The Playboy's Office Romance

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “I think males, in general, feel that way about a lot of things.”

  And the heat was back faster than a gas furnace. He hadn’t mentioned sex, but suddenly the idea surrounded her, was in her mind, uppermost in her thoughts, and with it, came its accompanying entourage of breathless awareness, heightened cognizance, and shimmering excitement. She stepped away from the window, away from him, away from the impulsive idea of burning herself by turning around and facing him at such close range. To be completely on the safe side, she took up a position nearer the door. “I came to tell you it would be a good idea for you to sit in on my meeting with Cooper McLennan tomorrow morning.”

  “Cooper has a voice like a tree frog.” Bryce turned away from the window, reluctantly and perched on the wide sill, arms crossed, legs extended, lips curved in a dubious smile. “Can’t you just tell me about the meeting once it’s over?”

  “Of course I can, but it would be best if you make the effort to sit in. Cooper may sound like a tree frog, but he’s a crackerjack analyst and what he says is worth hearing firsthand.”

  “If you want me there, Lara, then I’ll be there.” The smile segued effortlessly into polished charm. “All you have to say is, ‘Bryce, I want you—’” He let the words linger suggestively, then added, “‘—to be there.’”

  She swallowed and reminded herself that two could play at this game, especially when one of them—her, in this instance—was smarter than the other. “Bryce,” she said, lowering her voice to a sexy, sensual, breathy rush of air. “I want you…to be there.”

  “Great. Count me in,” he said, switching from seduction to teasing. “See how easy that was? Did you and Cal enjoy the pizza?”

  “Pizza?” She frowned, as if trying to remember the last time she’d even had a pizza. “I don’t recall a…Oh. Last night. Minute Man Pizza. How did you know we ordered pizza?”

  He laughed, softly, good-naturedly. “You didn’t. I did.”

  “And I suppose you expect a profuse thank you in return.”

  “Not even a stingy thanks is necessary. I’ll never ask anything from you, Lara, that you don’t want to give me willingly.”

  The way he said it, the tone of his voice, the look in his eyes, the complete, utter confidence in the set of his chin turned her knees to jelly, and it took considerable stamina on her part not to sag against the furniture. “You’ll tire of this game long before I give you anything other than a piece of my mind.”

  “That’s what I love about you, Lara. Everything’s a challenge.”

  He’d think challenge before this was over. “The meeting with Cooper is in the executive conference room at ten,” she said, back in professional mode, even if it was mostly a front.

  “Will there be donuts?”

  She paused in the doorway, steeled herself to look back at him, at his mesmerizing smile, his aggravating good looks. “Only,” she said pleasantly, “if you bring them yourself.”

  Chapter Seven

  Cal barreled around the corner at full, four-year-old, throttle and careened to a stop, his vroom, vroom noises cut off by a loud, braking errrrrkkkk as he caught sight of Lara. He looked her up and down, from the swirl of shimmery fabric at her feet up the slender lines of the evening gown, to the sequined bodice and the sheer swatch of silk that led to a glistening, sequined collar around her throat. His eyes widened as he spied the dangling diamonds at her earlobes and the sparkling accents dusted throughout her upswept hair. “Hubba, hubba,” he said in a throaty treble, clearly impressed.

  She cocked an eyebrow. “Where did you learn that?”

  “My daddy says when you see a pretty girl, you should say hubba, hubba.”

  It figured that his poor excuse for a father would think that an important lesson to teach his son. “Well, your daddy is wrong. When you see someone all dressed up, the proper thing to say is, ‘you look very pretty.’”

  Calvin grinned up at her, the space where his front tooth should have been making the smile puckishly lopsided. “You look very pretty, Aunt Lara.”

  A tide of love for this skinny little boy flooded her with warmth from the inside out. “Thank you, Cal. That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day.”

  His grin was both self-conscious and pleased, but he stayed very still as she stooped and pulled him close for a hug. It was almost as if he was afraid to hug her back for fear of mussing her clothes or knocking off a few sparkles. As if something like that would matter. “Now, remember, Bridget is staying over tonight and she’ll be sleeping in my bed, so don’t forget and crawl in with her in the middle of the night. Stay in your own bed, okay?”

