by Nora Roberts
Her eyes flashed, blue lightning cased in ice.“I don’t like being maneuvered.”
“No, you like doing the maneuvering, and you’re damn good at it. I admire that.When I was doing gags—”
“Gags?”
“Stunts. Stunt work. Anyway, back then I liked to watch the horse wranglers if I had a chance.You’ve got the same kind of skill with people. It’s impressive.”
“I’d say thank you, but we seem to have passed that phrase around plenty already.”
“Don’t mention it.” He eased back. “I like your house. Who wouldn’t, but I mean I like how it works. I like seeing and figuring out how things work.”
“How the house works?”
“House, home, business. Canvas.”
She paused at that, a flower in her hand, and just stared at him.
“You let people paint the picture they want on it.You guide a lot of the strokes, maybe influence them toward certain colors, but they get what they want at the end of it. It’s good work.”
“Th—” The phone saved her from another thank-you. “Excuse me. Hello, Bonnie, what can I do for you?” She wandered a few paces away.
Malcolm heard the hysteria through the phone even before Parker yanked it an inch from her ear. “I see.Yes, I . . .”
He listened—why the hell not—and began to stick flowers in the vase himself.
“Of course I understand. But I also think you’re very stressed just now, again understandably. I bet Richie is, too. Well, Bonnie, your mother isn’t marrying Richie, and though I know she loves him, she doesn’t know him the way you do. I think, if Richie thought of it as anything other than a silly, blowing-off-steam male tradition, he’d never have told you. But he did, and the way he did tells me he thinks of it as a joke. His brother’s just doing what brothers often do.”
She closed her eyes a moment, listened as she thumbed out a Tums. “Yes, I do understand, but you’re not marrying Richie’s brother. I’m sure none of you, really, want something as unimportant as this to cause any sort of a family rift.”
She listened again. “Yes. Mmm-hmm. Does Richie love you? Mmm-hmm. Has he given you any reason to doubt that, any reason not to trust him? What I think isn’t important. It’s what you think, and what you feel. But since you asked, I think I’d laugh it off, and I’d go have a wonderful time with my friends before I spent the next week getting ready to marry the man I’m just crazy about.”
While she wound it up, he finished the arrangement, then stepped back, hands tucked in his back pockets to study the result.
“That’s nicely done,” Parker commented.
“It’s not bad. So . . . problem?”
“Nothing major.”
“The groom’s brother’s hired a stripper for the bachelor party. She projected,” Malcolm added, “really well.”
“I guess she did.Yes, and the bride hit flashpoint, aided by the fury and dire warnings of her mother—who really doesn’t think anyone’s good enough for her baby girl, and will, I predict, always find fault with Richie.”
“She wanted you to back her up.”
“Naturally.”
“And you soothed and smoothed while managing to turn it back on her. Nice wrangling,Tex.”
“If you’re mature enough to marry, you ought to be mature enough to stop crying to Mommy every time something upsets you. And if she doesn’t trust her perfectly affable, devoted, and honest-to-a-fault fiancé not to jump on a stripper a week before the wedding, she shouldn’t marry him.”
“That’s not what you said to her.”
“Because she’s the client.” She caught herself.“And I shouldn’t be saying it to you.”
“Hey, what’s said in the—What is this room?”
“Butler’s pantry.”
“No shit?” He let out a half laugh as he scanned the space again. “Okay, what’s said in the butler’s pantry stays in the butler’s pantry.” That got a smile out of her, a faint one. “You calmed her down.”
“For now anyway. They’re moving to Atlanta—he’s been transferred—in a couple months.The mother is supremely pissed over that, and it’s the very best thing that could happen. They’ve got a good chance, I think, if she gets out from under Mommy’s thumb.”
“It tensed you up.”
She shrugged and picked up the vase. “I’ll get over it.”
“I gotta ask you something.”
She glanced back at him as they walked out. “What?”
“Do you own a pair of jeans?”
