“I didn’t mean you said anything bad about her, Madison.”
“I still don’t want to get the police involved.” She stared up at him with a faint glimmer of moisture in her eyes, put her hand on his arm and squeezed gently. “Please, T. Larry.”
Sure he’d do anything she wanted at that moment, right down to running naked along Market Street with only his Florsheim shoes on, Laurence changed the subject before he actually gave in. “Tow truck drivers do not bring a new set of four tires with them. He’s going to have to tow you. Which means you’ll have to cancel your date tonight.” Her date, which was the reason she’d driven the damn car, which made it Dick’s fault that her tires were slashed. “You can’t get this fixed in less than two hours.”
She smiled, the glint of tears vanishing. A woman of wiles when she needed them, she thought he’d succumbed to her wishes and given up on calling the police. Not the slightest bit concerned that someone had annihilated the tires on her yellow compact car, she chattered happily. “Yes, tow truck drivers do, T. Larry. When they’re your oldest brother’s best friend’s cousin.”
Date cancellation had been wishful thinking on his part, but perhaps he’d found an ally against Madison’s silly notions. “Your brother isn’t going to let you get away with not calling the—”
“And sworn to secrecy. Not a word will reach James’s ears,” she finished up, neatly cutting him off with a zip of her lips, pursing them almost into a kiss.
He was a horse’s ass, because he had the irresistible urge to kiss her senseless. Maybe it would convince her to let him do what he knew was best for her.
Not. Once Madison got something in her head, it took an act of Congress to get it out. Tire slashing wasn’t enough. She wasn’t even willing to take the incident seriously.
Madison needed someone to shake a little sense into her and at that moment, Laurence was the only man around for the job.
Furthermore, in order to safeguard her in the future, he had to be more than just her boss. He needed to make her think he was—yes, yes, a plan was forming—T. Laurence Hobbs needed to convince Madison he was The One. The plan fit perfectly with his recent chaotic thoughts concerning her.
The first step was to take charge. Madison would soon see that’s what the T stood for. Laurence whipped out his cell phone to call the police. Whether she wanted him to or not.
CHAPTER THREE
MADISON HADN’T really expected T. Larry to leave the police out of it, not after he’d seen her tires. She suppressed a shudder. It had appeared vicious, but directed at her? Another shudder threatened. What if Harriet really had…no, no. Madison couldn’t allow anyone to even think the half question had crossed her mind. Down deep, Harriet wasn’t a bad person, and Madison would not cause her unnecessary trouble. Mischievous kids were responsible. Why, even the police had said so.
What other boss would have supervised the cops, demanded they act on her behalf—though they insisted such a thing was an everyday occurrence in big cities—berated the tow truck driver for being late and still gotten her to her date with Richard on time? Though she couldn’t say the same for her date. Richard was late.
She did wish T. Larry hadn’t seated himself on the other side of the crowded restaurant. At a lonely table at the edge of the bar, next to a wooden railing separating drinkers from diners, T. Larry nursed a sparkling cocktail. Ginger ale, most likely. He wasn’t a big drinker, and not at all when he had to drive.
Madison raised her glass of ice water and lemon to him. He raised his in return. Maybe she should go over there and tell him about the two women at the bar checking him out. Women were suckers for bald guys.
Music blared above her, though indecipherable over the rising tide of voices and laughter. The floor was concrete, the ceilings high, and the noise thunderous. Perhaps Richard, when he arrived, could procure them a better table, something at the back in a quiet intimate corner. The bar was crammed, a baseball game playing on three TVs in the corners. Whoops and hollers went up every time a white-suited player did something, dispersing not only throughout the bar but also into the dining area. Madison didn’t understand baseball, or more correctly, she didn’t grasp the fascination. It was a slow, boring game interrupted by brief moments of pure delirium when someone struck a home run.
