Glass Houses

by Anne Stuart

  Damn, he was doing it again! He slammed the door behind him and headed straight for the bar, pouring himself a generous dollop of whiskey with one hand as he loosened his tie with the other. This whole affair had taken too long, become too important to him. No wonder he was letting himself get distracted by a minor irritation like Laura Winston. He’d learned early on not to let all his energies get diverted into one project. There were always too many variables—he’d had to accept his share of defeats in the early years, and he’d always made sure he had something else going on at the same time, something he could turn to if the first project fell through.

  The problem was, he hadn’t had to face defeat in years. He’d forgotten that some things were simply beyond his control, the irrational stubbornness of the female mind being one of them.

  He laughed, thinking how Sonya would beat him about the head and shoulders for that sexist thought. She’d liked Laura. He’d known she would, but unfortunately he couldn’t compare that liking with anything in the past, since he’d never before taken a woman up to see his sister. Sonya had taken one look at his ex-wife and refused to allow her to visit the run-down but spotless apartment building on the Upper West Side.

  She’d invited Laura back. Without him. He still couldn’t quite figure out why he’d taken her up there. He’d been so furious when he heard about the damage to the earth-moving equipment that he knew he’d strangle her. Sonya’s calm presence had managed to restrain his murderous impulses, though he was still sorely tempted to spank Laura.

  The stupid thing about it was that he felt betrayed. After their dinner, their late-night dash through the rain, he’d felt an odd kinship with her, an undeniable attraction that he’d been too smart to act on. Or too slow, he reminded himself, thinking of Laura’s laughing speed in escaping him. That she could have returned his kiss in the pouring rain, and then crept out to damage a fortune in equipment was something that rankled deep inside. Sooner or later he was going to have his revenge, and that revenge included razing her beloved building to a pile of rubble and broken glass. It wasn’t his fault if it felt as though he were overreacting.

  Marita. He needed to concentrate on Marita. Someone with the looks of an animated Barbie doll. Mile-long legs, tiny feet, tiny waist, spectacular breasts. Not to mention perfect blue eyes and a glorious mass of blond hair. And something behind those eyes, something both mysterious and fascinating, that he couldn’t quite fathom. As he told Zach, he probably didn’t want to know the answer to the mystery. Its resolution was unlikely to be as interesting as the question.

  What he ought to do was sleep with her tonight. Granted, he’d only been out with her a couple of times—it would be rushing things. He’d never been one to rush into relationships—it got too messy if things weren’t thought out thoroughly. But he needed distraction from Miss Laura Winston, and who better to provide it than the owner of the face of the decade? If he made his move in that direction, it would wipe out the absurd temptation to sleep with his nemesis, and maybe the whole mess would resolve itself sooner.

  So why couldn’t he get more excited about the idea? Why couldn’t he work up even half the enthusiasm for Marita’s perfect body that he could for Laura?

  It must be a midlife crisis. That, and the fact that he was facing the remotest possibility of defeat for the first time in more than a dozen years. It was enough to shake anyone. Particularly when he knew that the only reason he might have to accept defeat, the only reason this was taking so damned long, was because he was too squeamish. He couldn’t crush Laura Winston with the speed and strength he usually used in ridding himself of obstacles. And as long as he was hampered by this unexpected conscience, the future of Dubrovnik Plaza was still uncertain.

  Draining his whiskey, he pushed himself out of the chair and headed for the shower. He was dutifully telling himself all the delightful things he’d do to Marita’s body, when a sudden, unpleasant thought wiped away any nascent desire. Hadn’t Laura said she was going out with Carnaby? Hadn’t she told Sonya she intended to marry the man? He’d ignored that as a total absurdity but mightn’t it be possible, just possible, that Laura Winston was having the same thoughts he was? And that she’d come across the same solution to her problem?

  If Jeff Carnaby touched her with his big farmer’s hands, he’d break his wrists. And that was just for starters.

  “So what does a modern woman do when she’s about to embark on a love affair?”

  Susan looked at her. “You’re asking me? One three-month relationship two years ago and a one-night stand do not make me an expert. Why don’t you ask your mother?”

