by Nora Roberts
“Oh man, you could put someone’s eye out with that.”
He roared with laughter, swung her into his arms for a kiss that left them both giddy. “Want to bet it fits?”
For a moment, she just pressed her cheek to his. My God, she thought, he wanted her. For keeps. “I’m not betting against the house again.”
Grinning, he took the square-cut citrine out of the box and slipped it on her finger. “Smart move.” He lifted her hand, pressed his lips just above the ring. “Deal?”
“Looks like.” She brought their joined hands to her own lips in turn. Hers, she thought. For keeps. “But I want to see that coin.”
He cocked a brow, flipped the coin through the fingers of his free hand and vanished it. “What coin?”
From the Private Memoirs
of
Daniel Duncan MacGregor
There are moments that etch themselves into a man’s memory like a fine diamond cuts into clear glass. The first time he loves a woman. And the first time he sees the woman he will always love. The moment his child, taken from his mother’s womb, is placed yowling with life into his hands.
And the many moments of that child’s life that fill his own with joys and sorrows, with laughter and tears.
There are moments etched in my memory, too many to count, too few to take for granted. And all of them cherished.
Another moment joined them recently. I watched a lass I’ve come to love as much as my own stand in the gardens of the home I built with my Anna. And there, on a fine day in the last winds of summer, she joined hands with my grandson Duncan to become his.
To become ours.
And when the vows were taken, and the first kiss shared as man and wife, didn’t she walk straight to me and whisper in my ear, “Thank you, Mr. MacG”—for that’s what she likes to call me—“thank you,” said she, “for picking me for him.”
Well now, I ask you, is that a lass?
Not that I did it for thanks, but by God, it’s nice to have your thought and care be appreciated from time to time.
What sons and daughters that pair will make between them. Not that there’s any hurry, mind—though Anna, of course, is fretting already that they’ll be slow about it.
But, well then, we’ve done what we can to set them on the right road.
Now I’m watching from my window here, with the last of Anna’s roses clinging to their stems and waiting to be whipped away by the coming autumn winds. Time passes, no matter how we wish it might stand still for a bit.
So it’s not to be wasted, is it? I’ve more grandchildren yet who need a bit of direction, a wee bit of a nudge, so to speak. Though we’d best not speak of it, as Anna was in a lecturing mode not long ago when I just happened to mention, in passing, that our young Ian was of an age to be thinking about his future.
Boy’s a lawyer now. Seems like yesterday he was toddling along in the parlor and wanting to get his hands on his granny’s good crystal vase. Always had an eye for pretty things, did our Ian.
Well, I’ve found him a pretty one. One I think will suit his sweet nature and soft heart. The lad wants family, make no mistake. Hasn’t he just bought himself a house? What does a man buy a house for if it isn’t to fill it with family?
Fine enough if he starts with furniture and doodads and the things that content a man to have about him. But it’s family that makes a home.
Hasn’t it made mine?
And it’s the least I can do for a beloved grandchild, give him the direction he needs to go and make his own.
And the devil I say to those who claim different.
Part Three
Ian
Chapter 20
Sometimes, Ian thought, there just weren’t enough hours in the day. He hated to rush, whether it was business, pleasure or life in general. But he had to admit that lately it seemed like he’d been doing nothing but tearing around. Which included pushing his way through the mad maze of Boston traffic at peak rush hour.
One more stop, he told himself, then he could go home. His new home. Just the thought of the elegant old house tucked behind dignified old maples made him smile and ignore the rude blast of a horn as traffic snarled.
He’d had two months to enjoy it, to scout antique shops and kitchen-supply departments in order to outfit each room exactly the way he wanted.
And every time he slipped the key into the lock and walked into the gracious entry with its deep green walls and golden floors he was thrilled his days of college dorms and noisy apartment life were over.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like company or having people underfoot. He’d come from too large a family not to appreciate the confusion, the clash of personalities, the entertainment that came with crowds.
But he’d wanted his own place. Needed his own place. And he still blessed his cousin Julia for helping him find the perfect house in the perfect place.
Old and established was what he’d wanted, and that’s what he’d gotten. Dignity and style and character. He supposed the need for such things ran in the MacGregor blood.
He’d grown up with dignity, style and character, both at home and at work. The law offices of MacGregor and MacGregor stood for all three, as did his parents, his grandparents and all the family that sprawled from them.
Now, along with his parents and his sister, he was part of that respected law firm. He intended to make his mark there, to uphold those traditions, and perhaps, in time, to follow the path of his father and uncle to Washington.
The press occasionally hinted that Ian MacGregor was being groomed for politics. They said he had the family lineage what with his father having served as attorney general and his uncle as the commander-in-chief. He had the looks, the gilt hair, the steady blue eyes, the strong features and firm mouth that made women sigh and men trust.
The tabloids had once had a field day with a shot of him wearing nothing but a pair of bathing trunks while sailing on the Charles. The result had been a huge increase in tabloid sales and the title of Harvard Hunk, which had stuck—much to Ian’s consternation and his family’s amusement.
