Glass Houses

by Anne Stuart

  “I think I need to slap you down,” she said, the tremor in her voice scarcely audible. She stepped back. “Shoes, please.”

  He fished them out of his pockets and handed them to her. “No bare feet allowed in the Glass House?” he questioned.

  “I have to stop in at the deli,” she said demurely, slipping on her shoes.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “You aren’t getting another goodnight kiss, Mischa,” she warned walking away from him.

  “Was that what that was?” he murmured, catching up with her at the door of the small, overpriced store that stayed open all night. “It felt more like hello to me.”

  “Wrong.” She headed straight for the back of the store, grabbed what she needed and plopped the items onto the counter, overwhelmingly aware of Michael’s scrutiny.

  “Three boxes of sugar?” he said. “What the hell are you going to do with it all? Make jam?”

  “Do you use that much sugar to make jam?” She was momentarily diverted from her course of action. “How would you know that?”

  “My mother always made jam.”

  “My mother doesn’t even eat jam.”

  “Jilly isn’t my idea of a mother.”

  “She isn’t anyone’s idea of a mother, hers included,” Laura said without a trace of bitterness.

  “So what’s the sugar for?”

  “Susan and I like our coffee very sweet.”

  The sour-looking woman who ran the place punched the cash register, and Laura reached for her purse. Michael was already ahead of her, pulling bills out of his leather wallet and setting them on the counter.

  “I shouldn’t let you do that,” Laura murmured, trying to keep her expression sober. “But in this case I think I will.”

  “Good. I don’t expect it’ll work as much of a bribe. You’re not going to let the Glass House go for three boxes of sugar.”

  “I’m not going to let the Glass House go for love or money.” Unfortunate choice of words, she thought, her mouth still feeling the imprint of his. But he merely grinned.

  He left her at the ninth floor, pausing to hold the elevator door open. “No good-night kiss?”

  “Call Marita if you want one,” Laura suggested politely.

  “I thought she went out with her fiancé.”

  “Ex-fiancé,” Laura corrected him.

  He paused, something in her tone of voice alerting him. “You aren’t thinking of having anything to do with that boy, are you? You’d eat him alive.”

  “He’s very sweet and charming and handsome.” There was just a hint of defensiveness in her voice.

  “I’m considered handsome,” Michael offered, a diabolical light in his eyes.

  “I wasn’t aware that you were in competition for me.”

  She’d managed to startle him. Or he’d managed to startle himself. “I’m not,” he said, with more haste than tact.

  Laura grinned at him, clutching the sugar to her chest, once more in control of things. “Try to remember that, would you, Mischa?” she suggested. “Things are confusing enough. Good night.” She pushed the Door Close button, and the rude buzzer startled Michael into releasing his hand. He was still standing there, a bemused expression on his face, as the doors slid shut.

  It took Michael a good half hour to get back his equilibrium. He took a long hot shower, washing the grit from his hair, washing the chill from his bones. He usually slept nude, but tonight, with the rain still lashing against the glass panels of the building, he needed extra warmth, and he dressed in a black fleece sweat suit, made himself a glass of Russian tea, and stretched out on his oversize, empty bed.

  He hadn’t been paying proper attention, of course. That was the real danger with Laura de Kelsey Winston. She threw him off balance. He’d never met anyone quite like her, and tended to get distracted by her. If someone had told him he’d run through a heavy downpour just for the hell of it, he’d have thought they were crazy. If someone had told him he’d kiss Laura, and enjoy both kissing her and her startled reaction more than he’d enjoyed anything in years, he would have taken bets against it.

  But he had run through the rain. He had kissed Laura, again. And if her prosaic words hadn’t stopped him, he would have tried to get her into his bed. Or followed her into hers.

  He must be out of his mind. He didn’t really want a short, sharp-tongued, determined gamine like Laura Winston. While she was attractive enough, even enticing in a piquant, mischievous sort of way, he’d always preferred serene, statuesque women. Not feisty little ones who were completely unimpressed by his money and power.

