by Diana Palmer
She felt the clasp of his fingers with a sense of wonder at the new, unfamiliar sensations his touch was causing. She’d never tingled like that. Perhaps it was temper, but then why was her breathing so shallow? She disliked the surge of emotion, and her eyes narrowed angrily as she glared up at him.
He dropped the attaché case on the floor and caught her other wrist as well, just holding her there in front of him until she stopped struggling and stood still, panting with smothered rage.
When he saw that she was through swinging, he dropped her wrists and glared down his formidable nose at her.
“If you ever lift your hand to me again, it’ll be the last time,” he warned in his courtroom voice, deep and cold.
Her lower lip trembled briefly with the suppressed hatred that filled her stiff body. “If you ever insult me like that again, it’ll be the last time, too, counselor,” she tossed back, her voice choked with emotion. “I’ll walk out the door, and you can find some stacked blonde with knee-deep cleavage to replace me, and see if she can type your contracts and your briefs and your petitions in between polishing her nails!”
“Calm down, Kenna,” he said after a minute. “Sit down, honey.”
He pushed her gently down into a big leather armchair and perched himself on the edge of the huge polished wood desk. He gave her time to gather herself together, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep draw.
“Don’t call me honey,” she bit off.
“Denny does. So do half the attorneys who walk in that door. Why not me?”
“Because...” She stared up at him, her lips parting as she tried to picture Regan ever saying the word and meaning it, with his dark eyes blazing with passion. Her own thoughts embarrassed her and she caught a deep breath, looking at his black leather shoes instead. “Oh, never mind.”
“He’s getting involved with Margo,” he said quietly. “And I don’t just mean involved in bed. It looks as if he’s thinking about marriage, and I don’t want him married to her.”
She felt sick all over again as he confirmed what Denny had already admitted. Denny, married! The thought was more than she could bear.
“Stop looking like the heroine of a Victorian melodrama, for God’s sake.” He spoke so sharply that she sat straight up. “He isn’t married yet!”
“How are you going to stop him?” she asked miserably.
“I’m not. You are.”
She blinked. “Excuse me, I’m always dim before I’ve had my morning coffee and my supply of razor blades.”
His mouth tugged up, a rare show of amusement that made her feel strange when she saw it. “You’re going to save him from Margo.”
She cocked her head and studied him blatantly. “You don’t look like the fairy godmother to me, Mr. Internationally Famous Trial Lawyer. And I don’t have a pumpkin to my name. And if you’ll take a good, long look at me several things will immediately occur to you. The first is that I’m drab,” she admitted painfully, “the second is that I have no looks to speak of and the third is that I’ve been here almost two years and the most intimate thing your brother has ever said to me is, ‘Kenna, how about a cup of coffee?’”
He didn’t laugh. He took another draw from the cigarette, and his eyes were busy, bold and slow as they took her apart from the face down.
“Taking inventory?” she muttered.
“In a manner of speaking.” His eyes fell on the too-ruffled blouse. “Do you wear a bra?”
She caught her breath at the sheer impudence of the question.
“And do, please, try not to faint while you’re thinking up an answer, Cinders,” he said with a mocking smile. “I’m trying to find out if you’re naturally flat-chested, or if you simply overlook the fact that breasts need support to be noticed.”
Her face was bloodred and she stood up. “Mr. Cole...”
“My housekeeper calls me that.” He caught her shoulder and jerked her against him, bending her arm back so that she was helpless. “Tell me, or I’ll find out for myself,” he threatened, and his free hand came up to hover over her blouse.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” she squeaked. “All right, I don’t wear one!”
He let her go, watching with amusement as she hid behind the chair and then gaped at him over it.
“Are you crazy?” she burst out.
“No, but you sure as hell are repressed,” he replied. “Twenty-five, isn’t it?”
“We aren’t all wildly permissive,” she said, choking.
“I begin to get the picture.” He nodded. “Not much of a social life, I’ll bet.”
“I date!” she threw back.
He blinked. “Date what? You don’t look as if you’ve ever been kissed...or did you think that would get you pregnant?” he asked with an outrageous smile.
She glanced at the trash can, measuring it for his head. He followed her gaze and chuckled softly.
“Go ahead, honey,” he dared her in a soft voice. “Try it.”
“I wish I were a man—I’d cream you!” she burst out.
“Haven’t you ever heard of women’s lib?” he asked casually. “Men aren’t supposed to be superior anymore. Come on, honey, throw a punch at me.”
“Do I look stupid?” she asked, taking in the sheer size of the man. “On second thought, if I were a man, I wouldn’t come at you with anything less than a bazooka!”
“That might be wise,” he agreed. He leaned back against the desk, unusually attractive in his navy blue pinstripe suit. She always noticed his clothes; he had a flair for picking styles and colors that gave him a towering elegance.
“Anyway,” he continued, bending to crush out his cigarette, an action that strained the material across his muscular arms and his broad back, “what I have in mind is transforming you.”
