by Lisa Hendrix
She dropped the wrench.
Mason danced backward like a sand crab. The canopy swayed, but held, and Raine jumped off the chair. “Oh, geez. I’m sorry. Here, sit down.”
“No, it’s all right. You missed.” The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. “But even if you hadn’t, I still wouldn’t send that dress back. It’s going to take more than a broken toe to keep me from dancing with you.” The crinkles faded. “What happened? Right before you dropped that thing, you looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
She blinked and glanced away. “Don’t be silly.”
“Excuse me, Raine,” said Brynn. “If you two are done trying to wound each other, this man wants to know if you have any other trellises.”
Raine leapt to help. “Certainly. Let me show you some photos.”
It took a good half hour for the man to look through her portfolio and decide he wanted the one in the stall after all, and the whole while, she could feel Mason’s eyes on her back.
No. It wasn’t so. It was just a passing, fanciful thought. Hormones. If nothing else, it was stupid, and she wasn’t stupid when it came to men anymore. Been there, done that.
Just as she finished arranging to deliver the trellis, she caught a glimpse of a familiar face over an unfamiliar red T-shirt and chinos. “Paul?”
“Good afternoon, Miss Hobart. Mr. Alexander.”
Mason came up behind Raine, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Good. You’re here.” He introduced Paul to Brynn, then asked Raine for the keys to her truck and to her garage. “Paul’s going to be filling in for you the rest of the afternoon, and he’ll take everything home for you and unload it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He wanted to kidnap you,” said Brynn. “I told him it was okay if he got me some help. This guy looks like he’ll do. God, where do you get off, having two gorgeous guys at your beck and call.”
“Just lucky, I guess.” Raine could barely think, with Mason’s hands still on her shoulders.
“If you’ll tell Paul where the truck is, we’ll be on our way,” said Mason.
“On our way where?” asked Raine.
“You have an appointment. Now, where did you park?”
“Over there,” Raine said. She pointed to her truck, under a tree. Paul nodded and took her keys. “But you don’t know how to—”
“Brynn will help him sort it out,” said Mason firmly. He reached under the shelves for Raine’s backpack and picnic jug, and turned to Paul. “Make sure you get back to the house in time to take Mother and Miranda to the Wilmott Ball.”
“Yes, sir. The parking lot was full. You’re up about a block on the west side of Leary. Have a good afternoon.”
Mason took Raine’s hand. “Let’s go.”
She followed. “Where are we going?”
“Right now, to your house to pack. All remaining questions will be answered at the appropriate time.”
They found the Jaguar in a No Parking zone, but the police either hadn’t gotten to it yet or had ignored the expensive car. Mason handed Raine the backpack, helped her in, then dropped the Thermos in the boot before he got in.
“Didn’t you leave this thing parked in front of my house?” she asked.
“Paul shuttled over in his personal car and picked it up. No more questions. Just lean back and relax.”
Once they got back to Fremont, she took only a few minutes to pack, tossing what she needed into a small soft-sided gym bag and popping the long store bag back over the gown before she handed it and one of the other dresses to Mason. “You’re taller. Don’t drag it.”
Back in the car, he turned toward downtown, waiting until they were across the Fremont Bridge before he announced, “I’m taking you to a day spa that Miranda particularly likes. You’ll get massaged with sea slime and whatever else they do in those places, and then someone will do your hair and makeup for you.”
“You know, I manage that every day, all by myself.”
“Don’t get defensive,” he said. “You do a fine job, but you’ll be much more comfortable walking into that ballroom on my arm tonight knowing that no one but me can tell you run around dark alleys wielding a baseball bat.”
“Mason…” She started to refuse, but he had that stubborn look again. And besides, he was right: it was going to be tough enough tonight to relax with his tony friends without worrying about whether she passed inspection in the powder room. “Thank you.”
They cruised south along the edge of Lake Union and past the Space Needle. A few minutes later, Mason pulled in to the curb before a plain door with only a number marking it, wedged between upscale retail fronts. Instantly, a uniformed valet appeared to take the car, and Mason escorted Raine inside to a reception area so draped in heavy tapestry and thick rugs that all extraneous sound was absorbed. Fifth Avenue
might be ten feet outside the door, Raine thought, but you’d never know it in here.
Mason introduced himself and Raine, and she was quickly whisked upstairs to a private room where she was told to strip and lie facedown on a table draped in surgical green sheets.
A “technician” with an unlikely Hungarian accent came in, introduced herself as Tova, and started kneading Raine’s back, attempting to “loozen ze muscles.” When she was satisfied, she ladled some warm mudlike substance over Raine.
“Sea slime,” muttered Raine.
“Rare algae and precious minerals,” countered Tova the Technician, pronouncing it “al-guh.” “Eet will draw ze toxins.”
Toxin remover or not, after the initial ugh factor, the mud proved to be very relaxing. Raine was doused neck to foot, then asked to roll over so the process could be repeated on the other side. The sheets were then pulled up around her, a heavy blanket laid on top, and a small, buckwheat pillow tucked under her neck.
