Keeping Company

by Tami Hoag

  “I r-ruined your p-pretty outfit,” Cori sobbed. “I d-didn’t m-mean it.”

  “I know. It was an accident.”

  The little girl lifted her head and looked up at Alaina. Her face was streaked with tears, her brown eyes glistened with them. The coffee-brown curls around her face were wet and matted down. “Aren’t you m-mad at m-me?”

  Alaina bit her lip hard to hold back her own tears. She shook her head. In a gesture that suddenly seemed natural to her, she reached out and opened her arms to invite when all her life she’d kept them closed to ward off rejection. Dylan’s daughter hesitated only a second before accepting the invitation. Sniffing back the wave of emotion, Alaina wrapped her arms around Cori and hugged her for all she was worth.

  Dylan leaned against the doorjamb, watching through the narrow opening between the frame and the door, which had been left ajar. Tears gathered in his eyes, and he felt the final corner of his heart, that little bit he had been holding in reserve, give way. He was well and truly in love with Alaina Montgomery, and just now it didn’t seem like a bad thing at all.

  Chapter 9

  “Are lawyers really allowed to dress that way?”

  Jayne sat cross-legged on Alaina’s sofa, absently folding the pleats in her wildly flowered skirt. An antique straw hat decorated with silk cabbage roses nearly swallowed up her head.

  “Once or twice a year we get to take off the pinstripes and gray flannel,” Alaina said as she fastened the latch on her Crystal pin. She assessed her appearance in the mirror above the mantel with a critical eye.

  “You look fabulous.”

  “I’d better for what this dress cost me.”

  The gown of softly shimmering, clinging red silk began in a neat bow on her right shoulder, then draped enticingly across her bosom, hugging her slender, shapely figure as it followed her body’s curves, nipping in at her waist and stretching snugly over her hips. The skirt was cut at an angle—thigh-high on the right and falling to just below her knee on the left side. The effect was sexy, but very elegant, which was precisely how she felt this evening. She was finally going dancing with Dylan Harrison and all was right with the world.

  As she fastened diamond teardrop earrings to her earlobes, she thought back on the week that had passed since she’d had dinner at Dylan’s house. It had been a week of self-discovery, of deepening emotions, of moments of love and moments of blind panic. She didn’t like having her feelings churning so close to the surface, didn’t like the feeling of not being completely in control, but she was gradually becoming more relaxed with the idea of being in love with Dylan. If she had to relinquish some of her control over her emotions, then Dylan was the man to relinquish it to.

  Her relationship with Sam and Cori was moving forward as well, slowly, carefully forward. All of them were holding back a little, a little wary of committing too much of their bruised hearts too soon. But it was progress nevertheless.

  Jayne’s amazed voice cut into her musings. “Dylan really agreed to put on a tux and take you to this shindig?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say that it had been part of the deal, but Alaina bit the words back. The structure of the deal had changed to the point that she didn’t like to think about the original scheme anymore. She gave her friend a peeved look as she crossed the room to answer the door. “Of course he agreed to take me. Not even Dylan dresses like a bum all of the time.”

  She swung the door open and her jaw dropped. Dylan stood on her doorstep dressed in his Dr. Who costume, the brown frock coat buttoned up to his throat, the long, multicolored scarf wound around his neck, the hat tipped at a jaunty angle above his eye. He grinned and gave her a wink as he stepped past her and into the living room.

  “You look surprised, Princess. You did say formal attire, didn’t you?”

  “What is this, Harrison?” she demanded through clenched teeth.

  “No, Who is this,” Dylan corrected her good-naturedly as he dug into his pocket and pulled out his rumpled bag of candy. “We’ve been through all this before. Jelly Baby?”

  Alaina glared at him. “Are you aware that thirty-nine percent of the homicides in this country are committed against men who underdress for social occasions? And I might point out to you, there are blunt instruments in this room crying out to become evidence in a murder trial.”

  “Time for me to go,” Jayne chirped, popping up from the sofa. “I have no desire to witness a crime of passion.”

  “Why not?” Alaina asked sardonically, circling Dylan like a she-wolf. “You’ve already been a witness to a crime of fashion.”

