The Playboy's Office Romance

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  Until that moment, he hadn’t even known he wanted to suit her.

  It was probably still a bad idea. Lara was trouble, the kind of woman whose beauty and brains packed a double wallop for a guy like him, a guy who liked to keep things simple, have a good time and move on before anybody started thinking serious thoughts. But Lara…well, hell, she had serious thoughts before the good times even got started. She wanted to nip any hint of fun at the outset, be sure there was no possibility of a misunderstanding right from the start, put herself in the role of Captain before the Love Boat pulled away from the dock.

  And he’d just told her he intended to have a relationship with her.

  The very idea made him laugh aloud, and filled him with a crazy anticipation.

  The intercom buzzed, and he lazily reached over and tapped it on. “Go,” he said, smiling widely for no good reason.

  There was a pause, then Nell’s crisply professional tones. “Okay, if you insist, I’ll go, but I expect to get paid for the entire day.”

  “Nell.” She knew Lara. He’d seen them talking together, laughing. “You’re just the woman I need to see. Come in here, will you, please?”

  Another pause. Wary. “You’re not going to try and dictate a letter or anything, are you?”

  He laughed as he dropped his feet from the windowsill and swung the chair around full front. “I promised you that first day I’d keep letter writing to a minimum. Just come in here for a minute. There’s something I want to ask you.”

  “Hmmph.” She broke the connection and a minute later was standing in front of his desk, looking tall, stern and very like his eighth grade science teacher. “If this is about overtime to help you catch up on this paperwork, I’ll remind you that I’m salaried, not paid by the hour. Therefore, there’s very little incentive you can offer me to work late.”

  “I’d pay you under the table and hourly if some of these voluminous reports were to vanish off this desk.”

  “Tempting, but time-consuming,” she said drily. “Which brings us back to the question of overtime.”

  Bryce had always liked Nell, had always enjoyed her crisp, no-nonsense efficiency, and had been charmed these past few weeks to discover she actually had a sense of humor. “Contrary to your often-stated opinion, this desk has not become a black hole under my command and when I need to be rescued from this paperwork I’ll let you know. But I am, however, in need of some information I believe you may know.”

  Her shoulders went back, her chin came up…she was a soldier ready and eager for the mission. “If I don’t know it, I can get it for you.”

  “I’m counting on that, Nell, as well as on your…discretion.”

  She sniffed. “No one has ever accused me of spilling my guts to the six o’clock news.”

  “Good,” he said. “Because I need to know everything you can find out about…pizza.”

  JAMES FOLLOWED the butler through a large entryway and down a wide hall to a loggia where a half dozen people were already sitting at two white, wrought-iron tables—a group of four at one table, a group of two at the other. The committee members were conversing easily across the two tables, friends and fellow philanthropists; male and female; they were all obviously of long acquaintance and shared commitments. Pausing in the doorway, as the butler announced him— “Mr. James Braddock“—James gathered a sense of the group dynamics and decided, in an instant of almost unconscious perception, how he would fit in.

  Then Ilsa was rising from her place at the table for two and coming toward him with a smile of welcome that fairly warmed the air around him.

  “James,” she said. “How delightful that you could come.”

  He accepted her outstretched hand and enclosed it within both of his, thinking she was still as young and vibrant as when they were at school together, but with a honed grace, which could only come with age. “I’m delighted to have been asked, although I can’t promise I’ll be a great success as my son’s understudy.”

  “Archer’s already told me that you’re constantly in demand to organize these same kind of events back in Denver, so there’s no point in pleading inexperience.” She withdrew her hand, having let it linger an extra moment in his hold, a gesture of long friendship, which James both recognized and appreciated. He would have continued to hold her hand as they moved from the shadow of the doorway onto the red-tiled terrace, except, of course, their friendship wasn’t on that level of familiarity, perhaps had never been on that level, even though he’d like to think that one day it might be.

