by Nora Roberts
With the wariness of a man who understood trouble when it stared at him from sultry blue eyes, Josh approached the counter. “Sorry about that.”
“We’ll deal with sorry later,” she said under her breath. “What did you do to upset her?”
Just like a woman, he thought, to take the woman’s side. “I tried to help her.”
“You know how she hates that. Why, instead of taking your head off, did she storm out of here looking like she was going to take someone else’s head off?”
He sighed, scratched his chin, shuffled his feet. “She’d finished taking my head off. Now she’s going for Byron’s. He sort of suggested that I help her.”
Margo tapped coral-tipped nails on the glass counter. “I see.”
“I really ought to call him, give him some advance warning.” But when Josh reached for the phone on the counter, Margo laid a firm hand over his.
“Oh, no. I don’t think so. We wouldn’t want to spoil Kate’s advantage.”
“Margo, it’s only fair.”
“Fair has nothing to do with it. And you’re going to be too busy waiting on customers to make personal calls.”
Now he stuck his hands in his pockets. “Duchess, I’ve got a meeting in a couple of hours. I don’t have time to help you out around here.”
“Thanks to you, I’m shorthanded.” Knowing that that wouldn’t get her very far, she let her shoulders slump. “And I’m feeling a little tired.”
“Tired?” Panic came on wings. “You should get off your feet.”
“You’re probably right.” Though she felt strong as a horse, she scooted a stool over to the cash register and perched on it. “I’ll just sit here and ring up sales for the next hour. Oh, Josh, darling, be sure to offer the customers champagne.”
Enjoying herself, she slipped off her shoes and prepared to watch her adorable husband handle a storeful of customers.
The only show she would have preferred to witness was the one that would be starting shortly in the penthouse office of Templeton Monterey.
The first analogy that came to Byron’s mind was that of a wild, possibly rabid, deer charging.
Kate cut through his shocked, protesting assistant like a sharp knife through quivery jelly, snarled like a feral she-wolf, and might very well have delivered the knockout punch of a flyweight champ if Byron hadn’t signaled his assistant to retreat.
“Well, Katherine.” He barely missed a beat when she slammed the door with a resounding crack. “What an unexpected pleasure.”
“I’m going to kill you. I’m going to rip off your meddling nose and stuff it in your flapping mouth.”
“As much fun as I’m sure that’ll be, would you like a drink first? Some water? You’re a bit flushed.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” She sprang toward the desk, smashed her palms down on its polished, and just now crowded, surface. “What possible right do you have to mix in my business? Do I strike you as some weak-willed, empty-headed woman who needs a man to defend her?”
“Which one of those questions would you like me to answer first? Why don’t I take them in order?” he said before she could shout again. “You know exactly who I am. I didn’t mix in your business any more than any tentative and concerned friend would, and no, no indeed, I don’t see you as weak-willed or empty-headed. I see you as stubborn, rude, and potentially dangerous.”
“You haven’t got a clue how dangerous, pal.”
“That threat might have more weight if you’d take off those filing tips. They spoil the image.”
A strangled sound erupted from her throat as she looked down and discovered the brown rubber tips still on her fingers. Smooth and quick, she ripped them off and threw them at him. Just as smooth, just as quick, he caught them both before they hit his face.
“Good arm,” he commented. “I bet you played ball in school.”
“I thought I could trust you.” For reasons she didn’t want to analyze, thinking of that made her eyes sting. “I even, for one brief, foolish moment, thought I could learn to like you. Now I see that my first impression of you as an arrogant, self-important, sexist jerk was totally on the mark.” Her sense of betrayal was every bit as keen as her fury. “I was reeling when you found me on the cliffs, I was vulnerable. Everything I said there I said to you in confidence. You had no right to run to Josh with it.”
He set the rubber tips on his desk. “I didn’t say anything to Josh about that day on the cliffs.”
“I don’t believe you. You went to him—”
“I don’t lie,” he said sharply. She glimpsed the steel beneath the polish. “Yes, I went to him. Sometimes it takes someone outside the family to put things on the table. And your family is torn up about what happened to you, Kate. More worried about the way you’re behaving.”
“My behavior isn’t—”
“Any of my business,” he finished for her. “Odd that something as harmless as my speaking with Josh sends you into a tailspin of revenge and retribution, but being questioned about embezzlement makes you curl up in the fetal position and suck your thumb.”
“You don’t know what I’m doing, what I’m feeling. And you have no right to pass judgment.”
“No, that’s all quite true. If you weren’t so self-involved, you’d see that no one’s passing judgment. But as an outsider I can tell you that your family is hurting for you.”
Her flush died until her cheeks were bone-white. “Don’t lecture me about my family. Don’t you dare. They’re the most important people in the world to me. I’m handling this my way because of my family.”
He cocked his head. “Which means?”
“Which means that, too, is none of your business.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, fighting for control. “Nothing and no one is more on my mind than my family.”
He believed that without hesitation, and only felt more sorry for her. “Your way of handling this situation isn’t working.”
“How the hell do you know?”