T. Larry wasn’t facing any of the TVs. He was watching her, elbows on the lacquered table, hands clasped, fingers laced.
She shouldn’t let him stay, but T. Larry needed to play the hero tonight; he’d looked positively haggard in the garage. She needed to do something for him, something that would—
Goodness. Richard had arrived, and he took her breath away. She could almost believe she’d seen him before, his handsome face familiar, his features Prince Charming perfect. That was it. She had seen him before. In her fantasies. Richard was her dream come true.
Fourteen days until her birthday, surely she could fall in love with him by then.
RICHARD THE LIONHEARTED, she’d called him. Madison’s eyes shone with that emerald glow, her mouth opening in succulent glossy surprise, and Laurence knew the great man had stepped through the doorway into Madison’s fantasy. How had she recognized him? Must be the corny rose stuck in the black lapel of his polished three-piece suit.
Somewhere in his early thirties—very early—the man was movie-star handsome, spit-shined to the luster of vinyl. All surface polish with no substance. But he had hair. Loads of it, thick, wavy brown stuff the likes of which Laurence had seen women drive their hands through up on the big screen. Women loved hair, especially a misbehaving lock like the one that fell effortlessly over the guy’s forehead. It took a man to see beyond a few elegant curls. Women didn’t know when they were being had.
Of course, the same could be said about men drooling over a woman’s breasts. Laurence sipped his drink.
Richard the Lionhearted. My God. More like Dick the Prick. Why was he sitting here bearing witness to Dick’s attempted seduction? Because Laurence had sworn to himself he’d look after Madison. With the slashing of her tires, he simply couldn’t allow her out with a stranger at night all by herself. He was acting like a father, like a big brother.
Oh Christ, now the man was bending over her hand, almost touching his mouth to her delicate skin. Laurence was sure he’d lose his lunch. Madison’s lips curled with a sublime smile, then she murmured something in the ear bent close to her. Dick straightened, flicked a wrist and snapped two fingers at a passing waiter. Damned rude. He spoke, never taking his eyes from Madison’s face, then dismissed the apron-clad man with another twist of his wrist. Laurence’s mouth tightened and his nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply. Moments later, Tricky Dick whisked Madison away to a secluded table in the back.
Laurence stood and muscled his way to an empty seat at the bar where he could once more watch over Madison from a slightly elevated position. Of course, the only stool available necessitated him leaning out into the aisle to see properly.
“Hi.”
Was someone talking to him? He looked right to two baseball-capped heads. Not that way. A blonde sat to his left, her body angled toward him, her black nylon-covered leg swinging back and forth.
“Hi,” she said again. He looked over his shoulder, but the bartender was at the other end of the bar.
She nodded. “Yes, I was saying hi to you.”
“Hi.” What a great conversationalist he was. He’d never known he had it in him. Wouldn’t Madison be pleased?
The woman smiled, a nice white-toothed smile, but it didn’t have that endearing tilt to one side as Madison’s did. Madison, however, was on the other side of the room drinking champagne and probably ordering some ridiculously expensive meal.
“Can I buy you a fresh one?” the woman said, pointing at his glass.
Laurence’s drink consisted of shrunken ice cubes and the dregs of once-sizzling ginger ale. He knew he wasn’t unattractive to women, but usually they needed to get to know him a little first.
“Shouldn’t I be offering you a drink instead?” It was the polite thing to do. Besides, talking to her gave him the perfect method to keep an eye on Madison over the woman’s shoulder.
“You could, but mine’s full and yours is empty.” The woman tilted her wine to him as proof.
“Well, then, uh…” He couldn’t think of a courteous reason for refusing. “I’d like that.”
She signaled the bartender, then dipped her finger, indicating Laurence’s glass. “What’s your name?”
He almost told her, then stopped. For the first time he wondered what it would feel like to be something other than Laurence. “Larry.” He left off the Hobbs which seemed to go so much better with Laurence and not at all with Larry. “Thanks for the drink.”
The smile never left the woman’s unlined face. He glanced at Madison. She was enthralled, her red hair all wispy about her temples, the glow of candlelight on her flushed cheeks, her upper body tilting toward Dick. Damn. Madison liked Larry much better than Laurence. Maybe he should consider going by the nickname full-time.
