PRETTY WOMAN
Joshua’s gaze flicked to Eleanor’s bare shoulders, and he wondered if they were as satiny soft as they looked. He forced himself to look away, sternly reminding himself they were completely wrong for each other.
“You look great.”
Eleanor managed a crooked smile. “Sure. I was born to wear designer clothes.”
She smoothed down the side of her skirt and Joshua noticed the uncertainty in her eyes.
“You look wonderful, Eleanor,” Joshua insisted.
“Really? You don’t think I look silly? You know, like a little girl who’s playing dress up?”
“I doubt there are any little girls around who can hold that dress in place the way you can,” Joshua commented with a wry smile.
Eleanor broke into shy, hesitant laughter. The sound made something warm unfurl in Joshua’s chest. He removed a credit card from his wallet and casually passed it to the saleswoman. “We’ll take the dress.”
Eleanor’s face slowly lit up with delight. “Thank you, Joshua.”
Her simple, sincere gratitude hit him right in the gut. He felt a strong momentary impulse to sweep her up in his arms and taste the sweetness of her lips, wondering if he could make her tremble with the same desire and passion that had unexpectedly seized him....
Books by Adrienne Basso
HIS WICKED EMBRACE
HIS NOBLE PROMISE
TO WED A VISCOUNT
TO PROTECT AN HEIRESS
TO TEMPT A ROGUE
THE WEDDING DECEPTION
THE CHRISTMAS HEIRESS
HIGHLAND VAMPIRE
HOW TO ENJOY A SCANDAL
NATURE OF THE BEAST
THE CHRISTMAS COUNTESS
HOW TO SEDUCE A SINNER
A LITTLE BIT SINFUL
’TIS THE SEASON TO BE SINFUL
INTIMATE BETRAYAL
NOTORIOUS DECEPTION
SWEET SENSATIONS
A NIGHT TO REMEMBER
HOW TO BE A SCOTTISH MISTRESS
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A Night to Remember
Adrienne Basso
eKENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
PRETTY WOMAN
Books by Adrienne Basso
Title Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
To Jeanne Marie Ryan,
for her inspiring title suggestions.
To Maureen Cooney and Carol Ann Wilson,
for teaching me that truth is indeed stranger than fiction.
To my friends and colleagues
at the Westfield Memorial Library
who answer impossible questions every day.
One
Eleanor Graham was late. Not a few minutes late, not fashionably late, not sorry-I-got-caught-in-traffic late, but hopelessly late. The sort of lateness that makes panic set in so that you trip all over yourself trying to save time and end up making things worse.
Incredibly, she had hit every single red traffic light since she’d left her apartment a half hour ago. And somehow managed to get stuck behind every geriatric driver within a fifty-mile radius, all of whom drove at a sedate twenty miles per hour regardless of the posted speed limit.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, will you at least stay to the right?” Eleanor muttered under her breath. She pulled dangerously close to the rear bumper of the late-model sedan in front of her, but the gray-haired driver neither moved out of the way nor increased his speed.
Taking a deep breath, she resisted the urge to lean on the car horn. Instead she maneuvered into the right lane and zoomed past the slowpoke, showing tremendous restraint by not sticking out her tongue at the elderly couple seated inside.
Making a sharp right turn without signaling, Eleanor pulled into the partially hidden driveway of the country club and gunned the engine. With a breathless smile and screeching brakes she halted at the guard shack.
“Hi. I’m here for the Hamilton, Barton and Jones company picnic. Which way do I go?”
The slender man posted at the entrance gave her a puzzled frown and nervously checked his clipboard. “That started three hours ago, miss.”
“I know, I know. I’m late. Better late than never, right?” Eleanor tried another smile as the guard shuffled through the papers. He started shaking his head and clucking his tongue, and for a few heart-stopping moments she thought he wasn’t going to wave her through.
Oh great, after all I’ve been through on this morning from hell, now I’m not going to get in? As her fear and frustration mounted, Eleanor briefly contemplated driving on without his permission. Realistically, what was the worst thing the guard could do? Throw his clipboard at her?
But years of ingrained respect for authority combined with an overactive sense of responsibility kept her itchy foot off the accelerator.
A final sigh from the guard had Eleanor thinking she was doomed. To her utter delight he lifted his hand in a classic gesture of resignation and pointed up the winding hill. “Take the second right. About a half mile down you’ll see a parking area for picnic guests. I imagine you can find your way from there.”
“I sure can.” Eleanor smiled broadly. “Thanks.”
She drove faster than she should have, but kept a sharp eye out for pedestrians. Her sense of triumph at reaching the parking lot vanished quickly, however, when she realized there wasn’t a parking space anywhere.
Eleanor circled twice. On her second pass she saw an opening next to an expensive-looking Jaguar. It didn’t exactly look like another parking slot, but if she was very careful she could fit her small car in the space. Inching her way in, she successfully parked the car and carefully opened her door.
