Divine Design (3 page)

“You mean you’ve finished?” he asked, his brows raising with interest.

“Yes. Thank heavens,” she said, leaning back in her chair again, oddly breathless.

“Will you join me for a drink then?” he asked, also returning to a relaxed position, aware that he was hoping very hard she would stay. Sometime during the last few minutes she had lost that shy, uncertain air. Her eyes had taken on a look of self-assuredness, and she was smiling in a shrewd, knowing manner. Michael was intrigued.

“Again, thank you, but I really can’t.” She paused briefly and gave him a very special smile. “I do thank you for answering those awkward questions though,” she said as she gathered her things and prepared to leave. The last question on her list that she had not asked was whether or not, as a conventioneer, he would have a brief fling if the opportunity arose. It was a superfluous question at this point. She already knew that she was going to do all in her power to have him.

“Are you a sociologist then?” Michael asked, ignoring her readiness to leave, wanting to know more about her.

“No,” she admitted, “but I’m in a related field, and the subject of the individual human being in society has always interested me,” and felt good at being truthful with him.

“You enjoy your work. That’s good. So many people don’t,” he said, for no real purpose other than to keep her talking about herself.

Meghan studied him thoughtfully. He looked tired. Lines of fatigue etched his face, and his eyelids drooped over blood-shot eyes, even as said orbs danced with friendliness and interest.

“Life is too short to do something you don’t like, just as it’s too short not to fill it with all the things you want to do, or have, or be,” she said sincerely.

“I agree,” Michael solidly confirmed. His eyes narrowed slightly as he sat across from her, each of them measuring, speculating, forming opinions of the other. So what if she didn’t dress to do her beauty justice; she was thoughtful and intelligent … and not at all shy, he determined as he watched her boldly assess his own features. This woman was different. She didn’t seem to be at all aware of her good looks, or if she was, it didn’t matter to her. She gave the impression of someone who enjoyed living and fulfilling her life to her own satisfaction, as opposed to someone who simply floated through her existence, dreaming but never achieving. This woman achieved.

“You’re not a native New Yorker,” he stated more than questioned.

“No,” she said, and grinned. “I developed my twang in Boston, but I’ve lived in New York for so long, people hardly notice it anymore. Strange the way people adapt to their surroundings,” she speculated. “Even their voices change. However, I do think that drawl of yours would be very hard to alter, even after living in New York,” she added with a warm-hearted laugh.

“Again, I agree with you,” he said with a nod of his head and a good-natured laugh. “But then, we Texans tend to hold on to things once we got ’em,” Michael informed Meghan in a thicker-than-thick stage drawl.

“Well, that’s good, because I like it,” she confessed, still smiling happily as she made her move to leave him. “I really have to go, but thanks again for being such a good sport about the questionnaire. I enjoyed talking with you,” she said, holding out her hand in a friendly gesture.

Neither was prepared for the small flash of sparks that flew when Michael took Meghan’s hand. Their arms tingled in the aftermath of the shock; their eyes registered their wonderment. They were silent for several seconds.

“There’s no way I could talk you into staying a little longer?” he asked hopefully.

Meghan gave a regretful shrug. “I’m sorry. But maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.” It was more of a promise than a prophecy.

“I’d like that. And I wish you luck on your project,” Michael said, knowing he’d kick himself later for letting her get away.

“Thank you,” she replied sincerely, standing to leave. “It will make me very happy if it turns out the way I’m hoping it will.”

A short time later the waitress approached Michael.

“Would you like another?” she asked politely, cataloging his good looks with interest.

He considered having another drink. He felt restless, disconcerted, and strangely exasperated. It was that woman, that redhead. He didn’t even know her name. The Red-Headed Woman With No Name. It sounded like the title of a B movie. He kept picturing her walking toward him with that alluring sway of her hips. In the next sequence, her glasses were gone, and her glorious red hair hung in waves to the middle of her back. Subsequently, she sauntered toward him in nothing but a black teddy. At this point his heart would race and he’d feel definite signs of quickening in his body. Then the film would begin again in his mind.