“Eet is such a rush with you, mees,” said Tova as she placed a cool, cucumber-scented cloth over Raine’s eyes. “Ve have only a few ‘ours instead of the ze whole day, so we do everyzing at once. Someone will come now to put a pack on your hair while ze algae verks. Such spleet ends. And ze sunburn. Eet is ter-r-rible.”
She had no sooner left than another technician, this one apparently French, came in and applied a facial treatment that smelled like strawberries. The hair specialist arrived close on her heels, worked something slightly slimier than the mud into the offending hair, and replaced the pillow. The door clicked shut behind the two as they left Raine alone to compost for half an hour.
And to think, unfortunately, something she had successfully avoided for the past hour or so.
She tried not to. She hummed show tunes. She composed a mental grocery list. She tried to nap. She just plain refused to deal with it.
But Mason’s face swam in front of her closed eyes. The merest thought of his kisses sent such a rush of heat through her blood that the seaweed pack felt cool in comparison. And there was no way she could fall asleep when she knew for a fact that she’d just dream of him, over her, his hands wandering freely.
Worse, much worse, she kept thinking of his smile, the way he threw his head back when he laughed, how he looked with his hands in a sink full of dishes, pink roses, a sweaty yellow T-shirt, the amusement in his eyes as the spa staff had led her off.
Oh, geez. She had it bad.
And so, slightly more than twenty minutes into her thirty-minute encasement in mud, Raine admitted to herself that somehow, against all rhyme or reason, against all the promises she’d made herself, against any shred of logic, it was true: In precisely one week, she had fallen in love with Mason Alexander.
*
Ten
« ^ »
Nervous about sitting down in a two-thousand-dollar dress—silly, when she’d have to fold herself into thirds to get into Mason’s Jaguar later—Raine paced back and forth, her insubstantial evening sandals whispering across the carpet. The guest suite where Mason had installed her was as silent as a library, but the underlying tension had every hair
on her arms standing at alert.
Or maybe it was the turmoil inside her own heart.
Part of her—most of her, perhaps—wanted this evening, wanted the glitter, the game, the chance to dance with Mason, wanted a few kisses and a little more make-believe.
But the rest of her recognized the danger. Somewhere along the line, the difference between pretense and reality had blurred. She already felt as raw as a rug burn.
She had to face facts. It didn’t matter that she loved Mason if he didn’t feel the same. He didn’t even believe in love. She had a job to do, five thousand dollars to earn, and a neighborhood to save.
She had to get herself under control.
She stopped in the center of the room and closed her eyes, allowing her head to loll forward. Her breath slipped into a measured rhythm, six in, hold four, six out, a pattern that came naturally after years of practice. Consciously moving through her body, she relaxed forehead, neck, arms, spine, and legs in turn, keeping just enough tension in her muscles to stay upright. She was on the edge of that place where she might recover a sense of perspective when a familiar, spicy scent wafted around her and stole every bit of peace away.
Surrendering, she let the smile form itself and raised her chin, defiant in defeat. “Mason.”
*
She looked like a sunrise standing there, wisps of peach and rose floating about her shoulders and fading down to lavender gray around her feet, like early morning clouds. Beneath the transparency, a sliplike sheath of soft, shimmering gold skimmed her body and played tricks of light and shadow over her curves. A few rebellious strands of hair had come loose from the sleek chignon into which the spa had forced her hair, and they played around her temples and along her neck in a halo through which diamond ear studs sparked, like a pair of morning stars.
“I knew it,” said Mason, “You’re going to put every woman there to shame.”
She met his gaze. “It’s the dress.”
“It’s the woman in the dress. You’re beautiful.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, as though his words pained her, but she dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Thank you. So are you. Men always look so good in tuxes.”
“Dinner jackets,” he corrected.
“Whatever you call them, you look like you were born to wear one.”
“I think there are some old headwaiter genes in the family.”
She considered. “More like Ivy League hunk.”
“That’s the second time I’ve been called a hunk today. It’s going to my head. I came to see if you needed anything.”
“Just some nerve.”
In an ideal world, he’d kiss her now. He’d find a million excuses not to go to this party and just one excuse to unzip that long zipper he knew must run down her back. Instead he reached into his inside breast pocket.
“When Paul picked me up last night, I asked if you’d gotten everything you need. He indicated a certain lack in the jewelry department.” He pulled out the thin, black satin box he’d picked up while she was at the spa. “This should handle it.”
“Mason. You know I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” He opened the box and pulled the slim diamond bracelet free of the pins that held it, then tossed the box onto the bed and crossed to Raine.
She glared at him, ready to scold.
“It won’t work,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Remember, I get to have fun with this.” He draped the bracelet over her wrist and pulled the ends together to fasten them.
“It goes back Monday,” she said stubbornly.
“I bought it on sale. No returns.”
“Baloney.”
“True, but I warned the man about you. He won’t take it back, no matter what you say. Besides, every woman needs one good diamond bracelet, or so my mother tells me.”
“I don’t have anyplace to wear it after tonight.”
“You can weld in it. The stones will catch the light from your torch.” He stood back. “Paul was right. A necklace would have been too much.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“So are you. We’re a matched pair,” he said, and it was true enough. In many ways, Raine was a better fit than Caroline. Then again, so had Elizabeth been, for all the good such romantic nonsense had done. “Are you ready, or would you like to have a drink first?”
