by Susan Crosby
He stood so close she could touch him if she wanted. His clean, soapy scent made her nose twitch. “My good friend Kelly married Mac Fortune, and I pulled the event together for them. Then I was invited to do Mac’s sister Chloe’s wedding to Mason Chandler in a few months. One of those fairy-tale-princess weddings, with all the trimmings.”
“The kind of wedding you’d like for yourself?”
She shrugged. “It’s fun to plan.”
“But?”
“It wouldn’t be in my budget.”
Matter-of-fact words, Gray noted. “Your parents wouldn’t help?” he asked, surprised at her candor. People didn’t usually open up so easily to him. It was the magic of this shop, he decided. And this fairy-sprite woman.
“My father’s been gone since before I was born. My mother passed away late last year.”
She crouched in front of a flowering plant, seeming to inspect it for insects or dead leaves or something. He zeroed in on the scarf she’d tucked into her pocket, then was distracted by the distinctly feminine curve of her rear.
He lifted his gaze in a flash when her words registered. Been gone? What did that mean? Did she think her father was dead? “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. Now,” she glanced up at him. “What can I do for you, Mr. McGuire?”
“First, you can call me Gray. I’m a little surprised you know me.”
She fussed with another plant. “The Fortunes have spoken of you.”
“But you recognized my face.”
“I told you. I saw you on the news yesterday.”
“Hey, Mol! Sorry I’m late.”
A young man swooped into the shop, Minnesota Twins cap on his head, baseball glove tucked under his arm. He was sixteen or seventeen, Gray decided, and into body building.
“What a game! Man, we destroyed ’em.” His gaze landed on Gray. “Hey, you’re that guy—”
“Gray McGuire,” Mollie said instantly, moving to stand between them, putting her back to Gray.
“Yeah, I know. He’s—”
“In town,” she interrupted. “Say hello, then get to the deliveries, okay, Tony?”
He knows who I am, too? Confused, Gray eyed the back of Mollie’s head. This was getting weird. Computers must be a passion of hers. Why else would she know of him?
Tony frowned. “What about the stuff you wanted me to move?”
“Later.” She grabbed his arm, pulling him along with her to a refrigerated case, housing cut flowers. “Those two boxes and the mixed bouquet there.”
“Okay.” As he took the items from the refrigerator, he spoke over his shoulder to Gray. “I’ve been trying to convince her to get with the times, you know? Get a computer? Maybe you can talk her into it.”
“I thought you liked working here,” Mollie said, exasperation in her voice.
He grinned. “All bark,” he said to Gray, then he headed out the door, his arms full.
Gray was more confused than ever. “Your business isn’t computerized?” he asked her when they were alone.
“No.” She moved around the counter, leaving a trail of scent Something subtle. Elusive. A four-leaf clover—
“Computers terrify me,” she said.
“You’d get comfortable soon enough.”
She crossed her arms. “They crash. They lose crucial information. They make people tear out their hair. Why would I put myself through that?”
“Convenience.”
Mollie smiled at his droll tone.
“Top of the mornin’ to ye!”
The leprechaun’s shriek brought a return of normalcy to Mollie’s afternoon. Yarg shouted a greeting every twenty minutes, which meant that Gray McGuire had been in her shop for that long, and she still didn’t know why.
“I’m assuming Computerphobics Anonymous didn’t send you my way,” she said to him. “What brings you to Every Bloomin’ Thing?”
“I have a proposition for you.”
Mollie felt her face heat at the images his simple statement conjured up. A proposition? One involving getting naked? Her dreams about him were romantic, not sexual—declarations of his undying devotion and a chaste, pure love. Certainly nothing physical...even if he did have a body that made her take more than a second glance.
“I hope I’m misunderstanding your meaning.” Shocked at herself, she felt a flush spread across her face Of all the stupid things to say to him. Of course he wasn’t interested in her—not in that way. How foolish could she be?
“Strictly business,” he said gently, making her feel even worse. He must think her so naive.
“Oh, Mollie, dear!”
Mollie stifled a groan as a tiny, white-haired woman marched past the leprechaun doorman and into the shop, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor. She nodded at Gray.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bauer,” Mollie said after sending an apologetic look in Gray’s direction. At this rate she would never find out why he was here. “What can I do for you?”
“Reverend Kruger is ill.”
“I hope it’s not too serious.”
“Serious enough that we will have a substitute this week. Reverend Schmidt. He’s allergic to stock.”
Gray listened to the exchange between the women as they discussed alternatives, deciding that “stock” was a flower that Mollie used in the floral arrangements she did for the church on Sunday. That revelation made him reconsider how much to involve her in his plans. He’d intended to align himself with her against Stuart Fortune. But the young woman who was afraid of computers, charged reasonable rates and made flower arrangements for Sunday morning worship, lived in a sheltered world that could not possibly have prepared her for launching a vendetta that would turn her into a media darling, especially one born of an old scandal he would bring to hght.
Mollie Shaw was a crucial component of Gray’s plan to make Stuart Fortune’s indiscretions and thievery public. But now that Gray had met this innocent young woman, how could he involve her?
How can you not? Justice must be rendered.
