Lone Star Wedding (12 page)

She wondered if he'd realized he was missing his jacket. Surely, he would have noticed it when he undressed last night. Opening her desk drawer, she rummaged through notes and receipts until she found the business card she'd
tucked inside weeks ago. She slipped the card into her purse. Without stopping to analyze her actions, she put a Closed sign in the window, and hurried out the back door to her car.

She arrived at the offices of Malone, Malone & Associates shortly before one o'clock. The office was exactly what she'd expected. Lots of glass, gleaming wood, and polished brass. Quiet, posh, very upper-crust. The reception area was filled with a vast array of flower arrangements, but the receptionist's chair was empty. The nameplate on the desk read Adalaide Smith. Wondering if Adalaide had gone to lunch, Hannah decided to surprise Parker. She skirted the desk, and opened a heavy glass door at the end of a wide hallway.

“What the hell kind of woman refuses flowers?”

“It's not as uncommon as you think, J.D.”

She paused at the sound of the voices carrying to her ears.

“You're going to have to try another approach.”

She recognized one of the voices as Parker's. Obviously the other baritone belonged to J.D.

“Or perhaps face the fact that she isn't interested,” Parker said.

“Oh, she wants me. She just doesn't know it yet.”

Hannah moved to take the first step into the hall just as J.D. said, “At least one of us is getting on well with the opposite sex. You seem to be making headway with the Cassidy woman.”

Hannah froze.

“Headway?” It was Parker's voice again.

“Don't be obtuse, Parker. Have you gotten close enough to her to convince her to work with us in obtaining a signature on that prenuptial agreement between her mother and Ryan?”

Realization sliced through Hannah. She didn't know whether to storm forward or retreat.

“May I help you?”

She glanced over her shoulder as a gray-haired woman slid behind her desk. Closing the door quietly, Hannah shook her head. She smoothed a hand over the suit jacket on her arm, and forced words past the lump in her throat. “This belongs to Parker.”

The woman's expression gave little away. “I'll see if he's left for lunch yet.”

“He hasn't left.” Hannah handed the coat to the woman on her way by.

“Are you a client of Mr. Malone's?”

“What?” Oh. Hannah shook her head.

“A friend then?”

“Apparently not.”

Rather than stick around to explain, Hannah rushed out into the midday heat. She didn't stop until she'd reached her car. Even then, she didn't look back.

 

“A delivery for you, Mr. Malone.”

Parker, J.D., and Dale Minskie, an intense junior partner, all turned their heads at ninety-degree angles, but it was J.D. who spoke to Adalaide.

“Not another returned floral arrangement.”

She shook her head, leveling her gaze at Parker. “I believe this is yours.”

Parker took the jacket from Adalaide's outstretched hand. “Is Hannah Cassidy here?”

“Hannah Cassidy? Is that who she was?”

Was? Parker rushed out into the reception area. “She left?”

“Yes. In quite a hurry.”

“Why—”

“It's hard to say,” Adalaide quipped. “Perhaps she had another appointment. Or perhaps it was something she overheard.”

Parker didn't like the sound of that. Adalaide Smith had worked for the law firm of Malone, Malone & Associates for ten years, and ran the office the way a captain ran a tight ship. Practically old enough to be his grandmother, Adalaide was normally pleasant. Right now, she was looking at him as if he were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

He could well imagine what Hannah had overheard. A judge would have ruled it hearsay, circumstantial evidence at best. Parker happened to know hearsay could be very incriminating.

All four of them looked up when the outer door opened. When a delivery man carried in yet another flower arrangement, it was J.D. who sputtered, “Oh, hell.”

Eyeing the jacket folded neatly over Adalaide's arm, Parker ran a hand through his hair, trying to think. He had a business lunch with a very rich client in twenty-five minutes. Setting things right with Hannah was going to have to wait.

He started for the door, only to pause and call over his shoulder. “Adalaide, call Everett Krizanski and ask him to meet me at The Pink Flamingo instead of at the Hillcrest. You can reach me on my cellular phone if necessary.”