He glanced up and realized the waitress was waiting for his answer. Maybe another drink would destroy the haunting memory. … Then again, he was so tired and the two drinks he’d already had had relaxed him considerably. If he drank any more, the Red-Headed Woman would come riding in on a pink elephant.

“No. Thanks. I’ll just finish this one,” he said morosely.

In the ladies’ room just outside the cocktail lounge, Meghan had removed her glasses and jacket, changed shoes and was unbraiding her hair in front of the large mirror.

Second, third, and fourth thoughts of carrying out her self-imposed assignment riddled her conscience. The man was perfect. Wonderful genes. A stranger from out of town. He fit the bill exactly. Going to bed with him wouldn’t be too painful, either, Meghan thought wryly. As a bonus, he was dead on his feet with exhaustion. He would probably pass out immediately afterward and there wouldn’t be any uncomfortable scenes.

“Have you thought about a man’s right to know about his own children?” came Lucy’s voice, honest and frank.

“Damn,” Meghan said aloud, pulling a brush from her bag and dragging it through her tight waves of hair.

A sleazy character had been out of the question from the beginning. She had pictured a decent looking, egotistical but essentially harmless womanizer. A faceless, walking, talking spermmobile of sorts. But this nice, honorable man?

He had probably never slain a dragon or settled a violent labor dispute single-handedly. He may never have been an Eagle Scout or given a quarter to a stranger for a phone call, but Meghan felt he wouldn’t hesitate to do so. He had integrity. It showed in his face and the way he carried himself. He was a good man. Wasn’t he?

Guilt and uncertainty warred with her own wants and needs and rights. Childishly, she pouted that it didn’t seem fair that the man played such a large part in the creation of a baby when it was the woman who did all the work. She fortified herself, thinking that one little spark in a man’s eye could bloat a woman’s body, cause her the untold pain of delivery, and give her a lifetime of moral, physical, mental, and emotional responsibilities.

Calmly, she asked herself, “Do you really want a baby?” “Yes,” she answered. “So when will a more perfect subject come along again?” Meghan could tell her muse was all for going ahead with the plan. And she was right. The chances of the right man and the right time coming together again at a convenient place were almost nil.

In two and a half hours or less she’d be home and in her own bed. He’d wake up in the morning, get on a plane, and never look back. He’d never even know what hit him. She had no intentions of hurting the man in any way. What he didn’t know, couldn’t hurt him. But what she didn’t know about him, could hurt her, came her hundredth thought. Under normal circumstances, she’d trust her first instincts about a person without question. But this was far from a normal situation even for Meghan on one of her more outlandish days, of which there had been several in years gone by. Was she so desperate to have a baby that she’d delude herself into going to bed with a gorgeous murderer? Could she trust her nearly faultless instincts in a case such as this?

Loath though she was to admit it, there was a way for her to be certain. Daphne Alexander. Meghan rolled her eyes in dread and dismay. It was better to be safe than sorry.

Finishing her transformation, she hurriedly found a quarter. For authenticity and to avert suspicion, she used the pay phone rather than the house phone to call the main desk.

She chewed on her lower lip anxiously while she prayed Daphne was still in the Essex and able to hear the page.

“Hello,” rang Daphne’s sugar-sweet voice over the line moments later.

“Ms. Alexander,” Meghan started enthusiastically, “This is Meghan Shay. I understand you called.”

“I did?” Daphne asked, her tone vague.

“That’s the message I got from my secretary,” she said simply, inferring her secretary had better things to do than make up false messages.

“Well, I did call once, at your office,” the society darling admitted, still confused, “but that was about two months ago.”

“How may I help you?” Meghan said, as if a two month waiting period were customary, glad she hadn’t returned Daphne’s call earlier. It was strange the way things always had a way of working themselves out, Meghan decided philosophically.

“How did you know where to reach me at this time of night?” the not-so-stupid debutante asked.

“Ah …” Meghan had to think quick. “I was on my way out of the Essex a little while ago and saw you. I knew you wouldn’t have called me at the office unless it was important, so when I got home, I thought I’d try to reach you there. Have I interrupted something?” she asked politely, humoring the girl.

“Actually, I, …” Daphne paused. Apparently deciding the information she’d wanted two months ago was still important enough to preempt whatever she was doing at the moment, she continued, “I called to see if you’d enjoyed the party at the Clarensons’. They’re such lovely people and always make their guests feel so comfortable.”