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” Mollie said.
He looked around. They were alone again.
“You have a proposition for me?” she prompted him.
He had to rethink this. “I have to go. I’m expected somewhere else in a few minutes,” he said, glancing at his watch, then heading for the door.
“Will you be back?”
Her words stopped him. There was something in her voice. A hopefulness he couldn’t ignore. He didn’t know what would happen next. He had to analyze—
“Please do come again,” she said softly.
He should resist the temptation of her vulnerability, which whispered to his conscience first, then somewhere deeper, bringing light into the darkness of his plans, his need for vengeance. Instead he said, “I’ll be in touch,” over his shoulder as he moved toward the door again.
Not wanting his last image to be of the fairylike Mollie Shaw, he looked at the leprechaun instead. He knew it had to be his imagination, but the elf seemed to smile with approval.
Stuart Fortune’s Twin Cities-based company, Knight Star Systems, occupied fifty acres of prime industrial property. The gated compound was ordinary—a large factory building with a parking lot to the west, receiving dock on the south and corporate offices attached to the north end. Knight Star Systems designed, manufactured and installed security systems for automobiles, homes, office buildings, hotels, airports, even sports arenas. Large commercial accounts made up more and more of their customer base each year.
Gray parked where he could watch the office employees exit. He glanced at his watch. Just a few minutes more. Stuart followed an unvarying routine. On Mondays he worked in the Fortune Corporation offices. The rest of the workweek he spent here, always the last to leave the office each day, although the factory hummed through the night. Three times a year they shut down for plant-wide vacations, each lasting a week.
It was a streamlined and successful operation—until recen
tly. Small setbacks had compounded. Soon the struggle to keep their edge in the highly competitive market would impact the entire operation.
No one would have guessed Gray had choreographed the shocking downfall. He had moved slowly toward his goal, letting Stuart wonder, then worry. Panic would follow before long.
Gray sat up a little straighter as Stuart exited the building, a tall, fit man with a confident gait. His temples were dusted with gray; a few lines fanned from his eyes. Otherwise he didn’t appear fifty-five, much less the sixty-two he really was.
He shouldn’t look that good. That healthy. That happy.
He should look like a man with blood on his hands.
My father’s blood.
Gray’s jaw ached as he watched Stuart unlock his just-off-the-lot Cadillac, toss his briefcase and suit jacket onto the passenger seat, then slip behind the wheel. Within seconds he passed through the front gate, turned right and headed toward his home by the lake, a two-story stone structure with picturesque views from every window, a gated entrance, paved-brick driveway and six-car garage.
The trappings of success. How little they mattered in the end. What mattered to Gray was justice, Knight Star Systems, and now, Mollie Shaw, fellow victim. Stuart’s sons had grown up with every possible luxury, while his daughter deliberated about spending a couple thousand dollars to improve her business. The injustice burned like acid in Gray’s gut. Stuart had gotten away with too much for too long. His reign had to end. And Gray intended to end it—for his own peace of mind. And Mollie’s.
She deserved to know the truth, especially now that she was alone and struggling to stay afloat. Gray would force retribution—the financial settlement she deserved. It would help to balance the scales.
Mollie would be free of money problems.
Gray would be free. Free.
People would be hurt—like he’d been hurt. But he had recovered and moved on. So would they..
Mollie peeled the tape from Gray’s newspaper photo then slid the yellowing scrap into a folder of invoices hand-stamped Paid. The thought of his picture nestled within her uncomputerized paperwork appealed to her. Before she shut the folder she leaned her elbows on the counter and studied him, so elegant in his stylish tuxedo. He wasn’t even wearing a bow tie, but one of those collarless shirts not requiring a tie at all.
Something about him made her mouth water. Maybe it was his posture, which was perfect. Perhaps it was his hair, which invited a woman’s caress. Or his jaw, strong and oh, so masculine. He was infinitely touchable.
Unfolding the paper to reveal the half she usually kept turned to the back, she examined the whole photograph. Maybe what she liked most was the way he seemed to totally ignore the woman whose arm was tucked through his as if she owned him, whose breast pressed against him like an engraved invitation. Mollie hated her—Samantha Simeon, the caption said, someone whose path would not likely cross Mollie’s.
But then, she wouldn’t have imagined her path crossing Gray McGuire’s, either.
With a sigh she put away the folder, then locked the front and back doors before turning out the lights and climbing the stairs to her apartment above the shop. Her quiet, lonely apartment.
She’d lived there all her life, had never had the slightest interest in finding her own place after she graduated from high school. Her mother, Karen, had been her best friend as well as the only family she had. Their lives had been completely intertwined, and Mollie missed her desperately.
Maybe she should have developed more friendships through the years, but she’d been happy in her mother’s company—and Karen hadn’t pushed. She’d even seemed to encourage Mollie to stay home rather than going out much.
Which made Karen’s unexpected death so much harder to take. The only good thing to happen since was Kelly’s marriage to Mac Fortune, which gave Mollie a connection with the illustrious Fortune family that she’d never dared to dream about, although that relationship was more business than social, so far.
Into this rather bewildering new life had come Gray McGuire. Not by accident, either, but because he had a business proposition for her. What in the world could he possibly want?