She drew in a deep breath, then blew it off as though she were preparing for the start of a race. “I think I’d rather just take the plunge.”
“All right, then. Shall we?”
She retrieved her beaded evening bag from where it lay on the foot of the bed and took his offered arm, and they were on their way.
*
The cream and gold Spanish Ballroom of the Four Seasons Olympic Hotel looked like it was ready for a presidential dinner. The display of polished crystal and sterling spread over sparkling white tablecloths was as conservative as they came: no colorful linens or outrageous themes for the Wilmott Foundation. Not even something as well-suited to summer as a garden party. The Wilmotts shunned gimmicks, relying instead on tradition combined with simple but well-presented food and a great band to keep patrons and their donations coming back.
In the same spirit of tradition, Tish led the way toward their table. Her entrance wasn’t quite as much fun as it used to be. In the old days, not so long ago, they used to sponsor a whole table and drag along a half dozen friends, so that entering the ballroom was like a royal procession. It had been the one time of the year she’d allowed herself that ostentation, leaving it up to others the rest of the time.
But with the company’s trials had come a certain amount of cutting back, and the past few years they’d bought only their own places, relying on friends to join them of their own accord and at their own expense. Most did, and they still had their usual table near the Wilmotts, so tradition still held as she led the way in this evening.
Friends greeted them as they crossed the room, and along the way Angus and Miranda got pulled into conversations with one of the Wilmott heirs and an old boyfriend, respectively, so that Tish arrived at the table by herself. Wes Gorsheim leapt up to give her a kiss and help with her chair, and within moments Tish was playing catch-up with Wes’s wife, Betty, and the two other women who were at the table, both old acquaintances.
Tish had just discovered that Betty was now a grandmother, for goodness’ sake, when Miranda roared up.
“Tish, we’ve got to talk.”
“Darling, you remember Betty and Wes. Betty was just telling me—”
“Nice to see you,” said Miranda brusquely. “Mother, now.” She took Tish’s arm with bony fingers and tugged. “Excuse us, Betty.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.” Tish allowed Miranda to drag her over to a noisy no-man’s-land between the bandstand and the doors to the kitchen.
She frowned at her daughter. “I presume this is important enough to justify your rudeness.”
“You tell me. Mason’s here. With Raine.”
“What?”
“I just saw them. They’re right outside, on the landing.”
“Oh, great Goddess. Not again. What does he think he’s doing?”
“We’ve got to get them out of here before Angus spots them.”
“I can’t imagine how,” said Tish. “Mason has developed an extraordinary blind spot where Miss Hobart is concerned. If he brought her here in the first place, he’s past caring about consequences. He’s out of his mind. And here we were afraid of what they might be doing alone this evening.”
“Then what are we going to do? There won’t even be enough places at the table. Angus and Raine are both supposed to be in Caro’s seat.”
Tish squinted around the ballroom.
“Damn it, I hate getting old.” She fished in her evening bag for her glasses. “Where is Angus?”
“He’s still over by the hors d’oeuvres with Bucky Wilmott.” Miranda pointed.
Glasses in place, Tish spotted him. His companion appeared to b
e working an invisible crank. “Bucky’s telling him a fishing story. He’s good for a couple of minutes. What about Mason?”
“He’s talking to Walt Rasmussen. There. Just outside the door, by Laurel and John Hirshberger.”
Laurel Hirshberger got her hair color from the same bottle as Lucille Ball, so she made an easy-to-spot reference point. Tish quickly located Mason in the same group, next to a blonde she didn’t recogni— “Is that Miss Hobart? She looks lovely.”
“She’s prettier than Caro,” Miranda agreed. “Which should just about put the nails in the coffin as far as Angus is concerned. Oh, no, they’re drifting in here.”
“Stop them,” ordered Tish. “Lure Mason and Miss Hobart off to the side. Shove them in a corner or something, anything, just so I have a chance to get Angus out the door.”
“How?”
“I have no idea.”
“Tish—”
But she was already making a beeline for the hors d’oeuvre table.
*
“Great seeing you, John. Laurel.” Mason shook hands with the former and kissed the latter on the cheek, while Raine said her more formal goodbyes. As the Hirshbergers wandered off, he turned to Miranda. “Why are you bobbing around like a mongoose?”
“Am I?” She laughed nervously. “I’m just trying to see who’s here.”
“Speaking of which, where’s Mother?”
“Around someplace,” said Miranda, her eyes flashing over the crowd yet again. “I’m not sure. Let’s sit down over here or something.”
“That’s not our table, Miranda.” Mason did some cursory surveillance of his own and was pleased to note that he’d been right. Caroline’s crowd was notably absent. There were a few people that knew them both, but no one who particularly had Caro’s ear or who would trot off to the nearest phone to report his indiscretions. This could actually turn out to be fun.
“Oops, watch out.” Miranda grabbed Mason’s and Raine’s arms and tugged them two steps in her direction, nearly making both of them stumble.
Mason glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing that warranted such concern. “What the blazes are you doing?”