Weekend Agreement

by Barbara Wallace

  Vivian rambled on, but he wasn’t listening. Instead, he closed his eyes and pictured the rolling surf. Just once he’d like to meet a woman who didn’t want something from him. Just once it’d be nice to look into a pair of eyes and see only sincerity.

  Meanwhile, back in the real world, he had to get his date’s contract notarized. Because in the real world, his romantic life consisted of nothing more than business transactions with better clothes.

  And propriety agreements.

  Chapter Three

  Not a date. Not a date.

  Charlotte recited the mantra with each stroke of her hairbrush. Not a date. She’d been on dozens of dates. Dates were fun. Lighthearted. Voluntary. This was not a date.

  Why, then, did she have butterflies in her stomach?

  Who wouldn’t be nervous? Getting on some strange man’s plane, spending the weekend with his family. A family no doubt as prickly as their son.

  Not a date.

  The doorbell rang. Charlotte started, the hairbrush tumbling from her fingers. She looked at the clock on her night table. Figures. He was ten minutes early. She quickly pulled her hair into a ponytail wrapper and surveyed her appearance.

  She didn’t look like a woman going on a date–a feat that took a mere ninety minutes to accomplish. She looked at her pink T-shirt and khaki shorts with satisfaction. Nope, definitely not the look of a woman excited about seeing Daniel Moretti again.

  The doorbell buzzed a second time. Not a man of patience, was he? Weaving her way through the maze of family furniture filling her living room, she opened the front door to let him in.

  “Good, I got here in time.”

  Judy brushed past her, a large manila folder tucked under her arm.

  “If you’re here for one last attempt at talking me out of this weekend, forget it.” Charlotte shut the door. “As I told you at breakfast, and again at lunch, my mind’s made up.”

  “I know, I know. I’m not here to rehash our argument.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “After lunch, I figured if I can’t talk you out of this nonsense, I could at least help you know what you’re getting into.” She shoved the folder at Charlotte. “Here.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Research.”

  Charlotte scowled as she opened the file. Judy had apparently amassed a collection of articles and photographs, all regarding Daniel. His business deals, his romances. She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Press clippings?”

  “Forewarned is forearmed. It won’t hurt for you to remind yourself what kind of shark Moretti is.”

  “Right, a big polka-dotted shark. You’ve covered quite a bit of the animal kingdom these past few days.”

  “Joke about my metaphors all you want, you can’t laugh away the facts. Do you know who his last girlfriend was? Valerie Pinochet.”

  “The actress from that nighttime soap opera?”

  “If acting is the word for what she does. Yes, her. Look.”

  Charlotte looked at the magazine photo Judy placed on the top of the file. It was Valerie Pinochet, all right, her God-given talent on display for all the world to see. And there was Daniel, with his arm quite possessively around her waist.

  She thought of her own dowdy appearance. “Wow.”

  “Wow is right. That folder has dozens of photos like that one. He has a different woman every month. Models, actresses, socialites. It proves he’s a man to be wary of.”

  “It also proves I’m positively not his type.” Ignoring the disconsolate feeling accompanying her words, Charlotte returned the file to Judy. “I couldn’t be less like those women.”

  “Which makes you all the more a challenge,” Judy said, shoving the file back into Charlotte’s hands. “Take it. You may need to remind yourself what kind of man he is.”

  “What are you afraid is going to happen? That I’ll take one look at those puppy-dog eyes of his and swoon with desire?”

  “The fact that you even noticed he’s got puppy-dog eyes is reason enough to take that file. Then there’s that little episode on the steps yesterday.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? The heat got to me.”

  Her friend didn’t respond. She simply sat down on the sofa and examined her vermilion nails. “Just take the folder.”

  Letting out a frustrated sigh, Charlotte shoved the research into the side pocket of her overnight bag. “Satisfied?”

  “Almost. Did you pack your cell phone?”

  “Why? Am I supposed to call in with hourly updates?”

