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He braced his elbows on the desk, his brow on his fists. "She came shrieking across the court. I'd just hit a line drive, barely missed beaning her. Cameras rolling, and there I am trying to look my sixth-generational-hotelier best, the athletic yet intelligent, the world-traveled yet dedicated, the dashing yet
concerned heir to the Templeton name."
"You'd be good at that," Margo murmured, hoping to placate him.
He didn't even look at her. "Suddenly I've got my arms full of this half-naked, spitting, swearing, clawing mass who's screaming that my sister, her lesbian companion, and my whore attacked her." He pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to relieve some pressure. "I figured out right away who my sister was. Though I didn't appreciate the term, I deduced you must be my whore. The lesbian companion might have stumped me, but for process of elimination." He lifted his head. "I was tempted to belt her, but I was too busy trying to keep her from ripping off my face."
"It's such a nice face, too." Hoping to soothe, she walked around the desk and sat on his lap. "I'm sorry she took it out on you."
"She scratched me." He turned his head to show her the trio of angry welts on the side of his throat. Dutifully, Margo kissed them. "What am I going to do with you?" he said wearily and rested his cheek on her head. Then he chuckled. "How the hell did you stuff her into one of those skinny lockers?''
"It wasn't easy, but it was fun."
He narrowed his eyes. "You're never going to do it again, no matter what the provocation—unless you sedate her first."
"Deal." Since the crisis seemed to have passed, she slipped a hand under his shirt, stroked it over his chest, watched his brow lift. "I've been waxed and polished. If you're interested."
"Well, just so the day isn't a complete loss." He picked her up and carried her to the bed.
Chapter Sixteen
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It didn't take long for the fallout. Sales and traffic fell off sharply during the following week. Sharply enough to have Margo's stomach jittering as she wrote out checks for the monthly bills. Oh, there were still plenty of tourists and walkins, but a great many of the ladies who lunch, the very clientele Pretenses required in order to move the high-end merchandise, were giving the shop a wide berth.
If things didn't pick up within the next thirty days, she would have to dip into her dwindling capital just to stay open.
She wasn't panicked, just uneasy. She'd told Josh they could wait it out, and she believed it. The loyalty of Candy's country club pals could be measured in their demitasse cups with room to spare.
But that didn't mean her business didn't need a jolt of adrenaline. She didn't want the shop merely to struggle along, she wanted it to thrive. Perhaps, she realized, she wanted it to be as she had once been. In the spotlight, admired, successful.
As she arranged and rearranged displays, she wracked her brains to come up with a workable concept to turn Pretenses from an intriguing little secondhand shop into a star.
When the door opened, she had a bright—and, she was afraid, desperate—smile waiting. "Mum. What are you doing here?"
"It's my day off, isn't it?" Ann pursed her lips as she scanned the showroom. "And I haven't come by here since the first week you opened. It's awful quiet."
"I'm being punished for my sins. You always said I would be."
"I heard of it." She clucked her tongue. "Grown women behaving like hoydens. Though I never liked that woman, not even when she was a girl. Always with her nose in the air."
"This time I put it out of joint. She's managed to slice a chunk out of sales. Though Kate says it's also part of the natural correction of a new business after its initial opening weeks." Margo scowled at an amber globe. "You know how she talks when she's wearing her accountant hat."
"I do, yes. More often than not I listen to her when she's going on about my investments, and just nod soberly without a clue as to what the devil she's talking about."
For the first time all day, Margo indulged in a long laugh. "I'm glad you came in. There haven't been many friendly faces in here today."
"Well, you'll have to do something about that." Out of habit, Ann checked for dust on a table, nodded in approval when she found the surface smooth and glossy. "Have a sale, give away prizes, hire a marching band."
"A marching band—good one, Mum."
"Well, what do I know about shopkeeping? It's getting people in that's the trick, isn't it?"
Absently, Ann picked up a pretty glass bottle. Not to put things in, she mused, perplexed as always with fripperies. Just to sit about the house.
"Your uncle Johnny Ryan back in Cork had himself a pub," she continued. "He would hire musicians now and then—the Yanks liked it especially and would come in to hear the music and buy pints while they did."
"I don't think an Irish jug band is the answer to traffic flow in here."
