Wedding Series Boxed Set (3 Books in 1) (The Wedding Series) (59 page)

So, since he couldn’t be after a fling, what was he after?

That’s when it hit her.

He was after friendship. He just didn’t know how to go about it.

Sure, he was friends with Tris and Bette, but he’d known Tris more than a dozen years and viewed her as a sort of kid sister, and Bette he’d known always as the woman who made Paul Monroe’s eyes glow.

But other than those two, she would wager the family heirlooms that the only way Grady Roberts knew to interact with unattached females was romantically.

In its own way, Grady’s situation was truly sad. What he needed was someone to teach him how to be friends with a woman. Someone who wouldn’t be taken in by his romantic ploys. Someone who wouldn’t fall for the glint in his blue, blue eyes.

Someone who over the past ten years had succeeded in helping several men see how they could make their lives happier, without making the mistake of getting dangerously involved herself.

“So what about dinner tonight?”

“Dinner? Okay—”

“Great. I know a wonderful French place—”

French? Probably tiny tables, candlelight and wine? Naturally he’d think of that first. But she’d show him another way.

“I’m in the mood for a burger. Give me twenty minutes to change into jeans and I’ll meet you at this place I know on Connecticut Avenue.”

“Oh.” She could practically hear his plans shatter, and she grinned. But he rallied quickly. “Okay.”

Two minutes later she hung up with a sense of accomplishment and great optimism that handling Grady Roberts wouldn’t be so tough, after all.

“You look a little tired, Leslie. Are you okay?”

Tris studied her with narrowed eyes; Leslie wished the blinds let less revealing sunlight in her office. Tired? Try exhausted. But Tris was the last person she’d admit it to.

On rare occasions when her subtlety slipped she had been accused of interfering in friends’ lives, though she preferred to think of it as redirecting their thoughts. For their own good, of course. Tris—damn her perception—was the most frequent accuser. Leslie counted herself fortunate Tris had been too preoccupied with the joys of newly married life these past few weeks to be her usual observant self.

Leslie had said no to nearly half of Grady’s invitations, but since he wanted to get together every day, she wondered if cutting their outings in half was enough to let a friendship grow slowly, naturally. Though she persisted in making their encounters unrelentingly casual, paying her own way as often as she could beat him to it, talking about strictly impersonal matters and avoiding situations he could turn toward a more romantic bent.

That took a lot of energy. Grady did not give up, and he was adept at turning a look into a potential bone-melter, a touch into a possible skin-burner. He’d had a lot of practice at this romance stuff. Remembering that kept her knees locked the couple times she’d been on the verge of slipping under his spell.

Some people cracked their knuckles or twirled their hair; Grady flirted. Things like that made no difference in your feeling about the person, if you liked them.

Ah, that was the question. Did she like Grady?

If Grady were merely handsome—could anybody that good-looking be considered “merely” anything? she wondered with a wry face—he’d be easy to dismiss. If he were merely successful he’d be easy to forget. If he were merely charming he’d be easy to write off. But there was the evidence of his friendship with Tris and the others, and Leslie’s own observations of him . . .

“Are you all right, Leslie?”

Tris’s question jerked her back to the present.

“Of course. Why ever wouldn’t I be all right?” She smiled brightly.

“Well, I don’t know why, but you just made this strange face, and I’ve had the feeling you aren’t really listening to me. Is something wrong?”

“Noth—”

“Are you still worrying about April?”

“April? Yes, I suppose I am.” It wasn’t a lie. Since her young relative’s visit nearly two weeks ago, her concerns had remained, just below the surface of her mind.

Tris frowned. “Leslie, you can’t solve everybody’s problems. As much as you’d like to mother two-thirds of the world—”

“I wouldn’t have enough place settings for dinner,” she demurred, “and Grandma Beatrice would never approve of paper plates.”

The frown tightened as Tris fought a grin, and Leslie was satisfied.

“All right. I won’t lecture—”

Leslie thanked her with a heartfelt, “Bless your heart,” and the grin defeated the frown.

“But I’m going to agree with Michael and insist you come with us this weekend to the beach. Until last night I thought, well...But now I see how much you need the rest. And we’ll make sure you don’t think of anything more demanding than whether to sit in the sun or the shade.”

