Love Letters, Inc

by E C Sheedy

  "Glad you like it. Jayne took care of the decorating for me." He looked around, then looked puzzled. "She said this room captured me perfectly."

  Rosie caressed the edge of her cushion again. "She was right."

  Kent sat beside her and put his feet up on the oak and iron coffee table. He draped an arm around the back of the sofa, which placed his hand perilously close to her ear, but he didn't touch her.

  "Rosie, I know you're tired, but about today—" He stopped as though he were looking for a sign, telling him which way to go. "I know I wasn't exactly honest in the way I got you there, but I wanted you to meet my family."

  "Why?"

  "Good question." He stopped as if to sort through his thoughts. "I thought it was all about making you change your mind."

  "Run that by me again."

  "I figured if you saw what living, breathing chaos, looked like, you'd reconsider the size of your proposed contribution to the nation's birthrate. Then..."

  The thin flame of hope in Rosie's heart sputtered but held. "Then?"

  He shifted closer, lifted the hair from her nape, and let it sift through his fingers until it settled back against her shoulders. She tingled like crystal tapped by a silver spoon.

  "Then," he whispered against her throat. "It got complicated." His breath against her skin came in small, hot gusts and his voice was husky. Come to think of it, her own breathing was a bit on the restless side.

  He kissed her cheek, just under her jaw, then her throat. "No sex, remember?" she said, arching her neck so he had more room. So, what's this, O'Hanlon, a cooking lesson? Lady Brain intoned.

  "I remember," he murmured, pushing her top aside and kissing that delightfully tender spot between shoulder and neck. "You have the most incredible skin. Have I told you that?" He drew one finger along the front edge of her scooped-necked tee, then bent to kiss her just above the cleft between her breasts. "Incredible."

  His lips skimmed the top of her breasts, kissing here softly, there more firmly. His hand clasped her waist, pulled her closer. Damned if her body wasn't going on auto pilot. Damned if her breasts weren't heaving with enough thrust to power an outboard. Damned if she wasn't the craziest woman on five continents. "No sex." She croaked with conviction forged from spider webs and cotton candy.

  Kent went still. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked, his lips a hair's-breadth from her nipple.

  Her body thrumming with need, Rosie lifted his head, and looked into his silky green eyes. He meant it, she could see that. He'd stop if she wanted him to, and, of course, it made her love him even more, want him even more. She grinned. "If you do, Summerton, I won't be held responsible for the consequences."

  His eyes gleamed. He stood and pulled her to her feet. "Come on, Red. Tonight we'll test-drive my bed." He looked at the couch. "I'm not a big fan of leather."

  Chapter 11

  Kent woke up guilty.

  He looked at his bedside clock. Already after seven. He'd meant to talk to Rosie last night, get some kind of consensus, or, better yet, a compromise on this big family thing. Instead, they'd made love until they were both exhausted.

  The only serious discussion had been some inconclusive pillow talk about whether to spay Lacy or pair her up with Font. What the hell they'd do with a litter of Irish wolfhounds, Kent had no idea, but the idea seemed to set Rosie on fire. Looked like the woman wanted as many dogs as she did kids. Things were going from bad to worse, and he hadn't even broached the subject of the two of them becoming a serious us.

  He looked at the woman snuggled into the pillow next to him, and his chest constricted. And it was more than lust, it was love. Suddenly, he couldn't imagine his life without her. Trouble was he didn't know where to go from here, or even if there was a place to go. But somehow he had to keep Rosie O'Hanlon in his life.

  He got up and padded toward the bathroom. He'd shower and think about it. There had to be a way. The differences between him and Rosie had to be sorted out—and soon. And, much as he'd like to ignore it and pretend it didn't matter, the issue of how many kids a couple wanted was incredibly important—and thorny as hell. Not only did he not want a zillion kids, he didn't have time for them. For the next few years, running Beachline was going to take all the energy he had.

  He turned on the shower. He was fortunate that Rosie occasionally changed her mind. His lips twitched to a smile. Like last night.

