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jobs to pay for gas, for food, for the occasional motel.
He made it sound funny, adventurous, and as they ate, she thought it had been both. But she also imagined how hard, how scary it would have been all too often for a boy that age, away from home, living on his wits and whatever he could pocket from work on the road.
He’d pumped gas in Pittsburgh, picked up some maintenance work in West Virginia, moved on to Illinois where he’d worked as a mechanic outside of Peoria. And so had worked his way cross-country, seeing parts of it Parker knew she had never seen, and was unlikely ever to see.
“Did you ever consider coming back? Just turning around and heading home?”
“No. I had to get where I was going, do what I was going to do.When you’re eighteen you can live off stubborn and pride for a long time. And I liked being on my own, without somebody watching and waiting to say I knew you wouldn’t make it, knew you were no good.”
“Your mother would never—”
“No, not Ma.”
“Ah.” His uncle, she thought, and said nothing more.
“That’s a long, ugly story. Let’s take a walk instead.”
On the busy main street they ran into people she knew, or people he knew. On both sides there was enough puzzlement and curiosity to amuse him.
“People wonder what you’re doing with me,” he commented, “or what I’m doing with you.”
“People should spend more time on their own business than speculating on other people’s.”
“In Greenwich everybody’s going to speculate about the Browns.They’re just going to be careful when it’s you.”
“Me?” Honestly surprised, Parker frowned at him. “Why?”
“In your business you get to know a lot of secrets. In mine, too.”
“How’s that?”
“People want their car detailed, for instance, and don’t always make sure everything’s out of it they don’t want other people to see.”
“Such as?”
“That would be telling.”
She elbowed him. “Not if I don’t know who left the what.”
“We have a running contest at the garage. Whoever finds the most women’s underwear in a month gets a six-pack.”
“Oh. Hmmm.”
“You asked.”
She considered a moment.“I can beat that,” she determined.“I can beat that.”
“Okay.”
“I once found a Chantelle demi-cut bra—black lace, thirty-six-C, hanging on a branch of a willow by the pond and the matching panties floating in the water.”
“Chantelle who?”
“That’s the lingerie designer.You know cars. I know fashion.”
“Something about cars and weddings,” he said as he opened the passenger door for her, “must make women want to take off their underwear.” He grinned as she slid in. “So feel free.”
“That’s so sweet of you.”
When she settled back in the car again, she considered it a successful evening. She’d enjoyed it, enjoyed him, learned a little more—even if she’d had to nudge, poke, and pry the more out of him.
And had only had to excuse herself twice to take calls from clients.
“Big wedding this weekend,” he commented.
“Two big, two medium, and a coed wedding shower Thursday evening, right after rehearsal. Plus two off-site events.”
“Busy.Why does a guy want to go to a wedding shower?”
She started to give him the diplomatic, professional response, then laughed. “Because their fiancee makes them. We set up a cigar bar on the terrace. It helps get them through.”
“Morphine wouldn’t do it for me.The wedding deal. I meant Carter’s sister.”
“Oh yeah. We’re all looking forward to that. Sherry’s been nothing but fun to work with.We don’t get many like her.You’re at table twelve.You’ll have a good time.”
“Planning on it.”
When he turned into the drive, she was as sorry to see the evening ending as she’d been skittish to have it begin.
“Summer’s done,” she said as she got out of the car into the crisp.“I love fall, the color of it, the smells, the change of the light. But I’m always sorry to say good-bye to the green and the summer flowers. I guess you’re sorry to say good-bye to your bike until next year.”
“I’ll get a few more runs in.Take a day off and we’ll have one together.”
“Tempting.”And it was.“But we’re packed for the next couple weeks.”
“I can wait. I’d rather not.” He stepped closer, and though he didn’t touch her, she felt the spike of excitement.“Why don’t you ask me in, Parker?”
She intended to say no, had intended to say no since she’d dressed for the evening.Too soon, too much, too risky.
She opened the door, held out her hand.“Come in, Malcolm.”
He took her hand, shoved the door closed behind him. His gaze stayed on hers, compelling, the only contact but palm to palm.
“Ask me upstairs. Ask me into your bed.”
She felt her heart beat, rapid kicks at the base of her throat. Be sensible, she ordered herself. Be careful.
Instead she moved into him this time, took for herself this time by laying her lips on his.
“Come upstairs, Malcolm. I want you in my bed.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT WAS A LONG WAY UP, HE THOUGHT, LONG ENOUGH FOR HIM TO sense her nerves. She was skilled at hiding them, but he’d learned how to read her. Especially now when he was aware of her every move, her every breath.
They climbed the graceful stairs to her wing where the quiet was so absolute he swore he could hear his own heartbeat. And hers.
She stepped into the bedroom—big, filled with quiet colors, art, photographs, the soft gleam of furniture he imagined had served generations.
She locked the door, caught his raised brow.
“Ah . . . it’s not usual, but Laurel or Del could . . . Anyway, I’ll take your jacket.”
“My jacket?”
“I’ll hang up your jacket.”
Of course she’d hang up his jacket. It was perfectly Parker. Quietly amused, he stripped it off and handed it to her.When she crossed to a door, went inside, curiosity had him following.
Closet wasn’t a big enough or fancy enough term. None of the closets he’d ever owned or seen held curvy little chairs, lamps, or an entire wall of shoes. In an alcove—and closets didn’t generally run to alcoves—a lighted mirror ranged above some sort of desk or kneehole cabinet where he assumed she fussed with her hair and face, but the only thing on it was a vase of little flowers.
“So is this everybody’s closet?”
“Just mine.” She tossed her hair as she glanced back. “I like clothes.”
As with closet, he didn’t think like was a big or fancy enough word for Parker Brown’s relationship with clothes. “You’ve got them color coordinated.” Fascinated, he skimmed a finger over a section of white tops. “Even, what do you call it, graduated, like a paint fan.”
“It’s more efficient. Don’t you keep your tools in order?”
“I thought I did.There’s a phone in here.”
“It’s a house phone.” She took her own out of the purse she set on a drawer-filled counter.
“Need to make a call?”
“It needs to charge,” she said, walked by him and out.
She could give tours in this closet, he thought, taking another moment. Have cocktail parties. Hold board meetings.
When he went out, she’d set the phone on the charger on the nightstand closest to the terrace doors.And to his continued fascination began to fold down the bedspread—comforter—whatever it was.
He just leaned on the wall and watched her. Brisk and graceful, he noted, as she smoothed out, folded, smoothed. Parker Brown would never just fall into bed.
No wonder he’d never felt about any other woman the way he felt about her.There was no other woman remotely like her.
“I
don’t make a habit of this.” She set the folded cover on the bench at the foot of the bed.
“Folding down the bedspread?”
“Bringing men here. If and when I do—”
“I’m only interested in you and me.You’re nervous.”
She turned to walk to the dresser. Her gaze met his in the mirror as she unfastened her earrings. “You’re not.”
“I want you too much to be nervous. It doesn’t leave any room.” He walked to her now. “Are you finished?”
“What?”
“Overthinking, second-guessing.”
“Nearly.”
“Let me help you with that.”