She stared at him warily. “I’m not sure I want to be transformed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course you do.” He glanced up and down at what he could see of her figure behind the tall chair. “First order of business is going to be a haircut. I know long hair is supposed to be sexy, but yours looks like barbed wire most of the time.”
“Oh, you’re just great for my ego,” she ground out.
“And the second order of business is a bra,” he continued, unabashed, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t you know that the worst thing you can do is sag?”
“There’s not enough of me to sag,” she said miserably, avoiding his eyes.
“I’d bet there is,” he returned, not unkindly. “You’re tall, and you have nice legs. You have a natural elegance of carriage that could work well for you. And with the right makeup, the right clothes...” He pursed his lips, nodding. “I think you might be more than enough to catch my brother’s wandering eye.”
“You’ve forgotten something,” she advised.
He cocked a bushy eyebrow. “What? Your teeth are all right,” he began.
“Oh, thanks, and they’re all my own, too!”
He chuckled softly. “You’ll do. Well? Do you want to be alone for the rest of your life, or do you want to take a chance?”
“I can’t,” she said, exasperated, as she came reluctantly around the chair. “What you’re talking about costs money, and I’m not independently wealthy. All I have is my salary, and out of it has to come my rent, utilities, groceries, clothes...”
“I’ll take care of it,” he told her.
“Like fun you will,” she tossed back, her eyes flaring up.
“I said I’ll take care of it,” he replied. “It was my idea, and it’s my brother I’m trying to save from that Latin temptress. I don’t want a money-hungry tramp in my family.”
“No, you’d rather have a secretary with no money, no connections, no social position...”
“Do I look like a snob?” he asked incre
dulously.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she confessed. She drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Anyway, what’s Denny going to think if he knows you’re footing the bill?”
“He won’t know,” he promised, “because we’re not going to tell him. I’ll pick you up Saturday morning at your apartment, and we’ll get started. Make yourself an appointment with Frederickson’s downtown.”
“But they’re horribly expensive!” she protested.
“Make the appointment early,” he continued, “because when we finish there, we’re going to Almon’s to have you outfitted.”
Almon’s was a charming boutique with a resident designer and some of the trendiest new styles in the country. She stared at him as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
“You’ll go to the ball, Cinderella,” he promised. “Even if you have to ride in a Mercedes instead of a coach drawn by white horses.”
“There isn’t a ball...”
“There most certainly is, next Saturday night at the Biltmore, and I’m taking you.” He shot back his white cuff and looked at his watch. “And that’s all the time we have this morning. Get back to your ashes, and don’t breathe a word to Denny next week. I’m going to have a photographer along just to capture his expression when he sees the new you.”
“Could he get my expression while he’s at it?” she asked hopefully. “I’ll need something to convince me I’m not dreaming.”
He looked at her for a long, long time before he spoke, unsmiling. “Have you ever had an expensive gown?”
She avoided his eyes and walked toward the door. “The only way I’m going to have one now is if I get to pay you back, counselor. I mean that,” she added, looking over her shoulder. “I pay my own way, frugal though it may be.”
“All right, we’ll deduct a little from your check each week,” he agreed, moving around behind his desk. “When you make the coffee, how about bringing me a cup?”
She nodded and closed the door quietly behind her. She went down to get the mail in a daze and wondered if her unfulfilled longing for Denny had finally pushed her over the brink into insanity. The morning had been unreal.
Chapter Three
Kenna hadn’t given Regan directions to her apartment, but he seemed to know the way. She had just finished dressing in slacks and a long-sleeved blouse and sweater when the doorbell rang at eight-thirty sharp the next morning.
Regan spared her a brief glance from hooded eyes. “Ready?” he asked carelessly, looking as if he were regretting the whole thing already. “Let’s go, I’m double-parked.”
She followed him into the elevator, approving of his casual slacks, deep burgundy–colored velour shirt and tweed jacket. The shirt was open at the throat, and she saw a glimpse of darkly tanned skin and thick, very thick hair in the opening. It made him look even more masculine, more threatening, and she wished she’d never agreed to this. Being around him at the office was bad enough, but this was...unnerving.
“I won’t rape you, I promise,” he said out of the blue, cocking an eyebrow at her as she retreated to the other side of the elevator.
“If you did, you’d be disappointed.” She sighed, not rising to the bait. “Twenty-five-year-old virgins aren’t much in demand these days.”
He seemed shocked at the comeback, and she grinned at him.
“I’m not a Victorian miss, as you reminded me the other day,” she said with a sheepish grin, “but you knocked me off balance. I had you pictured as a very staid type who wouldn’t even suggest anything remotely sexual around a woman.”
“My God, were you off base,” he remarked.
“So were you.” She sighed. “I may not be a stacked blonde, and I may look like a frump, but I don’t faint at the thought of a man’s bedroom. It’s just that I’ve never wanted to occupy one.” She glared at him. “And the reason I don’t wear a bra is because it’s the mark of a liberated woman!”
The elevator door had just opened, and a little old lady with blue-tinted hair actually gasped as she heard that last impassioned statement.