He’d handled it with humor—what choice did he have? And had thumbed his nose at those who said he was just another pretty boy by graduating magna cum laude, holding steady in the top five percent of his graduating class and passing his bar on the first run.
Ian MacGregor hit what he aimed for, and he’d aimed for the law as long as he could remember.
But honors and lauds aside, he was the youngest member of the firm, and as such, was often reduced to the position of errand boy.
His current assignment was little more.
Ian circled, scanning for a parking place without much hope. He settled for one six blocks from his objective and thought he might as well have driven home and walked from there.
Still, he took his briefcase and relaxed enough to window-shop in the artful storefronts on the way up to Brightstone’s.
It was balmy early autumn, perfect New England weather, with the trees just beginning to hint at the wild color to come in the evening light of a slowly deepening sky. When he got home, he promised himself, he was going to take a glass of wine, sit on his back porch and survey his kingdom.
With his topcoat flapping in the steady breeze, he paused outside of Brightstone’s and studied the sturdy old building of weathered red brick.
It was an institution in Boston, one he regretted not having had the time to explore in the last couple of years. But now that he lived fairly nearby, he thought he would find opportunities to wander in, stroll through the stacks, the aisles, the towers of books.
Brightstone’s was books in Boston.
He remembered holding his mother’s hand when she’d shopped there in his childhood, then tucking himself into the Children’s Corner with picture books. The staff had always been helpful and unobtrusive, the mood serene, the stock expansive.
And remembering the contented hours he’d experienced inside, he thought it might be a fine idea to t
urn one of his spare rooms into a library.
He stepped inside, pleased to see the familiar soaring ceilings with their fussy cornices, the polished gleam of chestnut floors, the grand sweep of books.
The second floor, as he recalled, would be histories, biographies, local interest, local authors. And the third, a treasure trove of rare books.
As he scanned, he noted that business was good, which surprised him a little. A year or so before, he’d read that the old Boston institution was in serious trouble and apparently unable to compete with the malls or superstores. But there were a number of customers browsing the shelves, more at the graceful old counter making purchases, and a scattering of others settled into the inviting seating arrangements tucked here and there.
That was new, wasn’t it? he wondered. Those cushy chairs and thick old tables? He saw, too, a little café had been added to the rear, up a short flight of steps where he remembered towering shelves.
And the music playing quietly in the background wasn’t the stern classical tunes he remembered, but something light with harps and flutes.
Interested, he wandered through, noting the Children’s Corner remained as it had, but a basket of bright plastic toys and charming posters of fairy tale scenes had been added.
And here a display of eye-catching bookmarks, reading lamps, paperweights and a variety of gifts suitable for a book lover. As he wound his way through, the seductive scent of coffee reached out and hooked him.
Smart, very smart, he decided. It would take a strong will to walk out without a sample—and without a purchase. Telling himself he didn’t have time for either, he headed to the checkout area and snagged the attention of a clerk.
“I’m looking for Naomi Brightstone. I’m Ian MacGregor. She’s expecting me.”
“Ms. Brightstone’s in her office on the second floor. Would you like me to send for her?”
Well-mannered, efficient staff were obviously still the order of the day. Ian smiled, shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ll go up.”
“I’ll let her know you’re on your way, Mr. MacGregor.”
“Appreciate it.” He started up the sharply angled stairs and had a sudden, vivid flash of his mother grinning down at him and telling him they’d go for ice cream if he was very patient while she finished shopping.
“Rocky Road,” he murmured. He’d always gone for Rocky Road, and his mother had always held his hand firmly in hers when they’d crossed the street to order cones.
Good memory, he decided, then noted that the second floor was no longer dim and intimidating. He didn’t think it was only because now he was six feet tall rather than three.
Lights had been added and the shelves had changed from dark brown to a honey-toned wood. There was a pair of long, sturdy tables lined with chairs, creating a kind of study area. It was being used by what looked to be a high school couple more interested in each other than the books opened in front of them.
Now that he thought of it, he had some fine memories of study dates as well in the less-atmospheric corners of his school library.
Something else there didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day for just now, he mused. Not the studying, God knew, but the dating. He was going to have to get back in the swim before too long.
He missed women.
“Mr. MacGregor?”
He turned and watched the woman approach. She was a tidy little package, he concluded. Bandbox neat in her smart red suit and practical heels. Her hair was glossy black, subdued into a thick braid that hung down her back and left her quietly pretty face unframed.
Her lips were full, with just the slightest hint of overbite, and painted to match the suit. Simple gold hoops swung at her ears, and the hand she offered him was narrow and unadorned.
“Ms. Brightstone.”
“Yes.” She smiled. “I’m sorry I wasn’t downstairs when you got here.”
“I wasn’t able to be firm on the time. It’s not a problem.”
“Let me show you to my office. Can I get you something? Coffee? Cappuccino?”
“Is that cappuccino as good as it smells?”
