by Nora Roberts
"This oil of the Spanish Steps is new since I was here last," he commented, eyeing her painting with mild avarice. "It's not bad. Sixty-five hundred for the French Quarter watercolor."
She arched a brow. "You go up five hundred every time you make an offer. I'm still not going to sell it to you."
It belonged in the lobby of Templeton New Orleans. He shrugged off her refusal. He would pry it away from her sooner or later. He picked up a paperweight, icy white shapes swimming inside icy white glass, passed it from hand to hand. He hadn't missed the way she kept glancing back toward the bedroom.
"Something else on your mind, Josh?"
Murder. Mayhem. But he smiled easily. "Hunger. Got anything to eat around here?"
"There's a nice trattoria just down the street."
"Good, we'll walk down later, but I'd love a little wine and cheese now. Don't trouble yourself," he added when she didn't budge. "I'll just make myself at home." Still carrying the paperweight, he headed for the bedroom.
"The kitchen's back here," Margo began, panicked.
His mouth turned grim. He knew exactly where her kitchen was. He knew where everything was in her flat, and whoever was in the bedroom was going to discover that Joshua Templeton had staked prior claim.
"Damn it." She caught at his arm and was dragged along with him. "I'll get you a glass of wine. Just stay out of—"
But it was too late. She let out a frustrated groan as he strode over the threshold and stopped dead.
Looking at the scene now, she could hardly believe it herself. Clothes were in a stream from closet to bed, sequins piled on denim, cashmere heaped on cotton. Jewelry was spread in a sparkling lake on the rug. It looked, she realized, like some bad-tempered child had thrown a tantrum. But Josh's observation was closer to the mark.
"It looks like Armani and Cartier went to war."
One of those tricky bubbles of laughter tickled her throat. She nearly managed to clear it away, but her voice stuttered dangerously. "I was just… sort of… organizing."
The look he sent her was so dry and bland, she lost her slippery hold on control. Holding her stomach, she stumbled to the chest and collapsed onto it in a wild explosion of laughter. Casually, Josh reached down to pick up a slate-bluejacket, fingered the material.
"The man is a god," he said, before tossing the Armani onto the bed.
That sent her off into fresh peals. "Joshua." She managed to hitch in enough breath to speak. "You have to be the only living soul I know who could look at this and not run for the butterfly net." Because she loved him for it, she held out a hand to invite him to sit beside her. "It was a temporary episode," she said and let her head tilt against his shoulder. "I think I'm over it."
With an arm draped around her, he surveyed the chaos. "This is all your stuff?"
"Oh, no." She chuckled. "I have a closet in the second bedroom, too. It's packed."
"Of course it is." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, frowned at the scattered gems. "Duchess, how many earrings do you figure you own?"
"I haven't the foggiest. I didn't get into the costume stuff yet." Feeling better, she sighed. "Earrings are like orgasms. You can never have too many."
"I never thought about it quite that way."
"Well, you're a man." She gave his knee a friendly pat. "Why don't I get that wine?"
She was wearing nothing under the robe, and his fingertips were beginning to tingle against the thin silk. "Why don't I get it?" Distance, he told himself, was the key. The last thing she needed him to do just then was to lose his mind and start to slobber.
"The kitchen—"
"I know where the kitchen is." He flashed a grin at her narrow-eyed stare. "I was hoping to come in here and intimidate your lover."
"I don't have a lover at the moment."
"That's handy, isn't it?" He strolled out, certain that he'd given her something to mull over. When he came back, pleased to have found an excellent Barola in her wine rack, she was kneeling on the floor, carefully putting jewelry back in boxes.
The robe was flirting off her shoulder again. Josh was tempted to tug the sash tight himself, double-knot it so the fabric wouldn't continue to slip and slide so devastatingly.
When she saw him and rose, he couldn't avoid seeing the flash of long, slim leg. Every muscle in his body groaned.
The worst of it was she wasn't trying to drive him to his knees. If she had been, he could have, without qualm, tossed her onto the bed and finally fulfilled his fantasies.