  “Not my mother.” Laura made a face at her reflection in the mirror. “Come on, Susan, give me a break.”

  “Who is going to reap the benefit of your sudden fall from chastity? Please don’t tell me it’s Marita’s ex-boyfriend.”

  “You probably think I’d be better off with Dubrovnik.”

  “Did he offer?”

  “Of course not. Michael wants my surrender in a lawyer’s office, not a bedroom.”

  “If you say so. Jeff Carnaby’s too nice for you.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Laura said, miffed.

  “I mean it. You have a bulldozer of a personality. You need someone to stand up to you, not a gentleman.”

  “But I want a gentleman!” Laura wailed, frustrated beyond bearing. “I don’t want someone to stand up to me. I want someone who is sweet, thoughtful, and doesn’t always want his own way.”

  “In other words, you don’t want someone like you.”

  “I’m not in the mood for this, Susan,” Laura warned. “I’m facing one of the most difficult nights of my life, and I need support, not criticism.”

  “If you expect me to support you in your seduction of Jeff Carnaby, you might as well save your breath. Why don’t you show your usual good sense and forget about this whole ridiculous idea?” Susan took one last run at making her see reason. “Jeff Carnaby isn’t the man for you.”

  But Laura wasn’t interested in seeing reason. “So you’re not going to make this easier on me?”

  “Not if I can help it. Don’t do it, Laura.”

  Laura looked at her watch. “I’d better go down and change. One thing’s for certain—I’m going to have to do something about his taste in women’s clothing. Any man who thinks I look good in Laura Ashley needs a few basic things pointed out to him. Even Sonya knew these clothes were terrible on me.”

  “Sonya?”

  “Sonya Dubrovnik O’Reilly. Michael’s sister. No, don’t ask,” she said, forestalling the question. “I’m going to change. Can you close up here?”

  “I ought to leave it open to muggers and lowlifes.”

  “The only danger to this building is already in residence. Give me a break, Susan.”

  “Tomorrow we’d better start thinking of taking on some new clients,” Susan said, tacitly ignoring the plea. “It’s one thing to have an exclusive clientele, but if you expect to make any sort of profit, you’re going to have to diversify. Representing the best hands in the business is not going to pay the rent.”

  “I don’t pay rent, remember? I own this building. For now, at least.”

  “Then Marguerite Valmy’s hands won’t support your legal fees. You need someone to take Frank’s place.” Her voice didn’t even waver.

  Laura bit back the sympathy that rushed up. “You’re right. We’ll have open call on Tuesday and see what we can come up with. Does that make you happy?”

  “It’s a start,” Susan said.

  Laura was already at the door. “If Jeff shows up, send him down to the eleventh floor.”

  “If Jeff shows up, I’ll direct him to the nearest elevator shaft,” Susan growled.

  “Don’t you want me to experience the same misery you are?”

  “No. Stop looking so cheerful. Go downstairs and change out of my clothes.”

  “I’m not cheerful, I’m nervous. I always grin when I’m nervous. Wish me luck.�
��

  “Break a leg.”

  “Why do I suspect you really mean that?” Laura asked the ceiling. “I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you all about it.”

  Susan watched her leave, watched the little skip in her step as she disappeared down the utility stairs to her apartment. Her gaze shifted to the six jars of jam. While the thought of adding it to hot tea moved her not one bit, she hadn’t eaten a thing all day. Susan had had the vain hope that misery would enable her to lose a few pounds, but that stage had already passed. What she needed was food.

  Tossing one of the jars into her purse, she switched on the telephone answering machine, cleared her desk and locked the door, hoping that Jeff Carnaby wouldn’t know how to find Laura. She knew that hope was a vain one, but couldn’t keep from wishing that Laura didn’t have to make such an obvious mistake.

  Who was she to worry about other women’s mistakes, after she’d made such a major one? Funny, though. Despite her misery, her depression and despair, she still didn’t regret it. Maybe that would come later.