Snatching up her purse and the large round tin off the passenger seat, Eleanor paused to get her bearings. She got out and slammed the door, then squeezed her way around the Jaguar and scanned the distant horizon. Her eye was immediately drawn to the sea of royal blue T-shirts in the clearing at the edge of the woods.
Tugging self-consciously on her own matching blue shirt with the company logo emblazoned on the front, she took a deep breath and started up the hill.
The noise increased as she approached. The steady buzz of numerous conversations, laughter, and good-natured shouts, the crack of a bat hitting a ball. A heated softball game was in progress on one end of the open meadow, gathering a large crowd of spectators and players.
A roar went up from the crowd. Eleanor twisted around and saw the softball shooting toward the outfield. It arched high as it sailed gracefully across the field, over everyone’s head. Several players went scrambling toward it, but no one came close to catching the ball.
Eleanor squinted and lifted her arm to shield her eyes from the warm May sunshine and watched the hitter trot leisurely around the bases.
Even at this distance she could easily identify the home-run hero—tall, broad-shouldered, with muscular legs that moved with natural athletic grace and an air of confidence that set him apart from other males. He was wearing a baseball cap, but Eleanor knew well that beneath it was a head of dark hair, and a face that defined the word handsome.
Joshua Barton, the brilliant,
young, dedicated managing partner of the firm. Eleanor’s heart did its predictable somersault in her chest. It was a reflex reaction, something she couldn’t control even though she had honestly tried. After all, it was utterly ridiculous that an intelligent, sensible, grown woman in her late twenties would harbor such a schoolgirl infatuation with a man who probably didn’t even know her first name.
The thought brought an ironic smile to her lips. He was handsome as sin while she was ordinary as pie. Opposites might attract in the movies, romantic impossibilities might flourish in novels, but this was real life.
Fighting back a sigh, Eleanor turned away from the softball game and trudged toward the large catering tent. She smiled vaguely at the people she passed, grateful not to encounter anyone she knew. She needed a few moments to regain her perspective.
When Eleanor ducked under the low canopy and entered the food area, she saw the country club staff clearing away the remains of lunch. She watched silently for a moment as they disassembled the beautiful setup, complete with linen napkins and tablecloths, china plates and silver chafing dishes.
No hot dogs and burgers, corn on the cob, or barbecue chicken for the employees of Hamilton, Barton and Jones. These financial wizards dined on vichyssoise and poached salmon, asparagus in vinaigrette, and hearts of endive salad, even outdoors.
Eleanor’s gaze strayed to the dessert table, which remained intact. Dessert would be served later, probably after the softball game was finished. The tradition of the employees bringing the desserts to the annual company picnic had started long before anyone could remember. Yet even that was not a simple assortment of homemade cookies, Jell-O molds, or pies one would expect to find at a picnic.
Over the years simple sweets had been replaced by more sophisticated, elaborate creations. It had become a subtle yet cutthroat competition as each year employees and their spouses vied to outdo each other and create the most unusual and delicious dessert.
Eleanor eyed today’s offerings with a sinking feeling. This year’s desserts easily topped last year’s entries. There were fancy cakes and tortes of all sizes and shapes, delicate pastries and fruit tarts, even a confection spun out of sugar that resembled an old-fashioned ticker-tape machine.
Bet the guys in securities got a big charge out of that one, Eleanor decided with a mocking grin.
“Would you like some more lunch, miss?” a young female staff member asked politely. “I can ask the chef to deliver more freshly cooked salmon.”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
Eleanor resisted the urge to run her hand over her thigh. She knew she didn’t look great in this outfit. Her most flattering pair of white shorts had somehow gotten a stubborn red stain on the cuff, so she was forced to wear a slightly shorter pair. And the required company T-shirt was a little snug across her chest.
Still, just because she didn’t have the emaciated waif-like figure of a model was no reason to assume she had come back to the tent looking for seconds. Deciding the last thing she wanted now was to be seen approaching the dessert table, Eleanor waited until the staff was finished.
The moment they left the tent she rushed the table. The dizzy, syrupy smell assaulted her as she got close, making her feel like she was drowning in a vat of chocolate, vanilla, and sugar. Hastily popping the cover off the tin she had brought, Eleanor slid her dessert offering on the end of the table ... toward the back.
“Hello, Miss Graham,” a deep male voice intoned. “Are you enjoying the picnic?”
The tin cover dropped to the ground but hardly made a sound on the soft grass. Eleanor whirled around swiftly. She let out the breath she was holding and smiled in genuine relief when she met the friendly eyes of a fellow financial analyst, Mark Robertson. For one bizarre instant she had imagined that it was Joshua Barton who stood behind her.
“Oh, Mark. You startled me.” Eleanor stepped away from the table. She absently accepted the cover he stooped to pick up. “Have you been here long? Did Mary and Trevor come with you?”
“My son decided to take an early morning nap and Mary thought it was a good idea,” Mark replied. “It never looks good when your kid starts acting like a brat in front of your boss. Still, we beat you by at least an hour and a half. Where have you been?”
