by E C Sheedy
He knew she was working on the Beachline manual, because Greg had heard from her, as had Susan and Marlene. But she hadn't called him, not even to say she was, or was not, coming to the barbecue. Not that he had any intention of letting her out of it.
That decision made, he turned back to his desk. Time to get to work. He hadn't heard anyone come in, but a new stack of mail formed a silo on his desk. He hadn't heard from his pen pal since Rosie mailed her letter, but unless he was wrong, that was the scent of Gardenia drifting up his nose. He rifled the pile and smiled when he spotted the pale pink envelope. He put his feet up on his desk and opened the letter.
Sleep brings dreams of you, my darling.
Come dream with me.
See what I see, feel what I feel.
Our mouths joined at last.
Skin to skin.
Our bodies moist, blazing with a dark, wild heat.
My naked, aching breasts pressed against your chest.
I want you, Kent. I crave your hot, hard length.
In love and longing,
Gardenia
Kent shifted in his chair.
Rosie's purple prose made his own thoughts decidedly blue. And they had nothing to do with Gardenia and a hell of a lot to do with the vision of being skin-to-skin with Rosie O'Hanlon.
He slapped the letter on his desk and exhaled as if he'd run a marathon.
Then he noticed the hand-printed note on the back of the letter. "I received Cyrano's message, my darling, but I know you don't really want me to stop writing. My courage is growing, so we'll meet soon. I will be naked and waiting—where you least expect me."
"Whoa!" Kent straightened. He picked up the phone to call Rosie, then remembered her recent trip to Borneo.
Tonight. He'd go out to her place tonight. This was one development she had to hear about.
* * *
"I'm not here." Rosie yelled for the third time, determined to get through to the idiot banging on her door. She gave a beseeching glance to Font who was sleeping in the middle of the doorway. No help from that quarter. The banging continued. She sighed and headed for the door. It was past eight and time to quit, anyway, not to mention she was starved. It was probably only Jonesy bursting with the financial crisis of the week. They could share some soup.
"Summerton, what are you doing here? I told you, I'm in Borneo." Her hand shot to the wildness she called hair. She must look as if she'd been standing around with her finger in an electrical socket. When was the last time she looked in a mirror? Yesterday? The day before? And here was Summerton, looking as though he'd just leapt freshly ironed from the cover of GQ. Irritated with the unfairness of it, she plucked a paper clip from her mane of glory and let him stand there.
After a moment of silence, he asked, "Can I come in?"
"No."
"No," he repeated, then waved a sheet of rose linen stationery in her face. "This from a woman who lusts after the 'long, hard length' of me?"
She snatched the paper from his hand. "Damn!" she said, turning and walking back into the house. Kent followed, until they both arrived in her kitchen. "Enough time had passed. I figured my letter had done the trick." She slapped the offending paper against her thigh.
"Look at the back."
She turned the letter over. "Damn," she said again, then sighed. She'd have to tell him her suspicions about one of his staff. Too bad her dream wasn't more specific. He'd think she was a gold-plated flake, but it couldn't be helped.
She went to the fridge and took out some salad greens, then went to the stove and turned the heat on under the soup.
"What are you doing?" Kent stood by the unlit fireplace frowning.
"I'm thinking and making myself something to eat. And unless I miss my guess, you just left the club where you had to miss lunch due to an emergency meeting and so haven't eaten a thing since breakfast."
He grinned.
She rolled her eyes.
"Wait," he said, taking off his jacket and striding over to the cooking island, "I'll do the salad thing, you stir the soup—and think."
* * *
Rosie munched on the last crust of her bread while Kent cleared the table. She thought idly that some woman, at sometime in Kent's life, had done a pretty good job of basic training. Then she folded her napkin. Might as well get this over with.
"Kent."
"Uh-huh." He came back and joined her at the table, bringing two cups of coffee.
"I think Gardenia works for you."
"No way. I know all the women at Beachline. Not one of them gives me a second thought—other than at salary review time." He thought for a moment, shook his head, and repeated firmly. "No way."
