by Lisa Kleypas
Hardy responded with a long stare that fried every brain cell I possessed. And then he said softly, “Just one little Travis.”
I went scarlet. I felt myself clenching in places I didn’t even know I had muscles. And I was amazed that my legs still worked as I went to the taxi and got in.
“Where do you live?” Hardy asked, and like an idiot, I told him. He handed a twenty to the cabbie, a huge overpayment since 1800 Main was only a few blocks away. “Drive careful with her,” he said, as if I were made of some fragile substance that might shatter at the first bump on the road.
“Yes, sir!”
And it wasn’t until the cab pulled away that I realized I was still wearing his jacket.
THE NORMAL THING would have been to have the jacket drycleaned immediately—there was a service in the building—and have someone take it to Hardy on Monday.
But sometimes normal just isn’t happening. Sometimes crazy feels too good to resist. So I kept the jacket, uncleaned, all weekend. I kept stealing over to it and taking deep breaths of it. That damned jacket, the smell of Hardy Cates on it, was crack. I finally gave in and wore it for a couple of hours while I watched a DVD movie.
Then I called my best friend, Todd, who had recently forgiven me for not talking to him in months, and I explained the situation to him.
“I’m having a relationship with a jacket,” I said.
“Was there a sale at Neiman’s?”
“No, it’s not mine, it’s a guy’s jacket.” I went on to tell him all about Hardy Cates, even going so far as to describe what had happened at Liberty and Gage’s wedding almost two years ago, and then about meeting him in the bar. “So I just put on the jacket and watched a movie in it,” I concluded. “In fact, I’m wearing it right now. How far outside of normal is that? On a scale of one to ten, how crazy am I?”
“Depends. What movie did you watch?”
“Todd,” I protested, wanting a serious answer from him.
“Haven, don’t ask me to define the boundaries of normal. You know how I was raised. My father once stuck strands of his own pubic hair onto a painting and sold it for a million dollars.”
I had always liked Todd’s father, Tim Phelan, but I’d never understood his art. The best explanation I’d heard was that Tim Phelan was a revolutionary genius whose sculptures exploded conventional notions of art and displayed common materials like bubble gum and masking tape in a new context.
As a child I had often wondered at the perplexing role reversal of the Phelan household, in which the parents seemed like children, and their only child, Todd, had been the grown-up.
It had only been at Todd’s insistence that the family kept standard hours for eating and sleeping. He had dragged them to parent/teacher conferences even though they didn’t believe in the grading system. Todd had no luck, however, in curbing their wild house decorating. Sometimes Mr. Phelan would pass through the hallway, pause to sketch or paint something right on the wall, and continue on his way. Their house had been filled with priceless graffiti. And at holiday time, Mrs. Phelan would hang the Christmas tree, which they called a bodhi bush, upside down from the ceiling.
Now Todd had become an enormously successful interior designer, mostly because of his ability to be creative without going too far. His father disdained his work, which pleased Todd tremendously. In the Phelan family, Todd had once told me, beige was an act of defiance.
“So,” Todd said, returning to the subject of the jacket. “Can I come over and smell it?”
I grinned. “No, you’d take it for yourself, and I have to give it back. But not until tomorrow, which means I have at least twelve hours left with it.”
“I think you need to talk with Susan this week about why you’re so afraid of a guy you’re attracted to that you can’t handle anything more than fondling his jacket. While he’s not in it.”
I was instantly defensive. “I already told you, he’s a family enemy and I—”
“I call bullshit,” Todd said. “You didn’t have any problem telling your family to go to hell when you wanted to be with Nick.”
“Yeah, and as it turned out, they were all right about him.”
“Doesn’t matter. You have the right to go after any guy who appeals to you. I don’t think you’re afraid of your family’s reaction. I think it’s something else.” A long, speculative pause, and then he asked gently, “Was it that bad with Nick, sweetheart?”
I had never told Todd that my husband had physically abused me. I wasn’t at the point that I could talk about it with anyone other than Gage, Liberty, or the therapist. The concern in Todd’s voice nearly undid me. I tried to answer, but it took forever to force a sound from my tight throat.
“Yeah,” I finally whispered. My eyes flooded, and I wiped them with my palm. “It was pretty bad.”
Then it was Todd’s turn to wait a while, before he could manage to speak. “What can I do?” he asked simply.
“You’re doing it, you’re being my friend.”
“Always.”
I knew he meant it. And it occurred to me that friendship was a lot more dependable, not to mention long-lasting, than love.
CHAPTER SEVEN
W HEN AN APARTMENT AT 1800 MAIN BECAME available, it never lasted long despite the multimillion-dollar price tag. No matter whether your place was a thousand square feet—the size of my manager’s apartment, which I loved for its coziness—or four thousand square feet, you got the best views in Houston. You also had the benefits of twenty-four-hour concierge and valet service, designer kitchens loaded with granite and quartz, Murano glass light fixtures, bathrooms with travertine floors and Roman soaking tubs, closets you could park a car in, and membership to a sixth-floor club featuring an Olympic-sized pool, a fitness center, and your own personal trainer.