“I had a complicated morning,” Eleanor muttered. She made a move to leave the tent, but Mark blocked her retreat.
“We didn’t think you were coming,” he continued with a slow grin. “In fact we had a lengthy debate trying to remember if you had ever been late for anything. Mallery thought you might have been late to a meeting two years ago, but Jeanne insisted you arrived after breakfast was served but before the meeting officially began so technically you were on time.”
“Very funny.” Eleanor grimaced at her coworker. How reassuring to discover that her reputation as reliable, responsible, old Eleanor was safe.
For the most part she liked Mark and enjoyed his offbeat sense of humor. He was a pleasant-looking guy with wavy brown hair and glasses who was devoted to his wife, Mary, and young son, Trevor. He worked in a separate division but often relied on Eleanor’s superior research and analytical skills to complete his reports.
Mark took a step toward the dessert table and leaned over, peering with obvious interest into the tin she had hoped to put in an unobtrusive spot. “I thought you were going to make those special layered mint brownies?”
“Change of plans,” Eleanor replied with a wan smile, deciding it was those ridiculous brownies that had set off the chain reaction of disasters this fateful morning.
Actually the morning had started out fine. She had gotten up early, mixed the batter for her mother’s famous double-fudge mint brownies, spread it evenly in the pan, and popped it in the oven. After setting the timer she had spent several minutes making corrections to her term paper before printing out a final clean copy.
Realizing she had nearly a half hour until the brownies would be done, she’d decided to indulge herself in a bubble bath. Feeling truly decadent she had taken a book into the tub with her, the latest release of one of her favorite romance authors.
And therein lay her downfall. Caught up in the adventure and romance of this marvelous page-turner, she had missed the buzzing of the oven timer. Only the smell of burning chocolate permeating the air had brought Eleanor’s nose abruptly out of the book. Wrapped in a towel, still soaking wet, she had raced into the kitchen, skidded to a stop, donned an old oven mitt, and reached inside. Wet hands, thin potholder, burnt fingers.
Eleanor had screeched in pain and dumped the entire mess into the sink, where it had fallen on her favorite serving platter. The dish had promptly broken into several pieces. Now she had no dessert for the picnic, no nice serving platter to display it on, and no idea what to make instead.
“The brownies would have been great, but those look, ummm ... interesting,” Mark commented. He poked his finger into the tin, then lifted his head and glanced at Eleanor. “What are they?”
“Rice Krispie treats.”
“Those marshmallow things?” Mark furrowed his brow and looked back at the tin. “My mom used to make them when we were kids. I haven’t eaten one in years.”
Mark reached in and grabbed one. But as he lifted his single selection out, half the contents of the tin came with it. He glanced helplessly at Eleanor.
“Oh no.” Eleanor laughed nervously. “The treats were still warm when I packed them in the tin. Now they’re all stuck together.”
She snatched the serving fork off a platter of perfectly arranged pastries and jabbed at the gooey marshmallow mess in Mark’s hand. By exerting a fair amount of pressure she was able to pry away most, but not all, of the extraneous sweet. It dropped back into the tin with an unappetizing clunk.
Mark was left holding a large, misshapen mass. He looked in true confusion at the sticky chunk in his fingers, then with a philosophical shrug opened his mouth and took a healthy bite.
“Mmmm,” he mumbled. “Looks like a wreck, but tas
tes just like I remember them.”
The stiffness in Eleanor’s bottom lip gave way as the incongruity of the situation hit her. There among the perfectly prepared gourmet selections of triple chocolate tortes and elaborate three-tiered cakes sat her contribution.
Basic, simple, unpretentious, and stuck-together—sort of summed up her feelings about her place in the firm. She was the Rice Krispie treat among the gourmet foods.
Eleanor waited until Mark finished chewing his pilfered sweet before they left the food tent. With Mark licking his fingers they started up the slight hill toward a group of Eleanor’s coworkers.
“There’s Mallery,” Mark commented, pointing toward the softball game, which was still in progress. “Man, he really loves wearing that manager’s shirt. Made us all feel like we weren’t good enough to eat lunch with him now that he got his big promotion. What a jerk. Everyone knows that job should have been yours.”
“Mark, how many times have I told you, I don’t care about the promotion,” Eleanor said truthfully. “George Mallery is a smart man and a hard worker. I thought he deserved to be promoted instead of me. The simple fact is, he wanted it more than I did.”
“A whole lot more,” Mark said with a trace of bitterness. “By rights it should be you wearing that shirt,” he insisted, referring to the three-button collared sports shirts with the small, discreetly embroidered company logo on the breast pocket that all the managers and partners were wearing.
Eleanor shook her head. She wasn’t going to start this discussion with Mark again. They had been having it for three months and neither had budged on their position. Eleanor had eventually realized it was just too difficult for Mark to understand why she wasn’t bitter about the promotion.
The simple truth was that she was working hard toward making a drastic career change and didn’t much care about the upper levels of management at the firm of Hamilton, Barton and Jones. If graduate school continued at the current pace she would be ready to make the move in another year.
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