  “Every few hours will be fine. I’m being protective.”

  A smile begrudgingly tugged at the corners of Charlotte’s mouth. Erroneous theories or not, Judy meant well. “Protective my foot. You’re being nosy.”

  “Maybe a tiny bit. My practical side may think you’re making a mistake, but my starstruck side wants to know every detail.”

  “In that case I promise to stay in constant contact.” Charlotte finally gave in and grinned.

  The doorbell buzzed again. This time, both women started.

  “Showtime,” Judy remarked. “Are you ready?”

  The minute the doorbell rang, a flock of butterflies took flight in Charlotte’s stomach. Make that two flocks. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” She reached for the front doorknob.

  Daniel stood on the threshold, the picture of old money casual. Gone was the dark suit, shed in favor of a white polo shirt and sharply pressed tan slacks. Charlotte tried not to stare at his tan, muscular arms or think about her brief contact with them on the stairs.

  Not a date, her mind repeated. Not a date.

  “Ready to go? The traffic’s heavy this time of evening.”

  Not waiting for her invitation, Daniel walked in, stopping short when he saw Judy. “Professor Cleghorn, how not surprising to see you here.”

  Judy returned his wry smile. “I came to see Charlotte off. Wish her a good trip. Tell her to be careful navigating those shark-infested waters.”

  “Interesting advice,” he remarked cryptically. “One never knows what trap one might fall into.”

  He turned his attention to his surroundings. Charlotte watched him, uneasy with his scrutiny. She could only imagine what Daniel’s house looked like. Probably some impeccably appointed penthouse somewhere. As for her, her little ranch house wouldn’t make the cover of any decorating magazines. The furniture, all inherited, was thrown together, the various styles and periods clashing. Bric-a-brac and photographs littered every surface, a study in modern clutter. Up to that moment, design had never been as important to her as the pieces themselves.

  “You’ve got quite a collection,” he noted. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many antiques in one place, except maybe in an antiques store.”

  “Family pieces,” she explained, wishing she didn’t have that defensive note in her voice. “I’m the repository for all family objects no one wants.”

  “The family junkyard.”

  “You sound like my brother. I’ll have you know that none of it is junk. It all has meaning.”

  “Not to mention value.” Daniel ran his hand over the back of her Boston rocker. The chair, owned by her great-great-grandmother, was her favorite. “I imagine a piece like this would go for quite a bit at auction.”

  Charlotte pressed her hand against her chest. He might as well have spoken sacrilege. “Sell it? The thought never even crossed my mind.”

  He gave her a strange smile. “Of course it didn’t.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Nothing.” He gave the rocker a tiny push. “Nothing at all.”

  But the cryptic remark refused to leave her brain. “What do you think he meant by that?” she asked Judy while Daniel carried her bags to his sports car.

  “You’ve got me. Maybe he thinks sentimental value is a waste of time. Guys like him usually do.”

  “He seems angry about something.”

  “Guys like him are always angry.”
<
br />   “Do you think he’s sorry he agreed to this arrangement?”

  “If he is, then he doesn’t realize he got the best end of the deal.”

  Daniel slammed the trunk shut. Judy gathered Charlotte in her arms and hugged her tightly. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “And remember my research,” she whispered in her ear.

  Twenty-five minutes later, weaving through the slow-moving Boston traffic, Charlotte doubted she’d need Judy’s clipping collection to keep distance between her and her companion. Daniel was more taciturn than usual, his responses to her attempts at conversation limited to the bare minimum. After a while, she gave up and stared out the window.

  For the life of her, she didn’t know what she did to make him so angry. Yesterday on the steps, he seemed so different. Warmer. Surely she hadn’t imagined the connection between them.

  She never told Judy about the baffling feeling of intimacy that seemed to pass between them. No, Judy would have gone ballistic.