“Yes, they are,” agreed Meghan, frowning disjointedly. “I had a lovely time.”

“I suppose that handsome young man you were with had something to do with that as well,” Daphne mentioned none too discreetly.

A sly, knowing smile curved Meghan’s lips. “Tim? Oh, yes, he’s a doll. A really nice person,” she said with enthusiasm.

“Have you known him long?” Daphne asked.

“No, not really, but I wish I had time to get to know him better. I’m just so busy, I never seem to find time for dating. And men like Tim don’t come along every day,” Meghan responded with just the right amount of wistfulness. “I saw for myself that that isn’t the case for you though. I saw you hugging that enormous man in the lobby of the Essex a little while ago. He was nothing to spit at,” Meghan said teasingly, but in fact she was very truthful.

“Oh, him. You’re right. He isn’t anything to ignore, but he’s very picky. He’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but he doesn’t … play around much, if you know what I mean. He likes to joke around, but he’s real serious about his publishing company and keeps his private life … private.”

“He’s antisocial?” concluded Meghan, her mind suspicious.

“Not at all,” rushed Daphne, unaware that her brain was being picked almost clean. “It’s just that he doesn’t run with our crowd even though he’s been invited often enough. When he’s not behind his desk, he’s into horses and cows and sports and staying healthy. Things like that,” she explained, as if “things like that” were terribly low class interests. “But basically, he’s a really nice guy.”

The self-satisfied grin and devilish glint in Meghan’s eyes would have terrified the calmest soul. “He certainly was handsome,” she reiterated.

“Oh, yes, he is that, but so was that Tim you were with at the Clarensons’. What was his last name again? I’ve forgotten.” Daphne was nothing if not obvious.

Tim Brogan wasn’t a particularly close friend of Meghan’s; she hardly knew him. How would she know whether Daphne wasn’t just exactly the type of woman he was looking for? It wouldn’t be like feeding him to the wolves; he could always say no for himself.

“Brogan,” Meghan stated quickly, before she changed her mind. After all, she sort of owed Daphne one. “Tim Brogan. He’s in real estate development and making a killing at it, from all accounts.”

“How interesting,” Daphne cooed. Meghan could almost see the saliva dripping from Daphne’s fangs and suddenly felt sorry for poor Tim.

“Thank you for calling, Daphne. I’ve enjoyed talking to you, but I have to run,” Meghan said, unable to resist the temptation to scatter Daphne’s thoughts once more.

“It was my pleasure, Meghan. We’ll talk again soon,” replied Daphne, none the worse for wear.

Meghan could only shake her head disbelievingly as she hung up the phone. Then she settled her attention firmly on the task at hand. Reassured that her good judgment was intact, she set out to complete phase one.

M
ICHAEL WAS NEARLY
finished with his drink, which was now more melted ice than scotch. Why he was still sitting there sipping warm scotch-flavored water, he didn’t know. He was so tired that he was contemplating taking a cab up to his room. At least the movie was over. He heaved a long sigh of relief.

Or was it? There she was again, coming from the direction of the lobby this time. Whoa! The film had been tampered with. It was her vamp scene—hair down, no glasses, sexy clothes, the seductive sway in excellent form.

His lips parted in a silent gasp. He took in her every nuance as she came to a standstill at his elbow. So beautiful, so real looking.

“Is that offer for a drink still good?” she asked in a low, soft, sultry voice.

He could only nod dumbly. She circled behind him and took the seat near his left arm. She gracefully crossed her long legs, her skirt rising up temptingly. There was a small inviting smile on her lips and an age-old glint in her eyes.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he’d fallen asleep in a cocktail lounge, but all he could do was pray that the barmaid didn’t wake him up.

Michael had heard of sexual fantasies such as this. Dreams that seemed so real, you woke up sweating and breathless and exhausted. He wasn’t complaining. This one had far more electricity and excitement in it than the one he had as a teenager, in which a half-naked woman rode across his grandfather’s range on an Appaloosa horse. He supposed it was his turn to say something. Without a script, he improvised with the first thing that came to mind.