  He nodded, then pulled back to look at her with a frown. “Where will you sleep?”

  “I’ll be very late getting home tonight and I’ll sleep on the sofa. When you wake up in the morning, that’s where I’ll be.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She tapped his button nose. “I am going to the Cinderella Ball.”

  “I like balls.”

  “Not that kind.”

  “Uh-huh. I do. I can throw a ball really, really far.”

  She straightened, her leg muscles cramping from the tension of stooping in the form-fitting gown and balancing on high heels. “This kind of ball isn’t something you play with. It’s an event where everyone is dressed up and there’s dancing, and lots and lots of talking. You wouldn’t like it, believe me.”

  His brow furrowed. “Do you like a Cind’rella ball, Aunt Lara?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Tonight do you like it?”

  She brushed his cowlick into place with her fingers, but it barely stayed down a second before springing back upright. “I think tonight has…possibilities.” Which perfectly described her state of mind. She’d been keyed up all day, anticipating the evening, and telling herself over and over again that this feeling, this expectancy, this heightened sense of possibility had nothing whatsoever to do with Bryce Braddock.

  “Aunt Lara,” Calvin said as if he’d been pondering the mysteries of the universe and just solved a great dilemma. “I like you.”

  “I like you, too, Cal.”

  “When I grow up, I’ll like Cind’rella balls, too, and I’ll go with you.”

  Tenderness pinched her heart. “I’d be honored,” she said and won his smile as her reward before his race car engine revved back to life and he took off down the hall.

  THE BALLROOM of Rosecliff, one of the grand mansions of Newport, was filling up fast with a colorful and festive crowd. The Ball committee had arranged transportation, via rented coaches, from the Providence Convention Center to Newport and the Rosecliff Mansion, so the guests arrived in clusters. Bryce scanned every new group of arrivals, waiting expectantly for something he couldn’t quite define. He’d been edgy all day, as if this Cinderella Ball marked some significant moment in his life, which it didn’t. It was just another benefit gala, one of hundreds he’d attended over the years. But still, he was keyed up and attributed his mood to being eager for Lara to arrive so he could up the ante in their little game of romance. He wasn’t sure what his opening bid would involve, but this evening, he meant to trump her sharp tongue with compliments and win her smile. He meant to unsettle her, beguile and charm her. And he meant to dance with her tonight in the moonlight. One way or another.

  Peter edged up behind him and stood, their shoulders not quite touching, but forming a perfect right angle of black tuxedos and broad, muscular backs, as they surveyed the crowd from perpendicular points. “Don’t look now,” he said. “But there’s a camera aimed at your head.”

  Bryce took a drink of wine and spied the enthusiastic photographer, who was trying hard to go unnoticed and thereby, gain an unposed shot. “From the Providence Journal,” Bryce said, identifying the cameraman easily from long experience. “You’d think some society page editor would tell these eager beaver photographers to wait for the dance shots, when we’re cheek to cheek with a beautiful woman and thus, subject
to real speculation.”

  “Apparently, they have an unlimited film supply.” Peter sipped his drink. “Just imagine the amount of space we must take up in the Journal’s photo archives…and they’re only one newspaper. Multiply that by all the newspapers in New England, add in all the photos of one Braddock or another which the paparazzi has sold to tabloids and magazines over the years, and all the pictures taken of just our family alone would probably overflow a small landfill.”

  “Scary thought,” Bryce agreed. “I think I’d rather imagine which one of these blond, blue-blooded debs you’ll be cheek to cheek with when your picture is snapped tonight for tomorrow’s edition. Miranda Danville is looking particularly lovely in that red Vera Wang gown tonight.”

  “Miranda always looks lovely. But I’m betting it’ll be your picture in tomorrow’s paper. Probably with one of tonight’s wallflowers in your arms.” Peter nudged Bryce’s elbow as a tall, gangly redhead slouched past. “Julia Butterfield is a likely candidate, I’d say.”

