by Barbara Daly
"Pipes? Meerschaums? Briars? Hookahs?"
"Pipe. Copper, plastic, cast iron, galvanized steel. Life flows through pipe. Pipe runs the world, and Palmer Pipe runs it better."
He gazed at her, feeling stunned. "Is that original with you? That 'Pipe runs the world' line?"
"Of course not," she said. "It came from the ad agency." She paused. "I picked the ad agency." She looked at him so expectantly she reminded him all of a sudden of one of his sisters' kids wanting approval for a dive he'd just done or a basket he'd just made. And he did his best to make them feel good about each small victory.
He'd been lying about seeing his sisters in mudpacks and cucumbers. He'd seen them in curlers, no makeup and one of Dad's worn-out shirts, but his sisters didn't have the time or the money to take care of themselves the way a woman like Hope did. They considered it a major victory to get their hair washed and their kids in shoes.
It was up to him to change all that, change their hand-to-mouth existences, turn them into upwardly mobile middle-class citizens, educate those kids—
He'd assigned his family a compartment in his mind that he visited when he needed to, but he never enjoyed the visits. Right now wasn't the time to go there.
"It's a good slogan," he said in an approving tone. If it had been one of his nephews, he'd have said, "You did good."
"Thank you. It's working. That's all that matters. And you? I mean, your work. I know you're a lawyer, but…"
"An associate at Brinkley Meyers."
"Brinkley Meyers? Your firm is representing Palmer in the Magnolia Heights case."
Sam snapped his fingers. "That's why it sounded familiar."
"Are you involved in the case?"
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that." He smiled. "I'm in litigation. My department won't get involved unless the case goes to court."
"Oh, it won't," she said with obvious confidence. "Now. You were saying you're an associate at Brinkley Meyers…"
She meant, "Let's get to the point." He leaned forward, meeting her green face head on to be sure she understood the seriousness of his situation. "A single associate. Who's determined to make partner. This year, preferably."
Something he said had gripped her attention. A pair of green eyes—really nice green eyes, he noted in passing—gave him their full attention. "So you're the 'fresh meat' at every party. You're the one they invite because they have a daughter, a friend, somebody they're sure they can match you up with. And you can't refuse, because you don't want to offend anybody who could influence your future."
"You've been there."
"I live there," she said, lowering her green face and balancing it on her fingertips. Thick, dark lashes fluttered down to brush the surface of the masque. "You just described my entire social life. I'm determined to make vice president for Marketing when August Everley retires in January, which means every move I make right now has a direct influence on my future."
He fell silent, taking a minute to wallow in self-pity and feeling that Hope was in there wallowing with him.
"If you don't show an interest it makes them mad," he went on when he felt they'd wallowed enough. "If you do show an interest and don't follow up on it, it makes them madder." He paused for a frustrated sigh.
"A person who doesn't understand, somebody like your sister Faith, let's say, wonders why you don't just find a real man friend and cut through all that nonsense."
Hope raised her head and visibly stiffened her backbone. "Or your sisters," she said. "They probably don't stop to think about the time it would take to find a woman you really enjoyed, time you don't have, and then the time that woman would demand from you once you'd found her."
"Time and commitment."
"Which neither of us is ready for."
"You got that right."
"What we're talking here is the possibility of a no-strings kind of escort arrangement I go with you to your parties, you go with me to mine."
"We act friendly enough to make people think we're already spoken for."
"Right." Hope bit out the word and gazed at him with suddenly flashing eyes. "But let's get one thing straight. If we make this ridiculous arrangement, don't even think about calling me 'arm candy.'"
He struggled to keep his mouth from twitching, and when he'd gotten it straightened out, he narrowed his eyes. "Same thing goes for you," he said. "If we make this extremely practical arrangement, I'm not your 'arm candy' either."
