"See the glittery bits of mica in the blue bands?" He slid her a sideways glance to make sure she was paying attention.
She hurriedly shifted her gaze to the object in question. "Yes, I see them." She lifted her coffee cup to her lips as she spoke. "Very pretty," she said, and sipped.
"If it were in mint condition this little beauty would be worth somewhere between seven-fifty and fifteen hundred dollars."
Zoe nearly choked on her coffee. "Fifteen hundred dollars? For a marble?"
"In mint condition," he clarified. "Which means it's never been used. This one would be graded good at best because of all the hit marks and tiny chips. It's probably worth, oh, somewhere around three hundred, maybe a little more or less depending on the collector and how badly he wants it." He flashed her a wolfish grin. "I'll give you three-fifty for it."
Zoe shook her head; he couldn't be serious. "I got most of those marbles at a flea market up in New Hampshire a couple of years ago." She leaned forward and set her coffee cup back in its saucer. "I think I paid three dollars for a jar this big." She held her hands about eight inches apart to illustrate.
"You got yourself a bargain, then. There are several marbles in there—" he gestured at the bowl "—worth three times that, at least."
Zoe quickly did the math in her head. "Okay, nine dollars for a marble I can believe. Barely." She shook her head again. "But you can't seriously expect me to believe you'd pay three hundred and fifty dollars for one, no matter what condition it's in."
"A few years ago a collector at the Philadelphia MarbleFest Auction paid nearly seven thousand dollars for a peppermint swirl. It was larger than this one," he hastened to assure her. "Nearly two inches in diameter, which is extremely rare. And it was in near mint condition, with an odd number of pink bands—five instead of the more usual four or six. But it didn't have mica."
He held the marble up to the light again, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger to examine it from all sides, watching as the sunlight glittered off the flecks of mica.
"I've got a weakness for the glittery ones," he admitted, thinking of the Indian lutz he carried in his pocket. "I'll give you three-seventy-five."
"Well, gee, I don't know," Zoe drawled, as if she actually believed he was serious. "Maybe I ought to have it appraised first to make sure I'm not being taken to the cleaners."
"Okay, four hundred, but that's as high as I'll go."
Zoe laughed. "Really, Reed, I'm not trying to drive the price up. I was only teasing. If you want it, take it. My gift."
Reed put the marble back in the bowl. "That's a very kind offer, but no, thank you. I couldn't accept a gift from you."
"I don't see why not. After all you're doing for … ahh," she said, as comprehension dawned. "It's those pesky rules again, isn't it?"
"Rules?" Mary Ellen said, looking back and forth between them.
"The unwritten ones governing what can and can't go on between a man and a woman who are doing business together," Zoe explained without taking her eyes off Reed. "He's afraid if he takes the marble it will look like he accepted a bribe or something in exchange for recommending that Moira make an investment in New Moon."
"A man and a woman who are contemplating doing business together," Reed reminded her, ignoring the second half of her statement. His gaze held Zoe's as he spoke. "What happens after we do or do not strike a deal is another matter entirely."
"Yes, well … we'll see," she said with a shrug, trying to sound unaffected by what they both knew he meant.
"We don't have a sexual relationship."
"Yet."
She shifted, turning sideways, trying to put a little more space between them without looking as if she were backing away. She bent her right knee, bringing it up on the sofa as she resettled, turning so that her bare foot dangled over the edge. She waggled it nervously.
"How about if we lag for it?" she suggested brightly, eyes downcast as she busily smoothed the bright paisley fabric of her skirt over her lap.
"Lag?" His gaze drifted down to her bobbing foot. It was small and slim and very white, with a high, elegant arch. Her toenails were painted the same coppery color as her fingertips. She was wearing a delicate gold bracelet around her ankle, and a narrow gold ring on her second toe. He didn't know any other woman who wore an ankle bracelet, let alone a toe ring. Not one that he'd ever seen, anyway. His imagination suddenly shifted into overdrive as he wondered where else she might wear body jewelry. His eyes glazed over as he considered all the intriguing possibilities.