“I’m Veronica. But you can call me Ronnie.”
Laurence dragged his attention back. Ronnie tugged on the hem of her short plum leather skirt. It rode right back up to midthigh when she crossed her legs. Madison’s legs were more sumptuous, though right now he couldn’t see them through the sea of diners.
“What do you do, Larry?”
He almost looked to his right again, then remembered he was Larry. It didn’t have the right ring without the T and without Madison’s musical voice around it.
“I’m a tax accountant.” Definitely a showstopper. If he were actually trying to secure a date with Ronnie, Madison would have advised him to beef up his profession a bit. Tax Avoidance Specialist, perhaps. Ahh, how about Tax Crusader? He chanced another glance in Madison’s direction. Their waiter gone, her hand now lay suspiciously close to Dick’s. If that man tried to take advantage of her—
“Oh, I love taxes.”
He felt his eyes widen involuntarily. Only an IRS agent loved taxes. Or another accountant. He struggled for continuing pleasant conversation. After all, Ronnie was being kind enough to allow him to peruse Madison over her shoulder, not that either of them knew it. “What do you do?” he asked for lack of something more intriguing.
“I’m in investments.” With a practiced gesture, she flipped her long hair over her shoulder, straight silky strands. Whereas Madison’s hair was a riot of tangled curls that seemed to fascinate her date. Christ, was Dick the Prick actually reaching out to touch those locks? No, no. He stopped midgesture. Laurence’s heart slowed its furious pace.
Investments? Isn’t that what Ronnie said? By all rights, she should hate taxes. Investors disliked parting with a dime, especially to the government. “What do you do in investments?”
She flashed him an odd look, as if no one ever got that precise. Maybe they didn’t, in a bar. She certainly didn’t wear that skirt or those high heels—four inches at least—to any investment firm. Even Madison had never worn a leather skirt to work. It might be very nice indeed if she did. But he was talking to someone named Ronnie. Maybe the woman had changed before her evening out. Always magnanimous, Laurence gave her the benefit of the doubt. “I mean what do you do specifically?”
She paused, worked her jaw. “I invest.”
Okay, definitely not used to details in this atmosphere. He strove for cordial discourse, but what came out was rather inane and probably inappropriate. “Are you punctual for appointments?”
With his recent Alison dating debacle, tardiness had been on his mind, but still, a topic of conversation in a bar? Madison would have rolled her eyes at him.
Ronnie leaned back three inches, tilting her chin. “Excuse me?”
It was safe to admit that he wasn’t particularly good at idle chitchat. He invariably said the wrong thing, as evidenced by his handling of Harriet’s interview that morning. Madison had never held his ineptitude against him, but after Ronnie’s reaction, Madison would advise him to change the subject yet again.
But to what? Taxes. Stick close to what he knew. “Have you ever cheated on your taxes?”
He saw it for the asinine question it was the moment the last syllable left his mouth. He should have asked what cash flow method she used to project income. Or something.
Instead of being offended, Ronnie laughed. “You have the most amazing sense of humor, Larry.”
Madison didn’t think he had any at all, though she certainly thought Dick the Prick was funny. The tinkle of her laughter carried into the bar, even over the screech of the TV and the lament of a female vocalist who was either stretching too far for the high note or killing a cat.
Ronnie thought Larry had a sense of humor, an amazing one at that. Just wait until he told Madison.
T. LARRY SEEMED to be having the best of times. With a tall, big-breasted, flawless creature. Maybe it was just the bar stools they sat on that gave the woman the appearance of above-average height. Those breasts were no illusion, though, and perfect for T. Larry. He wanted a wife who could breast-feed. Would wonders never cease? Madison would swear on the picture Bible her mother gave her when she was eight that T. Larry had laughed out loud.
Good for him. Maybe she wouldn’t have to set him up after all. As long as he didn’t ask the woman how often she shaved her legs until at least the second date.