  And for good reason. Since that bewildering moment, Charlotte’s brain replayed it over and over, recalling each millisecond with crystal clarity. Right down to the way his eyes reflected her own secret, lonely feelings. Now she wondered if her mind hadn’t amplified the moment out of wishful thinking.

  By the time they reached the airport, Charlotte didn’t know what she felt–other than regret for ever agreeing to this situation, and not figuring out another solution.

  A sandy-haired man in a uniform greeted their car. When Charlotte stepped out, she caught his eyes widen slightly before their attention locked onto Daniel. “Good evening, Mr. Moretti.”

  “Evening, Peter. Everything set?”

  “Yes sir, just as you requested. Soon as you’re settled in, I’ll alert the tower of our departure.”

  “Very good. Our luggage is in the trunk.”

  Instantly Peter was on the job, unloading their bags. Not once did he look in her direction. Either she wasn’t interesting, or he was well paid for his discretion.

  Daniel’s hand brushed the small of her back as he guided her toward the waiting plane. Just as in the movies, it sat gassed and ready. Despite her resolve to act unimpressed, Charlotte let out a gasp upon entering the cabin. The main fuselage was narrow, not much wider than ten feet. Without rows of seats, however, the cabin looked far wider. A soft blue sofa lined one side while a quartet of matching seats filled the other. Peter, at least she assumed it was Peter since she doubted Daniel gave it any thought, had already stocked the cabin with snacks and bottles of mineral water. She inhaled. No stale airplane air here. Instead, she caught the faint scent of ginger and citrus.

  “I have to admit it—this beats flying the Nantucket shuttle.”

  Daniel had moved aside a platter of fruit and cheese, and was busy arranging the contents of his briefcase into neat little stacks. “I decided a long time ago that if I have to travel, I might as well make the experience as comfortable as possible.”

  “No sense feeling nauseous and flying commercial, I suppose.”

  His pointed look said he regretted sharing his secret. “Exactly.”

  Peter appeared suddenly at the front of the cabin, emerging from behind the blue velvet drape that divided the cabin salon from what Charlotte guessed were the facilities and cockpit areas. “Is there anything you need, Mr. Moretti? Ma’am?”

  Daniel looked in her direction, and Charlotte shook her head.

  “Then we’ll be taking off as soon we have clearance. I’ll try to keep things as smooth as possible.” With a quick nod, he returned to his place behind the curtain.

  “He’s very efficient,” Charlotte noted.

  “He should be. I pay him enough to be. That, and discreet.”

  “Do you ever worry he won’t be? Discreet, that is?”

  “He knows what will happen if that’s ever the case.”

  With a man as rich and powerful as Daniel, she could only imagine. “I’m sure your previous guests must appreciate the privacy.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “As do you.”

  He eyed her from over the page he was reading. “Yes, again.”

  Charlotte settled into one of the chairs across from him and buckled her seat belt. The supple leather molded her bottom like a glove. It felt more like settling in for a nap than a plane ride. Too bad the atmosphere didn’t feel as comfortable. The cool distance from the car had boarded with them.

  Playing with the strap of her belt, she said, “Peter looked surprised to see me. Was he expecting someone else?”

  Daniel’s head shot up. “Like who?”

  “I don’t know. Someone more glamorous, like your other dates.” If Daniel regretted not having a more high-profile date, that would certainly explain his aloof behavior.

  “How would you know about my other dates?”

  How indeed. Judy’s little research file was best left unmentioned. “History books aren’t the only things I read.”

  “Is that so? You didn’t strike me as the tabloid type, Professor.”

  “I’ve been known to scan a few covers in the checkout line.”

  “Well, in this case, he wasn’t expecting anyone. I usually fly alone.”

  “What about your guests?”

  “My ‘guests’ travel separately.”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened. “You mean I’m the exception?”

  “It didn’t make sense to take two trips under the circumstances.”

  “You mean the weather.”

  “Exactly.”

  His answer made sense. With the hurricane bearing down, it was safer for them to make one flight across the ocean. Still, his answer surprised her. He never flew with his dates? Not ever?

