And he certainly hoped that was not prophetic.
LARA HAD ALWAYS played it smart.
From the start, she’d understood there was only one route out of the dysfunctional family into which she’d been born and she’d followed it like a dedicated groupie. Her father had worked hard all his life and gotten nowhere. Her mother had had big dreams, but if she’d ever possessed the means to pursue them, she’d forfeited the opportunity when she married Charles Richmond and started having children. So Lara had decided early on that hard work and big dreams were merely the impetus for escape, not the key.
The key lay first in being smart about the details; in figuring out how to walk, talk and think success; to create and believe in her own appearance of success; to achieve the little steps that mounted up to the big ones. And the second part of her mantra was to be smart about the relationships she allowed into her life. She had little choice about her misfit family, except to limit the extent and frequency of their intrusions, but until last night, until Bryce, love, and its assorted complications, hadn’t even been a blip on her horizon.
In the dazzling light of a Rhode Island Sunday morning, however, it hovered all over her bedroom like a swarm of busy little bees, buzzing about how not smart she’d been last night. How could this have happened to her? She pondered that mysterious question as she lay in bed, staring saucer-eyed at the ceiling. Having sex with her employer presented more than enough problems without adding in the utterly insane complication of having fallen flat-faced in love with him. And, admittedly, she had done both.
Which was much, much worse than being not smart.
It was, in fact, so completely stupid and self-destructive she had no concept of how she’d let it happen.
At any point in the past five years, she could probably have lost her mind for a minute, fallen into bed with Adam, and the next morning, they’d have looked at each other and said, “That was a big mistake. Let’s not let that happen again.” And so it would have been. A mistake. Acknowledged. Forgotten. Or, at least, never alluded to again.
But she had never lost her mind with Adam. She hadn’t come within a mile of falling into bed with him. And she hadn’t fallen in love with him, either. She’d thought about it, once or twice, perhaps, but could read the bottom line very clearly and recognize that having anything other than a personal friendship and a professional relationship with him would not be a smart career move. In truth, neither one of them had any real desire for anything more.
So she’d played it smart once again and saved herself from that mistake only to make a far greater one with Bryce.
Okay, so she had been somewhat flattered by his recent attention, by his overt bid to romance her. There was nothing wrong with that.
There had been nothing wrong with the flirtatious banter they’d exchanged over the course of their acquaintance, either. Because she’d known it meant nothing. Not to her. Not to him. He loved women and made no secret of it. He flirted with her because she was there…and partly, perhaps, because she never let him get too close.
The memory of just how close he’d gotten last night had her pulling the covers over her head, humiliated because her heart had taken a leave of absence to be with a man to whom getting a woman—any woman—into bed was the supreme challenge, the goal of every look, every word, every action. She had nothing whatsoever in common with him.
Well, other than one night of purely delusional, heavenly passion.
Granted, there was some evidence to suggest he was not quite as shallow as she’d once considered him to be. Last night, he’d proven invaluable in helping with Cal. And enormously generous with his time and attention. As if she and her nephew were important to him and worth the inconvenience they’d assuredly caused him.
But with no moonlight to beguile her this morning, she couldn’t help but think he’d had his own agenda all along. The same agenda he had with every woman he met…sexual conquest. Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t simply dismiss her own clear observations of how he’d conducted his love affairs over the past several years. Adam had even wished aloud on at least one occasion in Lara’s presence that his brother would be a bit more circumspect in his philandering.
But none of that was the real issue.
She had broken faith with her own rules last night, invited complications into her bed and into her life. And this morning, she had to look this particular and seductive complication square in his gorgeous blue eyes and tell him she’d made a mistake and would not let it happen again. She didn’t expect him to agree with her as Adam, the perfect gentleman, would certainly have done. Which meant she’d need to lie so convincingly as not to set herself up as yet another challenge to his ego.