“Because people talk to me.” His voice was gentle now, and the edge of temper had smoothed out of it. “Margo, Laura, Josh. Because I know how worried and angry I’d be if it was my sister.”
“Well, it isn’t your sister.” The anger snapped back into her voice, but her cheeks stayed white. “I’m capable of dealing with this. Josh has enough on his plate without being guilted into taking this on.”
“Do you really think guilt has anything to do with it?”
She fumbled, recovered. “Don’t twist my words around, De Witt.”
“Those were your words, Powell. Now, if you’ve finished with your tantrum, we can discuss this.”
“Tantrum—”
“I’d heard you were good at them, but now that I’ve had a firsthand demonstration, I see the reports were understated.”
He’d never thought that dark, glossy brown could turn to fire until he watched it happen in her eyes. “I’ll show you a tantrum.” With one swipe she sent most of the papers on his desk flying, then raised her fist. “Come out from behind that desk.”
“Oh, you tempt me.” His voice was ominously quiet, his eyes dangerously cool. “I’ve never hit a woman in my life. And never have I found it necessary to make that statement before. But you tempt me, Katherine, to break all kinds of records. Now either sit down or get out.”
“I’m not sitting down, and I’m not getting out until we—” She broke off, strangling a cry as she pressed a hand under her breasts.
Now he did come around the desk, cursing all the way. “Damn it. Damn it! What are you doing to yourself?”
“Don’t touch me.” The burning pressure made her eyes water, but she struggled when he led her to a chair.
“You’re going to sit down. You’re going to try to relax. And if you don’t have your color back in thirty seconds, I’m hauling your skinny butt to the hospital.”
“Just leave me alone.” She fumbled out her antacids, knowing it was like trying to put out a forest fir
e with a water pistol. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”
“How often does this happen?”
“None of your business.” She yelped in pain and shock when he pressed two fingers to her abdomen.
“Do you have your appendix?”
“Keep your hands off me, Dr. Feelgood.”
He only continued to frown and moved his fingertips to the inside of her wrist. “Been skipping meals again?” Before she could evade, he caught her face in his hands and took a long, objective look. Her color was seeping back, slowly, and her eyes were filled with temper again rather than pain. But he saw other things. “You’re not sleeping. You’re tired, overstressed and undernourished. Is that how you’re handling this?”
Her stomach quivered, an echo of pain and nerves. “I want you to leave me alone.”
“You don’t always get what you want. You’re exhausted, Kate, and until you start taking better care of yourself, someone else will have to do it for you. Be still,” he ordered in an absent murmur, holding a hand on her shoulder as he checked his watch. “I’m tied up here until after six. I’ll pick you up at seven. Will you be at the shop or at home?”
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“I realize I’m annoyed with myself for handling this matter badly. You do seem to bring out the worst in me,” he added, mostly to himself. “So, you’re going to get a decent meal and the opportunity to discuss these gripes of yours in a civilized manner.”
It was frightening her, the casual manner he assumed, the glint of heat in his eye that warned he could shift out of casual mode at any moment.
“I don’t want to have dinner with you, and I’m not feeling civilized.”
Considering, he rocked back on his heels, so that their eyes were level. “Let’s try it this way. You go along with this or I pick up the phone and call Laura. It should take her about two minutes to get up here, and when she does, I’ll tell her that twice now I’ve seen you go white and double over.”
“You have no right.”
“No, Kate, what I have here is the hammer. That beats the hell out of rights.” He checked his watch again. “I have a conference call coming through in about five minutes, or we’d finish more of this now. Since the reasonable thing for you to do is go home and get some rest, I assume you’ll go back to the shop. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Trapped, she nudged him aside and got to her feet. “We close at six.”
“Then you’ll have to wait, won’t you? And don’t slam the door on your way out.”
Of course she did, and he found he had to smile. But the smile faded when he picked up the phone and hurriedly punched in a number. “Dr. Margaret De Witt, please. It’s her son.” Another look at his watch brought out a mild oath. “No, I can’t wait. Would you ask her to call me when she’s free? The office before six, at home after seven. Thanks.”
He hung up, then began to put in order the papers Kate had scattered. Almost amused, he pocketed the filing tips she’d left behind. He doubted that Kate would appreciate him calling his mother the internist for an over-the-phone diagnosis of her symptoms.
But somebody had to look out for her. Whether she wanted it or not.
Chapter Seven
She was going to be calm. Kate promised herself that. She’d made a fool of herself, barging into Byron’s office, shouting and raging. She wouldn’t have minded that so much—if it had worked. There was nothing worse than having a good temper fit snuffed out by reason, patience, and control.
It was more than humiliating.
She didn’t much care for taking orders either. Frowning, she looked around the shop she’d just closed. She could simply walk out, she considered, drumming her fingers on the counter. She could just stroll right out, go anywhere she wanted. Home, for a drive, to Templeton House for dinner. That might be the best option, she thought, rubbing a hand absently over the grinding ache in her stomach. She was hungry, that was all. A good meal at Templeton House, an evening with Laura and the girls would soothe all the pangs and nerves.
