Happy Ever After - Nora Roberts

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER TEN

HE GOT IN HER WAY. IT WAS HARD TO COMPLAIN WHEN HE MANAGED to get in her way and be useful at the same time, but still . . . he got in her way.

By the end of the evening, she wasn’t sure what to do with him or about him. Enjoy it, and him—that was her friends’ advice. Yet how could she enjoy something, or someone, who made her so uneasy?

She told herself to concentrate on the job, on her work, on the details of the wedding, and managed to do so.Through most of it. When she helped escort guests out at the end of the evening, Parker congratulated herself on having avoided, patched over, or negotiated around the many pitfalls inherent in tonight’s particular event.

And Drunk Uncle Henry slipped past her radar.

“Beautiful! Beautiful wedding, beautiful girl.”

“Thank you, Mister—”

“Beautiful!” He wrapped Parker in a boozy hug that included his busy hands on her ass.

Before she could break away, she spotted Malcolm striding up. Her first thought was oh, no. She didn’t need a white knight who’d very likely punch first and ask questions later.

“Mister—”

“Hey, Pops.” Malcolm’s remarkably cheerful tone matched the quick grin on his face.“You’re going to want to move those hands. How’re you getting home?” Since the man was already unsteady, Malcolm easily peeled him off Parker. “Have you got a ride?”

“I can drive.” Henry swayed, grinned, lifted a thumbs-up sign. “One hundred percent.”

“I think that’s a hundred proof.” Malcolm maneuvered Henry so that the man’s arm slung around his shoulders. “Hey, have you got your keys? I’ll hold on to them for you.”

“Ah . . .”

“Hey, Dad!”A man hurried down the steps, sent a quick, apologetic look toward Parker. “Sorry, he got away from me. Let’s go on out, Dad. Mom and Anna are coming right down. My wife and I are taking him home,” he explained to Malcolm.

“Okay. I’ve got him. I’ll help you out with him.”

“Beautiful wedding!” Henry exclaimed on the way out. “Got to kiss the bride.”

“And any other female under a hundred and twenty he could get his hands on,” Mac commented. “Sorry, I was just heading down, and didn’t move as fast as Mal when you got the DUH treatment.”

“I lived.” Parker blew out a breath, tugged her jacket into proper lines.

“Em and Laurel are helping the stragglers find misplaced whatever. Jack and Del and Carter are doing the security sweep in cleared areas.We did good.”

“We did great. I’ll start sweeping this level if you want to take over here.”

“Good enough.”

Parker moved into the parlor, through to the Great Hall and the Solarium where the subs had already removed and transferred flowers, tulle, lights, candles.

Here, for the moment, it was quiet, shadowy, with the wistful scent of flowers still lingering in the air.They’d dress it all again in the morning for Sunday’s more intimate event, but for now—

“Henry’s poured into the backseat of his son’s Lexus,” Malcolm said from behind her.

She spun around, watched him move in through that shadowed light. Though he moved with hardly a sound, the room no longer seemed quiet. “That’s good.Thanks for the assist.”

“Easy enough.You thought I was going to clock some drunk old guy for wanting a squeeze of a very nicely toned ass.”

“It was a momentary concern.”

“For the future? Clocking happy drunks is a cheap shot. If I’m going to punch somebody, I like it to be worthwhile.”

His voice remained easy, casual, so why, she wondered, did that wistful, flower-scented air suddenly seem electric, suddenly feel dangerous along her skin? “So noted.”

“Plus, as it’s a really great ass, it was hard to blame him.”

“I thought you liked the legs.”

“Baby, there isn’t an inch of you that isn’t prime, and you know it.”

She tilted her head, doing her level best to match his easy tone. “That didn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t. It’s just a fact.” He started toward her in the shadowy light, and she had to fight the urge to step back.“What do you do after one of these to wind down?”

“It depends. Sometimes a group after-event debrief. Sometimes we all just limp off to our own corners to—Wait,” she said when his arms locked around her.

“I thought we’d try another kind of winding down.”

He took her mouth in a flash of heat that was more threat than promise. His hands slid down, slid skillfully over her until thrills—yes, dangerous thrills—shot over her skin. Under her skin.

