The MacGregor Grooms (4 page)

D.C.’s big plan for Sunday was to sleep late, eat an enormous breakfast, which he’d specifically shopped for, and spend a couple hours at his health club. After that his most knotty decision would be whether to while away the afternoon in solitude or to wander down to M Street to the blues festival.

The plan broke apart when he found himself awake and restless just after sunrise.

Annoyed, he tried to sink back into the fitful sleep that had plagued him through the night. But every time he began to drift, he started to think of her. That was more irritating than getting up.

There was no reason for Layna Drake to be on his mind. That one moment of physical connection, of awareness, had been a short side trip in a long and uneventful evening. They’d been scrupulously polite to each other, had mingled, socialized and made tedious small talk, together and separately.

He’d driven her home—deliberately keeping his speed under the limit, signaling for every turn, and braking gently. They had exchanged lukewarm handshakes and goodbyes at her door. And, he was certain, had each been desperately relieved to have parted company.

So it was ridiculous for her to keep chasing through his brain, for him to remember exactly the way it had felt to hold her, to smell her, to watch her eyes go soft and dreamy in the dance.

It was her face, that was all. He was intrigued by it. In an artistic sense, of course.

So he went to the gym early and spent a couple hours trying to sweat out the restlessness. He told himself he felt better, more alert, more clearheaded. By the time he got back to his apartment, he was ready for that big breakfast.

He turned the stereo up to blast, pushed up the sleeves of his black sweatshirt, then put bacon on to fry. Feeling a great deal more cheerful and in control, he sang along with John Fogerty and mixed eggs for scrambling.

When the phone rang, he answered one-handed as he scooped crisp bacon out of the pan.

“So, you’re up and about,” Daniel boomed out at him. “Turn that music down, boy. You’ll have no hearing left.”

“Hold on.”

D.C. spent a few seconds looking for the remote control—he could never find the damn thing when he needed it—then jogged into the living area to turn down the music manually. On his way back through the kitchen, he snagged a piece of bacon.

“Yeah, I’m up and about,” he said into the phone. “I’ve already been to the gym and I’m about to clog my arteries.”

“Bacon and eggs?” Daniel sighed wistfully. “I remember when I used to sit down to a Sunday breakfast like that. Your grandmother, she’s so strict. Frets about my cholesterol, so I’m lucky if I’m allowed to look at a picture of bacon these days.”

“I’m eating some now.” With a wicked grin, D.C. crunched, loud and deliberate. “Fabulous.”

“You’re a sadistic young man.” Daniel sighed again. “And to think I called you up to thank you for doing me such a favor. Now I hope you had a miserable evening entertaining Myra’s goddaughter.”

“I got through it.”

“Well, I appreciate it. I know you’ve better things to do with your time. Not that she’s not a sweet-enough girl, but just not the type who’d interest you. We’re looking for a livelier lass for you.”

D.C. frowned at what was left of his slice of bacon. “I can do my own looking.”

“Well, why aren’t you? Locked away in that place with your paints and canvases. Hah. Ought to be out romancing some suitable woman. Do you know how your grandmother frets? Picturing you there, by yourself in that stuffy apartment, with all those paint fumes?”

“Um-hmm.” So accustomed to the lecture he could recite it himself, D.C. grabbed another slice of bacon.

“It’s a fire trap is what it is, that place you live in. At your age you need a nice house, a good woman, noisy children. But I didn’t call to remind you of a duty you should already have seen to,” Daniel rushed on. “I appreciate what you did. I remember, before I found your grandmother, the evenings I spent cross-eyed with boredom with some girl who didn’t have a single interesting thing to say. What you need is common ground, and a spark. Can’t waste your time with someone without those things. You wouldn’t have them with little Linda.”

“Layna,” D.C. muttered, irritated for no good reason. “Her name’s Layna.”

“Oh yes, there you are. Odd name, don’t you think? Well, it’s neither here nor there. It’s done now, and you won’t have to waste any more of your evenings on her. When are you going to come up and see your grandmother? She’s pining for you.”

“I’ll come visit soon.” Scowling, D.C. tossed the rest of the bacon back on the platter. “What’s wrong with Layna?”