  Bryce shook his head, catching sight of a familiar face across the room. Thea Berenson wore no discernible makeup behind glasses the size of small windows, and her dress was so ill-fitting and out of fashion no woman of any era would want to be seen in it. Her hair was already falling in stringy loops from its original, and presumably intended, clump on top of her head, and she was leaning against the wall as if she truly wished she could become a part of it. As a debutante, she was always, wherever she went, the reigning wallflower. “No, not Julia,” Bryce corrected. “It’ll be Thea Berenson. Look at her. Why does her grandmother let her out of the house looking like that?”

  “I think it’s her grandmother who insists she dress like a Victorian nun.”

  “But Thea must have some say in it. She inherited the whole chain of Berenson jewelry stores when her brother died, so she can certainly afford to live out from under that crazy old woman’s thumb.”

  “I’ve heard she doesn’t inherit anything until she turns thirty. And the grandmother is a tyrant.”

  “Still doesn’t excuse the girl from making at least some effort to fit into this century.”

  “It’s just my opinion, but I think shy little Thea has a story,” Peter said, sipping his wine thoughtfully. “But no one ever bothers to ask her what it is.”

  “And it’s my opinion you’re a romantic at heart, Peter.” Bryce noticed the photographer moving closer, camera at the ready. “So which one of us is going to ask Thea to dance and give this guy his first real photo op of the evening?”

  “Thea’s picture never seems to make it onto the society page, no matter who dances with her. Which means, I should probably ask her to dance every dance with me tonight.”

  Bryce laughed, imagining his GQ brother alone on the dance floor with mousey Thea Berenson for an entire evening. “And make all of the other debutantes jealous?”

  “I can’t imagine anyone ever being jealous of Thea. She’s not exactly femme fatale material.”

  “Definitely nonthreatening,” Bryce agreed. “But I doubt that would stop the rumor mill if either you or I focused too much concentrated attention on her.” A flash went off and Bryce didn’t even offer a blink as acknowledgment. “Now that Adam’s married, I’m afraid the heat is on and the hunt is underway for the remaining Braddock bachelors. I could be wrong, but the fact that Katie snagged our illustrious brother out from under the noses of so many New England bachelorettes seems to have intensified the marriage sweepstakes for us.”

  “I think you’re right. I’ve been here maybe thirty minutes and have already been cornered by three debs and five mothers.” Peter allowed a waiter to take his wineglass. “My dance card is filling up fast. How about yours?”

  “My dance card was full two weeks ago,” Bryce said. “I keep telling you that unless you like being mobbed at these events, you have to plan ahead and choose your poison.”

  “That’s the difference between you and me. I’d rather keep my options open on the off-chance Cinderella actually shows up at one of these balls.”

  “My brother, the optimist.”

  Peter shrugged. “It could happen.”

  “Mm-hmm, as if every single woman here isn’t aware you’re a Braddock and an eligible bachelor…a nearly irresistible combination. Or so I’ve read in the Journal. If you’re not careful, Peter, you’ll find yourself spending the entire evening dancing with Cinderella’s wicked stepsisters.”

  “I should be so lucky. It’s more likely I’ll spend the major portion of the evening persuading Thea and the other few wallflowers to dance with me.”

  Bryce cast his brother a wry sidelong glance. “Grandmother ruined us, you know, by giving us a conscience and a strong sense of duty. If she hadn’t been such a wonderful woman, we might have taken after dad and not been nearly so choosy about our women.”

  “Who said you were choosy?” Peter swung around slowly to smile lazily at him and give the photographer the shot he’d been after all along—the two brothers, standing side by side and laughing together at the Cinderella Ball.

  Somehow sensing her presence, Bryce turned just as Lara entered the room. She paused in the doorway, a vision of champagne blond in champagne silk, a woman so exquisite, the beautiful ballroom of Rosecliff might have been built as a complement to her beauty.

  Next to him, Bryce heard his brother’s low, appreciative whistle and echoed it with a sigh.

  “There isn’t a word in the English language to adequately describe that,” Peter said.