No longer feeling the need to worry about T. Larry, Madison concentrated on Richard. The table he’d gotten them, though not exactly quiet, was in a corner, and the blast of voices from the bar and the too-loud music cocooned them in intimacy. She leaned close with her mouth to his ear, felt his breath on her nape and his leg only millimeters away when he moved his chair.
He really was magnificent. With dark, wavy brown hair, the most amazing chocolate-colored eyes, endearing almost dimples when he smiled and a body as well exercised as T. Larry’s. Charming and suave, not to mention fairy-tale gorgeous. He was all that and more, the best part being that he didn’t seem to know these things about himself. He didn’t exactly stutter, but while asking her what she liked to do, what she did for a living and if she had any pets, he not so casually managed to tell her he was a lawyer and had just bought a house, a really nice house, in a suburb south of San Francisco, with a big backyard, a tree swing and a white picket fence. Vital statistics slipped in with little finesse, as if he were advertising himself on a billboard.
Richard Lyons was a bit unsure of himself. She’d been worried when he’d snapped his fingers at the waiter, but she realized now that had a been a show of bravado for her benefit. He couldn’t sustain it. She hadn’t wanted him to. She much preferred the Richard seated at the table with her now. Madison adored a shy man, someone she could help. Like ZZ Top. Like T. Larry himself, who, despite all his confidence in the tax arena, was out of his depth in social situations.
Except tonight. He was exhibiting newly acquired skills. T. Larry actually made the big-busted blonde laugh. What had he said that was so funny?
Back to Richard and the small problem Madison had with him.
“Is Kim your girlfriend?”
“Kim?” Richard looked blank.
“The girl you thought I was when you called.”
“Oh, Kim.” He laughed, lackluster, almost nervous, and his gaze centered on his plate rather than her eyes. “No, she’s just a friend.”
She smelled a rat. Though Madison liked to believe the best about people, she was neither gullible nor stupid. All she did was look for motivation as to why a person might be compelled to lie or treat someone badly. She might stretch a bit to find a reason if she had to, but she did need some explanation for bad behavior in order to forgive it.
She speared a piece of lettuce. “Kim thinks you’re her boyfriend, doesn’t she?”
T. Larry would have been proud of her for pushing the issue. Speaking of T. Larry, he was taking that woman’s card. She wondered how smart it was to move this fast, the evening wasn’t ha
lf over. T. Larry was a bit of a babe in the woods when it came to dating. And bars. You just never knew what you got.
Not like Richard, of course. She hadn’t met him in a bar. Their meeting had been a fluke, an accident, a slipped digit when he punched in a phone number, which surely meant heavenly tampering.
She’d almost forgotten the question when Richard finally answered. “Not exactly.”
Oh yeah, about Kim not giving up on him yet. “Could you define not exactly?”
“Kim sort of dumped me, not the other way around.”
It was the last thing she expected to hear, but confession was good for the soul, both for the confessor and the confessee. Madison put her fork down, lacing her fingers beneath her chin. Richard toyed with his salad. He needed a little push. “And?”
“When I called you, I was hoping Kim hadn’t really meant it.”
Using a burst of laughter from a nearby table as cover, she said, “So you asked her what color underwear she was wearing?” Which was not a particularly sterling lead-in to asking a woman if she was sure she wanted to dump him.
It was something Madison might have said in similar circumstances, however, if for nothing other than the shock value.
“I didn’t ask that. Did I?” Just enough pause to show he wasn’t certain.
“When a man asks a woman what she’s wearing, she doesn’t immediately think he’s referring to the cut of her business suit.”
“Oh.”
Waiting for more, she buttered a small piece of sourdough bread.
When Richard didn’t offer further explanation for questioning her attire on the phone, Madison offered a reasonable excuse with a sympathetic smile. “You wanted to know if she was dressed for a night on the town with a man or just a movie with girlfriends.”
“You were right the first time.” His head down, but his eyes raised to hers, his mouth crooked on one side with a faintly bad-boy smile. “Well, Kim sort of liked phone…” He cleared his throat instead of using the word.
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