“Of course I own a pair of jeans.”
“How about a leather jacket, with or without designer label.”
“Your interest in my wardrobe is very strange.” She set the vase on the counter, then handed Malcolm a notepad and pen. “You should write her a little note, so she’ll see it with the flowers when she gets home.”
“Okay, while I’m doing that, go put on the jeans and jacket.”
“Excuse me?”
“I love the way you say that.You’ll enjoy the ride more out of that suit.”
“I like this suit, and I’m not going for a ride.”
“I like how you look in the suit, but you’ll be more comfortable on the bike in jeans.” He tucked a thumb in his front pocket, leaned a hip against the counter. “It’s a nice night. Neither of us have anything booked. So, we’ll take a ride, clear your head. I’ll buy you dinner.”
“I’m not getting back on that motorcycle.”
“You’re not afraid of the bike, or of having dinner with me.”
“It’s not a matter of fear but preference.”
He smiled. “Prove it. Here’s the deal. You take the ride, have dinner—casual, public place—I bring you home. If you don’t have fun, or at least enjoy the change of pace, I back off. All the way.”
This time the look was regal, and just a little amused. “I don’t need to negotiate to get you to back off, Malcolm.”
“You’re right about that.” He waited a beat while their eyes stayed locked. “So why haven’t you backed me off ?”
Good question, she thought. She might as well figure out the answer. “A ride, a casual meal.That’s it.”
“That’s the deal.”
“I’ll go change.”
She did something for him, Malcolm thought as he scrawled You still owe me a dance on the notepad. He wasn’t altogether sure what it was she did, but it was something.
He wanted his hands on her, no question, but Parker Brown wasn’t the jump in, roll around, then roll off type. Added to that, he valued his friendship with her brother.
He walked out of the kitchen, wandered the first floor.
If he considered Parker an easy bang, and acted on it, he’d fully expect Del to kick his ass, or try to. Reverse positions, he’d do exactly the same. And that was one of the reasons he valued the friendship.
He poked into what he figured they called—due to the big-ass piano—the music room. The misty watercolors shimmering on the walls were undoubtedly originals, and nice enough. But the collection of instruments in a fancy glass case caught his interest.
Guitar, violin, various flutes—maybe a piccolo—a concertina, a drum, harmonica, what he thought was a dulcimer, a cowbell, bongos, and a few things he couldn’t readily identify.
If it hadn’t been locked, he doubted he’d have resisted the urge to open the cabinet and try out a couple of instruments, just to see how they sounded, to see how they worked.
And, he supposed, that was why he didn’t consider Parker a casual bang. He had this urge to open her up, see how she worked.
Rich girl—wealthy woman, he corrected—with exceptional looks, the pedigree, the connections, the smarts. And she worked as hard, maybe harder, than anyone he knew. She could’ve coasted on her very fine ass, jetting off for drinks in Majorca, sailed the Aegean to sun those amazing legs, sipped wine in a Parisian cafe between shopping sprees.
Instead, she’d founded a business with childhood pals that kept her
running around at other people’s beck.
He wandered to the piano, improvised a few chords.
Not for the money, he decided. He didn’t get the greed vibe from her. Money would be a result, a practicality of business, but not the essential ingredient. He knew what it was like when money was the essential.
Satisfaction played a role, but there had to be more.
He wanted to figure it out.
He sensed her—a little heat along the skin—and looked up to see her in the doorway.
And oh yeah, he wanted his hands on her.
She wore jeans as well as she wore her woman-in-charge suits. Her boots had short, skinny heels. She wore a bright red shirt under a thin leather jacket the color, like the boots, of dark chocolate. Silver hoops glinted on her ears.
Classy Biker Babe? he wondered.
No. Just classy.
“You play?”
“Me?” He shrugged.“No. I just mess around.That’s some collection.”
“Yes. My father’s mostly. He had absolutely no musical talent, and so admired those who did.”
