JUST A LITTLE FLING

by Julie Kistler

  But apparently that was exactly what he wanted.

  "Ian, if you do this," she said softly, "that's the end. You and me, this thing we've had together, whatever it is or could be… It could never amount to anything if you don't respect me and my decisions about myself."

  "I do respect you," he returned.

  "No, you don't." She made one more attempt.

  "Please don't treat me like what I want, what's right for me, doesn't matter."

  "I promised you that I would get Pandora's Boxers back for you." With the cassette clasped firmly in his hand, he backed away. "I can't give you anything else. But I can give you your company." He smiled, with a spark of the Ian she knew, the one she'd fallen in love with. "It's the least I can do."

  "Ian…"

  But he was gone.

  * * *

  Lucie's father sat behind a huge, polished desk, in an immense leather chair that looked more like a throne.

  "Please, Ian, have a seat," he said jovially, indicating a smaller, much less imposing chair.

  "I'd rather stand." Tense, impatient, Ian prepared to get right to the point He wanted this over with, to put Pandora's Boxers into Lucie's hands, to prove once and for all that it could be handled his way—no muss, no fuss—no matter what she thought So he said, "Here's the deal, Don. You're going to give Lucie her mother's company. Lock, stock and barrel. We can make it hard, or we can make it easy. But the end result will be the same."

  "Now just a minute, young man," Mr. Webster huffed. "I'm making allowances for the fact that you're young and in love with my daughter, but that goes only so far."

  Ian waved away his objections. "You and I both know you're not exactly standing on the moral high ground. You should've given it to her years ago."

  The older man chuckled. "Turns out that silly little brassiere and panty factory turns a tidy profit. Who'd have guessed? Just between you and me, Lucie is a sweet girl, but she isn't capable of the hard decisions it takes to run a business." He shook his head sadly. "When push comes to shove, Lucie will fold every time rather than hurt someone's feelings. Feelings! As if that matters in business."

  Ian really wished the old man would shut up. His blunt, unkind remarks sounded an awful lot like what Ian had said to Lucie herself. And he didn't like the reminder. Or the comparison.

  Donald Webster lit up a fat cigar, blowing malodorous smoke out over the desk. "So why should I turn over a profitable enterprise to my flighty, irresponsible daughter? What's in it for me?"

  "Besides the knowledge that you did the honorable thing, you mean?" Ian leaned in over the desk, not flinching when smoke blew in his face. "Why should you give Lucie the company she wants? Because you're right—I am in love with your daughter and that changes everything."

  I am in love with your daughter and that changes everything. Where had those words come from?

  He hadn't planned to say that. He hadn't been aware he felt it. But once the confession left his lips, it was as if a long, dark hood had been ripped off his head.

  Good God! He was in love with her. How could he not know that? But when did it happen?

  In love. The forever kind. With Lucie, of all people. Lucie and her impractical underwear. Lucie and her creative ways to make love. Lucie and her wild, sensational, red-gold hair. Lucie and her pale skin that always seemed to be blushing into a rosy glow. Lucie and her laughter and her smile and her complicated, nonlinear, out-of-nowhere ideas.

  "I don't see how what you feel for Lucie makes a rat's rear end of difference," her father announced sourly.

  "I've been an idiot," Ian said slowly. "A total and complete idiot. But no more. I am in love with your daughter."

  "Yes, yes, I've got that. So what?"

  Ian narrowed his eyes. Back to business. He could puzzle through the repercussions of his love life on his own time. But this, this was for Lucie. "The fact that I care about Lucie means that I'm not going to stand around and let you yank her chain. I don't really care how you feel about Pandora's Boxers. Lucie loves that company. Lucie wants it. Lucie gets it."

  Don smiled, chomping down on his stogie. "Since we last spoke, I've done a little checking on you, Ian. I know you have a sizable bankroll, so it's certainly possible that we might do business. It's possible I might be persuaded to let you acquire a certain interest in the enterprise we've been discussing."

