Leave It to Cleavage (22 page)

He wrote something else, and she leaned forward to try to make it out. Her robe fell open and the room grew unnaturally quiet. And hot. In fact, she felt warm all over.

Blake’s eyes moved to her lips. And stayed there.

“You’re not going to kiss me, are you?” she finally asked.

“God, I hope not.”

“Yeah, me too.” She licked her lips. “Because that would be a really bad idea until I figure out how to find and divorce Tom. And then there’s Ballantyne. I’m really preoccupied with trying to save it.” Her voice trailed off.

“I can see how busy you are with that.” His eyes roamed downward to the place where the robe’s lapels had once met.

“Getting involved with you would really complicate things,” she said.

The sash of her robe loosened and the robe fell completely open. She swallowed. “And you definitely don’t get the pageant thing. Or your daughter for that matter.”

He was no longer even trying to meet her eye. His gaze on her body felt like a caress.

She looked down, too. Her nipples were hard and straining toward his touch, and she was afraid to open her mouth because a whimper might escape. She was hollow deep in her belly, and she wanted him. If a voice of reason was going to be raised, it wasn’t going to be hers.

He took a finger and drew it slowly down between her breasts. “This is such a bad idea,” he said. “It’s stupid, ill advised, and completely unprofessional.”

And then he kissed her. Good God, the man could kiss.

Before she could stop herself she was climbing into his lap, wrapping her legs around his waist and looping her arms around his neck so that he could carry her into the bedroom. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hardly hear, and when his lips moved to her breast she gasped and may have stopped breathing altogether. Which made conversation especially difficult.

Fortunately there wasn’t a whole lot that needed to be said at the moment; at least nothing that couldn’t be communicated with a moan or a sigh.

There’d be time enough for finding the right words in the morning. Right now Miranda was having a perfectly lovely tête-à-tête with Blake’s tongue.

Blake woke first. It might have had something to do with the warm breasts pressed against his chest or the round buttock beneath his hand.

Miranda burrowed closer in her sleep, and his body responded. Short strands of dark hair stuck out in a million directions, and her skin was warm and smelled of their lovemaking. He absolutely could not believe he had done anything this stupid.

Her eyes opened. They were a cloudy green and full of questions for which he had no answers.

“Good morning,” he said as conversationally as he could, given their nakedness and the size of his erection.

“Mmmm, good morning.” Burying her face in the crook of his neck, Miranda pressed herself more tightly against him. He groaned as her hand moved down to find him.

Unable to resist, he rolled onto his back and pulled her on top of him. She was already wet, and as he began to move slowly inside her, he tried not to think about how perfectly they fit. Or whether giving in to his desire for her a second time automatically made him twice as stupid.

The next time he awoke, sunlight was streaming in through the window, and the scent of coffee filled the room. He opened one eye and saw her sitting in a club chair with her feet tucked under her, a china cup raised to her lips. She was wearing the white terry-cloth number and a smile.

“Good morning again.” He yawned and stretched, then kicked the sheet out of his way.

Her eyes dropped to his lap for a moment, then found his face. “He awakes.”

“He does.” He rubbed a hand against the stubble that covered his jaw.

“There’s a razor in the bathroom, and plenty of hot water. After all,” she looked up, and her smile was lopsided, “it’s the Ritz.”

He stood and leaned over to drop a kiss on the top of her head. Ten minutes later he was showered and shaved and fully dressed, though he’d been forced to go commando. Sitting on the sofa in the living room of the suite—where everything had begun the night before—he reminded himself again just how many cops lost their jobs every year because of alcohol and women, but it was a little bit late for reminders.

Blake located the pen and picked up the notepad, quickly flipping past his sketch of the fully aroused bumblebee. “Let’s go back over what happened on January eighth and immediately afterward,” he said. “It’s been over two months, which makes his trail pretty cold. But maybe you can give me somewhere to start.”