But that careless sexuality was pure Margo.
She took the glass he held out, smiled at him. "I suppose I have to thank you for interrupting the insanity."
"Want to tell me what started the insanity?"
"Just a stupid idea." She walked to the doors of the bedroom terrace, threw them open. Night poured in, full of sound and scent. She drew it in as she drew in the wine. "I really love Milan. Almost as much as…"
"As?"
Annoyed with herself, she shook her head. "Doesn't matter. I'm working on ways to stay here, with some level of comfort. Going home to Templeton House isn't an option."
"You're going to let Peter lock you out?"
She bristled at that, turning. The fairy lights on the terrace twinkled around her and dazzled through the thin silk of her robe. "I don't give a gold-plated shit about Peter Ridgeway, but I'm not going to complicate things for Laura."
"Laura can manage. She doesn't let Peter dust her around the way she used to. If you had bothered to hang around, you'd have seen that for yourself."
She felt her hackles rise again. Damn him. But she spoke smoothly: "Regardless, she's got a marriage to worry about. For some ridiculous reason, marriage is what matters to her. Christ knows why she wants to be tied down to one man, especially a pompous jerk like Peter."
Josh took a contemplative sip. "Weren't you planning on marrying Alain, the slick, lying drug smuggler?"
She tried for dignity. "I didn't know he was a smuggler."
"Just a slick liar."
"All right, fine. You can say that experience gave me a fresh viewpoint on and a general dislike for the institution. The point is, Laura is married and I'm not going to make it more difficult for her."
"It's your home too, Margo."
Now her heart swelled, and broke just a little. "He can't change that. But you can't always go home. Besides, I've been happy here, and I can be again."
He moved closer, wanting to read her eyes. "Kate says you're considering selling your flat."
Her eyes were simple to read. They were filled with annoyance. "Kate talks too much." She turned around to study those last gilding lights. He turned her back again.
"She's worried about you. So am I."
"You don't have to be. I'm working on a plan."
"Why don't I take you to dinner? You can tell me about it."
"I'm not sure I'm up to the telling stage, but I could probably eat. We don't have to go out. The trattoria will deliver."
"And that way you don't risk bumping into anyone who knows you," he concluded and shook his head. "Don't be a coward."
"I like being a coward."
"Then you'd better get dressed." Deliberately, he skimmed his fingertip over the bare skin of her shoulder, up her throat. And watched her eyes go dark and wary. "Because you're asking for trouble right here."
She nearly tugged her robe into place before she stopped herself. Odd how the skin could tingle. "You've already seen me naked."
"You were ten." He slid the robe into place himself, gratified when he felt her quick shiver. "It doesn't count." To test her reaction, he hooked his fingers in the belt of the robe, gave one gentle tug. "Want to risk it, Margo?"
Danger had snapped into the air, abruptly, unexpectedly, fascinatingly. Struggling to be cautious, she stepped back. "I'll get dressed. We'll go out."
"Safe choice."
But she didn't feel safe when he walked out and closed the door behind him. She felt… stirred.
He'
d done it to push her into going out. That was the simple, rational conclusion Margo came to. It seemed the only conclusion when he settled into the busy little restaurant and dived into his first-course selection of antipasto di funghi crudi with exuberance.
"Try one." He held a marinated mushroom to her lips, nudged it through. "Nobody does vegetables like the Italians."
"Nobody does anything edible like the Italians." But she toyed with her salad of tomato and mozzarella. She'd grown so accustomed to denying herself full meals that eating heartily still felt like cheating.
"You need a good five pounds, Margo," he said. "Ten wouldn't hurt."
"Ten and I'd have a whopping bill from the dressmaker for alterations in my wardrobe."
"Eat. Live dangerously."
She nibbled on cheese. "You're sort of a businessman," she began and made him laugh.
"Oh, if you stretch the point."
"That wasn't meant to be an insult. It's hard for me to picture you as an executive, making corporate decisions. Your father's always had this aura of power. You're more—"
"Feckless?" he suggested.