* * *
If he'd felt like expressing his true feelings, which he didn't, Sam had concluded that Hope Sumner would do fine. He liked the spunk she'd just shown. Without the green face she'd be attractive enough. One of those women who knew how to distract you from their flaws with expensive haircuts and makeup. She was well-spoken. She'd make a decent impression on Phil, the Executive Partner he reported to, and Angus McDougal, senior partner in Litigation, and she'd rear their children—one girl, one boy—with energy and intelligence.
But he was getting way, way ahead of himself. Five years ahead, maybe. The token girlfriend was for now, the suitable wife not until he'd made partner and collected a few years of percentages of the law firm's profits. Not until he felt invulnerable, professionally and financially.
The green eyes, spectacular green eyes, actually, gazed at him out of a matching face, and there seemed to be a lot of brown hair tucked under the institutional white towel. Brown hair, green eyes, average American coloring. You couldn't go wrong with that. She was a little taller than average—maybe five seven—but as tall as he was, that was fine. He couldn't tell what was tucked under the hotel-style white terry robe, except that the sash outlined a small waist and the robe hour-glassed promisingly above and below it.
None of that mattered much. Just gravy. Yes, she'd do. Sam wished he could say so and get back to work, but unfortunately it was also necessary to convince her he'd do. Plus—he had one more question to ask her.
She blinked a couple of times, apparently adjusting to the idea that he didn't want to be arm candy either, and glanced openly at her watch. Sam took this as a good sign. "Well, Sam, it seems we're in agreement so far. Now that we've met each other, let's give the arrangement a little further thought before we touch base again."
Sensing that he might have passed muster, he relaxed, as much as he could in this room. It wasn't the sofa. The sofa was cushy. The apartment was cushy. Mentally he compared it with his own Spartan digs. Weird he'd feel more comfortable there. She wouldn't, though, and he'd never take her there, not even…
He tensed up again. "One more thing," he said. "How do you feel about sex?"
She froze. The word hung in the air like an especially acrid room deodorizer. Mesmerized, Sam watched a crack widen in the green masque, starting at the bridge of her nose and forking off to both temples. He suspected she'd tried to raise her eyebrows.
"I don't mean now," he assured her, "or even soon, not until we trust each other. But sex is one of the important things I don't have time for." Her steady unblinking stare was starting to make him nervous. "I mean time to develop a relationship to the point that…" He didn't get this rattled when a judge was staring him down in court. "I thought maybe you had the same problem, and we could include it in…" He halted. "Or maybe you don't…"
"Like sex?" she said. The crack deepened. "Want sex? Need sex? Of course I do, Sam. I'm a perfectly normal woman. But surely men have ways to… I mean, I know they… But of course, it's not the same as…"
It was her turn to be rattled. But only for a moment. The gleam suddenly returned to her eyes, and Sam had a feeling she was seeing a whole new market for pipe.
"Add it to your list of things to think about before we talk again," he said, regaining his calm.
"Shall we say early next week?"
Sam strode down the hall toward the elevator, bemused by the final question she tossed at him as they traded business cards. "Are you allergic to cats?" she'd asked him.
He wasn't but he was curious to know
why it mattered to her. His interest was short-lived. A few minutes later he had his laptop up and running in the bar of the restaurant where his clients would soon join him, doing the only thing he really felt comfortable doing. Work.
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
"Miss Yu Wing to see you."
"Send her up!" Hope told the doorman. She checked out her apartment one more time. The magnificent view of Central Park and beyond it, the lights of the Upper East Side and the towers of midtown glittered through the huge plate-glass windows in both the living room and the bedroom. Bed made, aluminum foil from TV dinner in trash, pillows plumped, desk neat … she didn't know what an interior designer, even one of Yu Wing's reputation, could find to change.
The bell jangled, she flung the door open in a hospitable manner—and took in a quick, startled breath.
The small, thin woman who waited in the hallway had the biggest head of bleached-blond hair Hope had ever seen. The coat she carried appeared to have been made from a number of Afghan hounds. She fluttered a Stetson from one hand like a Victorian lady fluttering her hanky.
