When Katherine brought out warm apple cobbler topped with mounds of melting vanilla ice cream, Victoria knew for certain that wedding bells were already pealing in her head. Homemade cobbler was her mother’s specialty, prepared only when she wanted to use her biggest guns to make a sure kill. The last time she’d baked one the town scrooge had forked over ten thousand dollars to beautify a park. He was still grumbling about Katherine Marshall’s sly, underhanded tactics.
Tate caught the dismayed expression on Victoria’s face and briefly wondered about it. Then he dismissed it as her father deftly steered the conversation over a fascinating range of topics—from the intrigues of small-town politics to rampant, unrestricted development and poor zoning, from bank failures to the national debt. All were things Tate understood and felt comfortable with. He’d grown up discussing these subjects with his own father. It was both nostalgic and satisfying to find someone older with whom he could share his thoughts again. He’d missed that since his father’s death.
As for Mrs. Marshall, she reinforced his earlier impression of her straightforward, brutally honest approach to life. She was clearly a perfectly contented homemaker, a self-assured woman who would never whimper about life’s harsh realities or pretend they didn’t exist. She’d roll up her sleeves and pitch in to make things better, always with that sparkling sense of humor that made her bright blue eyes, that were so like her daughter’s, crinkle with laughter.
Despite Victoria’s dire warnings, he found the Marshalls to be exactly the kind of people he most enjoyed. It was Victoria herself who baffled him. How such an unconventional, impractical woman could have turned up on that very sensible family tree was beyond him. Yet though her parents teased her unmercifully about her more unique friends and crazy lifestyle, it was obvious that they doted on and worried about her. It gave him a warm feeling to see this much love, given so freely and unconditionally.
There was one awkward moment, which began when Katherine Marshall asked how he and Victoria had met.
“Well,” he began and shot Victoria a look that cried out for help. He was not used to prevaricating and had no idea what he could say that wouldn’t violate his promise to avoid mentioning the audit. She let him sit and squirm uncomfortably under her mother’s interested gaze for several horrible seconds.
“It was an accident, Mother,” she said when his nerves had stretched so taut he thought he’d have to blurt out the entire truth or explode.
Mrs. Marshall’s eyes filled with concern. “An accident? You didn’t wreck your car, did you? I’ve told you you should get rid of that old rattletrap. It’s a menace.”
“My car is not a menace and, anyway, it wasn’t that kind of an accident. I’d just chased Lancelot up into a tree and got stuck. Tate came along and rescued me.”
“Oh, my. How romantic,” Mrs. Marshall said with a satisfied sigh, her eyes lighting with pleasure. “And how very fortunate that you happened by, Tate.”
“Yes, that was a bit of luck, wasn’t it?” Victoria said dryly. Tate refused to look her in the eye. He was terrified he would laugh and blow their tenuous credibility to smithereens.
Before he did, John Marshall tamped down the tobacco in his pipe with slow deliberation and said quietly, “Tell me, Tate, exactly what do you do for a living?”
“Ummm…I…”
“Tate’s in finance,” Victoria offered.
“Make a good living, do you?”
“Dad!”
Tate grinned. “Good enough.”
“And you live in Cincinnati?”
“Yes.”
“Like it there?”
“I’ve lived there all my life. It’s a great city.”
“You intend to stay there, then?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so.”
“What about a family?” Katherine Marshall inquired, plopping another scoop of vanilla ice cream into his bowl and urging him to have a bit more cobbler.
Tate gulped. “I hadn’t really thought about it,” he said finally, as Victoria shot him an I-told-you-so look.
“A man can’t wait too long to settle down,” John Marshall said with all the subtlety of a rampaging rhino. He was obviously oblivious to Victoria’s glare. Tate nodded politely, beginning to see exactly what he was up against. Oddly enough, the prospect of being bullied into a marriage with Victoria didn’t terrify him nearly as much as it should have. Actually, the fact that it didn’t was what scared him to death.
Despite the less than subtle nudging from the Marshalls, Tate found that he was having one of the best times of his life. From the incredible, mouth-watering apple cobbler to the gentle family teasing and intelligent conversation, he felt perfectly at home. Victoria, however, seemed to vacillate between amusement and nervousness. By the end of the evening, nervousness was winning out. The more Tate relaxed, the jumpier Victoria became. Soon he was certain that she’d been hoping they would all mix like oil and water. Then they’d never have to get together again.
When they were finally on the way home, after he’d promised to come back often, he questioned her about her odd attitude.
“You were hoping we’d hate each other, weren’t you?”
“Why on earth would I want you to hate my parents?”
“You tell me.”
She shook her head. “You’re wrong. I expected you to like them. You’re on the exact same wavelength,” she said in a tone that made it sound as though they all were suffering from a similar incurable disease.
“Is that bad?”
She shrugged. “It is if you had other plans for the rest of your life.”
“The marriage bit again,” he said with a sigh. “It’s crazy to worry about that. They can’t push us into anything we don’t want.”