"No. Relaxed." Impatient with herself, she huffed out a breath. "I'm really not trying to insult you, Josh. What I should say is that whatever it is you do, you make it seem easy. Take Peter."
"No, thanks."
"In comparison," she continued. "He's tense and driven. 'Successful yet ambitious corporate man' is etched onto his face."
"And I, on the other hand, the scion of the Templeton for tune, am relaxed, was it? And carefree, jetting my way around the world's hot spots, seducing women in between squash matches. Or is it playing squash in between seducing women?"
"I'm not entirely sure," Margo said evenly, "but that's beside the point."
"And the point of this deathless observation is…?"
"I have insulted you." Too used to him to be concerned, she shrugged. "You have to have some talent for business because your parents aren't fools. However much they love you, they wouldn't give you free rein to poke into the hotels. They'd just let you drain your trust fund and be a wastrel."
"Your confidence in me is touching." With a sneer, he topped off their glasses. "I think I need another drink."
"And you have that law degree."
"Yes, the one they gave me after I'd finished racketing around Harvard."
"Don't be so sensitive." She patted his hand. "It occurs to me that you must know something about managing… things. I've had a few interesting offers," she began. "The most lucrative and least complicated is from Playboy."
His eyes went so sharp, so flinty, it surprised her that they didn't strike sparks off the silverware. "I see."
"I've posed naked before—or the next thing to it." Wary of his enigmatic response, she sliced off a bit of cheese. "European magazines aren't as puritanical as American ones."
"And you consider an arty ad in Italian Vogue on the same level as a centerfold in a skin magazine?" There were murderous thoughts rocketing through his head, making him feel ridiculously like the cuckolded lover.
No, she didn't, and felt incredibly foolish. "Same body," she said with a careless shrug. "The point is, I've made my living in front of the camera in varying stages of dress and undress. This is a way to continue to do so. A one-shot deal, anyway, that would put some distance between me and the creditors. With what they're offering me I could get back on my feet. Well, one foot anyway."
His eyes never left her face. Nearby, a waiter dropped a tray of dishes with a resounding crash, and Josh didn't so much as blink. "Are you asking me to look over the offer?''
It had been her thought, but she reconsidered, and reconsidered quickly, at the razor-edged tone in the question. "No, I was simply mentioning one of my alternatives."
"Is that what you want to be, Margo? Some sweaty-palmed adolescent's wet dream? This month's pinup in the auto mechanic shop, a visual aid at the fertility clinic?"
"I think that's in very poor taste," she said stiffly.
"That's in poor taste?" The way he exploded with it had several diners jerking their heads around and murmuring.
"Don't shout at me," she said under her breath. "You've never had any respect for what I do. I don't know why I thought you might have some sensible comment about this."
"You want a sensible comment. Terrific." He gulped down wine to force the bile back down his throat. "Go right ahead and do it, duchess. Take the money and run. Don't worry about embarrassing your family. Why should you care? So they snicker the next time your mother's standing in line at the supermarket. If the kids tease Ali at school, it's not your problem. Just make sure you're well paid."
"That's enough," she said quietly.
"Is it?" he tossed back. "I'm just warming up."
"I said it was an option. I didn't say I was going to accept." With impatient fingers she rubbed at a headache brewing at her left temple. "Goddamn it, it's just a body. My body."
"You're connected to people. I'd hoped you'd begun to realize that what you do affects them."
"I have." Wearily she let her hand drop. "All right, I have. Judging from your reaction, it wouldn't go over very well."
Inch by inch he reeled in his temper and studied her. "Is that what this was about? Testing the waters with me?"
She managed a smile. "Yes. Bad idea." Sighing, she pushed her plate away. "On to the next. We won't bother with the German producer who's offering a considerable pile of marks if I let him showcase me in his latest adult film."
"Jesus Christ, Margo—"
"I said we wouldn't bother with that. So what do you do when you decide to redecorate one of your hotels?''
