For Services Rendered

by Patricia Kay

  When she returned to Houston was time enough to deal with everything else.

  * * *

  Nick worked in his suite until six. Then he shaved, took a quick, hot shower and, wrapped in the thick maroon robe provided by the hotel, poured himself a crystal tumbler of J&B. He sipped at the drink and gazed out the window at the busy street below. He was looking forward to the evening ahead. He hoped Claire was feeling better; he wanted her to enjoy herself tonight.

  The minute he saw her walking toward him in the lobby of the hotel forty-five minutes later, he knew her spirits were greatly improved. She looked beautiful tonight, he thought. She was wearing a wool dress with a deep vee neckline and softly flaring skirt in a shade of dark forest green, the perfect complement to her fair hair and delicate complexion. Over her arm was the silver fox jacket she'd worn Saturday night. She'd done something different to her hair, too. It looked fuller and fluffier, framing her face like a golden cloud. She reminded him of pictures he'd seen of the young Grace Kelly, with her combination of classy elegance and hint of sexy mischief.

  He saw the way eyes followed Claire's progress through the lobby and felt a surge of possessiveness. "You look lovely tonight," he said as he helped her with her coat. A light, flowery scent teased his senses. "Did you have a chance to rest?"

  She smiled and he was gratified to see that the smile reached her eyes. "Yes, I did. And I feel much better for it."

  "Good."

  The cab ride to Antoine's was short, and they didn't talk on the way, but the silence wasn't unpleasant. Claire was not only beautiful, Nick decided, she was restful to be with. She didn't have that compulsion to chatter so many of the women he knew seemed to have.

  Later, after they were seated in the restaurant and had placed their order, she gave him another smile. "This is my first visit to New Orleans," she said.

  "Really? And you've lived in Houston all your life, haven't you?" He knew she had. He'd memorized her dossier.

  "Yes, but somehow, although I always meant to come here, I never did."

  "Well, we'll have to make sure we get some sightseeing in then."

  "Oh, don't worry about that," she said hurriedly. "We're here on business. I don't expect—"

  "I know you don't expect it." He smiled. "Perhaps I'd enjoy showing you the city. I haven't acted like a tourist in years. It might be a nice change."-

  "Just what are we going to do here?"

  "I have a number of meetings scheduled and I thought it might be informative for you to attend them with me," he said smoothly.

  "Oh, all right."

  Their salads came and Nick was pleased to see she didn't pick at her food, but ate it with obvious enjoyment. For the rest of their meal he worked hard at keeping that relaxed look on her face and felt he was succeeding. He even had her laughing at one point.

  Over dessert, she said, "Did you grow up in Houston?"

  "No. I'm from Boston."

  Her eyes widened in surprise. "Really? You don't have an accent."

  He smiled. "I worked hard to lose it."

  "Why?"

  "Because when in Texas ... at least that's my philosophy."

  "How old were you when you moved to Houston?"

  "Fifteen."

  "Were your parents transferred here?"

  "Something like that." Like an ever-changing kaleidescope, memories of several sets of foster parents clicked through his mind. He never talked about his childhood. He rarely ever thought about those years. The memories were too painful and they served no purpose. But maybe later, when they knew each other better, he would tell her the truth.

  The rest of the evening passed quickly. Too quickly, Nick thought. He enjoyed Claire's company. She was delightful to look at, intelligent to talk to, and charming. To extend the time before he had to take her back to the hotel, he suggested they go to the Cafe du Monde for coffee and beignets.

  "Even though I've never been to New Orleans before," she said, laughing, "I do know what beignets are and I can't handle another dessert tonight."

  "Well, you can just have coffee and I'll have beignets," he insisted. "Come on," he added, "everyone who visits New Orleans has to go to the Cafe du Monde at least once, and preferably several times." He hailed one of the horse-drawn buggies. "And we're going in style."

