by Nora Roberts
They'd both get used to it, he imagined. It wasn't for long, and he was sure they could manage to stay out of each other's way. Just as they had in the past.
For Laura, carving out this hour in the middle of the day was problematic but necessary. She had sent the maid Jenny to do what she could about cleaning the groom's apartment above the stables. God knew it was a mess of dust and debris and spiderwebs. Mice, Laura thought, shuddering as she hauled up a bucket of soapy water.
She couldn't expect the girl to perform miracles. And there just hadn't been enough time. It hadn't been possible to ask Ann's help. At the mere mention of Michael Fury's name, the housekeeper had sniffed and gone stone-faced.
So, Laura had decided the final work fell to her. She wasn't about to welcome anyone into her home, or a part thereof, and not have it spic and span.
An extended lunch hour away from her duties at Pretenses, a quick change of clothes, and now, she thought, a great deal of elbow grease. The state of the bathroom in the apartment had shocked young Jenny speechless.
Small wonder. With her hair pulled back, her sleeves rolled up, Laura climbed into the tub and began to attack the worst of the grime. When her guest—tenant—whatever the hell he was—arrived the following day, at least he wouldn't find scum on the tiles.
As far as the stables themselves went, she'd decided after one look that they fell into Michael Fury's territory.
While she worked, she rattled through her head for the rest of her day's schedule. She could get back to Pretenses by three. Close out by six-thirty. A quick dash to pick up the girls from piano lessons.
Damn it, she'd forgotten to look into finding a good drawing instructor for Kayla.
Dinner at seven-thirty. A check to make certain both girls were prepared for whatever tests and assignments were coming up.
Was it spelling for Kayla tomorrow or math for Ali? Was it both? Good God, she hated going back to school. Fractions were killing her.
Puffing a bit as her muscles sang, she swiped soap and grit over her cheek.
She really did have to go over that report on the cosmeticians' convention next month. She could do that in bed, once the girls were down. And Ali needed new ballet shoes. They would see to that tomorrow.
"Well, that's quite a sight." Michael stepped into the narrow doorway and was treated to the appealing view of a pretty female butt straining against faded denim. A butt that he assumed belonged to some nubile Templeton maid. "If this is among the amenities, I should be paying a hell of a lot more rent."
Yelping, Laura sprang up, rapped her head on the shower nozzle, and slopped filthy water over her feet. It was a toss-up as to who was more surprised.
Michael hadn't realized until that moment that he'd carried an image of Laura in his head. Perfect. Perfectly lovely, gold and rose and white, like a glossy picture of a princess in a book of fairy tales.
But the woman facing him now, eyes huge and darkly gray, had wet dirt smeared on her cheeks, her hair was a mess, and her tea-serving hands held a scrub brush.
He recovered first. A man who'd lived on the edge had to have quick reflexes. And he grinned widely as he leaned on the doorjamb. "Laura Templeton. That is you in there, isn't it?"
"I wasn't—we weren't expecting you until tomorrow."
Ah, yes, he thought. The voice hadn't changed. Cool, cultured, quietly sexy. "I always like to get the lay of the land. The front door was wide open."
"I was airing the apartment."
"Well, then. It's nice to see you again, Laura. I don't know when I've had someone quite so attractive scrub out my john."
Humiliated, knowing her cheeks were hot, she nodded. "As Josh probably told you, we haven't been using the building. I wasn't able to spare the staff to put things to rights so quickly."
It surprised him that she knew which end of a scrub brush was which. "You don't have to bother for me. I can handle it myself."
Now that he took a close look, he could also see for himself that she was just as lovely underneath the grime as ever. Delicate features, soft mouth, the aristocratic hint of cheekbone, and those dreamy storm-colored eyes.
Had he forgotten how small she was? Five two, maybe three, and slim as a fairy, with hair the color of gold in dim sunlight. Subtle again, with the richness but not the flash.
She remembered he had often stared, just as he was doing now, saying nothing, just looking, looking until she wanted to squirm.
"I'm sorry about your home."
