Pink Satin (10 page)

She slipped on the bottom of her swimsuit, then turned away as she put on the halter, her fingers all thumbs, slippery, clumsy. Only when she was covered again did she steal another look at Ryan.

He was still lying there on the bed. One of his legs was bent at the knee, he’d pushed both pillows behind his head and he appeared as unaware of his nakedness as she was of how naked she suddenly felt. His eyes were on hers, spears of blue that pierced her skin, her mind, her heart. He was trying to guess…things. Things she didn’t want him to know.

Had he found her wanting?
Did
he find her wanting? And if he did, that was nothing less than what she should have expected. Greer felt a sudden disastrous urge to cry. Not a tear here and there, but a burst of them.

***

Slowly, Ryan sat up, and then stood, still watching her. She was acting as if this were a one-night stand, for which he would have shaken her…if she’d been anyone but Greer. Greer was an irrational, damnably incomprehensible, totally illogical woman, but he could sense that she was ready to burst into tears and that to push her was to risk losing her.

He considered slamming his fist into the wall, and put on his swimming trunks instead. He didn’t have the least idea what had gone wrong for her. Maybe it was the motel. Maybe it was too soon. Her ex-husband?

It was there, between them. Wanting. Love. Caring. All of the things that mattered. Ryan would have slain dragons for her, but Greer didn’t let anyone slay her dragons for her.

They drove home in silence, stopping for hamburgers along the way. Greer curled up on the seat next to him, wrapped in a towel as if she were cold, even though the night air was muggy and he was waiting—
needing
—to reach out and hold her. Halfway home, he gave in to the blasted impulse, reached an arm around her shoulder, and tugged.

She settled willingly with her head on his shoulder for the rest of the ride. Whatever her emotional state of mind, the tension in her body gradually dissolved. He flicked on a bluesey CD e, because she’d clearly liked R&B.. He played it low, and over the miles felt her body ultimately relax in sheer exhausted sleep.

At home, he switched off the ignition and sat in the car holding her. His arm was stiff, folded around her. He wanted to leave it there. The night was pitch-dark except for the apartment’s floodlight. A ray zigzagged across Greer’s cheek, her shoulder, one bare white breast that her swimming top couldn’t hide, not in that position. Desire stirred in him, a deep, powerful desire to make love to her again.

And a second time she wouldn’t get away with pretending. A second time he would send her over the edge, whether she wanted it or not. A second time he’d listen to his own instincts, not to the messages she sent him. He wasn’t a psychologist and didn’t want to be. He cared less why Greer had behaved the way she had than that he’d been blind enough to let it happen, when he’d wanted to ensure that their lovemaking was good for her. There would be a second time. Earthquakes and hurricanes wouldn’t stop there being a second time.

But not, unfortunately, this evening. He opened the car door. She murmured. He got out first, still leaning over to hold her so she wouldn’t fall, and then lifted her legs out, snaking his arms around her waist.

“Did I fall asleep?” she murmured groggily.

“No.” For the first time in hours, he smiled. Greer was limp lettuce, draped over his shoulders, her bare toes grazing the ground and her eyes still closed. Ryan slammed the car door. “Where’s your key, love?”

“Flowerpot.”

“Pardon?”

She waved an arm in the general direction of the moon. “Flowerpot.”

He gathered she kept an apartment key in that wrought-iron urn in the hall. He’d figured out a while back that it was her urn and geraniums anyway. And if he’d known she’d pick such an obvious place to put a spare apartment key, he would probably have throttled her.

It didn’t seem the time. She kissed his neck as he walked in. Both of her arms stayed loosely draped around him. Her feet marginally obeyed the learned impulse to walk. He simply lifted her up the steps.

“I’m awake,” she announced again at the door.

“Good,” he murmured as he opened it, keeping her propped up with his other arm. “Because we’re about to have a small discussion, Greer.”

The cat leaped at them in the dark, meowing furiously. Ryan switched on a light, nearly dropped his leggy bundle in the process and with a sigh, picked Greer up in his arms.

“Truce,” she murmured. “Hungry.”

“And since we’re having this complicated intellectual discussion,” Ryan whispered, making his way with her through the dark hallway, “I thought I’d mention that I’ve taken over your crank caller, sweet. All arguments are worthless. Don’t bother.”

“Mmm.”

He meant to place her gently on the bed. It ended up as more of a flop than a gentle laying down, but Greer didn’t seem to mind. The faint light from the living room was enough, once his pupils adjusted to the dark. “I thought you’d see it my way,” he whispered soothingly, as he tenderly peeled off her swimsuit. “You’ve been afraid too long, Greer. And you’ve had reason to know fear in these last months. But I’ll be damned if you’re going to be afraid of
me.
And I’ll be doubly damned before I sit still and watch you take on the entire world alone again. And don’t argue.”

