Love Letters, Inc. (11 page)

And she'd better get on it. In no time her brace would be history, and she'd start dating again. Ugh. Odd, she'd been so looking forward to it—until Kent had come into her life.

Yup. Incommunicado, that was the ticket. A few days to work hard, straighten out her head, and prioritize stuff.

She headed to the bathroom, frowning. Prioritize. Had she actually used that word? Obviously she'd been hanging out with the wrong people.

* * *

Kent hadn't seen Rosie in over a week. He'd called several times and all he got was her voice message saying, "I left last night on the last train to Borneo. Will be gone until I return. Further attempts to communicate will be futile unless you have a working set of jungle drums. Do not call, fax, or e-mail until further notice."

Kent had done all three, persistently to no avail.

He swiveled his chair to face the window, idly turning his pen between thumb and index finger. It was a dismal Monday morning; sun shining, birds singing, golfers swinging—and over ten days since he'd seen her. It had taken a lot less time than that for him to admit he missed her. O'Hanlon was under his skin. Deep. Funny thing was he didn't mind. Didn't mind at all.

He knew she was working on the Beachline manual, because Greg had heard from her, as had Susan and Marlene. But she hadn't called him, not even to say she was, or was not, coming to the barbecue. Not that he had any intention of letting her out of it.

That decision made, he turned back to his desk. Time to get to work. He hadn't heard anyone come in, but a new stack of mail formed a silo on his desk. He hadn't heard from his pen pal since Rosie mailed her letter, but unless he was wrong, that was the scent of Gardenia drifting up his nose. He rifled the pile and smiled when he spotted the pale pink envelope. He put his feet up on his desk and opened the letter.

Sleep brings dreams of you, my darling.

Come dream with me.

See what I see, feel what I feel.

Our mouths joined at last.

Skin to skin.

Our bodies moist, blazing with a dark, wild heat.

My naked, aching breasts pressed against your chest.

I want you, Kent. I crave your hot, hard length.

In love and longing,

Gardenia

Kent shifted in his chair.

Rosie's purple prose made his own thoughts
decidedly
blue. And they had nothing to do with Gardenia and a hell of a lot to do with the vision of being skin-to-skin with Rosie O'Hanlon.

He slapped the letter on his desk and exhaled as if he'd run a marathon.

Then he noticed the hand-printed note on the back of the letter. "I received
Cyrano's
message, my darling, but I know you don't really want me to stop writing. My courage is growing, so we'll meet soon. I will be naked and waiting—where you least expect me."

"Whoa!" Kent straightened. He picked up the phone to call Rosie, then remembered her recent trip to Borneo.

Tonight. He'd go out to her place tonight. This was one development she had to hear about.

* * *

"I'm not here." Rosie yelled for the third time, determined to get through to the idiot banging on her door. She gave a beseeching glance to Font who was sleeping in the middle of the doorway. No help from that quarter. The banging continued. She sighed and headed for the door. It was past eight and time to quit, anyway, not to mention she was starved. It was probably only Jonesy bursting with the financial crisis of the week. They could share some soup.

"Summerton, what are you doing here? I told you, I'm in Borneo." Her hand shot to the wildness she called hair. She must look as if she'd been standing around with her finger in an electrical socket. When was the last time she looked in a mirror? Yesterday? The day before? And here was Summerton, looking as though he'd just leapt freshly ironed from the cover of
GQ.
Irritated with the unfairness of it, she plucked a paper clip from her mane of glory and let him stand there.

After a moment of silence, he asked, "Can I come in?"

"No."

"No," he repeated, then waved a sheet of rose linen stationery in her face. "This from a woman who lusts after the 'long, hard length' of me?"

She snatched the paper from his hand. "Damn!" she said, turning and walking back into the house. Kent followed, until they both arrived in her kitchen. "Enough time had passed. I figured my letter had done the trick." She slapped the offending paper against her thigh.

"Look at the back."

She turned the letter over. "Damn," she said again, then sighed. She'd have to tell him her suspicions about one of his staff. Too bad her dream wasn't more specific. He'd think she was a gold-plated flake, but it couldn't be helped.

She went to the fridge and took out some salad greens, then went to the stove and turned the heat on under the soup.

"What are you doing?" Kent stood by the unlit fireplace frowning.

"I'm thinking and making myself something to eat. And unless I miss my guess, you just left the club where you had to miss lunch due to an emergency meeting and so haven't eaten a thing since breakfast."

He grinned.

She rolled her eyes.

"Wait," he said, taking off his jacket and striding over to the cooking island, "I'll do the salad thing, you stir the soup—and think."

* * *

Rosie munched on the last crust of her bread while Kent cleared the table. She thought idly that some woman, at sometime in Kent's life, had done a pretty good job of basic training. Then she folded her napkin. Might as well get this over with.

"Kent."

"Uh-huh." He came back and joined her at the table, bringing two cups of coffee.

"I think Gardenia works for you."

"No way. I know all the women at Beachline. Not one of them gives me a second thought—other than at salary review time." He thought for a moment, shook his head, and repeated firmly. "No way."

She stared at him, and said nothing. Lord, was he that unaware? The women at Beachline almost bumped into walls when he walked down the hall.

"You're not serious," he said. "You can't be."

"I'm very serious. I think I heard her voice when I was there."

"You think? Why didn't you say something then?"

She hesitated, twirled a strand of hair. "Because it kind of, uh, came to me in a dream a couple of days later."

"A dream." He leaned back in his chair, looking at her as if she'd just admitted to spotting Elvis at the local coin laundry. "I see."