  “Come with me,” she said. “I’ll introduce you to the others, although I’m sure you’ll remember George and Bonnie Singer.” Her voice dropped to a sotto voce aside. “Be careful with Lana Benedict, though. She takes herself very seriously.” Ilsa drew him into the committee’s circle, made the introductions and explanations with ease, then seated him next to her at the table, as if he might need her protection.

  It had been a long time, he realized, since he’d felt this same glow of welcome, of old memories and simple pleasure in another’s company. It seemed even longer since anyone had made him feel so completely and immediately at home.

  James, who so seldom felt he was home anywhere, was glad he’d come.

  CALVIN, AN ESCAPEE from the bathtub, naked as a newborn, and dripping great puddles of watery suds all over the carpet, pushed in front of Lara and peered up at the delivery man. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Minute Man Pizza,” the kid—he couldn’t have been much past sixteen—said as he tried again to hand Lara the pizza box. “It’s already paid for, ma’am. You might as well take it.”

  “You’re not listening to me,” Lara tried again to explain. “You’re at the wrong house. I didn’t order a pizza.”

  “They said you’d say that, but I was to give it to you anyway.”

  Lara put a hand on Cal’s wet shoulder and tried to draw him back out of the doorway. “Who said?”

  “My manager. He said I was to bring it to this address.” The kid shuffled the pizza box and showed her—again—the slip of paper with the handwritten address. “And I was to give it to you, even if you said it wasn’t yours.” The youngster stuck the box out toward her. “This is the address, so this is your pizza.”

  “Pizza.” Cal slipped out from under Lara’s restraint and reached for the box, his goofy grin spreading wide with delight as it was placed in his unsteady little hands. “I lov-uh-ove pizza, Aunt Lara!”

  “No, you don’t.” Lara took the box away from her nephew and handed it back to the delivery kid, who stepped back, holding his hands up in refusal. Then, as if suddenly realizing he’d accomplished his goal and was free of responsibility in the matter, he turned, jumped off the steps in a single, long-legged leap and jogged toward his car, a zebra-striped Volkswagen Beetle classic with Minute Man Pizza flags draped from bumper to bumper. “Have a nice evening!” he called over his shoulder.

  “Bye, pizza man! Bye!” Cal dashed out on the porch—bare butt, wet head, lingering suds and all—waving vigorously as the gaudy advertisement on wheels backfired and then streaked off down the street, flags flying in raucous retreat. “Bye!”

  Lara looked down at the pizza box, felt the warmth of it in her hands, smelled the intoxicating aroma of her secret vice, knew exactly who had sent it and why. She had half a mind to leave it outside all night, then take it in to the office in the morning and leave it, unopened and unappreciated, in the middle of his desk. But even as that sweet gesture of defiance occurred to her, her stomach growled in anticipation as Calvin dashed back inside to dance around her like a scrawny little cupid. “Can we eat it now, Aunt Lara? I lov-uh-ove pizza!”

  “You don’t even like pizza, Cal,” she said, closing the door and hoping for agreement, or at least a slight lessening of enthusiasm. “Besides, you already ate supper.”

  He stopped dancing and looked at her solemnly. “I’m still hungry, Aunt Lara. I am, I really am.” The tip of his tongue laved his lips, offerin
g proof in little boy lingo that he was, indeed, hungry. “An’ I really, really, really lov-uh-ove pizza!”

  So, okay, she was a bonafide sucker when he gave her that big, brown-eyed plea and his sweet little face radiated with hope. It would probably mean another night of tummy aches, another night when he’d sleep fitfully and be a grouchy bear the next morning. But in another few weeks he’d be going back out to California to live with Shelly, and if eating pizza before bedtime this one night made him feel indulged and spoiled…Well, what was wrong with that? It was just a good thing he wouldn’t be staying with her past the middle of August. Any longer, and he’d be running her household like a midget king. “Oh, all right,” she said, giving in gracefully and against her better judgment. “Go put some clothes on and meet me at the kitchen table in two minutes. We’re going to see how much you really lov-uh-ove pizza.”