Regardless of all those amenities, Gage and Liberty had moved out. Liberty was not much on high-rise living, and she and Gage had both agreed that Matthew and Carrington needed to live in a house with a yard. They had a ranch north of Houston, but it was too far from the city and Gage’s offices to be their main residence. So they had found a lot in the Tanglewood subdivision and had built a Europeanstyle home there.
Once the apartment was empty, our leasing agent, Samantha, began to show it to prospective buyers. But before anyone was able to see a place in 1800 Main, Samantha had to get a reference from a bank or law firm to make sure they were legit. “You’d be amazed,” she told me, “how many weirdos want a peek at a big fancy apartment.” She also revealed that about a third of our residents had paid cash for their apartments, at least half were business executives, and almost three quarters of them were what Samantha considered “new money” people.
About a week after I had messengered Hardy’s dry-cleaned jacket to his office, I got a call from Samantha.
She sounded tense and distracted. “Haven, I can’t make it in today. My dad had some chest pains over the weekend, and he’s in the hospital and they’re doing tests.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes.” She gave a groan. “Would you please tell Vanessa for me? I feel terrible. She made it clear we were supposed to give twenty-four-hours’ notice before taking a day off.”
“Vanessa’s gone,” I reminded her. “She took a long weekend, remember?” From what I knew, Vanessa was having a long-distance affair with a guy from Atlanta, and she went to visit him at least once a month. She wouldn’t tell anyone his name or what he did, but she had dropped heavy hints to me that he was extremely rich and powerful, and she had him wrapped around her finger, of course.
I couldn’t have cared less about who Vanessa was dating, but I tried to look impressed to keep from offending her. Vanessa seemed to expect me to be fascinated by the mundane details of her life. Sometimes she repeated the same stories, like the one about being caught in traffic, or what her masseur had said about what great shape she was in, two and three times, even when I reminded her she’d alr
eady told me. I was certain it was deliberate, although I couldn’t figure out why she did it, or why I seemed to be the only one she did this to.
“Is there anything else, Sam?” I asked.
“I would really appreciate it if you could go to my computer and print out the latest marketing plan file for Mr. Travis—he was coming by today, and he really needs to take a look at it.”
“I’ll make sure he gets it,” I said.
“And one more thing . . . there’s a guy coming to the office at nine to look at the condo. Could you show him around for me? Tell him I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, and I’ll be available by cell to answer any questions.”
“Sure. Is he qualified?”
“He’s so qualified it sort of makes me dizzy to be in the same room with him.” A dramatic sigh. “Single and loaded. Damn it! I was really looking forward to this showing. The only thing that makes me happy is knowing Vanessa won’t get to meet him either.”
I chuckled. “I’ll make sure to say some nice things to him about you.”
“Thanks. And make sure he has my cell number.”
“Got it.”
As I mulled over the phrase “single and loaded,” a funny shiver chased down my spine, and somehow . . .I knew. I knew who Mr. Single-and-Loaded was, and I wondered what the hell he was up to.
“Samantha,” I asked suspiciously, “what’s his—”
“Call waiting,” she said. “It’s Dad—I gotta go.”
The connection terminated, and I put down the phone. I went to Samantha’s computer and pulled up her schedule, just as the concierge, David, beeped on the intercom. “Samantha, Mr. Cates is here in the lobby.”
As my suspicion was confirmed, I found myself out of breath. I was simultaneously stunned, worried, and oddly amused. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. “Samantha’s not here today,” I told David. “Tell Mr. Cates that Miss Travis will be doing the showing. I’ll be down in just a minute.”
“Yes, Miss Travis.”
I did a quick, discreet check in a compact mirror, applied some tinted lip balm, and pushed the long bangs back from my forehead. I was wearing dark brown wool trousers and a matching V-neck wrap sweater. Unfortunately I had chosen flats for comfort that day. If I’d known I would see Hardy Cates, I would have worn my tallest heels to give him less of a height advantage.
I looked into Samantha’s file on Hardy and skimmed the prequalification report, and nearly dropped it as I saw the numbers. When Hardy said his company was doing “okay,” he had neglected to mention that he was in the process of becoming obscenely rich. That property in the Gulf they were getting “good play” out of must have been a major find. A really major find.
Hardy Cates was on his way to becoming a big-time oilman. I was certainly the last person who could hold that against him. My father had huge ties to the oil industry. And even my oldest brother, with his alternative energy company, hadn’t cut fossil fuels entirely from his repertoire. Sighing, I closed the file and took the elevator to the residential lobby.
Hardy was sitting in a black leather chair near the concierge’s desk, talking with David. He saw me and stood, and my heart began to thump so hard that I felt a little light-headed.
I put on a business face, a business smile, and extended a hand as I reached him.
“Mr. Cates.”
“Hello, Miss Travis.”
A hard, impersonal grip of our hands, and we stood facing each other. We might have been strangers. But there was a glint in Hardy’s eyes that drew heat to the surface of my skin.
“I’m sorry Samantha wasn’t available this morning,” I said.
“I’m not.” He swept a quick, thorough glance over me. “Thanks for returning the jacket. You didn’t have to have it cleaned.”