“Del plays a mean piano, especially after a couple beers. How about you?”
“Piano, violin—with or without beer.The dulcimer.”
“I thought that’s what that was.What’s this one?”
She walked to the case as he tapped the glass toward a small, key-shaped instrument.
“A trump or jaw harp.You hold it against the teeth, or the lips, and pluck. Simple, effective, and very old.”
“Is that a piccolo?”
“No, that’s a soprano flute. That’s a piccolo. I can get the key for the case.”
“No, that’s okay.” He wondered, idly, where people came up with names like piccolo or saxophone. “I just like knowing what I’m looking at. Plus, if you opened it, I’d just want to play with everything and we wouldn’t get to that ride.”
He shifted so instead of shoulder-to-shoulder they stood face-to-face. “Maybe by the end of it, I’ll figure out what I’m looking at.”
She stepped back. “It’s not that complicated.”
“You’re not doing the looking. Ready?”
She nodded, led the way out. On the way she picked up a purse with a long strap, and slipped it on cross-body.
“One thing I know about you.You think things through.” He tapped the bag with his finger.“Getting on a bike, need your supplies. So you put them in something you can hang on, instead of hang on to. Smart. I like smart.”
He opened the door, holding it until she’d walked through.
“I like practical. That’s not practical.” She gestured toward the bike.
“Sure it is. It gets me where I’m going, gets good gas mileage, and can fit in small spaces for parking.”
“I’ll concede those points. I doubt it feels practical through a Connecticut winter.”
“Depends.” He walked down to unstrap a helmet.“Before you get on,” he said as he handed it to her, “and in the interest of fair play, I’ve got a bet going.”
“A bet?”
“With Del. Jack and Carter wanted in on it. I bet Del a hundred I’d get you back on the bike.”
Her eyes, he noted, neither heated or frosted. They just narrowed a fraction.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. Del figured no way in hell. Jack’s with him on it, so I’ve got two on the line. Carter put his hundred on me.”
She turned the helmet in her hands. “You’re telling me this after I’ve agreed to take this ride, but before I actually take it. Meaning, I can toss this helmet in your face and tell you to go to hell.”
“Yeah.”
She nodded again. “Carter can keep his full winnings, but I want half of yours—Del’s hundred specifically.” She put the helmet on.
“Fair enough.” Grinning, he swung onto the bike.
He didn’t have to tell her to hold on this time, he noted, and with her arms wrapped around his waist, he roared off.
Maybe her heart thundered, especially on the curves, but Parker couldn’t deny she enjoyed the sensation. Neither could she deny if she hadn’t wanted to be there, she wouldn’t be.
Curiosity, she thought. Now she’d satisfied the curiosity. Yes, streaking down the road, punching through the wind, was just as thrilling as it had been on her initial, brief ride.
It didn’t mean she’d make a habit of it, but she appreciated being able to file the experience under Things Accomplished.
Almost as much as she appreciated winning the hundred from Del.
Served him right.
Since she was in the process of admissions, she had to admit it had been damn perceptive of Malcolm to calculate her reaction.
Then again, maybe he’d banked on his own dubious charm to persuade her to keep the deal.Though she couldn’t see the point of that. Safer to have said nothing.
And wasn’t that the point? she realized.
He wasn’t the type to take the safe choice.
The hell with it, she decided. She’d enjoy the experience before filing it away.
That enjoyment climbed several levels when she realized he zigged and zagged his way toward the water. She caught the scent of it, damp and tinged with salt. She watched the sun flood its evening light over the sound, glint and glimmer over the bumps of Calf Island, catch in the rippling white sails of pleasure boats.
And all the while the machine growled under her, vibrating with power.
Obligations, schedules, duties shed from her mind, and blew away like feathers in the wind.The thunder of her heart throttled back to a steady, relaxed beat as she watched gulls soar and dip. If the phone in her bag rang, she didn’t hear it, didn’t give it a thought.