  Her eyes glowed with pleasure as he helped her into the buggy and they began the slow ride through the Quarter toward Jackson Square. Nick enjoyed watching her face as she took everything in: the narrow, cobbled streets; the throngs of people on the sidewalks; the lights and gaiety of the fabled neighborhood; the wrought-iron grillwork on the balconies of the buildings; and all around them the sounds of music and the clip-clop of the horse's hooves.

  "This coffee is wonderful," she said later as they sat at one of the small tables in the covered patio.

  "Aren't you glad I made you come?"

  She smiled. "Yes."

  Too soon it was time to go. Within minutes they were back at their hotel, walking through the lobby, riding up in the elevator. Claire's suite was on the fourth floor and Nick's was on the fifth, but he exited with her. "I'll just see you to your door."

  "Well..." She turned to face him outside her door. "Thank you for a lovely evening. I enjoyed it more than I can say."

  He studied her upturned face: the barest trace of pink on her cheeks, the soft gray shadowing her eyelids, the halo of silky hair surrounding her face, the rosy lips tipped into a sweet smile. His heartbeat quickened as their eyes met. Very slowly, her smile faded, and he sensed the acceleration in her breathing. The moment of awareness stretched, and he wondered if the expression in his eyes had given away his desire to kiss her.

  No, he told himself. It would be a grave tactical error to give in to this urge.

  "Good-night, Claire," he said softly, taking her hands in his and pressing gently. "I enjoyed it, too." He let go of her hands and backed up a step. "Pamper yourself in the morning. Order a room-service breakfast."

  "Okay." The pink on her cheeks had deepened and her eyes held a faint trace of bewilderment.

  "Let's plan to meet downstairs in the lobby at eight-thirty. My first meeting is at nine."

  Deep in thought, he walked slowly back to the elevator.

  * * *

  The meetings had been interesting but tiring, Claire decided late the next afternoon, but they had certainly accomplished one goal: she hadn't thought about her problem all day. Now that she was back in her suite at the hotel, though, her mind inevitably turned to Kitty. She decided to call Pinehaven and check on her mother.

  After calling and being assured that Kitty was doing fine, Claire once more prepared for an evening with Nick. She decided the black wool suit she'd worn that day would have to do. She'd only brought one dress and she'd already worn it once. She could, however, change into a dressier top. So, instead of the plain white crepe blouse she'd worn earlier, she donned a pale blue sweater trimmed in tiny pearls.

  She grinned wryly as she looked at herself in the cheval-glass mirror. So far, she'd been on this assignment for less than a week and already she'd worn just about everything in her wardrobe at least once. Claire loved clothes and she wished she had a larger selection, but she'd learned she was better off to buy fewer but more expensive, well-made garments. They looked better and lasted longer, and in the business world they made a statement about the kind of person you were.

  A snob, that's what, she told herself, but knew down deep that wasn't true. If she had a real choice, she'd wear blue jeans and T-shirts or sweatshirts every day of the week, with only an occasional pretty dress thrown in as a special treat.

  Nick was taking her to Commander's Palace for dinner, he'd said, and Claire had read up on the famous restaurant. She was looking forward to eating there; eating out was an indulgence she could rarely afford.

  Once again, the evening was perfect. Claire loved the restaurant, especially the view of the Garden District through the plate-glass windows, and Nick was the perfect
host. He looked great, as usual, in his dark pin-striped suit and beautiful shirt. Claire noticed how the eyes of the women followed him as they moved through the diners to their table. No wonder. He was a man any woman would enjoy being seen with. And he was her escort.

  The only incident marring the evening came about halfway through their dinner when a well-dressed couple who looked to be in their late thirties entered the restaurant with an older woman in a wheelchair. The man pushed the wheelchair, and his wife, who Claire decided was the woman's daughter, led the way to their table. They were seated only a few tables away, in a perfect position for Claire to watch them, and when she saw how solicitous the man was both to his wife and the older woman, Claire had to swallow against the lump in her throat. She had a sudden, vivid picture of what it might be like to have someone like this man in her life who cared not only for her but for Kitty— someone she could lean on during the bad times.

