WHAT ARE FRIENDS FOR?

by Naomi Horton

  Conn winced slightly. "Point taken. Still friends?"

  "Forever." She said it easily, the ritual as old as their friendship.

  Conn just nodded, prodding the French toast thoughtfully. He'd been thinking about Andie in the shower – a few salacious thoughts, granted, but it had been more than that. Thinking about how she was always there for him, about how he sometimes just took for granted that all he had to do was shout and she'd he there, calm and collected and in control.

  "You, uh…" He looked at her thoughtfully. "You didn't really have someone with you when I called tonight, did you?"

  Andie stared at him, fork halfway to her mouth. "What a question to ask!"

  "You would tell me, wouldn't you? If you were getting serious about someone?"

  "It's the strangest thing…" Andie cocked her head slightly, as though listening to something. "I could swear I hear my mother. Didn't that just sound like my mother?"

  "All right, all right," he growled. "I know it's none of my business, but—"

  "It is my mother!" She looked around with exaggerated surprise. "I was sure she was in Portland this week."

  "Don't be a wise guy," Conn muttered. "I'm dead serious, Andie." Realizing, with some surprise, that he meant it. "We've never kept secrets from each other. I know you and that French banker, André or Albert or whatever his name is, have been seeing a lot of each other lately."

  She leaned back with an exaggerated sigh, crossing her arms. "I presume you mean Alain DeRocher, the French-Canadian investment analyst you introduced me to last year. Yes, we have been seeing each other pretty often, or as often as possible, considering I live on one side of the continent and he lives on the other. And no, he wasn't with me tonight. Nor was anyone else, for that matter. Happy?"

  Conn gave a grunt, only half-mollified. "So you and he aren't…?" He lifted his eyebrow eloquently.

  "Connor!" She gave a burst of laughter. "It's none of your business if we are!" Still grinning, she looked at him with amusement. "Although, to forestall any more questioning, no, we are not – yet," she added slyly.

  "Yet." Conn's eyes narrowed slightly. "Meaning he's thinking about it."

  "Of course he's thinking about it – he's French!"

  "And you'd…?" He lifted his eyebrow again.

  "Now that's really none of your business!"

  "So you're thinking about it, too."

  "Connor!" Andie took a deep breath, then let it out again with a quiet laugh. "I bet he would at least bring me flowers and wine before trying to peel me out of my jeans."

  Conn winced. "I said I was sorry about that, damn it."

  "Mmm." She looked at him for a moment, an odd expression on her face. "What I'm saying, Conn, is that I just don't know how I feel about him. He's certainly everything a woman could want…"

  Conn gave a grunt, not liking the expression on her face. Not liking the idea of DeRocher trying to peel her out of a damned thing, flowers or no flowers. "He's too old for you."

  Andie's left eyebrow arched indolently. "Excuse me?"

  "Well, hell, he's got to be fifty if he's a day."

  "Forty-one."

  "Like I said, he's too old for you."

  "I like older men." There was a dangerous glow in her eyes.

  "He's probably married."

  "He's never been married."

  "Never?" It was Conn's turn to lift his eyebrow. "Don't you think that's damn strange? That this perfect specimen of a man has never been married? Doesn't that tell you something?"

  "It tells me," she said sweetly, "that he is considerably wiser that some men I could mention."

  "Sounds to me as though he's got some sort of problem. In the fun-and-games department, I mean."

  "Trust me," Andie shot back even more sweetly. "He has no problem in that area at all."

  "I don't even want to know how you've figured that out if you haven't even—"

  "Didn't you tell me just last week that you don't have to take a boat out to know whether it's going to handle well in heavy weather or not? Gut instinct, I think you said."

  "I also mentioned experience," Conn said silkily. "And I think I've had a bit more experience with sailboats than you've had with—"

  "Do you have any idea at all of how thin that ice is where you're standing?"

  Conn grinned, cutting into the French toast with his fork. "Hey, I was just trying to make a point. If you like the guy, fine … go with what feels good. Just don't start getting serious about him or anything, though, because—"

  "He's asked me to marry him."

