Prelude to a Wedding Page 5

  She wasn't classically beautiful or a sex goddess knockout. And he found himself absurdly glad she wasn't either one. Anybody could spot a woman like that, but he'd made a discovery not every man would be astute enough to make.

  He'd listened to the crisp coolness of her voice and heard that hint of spiciness beneath. He'd touched the no-nonsense wool of her suit and felt the softness of her skin. He'd acknowledged the common sense coming from her mouth and recognized the uncommon sensuality of that maddening upper lip. He'd looked into the forthright navy blue of her eyes and seen that she had secrets there.

  Secrets. Maybe that was it. Maybe that defined the whole thing. This feeling that she'd hidden her teasing and laughter beneath a life ruled by an appointment calendar, and the challenge of luring that teasing and laughter out of hiding.

  So, maybe what he felt came more from the challenge of making her see that other side of herself, the free spirit. He could handle that.

  A challenge . . . Yeah, he could enjoy that.

  * * * *

  "Paul Monroe's on line two, Bette."

  Bette sidestepped Darla's curious look, just as she'd sidestepped earlier questions with a simple statement that she and the client had had an enjoyable business dinner. "Thank you, Darla."

  She waited until her assistant closed the door behind her, took a deep breath and lifted the receiver. "Good morning, this is Bette Wharton. May I help you?" It was chicken to pretend she didn't know who was on the other end of the line, but she wanted an extra second to remind herself of how she'd decided to deal with him.

  "Hi, Bette. It's Paul."

  So much for formality, she thought with an unwilling and wry smile. "Good morning, Paul. I hope everything's going smoothly so far with Sally."

  "Sally? Oh, the temporary temporary secretary. Yeah, everything's fine. In fact, you know what she did?"

  "What?"

  "She made me fresh coffee." He sounded so impressed she couldn't help but chuckle.

  "No! Really?"

  "Go ahead and laugh, but Jan never does that for me. She says anybody who comes and goes as much as I do deserves to drink whatever's available."

  "She has a point."

  "Well, just don't go telling Sally, okay? I usually only get fresh coffee about twice a year, so this is a treat."

  "1 promise not to tell Sally, but she won't be there much longer."

  "How'd you know?"

  "How'd I know what?"

  "That Sally won't be here much longer."

  "Because she'll be replaced by your permanent temporary as soon as you make a selection."

  "Oh. I thought maybe my reputation had already gotten to her. Isn't that an oxymoron?"

  "Isn't what an oxymoron, and what reputation?"

  " 'Permanent temporary.' I think that's an oxymoron—you know, a built-in contradiction."

  "1 guess it is." She hated herself for it, but she couldn't resist repeating, "And what reputation?"

  "For going through a lot of secretaries fast."

  She wondered if the reason for this was only his business habits. In her line of business she couldn't help but know that a certain breed of men viewed temporary secretaries as a two-birds-with-one-stone dating service. She'd have been surprised if Paul Monroe was one; she'd also have been too disappointed for her own comfort.

  In her coolest, most neutral tones, she said, "I understand that's the reason Jan Robson contacted us in the first place, isn't it?"

  "I guess it is." If she thought she caught an echo of sheepishness, she could also imagine a grin lurking.

  "And that, I'm sure, is why you're calling this morning." She thought he mumbled "not exactly," but ignored it. "I've just messengered the files over to you, since they somehow ended up back with my papers, uh, last night. You can look them over, then let my office know before the close of business today whom you have selected and we'll make every effort to have that person in place tomorrow morning."

  "I don't like the sound of that."

  What was there not to like? She was being more than reasonable; getting someone lined up overnight qualified as above and beyond the call of good customer service. She decided to quell him with a single syllable. "Oh?"

  "Particularly that part about the messenger and then notifying your office." He sounded singularly unquelled. "I thought we could meet for lunch and discuss the whole thing then, say about one—"

  "I'm sorry, lunch won't be possible." Not if she hoped to catch up with yesterday's leftover chores.

  "But you've got to eat. All I'm saying is spend that time with me. And, of course, going over these files."