He rubbed a hand over his face. "While I'm trying to make that leap of thought, we'll order the pasta course." He signaled the waiter, ordered tagliolini for himself and risotto for Margo.
Bracing her chin on her palm, she began to think through that next option. "Your Italian's much better than mine. That might be helpful, too."
"Margo darling, don't go off on another tangent until I've caught up." His blood was still hot at the idea of her being spread out in full, glorious color for any man with pocket change to drool over. "Are you asking me for decorating advice?"
"No. No, of course not." The very idea made her snicker. The headache and unsteady stomach his temper had caused began to ease. "I'm curious about what you do with the furnishings when you redo suites."
"You want furniture?"
"Josh, just answer the question. What do you do when you change the decor?"
"Okay, fine. We rarely do that in one of our established hotels, as the clientele appreciates the tradition." What the hell was going through that fascinating mind of hers now? he wondered, but shrugged. It wouldn't take long to find out. "However, when we buy out another hotel, we will usually revamp the rooms in the Templeton style, using the locale for inspiration. We'll keep whatever is suitable or up to our standards, sometimes shipping pieces off to another location. What doesn't suit is normally sold at auction, which is where the decorator and buyer would pick up replacements. We also buy at antique shops and through estate sales."
"Auction," she murmured. "It might be best. Simplest. Auctions, antique shops, estate sales. They're all really just secondhand stores, aren't they? I mean, everything there has been owned before, used before. Sometimes people value things more if they've belonged to someone else."
She beamed up at the waiter, nearly causing him to jostle the plates as his blood pressure spiked. "Grazie, Mario. Ho molta fame."
"Prego, signorina. Mia piacere. Buona appetite." He bowed away from the table, narrowly avoiding a collision with a busboy.
"Your Italian's fine," Josh said dryly. "You don't even need words."
"He's a sweetheart. He has a lovely wife who presents him with a bambina every year. And he never looks down my blouse." She paused, considered. "Well, hardly ever. Anyway," she said, digging into the risotto with genuine enthusiasm, "speaking of secondhand shops."
"Were we?''
"Yes. What sort of percentage of the value is customary when you sell?"
"It would depend on several factors."
"What are they?"
Deciding he'd been patient and informative long enough, he shook his head. "No, you first. Why do you want to know?"
"I'm thinking of—what's the term?—downsizing." She speared a shrimp from his plate.
"Actually, rightsizing has become the more politically correct term."
"Okay. I like that better anyway. Rightsizing." She chuckled over the idea. "I've been collecting things for ten years. I thought I might unload some of them. My apartment's entirely too crowded, and I've never taken the time to weed out my wardrobe. Since I've got some free time, I thought…"
She trailed off. He hadn't said a word, but she knew he understood she was scrambling for pride. "I need the money," she said flatly. "It's stupid of me to pretend otherwise. Kate thinks liquidation is the best option." She tried to smile again. "And since. Playboy is out…"
"You don't want me to offer you a loan," he murmured. "You just want me to sit back and do nothing while you sell your shoes for grocery money."
"And my bags, and my porcelain boxes, and my candlesticks." He wasn't going to feel sorry for her, she determined. By God, no one was going to feel sorry for her. "Look, Streisand did it a couple years ago, didn't she? Not that she needed the money, but what's the difference? She sold things she'd collected over the years, and I doubt she turned up her nose at the money. It doesn't appear that I'm going to be able to sell my face for the foreseeable future, and I don't intend to sell my body, so I've whittled the options down to my things."
She didn't want sympathy, he determined. So he wouldn't offer it. "Is that what you were doing tonight when I came by? Inventory?"
"In an impulsive, semihysterical sort of way. But now I'm calm and rational, and I see that the plan—actually Kate's plan—has value." She covered his hand with hers. "Josh, when you saw me back home, you asked if I needed help. I'm telling you I do. I'm asking you for it."
He looked down at her hand, the glint of sapphire and diamonds against creamy white skin. "What do you want me to do?"
"First, keep this between us for now."