  She said it quietly, without laughter or even a sly smile to soften it, and Conn nearly choked on a mouthful of toast. "He's what?" His bellow made her blink. "Marry you? He can't marry you! It's out of the damned question!"

  "And just why is it out of the question?"

  "Because…" He didn't know for certain, Conn realized, but there was no damned way he was going to let Andie, his Andie, marry some no-good French-Canadian financier and— "Your job, for one thing," he said with satisfaction. "He lives in Montreal. Your job is here. The commute is a killer."

  "Alain lives in Quebec City," she said calmly. "His ancestral home is there – all forty-seven rooms of it. His head office is in Montreal, but he's only there a couple of days a week."

  "Even worse," Conn growled. "Quebec City is even farther away."

  "I'd quit my job, obviously."

  "Over my dead body."

  "Easily enough arranged, Mr. Devlin."

  "You're my best friend. You can't move to Canada – what would I do without you?"

  Something flickered across her face, gone before he could figure out what it was. "You'll manage, Conn. You always do."

  "That's not the point." He felt unsettled and angry for no real reason, and he frowned at her, reaching out suddenly to run his finger down the silken sweep of her hair. "You're not really going to marry him, are you, Andie?"

  "I don't know what you'd have to say about it if I did." She sounded impatient and a little angry herself, and there was a hint of color across her cheekbones. "I have a life of my own, Connor. You seem to forget that sometimes. I have a right to be happy. My entire existence doesn't revolve around you, you know."

  Conn looked across the table at her, trying to read her expression. "Are you saying you're not happy?" He mulled the thought over, trying to make some sense of it. "Are you saying—?"

  "I'm not saying anything," she snapped, stabbing a piece of French toast with her fork. "It's just that sometimes I think you don't see me as a person at all. I'm just good old Andie, best friend and blood brother. I take care of your office, make your dental appointments, hire and fire your cleaning staff, pick up your dry cleaning. I make sure you get to meetings on time, that your jet's fueled up and ready to go when you need it, that your library books get back on time."

  She put the fork down with a bang and looked up at him angrily. "My God, I don't know why you even bother getting married. I do everything a wife does, without any of the hassles of divorce!"

  Conn simply stared at her, trying to figure out just what the hell he should be saying. Knowing that whatever it was, it had better be good. He hadn't seen her like this in a long time, had no idea what had set her off. "Look, Andie," he said carefully, feeling his way gingerly through a verbal mine field, "I know I can be—"

  "Forget it." She shoved her chair back and stood up, cheeks flushed slightly. "I know what you're going to say, and you're right. You can be a selfish, arrogant bastard at times. But this isn't about you, it's about me. I—"

  She stopped abruptly, then just shrugged and managed a rough smile. "Oh, don't look so alarmed, Conn – I'm not going to run off to Canada and marry Alain DeRocher or quit my job or throw dishes or anything. I'm just tired and I needed to let off some steam. Finish your breakfast while I take a shower, and I promise that by the time I come out I'll be back to normal."

  "Hey, Andie?" Conn got to his feet in one easy move, reaching out to
grab her arm gently as she turned to leave. "Hey, darlin', I'm sorry. I had no right dragging you out of bed to come over here and hold my hand. And I sure as hell have no right trying to tell you who you should or shouldn't date or marry or sleep with or whatever. If you want to do the nasty with old DeRocher, hey – you've got my blessing."

  For a split second, Andie was seriously tempted to plant her open palm across his cheek with every bit of strength she possessed just to see if that would shake him up a bit. But even as the urge hit her, it vanished again, leaving her struggling not to laugh with the sheer impossibility of the man. "No wonder women fall all over themselves to marry you, Connor Devlin," she finally said. "You're the most romantic devil I've met in years!"

  Still laughing, she turned and left him standing there with a perplexed expression on his handsome face, suddenly afraid that if she stayed in the room with him for even another instant, she'd burst into tears.

  * * *

  Four hours, three cups of coffee and a crisis or two later, Andie was still having trouble concentrating, the memory of Conn's strong, muscled body pressed intimately against hers just a little too vivid for comfort.