“Who?” In his office in his fortress in Hyannis Port, Daniel had to cover the mouthpiece on the phone until he was certain he’d controlled the bark of laughter.

“Layna,” D.C. repeated through his teeth. “What’s wrong with Layna?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all’s wrong with her. Pretty young woman. Fine manners, as I recall. She’s just not for you. Chilly sort of thing, isn’t she? Her parents are cold fish and stiff as two boards, if I remember right. Well, you eat your breakfast, lad, and make time to come see your grandmother before she nags me to distraction.”

“Okay, yeah. Give her my love.”

“Oh, that I’ll do.” And Daniel hung up, wondering how long it would take his grandson to pay a call on pretty Layna Drake.

*   *   *

It took under an hour—particularly since D.C. found he’d lost his appetite and had poured his egg batter down the sink. He put his sketchbook and his pencils and charcoals in a battered leather bag and slung it over his shoulder. He decided to walk to give himself time to think.

His grandfather was right, of course. That grated a bit—the idea that the old man would so confidently eliminate her. It grated just as much, D.C. discovered, as it did when Daniel tossed selections of proper candidates for marriage at his feet.

He’d damn well make his own choices.

He certainly wasn’t thinking about Layna in that manner. He just wanted to sketch her face. And since they’d more or less agreed he could come by and do so that day, he might as well get it done.

She didn’t answer his knock. Vaguely peeved, he shifted his bag and told himself he’d be smarter to walk down to M Street, after all, and do some sketching there. But he could hear the light and liquid notes of a Chopin concerto drifting through the open windows.

With a shrug, he tried the door, found it unlocked and stepped inside. “Layna?”

He glanced around, interested, as she hadn’t let him over the threshold the night before. The foyer had polished wood floors and walls the tone of lightly toasted bread. An antique gateleg table held a vase of white tulips.

Two pencil sketches on the wall caught his eye—street scenes, cleverly done with a fine eye for detail and movement. He moved to the steps, laid a hand on the glossy newel post and called up. He considered going up and searching her out, then decided it was wiser to look through the main floor first.

She wasn’t in the parlor, with its dignified furnishings, or the book-lined library, which smelled of leather and roses. By the time he’d poked into the sitting room, the dining room and the kitchen, he had a solid grip on her taste and lifestyle.

Elegant, traditional, tidy—with occasional and surprising touches of splash. A conservative woman who liked beautiful things, preferred classics in furnishings, reading and music, and kept everything in its logical place.

He saw her through the kitchen window. The postage-stamp patio beyond was outlined with flowers. Layna was underplanting more white tulips with sunny-faced yellow pansies.

She wore buff-colored garden gloves, a wide-brimmed straw hat and a brown gardening apron over simple beige slacks and a thin summer sweater.

She looked, he thought, like a picture in some country style magazine article on the proper attire for casual morning gardening. Competent elegance.

The light was good, D.C. determined, filtering nicely through branches just starting to green with new leaves. He stood where he was and did three quick sketches.

It amused and intrigued him how precisely she worked. Turn the earth with the spade, mix in fertilizer, carefully tap out the plant, place it exactly in the center of the prepared hole, gently fill in the hole, tamp.

She was lining them up like little soldiers.

He was grinning when he stepped outside.

Because all her concentration had been focused on making a success of her first attempt at gardening, the sound of the screen door slamming was like a bullet in the heart. The spade went one way, the pansies another as she jerked up and spun.

“Startled you, sorry.”

“What? How did you get out here?” She had a fist pressed against her racing heart as she stared at him.

“I walked through the house. You didn’t answer the door.”

He set his bag on the wrought-iron table centered on the patio, noted the thick gardening book set there and open to instructions on the planting of annuals, then walked over to pick up the pansies that had gone flying.

“You can’t just walk into someone’s house.”

“Yes, you can.” He crouched beside her, offered the plants. “When the door’s unlocked. I told you I was coming by.”

He smelled of soap, she thought fleetingly, and he moved like a big, sleek leopard. “You certainly did not.”