  Of course, he thought, stretching out on the bed and watching the rain run down the cracks in the window, Laura had done exactly what he’d hoped she’d do. She’d exposed far too much of herself, and it only had taken a little bit of good scotch. He knew where she was vulnerable, knew it more by accident than design. When it came to sex, Ms. Laura de Kelsey Winston was almost powerless.

  It was the perfect angle to play upon. What he’d started out of boredom and an unlikely fascination could turn into the one weapon against which she’d prove defenseless.

  It wasn’t a weapon he’d ever used against a woman. But then he’d never run up against a woman with Laura’s stubbornness. He’d warned her he was no gentleman; he’d warned her he was going to get what he wanted by fair means or foul. The question was, how rotten could Michael Dubrovnik really be?

  He viewed it dispassionately, warming to the idea even as his intrusive conscience tried to come up with warnings. He doubted that Marita would have any qualms if he used sex to best Laura. Marita struck him as someone infinitely practical. If she didn’t like it, there were other women, other elegant, graceful beauties who’d be less squeamish.

  And he’d actually be doing Laura a favor. He didn’t know who’d done such a rotten job of initiating her into the pleasures of the flesh—his private investigator hadn’t come up with any concrete information when it came to her celibate state. But even if her heart and emotions were temporarily bruised, she’d end up living a more complete life. For all her railings against nature, you couldn’t cheat animal instincts for your entire life and expect any happiness. She’d be much better off with a man, with a husband and babies, than with this decrepit mausoleum.

  His mouth curved wryly as he reviewed the series of self-justifications. If he made the mistake of bedding Laura in the battle of the Glass House, he’d end up regretting it for the rest of his life. Enticing as the fantasy was, he’d have to keep this battle vertical, at least. No more kisses, no more erotic daydreams. Tomorrow he’d take Marita out to dinner and maybe to bed, if it seemed that the time was right. And then maybe he’d stop thinking about the woman upstairs, who at least knew how to wage a fair fight.

  At that moment Laura wasn’t thinking about fair fights at all. She’d changed into a denim jumpsuit, an enveloping black plastic poncho and boots, had put her boxes of sugar into a shopping bag, and was at that moment slogging through the mud in the pit beside the Glass House. The earth-moving equipment still sat there like a family of ugly, evil bugs, huge prehistoric insects ready to devour the earth and her poor, wounded building.

  It took her a long time to find the gas tanks on the machines. Her fingers were numb with cold, her teeth were chattering by the time she managed to get the cover off the gas tank on the third, final piece of machinery and pour the last box of sugar into the fuel. She didn’t know whom Dubrovnik had hired for nighttime security, but whoever it was didn’t fancy watching over expensive equipment in a downpour at three in the morning, and she was able to work in peace. It wasn’t as if Michael wouldn’t know who’d done it. She just didn’t want him to have any proof.

  She carried the empty boxes back into her building, her boots leaving muddy footprints all the way into the elevator. She’d have to call and have her motley maintenance crew take care of them before the Whirlwind rose from his ill-deserved rest. She hoped he wouldn’t sleep too late. She want
ed to be close enough to hear his scream of rage when he found out what she’d done.

  Chapter Eleven

  “What in God’s name are you wearing?” Jilly strode into the front room of Glass Faces, her mink coat flying around her tall, whippet-lean figure.

  “Good morning, Mother.” Laura looked up from her position at Susan’s desk and pushed her glasses farther up her nose. “What are you doing up so early?”

  “Celebrating my divorce. We signed the papers this morning, thank heavens, and I thought you’d like to celebrate with me. You always hated Franz.”

  “I haven’t liked any of your husbands, and I doubt I’ll like the next one any better. It’s too early for champagne. I’ll take you to lunch at the Four Seasons if you can bear to wait another hour. Susan hasn’t come in yet.”

  “I can wait.” Jillian threw herself onto Laura’s leather sofa and assumed a long-suffering expression. “Is that why you’re dressed like a country girl? I hate to tell you, dearest, but the rustic look isn’t you. All that frilly cotton looks absurd on someone as short as you.”