  "I don't eat lunch." Now why had she said that? There were certainly times she'd skipped the meal to finish work, but she'd also had her share of business lunches. She was reacting almost as if she were afraid of Paul Monroe. Ridiculous.

  "You don't eat lunch? Well, no wonder you're thin. I tell you, Bette, my mom would definitely worry about you."

  "It's very kind of your mother to be concerned." What a damn fool thing to say! His mother didn't know of her existence. She was becoming a blithering idiot. "But I must go now. I'll wait for your decision on those files, Mr. Monroe. Goodbye."

  She hung up before she could hear any answer, then stared at the instrument as if something might leap out of it to snatch away the final shreds of her composure.

  Jerkily, she picked up a pencil and rammed it into the small sharpener from her drawer.

  Why did she react that way? All right, Paul Monroe made her a little nervous. Yes, she felt an attraction to him, although clearly nothing serious, since she had a firm fix on the man's faults. Even though that eye-dancing smile could make the clearest of faults a bit fuzzy around the edges. But she hadn't turned him down because of that . . . exactly. She'd turned him down because she had a lot of work and he'd disrupted her schedule yesterday. It was only logical to make up the time today. Refusing his invitation constituted an ordinary, reasonable business decision.

  Then why did she feel so flustered? And why had she just methodically sharpened her pencil to exactly half its previous length?

  She shook her head, trying to jostle her thoughts into acceptable order.

  She felt so flustered because Paul Monroe was not an ordinary, reasonable business associate. No wonder she had an odd reaction—he was odd.

  Satisfied with that analysis, Bette turned to her delayed tasks from the day before, and tried to concentrate. All day she tried.

  An annoying anticipation edged into her afternoon, lifting the edges of her concentration and peeling it away like a label that was coming unstuck. By six-fifteen she had sharpened every pencil at least twice, and accomplished little else.

  At the opening squeak of her office door, she jumped, a hand to her heart. Her pulse burst into a sprint, then slowed. Only Darla. She frowned fiercely. Only Darla? Exactly whom had she been expecting?

  "Bette? Are you all right?"

  "Yes, I'm fine. What is it, Darla?"

  "There's someone here—"

  The door swung wide and there he was, grinning and sending her pulse off again in double time.

  "Hi, Bette."

  Darla looked over her shoulder, then back at Bette. "Do you want me to . . .?" She let the words trail off, and Bette could tell that she didn't want to do anything, that she approved of Paul's presence in her boss's office. Bette felt ganged-up on—Paul Monroe, Darla Clarence and her own heartbeat.

  "It's all right, Darla. Thank you."

  She waited until Paul moved into the room and Darla closed the door. That gave her a chance to prepare a cordially businesslike scold. "Paul—"

  "Don't apologize, Bette."

  Her prepared words vanished. "Apologize!"

  "Yeah, I understand about lunch. I know some people get uptight about keeping to a schedule. They just can't help it."

  "Uptight." She forced the word through clenched teeth.

  He went blithely on.

  "I realized I shouldn't ha
ve pushed about lunch. But now that you've had all afternoon to catch up—" he hesitated just long enough for her to remember how abysmally she'd failed to use the afternoon to catch up, and that it was all his fault "—let's go to dinner."

  "I have plans."

  Most men would have instantly withdrawn at the deliberate chill in those three words. She should have remembered that when it came to what nine out of ten men would do, she faced Mr. Ten.

  "Plans?" He repeated the word as if he'd never heard it, and certainly had no familiarity with the concept. "Don't you want to have dinner with me?"

  She opened her mouth and shut it immediately, uncertain it would deliver the sentiment she needed to express.

  Damn the man.

  "It's not that . . ." A fine start, but then she didn't know what to say next. "I have a lot of work to do." Why did the truth sound so lame?

  "Didn't you have a good time last night?"

