Love Letters, Inc. (12 page)

"Thanks." He glanced up distractedly. He was busy wondering if there was a legal limit on the number of kids you could claim for taxes.

"Mae, have you got any kids?" he asked abruptly.

"Not yet. Someday though," she said, eyes dreamy, voice wistful. She started stroking the thermos as if it could kick start the process.

Women. Weird. Mention babies and sometimes their brains went into meltdown. "How many do you want?"

She turned pink, as if he'd asked her what kind of birth control she favored. "I don't know. A couple. Kids are expensive."

"Uh huh!" Kent slapped a hand on his desk hard enough to send a stapler thudding to the floor. "My argument exactly. Why have a team when a pair will do, right?"

Mae shot him a confused look, and no damn wonder. He and Mae hadn't had anything remotely like a personal conversation since she'd joined Beachline.

He rubbed his forehead again, about where his dunce cap should sit. "Forget it. Thanks for the coffee." He reached for his cup and opened a file, hoping she'd take the hint and leave. She did.

With Mae gone, Kent leaned back in his chair, nursing his coffee as if it were hundred-year-old Scotch. He was losing it. Completely losing it. If he didn't get a grip on this thing he had for O'Hanlon, someone was going to put him in a rubber room. He let out breath enough to drain his lungs. Trouble was he didn't want to get a grip on anything but Rosie. All of Rosie. But he didn't want to do it under false pretenses.

But there was nothing he could do about it now. Rosie had emailed him saying she was going back to Borneo until Saturday. He hadn't even bothered to call. No point. Like it or not, his sanity and his hyperactive libido would have to wait, which was probably just as well. He had enough on his plate, not to mention a lousy dinner meeting on Friday with Packard. The guy hadn't taken no for an answer. Said he had some new ideas for the new wing. Kent figured it was more like some new ideas for increasing the costs, but because he didn't have anything better to do, he'd agreed to the dinner.

He checked his calendar. Friday at seven-thirty. Monk's.

In the meantime, he'd be busy enough to keep his mind off Rosie. At least he had the advantage of the barbecue, which made him her first post-brace date. Maybe it was a small edge, and maybe Rosie didn't know it was a date, but for want of anything better, he'd take it.

Come Saturday he'd begin his campaign in earnest.

* * *

Rosie hopped her way to the kitchen telephone, struggling to plug her heel into her sneaker. Shoe in one hand, phone in the other, she sank into the fireside wing chair and managed a breathless, "Hello."

"She lives."

"Hey, Jonesy." Rosie dropped the sneaker and wiggled her foot into it. "What's happening?"

"My question exactly. What time do you want me to pick you up?"

"As close to three as you can make it. And puhleeze, puhleeze, don't be late. I feel like an inmate on freedom day. I can't believe I'm being unwired today."

"Want to celebrate?"

"Absolutely. Have you got a plan?" With her sneakers under control, Rosie slumped back in the chair and started in on her jeans' zipper.

"Better than a plan. I've got us dates, including a real live person of the masculine persuasion who's dying to meet you,
and
I've got reservations at Monk's for seven."

Rosie stopped zipping mid belly. "I don't know, Jonesy."

"What don't you know?"

"I might be tired or something."

"This from the woman who's about to embark on an intensive, well-oiled, totally focused manhunt. Or should I say daddy-hunt? I don't think so."

"I shouldn't have told you." Rosie groused. "Once you hear the word goal, you're unstoppable."

"Yeah, ain't it great?" Jonesy laughed. "So forget the delaying action. This guy is a real possibility, hunky, wealthy, and lonely, and a perfect candidate for you to kick off your campaign. Unless, of course, you've changed your mind and want to go after sexy Summerton? Like any sane woman would."

"No, I haven't changed my mind." Now all she had to do is get him out of it. Saturday. She'd find his blessed Gardenia and get out of his career path.

"So, are you in or out for tonight?"