“Last night. You ought to plant these in a sweep instead of a line, and crowd them some. More pizzazz.” With his eyes narrowed, he took her chin, turned her head to the left. “I said I wanted to sketch your face.”

She jerked free, as irritated with his touch as with his critique of her novice gardening attempts. “I don’t remember anything about that.”

“When we were dancing. It’s a nice light out here. This’ll be fine.” He rose to get his pad. “Just keep gardening if you want.”

When they were dancing? Layna sat back on her heels and tried to think. She couldn’t remember anything that happened when they were dancing except that she’d gone momentarily insane.

Now he was sitting there, dwarfing the curvy little patio chair, his long legs kicked out and a pencil in his hand.

“You don’t have to pose,” he told her, shooting her a smile that went straight to her gut. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

It would be like ignoring a big, sleek panther crouched in the drawing room, she thought. “I can’t work while you’re staring at me. I want to get these planted. They’re calling for some rain this afternoon.”

“You don’t have more than a dozen left, so take a break.” He nudged the other chair away from the table with his foot. “Sit down and talk to me.”

She got to her feet, dragging at her gloves. “Didn’t we establish that we have nothing to say to each other?”

“Did we?” He knew how to charm a reluctant model, and used his smile ruthlessly. “You like music. So do I. Let’s talk music. Chopin suits your style.”

She shoved the gloves into the pocket of her apron. “I suppose wailing bagpipes suit yours.”

He cocked a brow. “You have something against bagpipes?”

She only huffed out a breath, then gave in enough to sit. “Look, D.C., I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

“You’d never be rude unless you meant to. You’re too well bred. Nice smile,” he commented, drawing quickly as he spoke. “Too bad you’re so stingy with it.”

“I’m not—when I like someone.”

He only grinned. “See, you meant to be rude.”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed. But the laughter ended on a stutter of annoyance when he leaned over and plucked off her hat.

“It’s shading your eyes,” he said as he dropped it on the table.

“That was the idea.” Puzzling over him, she leaned back. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but in my opinion you and I didn’t hit it off in any particular fashion last night.”

“So?”

She opened her mouth, shut it again. Ridiculous, she told herself, to feel insulted because he agreed with her. “So, what are you doing here, sketching me?”

“I like your face. It’s strong, all-female. Sexy eyes and classy bones. I don’t have to be attracted to you on a personal level to want to draw you.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” she said coldly.

“No, you don’t. It ticked you off.” He’d flipped over a page and started a fresh study. “That’s female, too. Why get irked because we agree we’re not each other’s type? It doesn’t mean you’re not beautiful. You are. Turn your head to the left a little. You need to tuck your hair back.”

He leaned forward to take care of it himself, skimming his fingers over her cheek. As he did, both
of them went very still.

Her heart fluttered in her chest, continued to dance no matter how firmly she told herself it was a foolish, knee-jerk reaction. The gilded, filtered sunlight was suddenly too hot. Her throat was abruptly too dry.

“You’ve got great skin.” He said it softly, slowly, as if the words were foreign to him. He trailed his fingers down to her chin, along her jaw, then down so that he felt the pulse in her throat beat hard and erratic.

He wanted his mouth there, just there, tasting that wild beat.

Simple, keep it simple, he ordered himself, and picked up his pencil again. Though he wondered how the devil he was supposed to sketch when his fingers seemed to have gone numb.

“I thought …” She had to clear her throat. “I thought you painted shapes—the modern school.”

“I paint what appeals to me.” His eyes stayed on hers as his pencil began to move again. “Apparently you do. On some level.”

Relax, she ordered herself, and unballed the hands she’d fisted under the table. “You had a show in New York a couple of years ago. I didn’t see it, but one of my friends did.”

“That’s all right. I don’t do a lot of shopping in Drake’s, but my mother does.”

Layna chuckled, and the smile stayed in place long enough to make his mouth water. “Well, I suppose we’ve exchanged subtle insults now. What next?”

“We could try a conversation. How do you like being back in Washington?”

“Very much. I’ve always loved this house, this area.” She glanced back toward the pansies she’d planted. “I’m going to enjoy making a home here.” Her brow creased. “What did you mean, plant them in a sweep?”