Prelude to a Wedding (15 page)

She couldn't consider this feeling too
closely or, like looking directly into the sun, It might blind her.
Instead, she concentrated on accomplishing the mundane. She pulled
her coat on and took up her purse, some portion of her recognizing
the actions as slow-motion reruns from last Tuesday.

The phone rang, as it had last Tuesday.

She looked at Darla, and saw her dark eyes
widening with recognition of the repetitions. The phone rang
again.

"Tell him I'll be there in a few minutes, and
we'll settle this," Bette said, knowing that that, too, was a near
repeat of Tuesday.

Only it wasn't like Tuesday at all, because
Tuesday she hadn't felt this gush of joy, this flooding of relief
and fear and anticipation.

Tuesday, she thought as she elected to walk
the nine wind-whipped blocks that separated her office from his,
she had concentrated only on what his presence was doing to
Top-Line Temporaries. Now she knew what Paul Monroe's absence could
do to Bette Wharton.

He'd been out of town. He'd stepped out of
her life, stopped harassing her for six days because he was out of
town. Not because he no longer wanted to be with her. Not because
he'd given up on her.

The relief of it stung her eyes as much as
the wind. She might extract some small compensation, some payment
for the toll he'd taken on her emotions the past six days. And she
had to remember that this situation could have some bearing on her
business, though anything to do with business seemed a remote and
misty concept right now. She had more immediate concerns.

Like knowing that at the end of this
confrontation she would not walk out of his old-fashioned office
the way she had Tuesday. She could not turn her back on the fact
that he wanted her. On the fact that she wanted him.

Even though it meant, this once, accepting
the moment, and letting the future be hanged.

She knew now that Paul Monroe hadn't given
up. And now she knew that neither could she. Whatever happened
next.

Chapter Seven

Bette walked through the outer office, devoid
once more of a secretary, then hesitated at the door to the inner
office. She stared, unfocused, at the wood panels, before giving a
small shake to her head.

Don't be an idiot. What is there to be
nervous about? You're going to go in there to straighten out Paul
Monroe, once and for all. Make him see he can't tie Top-Line
Temporaries into knots this way. Make him see he can't tie Bette
Wharton into knots this way.

Methodically, she peeled off her leather
gloves.

Who are you kidding? He did tie you in
knots.

Maybe.

Maybe? You were a pretzel! Not an hour ago
you were wishing for just this chance to see him, to hear him and—
let's be honest—to touch him. So here it is, now take it.

The hand she stretched out toward the door
trembled a little, but she commanded it to grasp the knob and turn
it slowly, smoothly. She must have succeeded because the door
opened without a sound, and she was inside without betraying her
presence to Paul.

He stood in front of the shelves to the left
of his desk, consulting a volume so big he'd propped its open spine
on the edge of a shelf. He was bending a little to study the page,
his light blue shirt molded across his shoulders and upper back,
emphasizing their strength. The rolled-back sleeves showed forearms
toughened with muscle and sinew under a fuzz of hair the same
glinting color that rode over the collar of his shirt. The khaki
slacks were conservative, well-fitted and yet hinted at the power
beneath them.

Uh-oh
. Bette could hear the blood
pounding in her ears, almost like a warning. Facing Paul Monroe was
one thing; by now she was almost accustomed to the danger of his
dancing eyes and humor-quirked mouth. But from the back he gave a
different impression, a view of his strength and sexiness she
didn't think she'd recognized half so clearly before. The
sensations she'd experienced in his arms resulted from her reacting
to this aspect of him. And it would happen again, she knew, if she
gave it half a chance.

She'd told herself she wouldn't consider
"what next." She'd be impulsive. She'd follow this craving for Paul
Monroe without considering where it might lead. She could handle
it, wherever it led. She would handle it, when the time came. She'd
told herself all those things.

But now, catching a hazy glimpse of where her
craving might lead, she wasn't so sure. Maybe she should forget
this. Maybe she should back away as silently as she'd entered and
let Darla take over. Maybe she should run.