He listened carefully as Miranda told him the little she claimed she knew. But she was nervous and had trouble meeting his eye, and she still didn’t mention that Tom had emptied their accounts or offer any specifics of what exactly her husband might have done to Ballantyne.

He was amazed at how many balls this woman had managed to keep in the air, and he wanted to help her for more reasons than he could count. But he had a very bad feeling about all the things she was leaving out. He was definitely going to have to keep his hands to himself until he found Tom Smith and hauled him back to Truro.

chapter
21

M
iranda simmered with anticipation as she walked into Selena Moore’s flagship store on Monday morning. The boutique was as sleek and sophisticated as the clothes it showcased. With four locations in Atlanta, seventeen others in high-end malls throughout the Southeast, and plans to expand nationwide, the company was the perfect star to which to hitch Ballantyne’s wagon.

“Hello, Selena.” Miranda offered her hand to her former pageant competitor. “Thanks for fitting me in.” She followed the willowy blonde to a back office and took a seat on the opposite side of a very expensive-looking glass desk. As high school girls and then college students, they’d taken turns beating each other in pageants across the Southeast, and while their friendship had been tempered by a decade of competition, their respect for each other had never wavered.

They chatted for a few minutes about other girls they’d known in their pageant days, and as she sized the other woman up now, Miranda almost licked her lips in anticipation. It would take some delicate maneuvering to convince Selena that exclusive representation of Ballantyne’s custom business was a plum to be snatched. Looking too eager would be a mistake; appearing too standoffish would be equally fatal. Carefully, Miranda steered the conversation around to business.

“I saw the piece in the
New York Times,
” Miranda began. “I loved the whole ‘Former Miss Dogwood Builds Retail Empire’ thing.”

Selena smoothed a hand over her already impeccable chignon. “Yes. That article did great things for our initial stock offering.” She smiled with satisfaction. “I absolutely adore the shock on their Wall Street faces when they realize I have a brain. They think anyone who ever set foot on a pageant stage is dumb as a post. They stroll into meetings smirking and walk out trying to figure out what hit them. There’s nothing quite so satisfying as a mystified man.”

Miranda laughed. “If there’s anyone who can keep them baffled, it’s you.” She paused, and her tone turned more serious. “I have a lot of respect for what you’ve accomplished, Selena.” She paused again. “And I think there may be a way we can help each other.”

Selena’s features communicated polite interest, nothing more, as she waited for Miranda to continue.

“I’m in the process of reinventing a family company that’s been around for over a hundred years.” She made eye contact and leaned forward as casually as she could. “I’m looking for the right chain of upscale boutiques to help me introduce our new product line to our target market.”

They studied each other carefully.

Selena’s smile was noncommittal. “I’m assuming this is where I would come in?”

“Possibly.” Miranda opened her briefcase and pulled out her samples. Each component had been done in a basic beige satin that wouldn’t detract from the piece itself. She had three kinds of cups, straps and closures of every variety, and three types of underwire. Then she pulled out five different bras, each a different compilation of the individual components. She laid them out on Selena’s desk and explained her concept as succinctly as possible.

“Are you looking for an investment from me?” Selena remained cool, but her body language was just a shade too casual.

“No, just a corner of each store, committed sales help, and an agreed-upon amount for co-op advertising.”

Selena leaned forward in her seat. “Totally custom
is
perfect for our clientele,” she admitted cautiously, “but what about taking true measurements? That would be critical.”

Miranda knew she had her as soon as the other woman began to focus on the details, but she was careful to keep her mental happy dance to herself.

“You’re right. According to industry statistics, one out of five women is wearing the wrong size.”

“So how do you plan to handle that?” Selena sat back and crossed her arms.

“I’m going to provide fitters for every store. In the beginning, our fitters will do all the measuring and ordering, but they’ll be training store staff at the same time. When we think the store people are ready, we’ll give them a complete written manual and we’ll staff a help line around the clock for any salesperson or customer with a question or problem. Total service, total fit, and total comfort is what we plan to deliver.”