Rosie tugged at her hair in a desperate attempt to locate the enthusiasm sector of her brain. No go. This was definitely an oh-why-not decision rather than the yes!—let's-do-it kind. Irritating. And all because of a pair of green eyes to die for.

And something was poking into her backside.

"Rosie?"

She reached under her behind and pulled out her glasses. Broken. Again. Of course it was Summerton's fault. Everything was Summerton's fault. Ever since he'd knocked on her door and tantalized her with that aphrodisiac aftershave he insisted he didn't wear, she'd been completely off kilter. Well, no more. He wasn't right for her. She wasn't right for him. That was the truth of the matter. It was time she thought of her kids, and past time for Summerton and his workaholic righteousness to get out of her life. She blew out a breath strong enough to tilt a windmill.

"I'm in," she said, then started searching her hair for a paper clip to repair her glasses. The damn things were never in the right place at the right time.

"Great," Jonesy said. "See you around three. I'd suggest we go shopping before we meet the guys, but knowing the current state of your finances, that would be irresponsible of me. So I'll drive you home after your doctor's appointment and pick you up again at six-thirty. I know you'll be driving again, but we might as well stick with one car. If Roland works out—"

"Who's Roland?"

"Your date, idiot."

"Oh, yeah. Right."

"If
Roland
works out," Jonesy repeated, enunciating carefully, "he can drive you home. If not, give me a high sign, and I'll do the honors. Okay?"

"Okay."

"And Rosaleen?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Try to curb your enthusiasm. You don't want to overwhelm the guy on the first date."

Rosie hung up the phone and went in search of a clip to fix her glasses. Roland? Were there actually men called Roland?

* * *

Kent tilted his head, then cupped his ear in an effort to hear whatever it was Vince Packard said. Something about following him. He nodded, and they walked a gauntlet of full tables, dropping apologies as they went. It was impossible to make headway without bumping into one chair or another at every turn.

Monk's was Friday-night jammed, and as noisy as a jet-test center. Hardly the place to discuss business. Kent looked around, eyes narrowing—unless it was monkey business. This place was definitely a singles hangout. He hated places like this. He hoped this wasn't an effort on Packard's part for some male bonding of the pick-up-chicks-and-party variety. If it was, he'd made a strategic error.

After they'd shouldered their way through the crowd, taken their seats, and ordered pre-dinner drinks, Packard left to find a quieter place to take a phone call. The waiter brought the drinks, and Kent nursed his, trying to figure out a way to cut this evening short and get back to Beachline. He had work to do. Most of which was Con's. He should damn well leave it for him. Do him good.

Kent imagined Con returning to Beachline from Hawaii and finding a stack of files on his desk high enough to obscure the view of the first tee. Every time he thought about Con his gut clenched, a knotted blend of anger and regret. Anger about the work Con didn't do, sure, but he also missed how it used to be when they'd bought the place. They'd worked together then, side-by-side in a effective partnership, and it had been great. Much as he hated to admit it, he missed the guy.

Kent made idle circles on the table top with his glass. Maybe when he came back, he'd talk to him, try to work things out. Or buy him out. He closed his eyes briefly. The thought of handling Beachline alone gave him pause. Which made no sense at all, because that's exactly what he'd been doing for months. But he had no desire to make it a permanent condition. He took a swallow of Scotch, shoved Con out of his mind, and leaned back in his chair.

He had pleasanter things to think about, like a certain quirky, one-of-a-kind woman with the maternal instinct of a rabbit, who, in a matter of days, had so turned him on that his wake-up condition was painfully predictable. Waking up aroused was okay when a man could do something about it, but when his only something was an icy shower, he was in a bad way. Yeah, if it was just good old-fashioned lust, he'd have alternatives He glanced disinterestedly around the packed room. More than one opportunity in this place. He stifled a yawn.

His nose picked up on a scent. Something from the kitchen. Clove. Cinnamon. Both. He swiveled in his chair.

