"I can't think when you're wearing that hat."
She grabbed it off her head, before she grabbed him. "Problem solved."
He eyed her, his gaze still hot. "So where did this sexy hat come from?"
"What?"
"You said Sarah didn't make it."
"You heard that?"
"I'm not deaf. Of course I heard it."
"You didn't say anything."
"I had something more important on my mind just then."
"We've moved beyond that," she said, forcing a note of impatience into her voice. "What's important now is the plan Sarah and I came up with today."
His eyes narrowed. "That sounds ominous."
"Don't be mean."
He thrust his hands in his pockets. "Is there any chance I can be spared hearing about this plan?"
"That's being mean," she warned.
"Okay." He sighed. "Shoot."
"I made this hat." She touched it. "I design hats for a living. Sarah, as you know, designs and makes dresses."
"Or pretends she does."
"She's actually talented," Miranda snapped. "Maybe you should pay attention."
He raised one hand in a stop signal. "Let's not fight about Sarah."
"Okay, but her talent is a factor in our proposal."
He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. "Out with it."
Even in the dim lighting, she could see that he still had an erection. It didn't seem to bother him, but her heart was pounding in her chest. Who knew a visual lure could be so potent?
She had to withstand the imp in her brain that was wondering how far she could push him before he snapped.
"Charlotte," she said, "is having her annual garden party this weekend."
A slight nod was the only indication he heard her.
"If Sharmie and I were to stay until this weekend, we could show some of Sarah's dresses and my hats, and start to develop interest among some very worthwhile customers."
He shook his head. "You've already outflanked me on this issue. As I mentioned earlier, I've heard that Charlotte issued an invitation to the party."
"Don't be afraid. I'll stay out of your way."
"I'm not afraid of you." He smiled slowly. "Long as you keep the hat off your head. But the idea of you buzzing around pestering me for money is not appealing."
"You could just give me the money, and then we wouldn't have that problem anymore."
"Nice try." He leaned forward and tapped her nose. "No."
He turned on his heel and opened the door to the hall. She was torn between staring at his butt, and having the last word. She had to maintain the upper hand in their sexual dance to keep him running. If he came onto her again, there was no telling what she would do, but she feared there was a good chance she'd end up flat on her back. "If you like hats so much," she called after him, "I have a frilly white cap to go with my French maid's outfit."
His laughter echoed behind him.
Chapter 14
"How did you get past Highgrove?" Devon snapped when he saw her standing in the doorway of his office early the next morning.
Miranda gripped her laptop. Hell, it hadn't been easy, but even Highgrove got distracted once in a while. Especially when Daisy, bless her for being a born accomplice, stopped by for an unexpected visit, and her kitten got loose. Miranda had to bite her lips to keep from smiling at the memory of the kitten frisking over the immaculate surface of Highgrove's desk, scooting across the document he'd been working on, and pouncing on his open eyeglass case. Highgrove had jumped into action himself.
"Don't blame Highgrove," she said to Devon.
"I don't."
Damn it, did he have to be so cold? There was no trace of the man who'd kissed her ardently last night. She might have dreamed the whole encounter.
And that was too bad. Because the kiss had given her renewed hope that she might be able to tease him enough that he'd do anything to get rid of her.
He was a man used to taking what he wanted from women and moving on. If she could entice him into wanting her, but refuse to give him satisfaction, he'd undoubtedly get annoyed with her. The only way to get rid of the annoyance would be to get rid of her.
Drawing a deep breath for courage, she walked across the office, happy to see he was sitting on his leather sofa, reading the Financial Times. It would be easier to put her plan into action if she could sit right next to him. On the other hand, she had no excuse not to proceed, now that she had the perfect setup.
She plopped down on the sofa, as close to him as she dared. To make her proximity seem normal, rather than staged, she placed the laptop next to her on her free side.
Devon folded up his newspaper, and dropped it on the coffee table. "To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" His tone was dry, as if he already suspected her motives.
"You know, Devon, I realized I never told you anything about Sharmie's fiancé."
"Why start now?"
"It might help you understand why the big wedding is so important to her."
He waved a hand. "Weddings are always important to women. I am certainly aware of that fact."
"Don't be so sexist. There is no reason why men can't also be interested in marking important events in a ceremonial way."
"Men with nothing better to do." He glanced over at his desk, as if thinking about all the work he had waiting.
"Are you going to listen or not?"
"Fine." He sat back and began to run one hand over the head of the dog closest to him. "Tell me why this expensive wedding is so important to her future husband."
"She's actually marrying a British guy named Pookie. Do you know him?" Miranda tried not to watch his hand, because it forced her to wonder what it would feel like to be enjoying that caress herself.
"Pookie? What kind of a grown man goes by that name?"
"He—"
His hand stilled suddenly. "You don't mean Sir Percival Peregrine Knightly?"
She smiled. "Pookie is easier, isn't it?"
"Of course I know him. And one thing I know about him is that he doesn't care for much beyond whether or not it's time for happy hour to start."