  By the time the water was streaming down his back, he was optimistic. By the time he'd shaved and dressed, he was enthusiastic. They'd talk it through, he'd take her to the family brunch, and they'd work it out. No problem. All it took was compromise. Rosie would just have to understand his work schedule.

  * * *

  Rosie was in the kitchen ferreting through his cupboards when he got there. She was wearing his terry bathrobe, which unfortunately shrouded every feminine curve on her body, and her brilliant hair was wet and slicked to her head.

  When she saw him, she looked up, pulled at the collar of the robe, and smiled. "Hope you don't mind. I used the other bathroom."

  He walked up and pulled her loosely into his arms. "Use anything you like," he said, kissing her wet head. "What's mine is yours."

  She tilted her head, gave him a sassy look, and stroked him boldly. "What a nice thought."

  Kent gasped for air. He took her hands and lifted them to his chest. "You could be addictive, you know that?"

  She locked her arms around his neck. "I wish," she murmured, then pulled his face to hers and kissed him fiercely. There was an unsettling desperation in the kiss which Kent didn't understand. Puzzled, he pulled back and looked down at her.

  She dropped her gaze and stepped out of his arms. "I'm going to get dressed." She gestured toward the gurgling coffeepot. "Coffee's almost ready." At the door she turned back. "Oh, and Con called when you were in the shower. He's your business partner, right?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Said he was on his way." With that she left the room.

  Con was coming. Here. Now. He'd have been less surprised if she'd announced the imminent arrival of the King of Borneo, her adopted country.

  "Con..." Kent muttered, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Wouldn't you know it? The man Kent most wanted to see was about to arrive at a singularly inopportune moment—unless he could head him off. He quickly set his coffee on the counter, picked up the phone, and dialed Con's cell number. He'd barely keyed the last digit before the door chimed. Too late.

  Kent opened the door and Con stepped in with purpose, his stride long, and his face grim. "We need to talk," he said tersely.

  "After you," Kent said, closing the door and waving an arm in the direction of the kitchen. "But you should know your timing's lousy."

  "As far as you're concerned everything I do is lousy, so what's new?"

  Kent had no idea what he was talking about and didn't bother to ask. Con was a master of the cryptic comment, as good at them as he was at pulling his disappearing act.

  "I've been trying to get hold of you for weeks," he said. "Hawaii was one thing, but, damn it, Con, we have a business to run. Where in hell have you been?"

  "Trying to find a buyer for my Beachline shares."

  Kent's head shot up. "What are you talking about?"

  Con ignored him. "And I've got one. Here's the deal. Either you buy me out, according to our partnership agreement, or I sell to the Turfside group."

  "Turfside?" Shocked to his bones, Kent stared at his partner and tried to put his thoughts into some kind of order. He hadn't known what to expect from Con's sudden visit, but it sure as hell wasn't this. Turfside was a conglomerate, a big player in the golf course management business, and the last partner in the world either he or Beachline needed. Beachline Resort was a hell of a lot more than a mere golf course. And Con knew that. What was going on here? He stared at his partner, a partner he thought was his friend. None of this computed.

  * * *

  Rosie heard voices in the kitchen, hesitated about going in, but pl
unged ahead anyway. She needed a caffeine jolt.

  "Hi." Rosie said, dropping her tote on the table and heading for the coffee. She glanced at the two grim-faced men and noticed the room temperature. Cold. Very cold. Her smile slipped. "Oh-oh, I think an 'oops' is in order here. Why don't I make myself scarce?" She edged toward the door.

  "Rosie, this is Conrad York," Kent said.

  She smiled at the man. Good looking, but in a miserable mood, judging from the tic in his jaw. He nodded at her distractedly but didn't return her smile.

  "Rosie," Kent said. "Why don't you wait in the—"

  Con interrupted. "No need for that. I'm leaving." He gave Kent a hard look. "I've said what I came to say. No use prolonging it." He smiled wryly. "My lawyer will be in touch with yours, Kent. The way I see it, the sooner we end this charade of a partnership, the better."