"Hmm?" He lifted a brow, the scarred one, drawing her eyes to his. "Oh, it was just a house. I can always build another. I appreciate you providing a place for me and my horses."
When he offered a hand, she took it automatically. His was hard, rough with calluses, and held on to hers even when she tried to slip away.
His lips curved again. "You going to stay standing in the tub, sugar?"
"No." She cleared her throat, allowed him to help her out. "I'll show you around," she began, then her eyes went cool when he remained where he was. "I'll show you around," she repeated.
"Thanks." He shifted, enjoyed the waft of scent, again subtle, that she carried with her.
"Josh would have told you this was the groom's apartment." Her voice was clear again, the polite hostess. "It's self-sufficient, I think. Full kitchen." She gestured toward an alcove off the main room, where Jenny had dutifully cleaned the white stove, the stainless steel sink, the simple white countertops.
"That's fine. I don't do a lot of cooking."
"Josh mentioned that you'd lost your furniture, so we brought over a few things."
She waited, hands folded at her waist as he wandered about the room. The sofa had been in the attic and could have used re-covering. But it was a good solid Duncan Phyfe. Some Templeton or guest in the past had scarred the Sheridan coffee table with a careless cigarette, but it was functional.
She'd added lamps, simple brass ones that she felt suited a masculine taste, an easy chair, other occasional tables, even a vase of winter windflowers. She was too much the innkeeper's daughter not to have put thought and effort into her temporary inn.
"You've gone to some trouble." Which surprised and humbled him. "I figured on roughing it for a few months."
"It's not exactly Templeton Paris." She unbent enough to smile. "The bedroom's through there." She gestured toward a short corridor. "It's not terribly large, but I went with instinct on the bed. I know Josh likes room to, ah…" She trailed off when Michael grinned. "Room," she finished. "So we stuffed a queen size in there. We had the iron head- and footboards in storage. I've always liked them. There's not much of a closet, but—"
"I don't have much."
"Well, then." At a loss, she wandered toward the front window. "The view," she said and left it at that.
"Yeah." He joined her, intrigued by the way her head fit neatly below his chin. He could see the cliffs, the azure sea beyond, the splits of rock islands, and the fuming water that charged them. "You used to spend a lot of time out there."
"I still do."
"Still looking for treasure?"
"Of course."
"What was the name of the girl who tossed herself off the cliff?"
"Seraphina."
"Right. Seraphina. A romantic little tale."
"A sad one."
"Same thing. Josh used to laugh about you and Margo and Kate haunting those cliffs and looking for Seraphina's lost dowry. But, I figured he secretly wanted to find it himself."
"We look every Sunday now. Margo and Kate and I, and my daughters."
That brought him up short. He'd forgotten for a moment that this small, delicate woman had given birth to two children. "You've got kids of your own. Girls."
"Yes." Chin lifted, she turned back. "Daughters. My daughters."
Something here, he mused, and wondered which button he'd pushed. "How old are they?"
She hadn't expected him to ask, even out of politeness. And she softened all over again. "Ali's ten. Kayla's seven.
"
"You got started early. Girls that age usually go for horses. They can come by and see mine whenever they like."
More of the unexpected. "That's kind of you, Michael. I don't want them to get in your way."
"I like kids."
He said it so simply that she believed him. "Then I'll warn you, they're both eager to see them. And I suppose you're eager to see the stables." Out of habit she glanced at her watch, and winced.
"Got an appointment?"
"Actually, yes, I do. If you don't mind taking the rest of the tour on your own, I really have to change."
To get her hair done, he imagined, or her nails. Or to make her fifty-minute hour with some society shrink. "Sure."
"I left the keys in the kitchen," she continued, juggling details. "There isn't a phone. I didn't know if you wanted one. There's a jack. Somewhere. If you need anything, you—"
"I'll be fine." He slipped a check out of his pocket and handed it to her. "Rent."
"Oh." She slipped it into her own pocket, sorry that she couldn't welcome one of her brother's old friends as a guest. But the rent would go a long way toward new ballet shoes and drawing lessons. "Thank you. Welcome to Templeton House, Michael."