She stared at him, and said nothing. Lord, was he that unaware? The women at Beachline almost bumped into walls when he walked down the hall.
"You're not serious," he said. "You can't be."
"I'm very serious. I think I heard her voice when I was there."
"You think? Why didn't you say something then?"
She hesitated, twirled a strand of hair. "Because it kind of, uh, came to me in a dream a couple of days later."
"A dream." He leaned back in his chair, looking at her as if she'd just admitted to spotting Elvis at the local coin laundry. "I see."
She glanced skyward, trying to ignore his insufferable tone of voice. "Yes, a dream," she said firmly, with a fine lift of her chin. "And if you patronize me, Summerton, the next meal you have here will be laced with rat poison."
His lips quirked up at the corners. "Glad to know they'll be a next time. Rat poison or not."
The man was quick. Too quick. She glared at him.
"So tell me about this dream," he said in velvet tones, sounding like an oh-so-patient psychiatrist about to probe the psyche of a deranged mental patient.
She was sure she had rat poison around here somewhere.
Chapter 7
Kent listened to Rosie intently as she told him about her dream. If it hadn't included a witches' coven, a green-eyed shapeshifter, and a magic fog, he might be less skeptical. He'd never put any stock in dreams, and after listening to Rosie's, he knew why. But he wasn't about to tell her that.
She insisted that one of her dream-witches was Gardenia. She'd caught a glimpse of her face under a white hood, she told him earnestly—which apparently implied she was a good witch.
Okay...
"But you can't actually identify which of the witches sounded like Gardenia?" he asked in as sober a voice as he could muster.
Rosie shook her head. "No. And it's been driving me nuts. It could be one of the women in accounting. I don't think it's Marlene, but then... Oh, I don't know—" She combed her hands through her hair from the temples out, grimacing when she unearthed another paper clip. She twisted it idly before adding, "As for the others, I'm not sure. But I heard Gardenia's voice, I'm sure of it. And I'm almost certain it was at Beachline."
"Almost certain?" he repeated, his face tight from keeping it straight. Rosie might not have identified Gardenia, but she had given him an opportunity. He decided to take it. The trick was to remain cool and work his plan. He stood. "If you want to check out this dream angle, you'll have to come back to Beachline. Spend more time there." He removed his jacket from the chair back and shrugged into it. "Next Saturday will be perfect."
"Why next Saturday?" She looked doubtful.
"We're hosting a special event. Everyone you met when you were there last will be on the premises." He didn't bother to mention they'd also be there the four days prior to Saturday—or that the "special event" was the Summerton family barbecue. This way, if she turned down his request to go to the barbecue with him, he had an ace in the hole. He walked toward the door, and she walked with him, silent, still fiddling with the paper clip. At the door she looked up at him.
"You don't believe in my dream, do you?" she said, looking uncertain and challenging at the same time.
"I don't believe Gardenia is one of Beachline's employees, but
if you can prove me wrong..."
Her eyes narrowed, then lit with determination. "My pleasure, Summerton," she said.
"And this is mine." He gripped her shoulders and pulled her close enough to catch a whiff of vanilla and feel her breath on his neck. He kissed her the way he'd been wanting to for days now. And God, if the woman didn't tuck into his arms as though she'd been wanting the same damn thing, folding into him as though she were coming home. Her mouth was so soft, so giving, his orderly thoughts and plans went south in a hurry. He didn't want to let her go. Ever.
"Oh, Kent," she whispered, propping her braced head against his chest. "You're making me crazy."
He lifted her head, brushed his lips over hers. "That's the idea, O'Hanlon." He kissed her chin, her cheek, her ear, her wild hair.
She giggled. "Be careful there, hotshot, I'm not sure I got all the paperclips out." She pulled away, gazing at him with a terrifically wistful expression, then pushed hard at his chest. "Go. Before I forget myself and start ripping your shirt off."
"Hell of an idea."