“The Pink Flamingo?”

“Yes, it's on Smith Street.”

The door swung shut on Adalaide's, “Yes, sir.”

W
ith her pencil poised over her notebook, Hannah punched the proper buttons, then raised the telephone to her ear. She listened to the recorded spiel and pressed the appropriate buttons, only to listen to the music playing on the other end for a few seconds. In no mood to be left on hold indefinitely, she hung up.

She'd only been back in the boutique for fifteen minutes, and already she'd conferred with a caterer, double-checked a cake order, reserved a hall for an anniversary party, and booked a clown for a four-year-old's birthday party. At this rate she was going to get out of work on time today. There was nothing like disappointment threaded with hurt and dashed with self-recriminations to increase a person's productivity.

She didn't jump when the door opened, but she paused for a moment when her gaze met Parker's. It wasn't that she hadn't been expecting him. She just hadn't expected him so soon.

“I understand you stopped by my office.”

He took the attorney's approach, walking in as if he owned the place. Fine. That didn't mean she had to play the witness. She could have come back with a snippy reply, but snideness wasn't her style. Sometimes, she wished it was. Suddenly tired, she said, “You don't need me to produce Exhibit A or Exhibit B. If you didn't know I
stopped by your office, you wouldn't be here now, would you?”

He made no reply.

Taking a deep breath, she asked, “What are you doing here, Parker?”

“Everybody deserves a fair trial, Hannah.”

She was a little surprised by the anger in his voice. Two lines formed between his eyes as he watched her. For a long moment she simply looked back at him.

He strode closer, stopping near the corner of her desk. “I'm keeping a very rich client waiting.”

And yet he made no move to hurry, or to leave. Keeping a tight rein on her senses just in case she felt compelled to give in and allow herself to actually feel honored that he was gracing her with his presence, she said, “I heard what your father said, Parker.”

“And what did you hear me say?”

She didn't want to repeat what she'd heard. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Let's just say I overheard your reference to prenuptial agreements, and leave it at that.”

“The voices you're referring to belonged to J.D. and Dale Minskie.” He let her mull it over for a few seconds. And then he said, “Dale is young and intense. He reminds me of me a few years ago. As far as J.D. goes, well, maybe this proves that a lot of people are right about him. But it doesn't prove anything else.”

Had there been three separate voices? She tried to recall the inflection and tone of each. She opened her desk drawer and dropped a pen inside. It gave her something to do with her hands. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to occupy her mind. She'd jumped to conclusions in Parker's office. That alone proved that she cared about him more than she wanted to admit.

“Are you saying my mother's relationship with Ryan
has nothing to do with you, or me? Or more specifically, you and me?”

“That's one way to put it. Have I mentioned Ryan's prenuptial agreement lately?” he asked. She looked up at him, but he didn't give her a chance to answer. “And have I done anything which could be construed as coercing you, or convincing you to side with me when it comes to your mother's relationship with Ryan?”

“Well, I can't—”

Again he interrupted her. “What do you see when you look at me?”

This time she made no move to answer immediately. She studied him unhurriedly. He was sitting on the corner of her desk, the fabric of his dress slacks stretched over one muscled thigh. What did she see?

She saw a man whose ruggedness couldn't be hidden behind expensive suits, a man whose intelligence couldn't be masked in a blank stare, a man whose gaze kept straying to her lips, as if he was enthralled by what he saw.

If it was a ploy to soften her resolve, it was working. Tracing a paper clip with one finger, she said, “I see a very cunning divorce attorney.”

“That's what I do. Not who I am.”

She borrowed his technique, and continued as if he hadn't spoken. “I see a man who scares me.”

“I don't mean to scare you, Hannah.”

“I see a man who elicits emotions from me, and reactions, and feelings I don't want to feel.”

“Then we're even.”

“I honestly doubt that, Parker.”