"Bette?" he said.

He had looked over his shoulder and was
staring directly into her eyes.

It felt as if a weight had landed suddenly on
her chest, so that every breath burned. He was looking at her the
same way he had two weeks ago in a moonlight-sliced car in her
garage. His eyes held the same intent, the same desire . . . and
the same question.

Only a concerted effort kept her next breath
from becoming a gasp, but at least the added air fueled her muscles
to movement. Three jerky steps took her to a spot directly in front
of his desk. Without looking at him—she couldn't risk it—she
slapped her gloves down on the wooden surface. If she tried her
damnedest maybe she could divert some of this emotional energy into
anger.

"What in the hell do you think you're up to,
Paul?"

From the corner of her eye she tracked the
way he turned back toward the shelves, his head bowed over the book
once more. Then the two halves of the book came together in a thud
that made her jump. He spun around and strode behind his desk to
face her across it.

"The 400E," he said.

She gaped at him. What was the man talking
about?

"The Blue Comet 400E locomotive from Lionel.
That's what I think I'm up to." He tapped a sheaf of papers spread
out on his desk. "That's how far I've gotten with this
appraisal."

"Oh."

"It's not as rare as the Black Diamond 400E
locomotive he's got, but the Blue Comet set's complete, all four
passenger cars plus the locomotive. And it looks to be in great
condition, so—"

"Paul!" She slapped her palms on his desk,
then spread them wide to lean forward belligerently. "Stop it."

He mimicked her posture, right down to the
thunk
of his hands on the desktop as he brought his nose a
foot from hers.

"Stop what, Bette?" No laughter in his eyes
now, only demand. "Tell me."

"Stop the whole thing! Stop sending back
secretaries. Stop messing up my schedules. Stop making me—" She bit
it off before she could tell him to stop making her want him, but
she wondered if he'd still divined the thought.

"We both know how you can make me stop
sending back secretaries. And stop messing up your schedule." Were
his eyes informing her he wasn't about to stop the issue neither of
them was mentioning?

"Yes." An acknowledgment that she knew what
he was talking about, not an agreement.

"Yes." An acknowledgment, perhaps slightly
disappointed, that no agreement had been given.

She stared at Paul Monroe across the twelve
inches that separated them, and she knew. She'd take the moment he
offered, and for once she wouldn't think of the future. Even though
she had a darn good idea that if she did look ahead, she'd see she
was building toward heartache. Maybe that was why she wouldn't look
this time. If a plane never takes off, it won't ever crash. But it
won't fly, either. Dammit, this time, she had to try her wings.

"All right, I'll go out with you." To her own
ears, her tone sounded more appropriate to accepting a dare than a
date, but she figured they both knew that might be closer to the
truth.

Under his stare, the moment drew out with the
heart-stopping, stomach-dropping sensation of hitting an air
pocket. What if her plane crashed on takeoff?

"Fine." The word was just this side of
pugnacious.

"Fine," she shot back.

"Great," he said, then before she had a
chance to continue the cycle, he hurried on. "We'll start right
now."

"Right now?" she repeated. She figured her
voice sounded so flat because her emotions were busy pooling deep
inside of her: panic, desire, anticipation, fear, affection,
wariness, liking, lust and anger, all roiling into a bubbling
mass.

"Right now. With dinner tonight."

"Dinner?" What did dinner have to do with
what she was thinking about?
I want you
, he'd said, right
here in this office six days ago, sitting behind this very desk,
looking at her in a way that made her know he meant it.

"Yeah. You know, eat? Usually done sometime
in the evening? We've done it a few times together. Fairly
successfully, too. I'm meeting a couple friends for drinks— Michael
and Grady, the guys I told you about—then we're going to dinner and
I—" His light, wry tone slipped and he stopped, paused and started
again, but she hardly noticed. Her mind was on other things. "I'd
like you to meet them"

"But. . ."

"But what?"