  His grin flashed, filling her with a sense of pride that she could give such pleasure with such a small surrender. “I do, Aunt Lara. I really, really really do!” And off he scooted, skinny legs darting past furniture and toys, racing off to fulfill his part of the bargain with a whole and happy heart.

  Lara sighed, certain he wouldn’t like pizza any better than spaghetti once he realized it tasted nothing like peanut butter and banana.

  But it smelled divine. She was hungry, and pizza was a guilty pleasure she seldom allowed herself to enjoy. Eating it was no more of a statement than not eating it. Bryce had ferreted out her secret craving somehow—he’d probably tortured Nell until she broke—and had sent the pizza to make some nefarious point of his own. So what? Enjoying this particular gift didn’t mean she’d lost the war. Or even this battle. It didn’t even mean she’d agreed to disagree. It only meant she was hungry.

  Besides, she could handle Bryce.

  His declaration of intent in her office today had been pure melodrama, meant to aggravate her more than anything else. For a day or two, he’d probably tease her with good deeds and slow smiles, woo her with a double dose of charm and attention. She’d observed his methods of romancing, knew the moves as well as the countermoves. Smarter men than he had tried their hand at winning hers.

  Although not one had ever thought to send her a pizza.

  She opened the cardboard lid and inhaled. Heavenly.

  Calvin raced past her, a streak of nearly bare boy and Scooby Doo underwear. “Let’s eat, Aunt Lara. Let’s eat pizza.”

  It was an invitation she didn’t see any reason to refuse.

  JAMES LAUGHED, a deep, expressive sound of easy delight, and Ilsa knew she had made a grave error in judgment. The others had left some long time ago, but it had seemed natural that James would linger, would accept her offer of a glass of wine, her invitation to stay, reminisce over childhood misdeeds and adventures, would want to catch up on the lives of mutual friends and classmates. The trouble was it seemed altogether too natural, too completely right to have him here in her home, drinking from her Waterford crystal, laughing with her across the distance of her antique coffee table.

  She’d once had a huge crush on James Braddock, and was rather dismayed to realize that some remnants of it still lingered all these many years later.

  “So where is your brother these days?” James asked, unaware of her unsettling thoughts. “I haven’t seen Hugh in years.”

  “He’s still living in Rome, still working for the same textiles company, and coming home to visit all too seldom to suit me.”

  “Did he ever marry? Have children?”

  “Hugh’s an old confirmed bachelor now. I can’t imagine he’ll ever change his ways. I do, however, deeply regret that there have been no nieces or nephews for me to love and spoil rotten. I think my brother was most inconsiderate in that regard.”

  James sipped his wine, his eyes regarding her with interest over the bowl of the crystal. “I’m surprised you never remarried. You were still only in your twenties when you were widowed.”

  “We’re not all presented the same opportunities in life.”

  “Don’t give me that, Ilsa.” His slow smile teased her. “I refuse to believe you didn’t have other opportunities. Why, I’ll bet George Singer would have dumped Bonnie in a heartbeat if you’d ever given him the slightest encouragement. And I imagine he’s merely just the worst of the lot.”

  “What a terrible thought.” She wrinkled her nose to show her distaste for the idea. “Although I’ll admit he and Bonnie don’t seem a particularly happy match.”

  “He’s a fool and she’d have done better with a small army to command. They deserve each other.”

  Ilsa laughed, despite wishing to be more diplomatic. “No one deserves to be unhappily married. At our stage of life, marriage should be, at the very least, a safe refuge from the uncertainties of growing old, even if it can’t provide a lovely harbor of companionship and caring.” Realizing that her guest was about to embark on another marriage, his sixth to her one, and to a woman young enough to be his daughter, she bit her lip, wishing she’d chosen diplomacy instead of philosophy. “I don’t suppose everyone feels the same, however.”

  He drained the last of his wine and she knew, regrettably, he was about to take his leave. “I guess I’m still hopeful of finding that safe refuge, Ilsa, even though it’s eluded me up until now. But you did manage, quite gracefully, to evade my question to you.” Leaning in, he set the empty glass on the table. “Don’t think, however, that I won’t ask again.” He clasped his hands, still leaning forward, still looking at her, his lips curved in a mysterious half smile. “Or that I won’t continue to ask until I discover why New England’s fabled matchmaker never made a match for herself.”