  She'd be fine for a while, her mind focused on work with its usual laser-like intensity, but then she'd remember the warmth of his breath on her throat or the way his roughened palm had cradled her breast. Without warning, her breath would catch and her thoughts would go leaping off into all sorts of inappropriate directions, and she'd find herself sitting at her desk, staring blankly at some piece of paper, or look up and see someone looking down at her expectantly and realize they'd asked her a question she hadn't even heard.

  "If I didn't know better," her secretary finally said with an all-too-shrewd look, "I'd say you'd spent the night in the sack with some seriously bodacious guy, drinking champagne and making love until the sun came up."

  "Champagne gives me the hiccups," Andie replied with a laugh, tossing down a handful of papers, "and I never make love until sunup the night before I have to put the finishing touches on a buy-out offer worth millions." She grinned. "Seriously bodacious, huh? From that, am I given to understand that your daughter is home from college for spring break?"

  Margie Bakerfield grinned back. "Like, for real, dude. It's been three days now, and I haven't understood a word she's said. It's frightening when you think about it. I'm spending several thousand dollars to send a perfectly normal, well-spoken girl to the best college in California. And she comes back speaking in tongues, with no visible tan line and a boyfriend whose main interests seem to be food and surfing."

  "Oh, to be young and in love, Margie. Let her enjoy it. When I was eighteen I thought the world would stay a magic place forever. Now I'm almost thirty, and the only magic I seem able to conjure up is time-shifting old movies on my VCR."

  "That Frenchman of yours looks like he should be able to conjure up a thing or two," Margie said slyly. "He called this morning and wants you to call him back. The number's here on your desk somewhere."

  Andie nodded absently, leafing through a thick computer printout. "Has Finance sent down their revised estimates on this Becktron deal yet? Conn and I are going head-to-head with Desmond Beck and his head bean counter on Friday. We need to have a solid handle on how much their patents are worth before Conn goes in with his final offer."

  Margie reached across Andie's desk without saying anything and tapped in a couple of commands on the computer. It flashed a Working message for a moment or two, then spilled a multicolored display of figures across the screen.

  Andie gazed at it in silence, then glanced up at Margie with a rueful smile. "I knew that."

  Margie just nodded, a tiny smile playing around her mouth. "Come over to supper some night this week, okay? You and Krista can swap stories about college life – she thinks I'm too old to remember back that far."

  Andie gave a sputter of laughter. Margie was all of thirty-eight. "Sounds good – pick an evening and tell me when."

  "Thursday. Right after work."

  "I thought you were going to the symphony on Thursday night with that new guy in Product Design."

  "Brad?" Margie made a face. "We went out twice. The first time, he took me to a romantic restaurant and spent the entire evening telling me all about his ex-wives. The second time, we went to a computer show and he spent the entire day telling me all about his mother. The third time he called, I told him I was washing the dog. He hasn't called again."

  Andie groaned, laughing. "Oh, Margie, I'm sorry! I sometimes think all the unattached men in this city come in two flavors – weird and seriously weird."

  Margie smiled dryly. "You got that right." The smile faded. "And the ones who aren't just don't seem to be able to see what's right in front of them."

  She could have been talking about Conn, Andie thought, but she wasn't. Only Frank Czarnecki could put that look of gloom on Margie's usually cheerful face. "You could ask him over to dinner," she said gently. "Or to a movie."

  "I know," Margie said with a sigh. "If only he wasn't so shy! I think he's interested, Andie, I really do. But he doesn't seem to know what to do about it. Until I met Frank, I didn't know what a computer nerd was! It's all he seems to care about."

  "Back when Conn and I were in college, most of his friends were just like Frank," Andie said sympathetically. "If a girl even looked at them, they'd stammer and drop things. Most of them started their own computer companies and are bazillionaires by now, but they still have the social skills of fungi. It goes with the territory."

  "Except for Connor."

  "Except for Connor." Andie smiled. "He always did have more going for him than a triple-digit 10. He went from grade school charmer directly to corporate tycoon and bypassed the nerd stage altogether."