“Do you think you have the market cornered on honesty? I'm not dishonest, Hannah. Okay, I'm not saying I never lie. But there's only one thing I've ever lied about to you.”

“You've lied to me?”

He found his feet, and circled her desk, his eyes on her all the while. “If I've lied, it's been a lie of omission.”

She had the presence of mind to remain quiet, when her every impulse screamed for her to parrot his last three words.

“It has to do with our relationship.”

“In what way?” She watched him closely.

“What did you call it? Oh, yes. Friendship.”

In a movement so quick and precise it left her no time to resist, he slipped his hands around her, pulling her to her feet, and in the process, firmly against him.

“Parker, what are—”

His mouth covered hers. As far as answers went, it was extremely direct.

She felt a fast little jolt of excitement, followed by a rousing dose of desire. She'd dreamed of kissing Parker last night. Real life was so much better than dreams, for the man in her dream had been hazy. The man with his arms wrapped around her was solid, hard, real.

Her arms found their way around his back; her lips moved beneath his. Noses bumped, chins rasped, breaths mingled. It was a far cry from the carefully choreographed kisses in the movies. This kiss was hungry, demanding, explosive.

Parker was a hard man. It was what she'd expected. Steel. And heat. His softness surprised her, tricked her, into softening in return. Her mouth opened, her lips clung. All the while, he was sliding his hands down her back. Spreading his fingers wide, he seemed to be memorizing the feel of her, the texture of muscles covered by soft flesh.

Her thoughts went spinning, the moment fast burning out of control. She was melting, one cell at a time. The softness in his lips cajoled, the warmth in his fingertips made her swoon. Suddenly he brought her hips hard
against him. Oh, yes, it was a surprise, and a trick. And she reveled in it, all of it.

With an agonized moan, he dragged his mouth from hers, kissing her cheek, her chin, the hollow below her ear. “Do you still think it's prudent to consider us just friends?”

Her eyes opened, focusing on a satin bow lying on a chest of drawers near the back of the boutique. She thought it was interesting that he'd used the word prudent, because there had been nothing prudent about that kiss.

“I'll rephrase the question. Do you kiss all your male friends the way you just kissed me?”

His voice was a deep rasp in her ear. It tickled, but it wasn't the reason for her small smile. She could have told him that
she
hadn't kissed him; he'd kissed her. He
had
started it. But that was just semantics. No matter who'd started it, she'd returned his kisses, willingly and eagerly. If he hadn't stopped, she would be kissing him still.

“Well?” he asked.

She straightened slightly, putting a few inches between them. Even in remembrance, she felt the intimacy of his kiss. “I can't think of any off the top of my head. Friends that I've kissed like that, that is.”

She'd almost taken an entire step away from him when he graced her with his smile. Her gaze caught on his mouth, and her backward retreat came to an end.

“Then you agree that there's potentially more between us than friendship.”

She could think of no response.

With a maddening, even tone of voice, he said, “What do you propose to do about it?”

“Do?”

He nodded.

“I don't know. I haven't had time to think about it.”

“This isn't a thinking situation. It requires action, and reaction. And time spent together. You. And me. What are you doing right now?”

“Now?” Her thoughts spun all over again. Shaking her head to clear it, she said, “I have an appointment with a bride at two. And you have a rich client waiting for you.”

Accustomed to having people wait for him, he made no move to hurry. “What about tonight? Are you free then?”

She nodded, and he backed from the room.

“I'll call you. Until tonight, Hannah.”

Yes, Hannah thought, watching him go. Until tonight. But what then?

 

Hannah rummaged through her oversize leather bag, hurriedly searching for a clasp or an elastic band to use to secure her hair away from her face, and out of the wind streaming over the windshield of Parker's car. He'd offered to put the top up, but she didn't want him to. Riding in a convertible was exhilarating.

