better ways to spend his time than a
s a member of a Planning Committee for LAM. Wouldn’t it be more convenient if you just had your secretary send me your ideas?”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But convenience isn’t always the primary consideration. I would think you’d be happy to extend your influence directly to the textile mill.”
A hint of vulnerability filtered into her gaze. She looked away.
“Tell me, Talia,” he asked gently. “How did you get involved with this project?”
“My mother died of pneumonia several years ago.” She paused. “She also had emphysema. The doctor said she was weak, that she worked too hard.”
Trace nodded. So that was it. “She worked at the mill.”
“Yes.”
“And you blame the mill.”
“No.”
She said it too quickly, and her self-deprecating smile showed she knew he’d seen through her denial. “In the beginning I blamed the mill,” she confessed. “I was very angry. My mother had to work so hard after my father died. But she was the kind of person who would have worked hard no matter where she was employed. Her supervisor was always very understanding about her illness.” Talia sighed. “Sometimes I thought if she hadn’t had Kevin and me, she would have been much better off.”
Trace recognized guilt when he saw it and felt some of her sadness. “You don’t really believe she would have been happier without you?”
Talia shook her head, her hair tumbling around her shoulders in a silky curtain. “No. Angelina McKenzie loved her babies more than anything. But I was just nineteen years old. All of a sudden I was responsible for raising my fifteen-year-old brother.” She closed her eyes against the remembered pain. “Her death was horrible. But the year after was…” She stopped, unable to find the words to describe it.
Trace stepped forward, wanting to comfort her in some way. To touch her hand or shoulder. To offer words that would soothe her wounds. It was an unusual feeling for him. Since he’d become CEO for Barringer Corporation, he’d had little time for tenderness. For that matter, in the last few years his emotional life had become a barren wasteland.
Her sad brown eyes proved his undoing. He couldn’t find the words, so he took her small hand in his and lifted it to his lips.
Her eyes widened at the gesture. She pulled back, but he held firm. He kissed her hand and found himself wanting to extend the gentle caress to her lips. For one long moment they stared into each other’s eyes, then he tugged at her hand, wanting her closer.
Chapter Two
Someone knocked on the front door.
Talia jerked back, looking as if she’d touched a snake. “That must be the committee members. I’ll let them in.”
Trace watched her bolt from the kitchen, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. A man could incur some heavy losses under that kind of woman’s influence, he decided. Loss of perspective. Loss of sleep. Loss of sanity.
His body was still tense with the excitement of merely being close to her, kissing her hand and touching her silky legs. He remembered how her eyes had grown soft and vulnerable. Odd, he mused. It was almost as if she’d forgotten who he was.
Then she’d turned to ice.
Talia swung open the door and greeted the committee members as if they were the cavalry coming to her rescue. Accompanied by the two middle-aged men and one woman, she walked back into the kitchen and made the introductions. Lou Adkins, Opal Taylor, and Darryl Harris, one of the vice presidents at the local bank.
Since the three arrivals wore expressions varying from surprise to distrust, Talia supposed Trace would have his hands full winning them over. It would be interesting to watch. And she was relieved to have his attention directed away from herself.
“I’m going to check on the brownies,” she said. “You can go into the den.”
After the others left, she set the brownies on the counter to cool, poured the coffee and set the cups on a tray. Untenable though it may be, she knew she was drawn to Trace. But, as easily as she accepted her curiosity about him, she knew she wouldn’t do a thing about it.
She picked up the tray. Her shaking hands caused the cups to clatter noisily, and she uttered a mild curse. How was she supposed to be calm and collected with Trace Barringer in her house?
She didn’t want his attention, she reminded herself as she walked into the living room. She wanted his donation.
The meeting progressed as the group mapped out more plans for Lung Awareness Month. Though she tried to concentrate on each word, Talia found her gaze repeatedly drawn to Trace. Although he sat relaxed and quiet, she’d bet he could recite every detail of the discussion.
Watching his deliberate examination of her living room, she wondered what conclusions he was making. What did he think of the oak end tables her father had made before he died? The homey green sofa and slightly lumpy chairs? Did he recognize Kevin from the picture on the wall? Could he possibly know the porcelain bunny collection on the second shelf of the bookcase was one of her weaknesses? And why did she feel he’d gained too much knowledge of her just from his perusal of the room?