She smiled and he smiled back, then he smoothed her hair away from her forehead, kissed its warm, smooth skin. Briefly, he considered pushing his advantage, but decided against it. He didn't want either of them to do something they'd regret. When he and Rosie went to bed together—and they would—he wanted her to want it as much as he did. No reservations. No misunderstandings. After Saturday and a clearheaded view of what a big family really meant, a consensus between them was inevitable. If economic arguments couldn't change her mind, maybe the sight of a few dozen sticky-faced kids and a batch of worn-out parents would.
He stepped back and opened the door. "Saturday then? Say about noon? I'll pick you up."
"Okay."
He was opening his car door, when she called to him from the top step. "Kent, about the barbecue? I'm sorry, but I'm not going. It wouldn't be a good idea. I meant what I said about, uh, us. There's just no way..."
"You're probably right," he said, trying to keep his face straight.
"And Kent? I can't stay too late on Saturday. My neck brace is coming off Friday, and I've joined a single's club. There's a dance that night, and I've already been paired up."
Paired up...
Kent's smile crashed and burned, right along with his smug attitude.
* * *
"Mae, would you bring me a thermos of coffee from the kitchen?" Kent asked, slapping a two-inch sheaf of papers on his desk and taking his seat. "I'm going to be here awhile."
"Sure." Mae said, picking up his cold coffee and adding it to her tray. "Can I bring you something to eat?"
"No, thanks," Kent mumbled, trying to focus on the financial reports in front of him. He heard a click when the door closed. And the click set his mind wandering—again. A singles dance. What in hell was wrong with the woman?
What had she said? "Paired up." Over his dead body.
Now he was on a deadline, dictated to by a damn neck brace. He cursed, and rubbed at the irritation lodged in his forehead.
He could just let the universe unfold as Rosie wanted it. That would be the fairest thing to do. But fair was the last thing on his mind. He wanted her, and not just in bed. That thought stuck and held too long for comfort. He couldn't deny it; he was falling big time for Rosie O'Hanlon, but, damn it, he did not want to set off a personal population explosion to get her.
Mae came back with the thermos, then busied herself setting it and a fresh cup out for him.
"I brought you a couple of cookies," she said. "Just in case." She didn't say in case of what.
"Thanks." He glanced up distractedly. He was busy wondering if there was a legal limit on the number of kids you could claim for taxes.
"Mae, have you got any kids?" he asked abruptly.
"Not yet. Someday though," she said, eyes dreamy, voice wistful. She started stroking the thermos as if it could kick start the process.
Women. Weird. Mention babies and sometimes their brains went into meltdown. "How many do you want?"
She turned pink, as if he'd asked her what kind of birth control she favored. "I don't know. A couple. Kids are expensive."
"Uh huh!" Kent slapped a hand on his desk hard enough to send a stapler thudding to the floor. "My argument exactly. Why have a team when a pair will do, right?"
Mae shot him a confused look, and no damn wonder. He and Mae hadn't had anything remotely like a personal conversation since she'd joined Beachline.
He rubbed his forehead again, about where his dunce cap should sit. "Forget it. Thanks for the coffee." He reached for his cup and opened a file, hoping she'd take the hint and leave. She did.
With Mae gone, Kent leaned back in his chair, nursing his coffee as if it were hundred-year-old Scotch. He was losing it. Completely losing it. If he didn't get a grip on this thing he had for O'Hanlon, someone was going to put him in a rubber room. He let out breath enough to drain his lungs. Trouble was he didn't want to get a grip on anything but Rosie. All of Rosie. But he didn't want to do it under false pretenses.
But there was nothing he could do about it now. Rosie had emailed him saying she was going back to Borneo until Saturday. He hadn't even bothered to call. No point. Like it or not, his sanity and his hyperactive libido would have to wait, which was probably just as well. He had enough on his plate, not to mention a lousy dinner meeting on Friday with Packard. The guy hadn't taken no for an answer. Said he had some new ideas for the new wing. Kent figured it was more like some new ideas for increasing the costs, but because he didn't have anything better to do, he'd agreed to the dinner.