  Margie paused, as though wanting to add something. Then she just smiled. "Thursday evening, then. Mexican?"

  "Love it."

  "Good. I'll stock up on salsa and chili peppers and make it a night to remember. Krista's boyfriend, Tad, will be there, but he's an easy conversationalist. One grunt means no, two means yes and a shrug means he doesn't know."

  "He doesn't talk?"

  "Who knows? I've never seen him with his mouth empty long enough to find out."

  "I can hardly wait to meet him. He sounds like some of the guys I used to date when I was Krista's age." Laughing, Andie pushed back her chair and got to her feet, grabbing up a handful of reports from the corner of her desk. "I have to go over these with Conn. Hold my calls – unless it's someone from Becktron."

  "Did, um…?" Margie winced. "I saw that official-looking envelope from his lawyer in yesterday's mail…"

  "His divorce decree. Signed, sealed and as final as they get."

  "So, he's single again. I suppose that means that Woodruff female will have her claws in him." Margie's eyes glittered. "For months now, she's been hovering around like a vulture waiting for an accident to happen. You can practically hear her salivating at the prospect of hauling in the catch of the day."

  Margie's metaphors may have been mixed, but they made their point. "If she's serious about landing him, she's going to have to bring in the heavy-duty tackle," Andie said quietly. "One sign she's getting serious and he'll head for open water."

  "Let's hope you're right." Picking up a handful of letters she'd brought in for Andie to sign, Margie turned and headed back to her own office.

  Andie stared blindly after her for a moment or two, then gave herself a mental shake and walked across to the door leading to Conn's office. Olivia Woodruff. Interesting thought.

  Shrewd, beautiful and as cold as ice, she headed up one of the most successful corporate law offices on the West Coast. She'd wooed Conn for almost a year before he'd shifted Devlin Electronics over to her, and she'd never bothered hiding the fact that Conn's business wasn't all she was interested in. So far, Conn had held her at bay. But now…?

  Andie was still frowning when she gave a tap on Conn's door, then pushed it open and went in.

&n
bsp; Conn's office ran the full width of the building, a peaceful retreat filled with antiques and fine art, with plenty of polished dark wood and gleaming brass and leather. Her doing, of course. Had it been left up to Conn, he'd still have nothing in here but a dozen custom-wired computers, a phone and a stack of discarded pizza boxes.

  She smiled. Under the expensive suits and hundred-dollar haircuts still lurked that frighteningly bright college kid whose passion for electronics had given birth to a thriving corporation worth millions.

  "Hey, darlin'," he croaked, looking up as she came in.

  "You look in fine shape," Andie replied calmly. "Head hurts, does it?"

  Conn managed a groan, then wished he hadn't. He closed his eyes – gently – and gingerly rubbed both temples. "I didn't think twelve-year-old Scotch gave you a hangover."

  She disappeared behind him and poured something into a glass. "Consumed in reasonable quantities, I don't think it does."

  "Cheap shot."

  "Easy, anyway." She set something on the desk. "Drink up."

  Conn opened one eye and gazed blearily at the glass of bubbling liquid in front of him. "Quick or slow?"

  "Quick. It tastes like hell."

  "Is it going to kill me or cure me?"

  "Do you really care?"

  "No." Sitting back in his leather chair with another groan, Conn reached for the glass and downed the contents in three long swallows, giving a shudder as it hit bottom. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

  "Just a little." Smiling, she strolled around behind him and settled her hands on his shoulders, kneading them gently. "Take a couple of deep breaths and repeat after me. I will never drink Scotch on an empty stomach again."

  "Don't mention Scotch," Conn groaned. "Don't mention stomach."

  "I set up a meeting with Production at eleven. I called Frank Czarnecki and asked him to bring his whole design team with him."

  Conn started to nod, then thought better of it, relaxing against the warmth of her hands and feeling her fingers work through the knots across his shoulders. "So we're still having quality-control problems with that remote-controlled underwater seismic unit. Damn!"