  Rosie was fascinated. She wouldn't leave now, no matter what. Nosiness was another of her many virtues.

  Con was nearly out of the kitchen when Kent spoke, his voice hard, his expression unreadable. "Hold it right there, Con. Not one more damn step until you give me an explanation. You owe me that."

  Con swiveled, as if he were wired to blow. Then he took a deep breath. "Okay. How about this? When we bought Beachline, it was a partnership. I was perfectly willing to do my share and more. Back then we worked together." He shot Kent a cold look. "But now? You're a one-man band, Summerton, and you like it that way. If you don't trust me enough to do my job, I'm outta there. Plain and simple. I don't need you, or anyone else, second-guessing every damn decision I make."

  "Second-guessing...?" Kent looked puzzled, but his eyes blazed. "You've barely showed up for work in the past three months. What the hell was I supposed to do?"

  "You don't get it, do you?" Con said, glaring at Kent. "There wasn't anything for me to show up for."

  Rosie put down her coffee. She was beginning to get the drift of what was going on here, and it didn't look good for Kent. For the briefest moment, Con's anger dissipated, and Rosie saw regret in his eyes.

  "But you were there every day, right? And every night? And probably most weekends."

  Kent nodded crisply. "Damn straight. Someone had to be."

  "Did it ever occur to you that on occasion I would have liked that someone to be me—without you looking over my shoulder? If you'd trusted my judgment occasionally, relied on me—" He swore, dropped his head briefly, then lifted it again. "Forget it. The truth is you're a control freak, Summerton. Beachline and you will make the perfect couple." He headed for the door in long, purposeful strides. In seconds the door slammed, and he was gone.

  Silence.

  "Ouch," Rosie said.

  Kent didn't answer her, just stood there staring at the door his partner had gone through as if in shock. Then he slammed the mug he'd been holding down on the counter. Coffee slopped over the stainless steel top.

  He looked at her, but his gaze was frigid. "Do you want something to eat? I don't have much, but I can rustle something up."

  "Excuse me? Didn't your business partner just walk out of here? And didn't he just dump all over you because you wouldn't let him do his job? And isn't your life more or less in danger of falling apart?"

  He straightened and headed for the refrigerator. "I'll deal with it. How about some eggs?"

  "Forget the damned eggs!" Rosie narrowed her gaze. "How are you going to deal with it?"

  "It's not your concern, Rosie."

  "Is that the same as 'mind your own business?' "

  "Yes. Look, I've been managing Beachline for months with no help from Con York. His leaving just simplifies things."

  Rosie ignored the fact he'd told her to mind her own business. She generally ignored stupidity. "You're exhausted. You sleep like a sentry on the front line. You have no life. You're in danger of going up in flames from executive burnout—" she glared at him "—and you think your partner's leaving simplifies things? Your neurons aren't firing, Summerton." She put her hands on her hips and tried to look threatening. "Go after him."

  "Go after—are you nuts?" The look he gave her—half anger, half incredulity—said he thought she was.

  "Okay, ready up then. I've got something to say, and I want you to listen carefully. You and I have got something happening here—"

  She took a deep breath. What she needed now was attitude, and plenty of it, because Rosie O'Hanlon was about to put her heart on the line. She marched out on her wobbly limb.

  "Like I said, we've got something happening here, and it's all your doing. I told you in the beginning I wasn't interested in a hyperactive workaholic as the father of my children—and I told you I want a lot of children." She thinned her lips a moment. "And I do. Nothing's changed. But would you let it go? Let me go? No. You ate, slept, smiled, and seduced your way into my heart. You even took me to meet your mother."

  And that really made her mad. When she began pacing, Kent followed her moves in open fascination.

  "Then you brought me here last night so we could talk." She snorted. "Some talk!"

  "We were busy," he said calmly, lifting a dark brow. "And as I recall, you weren't complaining."