  …

  Daniel returned to his paperwork, a convenient wall that kept Charlotte from looking too closely. Or reading too much into his admission. They were sharing a flight for exactly the reason he told her: to avoid unnecessary flying in the face of the storm. The fact that the storm had yet to hit land notwithstanding. He didn’t need her thinking his making an exception meant anything more.

  He ground his teeth. For the past twenty-four hours, the muscles at the back of his neck had been knotted tight with suspicion. Why had Charlotte agreed to this trip? Was it really to regain some silly plot of land? Could a person place so much value on family history that she’d be willing to jump through hoops to preserve it? If the land truly meant that much to her, why not sell a few of those antiques cluttering her house? The heirlooms, to quote her, she would never, ever sell. Give him a break. Sounded like Vivian with her damn Ferncliff museum.

  Could it be she had more in common with his mother than mere antique hording? The incident on the step certainly resembled something out of Vivian’s playbook. Maybe the land was an excuse, a means to spend time with him and earn herself a bigger prize.

  The thought made his shoulders slump.

  One thing was for sure. If she was after more—or rather after him—she’d found the right formula for arousing him. The casual outfit tossed on like she didn’t have a care, T-shirt just tight enough to show off her curves, shorts high enough to reveal a glimpse of tan, smooth thigh. All her outfits seemed to possess some element designed to entice. The green silk roadmap, yesterday’s tank top. Today it was a pair of shoes. Dainty, bright white boat shoes. She’d tucked one leg under her body, while the other swung back and forth. Back and forth, back and forth. A bright white semaphore flag daring him not to look. Not to run his hand along her shapely calf until his fingers slipped beneath the hem of her shorts.

  Damn, but it was going to be a long flight.

  The plane lurched forward as it began its progression toward the runway. Right on schedule, Daniel’s stomach lurched with it, this afternoon’s lunch ready to rise in his throat. He closed his eyes to block out the landscape moving next to him and focused on his breathing. Deep, controlled breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

  Spewing his lu
nch all over himself was not on today’s agenda.

  In. Out.

  It wasn’t working. Dammit, he controlled a billion-dollar company; why was it so hard to control his stomach?

  “Would crackers help?”

  He opened his eyes to find that Charlotte had left her seat and was on the sofa next to him, with what looked like true concern in her eyes.

  “Or some water?” she asked, nodding toward the bottles on the table. “I can pour you a glass.”

  The offer caused a warm feeling to spread through him. Gratitude, he realized. Used to flying alone, he had never had anyone offer to help him before. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine as soon as we get in the air.” Hopefully. “You should buckle up, by the way. We’re going to take off.”

  “You’re white as a sheet. Does this happen every time you fly?”

  “Fly. Ride in the backseat of a car. Any sort of movement, unless I’m the one driving. It’s the swaying sensation that does me in.”

  His stomach rose in his throat again. Quickly he closed his eyes. “Silly, huh?” he said, swallowing it down. “A grown man getting sick to his stomach at the drop of a hat.”

  “What’s silly about it? When I was a teenager, my friend and I snuck into her mom’s liquor cabinet and drank Bloody Marys till we got sick. To this day, I can’t smell tomato juice without gagging.”

  Daniel felt himself turning green. “Could we not mention gagging?”

  “Sorry. My point is we’re only human. There are some things we can’t control, our bodies being one of them.”

  “I refuse to believe that.” He swiveled in his seat to face her, using his hand to shield the view. “All it takes is a little mind over matter. People do it all the time when conquering phobias.”

  “A phobia is psychological–not quite the same thing. Nausea is a physical reaction.”

  Reaching behind him, she pulled the shade. Again, he felt the warm rush of gratitude. “Is it? Or have I mentally painted myself in a sick corner? And by the way, just because something’s physical, doesn’t mean you can’t will it away. Take all those stories of people willing themselves into remission. You going to tell me that’s not controlling your body?”