"You know. Lag," Zoe said, still industriously smoothing her skirt to avoid having to look at him. "The way you do to determine who goes first in a game." Her hand stilled in her lap. "You have played with marbles, haven't you? You don't just collect them?" She lifted her gaze to his face. "Reed?"
He gave himself a mental shake and replayed the words she'd just said, damping down the image of her nude but for the rings on her fingers and toes and … other places.
"Yes, I've played with marbles," he said, with an attempt at dignity. "That's how I got started collecting them."
"Okay, then, we'll lag for it. If I win, you take the peppermint swirl as a gift. If you win, I let you buy it from me for three hundred dollars." She was already gathering her skirt up, bunching the excess fabric in one hand as she slid to the floor. "Deal?"
"Four hundred," he countered recklessly, his eyes on her bare, rounded knees and the narrow sliver of thigh she'd inadvertently revealed, "and you've got yourself a deal."
"You're on," Zoe crowed, already envisioning herself the winner.
Mary Ellen watched in openmouthed amazement as her boss hitched up the legs of his impeccably tailored, navy worsted slacks and got down on his knees beside their hostess to lag marbles. She would have liked to see the outcome of the contest, but the nagging ache in her lower back suddenly moved front and center with a surprising amount of force.
"Uh … excuse me," she said softly, too low to be heard over their squabbling about where the lag line should be and just exactly what distance they should each shoot from. Reed was all for allowing a handicap on account of gender. Zoe was insulted by the implication that she was a less accomplished player just because she was a girl.
"Excuse me," Mary Ellen said again, a bit louder. They still didn't hear her.
Zoe was insisting that, as her guest, Reed should shoot first.
Reed was determined to be a gentleman and let her precede him.
"Hey, you two!"
That got their attention. They turned their heads in perfect unison, cheek-to-cheek, both of them on their knees, looking over their shoulders at her with nearly the same expression of irritation, astonishment and inquiry.
"I hate to interrupt your contest," Mary Ellen said contritely, "but I think I'm about to start my maternity leave."
* * *
9
« ^ »
"Maternity leave?" Reed said politely, hoping he'd heard wrong.
"I'm sorry, boss," Mary Ellen offered the apology with a sheepish shrug and a wry smile, "but I'm pretty sure I'm in labor." She pressed her hands against her distended abdomen. "Make that I'm positive I'm in labor."
"But you aren't due for three weeks yet," he objected.
She almost managed another insouciant shrug, but stopped midmotion and gasped softly, hunching over a little.
"Oh my God. She's in labor." Zoe surged to her feet. "I'll call 911. No, a taxi. I'll get a taxi. A taxi would probably get us there quicker. But an ambulance would have medical personnel in case she needs it." She ricocheted around the tiny apartment like a loose marble shot across a hardwood floor, her skirt swirling around her ankles as she ran from the phone to the door and back to the phone again, unable to decide the best course of action. "I'd better call 911."
Telling himself not to give in to panic, Reed rose to his feet and calmly took control of the situation. "Can you stand?" he asked solicitously, bending over his secretary as he spoke.
&
nbsp; Mary Ellen nodded gamely.
"Then let's get you and that baby to the hospital." He cupped his hand under her elbow. "Just take it slow," he instructed as he helped her to her feet. "Nice and easy. No need to hurry. There's plenty of time," he said soothingly, as much to reassure himself as her. "Plenty of time."
He almost lost his grip on Mary Ellen when she doubled over and wrapped her arms around her stomach. "I think it's coming now."
Reed could feel himself starting to sweat. "It can't be coming now, M.E." His voice was still soothing, still calmly reassuring, still I'm-in-complete-control-of-the-situation, despite his inner agitation. "First babies take a long time to get born, remember? You told me that yourself."
"Now," she repeated, and started panting like an over-heated pug.
"Nine-one-one isn't answering." Zoe slammed the telephone receiver into its cradle and whirled back toward the door. "I'll get a taxi."