  Laura looked very calmly into her mother’s eyes. It had taken years before she’d inured herself to the maternal barbs, but she now had an effective defense system that nothing could penetrate. “You hate me in leather, Jilly. And you weren’t very flattering about my Alexander McQueen stage. What should I wear?”

  Jilly gave the question the consideration it was due, somewhere near the weightiness of world peace, Laura thought wryly. “I don’t really know, darling. You’ve insisted on going into business. Now if you’d married, busied yourself with children and charities, then I’d think some of Michael Kors’s younger stuff. But since you insist on being the newest Mayflower Madame...”

  “I run a modeling agency, Mother. Not a whorehouse.” It was an old argument, one Jilly never tired of. Laura sat back, ready to remind her mother of the ground rules, when the door opened and Susan almost ran in.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, her eyes not meeting Laura’s sharper ones. “I overslept.”

  Laura simply stared. “Mother,” she said without taking her eyes off her flustered assistant, “go find something to do. Go down to my apartment and rummage through my private papers or something. I’ll be ready to go in an hour.”

  Jilly brightened at the thought of a distraction. “I do hate to be a bother. Maybe I’ll see if you have any champagne in your refrigerator.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Darling, no de Kelsey should be without a chilled bottle of champagne for all occasions. We do happen to have some standards.”

  “We do indeed,” Laura said, aware that the irony in her voice was sailing right over Jilly’s head.

  “As a matter of fact, I was looking for the de Kelsey emeralds. You don’t happen to have them, do you?” her mother artlessly inquired as she headed toward the glass doors.

  “They’re locked away, Mother, and they’re mine.”

  Jilly pouted. “They shouldn’t be. My own mother, leaving them to you instead of her own daughter. They’re too gaudy for you, dearest.”

  “They’re mine. Why don’t you go down to the ninth floor and see if Dubrovnik has some chilled champagne? I’m sure he’d be happy to toast your divorce.”

  Jilly’s pout vanished. “Maybe he’ll come to lunch with us.”

  “No. We celebrate your divorce a deux or not at all. Is that understood?”

  “Spoilsport. Exactly what is going on with that man?”

  “I’ll tell you over lunch,” Laura said, the lie coming easily. “It’s not very interesting.”

  “Don’t think you’re going to fob me off with fairy stories,” Jilly warned. “I’ll get the truth out of you, if I have to spend all afternoon drinking champagne.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Laura said with mock politeness.

  “Brat,” her mother genially replied, heading for the Otis elevator.

  Laura moved away from the desk, allowing Susan to scuttle behind it. She looked up, long enough for Laura to notice her red-rimmed eyes. “What in heaven’s name are you wearing?”

  “I stole it from you. Don’t you recognize your own Laura Ashley when you see it?” Laura demanded, allowing herself to be temporarily diverted. She knew exactly how absurd she looked. Susan was a good five inches taller than she was, and a great deal rounder. The French blue shift, with its white-flowered smock, flowed around Laura’s spare body and drifted over her ankles. The gathered sleeves drooped over Laura’s bejeweled hands, and the yards and yards of cotton swirled around her whenever she walked. The contrast with her jet-black, shingled hair, bright red lipstick and oversize glasses was almost clownlike. She’d even foregone her high heels for flat black Mary Janes and white stockings.

  “I recognize Laura Ashley,” Susan said wryly. “And I never thought I’d see the day, but I look a hell of a lot better in it than you do. The question is, why? Please don’t tell me this is your new look!”

  “Trust me, it’s temporary. I’m trying to look innocent, and nothing in my closet fitted the bill.”

  “Innocent of what?”

  “That’s where we come to you, my dear,” Laura said, turning the tables. “Where were you at three o’clock this morning? While I was out committing foul deeds, bereft of a partner in crime, you were somewhere out of reach. Where?”

  “What foul deeds?”

  “After you tell me where you were. You have whisker burns on your cheeks.”

  Susan’s reddened cheeks darkened further. “What if I said it was none of your business?”