He sensed rather than saw her eyes blink open. “Ryan?”

“Go back to sleep.”

“What are you do—”

He tossed the suit on the floor. Before she could blink, he’d folded her in her sheet and blanket. He hesitated then, his palm close to her cheek, the need to touch her one last time irresistible. His fingers trailed the line of her cheekbone, brushed into her hair. “You want me to stay, Greer?” he whispered.

There was silence. Amazing, how much physical hurt he could feel, just like that, just that sharp and searing.

His hand dropped and he straightened.

The cat was waiting for him in the hall. Swearing silently under his breath, he foraged in Greer’s kitchen cupboards until he found the cat food, then filled Truce’s dish. The cat attacked the first bite as if starved, looked up and promptly wound himself around Ryan’s legs with a thunderous purr.

Warmth clearly rated over hunger. Ryan petted the cat, crouched on Greer’s kitchen floor in the semidarkness. At that moment, the feline struck him as remarkably like Greer. Greer, too, craved warmth, physical contact, touch and affection. And denied the existence of hunger. The very natural hunger that was an extension of affection, as natural as breathing.

The cat wasn’t interested in his comparison. For fifteen minutes, Ryan stroked Truce, until he was finally sated enough to bounce soundlessly back to the food bowl, purring like a Mercedes. Ryan straightened. “Why do I get the impression that you’ll be on the foot of her bed within five minutes of my leaving here?” he murmured dryly, and then moved toward the door.

He spotted the phone en route, silently took it off its hook and placed a couch pillow over it. The cat, fool that it was, followed him. “Go back and eat,” he ordered it quietly, “and then you go right ahead and sleep with Greer. I’m warning you now, though, that your days are numbered.”

The cat didn’t seem impressed.

He let himself out of the apartment, crossed the hall and stuck a key in his own lock. “I’m talking to cats now,” he muttered dourly. “That woman has a lot to answer for.”

Soon,
his mind echoed silently.

“Greer?”

Marie’s high-pitched voice caught Greer in midstride. She backed up two paces to the open door of the finishing room. Marie frantically motioned her inside.

“I’ve been waiting to catch you all day. I want to show you something.”

It was that kind of Monday. All day Greer had tried to hide behind her desk with a good solid dose of depression, but the outside world just wouldn’t give her time. Impatiently, she followed Marie past the steady hum of sewing machines, into the small spotless room beyond, where the garments were stored. Marie stood on tiptoe and took a garment from a hanger, laying it over her arms for Greer’s inspection.

“What do you think?”

Greer shifted the papers in her arms to a nearby chair, dropped her glasses to her nose and delicately fingered the sparkling material. The shift was long and sleek, with dolman sleeves and a high side slit. “Not lamé?” she questioned.

“Of course not lamé. A metallic acetate; it cleans like a dream. Of course, it is a bit wicked…”

“Decadent,” Greer murmured dryly.

“Maybe a little too ‘thirties.’”

“It’s very thirties,” Greer agreed thoughtfully.

“You don’t like it.” Marie’s voice fell.

Greer peeked over her glasses with a grin. “You know darn well it’s fantastic. For the holidays. Is that what you had in mind?”

“Of course.”

Greer again fingered the shiny material. “I think that’s exactly how we should market it. Decadent. Wicked. We can haul out the old spiel about feeling irresistibly sexy when completely covered from neck to toe…” She was murmuring to herself more than to Marie, until the other woman laughed.

“You
always
know exactly what I have in mind,” she said triumphantly. “If you could only draw, you would be a great designer. Outstanding.”

Greer looked slightly alarmed. “You’re not going to start that again—”

“No, of course not. The last time I tried to show you the techniques of drawing, you gave me a migraine. You drew a breast the size of a nose. Your people looked like stick figures. Your—”

“Yes,” Greer interrupted, chuckling, and handed the shift back to Marie. “You left a note on my desk this morning. Something about thread?”

Marie hung up the garment with loving fingers. “For the trade show, yes. I know today’s only Monday, and you won’t leave for two more days, but I wanted to ask you about Barteau.”

Greer looked blank.

“He will be there. You will give him a kiss from me, and then you will steal every little tidbit of information you can. I want to know what he is up to. How much cotton is he using this year? How much finishing is he doing by hand? And most important, you must get his
thread.
Steal some, if you can. I hear he has found a new silk blend, a stronger fiber, but where he’s getting it…”

“Steal some
thread?
”
 
Greer echoed wryly.

“Now, don’t get that
look,
darling. And keep in mind that Barteau will probably peek under your skirts if you let him. He was a dirty old man even when I studied under him, and he was only in his twenties then. Now.” Marie folded her arms over her chest as Greer picked up her folders. “We are all alone, not a soul here. What’s wrong?”