  “I told you, you should have taken the podiatrist,” Marlene interjected from the open door-way, her mouth turning down in her Deputy Skreawupp frown. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times—the two of you aren’t compatible at all.”

  “Don’t you have a séance to go to?” Alaina asked.

  A mischievous smile twinkled on Jayne’s face. “She’s right, Marlene. We’d better go. We don’t want to keep those spiritualistic manifestations waiting.” She waved to Dylan. “It’s been nice knowing you, Dylan.”

  He grinned as the pair retreated, and Alaina swung the door shut after them. She turned on him, fury burning icy fires in her arctic-blue eyes.

  “I can’t believe you would do this to me,” she said in a low, tight voice. “The Bar Association dinner is the most important social function of the year.”

  “What a sad commentary on the state of your social life.” Dylan frowned, calmly removing his hat and tossing it onto an overstuffed chair. “This is my way of protesting arbitrary dress codes clung to by the snotty upper class.”

  Alaina’s heart wrenched beneath the bodice of her hideously expensive dress. Dylan really did hate her lifestyle—so much so that he would go to this length to demonstrate his feelings. She pressed a hand to her queasy stomach as her suddenly volatile emotions plummeted downward like a faulty elevator. Maybe Marlene was right. Maybe—

  “Relax, Princess.” Dylan unwound the scarf from around his neck. His own stomach twisted a little at Alaina’s overreaction to his joke. He didn’t like to think just how important this occasion was to Alaina, because a frightened little voice kept whispering that it was more important to her than he was. It was practically all she’d talked about for a week.

  Personally, he hadn’t been looking forward to the evening. Getting trussed up in a penguin suit and hobnobbing with a bunch of stuffed shirts wasn’t his idea of a good time. Putting on rumpled pants and a sweatshirt and wrestling with his kids was. He wanted that to be Alaina’s idea of fun too. The idea of this formal evening of power socializing scared the hell out of him. But he would go through with it. It was part of the deal.

  His scarf joined his hat on the rose-colored chair and was followed by the heavy brown coat. Alaina gasped, but no air made it to her brain, and she had to clutch the back of a chair as her head swam.

  He was gorgeous. Handsome didn’t begin to do him justice. Dylan decked out in a tailored black tuxedo was devastating. The white shirt with its pleated front and stylish wing collar set off the healthy tan of his lean face. The perfectly cut jacket accented his broad shoulders. His only real protest to the order for “black tie” nestled against his throat in the form of a neat, narrow red bow tie.

  His hair was too long and a diamond stud sparkled in his earlobe, but these features only added to his air of being the charming rake. What woman could resist the bad boy in formal attire? Certainly not her, Alaina mused, weak-kneed beneath her Bill Blass original.

  “Typical lawyer,” Dylan muttered, stepping close and cupping her bare shoulders with his hands. He bent his head down and brushed his lips lightly across hers. “Can’t take a joke.”

  She gave him a sheepish smile as she slid her palms up the lapels of his jacket and interlaced her fingers behind his neck, twining soft tendrils of his chestnut hair into the union. “Don’t you know you should never tease a woman who has recently spent
a sum to rival the national debt on a gown from Neiman Marcus?”

  Dylan cast a pained look at the ceiling.

  Alaina took advantage of the tilt of his chin to press a soft kiss to his throat, then rubbed the smudge of lipstick away with the pad of her thumb. Her eyes were wide and guileless when they met his. “Take me dancing,” she whispered.

  The joke about lawyers being expert dancers stilled on his tongue as Dylan stared at the woman who stood in the circle of his arms. For one highly charged moment neither of them said anything, but communication of another sort bridged the gap between their souls, between their differences in style and philosophy. For just an instant Alaina was nothing more complicated than the woman he loved.

  “How can I say no?” he murmured, his right hand trailing down the cool silk of her bodice to the pin she wore. Almost reverently, his blunt-tipped fingers traced the Crystal. “It’s bad luck for a man to deny a woman wearing the Crystal of Kalamari. I’ll bet you didn’t know you could claim my heart forever or damn my soul for all eternity just by making a wish.”

  Something vital and fragile trembled deep inside Alaina’s heart. If only she believed in such foolishness, she thought. If only love were as simple as making a wish or chasing a rainbow.