She should call Kelly. Maybe Mac knew what Gray wanted. Perhaps he had even recommended her shop. Of course! That was it. Mac or one of the other Fortunes had recommended her for...for... something.
Mollie stared into her refrigerator and saw nothing that interested her, so she tucked her keys and a few dollars into her pocket then skipped down the stairs to enjoy the summer evening before the sun went down.
She stopped to buy a peach frozen yogurt then continued down the block to a park where she’d played as a child. Settling on a bench, she savored her dessert-for-dinner treat as children played. The familiarity inevitably brought back memories.
It was in this park that she’d learned of her mother’s dark, painful secrets. If Karen had lived longer, would she have confided in her daughter about her life before Mollie was born—and her controlling, eventually abusive husband?
Karen had kept that part of her life secret, writing the details in her journals, instead, which Mollie found soon after her death. Mollie had taken the treasures with her to this very park to read her mother’s life story, expecting an entertaining tale, discovering tragedy instead.
And triumph. Karen had shielded her—perhaps too much—because of her past and because she’d had to be mother and father, nurturer and provider.
Mollie scraped the last of the yogurt from the cup, scraping the memories away, as well. If Karen were there, she would tell her daughter that she’d mourned long enough. That life was short. That when an interesting man like Gray McGuire appeared out of nowhere—and could drop out of sight just as easily—she shouldn’t wait for him to make all the moves.
Except—what did Mollie know about “moves”? And interesting men? Regardless of the fact Minneapolis wasn’t a small town, she was a small-town girl with uncomplicated needs.
But, ever hopeful, Mollie figured tomorrow she would wear that pretty lilac dress she’d found last week marked down for the third time, bringing it into her price range. She could dust on some powder, add a dab or two of matching perfume. Perhaps even a little mascara. No blush, though. He brought color to her cheeks easily enough already.
It was a business proposition, after all, no matter what her hormones were singing in multipart harmony to the contrary.
Two
Although her heart rate zoomed from a waltz tempo to a thundering hard-rock beat, Mollie continued to fill a round vase with summer flowers as she watched Gray approach her shop around noon the next day. Daisy petals quivered as she slid the bloom amongst the others, her hands shaking. Last night she’d prowled her apartment until midnight, watched an old movie that made her cry, then finally fell asleep on the sofa. Her normally hazy, romantic dreams of Gray had been replaced with sharp, vivid images of him in the flesh.
He crossed the threshold, eyeing Yarg as he entered. His blue jeans showed off narrow hips and long legs. His baby blue T-shirt didn’t fit like a second skin, but didn’t mask his muscular torso, either. She pursed her lips, trapping an admiring sigh.
“Good day, Miss Shaw,” he said as he reached the counter.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to ye!”
Mollie’s gaze flickered to the screeching leprechaun. “And from Yarg and myself, Mr. McGuire.”
“Is there a volume control on that thing?”
“Just an on-off switch. I guess I’ve gotten used to it.” She wondered whether Gray’s real-life kissing technique would do justice to her dreams. Could anyone compete with a dream? “I hope you’ve come to put me out of my misery.”
“Did the suspense get to you?”
“I’m not too good at delayed gratification,” she said, openly flirting with him, trying to get a response. Instead he walked to the front window and stared outside, ignoring her.
Chagrined, she held her ground. Late last night she’d reread all the articles
she’d saved about him. While he spoke freely about his work and vision, his personal life was apparently taboo. Speculation abounded, fueled only by brief quotes from women he’d allegedly dated. Some called him distracted and distinctly unromantic, one woman went so far as to brand him as “cold.”
Which apparently hadn’t stopped the woman from dating him more than once. Mollie wouldn’t call him cold. Steady, perhaps. Not given to mood swings. And the allegation about not being romantic... was probably true. She figured his mind was a minicomputer in which he probably maintained a mental agenda. Mollie was apparently an item on that list, and he would get to her in his own time.
He seemed to jar himself back into awareness as a dark-haired man wearing a brown delivery uniform breezed into the shop carrying a large box. “Hey, Mollie. I see you’ve joined the twentieth century just in time for the twenty-first.”
“What kind of riddle is that, Mike?”
He set the package on the floor beside the counter. “Your computer.”
“Computer? Me? I didn’t—” She narrowed her eyes at Gray, who leaned an elbow against the countertop and watched her impassively. “There’s been a mistake. You can load it right back on the truck.”
“There’s no mistake. I’ll be back with the rest of the stuff in a minute. You’ll need to sign for ’em.”
She waited until Mike climbed back into his truck, then she planted her fists on her hips. “That’s your company logo on the box,” she said after studying the package.
“I believe you’re night.”
“I can’t accept that kind of gift.”
“Did I say it was a gift?”
She sputtered. He expected her to pay for something she hadn’t ordered? And didn’t want? This was not the man of her dreams. Not even close. That man respected her, acknowledged her as an intelligent and independent person and admired her business sense. But the man standing in front of her had decided after a half-hour conversation that he knew her well enough to tell her how to run her business.
“I can’t pay for this,” she said, forcing the words out.