Rosie. She hadn't spotted him yet, even though she was only about three feet away, sitting with Jonesy. His whole body straightened, and his hand fell away from his drink. He couldn't believe he'd missed her on the way in. Maybe because she looked so... different. Her brace was gone, exposing a pale, delicate neck, and her hair was swept back and up in a wild head-topping arrangement that would baffle a NASA scientist. She was spectacular.

And a man's arm was draped casually on the back of her chair.

She was with someone.

A blast of unexpected jealousy effectively halted all normal thought processes in his brain. By the time it cleared, he found himself calmly evaluating two courses of rational action. Either doing the cave man thing—which involved bludgeoning her date with a steel-studded cudgel and dragging Rosie from the room by her copper hair—or heeding the sage advice of an old deodorant commercial: "Never let 'em see you sweat."

Still undecided, he got to his feet. They led him directly to Rosie.

Chapter 8

"That's nice. That's real nice," Rosie said, trying to widen her eyes enough to appear somewhat interested. Not that it mattered. Roland was a lot more interested in Roland than conversational feedback.

What the heck had Jonesy been thinking of to set her up -with this guy? She looked at her watch. The way she had it figured, she'd been here about six weeks, and they hadn't even been served dinner yet. There had to be a way out of this date. She massaged her newly accessible throat and clamped her teeth over a welling yawn. Maybe she could convince ole Roland to FedEx his ego to her place. She'd stroke it a few hundred times and send it back. Easier for all concerned. While Roland droned on about Roland, she tried to come up with an escape plan.

She couldn't risk kicking Jonesy under the table again, or the woman would be going home in a wheelchair. Obviously Jonesy liked her own date. Sheesh!

Should've brought my own car, darn it. If Jonesy reneges on her promise to drive me home, I'll—

"What are you doing here, O'Hanlon?"

The voice came from behind her, cool and unfriendly. Rosie looked up and into the last pair of eyes she expected to see. And of course she was immediately warm all over, glad, mad, and befuddled.

"Kent?" she questioned, hitting a high note on the dumb response-o-meter.

"Last I checked," he said mirthlessly, nodding in Jonesy's direction and giving her a smile that looked as though it had already been used. Jonesy raised a brow and grinned back. Without acknowledging the two men at the table, Kent turned his gaze back to Rosie and positively glowered at her.

"Shouldn't you be home in bed?" He gestured toward her naked neck and glared.

She stared, certain she looked like an owl on Prozac. Kent hadn't so much as glanced at Roland, and Rosie knew she should be angry at his high-handedness, his surly tone, and his lack of good manners, but she was either too stupidly pleased that he'd shown up or too leaden with boredom to drum up the necessary fire. She'd figure out which later. A golden opportunity knocked.

She reached down, gripped her bag as if it were a life preserver, and stood. "You're absolutely right. That's precisely where I should be. And you're the perfect man to take me there." She shot a quick glance at Roland, who was blinking so fast he couldn't work his mouth. "You'll excuse us, won't you? Thanks so much."

It was Kent's turn to blink. But to his credit, he didn't hesitate. He took her arm and steered her through the crowd as if he were Moses and Monk's was the Red Sea. He stopped briefly to speak to a man sitting at one of the tables, and the next minute they were outside waiting for the parking attendant to bring his car around.

Rosie breathed deep of the cool evening air. She'd been unforgivably rude, but she doubted she'd so much as scuffed Roland's sacred selfhood. She was just happy to be free and standing next to the man she lov—.

Her knees threatened to give out. Trembling, she tried to stuff that scary thought back in the dream bag it had escaped from. Lust, she reminded herself, it was only lust. Not that there was anything "only" about it. Not if the object of said lust occupied your thoughts every waking minute and had you consumed with curiosity about... all kinds of things.

Like what he'd look like naked, what his hands would feel like against your skin, if his lovemaking would be teasingly gentle or erotically rough, if he'd want the lights on or off, what his first words would be after making love...