  "Yes, I had a good time, but—"

  "I did, too. Good. I want to hear about your business, and you should probably know more about mine before we make a final choice on this permanent temporary, don't you think?" Not giving her a chance to answer, he continued. "I thought tonight we'd try this pizza place I know where they serve deep-dish by the pound. It's across the street from where the St. Valentine's Day Massacre took place back in the twenties, and legend has it one victim crawled to the front step and breathed his last right there."

  * * * *

  Nearly four hours later Bette found herself trying to figure out exactly where she'd lost control with Paul Monroe. Somewhere, she figured, between the time he played on her sense of responsibility by mentioning the need to discuss business and the time he cast out the lure of deep-dish pizza. She dismissed as overly pessimistic the voice that insisted on whispering that control had walked out the minute Paul had walked in the day before.

  The dinner had been wonderful. And so, she had to admit, had the company.

  He'd regaled her with tales of the oddities he'd seen in his business and of the escapades he'd pulled in his life. He'd also drawn stories from her of her childhood and her travails in setting up her business, but she didn't enjoy that half as much as when he talked—and made her laugh.

  As the cab carried them south from the restaurant toward the center of the city, she studied him. A man whose business was children's toys. A man who refused to live by schedules or plans. A man who seemed wary of committing to something as simple as choosing a temporary secretary. Logic said, a man wary of committing to anything. Or anyone?

  She frowned, disturbed for reasons she couldn't explain.

  "Wait a minute. Stop here," Paul ordered the cabbie as they neared the northern limit of Michigan Avenue's Magnificent Mile.

  Bundling Bette out of the taxi, he paid the fare and started her off across the wind-whipped boulevard.

  "What are you doing? Where are we going?"

  "The beach."

  "What?"

  "Oak Street Beach. I haven't been there all summer." He took her hand and wrapped it securely in the warmth of his, then led her across the lanes of traffic. They'd reached the sidewalk bordering the beach before she thought to protest further. "Don't you think it's a little late in the season to be going to the beach?"

  "Don't want to rush into anything," he said with a grin, still pulling her along.

  "Hey. Wait a minute. I'm getting sand in my shoes." Hauling back on his hand, she managed to stop him.

  "Take 'em off."

  She glared. "I also have hosiery on, and besides, it's October."

  "It's also probably seventy degrees, and the sand's been soaking up sun all day."

  He had a point; she ignored it. "I'm not taking my shoes off and walking in the sand in my hose. And before you say it," she rushed on, "I'm not taking off my hose on a public beach, either."

  He looked at her a long moment, and she had the impression that a measuring and accounting was taking place. She stood very still for the outcome.

  "You want to go back?" It was an offer more than a question.

  Now she felt as if she were the one doing the measuring and accounting, only she didn't know of what or by what standards. Had he experienced this uncertainty a moment ago? She considered the toes of her shoes, already awash in a wave of sand. The black leather pumps needed polishing anyhow, and their wedge heels were nearly flat. She glanced at the tall, lighted buildings standing sentinel behind them, then out to the glistening roll of the lake and finally back to Paul. He watched her without judgment, not goading, not pressuring. Just waiting.

  "Could we walk a little slower?"

  His eyes lit first, then he smiled. "Yeah, I think we could manage that."

  She smiled back, feeling oddly happy, as they started more sedately for the edge of the water.

  "Thanks, Bette." The quick words sounded almost ill at ease, as if he expected her to jump on them. "I wouldn't have wanted to miss walking on Oak Street Beach. I've done it every summer since I was fourteen."

  "Summer, huh?" She made as if to pull her suit jacket closer around her, though the lake breeze felt good against her heated skin. "I suppose you do everything at the last minute?"

  "Everything." He drew her close, then let loose her hand to loop an arm around her shoulders in a chill-chasing gesture.

  Disconcerted by the immediate response she felt, she dredged up extra disapproval to lace with her teasing. "I suspect you're one of the people they show on the TV news, lining up to beat the midnight postmark for your tax return."

  "I've met some very interesting people in that line."