"He is a bon vivant," Miranda admitted, "but not a drunk."
Devon turned his head to stare at her. "Where are we going with this story?"
"From what Sharmie told me, Pookie is a wealthy man."
He raised his eyebrows. "So?"
"So once they are married, Sharmie won't need money. She and the twins will be all set."
He cocked his head to the side. "I'm happy for them. Are we going to get to the part about the wedding?"
She bit back her growing temper. He was trying to bait her and she wasn't going to rise to it. She was a better person than that. Also, her goal was too important.
"Sharmie doesn't care about the money. That isn't my point."
He folded his hands on his lap, just a little too ostentatiously showing that he was waiting.
"You are certainly a cheerleader for her," he said.
"She deserves my full support. If you'd seen how well she treated my father, you'd understand a little better what I mean."
He bowed his head. "Let it be stipulated that she was a model wife."
"She was! Don't make fun of her with your legal phrases."
"Sorry. Perhaps I had too much of Charlotte, also a model wife." He caught Miranda's eye and added, "As long as everything went her way."
"Sharmie is not like that. Surely you can see that even in the short amount of time you've known her."
"Perhaps. Can we move on?"
"You think that because she wants a big, fancy wedding, it indicates that she's clueless about money, and mercenary to boot."
"I think it's foolish to spend a small fortune on a party." He spread his hands. "Nothing more."
"The fact is that even though she's not greedy about money, she doesn't want to go to Pookie as a pauper."
"She's not a pauper."
; "But no one will know that if she has a chintzy wedding," Miranda said with exasperation.
"So this wedding is to impress other people?"
"No! You are deliberately misunderstanding me. It's to make her feel good about herself."
"A wedding can do that?" For the first time, he looked genuinely confused.
"Yes, it can. It makes her feel that she's going to him as an equal."
"So this is all about appearance? You and she will throw away a ridiculous sum of money to prove to the world that you're—what? Rich? Not poor?" Devonwood shook his head.
"To give Sharmie something to take pride in," she said softly, feeling hopeless. He would never understand. How could he? He was a man raised to be a duke, born to unimaginable luxury and status.
But she wouldn't quit. Quitting wasn't in her nature. She opened the folder lying on top of her laptop. "I printed out a budget," she said, "for the wedding so you could see for yourself that we're being reasonable."
"I suppose I'll have to give you points for persistence."
Silently, she gave a little cheer.
"But I don't like to be bullied," he added.
"Just look at it." She leaned slightly against his arm as she handed over the printout she'd made. For a minute there, she'd forgotten her goal to tease him until he'd do anything to get rid of her.
She pointed to the neat columns and rows which outlined all the expenses they'd need to cover. Of course, he immediately focused on the one number she would rather have avoided.
"Still one hundred thousand dollars." The duke turned his head to look at her. "As you Americans like to say, you must be kidding."
"I'm astonished myself," Miranda said primly. "We've managed to keep the cost extremely low."
"Low?" He gave a crack of laughter. "You minx. That's an outrageous sum for a wedding."
"Not at all," she said calmly. "First of all, the numbers will be much lower when you convert them into pounds sterling."
He shook his head. "I hope you know that's not relevant to the actual cost."
"Also—" Ignoring his comment, Miranda placed one hand on his thigh, as high up as she dared to go, and pointed with her other forefinger. "Look at all the other savings we found."
She was amazed she got the words out as her mind failed her for a moment, distracted by the hard thigh muscle that had flexed subtly when she clamped down on it. Was he aware of what she was doing?
She forced her brain to engage again. "Pookie," she added, "is supplying all the alcohol—wine, champagne, liquor. You know how high a bar bill can go at a wedding. And we'll hold the wedding at his estate, so we don't have to pay for a venue. That's another enormous expense we don't have to undertake."
Devon picked up her hand and removed it from his thigh. "All the more reason why the total number is outrageous."
Miranda tightened her grip on her temper. It wasn't helping that he seemed unmoved by her proximity or her brazenness. Had she misread his interest last night? She inhaled a deep breath, and caught a hint of his scent, reminding her of how the same male scent had bathed her senses last night when she'd been plastered against him.
When, she corrected herself, he'd forced her into being plastered against his hard body. So, no, she hadn't misunderstood. But, apparently, he'd either changed his mind or he was a robot, able to easily compartmentalize the various parts of his life.
She wasn't ready to give up, though. She edged a little closer so that she was touching him from shoulder to knee.
Devon tapped the paper she'd given him. "The bulk of the cost here is in catering bills."
"Naturally. People have to eat."
"To the tune of sixty thousand dollars?" He raised his brows.
"That's really Pookie's fault," she explained. "You can't blame us for that. Pookie has a guest list for himself alone of two hundred and fifty people. He's very social, you know."
Devon's brows drew together. "Let him pay for it then."