  "An interest? I don't think so. Not good enough."

  "I don't know. I don't think I can just kiss the whole thing goodbye." Stubborn to the last, her father maintained, "I'm fond of that company."

  "You did your checking. You know about my bankroll." Ian's gaze was steady. "Do you really want to fight me on this?" He played his best card, or at least the best one he was willing to toss down at this juncture. He was determined to pluck Pandora's Boxers out of the old man's grasp without bringing up Steffi, unless he absolutely had to. "Do you really want me to launch a big, ugly legal battle? Poor Lucie, wrongfully deprived of her mother's legacy all those years ago. I've got the time, I've got the money, I've got the lawyers, I've got the motivation. And you will lose more than just your boxers."

  "Lawyers?"

  He bit. He bit! The hook was in Don Webster's mouth and all he had to do was reel him in. "I'm prepared to fight a PR battle as well as a legal one," Ian continued. "Your name will be mud. Let's see, you have a catering company, a chain of dry cleaners, and a few other small holdings, all with your muddy name on them. Compared to losing the whole enchilada, you can afford to part with one small bra-and-panty company, can't you?"

  Webster smashed the rest of his cigar into an ashtray.

  "Perhaps I could see my way clear to letting Lucie have the company she wants. My objection was purely because I was afraid she couldn't handle it. But as long as she has the good sense to stick with you…" The old man smiled weakly. "Well, I know you'll keep her out of trouble."

  "Keep Lucie out of trouble?" Ian laughed out loud. "You really don't know her very well, do you?"

  "Well, I…"

  "Never mind." He waved a hand at Don Webster. "Here's what you're going to do. You're going to get together the paperwork and wrap it up with a big bow."

  A bow… Ian was suddenly seized with a brilliant idea. Fragments, possibilities, spun through his brain.

  Lucie was furious with him. She also thought he was the wrong man for her. Yet he had just discovered he loved her. So how could he prove to her that he was the right man, and that he belonged back in her life? He'd been holding onto some vague notion that he could offer Pandora's Boxers up like a gift, to prove his sincerity.

  But what if he went further than just a gift? What if he upped the ante and turned it into a major production?

  "Wrap it up like a present," he said quickly. "A birthday present. And you'll need to bring it, in person, to a party I'm arranging next Saturday night. You see, Lucie turned thirty last Saturday night, and I don't think that milestone got the attention it deserved."

  "Perhaps—"

  "Don't mess with me. I am a desperate man," he interrupted, as his idea began to take shape. "No perhaps. This is going to happen."

  He barely registered Donald Webster's slow nod.

  "Don't disappoint me, Don. Next Saturday. Come with Pandora's Boxers in hand."

  Starting to whistle "Happy Birthday," Ian slapped the desk and made for the door. But on his way over the threshold, he stopped.

  "I almost forgot." He turned back, sliding the videocassette out from his inside jacket pocket. "I think you should know that your other daughter is cheating on my brother with a busboy. I haven't said anything to Kyle yet. But you might want to convince her to file a quick annulment and get out of town for a few days. I hear she's hot to go to Hawaii."

  "What?" Now he was on his feet. "What kind of joke…?"

  "It's not a joke." Ian set the tape on the desk. "The Hawaii thing is just a thought. It's up to you. Although I'd suggest you probably don't want to look at the video. Lucie seems to think it w
ill upset you."

  As he cleared the outside of the building, Ian turned his face into the bright summer sun and took a deep breath.

  He'd won this round, no matter how Don Webster handled the Steffi situation. But now Ian had better things to think about, like what kind of party to throw for Lucie … and how to get her to show up.

  He muttered, "It isn't going to be easy."

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  «^

  Lucie sat on the floor of her cottage, folding lingerie and briefs to pack away, and perusing the real estate listings from a nearby newspaper at the same time.

  "Maybe I should buy a condo," she pondered. "That might be fun."