"Forget the taxi," Reed said, the authority in his voice halting her in midmotion. He dug into the pocket of his slacks with his free hand. "Take my keys." He tossed them to her. "I'm parked in the lot next to a florist about five blocks down the street. Marie Something with a blue striped awning. I'll get M.E. down the stairs while you get the car."
"Marie's Flower Shoppe." Zoe was already heading for the door as she spoke. "I know the one you mean."
"Shoes," he said, halting her again.
She made an abrupt about-face, skittered across the floor in her bare feet, yanked open the armoire and grabbed the first footwear that came to hand.
"And don't forget your purse," he added as she stomped into a pair of lipstick-red cowboy boots. "You'll need your driver's license and cash to get the car out of the lot."
Zoe grabbed her purse from the coat stand by the door and raced down the stairs and up the street to the parking lot. By the time she'd paid for the car, maneuvered it out of the lot and circled back around the five blocks to the front of her building, her hands were shaking and sweaty—both from nervousness about driving the hideously expensive Jaguar and worry that Mary Ellen would have the baby before they could get her to the hospital.
But Reed and Mary Ellen were both upright, standing on the curb, waiting for her. True, Mary Ellen looked a little flushed and frazzled, but Reed … well, even as preoccupied as she was with the crisis at hand, Zoe couldn't help but notice that Reed still looked like an ad in the glossy pages of GQ. It really shouldn't have set her heart to fluttering—especially under the circumstances—but it did.
It took both of them to lower Mary Ellen into the back seat of the car and then, just as they got her settled—half sitting, half lying down on the supple, pale gray leather—her water broke, flooding the upholstery and carpet with pink-tinged fluid.
Zoe began to dither again. "I'll get some towels. Should I go back upstairs and get some towels?"
"Forget the towels," Reed ordered in a voice that permitted no argument, even if she was inclined to make one. Which she wasn't. "You get in back and hold her hand. I'll drive."
And drive he did. He somehow managed to avoid attracting the attention of Boston's finest, despite his flagrant disregard of the speed limit and the two red lights he ran, and got them to the emergency room entrance of Massachusetts General Hospital in record time. He managed to call the hospital on the way, too—he'd had the number stored in the memory banks of his cell phone for months—to alert them to the imminent arrival of the incoming patient. A nurse met them at the curb with a wheelchair.
"It's going to be all right now, M.E.," Reed said, leaning into the back seat to help her out of the car. "These people know what to do. They'll take good care of you."
Mary Ellen grabbed his elegant, striped silk tie and yanked his face down to hers. "Call John," she growled, sounding like a cross between a wounded lioness and a frightened kitten. "I want John."
Without missing a beat or wasting precious time trying to disengage his tie from her clutching fingers, Reed retrieved his cell phone from an inside pocket of his suit jacket, hit a single button—he'd had the man's office number programmed in memory for months, too—and called her husband. It was only after Reed had made the connection and handed the phone to her that Mary Ellen let go of his tie.
She had the phone pressed to her ear as the nurse wheeled her down the hall toward the elevators that would take her upstairs to the maternity ward. As the doors slid closed she could be heard alternately declaring her undying love for her husband, cussing him out for getting her into her current predicament, and exhorting him to hurry to the hospital before his son was born.
Reed and Zoe were left standing in the hospital corridor, feeling rather superfluous—and glad of it "Well." Zoe expelled a huge, heartfelt sigh. "I'm glad that's over. I didn't think we were going to make it in time."
"Neither did I," Reed admitted.
Zoe shifted her gaze from the elevator doors to his face. "Really? But you were so cool about the whole thing. So confident. You knew exactly what to do, while I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off."
"Self-preservation," he said. "I've been scared to death she'd go into labor in the office so I read up on it, just in case." The corners of his mouth quirked in a wry, self-deprecating smile. "When she doubled over like that, believe me, all I wanted to do was turn tail and run. And when her water broke…" He shuddered. "Neither I nor my car will ever be the same."