Plus she did not want to be fired. Her new position had only just allowed her to implement some changes she thought would be good for Braddock Industries. Leaving before she could see the positive results of those changes would be the worst part of this whole, unhappy lapse in a lifetime of playing it smart.
Her heart protested with a painful tightening that leaving Bryce would be worse.
But then, listening to her heart was what had landed her in this buzzing beehive of complications in the first place.
And why did she think for half a second she’d be the one to do the leaving? The bed was depressingly empty, save for her. Bryce, the hit-and-run lover, was already long gone.
BELIEVING HER NEPHEW was still asleep, Lara dawdled about in the shower, applied a facial mask that promised to make her skin glow with good health, twisted her wet hair into an untidy knot on top of her head and slipped into a pair of threadbare cotton pajamas, which after too many years to count, were still her favorite yucky-day attire. Add a pair of scruffy houseshoes, and she was set for dealing with a sick four-year-old and a long day of self-recriminations.
Cal’s room was empty, though, when she peeked in and pausing to listen, she heard the faint, tinny sound of television cartoons coming from the rec room. It was odd that he should have gotten out of bed and not come immediately to find her. He did that every morning, either climbing into bed with her for a waking-up-Aunt-Lara snuggle, or bouncing like a budding gymnast on the mattress until she tickled him into a giggling bundle of wide-awake boy. She hoped he hadn’t been awake too long, hoped he felt better, hoped fervently he was better.
He was asleep when she found him, his long thick lashes feathered across the still slightly dark circles under his eyes, the only indication he wasn’t quite up to par yet. He was curled against Bryce on the sofa, nestled under Bryce’s protective arm, his cowlick squashed up under Bryce’s chin, his scrawny pajama-clad arm thrown across Bryce’s chest.
The day, the room, her whole life suddenly seemed brighter.
Bryce looked up at her and smiled, as if she didn’t look like an out-take from Aliens, as if he was simply happy to see her. “Hi,” he whispered.
“Hi,” she whispered back, unable to think of anything pertinent to say.
“I think the medicine makes him sleepy.”
She nodded. “What about you?”
His smile slipped into that Casanova slant she couldn’t seem to resist. “I feel great. How about you?”
She had a dull headache, a drying, cracking layer of clay on her face, and a monumental lie to tell convincingly, but other than that she felt rather extraordinarily happy. “I feel great, too,” she said. “Or I will once I’ve had some cereal.”
“How about pancakes?”
She sighed. “I suppose I can fix some pancakes, if that’s what you want.”
“Cal and I had ours about an hour ago.” He shifted Cal’s somnolent little body to the side, slid his arm out from beneath the child, carefully rolled off the sofa and onto his feet. “I’ll fix your breakfast, too, but in the meantime, maybe you should lie down on the loveseat. You look a little green.”
She arched her eyebrows and a bit of clay crumbled and dropped onto her lips.
He leaned over and brushed it off with his
finger. “It isn’t fair, you know, for you to be so beautiful. Makes a man want to kiss you, even when there’s a better than even chance he could be bonded to your lips for life.”
A racy little thrill sashayed across her nape, made her heart jump up and say, “See? See? He’s still here. That’s a good sign.” But his presence on her sofa could just mean Cal had caught him on his way out and he hadn’t been able to make a clean getaway. “This facial mask is a top-secret blend of bentonite clay and natural plant aloes. You won’t want to risk ingesting even a speck of it. It didn’t say so on the packaging, but I think it could be fatal to males.”
“Lucky for you I’m the kind of guy who’s always willing to risk his life for a kiss.” He bent his head and brushed her lips with lingering sweetness, savoring the kiss as if she were better than the first taste of coffee in the morning.
And she was foolish enough to kiss him back, cracking the mask into smithereens in the process.
He drew back and studied her face with a frown. “I think I just saw this same thing happen to Wile E. Coyote on the Cartoon Network. He must be using the same stuff.”
“I have to go wash my face,” she said through tight lips, trying to keep the mask from crumbling off completely until she could reach the bathroom sink.