That certainly got David’s attention. He looked from one of us to the other with indiscreet interest.
“I’m afraid all I’m going to be able to do,” I said to Hardy briskly, “is take you on an initial walk-through so you can get an idea of what the apartment looks like. I’m not a leasing agent, so Samantha’s the only one who can answer your questions definitively.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to answer any questions I’ve got.”
We went to the elevator, and a pair of women walked out, one older, one around my age. They looked like a mother and daughter heading out to do some shopping. As I got into the elevator and turned to face out, I saw that both women had glanced back for a better look at Hardy.
I had to admit, the man looked amazing in jeans. The ancient denim clung lightly to his hips and followed the long lines of some remarkable thigh muscles. And although I made a point of not checking out his rear view, my peripheral vision was having a very good day.
I pushed the button for the eighteenth floor. As the elevator whooshed up, we occupied separate corners.
Hardy studied me with frank interest. His blue cashmere sweater lay softly over the hard lines of his torso. “I appreciate you taking some time out for me today, Miss Travis.”
I decided we had to go on a first-name basis. He’d started to say “Miss Travis” with a touch of overdone respect that bordered on mockery. “You can call me Haven,” I muttered.
“Haven,” he repeated. The sound of my name in that melted-tar drawl gave me a pang of uneasy pleasure.
“What are you doing here?” I asked tersely. “Are you really interested in this condo?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I saw your address on the prequalification form. You’re at Post Oak right now. I don’t see why you’d want to move from there.”
“I’m only leasing that place,” he said evenly. “I haven’t bought it. And I like this location better.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You know who used to live in this apartment, right?”
“Your brother and sister-in-law. So what?”
“So I think there’s something weird about you wanting to move into Gage and Liberty’s old place.”
“You got another apartment available, I’ll look at that one too.”
We stepped out of the elevator into the H-shaped layout of corridors, all serene in varying shades of cream and gray. I turned to face Hardy, the air between us nearly crackling with challenge. “Eighteen hundred Main isn’t that much better than Post Oak,” I said. “In fact, in terms of bang for the buck, you’re probably better off staying where you are.”
Hardy lifted a brow, looking amused. “Are you trying out some new kind of sales tactic on me?”
“No. I’m wondering what your ulterior motive is.”
“What’s your best guess?”
I stared straight into those fathomless eyes. “I think you’ve got some leftover hang-up about my sister-in-law.”
Hardy’s smile fled. “You’re way off on that one, honey. We never even slept together. I wish Liberty all the best, but I don’t want her that way.” He stepped closer, not touching me, but I felt like he was just about to . . . well, I didn’t know what. I felt a nervous chill chase down my back. “So take another guess,” he said. “You can’t keep me out of here if you can’t come up with a good reason for it.”
I stepped back from him and took a shaky breath. “You’re a hellraiser,” I said. “That’s a pretty good reason.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I got all that out of my system in my twenties.”
“You look like you’ve still got some left in you.”
“No, ma’am. I’m completely tame.”
I had an inkling of what he must have been like as a naughty schoolboy, trying to convince his teacher of his innocence. And his sneaky charm was so irresistible that I had to turn away to hide a smile. “Sure you are,” I said, leading him to the apartment.
Stopping at the door, I began to punch numbers into the combination touch pad. I was suffused with an intense awareness of Hardy, so big and solid beside me. There was that scent again, insanely distracting.
I punched the last button, barely aware of
what I was doing. Although I had used the combination pad a thousand times while I’d stayed there with Gage and Liberty, I must have hit a wrong number. Instead of clicking open, the lock emitted a series of beeps.
“Sorry,” I said breathlessly, trying to look anywhere but at him. “I pushed the wrong buttons. When that happens, it takes a few seconds to clear and reset. You can change the combination to any number you—”
“Haven,” he said quietly, and waited until I could bring myself to look up at him.
I gripped the door handle as if hanging on for dear life. I had to clear my throat before I could make a sound. “Wh-what?”
“Why do I make you so nervous?” His voice was soft, reaching inside me to a raw, tender place. A mocking smile touched his lips. “You afraid I’m going to make a move on you?”
I couldn’t answer. I can’t stand this, I thought desperately. Heat washed over me, color layering on color. My heart worked in painful beats. All I could do was stare at Hardy without blinking, my back pressing against the door while he bent over me. He moved closer, imparting the pressure of his body until I felt the touch of hard muscle in several places at once. I closed my eyes, mortified by the rapid gusts of my breathing.
“Then let’s get it over with,” Hardy murmured, “so you’ll stop worrying.”
His dark head bent. He eased his mouth over mine. I put my fists between us, my arms clasped over my chest in a tight blockade. I couldn’t make myself push him away, but neither could I let him hold me full-on. His arms went around me, the embrace firm but gentle, as if he were being mindful not to crush me. Our breath mingled, heat surging in restless rhythms.
His mouth shifted, catching at my top lip, then the lower one, opening them. Every time I thought the kiss might stop, it went on longer, deeper, and the back of my throat tingled as if I were being fed something sweet. I felt the silken stroke of his tongue . . . a soft taste . . . another . . . I went weak against him, dissolving in sensation.