  “Is it none of my business?” Laura asked calmly, refusing to be offended.

  “It was Frank.”

  “Good God!” she exclaimed, astonished. “I’d assumed you’d gone off to drown your sorrows with someone else. It really was Frank?”

  Susan’s eyes were trained on the desk in front of her, and Laura had to take it on faith that her mumbled response was in the affirmative.

  “Well,” said Laura, shoving the papers off the sturdy glass-topped table and levering her flounced body on top of it. “Tell me everything. Was he any good?”

  “Laura!” Susan shrieked, shocked out of her misery.

  “That’s better. So what was it, a one-night stand or the love of a lifetime?”

  “A one-night stand.”

  “Says who?”

  Susan bit her already swollen lip. “He wasn’t there when I woke up, Laura. He was gone. He didn’t even leave a note.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions.” Laura leaned back, staring at Susan in unfeigned surprise. “You really slept with him?”

  “I really slept with him,” Susan muttered.

  “What is that old saying? Something about those whom the gods would destroy, they first make crazy? Or those whom the gods would make crazy, they give them exactly what they want. Or those that the gods would make crazy, they make fall in love? I wish I could remember it.”

  “It’s all of the above,” Susan said gloomily.

  “Was it worth it?”

  “Worth what?”

  Susan looked miserable enough; she didn’t need Laura’s prying. But Laura couldn’t help it. Despite her friend’s current state, she had to know the answer. “Was screwing Frank Buckley worth the heartache and the misery you seem ready to embody?”

  Susan’s huge brown eyes filled with unshed tears. But her mouth curved into a sudden, wicked grin. “Every second of it,” she said.

  Laura shook her head. “I don’t know, Susan. I think love is nothing but trouble. Everyone would be better off without it.”

  “You’re probably right. Right now I’m busy worrying about whether he made love to me out of pity.”

  Laura hooted with laughter as she climbed off the desk. “Frank may be a prince of a fellow, but he’s not that noble. Take my word for it, Frank went to bed with you because he wanted to.”

  “That’s what he said. I wish I believed it.”

  “Go look at your reflect
ion in the mirror, Susan,” Laura offered kindly. “You don’t look like a woman who’s the object of sympathy. You look like a woman who’s been extremely well-fucked.”

  “Laura” Susan protested.

  “Well, you do,” Laura insisted.

  “Well,” said Susan, “I was. So let’s leave it at that, okay? I spent years mooning after something I couldn’t have, I ended up getting it, and now it’s over. Why don’t you tell me what hideous crimes you committed? It has to be something pretty dire to get you into ruffles and lace.”

  “It was. But first...” Her voice trailed off as the elevator door slipped open. It wasn’t an avenging Whirlwind coming toward her. It was a smugly beautiful Marita. And on her arm, looking totally bemused, was Jeff Carnaby.

  Laura allowed herself a moment to watch them. They made an attractive couple. Tall and clean-limbed and all-American, they seemed made for each other, she thought with a pang.

  “Who’s that with Marita?” Susan whispered.

  Laura didn’t answer, moving across the room at her usual speed, ignoring the unaccustomed weight of the yards of cotton swinging around her. “Good morning, Marita. Hello, Jeff. We weren’t expecting you. How was your dinner last night?” And how was your night? she added inwardly, keeping her face bland. Did you sleep with him, Marita? Did you change your mind?

  Marita’s beautiful face wasn’t giving anything away. “We had a wonderful time. I thought I’d come in with Jeff and see whether you wanted me to go out on interviews. Go-sees, didn’t you call them?”

  “I thought we were going to keep Marita under wraps,” Susan said, clearly perplexed. “We’ve already got Estee Lauder drooling over the photographs, and Revlon’s made a decent, if unspectacular offer. Why should she go out?”

  “Just a thought,” Laura murmured, cursing her voluble assistant. She gazed at the woman towering over her. No whisker burns on her pale, perfect skin, no love bites on her neck, but that was no proof. Had everyone but herself spent last night in bed with someone?