  “What was it you just said about Cinderella?”

  Peter touched his arm. “You’d be safer with the stepsisters, Bry.”

  Bryce cuffed him on the shoulder, gave him a wink. “When have I ever liked to play it safe?”

  Then he tossed his heart ahead of him and followed it across the room to find her.

  “I STILL SAY this would have been nicer and raised more money had they held it at The Breakers.” Monica was expounding on her chosen topic for the evening. James had noticed lately she had a habit of running one negative theme throughout an evening’s conversation. Tonight, at Rosecliff, it was her preference for the grander, more ornate mansion next door and how, had she been a member of the planning committee, she would have insisted the ball be held at The Breakers. Personally, he thought Ilsa and her committee had made a wise choice, managing to coordinate travel between Providence and Newport, as well as all the other minutiae of a black-tie affair like this one, with a minimum of inconvenience to the guests, and a maximum of benefit for a worthy cause.

  Monica, though, had other priorities.

  Lately, he’d begun to notice that, too.

  “James?” Ilsa moved up beside him, and her hand brushed the sleeve of his jacket with the barest of touches. “Do you remember Laurence Wheeler?”

  “Of course. Is he here?”

  “Yes,” Ilsa said, with obvious pleasure. “Just over there.” She indicated an area where tables were grouped. “We were just talking about our halcyon days at Harvard and, when he mentioned you, I offered to come find you, see if I could persuade you to spend a few minutes reminiscing with him.”

  Before James could even form the words of his delighted response, Monica had turned from her own conversation to step closer and burrow her hand in the crook of his arm. “Someone you knew at college?” she asked, offering up the pixieish smile that had first charmed him so.

  “Yes,” he said. “A fraternity brother and friend.”

  Her smile turned to Ilsa. “Well, where is he? Is he too shy to just come on over himself and say hello?”

  James closed his free hand over hers where it rested on his arm, and gave her fingers a squeeze that was more cautionary than affectionate. “Laurence is in a wheelchair, Monica. It’s better if I make the effort to go where he is. I’ll return to you very shortly, I promise.”

  “Oh, James,” she said sweetly. “Don’t be silly. I’ll go with you. You know how much I enjoy meeting your friends.”

&
nbsp; He would have preferred to spend this little amount of time, and have this conversation without her, but he didn’t want her to pout, as she surely would if he insisted. And, as she was still a stranger to many of the people in this ballroom, it was rather inconsiderate to leave her on her own.

  “Wonderful,” he said, avoiding Ilsa’s gaze, knowing she would see past his less than enthusiastic inclusion. “Laurence would love to meet you.”

  But despite knowing he couldn’t have politely done anything else—she was, after all, his fiancée—James couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed that the conversation would now be, of necessity, general. He could hardly expect Monica to be interested in his college memories.

  “You’ll like Laurence,” Ilsa was saying, as the three of them moved forward together. “He’s a fascinating man.”

  “And he’s in a wheelchair?”

  James wished Monica could be less forthright sometimes, less prone to express her curiosity. “He was injured in a Rugby match in his last year of school.”

  “How tragic.”

  “You won’t think so when you meet him.” Ilsa’s tone was pleasant, but also somewhat sternly instructive. “He is a quite extraordinary man.”

  James glanced at Ilsa, knowing, as she knew, that thirty years of living could, and often did, change tragedy into triumph. But there was no way to explain that perspective to someone as young as Monica. Intellectually, she might understand, but emotionally, no. She’d see the wheelchair and equate it with loss. At moments like this, James wondered what he found so fascinating about younger women.

  He knew, already, that Monica would not age with the same grace of spirit which defined Ilsa and had defined his own mother, Jane, as well. Yet when Monica smiled at him, laughed at his wit, loved his aging body, he felt as if he could defy the years and remain forever vital. An illusion, of course. But one he was willing to nurture in exchange for its sweet deception.

  Although, tonight, he was just weary enough to wish he could spend the evening simply reminiscing with Laurence and Ilsa, instead of dancing, until the last song played, with his young and lovely fiancée.