It would serve Byron right if she wasn’t there when he came gunning for her. For that, she was sure, was his intention. Soothe the victim with reason, with promises of calm discussions, then, pow, shoot her between the eyes.
And that, she knew, was the reason she was staying put. Kate Powell never walked away from a challenge.
Let him come, she told herself grimly as she began to wander about the shop. She could handle Byron De Witt in her sleep. Men like him were so used to getting their own way with a quick smile, a murmured word, they didn’t know how to act with a woman who stood firmly on her own feet.
Besides, now that her finances were a little strained, she acknowledged the advantage of a free meal.
The grinding came back, like a sneering echo. Nerves, she thought again. Of course she was nervous. She knew better than anyone that Pretenses could barely support three incomes and stay afloat. They were lucky to have made it through the first year. But the odds were still against them.
She frowned down at a stylish glass rhinoceros in pale gold. How long, she wondered, were they going to be able to sell things quite that foolish? The price tag made her laugh. Nine hundred dollars? Who in their right mind would plunk down nearly a thousand dollars for something so ridiculous?
Margo, she decided, and her lips curved up again. Margo had a keen eye for the expensive, the ridiculous, and the salable.
If Pretenses went down the toilet, Margo would be fine. She had Josh now, a baby on the way, a beautiful home. A far cry from her circumstances a year ago, Kate mused, and was glad for her.
But there was Laura to worry about, and the girls. They wouldn’t starve, Kate knew. The Templetons wouldn’t allow it. They would live in Templeton House, which would give them far more than a roof over their heads. It would give them a home. Since Laura was too proud to touch the income from her Templeton stocks, she could work at the hotel and earn a living, a good one. But how badly would her ego be bruised if the business she started herself failed?
Kate had discovered a great deal about the difficulties of functioning with a scraped ego.
They had to make the shop work. It was Margo’s dream, and it had become Laura’s. It was all Kate had to hold on to. All her neat little plans were ruined. There would be no partnership at Bittle, no possibility of striking out with her own firm at some future date. No pretty brass plaque on her office door. No office, she thought, and sat down on a painted wooden bench.
Right now she had sleepless nights, headaches that never quite faded, a stomach that refused to behave, and Pretenses.
Pretenses, she thought with a thin smile. Margo had named it well. The three owners were just full of them.
The knock on the door made her jolt, then swear, then straighten her shoulders as she rose and went to unlock it. She nudged Byron aside, stepped out onto the little flower-decked veranda, and locked up again.
Pedestrian and street traffic churned past with all the noise and bustle that usually accompanied it. Tourists, she thought absently, searching for just the right spot to enjoy a vacation dinner. Members of the workforce heading home after a long day. Couples out on dates.
Just where did Kate Powell fit in?
“I’m not going because you told me I was going,” she said without preliminary. “I’m going because I want the opportunity to speak calmly and clearly about the situation, and because I’m hungry.”
“Fine.” He cupped a hand under her elbow. “We’ll take my car. I managed to find a space in the lot across the street. It’s a busy area.”
“It’s a good location,” she began as he led her to the curb. “A stone’s throw from Fisherman’s Wharf and the water. Tourists are a big part of our business, but a lot of the locals come here to shop too.”
Two young boys on a rented tandem bike whizzed by behind her, laughing like hyenas. It was a beautiful evening, full of soft light and soft scents. A night for bea
ch walking, she mused, or for tossing hunks of bread to the gulls as the couple by the water was doing just now. A night, she thought, for couples. Kate nibbled her lip as Byron guided her across the street.
“I can follow you. There are a dozen restaurants within walking distance, for that matter.”
“We’ll take my car,” he repeated, gently and firmly maneuvering through the crowded parking lot. “And I’ll bring you back to yours when we’re finished.”
“It would save time and be more efficient if—”
“Kate.” He turned and looked at her, really looked, and scotched the annoyed remark hovering on his tongue. The woman was exhausted. “Why don’t you try something new? Go with the flow.”
He opened the passenger door of his vintage Mustang and waited with some amusement for her bad-tempered shrug. He wasn’t disappointed.
She watched him round the hood. He’d ditched his tie and jacket, she noted, opened his collar. The casual, easy look suited those lineman’s shoulders, she supposed, the beachcomber hair. She decided to realign her strategy and wait until they were at dinner before beginning the lecture she’d been planning.
She could, when necessary, manage small talk with the best of them.
“So, you’re into classic cars.”
He settled behind the wheel. The minute he turned the key the radio exploded with Marvin Gaye. Byron turned it down to a murmur before cruising through the lot.
“Sixty-five Mustang with a 289 V-8. A car like this isn’t just a mode of transportation. It’s a commitment.”
“Really?” She liked the creamy white bucket seats, the trained-panther ride, but couldn’t think of anything more impractical than owning a car older than she was. “Don’t you have to spend a lot of time babying it, finding parts?”
“That’s the commitment. Runs like a dream,” he added with an affectionate stroke to the dash as he merged into traffic. “She was my first.”