“Are you kidding? You are exactly what they’ve been looking for in a son-in-law. They’re not about to let you get away. Didn’t you notice the look of relief in my mother’s eyes?” She glowered at him, then added with an air of resignation. “No, of course you didn’t. You were too busy trying to figure out why I’m not more like them.”
“The thought did cross my mind.”
She looked so sad when he said that that he wanted to take it back.
“I don’t know why I’m not,” she said wearily, as if it were something she’d though about often. “I try to be more organized. I really do, but it seems to escape me. There are always so many more interesting things going on. Maybe I’m a throwback to my grandmother. Everyone thought she was a little cracked too, just because she didn’t believe in sitting back and letting life slip by. She had the time of her life. She went out and grabbed what she wanted, without giving a hoot if it was considered proper. The rest of the family was absolutely scandalized by her antics, but when she died at eighty-one, she had no regrets.
“I’m not going to have any either,” she added defiantly, her eyes flashing a challenge at him.
“I wouldn’t want you to,” Tate countered, meeting her gaze head-on without flinching. He wondered briefly why it was so important for her to believe that.
Victoria seemed to consider the sincerity of his claim, then nodded. “No, maybe not. But you do think I should do things by the rules. I can tell from that funny little look you get in your eyes every time I do or say something you don’t approve of. I know what you think of my bookkeeping and my house. You think I should computerize my records and live in some tidy little apartment with a fully equipped kitchen, wall-to-wall carpeting and a dead bolt lock on the door.” She shivered.
Tate grinned at her apparent idea of a fate worse than death. “Would that be so awful?”
“Don’t you see?” she said plaintively. “It wouldn’t be me. Filling in all those little numbers bores me, and I like light and space and character in a house. I even like the fact that mine’s a mess right now, because when I’m finished fixing it up, I’ll know how much I’ve accomplished.”
Tate didn’t know what to say to that. Victoria waited for a response, then sigh
ed and regarded him as though he were hopeless. “You loved their house, didn’t you?”
“I’m not sure what that has to do with anything, but yes,” he admitted.
Not only had the exterior been in perfect condition, the inside had been spotless, freshly painted in soft colors and decorated with a sense of symmetry. There hadn’t been a magazine out of place. He wouldn’t have changed a thing, including the intriguing collection of photos of Victoria from infancy through adolescence. She’d been a golden-haired cherub at birth and her evolution into a wickedly impish redhead had charmed him. The house had fairly shouted of family and tradition and dependability.
He sighed aloud at the memory and a soft smile curved his mouth. “I thought it was lovely.”
“See. I knew it,” Victoria huffed and then retreated into silence. She didn’t say another word on the ride home, until they pulled to a stop in front of her house. Even then, she only mumbled an agreement to be in his office the following afternoon at two to wrap up the audit. She was out of the car before he could even begin to figure out what was wrong with her, much less try to take her in his arms and recapture the wildfire and magic of those first tentative kisses they’d shared earlier in the evening.
All night long Tate thought about the evening with the Marshalls, going over and over everything that had happened in his usual methodical way, trying to figure out why Victoria’s impish humor had vanished. The evening had started out so well, and he hadn’t been mistaken about those kisses in her kitchen. She was more than attracted to him. She had wanted him as much as he wanted her. Yet when they’d returned to her house, alone again at last, she couldn’t get away from him fast enough.
He spent all morning at his desk shuffling papers and thinking about Victoria. His frustration and confusion, along with the sharp sexual tension in his abdomen that threatened to embarrass him, mounted all afternoon. He glanced up at the clock. It was 2:30 and Victoria was late again.
“Damn it,” he grumbled moodily. “Why the devil can’t she at least learn to be on time? Doesn’t she own a watch?”
“Problems?” Pete Harrison inquired from the doorway in his gruff, raspy voice. That voice, combined with his perpetual scowl, gave the impression that he was always angry. Tate was one of the few people on his staff who suspected he wasn’t.
“I thought that crazy dame who wanted the refund was due in here this afternoon,” he said, staring at Tate pointedly. “Where is she?”
“She’s late.”
Pete seemed about to growl, then said mildly, “Hey, McAndrews, don’t worry about it. What’d you expect from a kook?”
Tate had expected this particular kook to at least make an attempt to be on schedule just this once, since it was her taxes they were trying to straighten out. For Pete’s benefit, he simply shrugged his agreement. There was no point in letting his boss know that he’d like to wring the woman’s pretty little neck. Pete would think the uncharacteristic display of emotion highly suspicious. He’d moved Tate quickly through the ranks precisely because of his cool, calm, objective demeanor. Murdering the subject of an audit simply because she was late for an appointment did not qualify as objective—much less rational—behavior.
Despite his efforts to control it, some of his irritation apparently showed on his face anyway because Pete was regarding him suspiciously. “You okay, McAndrews? Is there a problem with this case I ought to know about?”
“What kind of problem could there be? You said it. The woman’s a kook,” he said, immediately feeling disloyal. If she was that much of a kook, then why was he so damned attracted to her? Why had he been sitting at his desk all morning watching the clock and counting the hours until her arrival, instead of working on another file? Much as he hated to admit it, he could hardly wait to see how she’d look today. He wondered if he’d find her as alluring as ever. Even worse, he could hardly wait to see what crazy, quirky tangent her mind would take. None of this he could admit to Pete.
