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Laura watched him exit the room before she brought her attention back to the table. “This should be a very entertaining weekend, don’t you think?” Her smile was wide and full of amusement.
Boone slammed into the suite and threw a glance around the sitting room that never even paused on his father. “Where the hell is Edwards?” he demanded, referring to his father’s personal secretary and chief assistant.
“He went to FedEx those documents back to the States. Why?” Max’s frown was sharp with suspicion. “What’s happened? Did that girl break her date with you?”
“No.” Boone strode across the room, jerking loose the knot of his tie as he went. “As a matter of fact, we have been invited to spend the weekend in the country with her and Tara Calder.” He snatched up the telephone receiver and punched out a series of numbers. “I want to place an order,” he said into the phone.
“I don’t understand.” Max wheeled his chair over to the desk where Boone stood. “What do you want with Edwards?”
Ignoring the question, Boone continued his conversation with the unknown party. “I want a room full of orchids delivered to Ms. Laura Calder’s suite at the Lanesborough. No, wait,” he said on second thought. “Make that one exotic and absolutely perfect orchid. On the card, simply put, ‘See you at eight,’ and sign it ‘Boone.’ Make sure it’s delivered immediately. I want it in her suite when she returns.”
When he hung up, Max pounded the arm of his wheelchair. “Dammit, are you going to answer my questions? I want to know what the hell is going on.”
Boone looked at him, his lips drawn back in an expression that was more snarl than smile. “Did I forget to mention that the weekend invitation came from that Englishman, Sebastian Dunshill?”
“Dunshill.” Some of the anger went out of Max’s voice as his mind grabbed hold of the news and ran with it, exploring its many ramifications.
The door to the suite opened and J.D. Edwards walked in. He was short and stout and all Texan, as evidenced by the bolo tie and pointed-toe cowboy boots he wore with his business suit.
“It’s about time you got back,” Boone said with impatience. “Find out everything there is to know about a man named Sebastian Dunshill. And I mean everything,” he snapped. “And I want it yesterday.”
“Well, well, well,” Max murmured, fairly beaming in approval. “You do know how to take the initiative.”
But Boone was too angry to notice his father’s reaction as he stalked into his room.
With the setting of the sun, a gossamer-thin fog drifted through the London streets. It veiled the glow from the lampposts along the street outside the restaurant.
Laura was oblivious to the fog and the night-darkened view from their window table. The whole of her attention was on her dinner companion, Boone Rutledge. She doubted that anyone could have looked more out of place amidst the restaurant’s marble and gold Louis XVI decor than this big and brawny dark-haired Texan. Yet its fussily feminine perfection served only to accent his blatant good looks and raw virility. His bold maleness was like a powerful magnet, irresistible in its attraction.
She watched him cut into his steak while she idly toyed with her plate of veal and lobster in a seafood sauce atop a bed of tender vegetable noodles.
“So, tell me,” Boone began in a conversational tone, “have you always been interested in tracing your family tree?”
“Hardly,” she replied in amused denial.
“Really?” His thick black eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. “You seemed so interested in this portrait that I figured it must be a hobby of yours.”
“Truthfully, Tara is more interested in seeing it than I am. Which isn’t to say I don’t have some curiosity about it, because I do,” Laura admitted. “But if I never had the opportunity, I wouldn’t cry over it.”
“A lot of people these days have become obsessed with uncovering their roots,” Boone commented. “A few years ago my father hired some guy to trace back our family tree. He was convinced we were related to one of the defenders of the Alamo,” Boone recalled with a smile. “You should have seen my father’s face when he learned that the only famous ancestor we had was the outlaw John Wesley Hardin.”
“John Wesley Hardin? You’re kidding!” Laura all but hooted with laughter
“ ’Fraid not. Needless to say, he fired the researcher on the spot.”
“He must have been furious.”
“Believe me, he was roaring louder than a Texas tornado. It didn’t help that I suggested he might have come by his skill in business honestly—he had merely found a bloodless way to do it, first snuffing out his competition, then taking over its assets.”
“Something tells me that didn’t make you very popular with him.”
“He did a bit more roaring,” Boone admitted, his grin broadening.
“I can imagine,” she said, then added thoughtfully. “I suspect, though, that Max welcomes any excuse to roar.”
“And he does bite as well,” Boone warned.
The remark reminded her of the many stories she’d heard about her own Calder family. On occasion they had been known to bite, too.