His gaze slid from the bunnies to her eyes, and she wondered, inanely, if he could read her mind. Then he was studying the little mole above the right corner of her mouth. She had to purse her lips to resist the urge to run her tongue over the mark.
Flustered by his quiet, invasive attention, she forced her eyes away from him.
When Trace finally spoke, he offered his opinions and suggestions with utter politeness. “Since you have a dual goal of raising both awareness and funds, it sounds as if you’ve got a good start. I’d like some posters for the mill, Lou, if you could manage that.” Lou nodded, and Trace continued without missing a beat. “The mill could sponsor an event. Perhaps a bowling tournament or a night at the roller-skating rink. And I think you could increase your donations significantly if you generated some interest from the country club.”
They all stared at him. That last suggestion had the impact of a small bomb, because none was a member of the country club.
The silence was unnerving. Knowing she would have squirmed under such intense scrutiny, Talia gave him points for sitting in her lumpy chair with a confident, expectant expression on his face.
Opal Taylor cleared her throat. Darryl Harris pushed his glasses back on his nose. Lou Adkins studied his fingernails. The only sound in the room was the ticking of her mother’s anniversary clock.
Talia sighed. Since she would receive no help from her fellow committee members, she’d better go ahead and respond. “I think your suggestions are very helpful. Getting the mill involved would increase awareness among the part of the population who need the information.”
She paused and chose her next words carefully.
“As far as the country club is concerned, you already have connections with the members there. It seems logical that you would be the one to represent our committee.” There, she thought. That hadn’t been so bad.
Trace hooked an ankle over the opposite knee and smiled. “I’ll be glad to represent the committee.” He pulled an appointment book from his suit coat, which he’d hung over the side of the chair. “However, since I’ve only just become involved in this project, I’d like another committee member to come along with me. Talia, are you available Saturday night? We could meet a few of the club’s charter members for dinner.”
“Not in a million years,” she said under her breath.
He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Talia couldn’t bear that penetrating gaze one more minute. She felt as if he’d been studying her the entire evening. If that wasn’t galling enough, she’d had a hard time tearing her own attention away from him!
She stood and collected the coffee cups and dessert plates. “Actually, I was wondering if one of the other members would be interested in helping you out. I’m pretty busy. What do you think, Opal?” She sent her late mother’s best friend her most persuasive look. “You’d probably enjoy an evening out.”
Opal gave a
self-conscious little giggle. “I don’t have anything appropriate to wear for a night out at the country club, Talia dear. Besides,” she continued coyly, “Mr. Barringer is such a young, attractive man. He needs a young, attractive escort.”
Talia barely stifled her groan. Trace had won Opal over, but Talia hadn’t lost yet. “Well, what about you, Darryl? Perhaps you could bring your wife with you.”
Darryl again nervously arranged his glasses on his thin nose. “Nancy and I have a standing date for dinner at her mother’s house on Saturday nights.” His voice held a note of apology. ‘“They’re both pretty insistent about it.”
“Oh, but for just one night—” Talia broke off when she saw Darryl’s strained expression. She was beginning to feel desperate.
With her brightest smile, she turned to her last, most futile hope, and tried to ignore the amused light in Trace’s eyes. “Lou, I’ll bet you haven’t—”
“I’ve got poker Saturday night,” he said bluntly.
If she didn’t get out of that room, Talia knew she was going to scream. She picked up the tray of cups and saucers and carried it into the kitchen. Once there, she resisted the urge to test the dish manufacturer’s warranty against breakage by flinging a few pieces against the wall.
Instead, she took a deep breath and counted to ten.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched back into the living room where the group waited expectantly. Just as she opened her mouth to refuse, Trace said, “Talia, we can set this up for another time if Saturday night is inconvenient.”
He sounded so reasonable. “Of course,” he continued in a bland tone, “it would be a shame to give up all those potential donations.”
With that, he nailed her coffin shut. If Talia turned down this opportunity, she’d be doing a disservice to the agency that had appointed her, the people who were depending on her and, in a way, to her mother’s memory. She forced the words from her mouth. “What time shall I meet you?”
Wearing an indiscernible expression, Trace stood and pulled on his suit coat. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll pick you up.”