“Good idea,” he agreed. “I have to fix your breakfast. Do you want plain pancakes or peanut butter and banana pancakes?”
She shuddered at the thought, muttered a firm, closemouthed, “Plain.” Then cupping her hand under her chin, she turned and scurried away.
THE PANCAKES were steaming brown and ready, garnished with butter and two strips of bacon when Bryce set them on the table and wondered if drawing a syrupy heart on top was too sappy for Lara. On the other hand, it was about time someone put some sentimental touches on her life. She needed badly to be cherished, coddled and cared for. And he was just the guy to do it.
But the syrup heart had long since soaked into the pancakes before Lara reappeared. The mask was gone, as were the pajamas and the twisted topknot of wet hair. She was wearing makeup now and her cheeks were softly flushed with color. She wore summer slacks with a soft knit blouse. Her hair was newly combed and sleek, all its magnificent wildness tamed into a thick bun at her nape. She’d exchanged the houseshoes for Cole-Haan flats, and the tight lips for a perfected smile. Slip a cardigan around her shoulders, classic gold studs in her earlobes, and she’d be ready for a day at the office. He wanted to kiss her again, but somehow, now, he felt constraint, as if in the time it had taken to wash off the mask, she’d erected a no-approach zone all around her.
“You look nice,” he said, although he wished she could bear to relax with him, that she could be comfortable enough in his presence to wear the faded pajamas in her own house on a leisurely morning. “I’m afraid the pancakes can’t be saved, though. I’ll make you some more.”
“No,” she said. “I’m not very hungry. But thanks, anyway.”
“Do you want some coffee? Or the orange juice?” He indicated the glass of fruit juice he’d poured for her.
“Maybe later.”
There was an edge to her voice, as if she were wondering what he was still doing in her kitchen, as if she couldn’t think of a good reason for him to be there. She was preparing to ruin his day, if not his good mood, regretting last night even before she’d allowed herself—and him—the opportunity to take pleasure in the morning after. He could feel her gathering her resources to make excuses, to downgrade what they’d shared to a simple case of poor judgment on her part. Or his. It wouldn’t matter where she laid the blame, what explanation she chose to pull out of thin air. What mattered was that she meant to rationalize their lovemaking as some overly emotional reaction to a stressful situation. Or worse, the result of an overdose of moonlight.
“I love you,” he said.
She sucked in her breath, released it slowly, and reached for the orange juice with a shaky hand. “A nice sentiment, but wouldn’t you be in a fine fix if I believed you meant that?”
So she intended to play it cool, pretend—ha, ha—that she recognized this as a segue from a passionate night to a well-rehearsed, oft-repeated, totally insincere, I’ll call you in a day or so, we’ll get together again sometime, I still respect you this morning, but I really have to go, goodbye. “Yes,” he agreed, deciding that, much as he didn’t want to, he’d have to let her set her own course before he could even begin to adjust the set of her sails. “A very fine fix.”
She cradled the juice glass in both hands and looked down into it. “I was surprised to find you still here.”
“I said I’d fix your pancakes. Did you think I’d put them on the griddle and then run like hell?”
“No, I meant earlier. When I found you with Cal. I was…surprised you stayed.”
He nodded, wishing now he had gone, before she had a chance to build her case against him, before the hurt had gained a solid footing in his heart. “You mean, you’re surprised I didn’t make a clean getaway when I had the chance.”
Her quick glance told him that was exactly what she’d thought, but she was still trying to be nice in her rejection. “No, not…I wouldn’t put it like that. It’s just that Cal’s sick and…here. And it was kind of you to stay with us last night, but…”
“Now it’s morning, there’s no more opportunity for sex, and therefore, no reason for me to stick around.”
This time the glance wasn’t so regretful. “I merely said I was surprised. That’s all. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Yes, you did, Lara. You’ve never minced words to protect my tender feelings before. Why start now?”