  Pushing the uncomfortable sense of vulnerability aside, she gave Dylan a subdued version of her sassy look. “And all I wanted was a fox-trot.”

  Dylan smiled. “Decadently expensive or not, you look gorgeous. I’d love to take you dancing, Alaina … Noreen. Nita? Nancy …”

  The ballroom was the height of ostentatious opulence—a soaring ceiling, gaudy gilt trim, a waxed wood floor that shone like polished glass. That floor was a sea of tuxedos and evening gowns. The place was thick with lawyers milling around like so many pricey show horses. After-dinner conversations were about class action suits, out-of-court settlements, golf scores, and foreign cars. They were a long way from Anastasia.

  This was the world Dylan had left behind. Money, power, status: the idols he had once worshipped then cast aside in favor of a more meaningful existence. This was the world Veronica had left him for. This was the world that fit Alaina Montgomery like a designer gown. She had never looked so comfortable as she did with a glass of Dom Pérignon in her hand. She smiled up at the man they were being introduced to, glowing like a diamond in a Cartier setting.

  Dylan hooked a finger inside the collar of his shirt and swallowed an enormous knot of apprehension. This was Alaina’s element. Why would she throw it all away for a guy who ran a bar and bait shop? She’d seemed genuinely happy spending time with him and the kids this past week, but obviously that wasn’t enough for her. Obviously, she was just biding her time in Anastasia, waiting for opportunity to knock and invite her into the big leagues of California law.

  “… and this is my friend, Dylan Harrison,” Alaina said, laying a hand on Dylan’s forearm. “He’s involved in several businesses in Anastasia.” The muscles beneath her fingertips tightened to the consistency of granite.

  “Harrison,” the beetle-browed icon of San Francisco law mused, pursing his thick lips. “One of the Sacramento Harrisons? Lumber and cattle?”

  “No,” Dylan said tightly. “One of the Moose Hollow, Oregon, Harrisons. Beer and bait.”

  The attorney opened his mouth and closed it again in an unconscious imitation of a fish.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Dylan said, snatching the wineglass out of Alaina’s hand and thrusting it onto a passing waiter’s tray. “I promised Ms. Montgomery this dance.”

  Alaina’s opinion of his manners was drowned out by her squeal of surprise as Dylan all but hurled her onto the dance floor. Fuming, she settled into his rigid embrace. She never squealed. She particularly did not squeal in front of her peers. Digging her neatly manicured nails into Dylan’s shoulder, she sent him a scathing look.

  “I’m not into slam dancing.”

  Dylan gave a snort. “Who could be with this music?” Clarinets droned in the background as he rolled his eyes. “Lawrence Welk would be bored to tears at this place.”

  “What did you expect, Run-D.M.C.?”

  “No. The only thing lawyers know about rap is how to beat it when their client is a two-time loser as guilty as sin.”

  Alaina’s anger was tempered by her disappointment. She had hoped this evening would be an enjoyable one. Though she would never admit it in a million years, she had wasted all kinds of time daydreaming about having Dylan sweep her around the dance floor. He seemed more determined to sweep the dance floor with her.

  “Look, I know you’re having a lousy time,” she said. “But you could pretend otherwise. After all, I put up with your picnic. You owe me this; it was part of the deal.”

  “The deal.” He couldn’t quite bite back his groan. “Don’t remind me.”

  So now he wished he’d never made the deal. He probably wished he’d never laid eyes on her either, Alaina thought glumly. Well, he had stated from the beginning she wasn’t his type. Lord, that idea rankled. Why wasn’t she his type? Because she liked nice things? His tastes were no less expensive, just different. Of course, the self-righteous bugger was too blind to see that.

  “You know, this would be much more pleasant if you weren’t determined to play the reverse snob,” she said as they made their way stiffly around the dance floor to a watered-down version of “Celebration.”

  “I’m a snob?” Lifting his nose with exaggerated hauteur, he looked down at her and spoke in a dry falsetto. “Dylan is involved in several businesses in Anastasia.”

  “Well,” Alaina mumbled, not quite able to look him in the eye, “you are.”

