The Bedroom Business

by Sandra Marton

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AT NINE the next morning, the clock radio beside Emily’s bed shattered the silence with an earsplitting blast of guitar­-twanging, drum-thumping, cymbal-crashing acid rock.

  She shot up against the pillows, threw out her hand, knocked over a book, an empty cocoa mug and a box of tissues as she groped for the Off button.

  The music stopped. Her heart pounded on. She waited until it slowed. Then she swung her feet to the floor and blinked at the radio.

  She kept it set to a classical music station. Promptly at six each morning, Monday through Friday, the radio awakened her to the soothing strains of Debussy or Bach. Once in a very great while, she opened her eyes to something as mod­em and daring as Stravinsky.

  But not rock. Never rock. It was too loud, too boisterous, too obvious, too everything. She’d always thought so. So, why would the radio be playing rock music this morning? For that matter, why would it go off at all, on a Saturday? And if it did, why would it go off at...

  Nine?

  “Nine,” Emily gasped, and hurtled from the bed.

  She remembered, now. Remembered it all. How she’d paced the floor last night, instead of sleeping. How she’d tossed and turned, once she’d finally fallen into bed. How she’d felt herself tumbling into the kind of exhausted sleep she feared would leave her feeling groggy, and how she’d reached out, fumbling in the dark, to reset the clock from six to seven so she’d have one more hour of sleep but would still awaken early enough to phone Jake and tell him there wasn’t a way in the world she’d see him at ten or any hour on a Saturday, in this lifetime.

  Emily groaned.

  There were two morals to that sad little tale. The first was never to try and set a clock radio in the dark. The second was never, ever, to let Jake McBride get the last word.

  Nine o’clock! Hurriedly, she grabbed the phone and dialed his number.

  “Come on,” she whispered, “pick up, pick up, pick...”

  “Hi,” Jake said cheerfully.

  Thank God!

  “Jake?” Emily cleared her throat. “Jake,” she said briskly, “I’m glad I—”

  “This is Jake McBride. Sorry, but I can’t take your call right now. Just leave your name, a brief message, and—”

  Emily slammed the phone down. She scrubbed her hands over her face, ran them through her hair. She could feel curls springing up all over her head. What to do, what to do?

  Calm down, an inner voice said.

  But how could she calm down, when it was nine-fifteen and Jake was due here at ten? Okay. Okay, forget about calming down. She’d just concentrate on getting ready. Showering. Dressing. Doing something with her horrible hair, which seemed to know that there was snow forecast for later today. Then she’d put up coffee, straighten the house...

  She sagged against the nightstand.

  Forget about straightening the house. Forget about coffee. Just shower and get dressed, because the last thing she wanted was for Jake to ring her doorbell while she was stand­ing here in her flannel pajamas.

  No. He wouldn’t be able to ring the doorbell. He’d have to press the downstairs buzzer. Then she’d have to press the Talk button. She’d say, “Who is it?” And he’d say, “Jake. Buzz me in,” and she’d say, “Sorry, but I’ve changed my mind, Jake. I’ll see you Monday morning, at the office...”

  Buzzzz.

  Emily spun around and stared into the living room. That was either the downstairs buzzer or an angry hornet had got­ten into the house. It couldn’t be a hornet, not in the winter. And it couldn’t be the buzzer. Jake was coming at ten, and it wasn’t even half past...

  Buzzzz.

  Then again, it didn’t have to be Jake. It could be someone else. The super, calling to tell her when the painters would be coming. Or old Mrs. Levy, from apartment 3G, who forgot her keys half the time she went out and then just pressed buzzers at random until somebody buzzed back and let her in...

  Buzzzz, buzzzz, buzzzz.

  Whoever it was, was getting impatient. Her canary, its cage still covered for the night, gave a wistful chirp from the kitchen in response. Emily hurried to the intercom in the wall beside the front door.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Jake.”

  She groaned, closed her eyes, leaned her forehead against the wall. Actually, she felt like banging it against the wall but Jake might think she was trying to tap out a message.

  “Emily?”