She couldn't tell him. She couldn't tell him
how she'd been expecting him to react. She couldn't tell him what
she'd been expecting him to do. She couldn't let him guess how part
of her had been anticipating—certainly since he'd kissed her in a
moonlit garage and possibly since he'd first sat in her office with
his dancing eyes inviting her to join him in a jig—what she'd been
expecting him to do.

Although she feared from the way he was
watching her, like a cat with its target mouse well in sight, that
he suspected what she'd been thinking. She fumbled mentally for an
acceptable end to a sentence that started with "but."

"But you still need a secretary." Not bad.
Short on originality, maybe, but logical.

He eased back, his eyes never leaving
hers.

"Then send back Norma Schaff. She was a great
secretary."

Bette stood straight so quickly she thought
she could hear her backbone click into place. "If she was so great,
why'd you scare her off like all the others?" she demanded
indignantly.

He slowly levered himself completely upright
before answering.

"It was the only way to get to you," he said
with a nonchalant shrug that left her speechless. "Besides, I
didn't scare Norma off like all the others. She's the only one I
finally had to resort to bribing in order to get her to leave. Ever
since, she's been my ally."

* * * *

Meeting his friends should have eased her
nerves. Fat chance.

In one way it did, of course. At least it
temporarily delayed the consummation of the step she'd taken
today.

Her wayward mind's production of the word
consummation coincided with Paul shifting next to her in the booth
of the tiny bar. The simple brushing of his leg against her set off
sparklers along her skin that translated into something brighter
and hotter deep inside. Maybe relief wasn't her only reaction to
the delay.

This introduction to his friends unsettled
her in another way. Somehow it seemed Paul was allowing her to see
a side of himself he had previously kept hidden. But she couldn't
let herself fall into the trap of hoping for things like that. She
knew what Paul was, what he'd offered. And what she'd accepted.

He'd said it—he wanted her. Not a
relationship, certainly not a future. The moment. And when the
moment was over . . . Well, she'd be better off then if she didn't
delude herself now.

She glanced up to find Michael Dickinson's
observant eyes on her. Paul had said he had a law degree and worked
on the staff of State Senator Joan Bradon. She found herself
pitying his political opponents.

He shifted his gaze to Paul.

"You're the one who keeps track of everybody,
Paul—how's Judi doing?" Paul had told her both Michael and Grady
viewed Judi as a kid sister. A sophomore at Northwestern, where
they'd also gone to school, she lived in a dorm a mile from Paul's
Evanston apartment.

"Classes, she's doing great. Socially, she's
always complaining that the right guys don't go for her."

"They will," declared Michael. Michael
Dickinson, Bette decided, would be a very good friend to have.

"She comes by sometimes. Claims she needs to
use my computer, but it's really to raid the fridge. She's always
complaining I don't have anything to eat in the place."

"Aw, Judi's Judi," said Grady with
undisputable logic and affectionate acceptance. "Remember how she
could pack it away when she was a kid, and she still stayed
scrawny."

"Maybe so, but she's not scrawny anymore and
she's still eating me out of house and home."

They all smiled at the plaintive note in
Paul's voice.

"I heard you were out in D.C. last week,
Paul. How's Tris? She's not pining after that jerk ex-husband, is
she?"

Grady asked the question, but Bette had the
impression Paul didn't direct his answer to him, but rather to
Michael. "If she ever pined for him at all, she's not pining now.
It was a pretty friendly divorce, really, and she's long past it.
Years ago. She's grown up, like we all have."

"No way," objected Grady with a chuckle.
"Maybe Michael's grown up, but you and I are as crazy as ever,
Monroe."

Bette thought she felt Paul's gaze on her,
but she'd discovered a fascination for her nearly empty wine
glass.

Grady's words didn't express anything she
hadn't thought. So why should it bother her to hear someone else
say it? Paul could deny it. He could say he wasn't a kid anymore.
He could say he'd grown up.

The silence continued.

"Hey, how about another round?" Grady's
attempt to turn the conversation was unsubtle, but effective.
Without waiting for an answer, he eased out of the booth.