  The first thing she did after she got home to her tiny apartment in the East Twenties was to head for the kitchen. Drowning her sorrows in food seemed an excellent idea, and she took the baguette she’d bought from the French bakery down the street, split it sideways and slathered it with butter and Sonya Dubrovnik’s raspberry jam. She then committed the unpardonable sin of pouring a generous dollop of Drambuie over ice, and wandered back into the living room, kicking off her shoes as she went. She curled up on the sofa as the autumn night closed in outside her windows, and had just brought her self-indulgent sandwich to her mouth when a shadow appeared in her bedroom doorway.

  She almost screamed, immediately certain a thief had broken in. The last person in the world she expected to see was Frank Buckley, barefoot, his pale gray designer sweats making his aquamarine eyes seem very dark. Without a word he came and sat down beside her, warmth and amusement glinting in those eyes. “Hungry?”

  She started to put down the sandwich, but he took it from her, biting into it with strong white teeth. “God, that’s good,” he murmured. “I don’t blame you for wanting the whole loaf. And I don’t even have to think about my diet anymore. I can eat anything I want. I’ll probably gain fifty pounds in a week. Will you still love me when I’m fat?”

  She finally gathered enough self-control to say something. “Who says I love you now?”

  He didn’t say a word. He just looked at her, a slow smile curving his beautiful mouth, and she wanted to hit him. But how could she hit a man for knowing the truth, when she’d made it painfully obvious? Instead she changed the subject. “Where were you this morning?”

  His smile faded, his eyes clouded and he leaned back, taking another bite of her jam-and butter-slathered baguette before passing it back to her. “I have a little tiny bit of a problem,” he said.

  Susan took a bite of the baguette, allowing herself a small moan of appreciation while Frank swallowed half her Drambuie. “A tiny bit of a problem?” she prodded when she’d finished chewing.

  “Just minor,” he said. “Did you hear the telephone ring this morning?”

  Susan blushed, remembering that she’d been lying naked in this man’s bed when she heard the phone ring. “Yes,” she said, staring intently at the half-eaten loaf of French bread. “Was it a job?”

  “Not exactly. I’m afraid, Susan my love, that I am being blackmailed.”

  Laura was having a hard time working up any enthusiasm for tonight’s activities. While the red roses Jeff had brought were beautiful, she’d always hated red flowers. And though he was clearly responding to her, she was busy battling an almost terminal case of cold feet. Getting that anonymous letter hadn’t helped.

  But she wouldn’t think about that. She couldn’t afford to, not right now. If someone had the gall, the absolute stupidity to think they could blackmail her and get away with it, they were in for a rude awakening. But that was going to have to wait till tomorrow. There was nothing she could do about it now, and she had more important things to concentrate on. Namely the man beside her.

  “You’re a wonderful cook,” he said, when they ended up back on the couch after finishing the sumptuous seven-course meal she’d had secretly delivered to her kitchen. He looked at her over his glass of brandy, his eyes blue and warm and guileless, and reached over and captured her hand in his. “Such a small hand,” he murmured, caressing it.

  Why did he have to hold her hand? she wailed inwardly. Why couldn’t he do something Michael hadn’t done? Certainly Michael hadn’t done much—there was a realm of possibilities. He could nuzzle her neck, put his hand on her breast, or even push her down onto the sofa and climb on top of her. But he seemed damnably content just to sit there and hold her hand, and she could do nothing but compare the feel of his hand, with its calluses, its broad palm and thick, spatulate fingers, with Michael’s hand. She tried to tell herself that Michael’s hands were those of a wimp, a man who didn’t do anything more physical than an occasional game of racquetball. It didn’t do any good. Quixotically she was still more moved by Michael Dubrovnik’s elegant hands than by the sturdy, workman’s hand holding hers right now.

  She shifted, pulling up her legs underneath the black silk skirt that had hitherto exposed those admittedly enticing legs, and thought about the trouble she’d gone to that night. Apart from ordering the dinner and shifting everything to her own dishes, she’d put her poor body through a series of tortures that should have made her acceptable to a Middle-Eastern pasha, much less a Midwestern farmer. She’d shaved her legs and her armpits, rubbed perfumed cream into her skin. She’d flossed her teeth, plucked her eyebrows, scrubbed her entire body three times over, first with a loofah, then with the rough Finnish towels she always preferred, then with the softest of French cotton terry. She’d updated her pedicure and manicure, sprayed every square inch of her body with Eternity, and then spent hours agonizing over what to wear.