  “Yes, Jake. I heard you. What are you doing here? It’s not ten yet.”

  “Yeah, well, I got an early start.”

  “I’m not...” She looked down at her old pajamas, at her bare feet. “I’m not ready.”

  “No problem. I brought the paper. I’ll just read it and wait.”

  “Fine. I mean, not fine. I mean, I’ve changed my...” Emily sputtered to a halt. Okay. Jake was here. In that case, she’d do the right thing. Get dressed, go downstairs, tell him her decision in person. “Look, just sit on the stoop and read the paper. I’ll be down in twenty—”

  “Are you nuts? It’s zero degrees out here, Emily.”

  “Five minutes, then. That’s all it’ll take me to get ready.”

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “And don’t ‘dear’ me!”

  “I was talking with a charming lady name of... What’s your name, sweetheart? Ah. Her name is Mrs. Levy. She says she forgot her keys and she’s getting awfully cold, standing out here while you refuse to buzz her in.”

  Emily narrowed her eyes. “I hate you, Jake McBride,” she said dispassionately, and pressed the buzzer. She thought about combing her hair, putting on her slippers, washing her face...

  Instead, she flung open the door, folded her arms, and waited.

  Jake bounded up the stairs a moment later. Her heart bounded, too. She’d never seen him dressed in anything but a suit. Today he wore scuffed leather boots, faded jeans and a scarred black leather jacket. Not that it mattered. He was an unwelcome sight...

  But a magnificent one. Her heart leaped like a jackhammer when he smiled.

  “Good morning, Emily.”

  “There’s nothing good about it.”

  Jake went from a smile to a grin. “That’s what I love,” he said, “being greeted by someone who’s cheerful, first thing in the morning.”

  What he hadn’t expected to be greeted by was a barefoot, sleep-tousled Emily in a pair of flannel pajamas. He was a man who’d seen more than his fair share of slinky black nightgowns, negligees and spike-heeled sandals. How could a pair of bare feet and oversized flannel pj’s be a turn-on? Not too oversized, though. He could see the rounded outline of Emily’s breasts beneath the softly faded fabric, even see the thrust of her nipples...

  Jake frowned. “We had an appointment,” he said gruffly. “You look as if you just got out of bed.”

  “Our appointment was for ten o’clock. Besides, I changed my mind.”

  “Yeah, I figured you would.”

  Emily spun around as he brushed past her. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m looking for the kitchen. You do have one, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  Jake dumped the Times and a white paper sack on the kitchen table. “Two containers of coffee, two bagels with cream cheese, and two jelly doughnuts. My penance, for showing up early.” He folded his arms. “I figured I’d better, or you’d chicken out.”

  “I am not, as you so elegantly put it, ‘chickening out.’ And I’m not interested in starting my day with a carbohydrate high.”

  “No problem. I’ll eat the doughnuts by myself.” Jake looked around the room. He’d have looked anywhere, if it meant not looking at Emily. Her hair was a mass of silky curls; her mouth was pink. What would she taste like, without even a touch of lipstick? What would she feel like, in his arms? Desperate for diversion, he jerked his chin in the di­rection of Horace’s cage. “Is this the bird you told me about?”

  “Yes. That’s Horace. And he doesn’t like
strangers.”

  “Horace, huh?” He whisked the cover off the cage. “Named for the Roman poet?”

  “Why—why yes. How did you—”

  “Hello, Horace.” Jake raised an eyebrow. “Does the lady underestimate you as often as she underestimates me?”

  Horace sent up a trilling song. Emily glared at him, then at Jake, and gave up.

  “Enjoy your breakfast,” she said coldly, and started from the room. Jake snagged her wrist.

  “I brought breakfast for two.”

  “And I told you, I don’t like—”

  “I heard you. Well, at least have the coffee, while it’s hot. ­Oh, come on. It’s not as if I’ve never seen the early-morning you.”

  Damn the man. He was making her blush. “You’ve seen me in the office,” she said stiffly.

  He smiled. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. he looked her over from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, then back up again.