She lost track of the time, noting only the softening of the light and the air as he doubled back.
He slowed as they cruised into Old Greenwich. Tourists and locals mingled on the busy main street, drawn by the shops and restaurants, the easy distance to the shore. But the bustle didn’t diminish the neighborhood feel.
He turned off the main, putting with traffic before swinging into a minuscule parking spot. He pulled his helmet off as he turned to look at her.
“Hungry?”
“I guess I am.”
“I know a place here that serves the best pizza in Connecticut.”
“Then you haven’t tasted Mrs. G’s.”
“Maybe I’ll get lucky there, but in the meantime . . . You can let go now.”
“Oh.”A little flustered she hadn’t realized she still had her arms around him, she pulled back, climbed off.
He hooked the helmets on the bike. “It’s not far. Just enough to stretch it out a little before we eat.”
“I don’t mind a walk,” she began, then flipped open her purse at the signal. “Sorry, that’s voice mail. I’d better check.”
“How many?” he asked when she muttered a curse under her breath.
“Three.”
“Do they ever give you the night off ?”
“It happens. Rarely, but it happens. People planning a wedding, or a big event like an important anniversary, it becomes their world for a while. Every idea or problem or decision can take on enormous magnitude.”
She started to slip the phone back into her bag, thinking she’d duck into the rest room first chance and handle whatever she could.
“Go ahead and do the callbacks.”
“That’s all right. It can wait for a bit.”
“You’ll be thinking about them, and thinking how to duck away to deal with them. Might as well just do it.”
“I’ll make it quick.”
He slowed the pace to a saunter, listening while she spoke to someone named Gina about chiffon versus taffeta. They agreed Parker would meet her to check out both samples.Then she discussed a Cinderella coach with a Mrs. Seaman. Parker promised to arrange one as she pulled out a notepad and wrote down the specifications. Finally, she assured somebody named Michael that both he and his fiancé, Vince, still had t
ime to learn to swing dance, and rattled off the name and number of a dance instructor.
“Sorry,” she said to Malcolm as she slipped the phone back into its pocket. “And thanks.”
“No problem. Okay, I don’t care about chiffon or taffeta, or the difference in weight and sheen, but where the hell do you get a Cinderella coach outside of Disney?”
“You’d be surprised what you can get, especially if you have the right resources, and in this case a virtually unlimited budget. Mrs. Seaman—that’s Seaman Furniture—wants her daughter to arrive and depart in a Cinderella coach, I’ll make that happen. After I check with the bride to make sure that’s what she wants.”
“Got it. Now, why do Michael and Vince need to swing dance?”
“They’re getting married in February, and finally decided on a Big Band-era theme.They’re wearing zoot suits and spats.”
He took a moment to absorb it. “You’re not kidding.”
“No, and I happen to think it’ll be fun. So naturally, they want to swing, and particularly well for their first dance.”
“Who leads? That’s a serious question,” he said when she gave him a bland stare. “Somebody has to.”
“They can flip a coin, I suppose, or leave it to the instructor. I think Vinnie because Michael’s the one who’s worried about it, and Vinnie’s pretty gung-ho.”
“Then maybe . . . Wait a minute. February? Is it Vinnie Calerone?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Yeah. Knew him when we were kids. My ma’s friendly with his.When he heard I moved back, he came to see me. I service his Mercedes. He said he was getting married in February, said he’d get me an invite.”
“Were you close?”
“Not especially.” He glanced at her, then decided to finish it out. “He was getting the shit beat out of him back in the day. It looked to me like he’d have held his own one-on-one, but there were two of them. I evened the odds. And I was right. He held his own. Vinnie’s wearing a zoot suit.” His grin spread with easy humor. “I can actually see that.”
“You got into a fight for him?”
“Not for him, especially. It was more the two-against-one deal. Beating somebody up because he’s gay is ignorant. Ganging up to do it? That’s cheap. Anyway, it only took a few minutes.This is the place.”