Greer was halfway to the door, and turned. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“Of course there is. You didn’t eat lunch; you barely said a word at the sales meeting this morning. Your eyes are sad. Something happened between Friday and today. A man?” Marie guessed.

“A bad case of no sleep.” Greer was willing to admit to that.

“Fib.”

“All problems are not caused by men,” Greer suggested mildly.

“Only the problems worth having. The circles under your eyes are a positive sign. A good lover
should
make you tired. But not listless,
chérie.
”
 
Marie shook her head. “I can see from your face you do not want to talk. Fine, that is your business. But should you ever need an expert—”

Marie winked, her smile full of affection and humor, and for a moment Greer almost hesitated. Marie would listen, she knew. But Greer never burdened anyone else with her problems, and to discuss anything as personal as the touchy relationship between love and sex—never. She shook her head. “You’re a sweetie. But there’s nothing, really,” she assured Marie, and they parted at the stairs.

In her office, Greer sank into her chair, slipped off her cream-colored sandals and slid her glasses on top of her head. Depression promptly caved in on her like an avalanche. Never having catered much to the moody blues, she wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. And today was merely an extension of the day before.

Sunday she’d wakened alone, mortified and lost as she recalled making love with Ryan. She’d taken her car and simply driven half the day, going nowhere, thinking nothing. By late afternoon, she returned, knowing she had to face him.

She’d found him in the back courtyard, barbecuing steaks. Two steaks. There seemed no question in his mind that she’d arrive on time to share them with him. He’d looked incredibly lazy and easy in cutoffs and a loose dark shirt; he’d dropped a kiss on her mouth the minute he saw her; he’d forced her to absolutely stuff herself full of steak, foil-cooked corn dripping in butter and éclairs he’d picked up earlier at a bakery.

And when dinner was over, it was dark and the mosquitoes had started buzzing. Greer and Ryan had separated and gone to their respective apartments. There’d been a kiss that could have resurrected fire from dead ash, but Ryan hadn’t pressed. He’d been warm, affectionate and funny. Disastrously easy to be with. But he’d clearly expected to sleep alone that night.

Greer was not surprised.

Depressed, but not surprised. Absently, she plucked an imaginary speck of lint from her oyster-colored linen skirt and then stared at her outfit darkly. The oyster skirt, cocoa blouse and pearls were old favorites, a choice based on past experience to pick up her mood. They were failing her.

She wasn’t much of a lover. She was good at listening, and terrific at making pot pies; her empathy was laudable, and she was just plain excellent at her job. But she’d never been much of a lover.

Wearily, she touched her fingers to her temples, denting the skin white with unconscious pressure. She had
known
that, long before she got involved with Ryan. And she’d sensed up front that Ryan would be an exciting, imaginative and experienced lover. Too experienced to be fooled by a lady trying to fake it.

He was the last man she should have let herself fall in love with.

“Looks to me like our resident sex symbol needs a drink.”

Her head popped up to see Ray lounging in the doorway, the sleeves of his white linen shirt rolled up at the cuffs, his spotless black suit pants perfectly creased. His tone, as always, overflowed with husky seductiveness. And as always, it grated on Greer’s nerves.

She could barely keep the impatience out of her voice. “I take it you got the figures back from the regional sales studies we did?”

He nodded. “But it looks to me as if you’re much more in a mood for a bottle of wine and a night of love than discussing Midwestern sales patterns.”

Greer reached out for the folder in his hand. “I’ll settle for the statistics on girdle sales in Ohio, but thanks.”

He dropped the file on her desk. “One of these days you’re going to realize what you’re missing.”

“I’ll survive,” she assured him as she thumbed through the statistics he’d brought her. “Did I tell you this or did I tell you this? The Corn Belt’s going nuts for negligees.”

“Not exactly the Corn Belt, but close enough.” Ray lowered himself into the chair by her desk, his lazy black eyes skimming over her figure in the cocoa blouse. He was a man who specialized in mentally stripping women; yet Greer had never figured out how his eyes could be so opaque, so unreadable. “I won’t say I didn’t resent Grant’s pushing you into my marketing corner, but I have to admit you know your stuff. Now, Southern women I would have guessed, but never that the farmers’ wives would go for frills and lace.”

“I’ve been telling you for ages that psychology and marketing shouldn’t be strangers.” Greer shoved her glasses onto her nose and flipped through the last pages of his report.

“And I’ve been trying to tell you exactly the same thing for months, darling.”

“Pardon?” She lifted her head from the neatly typed pages distractedly.

“It’s only a half hour until quitting time. I was about to suggest a drink afterward.”

For a moment, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

For all his constant sexual patter, Ray had never asked her out before. The offer made her oddly nervous. “I really can’t, not tonight. Maybe another time…”

“Why did I know you’d say that?” Ray’s smile was cool. He moved to the door, but then turned suddenly, that practiced smile gone from his face. “You know, I thought we’d made inroads this last week, working together. Obviously, I was mistaken.”

She frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. I thought if we worked together a little more closely, you might just thaw out. Obviously not.”

“Ray!” Greer fumbled for words. “I care very much that we work well together. I always have. But beyond that—”

“Beyond that, if any other man in the place had asked you for a drink, you would have gone.”

Greer clamped her jaws together. “For heaven’s sake. I’ve had a drink after work with Barney once in the five years I’ve worked here—”

He was gone. Bewildered, Greer shook her head. She’d never seen Ray behave so…ridiculously.

For the next half hour, she pored over the regional statistics he’d brought her, and fretted over the confrontation. She’d always regarded him as an insensitive, chauvinistic SOB. Well, he was. But perhaps she herself had shown a lack of sensitivity toward his feelings. Had her dislike of him shown through?

The thought upset her. Simply because she didn’t like the man didn’t mean she wanted to hurt him. And she knew she
hadn’t
made any serious efforts to understand Ray, as she had with the others at Love Lace. She hadn’t cared enough to try.

Besides, one short drink after work wouldn’t have hurt you,
she scolded herself.
For the first time since you’ve been here, he’s actually trying to get along. You blew it.

Bodies were moving past her door. Greer glanced at the clock and gathered up the report and her purse. Feeling utterly low, she made her way down the hall, anxious simply to be home where she could mope in peace. She was fumbling with sunglasses at the back door when she heard a sneeze.

Normally, a sneeze was hardly enough to make her turn around, but this one sounded out of place. Grant’s office was behind her; she backed up three steps to where she could see through the windowed partition.

The office hadn’t changed; it still had a teak desk so well polished you could use it for a mirror to put on lipstick, a neat array of bookshelves and a wall collage of photographs—models in various styles of lingerie—that Greer could never fathom why Marie tolerated. The office was the same, and Grant was the same, his blue suit impeccable on his square, lean form, his mustache meticulously trimmed, his posture, as always, erect. The only thing out of place was Ryan.

Work boots, jeans, hard hat, sun-weathered skin… Ryan was a shout of sheer sexy machismo next to Grant’s overmanicured smallness. The difference between the men was more than physical, Greer mused for a second and a half. Grant was the kind of man who would make lingerie. Ryan was the kind women wore it for.

That second and a half passed quickly, during which she was quickly striding the five steps necessary to walk inside Grant’s door, where she stood, her jaws clamped into a counterfeit smile.

“Greer!” Grant leaned back on his desk, motioning her in. “I told Mr. McCullough you’d be passing by here any minute. I was just filling your friend in on the industry.”

“Done for the day?” Ryan queried lightly.

She nodded. Ryan offered a hand to Grant, and the two men exchanged a few more pleasant words before Greer found herself escorted from the office into the hot sunlight of the parking lot. Just as Ryan’s stride was lithe and easy, Greer’s was stilted and clipped.

“You’d better be good for a ride home, honey. I was dropped off here.”

“And just miraculously ran into my boss in the farthest office in the back?”

“Once I had the receptionist call him, yes.”

“Why?”
Greer asked, bewildered, as she climbed into the driver’s seat and hurriedly rolled down the windows against the sweltering oven inside. Ryan folded up his knees next to her, tossed his hard hat in the back and grinned. “McCullough, what are you up to?”

“Infiltrating the enemy lines.”

“Fine. Where’s the war?”

“Don’t get nervous. I was swarmed the minute I walked in the back door. I never asked for all the attention.”

“Most people use the front door.”

“And face all that
stuff
in the window?”

Greer chuckled. “You mean underpants?”

He shoved down his visor against the relentless late afternoon sun. “Looked like a pretty decent group of people you work with.”

“You’d figured them for flakes. Because of the lingerie,” Greer said wryly.

“I hadn’t figured them for anything at all. Don’t jump to conclusions, sassy.” He paused. “I must have met at least five of your colleagues.” And there was no need to mention that he’d engineered all of those meetings. “There’s no question they’re fond of you.”

“And I love them back,” Greer said mildly.

“The first one I ran into was a man named Ray. The one you mentioned you’d be going to that trade show with.”

“Hmm.” Traffic was thick, less because of rush hour, since Greenville really didn’t have that much of a rush hour, than because of a muggy day when drivers were crabby.

“You trust him, Greer?”

“Ray?” She chuckled, darting around a poky Chevy. “No woman in her right mind would trust Ray.” She flashed Ryan a glance. “I can land a mean right hook, if that’s what you were thinking. And you work in an office yourself, so don’t tell me there isn’t a woman around who makes the men occasionally nervous. It comes with the business. You can’t like everyone you work with, and some people are more aggressive than others.”