Aloud, he said only, “I’ll have the whole thing wrapped up in a day or two.”
Pete nodded. “Good. I need you on something else next week, so don’t waste any time.” Pete muttered something else about wasting taxpayer dollars investigating dingy females as he wandered away, leaving Tate to glare angrily at the sweeping second hand of the clock as though it were responsible for Victoria’s tardiness.
He had started pacing around his office like a caged lion when the door swung open, and Victoria breezed in wearing a dress that must have been in vogue at the turn of the century. Tate was getting used to these out-of-date costumes of hers. He realized it somehow suited her with its puffed sleeves, fitted waist and mid-calf skirt. Still, he glanced cautiously down to check for high-button shoes, but her feet, thankfully, were clad in perfectly ordinary black patent pumps. From those tiny feet and well-turned ankles, his gaze rose to her face, hoping for at least some sign of remorse. Instead, to his absolute fury, her eyes were sparkling with childlike excitement. His breath caught in his throat. Her sheer delight was almost contagious.
“Guess what?” she asked breathlessly, oblivious to his foul-tempered mood. She’d had the most wonderful morning. It had made her forget all about the uncomfortable evening she’d spent under the hopeful eyes of her parents. Today’s sky had been a shimmering, cloudless blue. The recently tilled and planted fields were turning green and had the most marvelous, earthy smell. It had been absolute heaven to drive along and look at the change that spring had brought to the landscape. It had been all she could do to resist the urge to stop and pick wildflowers, but an image of Tate’s disapproving scowl had kept her speeding along the country roads.
“Where have you been?” Tate practically shouted at her, making her wince, even though she’d been half expecting such a tirade.
She decided it would be better to ignore the question and his tone. He’d obviously had a bad morning, but, once he’d heard about hers, that grumpy mood would vanish.
“Wait until I tell you about this terrific new antique shop I found,” she announced enthusiastically. “The owner used to be a teacher, just like me, and he spent his summers driving around the country hunting for antiques. Now that he’s retired, he decided to open a shop in his home. And he had the most marvelous old dresser. It’s a mess right now. It must have fifteen layers of paint on it, but the construction is solid—I think it’s cherry—and it has the most beautiful beveled mirror. I’m having it picked up tomorrow. I can hardly wait to get to work on it. Oh, Tate, wait until you see it.”
She gazed up at him expectantly, her smile wavering ever so slightly as she noticed that his scowl had not vanished as she’d hoped. “Is something wrong? I thought you’d be excited.”
“You know I don’t give a damn about antique dressers and beveled mirrors,” he snapped. “When you make an appointment for two o’clock, you’re supposed to arrive at two o’clock. Not two-forty-five.”
“Ohhh. So that’s it. Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” she said brightly, flashing him another brilliant smile and sitting down. The man definitely needed to get his priorities in order. In fact that was what had troubled her all last night. He was so single-minded. He didn’t have an impulsive bone in his very attractive body.
To make matters worse, he fit in so neatly with her family and, much as she loved them, they weren’t wildly impulsive either. More than anything they wanted to see her settled down with someone like Tate. If her parents had their way, they’d offer him a dowry just to reassure themselves that he’d take her on. She’d seen that thank-goodness-we’ve finally-found-someone look in their eyes even if Tate had been oblivious to it. He’d been so busy talking about strip zoning or something equally boring that he hadn’t even noticed her mother practically measuring him for a tuxedo.
“Victoria,” Tate began sternly, then sighed with frustration when he realized there was nothing he could say that would change her. “Oh, never mind. Let’s get this over with.”
But instead of proce
eding in the brisk, businesslike manner he had in mind, Tate found that attempting to conduct a serious interview with Victoria was like trying to keep a toy train on a crooked track. She kept veering off in crazy, unexpected directions that at first infuriated, then delighted him. He listened raptly to one of her wild stories about leading her entire class of students in an all-night sit-in in the school cafeteria to give them a firsthand experience in Thoreau’s concept of civil disobedience.
“What were you protesting?”
“The fact that they’d stopped serving hamburgers and fries.”
“You staged a sit-in over hamburgers and French fries?”
“When you were a teenager, could you live without your daily ration of a burger, fries and a milk shake?”
“I can still live without them.”
“I should have known,” she said with a shake of her head. She studied him closely for several seconds, then smiled slowly. “Do you realize you haven’t asked me a single dull question for the last half hour?”
“I haven’t, have I?” he asked, his startled expression making her chuckle.
“It’s wonderful,” she told him approvingly.
“You won’t think it’s so wonderful when you have to go to court because I did a lousy job of finishing this audit and getting you off the hook.”
“And the only way to do that is to ask boring questions?”
Tate nodded. “It would also help if I could get some straight answers.”
“My answers are straight. I would never lie to you,” she huffed.
“I’m not talking about lying. I’m talking about wandering all over the place with your answers until I’m so confused I find myself agreeing with you.”
“Didn’t it ever occur to you I might be right?”
“Not really.”
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