  "Neither were you," she shot back.

  "No, I wasn't." He almost smiled. "I could make love to you forever, Rosie."

  She blinked, then decided to ignore the sparkle in her heart, the swoosh in her tummy—and his last remark. He had a way of getting her off course. Not this time.

  "Where was I?" she asked.

  "I can't be sure, but I think you were telling me I had to chase my partner down and beg him to come back because I had you meet my mother." He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. "I know there's logic in there somewhere. I just haven't been able to follow it."

  Rosie hesitated, but only for a nanosecond. "Okay, let's start over again—"

  "Good idea."

  She frowned so deeply she felt the lines interlace on her forehead. Was she actually in love with this irritating man? It didn't bear thinking about. "Like I said, we have something happening between us—and the way I see it, you were the main instigator of it. Before you stomped up onto my front porch, huffing and puffing about some poor woman writing you naughty letters, I had an orderly life."

  Kent looked puzzled, as if the assimilation of Rosie and an orderly life was too taxing to contemplate.

  She went on. "I was happy. I had a dog, a house, a computer with which to eke out my meager living, and a plan. Then you came along and ruined everything."

  "Something happened to Font?" he asked dryly.

  "Don't be smart, you know what I mean. You ruined my plan, treated it as if it were so much cow dung."

  "Cow dung."

  "I was going to be smart for a change, quit wasting my time on ambitious suits, find a man who had some... perspective enough to put home and kids before profit and loss."

  Tears massed behind her eyelids, and she forced them back. "But would you leave me alone? No. You had to go and make me fall in love with you."

  "Rosie." Kent moved away from the counter and toward her. She stepped back.

  The tears seeped through, and she smeared them away with the back of her hand.

  "No. Don't even think about holding me. Don't you get it, Summerton? I don't want to love a man who wants to work a hundred hours a week. My dad did that, and he had the heart attack to prove it."

  "I'm sorry," Kent said quietly.

  "Ancient history now. I was four." She sniffed, not wanting sympathy. "I scarcely remember him. What I do remember is that after he died, Mom had to take over as breadwinner. She worked as hard as he did." She looked up at Kent and for a moment was lost in the intensity of his gaze. Then she straightened. She wasn't one for spending too much time in the past, but she sure intended to learn from it and stack life's chaotic deck in favor of the family she planned in whatever way she could.

  "I'm not your dad, Rosie," Kent said. "And there's nothing wrong with enjoying your work."

  She stare
d at him, studied him, tried to change her mind and tell herself she was wrong about him. "No, there's nothing wrong with enjoying your work, but there's a lot wrong with being addicted to it. When it makes you exclude others, when you can't let it go—even enough to share the load with your partner, I think that makes you ambitious... to a fault."

  She picked up her wrecked tote bag and headed for the door.

  "You can't be leaving." He looked stunned.

  She turned back and smiled through her tears. "I'm going back to Borneo, hotshot. And this time I'll be staying." She saw his mouth tighten, his chin set to a stubborn line, and she saw the hurt in his eyes.

  "You're serious."

  "Never more so."

  "Fine. I'll get my keys and drive you." His words came hard and fast. He pushed away from the counter he was leaning against.

  Rosie quickly shook her head. "No, thanks. I'll take a cab to Beachline and pick up my car."

  "I said I'll drive you."

  "And I said, you won't."

  He glared at her. She glared back. No way was Rosaleen Fiona O'Hanlon going to get within whiff distance of this man's aftershave ever again. The fat lady had definitely sung.

  It was over.

  Chapter 12

  Kent stood stone-stiff for a long time. He felt as if he'd been through a flak attack. First Con, then Rosie.

  Rosie was gone.

  He closed his eyes, and cursed. Damned if his eyes weren't watering. For want of anything better to do, but finally having to do something, he walked to the sink and ran a cold glass of water. He tried to piece events together, make sense of her leaving. One minute she was in his arms—then Con had come and gone—and the next minute she was out the door. He drained the water glass.