And then his smile widened, and she wasn’t sure that receiving an invitation to her home hadn’t been his intention, all along.
But why?
Hosting business associates at their place had been one of the things George had evidently married her for. She’d done it often and done it well.
So why did the idea of Mori Taka being under her roof send every nerve she possessed into a fit of the screaming meemies?
Chapter Seven
Helen’s shrieking nervousness was still well in play later that evening as she put the finishing touches on the table.
She’d set two place settings at one end of the mile-long dining table. On any given day, the table could seat twenty, and while Helen might have felt safer putting Mori at one end and her at the other, she did realize that doing so would look as infantile as it felt.
It’s only a business dinner.
She kept telling herself that while she straightened the blown glass vase containing a tight bouquet of Sterling roses. It’s only a business dinner. Only.
“Mrs. Hanson?” Gertrude, the housekeeper, who was the only staff person whom Helen had kept on, spoke from the dining room entrance. “I’ve selected a few wines from the cellar for your dinner. Would you like to look them over?”
Helen shook her head. Gertrude had worked for George even before their marriage. Helen hadn’t had the heart to suggest she retire, and these days, it was only the two of them who floated around the enormous house. Helen had left it up to Gertrude to hire a cleaning service to help her, and had been grateful when the older woman finally, grudgingly, allowed a strictly supervised crew to come in monthly and do the “heavy work” as Gertrude called it. “I’m sure whatever you chose will be perfect.”
Gertrude hesitated a little, her light blue gaze somewhat curious. “This is a business dinner?”
“Yes.” Helen turned the vase an inch.
“For two.”
Another quarter inch. “Yes.”
Gertrude sniffed a little and came more fully into the room. “Pardon me for saying so, Mrs. Hanson, but it is okay for you to have a date.”
Helen jerked and stared at Gertrude. “Excuse me?”
“You’re a young woman. You shouldn’t be alone.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I don’t feel all that young, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, garbage.” Gertrude patted her ample hips. “I am not all that young, and even I have a gentleman caller from time to time.”
Helen raised her eyebrows.
“Now, don’t look so surprised, Mrs. Hanson. I’m a woman, after all.”
“Yes, you are, Gertrude. And one I’d be lost without.” She looked at the table. “But this really is a business dinner.”
Gertrude looked regretful. “Well, all right. If that’s the case, then I really should stay to serve and clean up after.”
“No, you shouldn’t. All I have to do is pull things out of the oven and fridge because you’re so organized. Go.” She smiled. “Call up your gentleman friend and go wild.”
“You go ahead and laugh,” Gertrude replied blandly, “but you just might be surprised what a woman my age can get up to.”
Helen chuckled. “I’m not laughing at you, my friend. You give me hope.”
Gertrude patted Helen’s shoulder. “Go put on something pretty.”
Helen looked down at her clothing. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Even if it is a business dinner, you don’t have to wear an iron gray suit.”
“You make it sound like I look like a prison matron,” Helen murmured. “This is a designer suit.”
“I suppose I could scare up some handcuffs and a baton for you,” Gertrude replied, “but something a little softer might be more appealing, fancy designer name or not.”
The doorbell chimed softly.
And for all of Helen’s insistence that this dinner was strictly business, she froze.
Gertrude, bless her soul, refrained from saying “I told you so,” but her arch expression conveyed it anyway. “Skedaddle up those stairs to your room. I’ll let in your guest and show him into the library. Cozier there than the living room, don’t you think?”
Helen didn’t know what to think. She just went up the stairs at a rapid clip, hearing Gertrude head to the door behind her.
In her closet, Helen stared at the racks of clothing. What would she wear? She grabbed a hanger.
A skirt that left way too much of her thighs bare? No. That was from the George days.
She tossed the hanger aside and grabbed another.
Suits, suits, suits. She owned dozens of them. Found them to be her safety net in fashion, and had ever since she buried her husband along with his desire to see her in the latest fad, even when she had felt ludicrous wearing such revealing items.
Her heart was thudding in her chest, and she could actually feel herself beginning to perspire.
“Get a grip, Helen.”
She turned away from the side of her closet filled with suits, and the side still filled with her George-days wardrobe. Jeans were much too casual, as were her plethora of capris and workout garments.
From downstairs she could hear the faint sound of the heavy front door closing and imagined Mori walking through her home, escorted by Gertrude to the library. There wasn’t a fire burning in the fireplace down there, but it still would offer a decidedly intimate feel for Mori.
Why hadn’t she told Gertrude to put him in the living room?
She groaned and grabbed a sleeveless white sweater and a pair of loose silk slacks. In seconds, she’d replaced the iron maiden. She hurried out of her room, dashing down the stairs and practically running to the library.
She stopped outside the arched doorway and, smoothing back her ponytail, drew in a long breath, grabbed composure with a desperate grip and entered the room. “Mori, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”
He wasn’t wearing a suit, either, she thought inconsequentially. A thin cashmere sweater the color of nutmeg covered his chest and chocolate brown slacks completed the look.