This time the smile reached her clear gray eyes. “It’s better, especially if you add one of our hazelnut biscotti on the side.”
“Sold.”
“You won’t be sorry.” She led the way back through the stacks to a door over the café. “I’ll have someone bring it up. Please excuse the confusion,” she said, skirting around a stepladder and painting supplies. “We haven’t quite finished our face-lift.”
“I noticed the changes. Very nice.”
“Thank you.” She glanced back and opened another door. “We’re getting very positive feedback.”
Her office had the feel of recent remodeling. The walls were a soft pearly white accented with Boston street scenes done in soft, misty colors. The gleaming cherry desk was tidy, suiting her size and style. She gestured to one of a pair of cheerful striped chairs. “Let me just call for the coffee.”
He took a seat and the time to study her. He knew from the paperwork in his briefcase that she was the daughter of the owners—making her in his calculations the fourth generation of Brightstone Books.
He’d expected her to be older, starchier, he realized, but pegged her in her early twenties, efficient but stylish. And built, he added, as he noted just how nicely the red suit showed off her curves.
When she hung up the phone, she took the seat across from him, folded her hands in her lap. “It’ll be right up. I want to thank you for agreeing to meet me here. The store’s taking all my time these days.”
Her voice, he noted, was as clear and quiet as her eyes. “I know the feeling. And I’m happy to oblige. You’re on my way home, anyway.”
“That’s handy, then. Your secretary said you had the papers for me to look over and sign.”
“The partnership agreement, yes. Pretty standard, and I think we have everything detailed the way your father outlined.” Curious, he opened his briefcase, stalling as he flipped through papers. “Can I assume your father’s retiring?”
“More or less. He and my mother want to spend more time in their winter home in Arizona, perhaps relocate there permanently. My brother and his family already have.”
“And you don’t have any yen to go west?”
“No. Boston is mine.” And so, she thought with a little flutter of the heart, was Brightstone’s. Or it would be. “I’ve been taking on more responsibility for the store over the last eighteen months.”
“The changes your idea?”
“Yes.” Ones she’d fought for tooth and nail. “The market changes, customer demands and expectations change. It was time to catch up.”
She rose at the knock on the door, and taking a tray from the boy delivering the coffee, murmured her thanks. “The café, for one,” she continued, setting the tray on the desk and offering Ian his frothy coffee in an oversize cup and saucer. “It’s the type of service that people want in a bookstore today. They no longer simply come for books, but for the atmosphere, a meeting place, a center.” She smiled again as she sat with her own cup. “And great coffee.”
“Well, I can vouch for the last of that,” Ian said after a sip. “It’s great coffee. And as I’ve gone over your files, your numbers, the profit-and-loss statements and so forth, it appears your alterations are working.”
“We increased sales by fifteen percent in the last nine months.” She wouldn’t think, just yet, about what it had cost to make those changes that had helped generate those increases. “I estimate we’ll be up another fifteen within the next six.”
“I always loved to come here as a kid.”
“And have you been a customer of Brightstone’s within the last year?”
He shook his head. “Got me. But I will be.” He set the coffee on the little table between them, then passed her the papers. “You’ll want to look these over. I’ll answer any questions you might have.”
“Thank you.” She retrieved a pair of wire-ri
m reading glasses from the desk. The minute she put them on Ian experienced a slow, inevitable meltdown.
Women in glasses drove him crazy.
He rolled his eyes, picked up his coffee and told himself to get a grip. She was a client.
Whose sober and intelligent gray eyes looked fabulous behind those lenses. Then there was that hotly painted and sexily flawed mouth. The lushly curved body in the trim, nearly military style suit. Sensible shoes. Great legs.
All that stop-and-go in one package would drive a saint crazy, he comforted himself. And the MacGregors weren’t known for being saints.
Still, he gave his coffee his attention and tried not to think that the thick neat braid and the subtle, all-female perfume was just one more combo to add to the whole.
Besides, what was the harm in asking her out? To dinner. No, lunch, he decided. Lunch was definitely better. More businesslike. They could have lunch. A very casual, perfectly acceptable lunch—where he wouldn’t give a single thought to nibbling on her neck to see if that was where her scent was warmest.
Her nails were short, rounded and unpainted. She wasn’t wearing a ring, so he hoped that meant she was unattached.
He sat, waiting while she read, and planning exactly how to broach the subject of a nice little lunch later in the week.
Naomi read every line, then allowed herself a long, quiet breath. It was a momentous event for her, what these coolly legal papers symbolized. If she’d been alone, she might have clutched them to her breast and wept. Or shouted with joy. But as she wasn’t, she laid them on the desk, slipped off her glasses.
“Everything appears to be in order.”
“Questions?”
“No, I understand them. I minored in business law.”
“Well then. You can sign them now if you’re satisfied. You’ll need a witness. Then I’ll send them to your parents in Scottsdale. Once they’re signed and sealed, it’s a done deal.”
“I’ll just get my assistant.”
Five minutes later, Naomi held out a steady hand. “Thanks so much for taking care of this for us.”