  Bad times like now.

  After that incident, Claire's spirits drooped and no matter how hard she tried to be a charming dinner companion, she knew she wasn't doing a very good job of it. She was sure of it when, after dinner, Nick said, "I think I'd better get you back to the hotel. You look tired."

  "No, I'm fine, really." Oh, dear, he must think I am a real dud. An ungrateful dud. Here I am, in one of the best restaurants in New Orleans, and I am gloomy and boring company.

  But Nick paid no attention to her protestations and hustled her into a cab and back to the hotel in record time. As they rode up in the elevator, he said, "Claire, would you mind coming up to my suite for a while? I'll order coffee. There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

  Although alarm bells went off in her mind at the idea of going into his suite, Claire didn't know how she could refuse. She took a deep breath. "All right."

  Don't be nervous, she told herself as he unlocked the door to his suite. And her nerves did settle down a bit as he quickly walked to the open door leading into the bedroom and shut it. He motioned her toward the dark blue Victorian sofa. She sat and waited while he called room service.

  It didn't surprise her that their coffee arrived within ten minutes. Claire already knew people jumped when Nick so much as looked their way. She picked up her cup, her eyes meeting his as she sipped. The intensity of his expression caused her insides to begin fluttering once more.

  "Claire, I wish you'd tell me what's wrong. I sense something troubling you and I'd really like to know what it is."

  An image of the woman in the wheelchair flitted through her mind. Kitty's face, so innocent, so blank, superseded it. Suddenly, Claire's hands were trembling and the cup rattled against the saucer. She bit her bottom lip. Pull yourself together! She carefully laid the cup and saucer on the coffee table and held her hands together in her lap to keep them from shaking.

  He was sitting opposite her and he leaned forward, his eyes twin pinpoints of blue. "Come on. Tell me."

  She wanted to. The desire to unburden herself was so strong it was almost a physical pain.

  He stood and moved around the table to sit beside her. He reached for her hands. The feel of his strong, firm hands closing around hers was her undoing. Appalled, Claire could feel tears sliding out of her eyes and down her cheeks. She yanked her hands out of his grasp and angrily knuckled away the tears. She started to stand. She had to get away. She was falling apart and she didn't want him as a witness.

  "Claire, please ..." He stood, too, putting his hands on her upper arms, and through the wool fabric of her suit jacket she could feel their heat. "Claire, look at me."

  She slowly raised her head.

  "Is it your mother?"

  Shock reverberated through her. How did he know about her mother? What did he know about her mother?

  "Yes," he said softly, "I know. I know everything about you." Before the import of those words had had a chance to sink in, he added, "Whatever it is that's worrying you, we can take care of it. But unless I know what it is, I can't do anything."

  "You can't do anything, anyway."

  "Try me."

  She sighed. His surprising statement about her mother had accomplished one thing. Her urge to cry had disappeared. Now all she felt was a bone-numbing weariness. "Look, Nick, I really appreciate your concern, but this is my problem. I have to find a way to deal with it."

  "It's not wrong to ask for help if you need it, Claire. The company helps employees deal with problems all the time. You know that."

  She did know it. She also knew the company couldn't solve this problem.

  "Can't you trust me enough to at least tell me what it is?"

  She sighed again. Inching away from him, she sat back down on the sofa and, after a minute, he did, too. He didn't touch her and for that she was grateful. "It's really very simple. Since you know about my mother, you know I have her in a private nursing facility. It's very expensive and I've barely been able to make ends meet for a long time. Any unexpected expense is enough to send my budget into a tailspin."

  He said nothing, but his eyes encouraged her.

  "Sunday night I found out the nursing home is raising their rates. Raising them considerably. There's no way I can continue to keep my mother there. And I've been sick with worry ever since." She met his gaze.

  "I see." For a long moment, he studied her, and Claire felt an unsettling flicker of fear at the unfathomable expression in his riveting eyes. "Well, I believe I have the solution to your problem."