  She couldn't repress a grin at his blatant self-satisfaction, but it faltered as he turned his head and contemplated her. His face was too close, his eyes too observant, his mouth too . . . tempting. "Bet you'd never be in that line, would you?" His eyes dropped to her lips, and she felt as if her heart and lungs were operating at double time. He blinked. "And I suppose you have your Christmas shopping done by Labor Day?"

  "Of course." She'd never been prouder of producing two steady words.

  He gave a histrionic shudder, and she laughed. Everything had returned to normal. Almost.

  "Some years," she confided, "I get really crazy and wail until Halloween. But I'm always done, totally done, by my parents' anniversary the first week of December. That way I can enjoy the holiday. And you, 1 suppose, are probably out there on Christmas Eve madly buying."

  "Of course. The insane rush is half the fun of Christmas, as long as you go about it with the right attitude. You can't be buying to meet some quota, you have to be looking for the exactly right gift."

  They'd reached the water and turned to follow the narrow path of sand that had been hard-packed by restless waves and gentle tides.

  "Why can't you look for the exactly right gift before December 24th?"

  He leaned toward her intently. "But that's just it. What if you get what you think's the right gift on December 14th and then find the perfect present on the 24th? Do you return the gift you bought on the 14th or do you pass up the perfect present?"

  She shrugged, and his arm rose and fell with the gesture. It made them seem connected somehow, that her movement affected his. "It depends."

  "On what?"

  "On if you have the receipt. On how hard it is to get back to the store where you got the l4th's present or if that present might be something someone else would like or maybe even something you need yourself."

  He groaned. "All those 'ifs.' I save myself all that. I take no chances. By the 24th, it is the perfect present, like it or not."

  They'd stopped in unspoken accord. They stared out across the water. Bette was aware of how the concentrated glow of lights from downtown illuminated the right side of Paul's face, and lights strung along the city's Gold Coast were nearly as strong on her left side. Between existed a shadowed world that seemed to leave the city and its everyday life far behind. This world between had only the light of the moon to reveal it, a strange light that
could make the ordinary extraordinary and mask the dangerous.

  She smiled slyly at him. "Of course you realize, don't you, that by the time you go shopping on the 24th, you're just looking at my leftovers. I've already snatched up all the perfect presents out there."

  His wounded expression drew a triumphant chuckle from her that he joined with easy, warm laughter.

  It was crazy. The whole thing. Walking on a beach in her work clothes in the middle of October—even if the weather seemed a flashback to August—with a man she'd known exactly thirty hours, and whose drawbacks easily reached double digits. And enjoying it. A lot.

  Crazy.

  The laughter and the warmth lingered. Paul turned to her, and slight pressure from his arm shifted her shoulders so she faced him. The grin still lifted his lips and fizzed in his eyes. She watched that, so fascinated by the amusement that always seemed near the surface with him that she was hardly aware when he lowered his head and brought his mouth to hers.

  Her last thought, a flash, really, was how like Paul Monroe it was to kiss her with a grin still molding his lips. She felt the teasing joy in the gliding pressure of his skin against hers.

  How different this was from the night before. Then he'd drawn out the moment before their mouths met like an extended question; now he swept into the first kiss, and a second, without hesitation. Then he'd whispered a caress; now he stated it boldly. She felt a sensation of warmth that came from one arm still around her shoulder, and the other across her lower back, drawing her to him and out of the lake's cooling night breeze. A sensation of heat that came from the insistent sweep of his tongue against her lips, edging her nearer to some elemental furnace.

  "Bette." She heard the faint request in his voice, even as he muffled it against the skin of her cheek, jaw and throat, and when his mouth came back to hers, she parted her lips. Her hand rested high on his shoulder, so the tips of two fingers grazed the skin at the side of his neck. The fingers of her other hand wound in his hair where it topped his jacket collar. She clenched them tighter, waiting.

  He took her top lip between his teeth, not quite nipping, but seeming more to test. She sighed, and his tongue lingered on her lips, finally slipping through slowly, exploring thoroughly. She felt the glide of his tongue against the sharply smooth ridge of her teeth and gave a small, smothered gasp of impatience. Then he was done with teasing, meeting her tongue and drawing it back into his mouth.