Very chic.
Very…handsome.
Very…un-Mori.
The man had probably been born in a suit. How could she continue convincing herself they were having dinner in her home for purely business reasons when the man didn’t even have the decency to dress for the occasion?
“You did not keep me waiting,” he said, interrupting the flow of insanity inside her brain. “I was studying your book collection. It is very eclectic.”
“Most of it was George’s.”
He pulled out a narrow leather-bound volume. “Emily Dickinson?”
“Not all of the collection was George’s,” she qualified.
He smiled faintly and slid the book back into place.
Her palms felt moist. She curled them over the back of the upholstered love seat that faced the stone fireplace. “Did you settle in to your hotel all right?”
“Yes.” His gaze continued traveling over the room, and finally settled on her.
She should say something. She was a grown woman. A sophisticated woman. Everyone said so.
So why couldn’t she find a single coherent thought inside her entire stupid head?
“Thirsty?” she blurted. “I mean, would you like a drink?”
“Beer, if you have it.”
She pressed the tip of her tongue against the inside of her teeth. “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”
He nodded, but turned back to the towering shelves filled with books. As soon as she saw him pulling one out, she made herself move sedately from the room.
Good as her word, Gertrude had already departed. Probably because she’d taken one look at the very sexy Mori Taka and decided that she could be absent for this particular business dinner. Helen yanked open the stainless steel refrigerator door and crouched down, studying the contents, hoping there would be a beer or two lurking in the cavernous confines.
There wasn’t.
; Her breath hissing between her teeth, she quietly darted through the house and into George’s home office. Sure enough, there were still bottles in the small refrigerator hidden in the wall. She grabbed a few and ran back to the kitchen where she poured herself a short, squat glass of ice water. She set everything on a silver tray, added a bottle opener and a pilsner glass from the cupboard and carried it back to the library.
He was sitting on the love seat.
Somehow, his choice made her uneasy.
Not uneasy in a fearful way, but uneasy in a woman-man sort of way.
She really was losing her mind.
She smiled at him and set the tray on the table next to the love seat. There was no coffee table between it and the fireplace; only an exotically thick off-white Flokati rug covered the carpet.
There were three other chairs near the love seat and she chose the closest one to him before opening the beer to pour into his glass. “I hope import is okay.” She handed it to him.
He looked amused as he reached over and wrapped his hand around the tall, skinny beer bottle she still held. “It is a Japanese beer. To me, it is not an import.”
She laughed and shook her head at herself. “Sumimasen.”
He handed her the remaining glass and lifted his in a toast. “Kampai.”
She took the glass from him, grateful that she’d stuck with water and not anything alcoholic. Her head was already swimming enough. “Cheers.”
They drank.
Then, not wanting another awkward silence to descend between them, Helen stood. “Please excuse me. I just need to check the oven for a moment. I hope you like chicken.” She didn’t say it out of courtesy. She was suddenly very aware that during the dinner they’d had that one night, he’d ordered beef.
“I do.”
She was appalled at the relief that rolled through her. “I’ll be right back.”
He smiled faintly.
She took off, rolling her eyes at herself. The man was clearly amused at her.
A fine thing for someone she wanted—needed—to have some measure of respect for her when it came to the bargaining table.
The chicken was perfectly fine when Helen peeked in the oven. How could it not be, with Gertrude having prepared it, and the state-of-the-art oven that shut itself off at the precise time, merely keeping the contents at an optimal temperature?
“It smells good.”
She slammed the oven door shut and turned. “I…yes. It does. We can thank Gertrude Singer for that. My…um, my housekeeper. And cook, and everything else I need, pretty much.”
“But you say you like to cook?”
“I do. But, somehow, I thought homemade pizza might not be your cup of tea.”
He set his beer on the granite island that consumed the center portion of the window-lined kitchen. “I do not prefer anchovies on my pizza, but otherwise, Kimiko keeps me well acquainted when she is with me.” He pulled out one of the iron-legged barstools on the far side of the island and leaned against it. “You are nervous.”
And thank you for pointing it out. “Not at all.”
He tilted his head slightly, looking down at the floor. “You have no shoes.”
She looked down.
Lord. She’d forgotten to put on shoes.
“Perhaps I don’t wear street shoes in my home.”
“I doubt that is your custom here,” he said wryly.
She wanted to curl her bare toes against the slate tile. “I…forgot,” she admitted. “It had nothing to do with nervousness. Just rushing.”
If she were Pinocchio, her nose would be a foot long by now.
“Here. Drink.”
She realized he’d also brought in her glass of water. “Thank you.” She took it and swallowed it down, realizing belatedly that he probably assumed she’d just chugged a half-full glass of vodka or something. Well, that was too bad. At every meeting they’d had in Japan involving the dinner hour, alcohol had flowed freely, even though she’d rarely drunk much more than appearances required.
She just didn’t have a head for it.