  Claire, mesmerized by his unnerving gaze, said nothing. The silence in the room settled around them like a velvet cloak.

  Then he smiled and Claire's heart skipped a beat. "All you have to do is marry me."

  Chapter 5

  "Marry you!" Claire couldn't believe she'd heard him correctly. She stared at him. "We hardly know each other!"

  "I know everything I need to know about you," he said quietly. His eyes looked like royal blue velvet, deep and dark.

  "B—but, we don't ... we haven't . . ." At a complete loss, Claire sank back against the arm of the couch. All thoughts of her problem had been driven from her mind by Nick's startling statement. "I ... I don't understand." Why did he want to marry her? He'd never even tried to kiss her. Although the night before outside the door to her suite, she'd had a feeling he wanted to. And she'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit that the idea had been very appealing.

  And, if she were going to be completely honest with herself, there had been other moments, too. Riding next to him in the limousine the day he took her to the Stardust Lodge. Riding home with him the night they went to the reception at the country club.

  But she'd certainly never expected anything like this. Last night during dinner she'd caught a speculative, almost predatory look in his eyes several times as he watched her across the table. Had he been thinking about this, even then?

  "Look, Claire, I realize my proposal is probably a shock to you. I know that we don't have the kind of relationship people usually have when they contemplate marriage. But I've given this matter a lot of thought. I think when you've heard what I have to say, you'll see how sensible my proposition is."

  Sensible. Proposition. Claire wasn't sure she liked the sound of those words. She still couldn't believe he was serious, although he certainly seemed so.

  Apparently he took her silence for agreement because he continued smoothly, his expression solemn. "Half of today's marriages end up in the divorce court. And of the other half, fifty percent are unhappy after the first year. The only thing most couples have going for them when they marry is sexual attraction. They tell themselves they are in love, when what they really mean is their hormones are acting up."

  Even if Claire had wanted to say something, his dogmatic statement would have silenced her. All cold facts, she thought.

  "My first marriage was based upon the feelings I've just described. Jill and I had nothing in common, certainly nothing upon which to base a long-term relationship. We didn't even like each other very much. After we'd only
been married a few months, I realized Jill expected a life of constant excitement, travel, parties. That sort of life is anathema to me. I do enough traveling for business and, although I have many leisure time interests, none of them appealed to Jill."

  He grimaced. "I blame myself for the failure of the marriage. Jill never pretended to be different. I was the one who lied to myself. I thought once we were married, she'd be content to settle down, make a home, have children." He looked at Claire, but she couldn't think of anything to say.

  Sighing, he continued. "Above all else, I wanted a quiet, peaceful home life. While we were dating, I enjoyed showing Jill off, taking her a lot of places. I guess she thought that's what our life would be like." He grimaced again. "And why shouldn't she? I never gave her any reason to believe otherwise. So after we were married, and I got tired of running around every night, she was very unhappy. She needed constant attention. And when she didn't get it from me, she began to look for it in other men. It got so that I was afraid to pick up a newspaper for fear of what I'd read about my own wife."

  His jaw hardened. "I can't live that way. I won't live that way. I made up my mind when I married again, I would pick a wife with my brains instead of my . . . emotions." He smiled sardonically. "That's where you come in."

  Claire felt shell-shocked.

  "I want children and a peaceful, well-ordered home," he continued. "And I also want the freedom to come and go as I please—to attend to my business and other interests. Just for example, I go mountain climbing several times a year. I go with a group of men with similar interests. I have no desire to cart a wife along with me, nor do I want a big scene each time I prepare for a trip. I cannot stand scenes. Crying and shouting leave me cold. I won't put up with a petted, spoiled woman who will demand all of my time and attention. I want someone intelligent and reasonable, someone who will fit into my life but won't expect to take it over. I want a woman capable of developing her own interests—interests suitable and appropriate to her position as my wife. A woman who is willing to make a businesslike arrangement with me, someone who can approach marriage in a calm, sensible manner. I think you are such a woman."