Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) (14 page)

Limiting their contact to a strictly business association was the only sane approach.

So why was sanity driving her crazy?

Six days, six nights. One hundred forty-four hours. Eight thousand six-hundred and forty minutes. And for every one of them, she'd thought of him.

Worse even than the memories was the way her body reacted to them. Her heartbeat skittered, her breathing turned jagged, her skin pulsed, her insides heated. Six days without seeing, smelling, touching or tasting Paul Monroe, and he still filled her with sensation.

And, yes, she admitted, sitting in the rational atmosphere of her office at 4:47 of an ordinary Monday afternoon, she had wondered if he would ever again try to make those sensations real. Would he call her? Show up at her office? Arrive at her front door?

Would she ever stop wishing he'd do one of those things, any of those things, as long as it meant she saw his dancing eyes, heard his amused voice? She wouldn't tempt the Fates and her heart with anything more than seeing and hearing. She'd only risk enough exposure to him to break this pervasive ache of isolation.

She shook her head once, emphatically, more than a little disgusted. Who was she kidding? Did she really think just seeing and hearing Paul Monroe a little would satisfy her?

Something had to give. She had to either learn to control these longings and get on with her life or - Darla pushed open the door, slipped inside and leaned against the closed panel.

"What is it, Darla?" The grimace drawing her assistant's face seemed to be the result of trying to stifle emotion. Laughter or tears?

"I have some news for you, Bette." Darla spoke as if trying to prepare her for a shock, to soften a blow.

"Yes?"

"Heather Carlini is here."

"Oh?" It took a moment for that to sink in. Six days and six nights can dull the wits. "Oh, no! Not again!"

But even as she said the words, something inside her exulted. He hadn't fallen for Heather Carlini, long wavy hair, huge dark eyes, petite curves and all. And he hadn't given up. Paul Monroe was back in her life. She wanted to shout. She wanted to sing.

"Yes, again."

She wanted to cry. Paul Monroe was back in her life, and she had some questions to consider. What was Top-Line Temporaries going to do? What was
she
going to do?

"But . . . but it seemed to be going so well. We hadn't heard a peep out of Heather for six days. Six days! That was twice as long as Norma."

Darla shook her head, and laughter escaped at last. "There's a reason."

"Well?" The demand was none too patient.

"I asked her if she'd had any trouble last week, and she said no. So I asked how it could be so terrible to work for him if she'd breezed through the last three days of last week with no problems. And Heather said - Heather said . . ." Darla gulped twice and finally got her voice back in order, although tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and left a shiny trail on her dark cheeks. "She said there was a simple explanation for that. He wasn't - he wasn't there last week."

"What?"

Darla nodded hard, and expelled a sigh that shimmered with laughter. "That's right. Out of town. In Washington, D.C. All those days we sat here congratulating ourselves that we'd finally licked the Paul Monroe Problem, he wasn't there."

Bette watched Darla feel for a chair to support her laughter-weakened body.

Standing, she carefully closed the folder on her desk, returned her pencil to its holder and shut down her computer. Moving automatically, dreamily, she felt as if her muscles functioned with no direction from her mind. But underneath she felt a glow of energy such as she had never before felt.

She couldn't consider this feeling too closely. Like looking directly into the sun, it might blind her. Instead, she concentrated on 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 her.

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 a 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.

BETTE WALKED THROUGH
the outer office, devoid once more of an assistant, 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 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 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 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 assistants. 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 assistants 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 paused, 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 an assistant." Not bad. Short on originality, maybe, but logical.

He eased back, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Send back Norma Schaff. She was a great assistant."

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.