  “Right,” he said softly. “In the office. And I have to tell you, this is a big improvement.”

  Emily’s blush deepened. “I hardly think so.”

  “Well, that’s where we differ. I find flannel and a wild mane of hair a lot sexier than a clip at the nape of your neck and an oversized tweed suit.”

  “I do not dress to look sexy, Mr. McBride.”

  “No.” Jake’s smile tilted as his eyes locked on hers. “You most certainly don’t, Miss Taylor. But you should. That’s going to be at the top of today’s agenda. Lesson one—How To Dress For A Man.”

  “There is no agenda, today or any day. No lessons. I phoned to tell you that, but you’d already left your... What are you doing?”

  It was a dumb question. What he was doing was curling his hand around the back of her neck, threading his fingers into her hair, moving closer to her, so close that she could smell the cold and the promise of snow on his skin.

  “Jake.” Emily cleared her throat. “Didn’t you hear me? I’ve decided against your—your proposal. If I meet men, I’ll do it on my own, and my own way. I don’t want you to—”

  Jake bent his head, brushed his lips gently over hers. Emily caught her breath. The touch of his mouth was light, so light she might have imagined it, but oh, she hadn’t. She’d felt the kiss, the electricity, straight down to her toes.

  “Jake.” Her voice was shaky. “Please...”

  “Please, what?”

  His arms went around her. One hand slid under her pajama top and pressed gently against her naked back.

  “Stop,” she said, or tried to say, but Jake was tugging her closer, smoothing his hand up and down her spine.

  “I’m just demonstrating,” he whispered, his mouth soft against her ear. “Think of it as lesson one. How To Say Good Morning.”

  “You said...” Emily bit back a moan. “You said lesson one would be—would be How To Dress For A...”

  Oh. Oh, he had to stop doing that. He had to let her go. Or maybe she had to let him go because somehow, her hands had stolen up his chest; her fingers had danced into his hair; she was drawing his head down to hers, his mouth to hers...

  Jake clasped her shoulders and stepped back.

  “Coffee,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll have coffee while you get some clothes on.”

  Emily swayed unsteadily. “Yes. Good. You have coffee while I...”

  She turned, fled for the safety of the bedroom. Jake watched her go, told himself not to be an ass, not to go after her...

  The door swung shut. He swallowed hard, felt for a chair, and sank into it.

  So much for all his good intentions. He’d spent the night telling himself he’d done the right thing, when he’d walked away from Emily. That he was wrong for her. That she was wrong for him. He’d even gone through his address book, searching for the names of guys she might like. He had the list right here, in his jacket pocket.

  And then he’d seen Emily standing in the doorway wear­ing an outfit that not even Marilyn Monroe in her heyday could have turned into something sexy, with her hair un­combed and her eyes a little puffy from sleep, and he’d had to work at not sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to bed.

  Jake popped the lid off one of the cardboard containers, dumped in half a dozen packets of sugar, stirred the resultant mess and gulped a mouthful. Caffeine, a sugar high and whatever the cardboard residue might add to the mix was just what he needed. Either that, or a cold shower.

  He groaned, downed the rest of his coffee, grabbed one of the bagels and bit into it. He’d bought plain bagels, not the garlic ones that were his favorites. Big mistake. All those old movies on late night TV about werewolves and vampires... Wasn’t it garlic that was supposed to keep them away?

  Maybe it did the same thing when it came to keeping a man away from a woman he knew he shouldn’t want.

  Jake gave a soft, unhappy laugh. Where was a garlic neck­lace, when you need one? And how in hell was he going to make it through the day?

  He paced, paced some more. He could hear the shower running. Not a cold one. A warm one. And Emily was in that shower. She was naked, waiting for him...

  Jake grabbed the paper, buried his face in it and went through the motions of reading, but he’d given up the pre­tence by the time Emily entered the kitchen again. He was standing at the window, his back to her, and her breath caught at the sight of him.

  He’d taken off his leather jacket; he was wearing a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled midway up his mus­cled forearms. His hands were tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. His shoulders were broad, his waist and hips narrow, his legs long and slightly spread. It was the posture of a man who was self-assured and just a little dangerous.