He checked his calendar. Friday at seven-thirty. Monk's.
In the meantime, he'd be busy enough to keep his mind off Rosie. At least he had the advantage of the barbecue, which made him her first post-brace date. Maybe it was a small edge, and maybe Rosie didn't know it was a date, but for want of anything better, he'd take it.
Come Saturday he'd begin his campaign in earnest.
* * *
Rosie hopped her way to the kitchen telephone, struggling to plug her heel into her sneaker. Shoe in one hand, phone in the other, she sank into the fireside wing chair and managed a breathless, "Hello."
"She lives."
"Hey, Jonesy." Rosie dropped the sneaker and wiggled her foot into it. "What's happening?"
"My question exactly. What time do you want me to pick you up?"
"As close to three as you can make it. And puhleeze, puhleeze, don't be late. I feel like an inmate on freedom day. I can't believe I'm being unwired today."
"Want to celebrate?"
"Absolutely. Have you got a plan?" With her sneakers under control, Rosie slumped back in the chair and started in on her jeans' zipper.
"Better than a plan. I've got us dates, including a real live person of the masculine persuasion who's dying to meet you, and I've got reservations at Monk's for seven."
Rosie stopped zipping mid belly. "I don't know, Jonesy."
"What don't you know?"
"I might be tired or something."
"This from the woman who's about to embark on an intensive, well-oiled, totally focused manhunt. Or should I say daddy-hunt? I don't think so."
"I shouldn't have told you." Rosie groused. "Once you hear the word goal, you're unstoppable."
"Yeah, ain't it great?" Jonesy laughed. "So forget the delaying action. This guy is a real possibility, hunky, wealthy, and lonely, and a perfect candidate for you to kick off your campaign. Unless, of course, you've changed your mind and want to go after sexy Summerton? Like any sane woman would."
"No, I haven't changed my mind." Now all she had to do is get him out of it. Saturday. She'd find his blessed Gardenia and get out of his career path.
"So, are you in or out for tonight?"
Rosie tugged at her hair in a desperate attempt to locate the enthusiasm sector of her brain. No go. This was definitely an oh-why-not decision rather than the yes!—let's-do-it kind. Irritating. And all because of a pair of
green eyes to die for.
And something was poking into her backside.
"Rosie?"
She reached under her behind and pulled out her glasses. Broken. Again. Of course it was Summerton's fault. Everything was Summerton's fault. Ever since he'd knocked on her door and tantalized her with that aphrodisiac aftershave he insisted he didn't wear, she'd been completely off kilter. Well, no more. He wasn't right for her. She wasn't right for him. That was the truth of the matter. It was time she thought of her kids, and past time for Summerton and his workaholic righteousness to get out of her life. She blew out a breath strong enough to tilt a windmill.
"I'm in," she said, then started searching her hair for a paper clip to repair her glasses. The damn things were never in the right place at the right time.
"Great," Jonesy said. "See you around three. I'd suggest we go shopping before we meet the guys, but knowing the current state of your finances, that would be irresponsible of me. So I'll drive you home after your doctor's appointment and pick you up again at six-thirty. I know you'll be driving again, but we might as well stick with one car. If Roland works out—"
"Who's Roland?"
"Your date, idiot."
"Oh, yeah. Right."
"If Roland works out," Jonesy repeated, enunciating carefully, "he can drive you home. If not, give me a high sign, and I'll do the honors. Okay?"
"Okay."
"And Rosaleen?"
"Uh-huh?"
"Try to curb your enthusiasm. You don't want to overwhelm the guy on the first date."
Rosie hung up the phone and went in search of a clip to fix her glasses. Roland? Were there actually men called Roland?
* * *
Kent tilted his head, then cupped his ear in an effort to hear whatever it was Vince Packard said. Something about following him. He nodded, and they walked a gauntlet of full tables, dropping apologies as they went. It was impossible to make headway without bumping into one chair or another at every turn.