True to his word, he'd called her in the middle of the afternoon. Asking pointed questions about her likes and dislikes, they'd discovered that they both enjoyed the symphony. Unfortunately, it was too late to obtain tickets for this evening's performance. There were several tourist attractions in San Antonio, from water parks to roller coasters to comedy clubs. They'd decided on a quiet stroll through the Botanical Gardens. She'd already changed into an airy summer dress when he arrived. He, on the other hand, had just come from a meeting with a private investigator, and had insisted that it would only take him a few minutes to shower and change back at his place.

For all practical intents and purposes, they were just two people enjoying a ride in an expensive car on a warm July evening. Why, then, did it feel so extraordinary?

Parker turned his head in her direction, his eyes hidden from her view by a pair of dark sunglasses. He was good-looking, but there was nothing unusual about the cut of his dark hair or the angle of his chin. It wasn't surprising to see tanned skin in the middle of summer, and his expensive suit and imported tie weren't much different than a thousand other affluent men's clothing. Still, there was something unique about Parker, something as elusive as it was inviting.

Hannah had always believed that people's houses said a lot about the people who lived in them. She was curious to see what Parker's house said about him. They were heading north on Highway 281. The suburbs here had names that ended with Hills or Heights. Less prestigious and expensive than the houses and estates in The Dominion and Hollywood Park, the homes in this area were still pricey.

Parker turned right, and then left, and then left again onto Ridgewood Drive. “Here we are,” he said, pulling into a concrete driveway beside a large, two-story house.

She got out of the car on her side, and preceded him along a sidewalk and through the door he held for her. She turned in a half circle in the high-ceilinged foyer. “It's…beautiful.”

“But?”

“I mean it. It truly is beautiful.”

He riffled through the mail on an ornate hall table, then led the way into the adjoining living room. “I bought it for its resalability factor.”

Some of Hannah's fondest memories were of growing up in her parents' cozy, comfortable old house in the nearby small town of Leather Bucket. Her apartment over the store was small, too, but it was charming, and certainly
convenient to work. When she could afford a house, she wouldn't buy it for its resalability factor.

Folding her arms close to her body, she strolled to the other side of the room where a collection of sculptures was displayed on a marble table. She suspected Parker had used the same interior decorator his father had used. She wouldn't go so far as to call either house cozy, but Parker's held hints into his personality. There were photographs, an antique law book, a golf trophy, magazines, and a fica plant that had dropped several leaves.

She picked up a framed photo of Parker's father. Setting it down again, she said, “At least J.D. finally stopped sending Adrienne flowers.”

“He had little choice.”

She hadn't realized Parker was standing directly behind her until he'd spoken. “What do you mean?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

“The office was beginning to look like a funeral parlor. She won't accept his flowers, and she won't take his calls.”

Hannah nodded. She'd been in Adrienne's office the first time J.D. had called this morning. Adrienne had answered, then promptly hung up. After that, she'd had the help screen her calls. “Everyone at The Pink Flamingo is talking about it, wondering what the legendary J. D. Malone will try next.”

“I don't remember the last time J.D. openly pursued a woman. Lately, I can't seem to remember the last time I did, either.”

She turned to face him, the look in his eyes as warm as his voice. “Is that what you're doing?”

“You and I both know what I'm doing.”

Hannah was pretty sure her heart had risen to her throat. That would explain the fluttering sensation she felt there.
Parker could turn her inside out with a look, but when he turned that directness on her, and unleashed his “barely there” smile, her knees went weak and her resistance turned to mush.

Parker veered a little to the right, slowly moving closer. Attraction flared inside him. He'd always had a good imagination, but it was nothing compared to the memory of how Hannah had felt in his arms earlier. It had wreaked havoc with his concentration all day. Her body had fit his so perfectly. He would have liked to lower her to the carpet, to roll her underneath him, and finish what they'd started. But he wouldn't, at least not yet.

“Is this where you offer to show me your etchings?” she whispered.

“I don't etch.”

“Are you telling me I'm safe with you?”

As one moment stretched to two, his gaze traveled over her. “Are you flirting with me, Hannah?”