She went to the door and down the steps. He walked to the side window and watched her cross the rolling lawn toward Templeton House.
"And there I was," Laura muttered, "standing in the bathtub." She sighed, grateful for a lull in the customer flow in Pretenses so that she could vent to her friends. "Wearing rags. Holding a scrub brush. Stop laughing."
"In a minute," Kate promised, holding a hand to her aching stomach. "I'm perfecting the image in my mind first. The elegant Laura Templeton caught fighting pesky bathtub ring."
"Ring, hell. It's more like bathtub plague. And maybe I'll think it's funny in a year. Or two. But right now it's mortifying. He just stood there grinning at me."
"Mmm." Margo touched her tongue to her top lip. "And if memory serves, Michael Fury had one hell of a grin. Is he as wickedly, dangerously handsome as ever?"
"I didn't notice." Laura sniffed and gave her attention to rubbing a fingerprint off the glass display case.
"Liar." Margo leaned closer. "Come on, Laura. Tell."
"I suppose he looked a bit like a twentieth-century version of Heathcliff. Dark, brooding, potentially violent, and rough around the edges." Her shoulders shrugged again. "If that sort of thing appeals to you."
"It wouldn't make me look the other way," Margo decided. "Josh said he was a mercenary for a while."
"A mercenary?" She'd forgotten that and remembering now, nodded. "Figures."
"And I ran into him once in France when he was racing. Cars." Margo tilted her head as she brought the memory back. "We had an interesting evening together."
Laura lifted a brow. "Oh, really?"
"Interesting," Margo repeated and left it at that. "Then it was stunt work in Hollywood. And now it's horses. I wonder if he'll stick around this time. I know Josh hopes he does."
"At least the situation has pushed me into getting the stables in shape." Wanting busy work, Laura moved to the shelves and began to tidy glassware. "I've neglected them too long. In fact, I may think about getting a horse myself once I can manage it. The girls might like that."
"So what kind of horses does he raise? Breed. Own. Whatever," Kate wondered.
"I didn't ask. I just showed him around the apartment, gave him the keys. I suppose he's competent. Josh seems to think so. And if his rent check doesn't bounce, I'll assume he's reliable. I can't imagine I'd want any more out of a tenant. Horses take a lot of time and work." Which meant, Laura thought, she couldn't even consider having them again for at least a decade. "He'll be busy. I doubt we'll see much of him."
The door opened for a pair of customers. Recognizing them as regulars, Laura smiled, stepped forward. "I'll take them," she murmured to her partners. "Good to see you, Mrs. Myers, Mrs. Lomax. What can I show you today?"
As Laura led the customers into the wardrobe room, Margo considered. "She's trying not to be interested."
"Hmm?"
"Laura. She had the look of a woman who's been intrigued by a man and is trying not to be." After a moment's thought, Margo smiled broadly. "Good."
"And why would that be good?"
"It's time she had a little distraction in her life. A little male distraction."
"And do you ever think of any other kind of distraction?"
"Kate—" Amused, Margo patted her friend's hand. "From a woman newly married to a certified hunk, that's a very stupid question. Laura's never let herself cut loose when it comes to men. I think Michael Fury might just be the perfect thirtieth birthday present."
"He's a man, Margo, not a pair of earrings."
"Oh, but darling, I think he might look wonderful on her. So to speak."
"And I don't suppose it occurs to you that they might not be interested in each other, in a sexual way. Wait." Kate held up a hand. "I forgot who I was talking to."
"Don't be snide." Margo tapped her fingers on the counter. "You've got a man and a woman, both unattached as far as we know, both attractive. Josh has put them in close proximity. Though I doubt it was his intention, he's created a very interesting situation."
"When you put it like that." Concerned, Kate glanced toward the wardrobe room. "Look, I always liked Mick, but he was a wild child. We could have a lamb and wolf situation here."