  She hadn't seen her dad, his wife, or their daughter since she'd been back from the Mackintosh mansion. But every time she angled her car past their squatty brown house, she felt major guilt. She debated going in and seeing if they were all right after Ian's big video showdown, if that was indeed what had transpired, but she just couldn't make herself do it.

  She didn't want to get yelled at. She didn't even want to know what happened.

  Call her a chicken—and Ian had—but that was the way it was. How strange to realize that after all these years, she didn't much care whether her father approved or disapproved of anything she did, that there was no reason to wait for him to turn over Pandora's Boxers. Why bother? So she wouldn't get the name or the assets. So she would be starting from scratch. She'd prefer her mother's name on the company, of course, but it didn't have to be there. She would know in her heart how much a part of it her mother was.

  "Maybe I will call it Pandora's Daughter. Or go a whole different direction and make it Lucie's Lingerie. Lucie's Loungewear. Lucie's lascivious, lovely, lacy, little… Hmm."

  Oh well. She had plenty of time to think about that.

  She tossed another pile of samples into a wardrobe box. Whatever she decided to do about her lingerie business, she didn't want to do it here. Not with that big brown house looming nearby like a poisonous mushroom.

  Her feelings indicated to her that it was time to move. She'd lived in the little cottage ever since her mother died, so it was well past time that she put it behind her and struck out on her own. She had a job and she'd been paying rent for the cottage since she was eighteen, so she could certainly afford an apartment or a house like anyone else.

  As she frowned at the listings, wondering where she most wanted to go, her doorbell rang. "Who can that be?" she asked out loud. She felt a small flutter of apprehension in case it was her father or—God forbid—Ian. But either of those seemed unlikely.

  If they'd wanted to talk to her, they'd had days. With nary a peep from either of them, the odds seemed good that they weren't interested in making contact

  So Lucie steeled herself, put on a smile, and pulled open the door.

  "Lucie Webster?" the delivery man asked, holding out a clipboard.

  "Yes." Her interest piqued, she signed her name and took the bulky package. She didn't recognize the return address, although it said it was from something called Festivité. It sounded artsy, but she wasn't expecting any fabric or patterns. It was the right size for something like a basketball, but it seemed awfully light.

  Shaking it, Lucie shut the door and brought the mysterious box into her breakfast nook. Setting it down on the table, she went after the scissors, which took a few minutes, since they weren't where they were supposed to be.

  And then, scissors in hand, she contemplated the package. Who the heck was Festivité? Or was that just a cover for a letter bomb from Steffi? Or maybe an eviction notice and accompanying materials from her father?

  "Better to find out than stand here and worry about it," she decided. She attacked it with her shears, slashing at the thick tape, wrenching open cardboard flaps, revealing…

  A balloon. A shiny silver Mylar balloon filled with helium.

  There was a big star on it, and it read, "You're invited!" It floated lazily out of the box, scattering bright, metallic confetti shaped like stars, and trailing a thick, square white card tied to the curling ribbons.

  Her name, inscribed in hot pink ink, spiraled across the front of the envelope. How very entertaining. She didn't know anyone who went to this much trouble to create cool invitations, but hey, maybe someone was having a particularly inspired baby shower or pool party.

  Lucie detached the envelope from the balloon and quickly tore it open. "Huh. 'You are cordially invited…'" She skimmed to the bottom. "It's from Ian's parents."

  This was odd. Incredible, unexpected and downright odd. After disappearing from their house like a thief in the night, leaving no traces except for one vandalized linen closet and one enraged son, she didn't expect to hear from them again, and especially not to get invited to any parties they were hosting. Of course, she had told Jessica she would make her some yoga clothes, but this didn't look like it had anything to do with yoga.

  She scanned the lines. "'You are cordially invited to a soiree in honor of a special birthday. Please help us celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of the birth of our dear friend Lucie…' Oh, my God."

  The invitation wobbled in her hand.

  "The party is for me."

  But how could that be? She read it again. In honor of a special birthday… Our dear friend Lucie Webster…

  Yes, it was definitely for her. Her heart warmed and swelled in her chest. What a sweet gesture from the Mackintosh clan.