"You don't understand." She pressed her thigh closer to his. How could he be unmoved by their proximity? She was finding it almost impossible to focus on the darn wedding plans when she could feel the warm muscles of his thigh against her, when his male scent enticed her to lean closer, when even his muscular forearm, exposed by his rolled shirt sleeve, tantalized her.
How could he sound so cold and stern, when she was so warm and yearning?
"I'm afraid you are the one who doesn't understand." Devon shook the piece of paper. "Your father's estate cannot support this level of spending."
"You mean you won't allow it." Miranda snatched the sheet back from him. "My father was the heir to his father's huge industrial company. We've always had plenty of money."
"I don't know anything about your history," the duke stated, his tone implacable. "But, as I've said before, it is not my intent to allow frivolous expenditures to weaken an estate that must be safeguarded for the benefit of the minor children."
"The minor children will be fine once their mother marries Pookie," Miranda snapped. Why did he go on about the children? "He's a very wealthy man."
"So you've said." One black brow lifted in a very unpleasant way. "Does he know the entire Foxglove family is planning to mooch off him?"
"You jerk." She had to grit her teeth together to stop there, take a deep breath, and continue in a more reasonable tone. "That's the whole reason why Sharmie wants to pay for this wedding. So she's not going to him empty-handed."
"That would be all well and good, if she had the money to do it."
"She does have the money. You just won't let her access it."
"I'm sorry," he said, his tone merely polite.
Slowly, Miranda unclenched the hand that had fisted on her thigh. She needed to adopt a more conciliatory manner.
"Sharmie is a cheerful, positive person by nature," she said. "I know you think she's flighty and irresponsible, but if you knew what she'd been through, you'd be more sympathetic."
"Life's hard." The duke leaned back and stretched out his long legs.
"You won't get many people to think a duke has a tough life."
He glanced at her. "Fortunately for me, I'm not interested in the opinions of other people."
"You can afford to be dismissive of Sharmie's needs. You have a sense of security due to your position that most people never have."
"We're straying from the point," he said.
"You could view the wedding as a way to be done with worrying about Sharmie and the twins."
"I don't worry about them."
"Well, you should!" She thumped her laptop in frustration. "What if we run out of money?"
"You won't do so while the funds are under my management."
"Your trusteeship will end at some point. Won't you be glad to know that the 'minor children' as you're so fond of calling them, will be well-provided for thanks to Sharmie's marriage?"
He stacked his hands behind his head and regarded her as if she were a mildly interesting specimen he was studying. "Tell me, Miranda. You have this burning desire to decide how a large portion of your father's estate should be spent. Do you have any idea of the impact such a disbursement of funds would have on your inheritance?"
"I don't care if it's all of it." Of course, even as the words emerged, she knew they were childish and not helpful to her cause.
"You don't know if it's all of it either," he snapped. "So, neither knowing nor caring anything about the estate that has been left for the care of you and your siblings, you can talk of spending a huge sum on a wedding?" He shook his head. "It boggles my mind. Have you ever made any attempt to learn anything about your family's financial situation?"
She sat silently, biting her lip. "No one ever suggested it was an issue. Our needs were met. The bills were paid." She shrugged. "That's how I've always lived. Before my father became too ill, he told me that our finances were taken care of. And, of course, Sharmie was his wife. It wasn't my place to ask her what kind of financial arrangements they had between
them."
"Does Sharmie strike you as one who could manage her own money?"
She had to drop her gaze in the face of his sardonic accusation. "No," she mumbled. "Of course not."
She simply hadn't thought about where the money was coming from. Perhaps Sharmie had been a convenient excuse to not involve herself in any financial matters.
"To sum up the situation," Devon said, "neither one of you ever expressed any interest in your financial situation. Nor did you contact me to learn anything about the estate until you wanted to twist my arm and get more money."
"Twist your arm?" Guilt made her voice shrill. "I am merely requesting what is ours. I don't see how anything would be different if I were well-informed of all the ins and outs of the financial world."
"A little knowledge might be useful. For example, if you knew anything about the stock market, you might be following current news. Then you'd know that this is a terrible time to be selling stocks. Not only has the market been on a downward trend for several months, it's now stabilizing at a new, lower level. It would be totally irresponsible of me to break up your inheritance in the midst of this recession."
"Why do you feel such a level of responsibility for us? We're not your family."
"You'll have to blame it on the way I was raised. I was born the heir to this dukedom. Which means, since birth, I've had responsibility thrust on me. If it's second nature to me now—" He shrugged.
"Your father was the duke when you were born. Surely he held the responsibility until he died?"
The duke pressed his lips together, as if to hold in words he didn't want to say. "He enjoyed the privileges of his position," he finally said. "He left the responsibilities up to me."
Miranda felt a twinge of something. Empathy? There was a slight bitterness in the duke's tone, and his eyes were cold. He stood suddenly and paced over to the French doors that led into the gardens. For a long moment, he stared out onto the beauty of his property.
When he turned back, she could see he'd decided to try a new direction in the conversation.
"I think," he said, "I prefer having you work your wiles on me, rather than calling me names."
Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015 Page 122