Her chin came up. “All right, Bryce. Last night was a mistake. I know it and I’m sure you’ve been waiting for the right moment to say the same thing to me, but you’re enough of a gentleman to allow me to say it first. So…it was a mistake. There. Now we can both forget it happened and go back to being friendly enemies.”
“Or frustrated lovers.”
“Whatever you prefer,” she said tightly. “I don’t think the term makes much difference.”
He nodded, furious with her, furious with himself for letting her put such hypocrisy into words, for denying them both the pleasure of what they’d shared, for cheapening a beautiful act of love into a tawdry one-night stand. “No, I guess it doesn’t make any difference. We could call ourselves star-crossed lovers, or Saturday-night lovers, or three-in-the-morning lovers. Just so long as we both know it was a one-time fling, an inappropriate sexual encounter, a…mistake.”
She pressed her lips together, took a deep breath. “It was…nice,” she said, adding insult to injury. “You were…very thoughtful.”
Next thing he knew, she’d be critiquing his sexual prowess on a scale of one to ten. “Thanks,” he said sharply. “I pride myself on knowing how to please a woman.”
Anger snapped to the forefront of her blue eyes and he was glad to see the storm gather on her brow. “If you like,” she said. “I can write you a letter of recommendation.”
“Why would I need that? You didn’t ask for one.”
“That was remiss of me,” she snapped, then stopped and seemed to gather her composure about her like a cape of finely woven fabric. “I don’t want to quarrel with you, Bryce. I’m sorry last night happened. It shouldn’t have. It was my mistake and I wish I could go back to change it. But since that isn’t possible, I’m simply asking you to…” She paused, looked at him, then dropped her gaze. “Let it be.”
Until that moment, he was angry. Exquisitely angry. But suddenly, he was overcome with an aching sadness. How had this wonderful woman come to believe she deserved so little? Why had she arbitrarily decided there was no room in her life for love? What had happened to prompt her to set her very womanly emotions behind an icy fortress of denial? He needed to think about this, give himself a chance to regroup, to figure out the best way around her armor. Otherwise, she’d win this battle and they’d both lose the war.
“I might be able do that for now, Lara, but…” he began, and stopped as he watched her take a drink of the orange juice and wince when she swallowed. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
She put her hand to her throat. “My throat’s a little sore, that’s all. It’s nothing.” She swallowed again, testing the theory. “Just a bit scratchy.”
He laid the back of his hand against her forehead, then placed his palm at the back of her neck. “You feel hot. Do you have a headache?”
“A dull one. It’s nothing.”
“You have a sore throat. Your face is flushed. You feel hot to the touch. Your head hurts. Your nephew was just diagnosed with strep, which the emergency nurse warned you is contagious. That isn’t nothing, Lara. Go and lie down. I’m calling the doctor.”
“I’m perfectly all right,” she said. “And even if I wasn’t, a doctor isn’t just going to call in a prescription without seeing me and doing a culture. It’s Sunday. No doctor is going to be in the office today. You’ll only get an answering service…and I’m not going to the emergency room. Because I am not sick.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked her firmly in the eye. “Before you convince yourself you’re as healthy as a Junebug, and I’m a faithless cad for thinking you might not be, would you just please go get the thermometer and take your temperature?”
“I don’t have a thermometer.”
“Nice try, but I happen to know you do. Before you accuse me of snooping in your medicine chest, Bridget spilled the beans last night when she said she’d taken Cal’s temp twice before she phoned you.”
Lara shrugged, but not with enough effort to dislodge his hold. “All right. I’ll take my temperature.” She moved away from him, heading for the back of the house again. “Doesn’t mean I’ll tell you what it is.”
He smiled, loving her rebellious spirit, despite the niggling worry that she was feeling worse by the minute. He walked over to check on the still sleeping Calvin, regrouped the throw around the child’s bare feet, brushed his hand across the boy’s soft cheek. Then Bryce headed for the phone.
The Playboy's Office Romance Page 14