  Despite Jeff’s penchant for Laura Ashley, she knew she’d be unlikely to entice him into making love to her if she looked like a refugee from Little House on the Prairie. She’d finally settled on a black taffeta dress from Geoffrey Beene, silk clocked stockings by Donna Karan, and four-inch heels from Hermes. Her underwear was whisper-thin silk, and she’d had the astonishing courage to wear a black lace garter belt. If she could just manage to get his large, scrupulously clean hands partway under her skirt, she was counting on the garter belt to do the rest.

  The room was too bright. She had a new-wave radio station playing softly in the background. Usually she liked George Winston, but the tinkling on the piano was making her want to scream. Jeff’s completely relaxed pose wasn’t much comfort. She told herself she was glad he found her so easy to be around, but she lied. She wanted to excite him. Now that she’d finally decided to fall in love with someone, to have an affair that would with luck lead to marriage, she was in a hurry for it to happen. Especially since the longer it took, the more she was doubting her decision.

  It was already after eleven. If he didn’t make a move by midnight, she was going to give up. She had better things to do than wait around for him to realize she was available. Better men than he had been panting at her heels for the last fourteen years. He didn’t realize what he was being offered.

  She drew back, draining her brandy with less than the respect it deserved, working herself into a snit. The least he could do was kiss her. She needed to make sure it wasn’t just Dubrovnik’s kisses that sent her mind spinning into the twilight zone.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Jeff murmured, and Laura controlled her immediate wince. She didn’t know people still said things like that. Another thing she’d have to change about him.

  Still, he had very kind eyes. And broad shoulders, sturdy legs, and a trusting disposition. He hadn’t even suspected that that fancy dinner hadn’t been prepared by her lily-white hands, even when she’d made up totally absurd names for the exotic dishes.

  And d
id she really want a man who lunged? Wasn’t his diffidence, his unwillingness to push her, part of his charm? He was waiting for permission, and the best thing she could do was grant it.

  “I was wondering when you were going to kiss me,” she murmured.

  He moved with flattering speed, leaning over and pressing his lips against hers. They were nice lips, firm, warm. And closed. Michael’s mouth hadn’t been closed when he’d kissed her.

  She sighed, leaning back, and softened her mouth beneath his. He took the cue, opening his mouth over hers, and she waited for his tongue.

  Nothing. Just his wet, open mouth on hers. His hands were now on her bare shoulders, his thumbs rubbing against her arms, and she very shyly put her tongue to his lips. He jerked, clearly startled, but made no move to respond to the caress.

  All right, Laura thought. So he didn’t use his tongue when he kissed. It was sort of an intimate business, anyway. Maybe they don’t do that in the Midwest.

  He moved his mouth away, sitting closer and sliding an arm around her shoulders, holding her there. Like a couple sitting on a porch swing, Laura thought with misty sentiment.

  “This is nice,” he murmured, his voice deep and rumbling in his chest. “I wish I didn’t have to go home tomorrow.”

  “Do you?” She let a hand trail over his wash-and-wear shirt, her fingernails fiddling with a button. She wondered whether he had hair on his chest. Not too much, she hoped. The amount Michael had was just about right.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said. “But I’ll never forget you.” And to her absolute shock he removed his arm, stood up, and headed for the door.

  She sat there dumbfounded as he pulled on his jacket. It took her a moment to move, but she was at the door before he’d opened it. “Remember this,” she said, sliding her arms around him and pressing her body against his. She kissed him, pulling his head down to her own, being careful not to repeat the mistake with her tongue, and waited for his response.

  It was a little slow in coming, but not bad. His arms encircled her, pulling her tight, and if it was more like a bear hug and less like an embrace, she had to remember he was a strong man. “I want you,” she whispered into-his ear. “I want you to make love to me.”