  Surprise rippled through her, but she didn’t let it show. “And which interests you more, James? My career as a matchmaker, or my not having taken myself on as a client?”

  “You’re not surprised that I’ve discovered the nature of your business?”

  “It’s hardly a secret. I’d have no clients at all, if that were true.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would.” He continued to hold her gaze, and she had the distinct impression he was debating whether to return to his original question. “I’ve thought about you often over the years, Ilsa. I’ve even wondered, at times, if—”

  “Excuse me, Madam.” Robert paused in the doorway. “There’s a phone call for Mr. Braddock. A young woman who wished me to stress that it is quite important.”

  Monica, of course. As if miles away at Braddock Hall, she had heard that fugitive if, that wistful hesitation, and wanted to close down the possibilities before they had the opportunity to open up.

  “That will be Monica,” James said with apology. “I’d better take the call.”

  “Certainly.” Ilsa rose, bringing James to his feet in an old-world custom so few men practiced in this modern day. “There’s a phone there, by the writing desk. I’ll step outside the room so you can have some privacy.”

  “Thank you.” He acknowledged her kindness with a smile that was no longer mysterious, but merely regretful. “Perhaps, one day, we’ll talk again, you and I.”

  She smiled, too, taking the high road and ignoring the feeling that her old friend was in need of simple friendship. “I imagine we’ll talk very soon, James. Like it or not, you’re now an alternate committee member, and the Cinderella Ball is less than one week away.” She walked out of the room then and Robert closed the doors behind her.

  But not before she heard James pick up the phone and say softly and, it seemed, quite tenderly, “Hello, Darling.”

  LARA EXPECTED Bryce to show up in her office first thing the next morning, fishing for her reaction to his unusual gift. By eleven, when he still hadn’t made an appearance, she couldn’t stand it any longer and thought up an excuse—a perfectly legitimate one—to go to him. He was standing at the window in his office, staring studiously at something beyond her view, smiling with obvious delight. “Lara,” he said, not even glancing over his shoulder. “Come over here and look at thi
s.”

  Really, she thought. Did the man ever do any work? “What is it?” she asked in a tone of complete disinterest. “Someone doing a striptease in the office across the way? I can’t imagine anything less would take you away from your work.” She wanted to bite her tongue for saying something so personal, so completely unprofessional, but he didn’t seem to notice anything untoward, didn’t even appear to have heard her catty remark.

  “Here, look.” He set his hands on her shoulders and drew her directly in front of him. The warmth of his hands came right through her jacket, the warmth of his breath sent a ripple of pleasure down the back of her neck, and she felt a sudden, warm, totally absurd impulse to lean her head against him and draw his arms around her. “There.” He pointed past her and she whipped her indiscriminating impulses into line, although her silly heart continued to beat out a lightning-quick rhythm. “Can you see it?”

  She frowned, wished he’d take his hands off her, and conversely, hoped he wouldn’t. Pulling forward, forcing herself to gain perspective, she looked down at the Riverwalk, thinking he probably wanted her to see a sports car parked along the roadway or a scull on the river. But then she saw what had captured and held his attention.

  A group of Rhode Island School of Design students was doing chalk paintings all along the river walkways, drawing colorful designs ranging from a seascape to Mickey Mouse. From this angle, it was easy to see the emerging images and that altogether, they were forming an overall, preconceived, abstract design. “Oh,” she said. “Isn’t that amazing?”

  “My thoughts, exactly.” Bryce’s voice was very close, his breath soft as a caress against her ear. “I just wish Calvin was here to see it. Maybe you should go get him.”

  That was as good as a dousing of cold water. “Uh-huh, and then no one would get any work done. Cal is just fine right where he is.”

  “It seems a shame for him to miss it.”

  “I’ll let him chalk up my driveway and he’ll be just as happy. Probably more so. Doing is better than watching, in his view, anytime.”