  But why? How did they even know it was her birthday? And why did they care?

  "Well, his mother did like me," she mused. "And I liked her, too. Maybe I mentioned I'd just had my birthday."

  But that was still no reason for Myra and George Mackintosh to throw her a party. No, she was stumped. This was really out of nowhere.

  "Okay, now what?" she asked herself. "Do I go?

  How can I not go if the party's for me? But how can I go, considering the way Ian and I left things, and if I see him again, I have no idea how I'll react or hell react or whether he'll even want to see me or I'll want to see him?"

  She paced back and forth, chewing on the edge of the invitation. "This could be some matchmaking scheme of his mother's, in which case Ian would bate it—and hate me for going along with it. Or it could be exactly what it says it is—just a party, like a consolation prize for losing Ian, because his mom feels sorry for me now that I'm just flotsam and jetsam left in his wake. And I swear…" Her voice grew louder, more adamant and she began to smack the card against the edge of the table. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. "If he's there with a date, like that horrid Feather, I really will kill him. No mercy."

  Abandoning the battered invitation, she crossed her arms over her chest. "That would be just like him, to bring Feather and flaunt her in my face. As if to say, see, Lucie, what you could've had, and now I am so out of your reach. And I wouldn't have a choice—I would have to kill him."

  No jury in the world would convict her if they got a glimpse of Feather.

  "But if he brings a date, does that mean I should bring a date?" She ran a hand over her forehead. "And if so, who? No. No, wait. This is getting way too complicated. No, no matter what he does, I am not bringing a date. If it's wrong for him, it's wrong for me, and am not going to stoop to that level just because I think he might."

  Lucie paused, losing some of her indignation. "So," she murmured, "I guess that means I'm going."

  She had to find out what it was all about, didn't she? She couldn't just leave it a mystery. Besides, she needed to bring those yoga clothes to Jessica and apologize to Myra for vanishing so abruptly.

  "Okay. Good." With that settled, she whipped the card back in front of her eyes. "Saturday, eight o'clock. The Highland Inn. No RSVP necessary."

  The Highland Inn… She dropped into a kitchen chair. They really were bringing this thing full circle, weren't they?

  * * *

  Lucie huddled behind the wheel of her newly repaired Jeep, trying to be inconspicuous, watching seconds tick off
on her watch. This time, she'd been sure not to park under any balconies, but she peered up there anyway, looking out for airborne missiles from unhappy brides. As she peeked out under the sun visor, she wondered why there were so many cars in the parking lot, too many for one little birthday party.

  "They're probably golfing," she said out loud. "I'll bet like three total are here for the party."

  Ian's car was conspicuously absent, as was Steffi's little red convertible.

  "Whew. That's a relief," she told herself with spirit. "Probably neither one of them will be here."

  The clock on the dashboard said 8:11. But her watch was back at 8:04. Was that late enough to go in? How terrible to be the first guest at a party given in your honor. Or the last.

  "What if I'm the only guest who shows?" she thought, seized with fresh panic.

  Oh, jeez. This was worse than being the hostess.

  "Okay, Lucie, you're going in." She took a deep breath, reached over for the purse she'd made up to match her slinky dress, and hopped out of the Jeep. She'd used a basic pattern for a camisole and slip, but found a beautiful bolt of deep-rose silk, and then added fabric roses in various shades of pink to decorate the evening bag.

  It was different from most of her designs, especially since she'd spent so much time on the men's line lately, but she thought it looked really pretty. And if she had to face Ian—maybe Ian with a date—she needed to look good.

  Calmly, only a little breathless, she walked around to the front door. The last time she'd seen that door, she was wearing Ian's formal shirt and not much else. Ah, yes. Two weeks ago tomorrow and it felt like 150 years.

  A doorman—not wearing a kilt, thank you, but a pair of khaki pants and a polo shirt—opened the heavy door for her, and she had no choice but to waltz right in.