“Dinner is ready, if you’d like to eat now. Or perhaps you’d like me to show you around the house?” That was, supposedly, the excuse for this tête-à-tête. For him to see the marvel that was George Hanson’s abode.
“You can give me the tour after.”
“It will be my pleasure. The dining room is this way.” She started from the kitchen, only stopping once she reached the formal dining room and held out her arm. “Please. Have a seat.”
He looked up at the high frescoed ceiling then around the large room. “An impressive room.”
“That seems to be the impression most people have.”
“And you?”
She tried looking at the room with fresh eyes. “It is impressive. And large. And—” she rocked her head from side to side “—and…large.”
“Very large.”
She felt a smile budding around her lips—a real smile. “Well. We could eat in the kitchen.”
“Would that scandalize you?”
Surprisingly, her grin broke right out at that. “Mori, if you haven’t realized it yet, scandal is becoming second nature to me.” Then she held her breath, because, though she was almost getting to the point where she could speak lightly of painful things that had been mucked about in the press about her, she wasn’t at all certain he would feel the same.
But a dimple slowly appeared in his cheek as he smiled. “The kitchen it shall be.” Suiting words to action, he crossed to the table and deftly stacked the plates.
She hurried after him, picking up the flatware and linens and stemware.
They reset their table at one end of the island. Mori disappeared for a moment while she was busy serving up the roast chicken and setting out side dishes.
She was just finishing when Mori returned. He wasn’t carrying the foot-high vase, but he was carrying one of the roses.
She set the wine Gertrude had chosen on the counter and eyed the flower. The barely unfurled blossom looked delicate and silvery against his fingers.
Then he handed her the rose. “If you would please hold this?”
She took it, watching curiously as he picked up his beer bottle. He looked very serious then as he shook out his ivory linen napkin, made a fold or two, followed by a few deft twists that she could barely follow, and swaddled the bottle in ivory linen.
The finished product looked like a flower itself, and then he took the rose from her and dropped the stem into the center of his creation.
She slipped onto one of the stools. “Well, my goodness. Does the TAKA board know what highly developed skills you’re hiding?”
“You would not be so impressed if you saw what Shiguro can do with a cherry stem.”
It took her a bare moment longer than it should have to realize he was joking because his expression was so deadpan.
She smiled and pointed at him with a stern finger. “You’re a tough one, Mr. Taka. But I know your secret now. You do have a sense of humor.”
“Do not let my senior management hear that.”
She pressed her lips together and mimicked twisting the key. “The secret will go with me to my grave.”
He lifted the wine bottle and filled their glasses. “However, now that you know my secret, you must share with me yours, or we shall be on uneven footing again when next the lawyers crack their whips.”
“Ah.” She sipped her wine, watching him over the rim of her glass. The man was too attractive by far and drinking wine would only lower her defenses against him. “All of my secrets have been splashed about already. Part and parcel of that scandal thing, you know.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I kind of thought it was,” she countered lightly and set down the wine to reach for the carving knife. “Light or dark?”
“Light.”
She quickly carved a slice of succulent chicken and slid it on his plate, then repeated the process for herself.
“You are delaying.”
She lifted her eyebrow. “A woman should never divulge her secrets so easily.”
“Negotiation.” He nodded, seemingly thoughtful. “You like the negotiation as much as you do the end result.”
She thought of some of the endlessly tedious meetings she’d endured with TAKA. “Not every step of the negotiation.”
“Still, you delay.”
She pressed her lips together and shot him a long look, which he ignored as he took over serving duty and filled her plate with more food. “I won’t be able to eat all of that,” she finally said.
“Negotiation is good for the appetite.”
She smiled sweetly. “You’re an amazingly annoying man, do you know that?”
“So I have been told. The secret?”
She took a fortifying sip of wine. “All right. Sometimes I wish I could chuck all of the business and run away to hide. Just for a few days.” To forget she was a widow, that she was fighting tooth and nail to prove her own worth. “Now, see? That was much more secret than you expected.”
“This is why I go to my home in Nesutotaka. To escape.”
“You need to escape? I thought you thrived on the pressure of heading up TAKA.”
“Sometimes a man just wants to be a man.” His hooded gaze no longer seemed amused as he focused it on her face. “Just as a woman simply wants to be a woman.”
Her mouth went dry again and she doused it with another fair dose of the grape. Her half glass was down to a fourth. “And when you escape, do you work in your garden? Mountain climb?”
“You remember our conversation that day.”
“I remember everything,” she murmured.
“And forgive nothing?”
She hesitated, caught by the question. “No. I’d like to think I forgive.”
“Others or yourself?”
The conversation was becoming far too personal for comfort. What would Mori Taka know about matters so intimate to her? Was he taking a shot in the dark, or did her failures show that clearly on her face and in her life?
So she just smiled confidently and picked up the wine bottle. “More?”
He nudged his empty glass within reaching distance of her pour, yet when she finished and set down the bottle, he didn’t pick up his glass.
Mergers & Matrimony Page 9