“That sounds wonderful,” she said. A lazy weekend by the ocean could cure many ills. “But I am not about to intrude on you and Michael. You’ll want to be alone and—”

“You will definitely not be intruding, so it’s settled—you’re coming. If you can get Friday afternoon off, we’ll leave around lunchtime. And see if you can get Monday off, too.”

Leslie decided she must be more tired than she knew, because she found herself nodding in acquiescence. The foundation director had been fretting about the vacation time she’d built up, though whether out of concern for her well-being or his record keeping she didn’t know. Either way, she wouldn’t have trouble getting the time off.

“Besides,” Tris went on, “it would be impossible to be alone, since Paul rented the beach house. He’s not allergic to making plans the way he was before Bette, but he still has his impulsive moments. He decided a weekend at the beach was a perfect way to celebrate wrapping up the installation of the exhibit—you are coming to the opening, aren’t you?”

“Uh, yes.”

She’d returned her RSVP for the Thursday evening reception, and she’d turned down Grady’s suggestion they go together. She didn’t want him or anyone else to see them as a couple; that would defeat her whole purpose. But what about at the beach? Where Paul, Bette, Tris and Michael went, would Grady be far behind? But could she back out now without being terribly obvious?

“Good. And don’t worry about a thing this weekend. I know you’re not the type to get all bent out of shape about being a single woman along with just two married couples for company.” Tris looked at her intently, and Leslie thought she understood; Grady wouldn’t be there. That’s what Tris had found out last night. “But just so there’s no mistake, we really want to have you along.”

Tris stood and gathered the coffee mug she’d brought with her. “So that’s settled. You’ll drive out with Michael and me on Friday. But first we’ll all be together Thursday night at Paul’s reception.”

Grady listened to the man next to him, but his eyes followed Leslie as she accepted a glass of wine from a thin man with even thinner sandy hair. The exhibit light, meant to bathe details of handcarved toys and the patina of two-hundred-year-old wooden games, also caught Leslie’s high, wide cheekbones, leaving shadowed hollows before picking out the sharply etched line of her jaw.

A movement subtly shifted the sheen of her royal-blue silk dress, and halfway across the exhibit area Grady swallowed at the intimation of the curves below.

She moved closer to the sandy-haired man and Grady’s muscles tightened fractionally; it wouldn’t take but a minute for him to reach them, less than that to send this guy on his way. Then a turn of Leslie’s head showed him her smile. He thought he read tolerance in it and relaxed.

Even though he kept his conversation with the brother of a Chicago client short, he’d lost sight of Leslie by the time he shook hands and started off.

Paul was by the exhibit entrance, surrounded by officials, complimenters and questioners. He handled them with almost careless ease. Grady had caught Paul’s interview on local TV as he’d changed for this reception, and marveled at his friend’s naturalness.

Opposite Grady, Michael stood back from the crowd, watching the comings and goings with his usual quiet intensity. But Grady noticed Michael seldom stood in his out-of-the-way spot alone. Sometimes in pairs, often singly, others made their way to Michael, and when he spoke they listened.

A shift in the crowd opened a new line of sight and he saw Leslie, alone for a moment, like him. Without moving her head, her gaze came around to meet his. He lifted his glass, and her eyebrows rose as a smile pulled at her lips.

He took a step toward her, then stopped as she turned away, and he saw Tris had placed a hand on her arm.

Meeting Bette Wharton Monroe’s eyes then, Grady altered his course to where she stood, cornered against a display case by a bushy-haired man, short and rotund in a tweed jacket whose weave had caught crumbs from his repast. Grady traced crackers, cheddar cheese, flaky pastry, a dollop of creamy dip and smear of strawberry juice.

Bette had to interrupt to introduce the man as Professor Whicken. Assessing Bette’s pale face and the professor’s renewed conversational flood, Grady took action.

“I think it’s time for all pregnant ladies to be sitting down,” he announced, grasping Bette’s elbow and drawing her away.

“I’m just telling Mrs. Monroe—” The professor, who showed an inclination to follow, halted when a hand met his chest.

“We appreciate your concern, Professor,” said Grady to the man who’d expressed no concern. “But I’ll be happy to take care of Mrs. Monroe from here. Thank you.”