Kenna stared at the elderly woman and slowly went beet-red. “Oh, my gosh,” she groaned.
Regan, trying to keep a straight face, caught Kenna by the arm and half dragged her out of the elevator and through the lobby.
“Liberated woman,” he scoffed, giving her a mocking glance. “You might as well give up the act. I know pure bravado when I see it.”
She sighed. “I can’t even act like a normal woman,” she grumbled, jamming her hands in her pockets. “No wonder Denny doesn’t notice me.”
“I notice you.”
She didn’t even look up. “When you want a cup of coffee or a letter typed, you do.”
He stopped and turned to face her, and she looked up to find his dark, steady eyes holding her own.
“I know what it is to be lonely, Kenna,” he said quietly. “I know how it feels to look around and wonder if the world would ever miss you if you died.”
“You’ve got all kinds of women,” she faltered.
“I’ve got money. Of course I can have women,” he said with a cynical smile. “I’ve even been married, did you know?”
That was faintly shocking. Denny never talked about Regan’s private life. “No,” she admitted.
“Jessica was twenty-six. Blonde and blue-eyed and as perfect as a dream. The marriage lasted exactly a year.”
She saw a flash of raw emotion in his face. “Were you divorced?” she asked.
“No,” he replied curtly. “She died.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” she said gently, and meant it.
His hands idly moved up and down on her arms. “It’s been almost three years. I’m older and wiser. But there are nights when...” He let go of her and moved away to light a cigarette, and she realized for the first time that he was, indeed, a lonely man. It was a shock to realize that she cared that he was lonely.
“Life is too short to try living it in the past,” he remarked after a minute. He turned. “And far too short to long for things and not try to go and get them. Isn’t Denny worth a few changes in your life?”
She had always thought so. “Yes,” she said, giving herself a mental shake. “Of course he is.”
“Then let’s see what we can do to get his attention.”
The first stop was the beauty salon. She watched her long, dark hair fall in strands onto the spotless floor while Mr. Andrew snipped and discussed the latest styles and called back and forth to other patrons. Kenna found herself caught up in the cheerful surroundings and the excitement of doing herself over. Perhaps Regan was right. She was twenty-five, and it was time she took herself in hand. It was time she started to live.
When her hair was washed and blow-dried, she stared blankly at the girl in the mirror. She’d forgone makeup that morning, and now she was glad. With her rosy cheeks and full, soft mouth and unadorned eyes, she looked fresh and natural. And the short, beautifully shaped hair framed her face in darkness, making her look like a pixie with her slightly slanted eyes, thin brows and high cheekbones. She grinned at herself wonderingly.
“Is nice, no?” Mr. Andrew chuckled. “Now, miss, you go to makeup counter and have face done and see difference. I promise, you like.”
She did that, finding herself with an extra half hour before she was to meet Regan in the couture department. She watched, fascinated, as the makeup expert did her face like a canvas, outlining her lips in plum and filling them with a deep, rich magenta, then delicately tinting her cheeks and eyebrows, lengthening her lashes, shadowing her eyes and finally enhancing her lovely complexion with the faintest touch of powder.
“Is that me?” she asked after a minute, captivated by the difference, wondering at the girl with the small, straight nose and big, shimmering green eyes and soft oval of a face wit
h its bee-stung mouth.
“Quite a difference,” the makeup expert agreed with a smile. She sold Kenna the right cosmetics to keep the new look daily and waved her off.
Regan was wandering around the mannequins with a dark scowl, sizing up each dress, while the saleslady darted curious glances his way.
“Waiting for me?” Kenna asked from behind him.
He turned, still scowling, and his eyes widened suddenly as he recognized her. “My God.” It was all he said, but the inflection was enough to convey his meaning. He walked around her, staring. “Well, well, Cinderella, you do have something.”
“While you’re trying to figure out what,” she said, “couldn’t we go into the budget shop and look for clothes? I’m going to owe you my soul if we have to buy anything in here. They don’t even have price tags on most of these things!”
“You’re going to a ball, not a beach party,” he said curtly. “I’m not taking you to the Biltmore in a dress off the rack.”
“But...”
“Oh, shut up,” he said impatiently, and taking her arm, he led her to the saleslady. While she stood rigidly, Regan told the tall, thin elderly woman exactly what he wanted for Kenna and then waited impatiently while the saleslady went off to search through her stock.
She came back in a minute with a long, sensuous confection of green-and-gold-and-aqua-patterned Quiana with a low crisscross neckline.
“This is one of our designer models,” the woman said with a smile. “And perfect for a figure like yours, my dear,” she added to Kenna.
“Well, try it on,” Regan said. “Then come out here and let me see it.”
The saleslady sent Kenna into the back, where she tried on the dress in front of the long mirror in the plush dressing room. She stared at herself as if entranced.
“How does it fit, my dear? Oh, my,” the saleslady murmured approvingly as Kenna walked out of the fitting room.
“It fits like a dream,” she said sheepishly, almost afraid to touch the silky material for fear of running it. “Like gossamer...”