It was obvious why she was holding her hat. She'd never have gotten it on top of the hair. The ice-blue eyes that sparkled out at Hope from a narrow, sharp-featured, weather-beaten face held a quick intelligence, though, that got Hope's attention.
A white Western-style shirt, faded blue jeans that stretched over her bony hips and high-heeled, tooled boots completed the picture.
The hallucination.
"Yu Wing?" Hope said. She didn't smile. She was poised to slam the door at any moment.
The woman breezed right past Hope into the living room. "Actually, sugah, the name's E-w-i-n-g, May-belle Ewing, but folks expect a feng shui expert to have a kinda Asian name."
Hope glommed onto the one thing the woman had said that she understood. "Feng shui?" she asked in a high, thin voice. She cleared her throat. "You are the decorator."
"Sure am. A licensed interior designer and feng shui goo-roo."
Hope was translating Maybelle Ewing's deep Texas drawl into normal New York-speak as fast as her mind could function.
"Oh, my land!" Maybelle shrieked suddenly.
Of course. Ms. Ewing had noticed the view, the reason the small apartment was so expensive. All the chairs faced it. Her bed faced it. It didn't matter how you furnished an apartment when you had a view like this one.
Hope was so surprised she jolted backward when Maybelle's hand pressed against her forehead. The hand was dry and as bony as the rest of the woman. "You could make yourself sick in a place like this," Maybelle said in a hoarse whisper. She frowned. "You don't feel feverish. You been havin' any of them psychological problems?"
"No," Hope snapped. "Look, Yu Wing, I mean…"
"Just call me Maybelle."
"Look, Maybelle, all I want is to make this place a little cozier, make it look a little more lived-in."
"It will, hon, when you start living in it." Maybelle's voice grew softer, lost its shrill quality. "I bet you hate coming home, am I right?"
Hope stared at her.
"Well, don't you worry about it no more, because Maybelle's going to fix everything."
How? Rope and tie it into submission? "Of course I would need an estimate from you before we enter into any sort of agreement," Hope said. Recalling one's purpose in engaging in a dialogue was a good way to keep from getting rattled. "Or perhaps you'd rather I gave you a budget."
"Whatever," Maybelle said with an airy wave of her hand. "We're not to that point yet. Let's see what I can do for a couple hundred dollars first. Mind if I take some pictures?"
"Yes," Hope said. The cool, serene African head on the stand in one corner had cost as much as she earned in a month. The huge bowl, a piece of glass art, was worth almost as much. Good investments, both of them. For all she knew, this insane woman was here to case the joint.
Maybelle wouldn't have a problem getting the bowl out, either. All she had to do was wear it over her hair. Then she could put the Stetson on the African head and…
"Please sit down," she invited Maybelle. Remembering one's manners—that was another good way to fight down rising hysteria. "May I get you a drink?"
"Sure," Maybelle said. "Some coffee'd be real tasty about now with bedtime coming up."
"Decaf?"
"Not if you've got the real stuff."
Hope headed for the kitchen to start a small pot of Hawaiian Kona, trying not to breathe the fumes in case they were enough to keep her awake. When she got back to the living room with Maybelle's cup of deadly insomnia in hand and a glass of sparkling water for herself, she found her new decorator circling the room.
Hope fell into step behind her. It was interesting the way they circled a while before they chose seats. Last night Sam Sharkey had done the same thing. The few times she'd entertained, her guests had done it, too, as though they were looking for a more comfortable spot from which to enjoy the view.
Just now, she was feeling a quite surprising need to make Sam comfortable. But not necessarily to enjoy the view. Something unfamiliar pinged inside her.
She quickly sat down, arbitrarily choosing one of the squishy taupe chenille armchairs and perching uneasily on its edge. Back to business. "Where exactly did you get your training?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
"A correspondence course," said Maybelle. She deposited her cup on an end table. "Give me a hand with this, hon." She seemed intent on dragging the other armchair across the room where it faced the door with its back to the view.