Out of earshot, Bette added, “Thank you. That deserves at least a knighthood.”

Halfway to the chair Grady had spotted, Michael joined them. “You beat me to it, Grady. How’re you doing, Bette?”

“I’m fine. And I don’t need to sit down.” She hung back a little. “Really.”

“Sure you do,” Grady disagreed amiably, still homing in on the chair. It happened to be occupied by a white-haired lady, but that didn’t matter.

“What’s wrong?” Paul arrived a little out of breath, a wake of surprised looks behind him.

“Nothing is wrong. Go back to your conversation, Paul,” Bette ordered as Grady ceded his hold on her arm to her husband.

Paul ignored her. “Michael? What’s up?”

Not even particularly surprised it was Michael that Paul presumed would know, Grady simply continued to the chair, stopping in front of the white-haired lady.

“Excuse me, could we possibly have the use of that chair? As you can see, our friend is pregnant, and with all the excitement and everything . . .” He let it trail off and smiled, a man smiling at a woman, sharing an understanding of the world and humanity.

“Of course, of course.” The white-haired lady fluttered up, joining her insistence to the three men’s until Bette sat.

“Thank you,” Grady told the woman, and smiled again.

She smiled back, then headed off, but not before she tossed a distinctly saucy look back over her shoulder.

Bette covered her mouth with her hand, but the amusement colored her voice. “Grady, you are incorrigible.”

“What?” he asked innocently. “I just asked if we could have the chair.”

“Hey, I don’t care if he tangoed with Grandma Moses in front of the Supreme Court,” said Paul. “He got you a chair.”

“Yes, he did,” she agreed. “Thank you, Grady. It was very nice of you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I think we should leave,” Paul said abruptly.

“Leave? But the reception’s only half-over. We can’t leave,” Bette objected.

“Sure we can."

“Well, I don’t want to. I came here to bask in the glory of your accomplishment, and I’m not done basking.” Husband and wife exchanged a look. “I’m all right, Paul. Honestly.”

Paul seemed to relax, moving his hand from Bette’s shoulder to stroke her cheek.

“Is something wrong?”

“Are you okay, Bette?”

The questions from Tris and Leslie tripped over each other as they joined the group.

“I’m fine. Just a little tired. Grady rescued me.”

Grady felt the look Leslie flicked at him, but was too late to meet it. By the time he turned to her she was assessing the situation. She looked at Bette closely, then to Paul’s still-stubborn expression, then over her shoulder at the important people Paul had deserted.

“Well, she looks fine to me,” Leslie declared, then dipped deeper into her drawl. “And if there’s one thing a Southern woman knows, it’s the vapors.”

Bette gave her a grateful look, turning to her husband she said, “See? The words of an expert. Now will you please go back to the others?”

“I don’t think—”

“Bless her heart,” Leslie interrupted blithely, “Bette simply had the common reaction to being near talked to death by Will-He-Ever-Be-Quiet Whicken.”

Everyone chuckled except Paul, but even his face eased.

“Whicken is a notorious windbag,” added Tris. “Everybody who knows him stays away, so he picks on newcomers like Bette.”

“Especially slow-moving ones like me,” she said with a rueful look at her girth.

This time even Paul chuckled. In three minutes he’d been persuaded to return to his conversation, though it took both a promise that someone would stay with Bette, and Michael’s taking him by the arm and leading him away.

“Professor Whicken is the source of a good deal of conjecture in some circles in Washington,” Leslie informed the group that remained around Bette’s chair.

“What sort of conjecture?” Bette prompted.

“Well, nobody’s ever actually seen him stop talking long enough to breathe, so we wonder if he ever does.”

“He must.” Grady waited until all three pair of eyes were on him, especially the hazel pair. “He’s got to stop talking in order to eat, and we know he eats from the evidence on his jacket. In fact, the evidence showed he’d stopped talking long enough while he’s been here to eat.”

“Couldn’t be,” objected Tris. “Must be old stains.”

Grady shook his head. “Crackers, cheese, dip, pastry and strawberry from those little tarts—in other words, a good portion of the menu here.”

“I think Sherlock Roberts has you, Tris.” Leslie turned to Bette. “What do you think? You spent the most time with him.”