"I certainly hope you're right. Every woman needs at least one close encounter with a wolf. But…" They were talking about Laura, after all. "I'll have to invite Michael over for dinner. Check him out myself."
"And I suppose we'll have to bow to your greater judgment and experience."
"Naturally." The door jangled open again. "Back to work, partner."
In the wardrobe room Laura was patiently showing their selection of cashmere sweaters. If she had been aware of the direction her friends were taking she would have been both amused and appalled.
Men in general simply weren't of interest to her. She didn't hate them. Her experience with Peter hadn't turned her into a shrew, made her frigid, or narrowed her vision so that she considered men the enemy. Too many good men had touched her life for that. She had her father as a prime example. Her brother was another. And over the past months, she had come to love Byron De Witt.
Family was one thing. Intimate, even casual, relationships were another. She didn't have the time, inclination, or energy for one. In the two years since she had ended her marriage, she had been struggling to rebuild her life on all levels. Her children, her home, her work for Templeton. And Pretenses.
While her customers debated their selections, she eased back to give them room, musing on the events that had led to starting the shop. It had been an impulse, a step she'd taken for Margo as much as for herself.
Margo's career and finances had been in ruins when she returned to Monterey from Europe. The idea of liquidating her possessions and creating an intriguing space in which to sell them had been a risk, but it had paid off from the first moment.
Not just in dollars, Laura thought, as she wandered back into the main showroom. In pride, in confidence. In friendship and fun.
When they bought the building, it was an empty space, dusty, scarred, smelly. Their vision, their effort had turned it into the remarkable. Now the glass of the wide display window sparkled in the sunlight and teased passersby with clever hints of what was offered inside.
A sassy cocktail dress in emerald, with the nostalgic touch of peacock feathers at the shoulder, was draped over the elegant chair of a woman's vanity. Colorful bottles stood on the glossy surface, along with a jeweled collar. One of the drawers was open so that glittery rhinestones and shimmering silks spilled out. There was a lamp shaped like a swan, a single crystal flute beside an empty bottle of champagne. A man's cuff links and carelessly tossed formal black tie mingled with the woman's trinkets. A pair of red spike heels was artfully positioned to give the impression that their o
wner had just stepped out of them.
The little vignettes in the display were usually Margo's domain, but Laura had designed this one. And was proud of it. As she was of the shop as a whole. Throughout the spacious showroom was scattered the unique, the fanciful. The warm rose walls complemented glass shelves filled with treasures. Porcelain boxes, silver services, gold-ringed stemware. A velvet settee—the third they'd had to stock—provided customers a chance to sit, enjoy a cup of tea, a glass of champagne.
Gilded tightwinder stairs spiraled up toward the open balcony that ringed the room and led to the boudoir where negligees, peignoirs, and other night apparel were displayed in a gorgeous rosewood armoire. Everything was for sale, from the rococo bed to the smallest silver trinket box. And nothing was duplicated.
The shop had quite literally saved all three of them. And though she wouldn't have thought it possible, it had brought them even closer together.
As she hovered outside the wardrobe room, she watched Margo show a customer a sapphire bracelet from the display. Kate discussed the origins of an Art Nouveau lamp with another. A new customer studied an opal snuff bottle while her companion perused the selection of evening bags.
Mozart was playing on the stereo, softly. Through the window, Laura caught glimpses of the busy traffic on Cannery Row. Cars chugged or streamed or jockeyed for position. People strolled by on the sidewalk. A man passed with a young boy giggling from his perch on Daddy's shoulders. A couple, arm in arm, stopped to admire the display—and moments later came inside. "Ms. Templeton?"
Pulling herself back from her reverie, Laura turned to the wardrobe room. "Yes, Mrs. Myers, did you find something you like?"
The woman smiled, held out her choice. "I never leave Pretenses disappointed."
The glow of pride was swift and satisfying. Laura accepted the cashmere. "We're here to see that you never do."
Chapter Four
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"Pretty good digs, right, boy?" Michael groomed Max, his pride and joy while the enormous buff-colored Tennessee walker snorted in agreement.