She glanced skyward, trying to ignore his insufferable tone of voice. "Yes, a dream," she said firmly, with a fine lift of her chin. "And if you patronize me, Summerton, the next meal you have here will be laced with rat poison."

His lips quirked up at the corners. "Glad to know they'll be a next time. Rat poison or not."

The man was quick. Too quick. She glared at him.

"So tell me about this dream," he said in velvet tones, sounding like an oh-so-patient psychiatrist about to probe the psyche of a deranged mental patient.

She was sure she had rat poison around here somewhere.

Chapter 7

Kent listened to Rosie intently as she told him about her dream. If it hadn't included a witches' coven, a green-eyed shapeshifter, and a magic fog, he might be less skeptical. He'd never put any stock in dreams, and after listening to Rosie's, he knew why. But he wasn't about to tell her that.

She insisted that one of her dream-witches was Gardenia. She'd caught a glimpse of her face under a white hood, she told him earnestly—which apparently implied she was a good witch.

Okay...

"But you can't actually identify which of the witches sounded like Gardenia?" he asked in as sober a voice as he could muster.

Rosie shook her head. "No. And it's been driving me nuts. It could be one of the women in accounting. I don't think it's Marlene, but then... Oh, I don't know—" She combed her hands through her hair from the temples out, grimacing when she unearthed another paper clip. She twisted it idly before adding, "As for the others, I'm not sure. But I heard Gardenia's voice, I'm sure of it. And I'm almost certain it was at Beachline."

"Almost certain?" he repeated, his face tight from keeping it straight. Rosie might not have identified Gardenia, but she had given him an opportunity. He decided to take it. The trick was to remain cool and work his plan. He stood. "If you want to check out this dream angle, you'll have to come back to Beachline. Spend more time there." He removed his jacket from the chair back and shrugged into it. "Next Saturday will be perfect."

"Why next Saturday?" She looked doubtful.

"We're hosting a special event. Everyone you met when you were there last will be on the premises." He didn't bother to mention they'd also be there the four days prior to Saturday—or that the "special event" was the Summerton family barbecue. This way, if she turned down his request to go to the barbecue with him, he had an ace in the hole. He walked toward the door, and she walked with him, silent, still fiddling with the paper clip. At the door she looked up at him.

"You don't believe in my dream, do you?" she said, looking uncertain and challenging at the same time.

"I don't believe Gardenia is one of Beachline's employees, but if you can prove me wrong..."

Her eyes narrowed, then lit with determination. "My pleasure, Summerton," she said.

"And this is mine." He gripped her shoulders and pulled her close enough to catch a whiff of vanilla and feel her breath on his neck. He kissed her the way he'd been wanting to for days now. And God, if the woman didn't tuck into his arms as though she'd been wanting the same damn thing, folding into him as though she were coming home. Her mouth was so soft, so giving, his orderly thoughts and plans went south in a hurry. He didn't want to let her go. Ever.

"Oh, Kent," she whispered, propping her braced head against his chest. "You're making me crazy."

He lifted her head, brushed his lips over hers. "That's the idea, O'Hanlon." He kissed her chin, her cheek, her ear, her wild hair.

She giggled. "Be careful there, hotshot, I'm not sure I got all the paperclips out." She pulled away, gazing at him with a terrifically wistful expression, then pushed hard at his chest. "Go. Before I forget myself and start ripping your shirt off."

"Hell of an idea."

She smiled and he smiled back, then he smoothed her hair away from her forehead, kissed its warm, smooth skin. Briefly, he considered pushing his advantage, but decided against it. He didn't want either of them to do something they'd regret. When he and Rosie went to bed together—and they would—he wanted her to want it as much as he did. No reservations. No misunderstandings. After Saturday and a clearheaded view of what a big family
really
meant, a consensus between them was inevitable. If economic arguments couldn't change her mind, maybe the sight of a few dozen sticky-faced kids and a batch of worn-out parents would.

He stepped back and opened the door. "Saturday then? Say about noon? I'll pick you up."

"Okay."

He was opening his car door, when she called to him from the top step. "Kent, about the barbecue? I'm sorry, but I'm not going. It wouldn't be a good idea. I meant what I said about, uh, us. There's just no way..."

"You're probably right," he said, trying to keep his face straight.

"And Kent? I can't stay too late on Saturday. My neck brace is coming off Friday, and I've joined a single's club. There's a dance that night, and I've already been paired up."

Paired up...

Kent's smile crashed and burned, right along with his smug attitude.

* * *

"Mae, would you bring me a thermos of coffee from the kitchen?" Kent asked, slapping a two-inch sheaf of papers on his desk and taking his seat. "I'm going to be here awhile."

"Sure." Mae said, picking up his cold coffee and adding it to her tray. "Can I bring you something to eat?"

"No, thanks," Kent mumbled, trying to focus on the financial reports in front of him. He heard a click when the door closed. And the click set his mind wandering—again. A singles dance. What in hell was wrong with the woman?

What had she said? "Paired up." Over his dead body.

Now he was on a deadline, dictated to by a damn neck brace. He cursed, and rubbed at the irritation lodged in his forehead.

He
could
just let the universe unfold as Rosie wanted it. That would be the fairest thing to do. But fair was the last thing on his mind. He wanted her, and not just in bed. That thought stuck and held too long for comfort. He couldn't deny it; he was falling big time for Rosie O'Hanlon, but, damn it, he did
not
want to set off a personal population explosion to get her.

Mae came back with the thermos, then busied herself setting it and a fresh cup out for him.

"I brought you a couple of cookies," she said. "Just in case." She didn't say in case of what.