“Well . . .”

Miranda could see Selena’s mental calculator tabulating the pros and cons. It took every shred of self-control she possessed to keep her tone casual. “Oh, come on, Selena,” she said. “Admit it. You haven’t had an opportunity this good since Janice Finch broke out in chicken pox right before the Miss Black-Eyed Pea Pageant.”

Still Selena hesitated, but Miranda had her fish on the line, and she wasn’t leaving until she’d reeled it in.

“Ballantyne has been passed down by the women in my family for five generations,” Miranda said. “It’s mine now, and I intend to give other women what they want and need—even if they don’t know what that is yet. And I intend to stand behind every bra we sell.”

She watched Selena carefully, looking for some sign that the woman was going to cave. Finally the other woman tugged on her right earlobe in a signal of capitulation Miranda remembered well, then leaned across her desk to finger a demiunderwire with an extra-wide elastic strap.

“I’ll commit to a trial period for our Atlanta stores. But we’re going to have to spend some time hammering out the terms of a broader joint venture. And I need more information on price point and terms of delivery. And how we’ll share the profits.” The other woman looked her in the eye. “Shall I have my attorney call yours?”

“Yes.” Miranda offered her hand and stood. When you’d gotten what you wanted, it was always best to get up and get out before the other party could reconsider. “Anytime after Wednesday is good.”

They walked to the front of the store together chatting easily. As they parted company Miranda managed to hold back the whoop of triumph she wanted to send echoing through the mall.

Looking for a socially acceptable release, she turned and followed her homing instincts toward Saks Fifth Avenue. Vibrating with excitement and relief, she browsed store windows and thought about what would come next. When Blake Summers popped uninvited into her mind she pushed him back out. His daughter was allowed to remain.

It was in the window of a store called Timeless that she spotted the ball gown. It was clean-lined and elegant and would be absolutely perfect for Andie. She would have loved to put it on hold and bring the girl back to see it, but there was a good chance her mother had already helped her choose something, or that Blake might not like the idea of Miranda being the one to introduce his daughter to the fine art of shopping.

Still, the dress begged to be bought. So Miranda hurried in, spent a highly enjoyable twenty minutes picking out accessories to go with it, and left with the entire ensemble tucked under her arm.

There was nothing like a little shopping to cleanse a woman’s soul.

And nothing like a meeting with your divorce attorney to muck it back up again.

“I wish I had more to report,” Dana Houseman said later after they’d gone over the marital history Miranda had completed. “But so far we have no strong leads as to your husband’s whereabouts.”

“But I thought you said we could proceed even without Tom.”

“We can, but we can’t go to court until we find him and have him served, or prove to the court that we’ve made a diligent effort to find him and have published notice.”

“And how long do you think that will take?”

Her attorney shook her head. “That I don’t know. But I do know that Harrison Maples is one of the best PIs in Atlanta. And right now finding your husband is his top priority.”

On the day of the Ballantyne board meeting, Miranda woke before the alarm. Clad in her flannel pajamas, she stood in front of the mirror and ran through her presentation to the Board from start to finish, anticipating the exact way she’d use her visuals and how she’d place her samples, and coming up with an appropriate counterpoint to every objection they could possibly make. Using all the visualization techniques she’d learned as a pageant contestant, she pictured herself convincing the Board and driving toward her winning outcome.

When she could put it off no longer, she took a quick shower and dressed, choosing the Armani suit and, for luck, the strand of perfectly matched pearls her grandmother had given her on her eighteenth birthday.

Too nervous to eat, she poured a cup of coffee into a travel mug and drove to the office. Carly was already at her desk when she arrived.

“Are you as wired as I am, Boss?”

“Who, me?” She put a hand to her chest. “Why, I just live to be thrown in front of an audience where I get to tap dance without music while balancing the fate of the free world on my shoulders.”

Carly smiled.

“If I pass out or anything, just drag me under the conference table and take over, okay?”