  “I chose to walk away from all this pretentious baloney, Princess,” he said, maneuvering her around a rotund couple doing the rumba. “I’m not ashamed of what I do for a living.”

  “I’m not ashamed of what you do either. I’m ashamed of how you’re behaving.”

  “Oh, well, I’m sorry.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “Us Moose Hollow Harrisons don’t know spit about how to behave in polite society. Maybe you should have asked your lumber baron friend, Knute Grabowski, to bring you.”

  Alaina flashed a smile at a passing couple, then turned to Dylan, hissing fury between her teeth. “Knute Grabowski is not a lumber baron. He’s a thickheaded, mannerless …” she began, calling up the memory of her blind date with Jayne’s lumberjack friend. She’d never had a more miserable night in her life—until tonight. She shrugged and gave a half laugh. “Come to think of it, aside from the tattoos, I can’t see much difference between the two of you.”

  Dylan gave her an incredulous look that melted into one of introspection. She was right. He was being a pig. Considering his past, he had every right to feel threatened by Alaina’s preference for high society, but the way he was behaving was only going to drive her to it, not from it, not into his arms. And she felt too damn good in his arms to let her go, he thought as he pulled her a little closer. What he needed to do was woo her into making their deal to keep company a permanent one, make her see that life with him and his children could be fulfilling in a way haute cuisine and haute couture were not.

  He dipped his head down, intending to apologize. Just as he opened his mouth, Alaina turned abruptly away, smacking him in the teeth with her dangling diamond earring.

  “Skip Whittaker!” she exclaimed in surprise, stepping out of Dylan’s arms and off the dance floor to greet her old friend from law school.

  Whittaker looked as if he’d been born wearing a tuxedo. His limp blond hair was cut fashionably short on the sides, and his smile spoke of wealth and an excellent orthodontist. He greeted Alaina warmly—a little too warmly in Dylan’s opinion. Dylan stood awkwardly to one side wincing, scowling, and fingering his teeth for chips.

  “Skip, I’d like you to meet my friend, Dylan Harrison.” Alaina gave Dylan a meaningful glare and said, “He sells swill and chum on the waterfront.”

  Whittaker’s proper blond brows rose and fell. He gave Dylan a
once-over that clearly said Alaina had suffered from a momentary lapse in judgment when choosing her escort. His gaze lingered disdainfully on Dylan’s red tie, then Whittaker dismissed him altogether, turning Alaina’s way. “I’d heard you left Abercrombie, Turtletaub, and Flinch. What are you doing out here?”

  “Starting my own practice in a little town up the coast.”

  Skip frowned as if the gravlax from the buffet was coming back on him. “Probate and petty theft? You’ll be bored to distraction inside six months.”

  Alaina lifted one shoulder in a delicate, defensive shrug. “Well, we can’t all be overpaid corporate sharks like you, Skippy.”

  Whittaker beamed. “True, darling, but you’re one of the best. Your talents are being wasted. You could be pulling down six figures annually, have a Mercedes and a condo in Marin County. I know we would pay dearly to have you at Victor-Ruthton.”

  “You’re with Vicious-Ruthless?” Dylan questioned, horning his way into the conversation with a devilish grin and a demonic light in his eyes. Everything about Whittaker rubbed him the wrong way, from the part in his hair to the slight whine in his voice. And he took particular exception to the way the man was trying to entice Alaina away from Anastasia. Never mind that he had never expected her to stay. He couldn’t stand the thought of her being lured away by a pretentious preppy and promises of an overpriced loft. “Why, Chip, I’ll bet you know my ex-wife’s attorneys—DoWe, Cheatem, and How.”

  Whittaker choked on his champagne, his eyes rounding behind his fashionable spectacles. Alaina felt all her red blood cells shoot to her feet to hide there in mortification.

  “Isn’t that funny?” Dylan asked, straight-faced. “I have the same reaction when people mention their names to me too. Why, just the other day I was talking with Goldie Chargecard about the price of Volvos with CD players versus the price of Volvos with cellular phones, when she happened to mention that firm.” He gave an elaborate shrug. “I lost my quiche right there and then. All over my Lord and Taylor wingtips. It was tragic, really.”