"Scared to death, huh?" Zoe tilted her head, giving him a long, considering look from under her lashes. "You don't look as if you were scared to death. You don't even look as if you were very much worried. You do look a little rumpled, though." She reached up as she spoke, adjusting the knot of his tie with one hand, smoothing down the length of the silky fabric with the other. "There, all better now." She smiled teasingly and gave his chest a friendly little pat. "You're restored to perfection. No one will ever know—"
He reached up and captured her hands, trapping them against his shirtfront with his, trapping her voice in her throat. She forgot whatever it was she'd been going to say and just stood there, transfixed, staring up at him in the middle of the busy hospital corridor. It was, suddenly, as if they were alone. As if there was no one else in the world. In the universe. She could feel his heart beating under her palms, steady and strong. She could feel his fingers, warm and hard, against the backs of her hands. She could feel the heat of his gaze caressing every curling tendril of her hair, every curve and angle of her face as if he had never seen a woman before and wanted to memorize every nuance of her appearance in case he never saw one again.
Fantasies were running rampant through his mind, as they seemed to do when she was near. Fantasies of her soft, slender hands with their painted nails and flashing rings, caressing the bare skin of his chest. Her wild corkscrew curls fanned out across his pillow. Her eyes half-closed in ecstasy as she gazed up at him. Her luscious, bee-stung mouth, moist and ready for his kisses. It seemed as if all he had to do was be near her … look at her … breathe in that heady combination of old-fashioned violets and heated sensuality that was so uniquely her, and everything he'd ever learned about good manners and civilized behavior vanished in a maelstrom of rampaging hormones. It didn't seem to matter where they were, or with whom; one look and he wanted to reach out and touch … taste … take.
Known for his cool self-possession and sangfroid, Reed found his reaction decidedly disconcerting. And wildly exciting. No other woman—ever—had made him so hot.
"You're driving me crazy, do you know that?" he whispered, his voice low and throaty and intimate. "You are the most—"
"Well, for goodness sake, if it isn't Reed Sullivan. Look who's here, Aunt Katherine. It's Reed."
Reed blinked once, slowly, as if he were coming out of a trance, and turned his head toward the speaker.
Oh, no. No, wait, Zoe thought a bit frantically. Wait. I'm the most what?
"My eyesight is still as good as it ever was," snapped the woman addressed as Aunt Katherine.
"I can see very well for myself who it is." She inclined her head very slightly in greeting, her manner as supercilious as a dowager queen who'd just caught one of her courtiers dallying in the hall with a chambermaid. "Good morning, Reed."
Reed released Zoe's hands and stepped back from her. "Aunt Katherine." There was a slight stutter, a tiny hesitation in his usual suavity as he uttered the name. "What a surprise to see you here."
"Yes." Something that might have been humor flashed in her eyes for a moment as she glanced back and forth between him and Zoe. "I imagine it is."
"I trust you're not here to see one of the doctors in a professional capacity," Reed said solicitously, hoping to avoid an interrogation, knowing it was impossible. There was nothing Katherine Hightower liked better than interrogating people.
"Certainly not," she said, insulted. "You know very well I am never ill."
"We've been talking to the hospital administrator about the final arrangements for this year's charity fund-raiser. It's in two weeks, you know," said Katherine's companion. She was a younger, far less vivid version of her autocratic aunt, more aging East Coast preppie than Boston aristocrat. "We're holding it at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. It's going to be quite grand this year. A lovely dinner in the Tapestry Room, with musicians from the Boston Symphony for dancing and a silent auction running throughout the ev—"
"Oh, do stop blathering, Margaret." Katherine rapped her cane against the floor. Margaret jumped. "He knows all about it. He's on the board of directors of the hospital and I'm sure the event has been marked on his calendar for months. If it hasn't, it certainly should have been." She pinned Reed with a sharp look. "We'll be expecting you early to stand in the receiving line with the other directors. Now—" she transferred her gaze to Zoe "—introduce this young woman to me."
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