  Emily’s throat tightened. She’d thought about Jake, while she was showering. There was no lock on her bedroom door, or on the adjoining bathroom. And she’d shut her eyes, while the water beat down, and imagined the shower door opening and Jake, a naked Jake, stepping into the shower with her. She’d imagined the strength of his arms, the feel of his mouth...

  She must have made a sound because suddenly Jake turned towards her.

  “Ready?”

  She didn’t trust herself to speak, not right away. To kill time, she went to the hall closet and got her jacket.

  “Yes,” she said, when it was safe to face him again. “I’m ready. What’s on the agenda? New clothes? New hairdo? I made up my mind, Jake. I’m yours to command.”

  Jake felt his jaw knot so tightly it hurt. She wasn’t. She was his for today, and only so he could ready her for another man.

  What the hell kind of idiocy was that?

  A sane idiocy, he told himself, without even wincing at the contradiction. He reached for his jacket, shrugged it on, and followed Emily out the door.

  Snow did funny things to Manhattan.

  On weekdays it snarled traffic, slowed buses and subway trains, piled up along the curbs and turned rapidly into slush.

  It could do all those same things on a weekend ... but no­body seemed to notice. The lacy white flakes touched the city with magic. People had even been known to smile at each other as they hurried along the streets.

  Not Jake.

  He didn’t feel a bit like smiling.

  He was seated in a leather and chrome chair built for con­tortionists in the waiting area of a place called THE BEAUTY SPOT. Mirrors surrounded him; music assaulted his ears. It came from every possible direction, some stuff he couldn’t imagine anybody could possibly enjoy especially if their mood, like his, kept alternating between mean and downright nasty.

  This was their third, and last, stop of the day.

  He’d sat through a session in Saks, while a gushing sales­woman brought out suits and dresses, pants and blouses and sweaters, shoes and handbags and who knew what else, for Emily to try on...

  Try on, for his approval.

  At first, he’d liked the idea.

  He had a pretty solid notion of how Emily ought to look. He knew she should w
ear soft colors and earth tones, that she had legs that deserved showcasing, that she had a body that deserved gently clinging cashmeres and silks. So, for a while, it had been a kick to sit in a velvet chair that was half a size too small for comfort, arms folded, head cocked, and say “No,” “Yes,” “Great,” each time Emily stepped out of the fitting room.

  “Your lady is so lovely,” the saleswoman kept saying, and all at once, maybe the sixth time she said it, Jake had stopped grinning like an idiot and saying yes, yes, she was, because it had suddenly hit him that Emily wasn’t his lady. She was his executive assistant and now she was his devel­opment project, and what he was “developing” her for was another man.

  How come he’d forgotten that, somewhere between leav­ing her apartment and sitting through a fashion show? Things had gone downhill from there.

  He must have looked it, too. The saleswoman had stopped gushing, Emily had started giving him quick little glances, and when they’d finally left Saks with her wearing a cash­mere dress in softest rose, a pair of high-heeled black leather boots and a belted black coat that looked soft as velvet, she’d said that if he wanted to call it a day, that was fine.

  What he’d wanted was to call her beautiful, as she stood there with her face turned up to his—a face now heightened with artful applications of soft black mascara and lip gloss that matched the rose dress, after a stop at the cosmetics counter.

  Instead, he’d taken an armful of elegant boxes from her, scowled and said that he’d made a deal and he was going through with it.

  Which was how come he was sitting here, in THE BEAUTY SPOT, surrounded by glassy images of himself, im­ages that pretty much showed a man coping with a growing frustration that made absolutely no sense at all. What was there to be frustrated about? This had been his idea, this makeover. And it was going well. Emily looked beautiful and, until he’d turned into a snarling beast at Saks, she’d been happy.

  Well, that was her problem. She wanted to be happy be­cause he was grooming her for another guy, let her. He didn’t have to do anything except sit here with his arms folded, his back straight, his feet crossed at the ankles.