Hope closed her eyes briefly, then hurried to help, just to save the floors. A correspondence course interior designer. Her sisters were right. Sheila was crazy, and if she ever saw her again, which she never intended to, she'd throttle her. "How did your interest in decorating come about," she said faintly, lowering her side of the chair to the floor. Thank goodness she hadn't signed anything yet.
"Well," the woman began when she'd settled into the chair, "first off, I was stuck down there in Texas on my husband's family ranch when he up and died."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Hope murmured.
"Don't be," Maybelle assured her. "It was him or the bull and the bull had a hell of a lot more character. Cuter, too, in his way." Her gaze grew thoughtful.
Hope's mouth formed an O. Her eyes sought out the phone on the end table beside her. How fast could she dial 9-1-1? She was already reaching for the receiver when the phone rang. She grabbed for it. Maybe the police were calling to warn her that a madwoman was on the loose.
"Hope? Sam."
"Sam?" Hearing from Sam wasn't on today's agenda. In fact, she'd assumed Sam would hear from her, not the other way around. That way she would have been prepared for the sound of his voice. This way, she hadn't been, and she was annoyed by the stab of heat, the sudden heaviness in the pit of her stomach. She locked her knees tightly together and sat up very straight. "We're scheduled to talk next week, I believe. I entered it in my Palm Pilot and synchronized it with my desktop calendar. The decorator is here now, so…"
"This'll just take a minute. It's an emergency."
He didn't sound as if he were dying, unaided, on a lightly traveled road. Hope drew her brows together. "What kind of emergency?"
She'd spent her hypothetical lunch hour—ten minutes eating yogurt and an apple at her desk—trying to imagine having sex with him as a purely therapeutic measure. "Have sex twice and call me in the morning if you're not better." And she'd decided—maybe. Or maybe not.
Out of the corner of one eye she watched Maybelle shaking her head and tsk-tsking. Meanwhile, Sam was delivering a staccato message into her left ear.
"The firm's executive partner is having a dinner party tomorrow night. One of the guests met his Maker this afternoon. The partner's wife is deeply moved, but she's committed to the party. The problem is two empty spaces—the widow's not in a party mood—at a table set for sixteen at two-hundred-fifty dollars a plate." He paused. "Are you follo
wing me?"
"Closely," Hope said. "The caterer's going to charge for sixteen regardless. As a junior member of the firm you have to fill those two spaces."
"You're familiar with the system."
"Intimately." In fact, that was one of the reasons she might actually need Sam, or even better, somebody like him who didn't mention sex in their first meeting.
She had to admit she'd like it if this new man, the one who didn't mention sex in their first meeting, had a voice like Sam's. It was warm and deep, and it rolled over her like a soothing wave, although the way he sounded now was more like being in a stinging shower.
Maybelle wasn't in her chair any longer. Hope paced around with the phone until she sighted her in the bedroom, exploring the apartment uninvited and still tsk-tsking.
"Will you fill one of those spaces?"
"What? Oh." She refocused on Sam. "Is this important to you?" She'd read the books, gone to retreats, attended seminars at company expense, and she knew what questions to ask. She'd almost said, "Is this a step toward your goal?" but somewhere in her head she heard the echoes of her sisters' exasperated sighs.
"Real important. The boss's wife is after me."
"Your hostess tomorrow night?" She was pretty impressed with herself for following the conversation. Maybelle was in the kitchen now, thumping the walls, looking for joists.
"So far she's only managed to signal me by wiggling her eyebrows and running her tongue over her lips. But those big Connecticut estates have pool houses, conservatories, butlers' pantries. Imagine what could happen if I said yes to her. Imagine what could happen if I said no to her."
"Screwed," Hope said. "Either way. You, I mean, not her. I mean…" She was glad he couldn't see her blush. Maybelle did, though, and gave Hope a knowing look before she trotted into the bathroom, brandishing a wrench.
"Will you come? Be my bodyguard?"
Hope could tell his problem was a serious one. So was hers. She had to get back to Maybelle before the woman started disassembling the plumbing. "Okay, I'll help you out. We'll call it a trial run."