She told herself to break it off, then as that heat sizzled into her bones, wondered why.

“I want my hands on you, Parker.” Not casual now, not easy. Here was the recklessness she’d sensed under the calm. He took his mouth from hers, skimmed his teeth along her jaw.“You know that, too.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Let me.” He slipped a hand between them to flip open the buttons of her jacket.

“I have to—”

“Let me,” he repeated, and swept his thumbs over her breasts.

Her breath snagged as the sizzle shifted to ache, and the ache to raw, stark need.“I can’t do this now. I’m not going to bed with you when—”

“I didn’t ask you to bed. I just want to touch you.” While he did, he watched her face, watched her face until his mouth came to hers again, all fire and demand.

“Come out with me tomorrow.”

“I . . . Yes. No.”Why couldn’t she think? “I have an event.”

“Next night you’re free.” He glided a hand down the outside of her thigh, up again until the muscles went to water.“When is it?”

How was she supposed to form a rational response when he was turning her body inside out? “I think . . . Tuesday.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven. Say yes.”

“Yes. All right, yes.”

“I’d better go.”

“Yes.”

He smiled, and when he jerked her back against him, she thought oh God before she went under again.

“Good night.”

She nodded, said nothing else as he let himself out the Solarium door.

Then she did something she never did after an event. She sat alone in the dark composing herself while her partners handled the bulk of the work.

AS PART OF HER ROUTINE, PARKER SPENT HER POSTEVENT SUNDAY evening on paperwork, for Vows, for the house, for her personal business. She cleaned up her e-mails, her texts, voice mails, reviewed her calendars—personal and business—for the next two weeks, reviewed the schedules of her partners, made any necessary additions or changes.

She rechecked her list of errands to run the next morning.

She didn’t consider it busywork. She made it a habit, a strict one, to start every Monday with a clean desk.

Satisfied, she opened the file on the book proposal she’d been toying with, did some tweaking. Almost ready, she thought, to show to her partners, get their input, have a serious discussion on moving forward.

By eleven, she was in bed with a book.

By eleven ten, she was staring at the ceiling thinking about an entry on her calendar.

Tues, 7:00: Malcolm.

Why had she said yes that way? Well, she knew exactly why she’d said yes, so it was ridiculous to ask herself the question. She’d been sexually flustered and aroused and interested. No point in pretending otherwise.

So flustered, aroused, and interested, she hadn’t even asked where he planned to go, what he planned to do.

How was she supposed to dress, for God’s sake? How was she supposed to prepare without the smallest detail to go on? Did he plan to take her to dinner, a movie, a play, straight to a motel?

And why would they go to a motel when they both had homes?

And why couldn’t she stop thinking and just read her damn book?

She could just call him and find out. But she didn’t want to call him. Any normal man would’ve said, I’ll pick you up at seven, we’ll go to dinner. Then she’d know what to expect.

She certainly wasn’t going to dress up when he’d probably pick her up on his motorcycle. She didn’t even know if he had a car.

Why didn’t she know that?

She could ask Del. She’d feel stupid asking Del. She felt stupid thinking about asking Del.

She felt stupid.

She’d let him put his hands all over her, was unquestionably thinking about letting him do it again—and more—and she didn’t even know if he owned a car. Or how he lived, or what he did with his free time, except play poker on poker night with her brother and his friends.

“I could drive,” she murmured. “I could insist we take my car, then . . .”

When her phone rang, she snatched it off the night table, thrilled to get her mind off her own personal insanity and onto a bride.

“Hi, Emily. What can I do for you?”

[Dalyia]

MONDAY MORNING, DRESSED IN A RUSTY RED JACKET AND BLACK pants, with heels low enough to suit errands, stylish enough to handle appointments, Parker hauled her dry cleaning bag to the stairs.

“Here, I’ll get that.” Heading over from his wing, Del shifted his briefcase to take the bag.“Dry cleaning? If I take this down to your car, will you drop mine off, too?”

“Can do, but make it quick.” She tapped her watch. “I’m on a schedule.”

“There’s breaking news.” He set the bag and briefcase down. “Be there in two. Don’t carry that down.”

“You might as well get Laurel’s while you’re at it,” she called after him.

“Make that five.”

She started to pick up the bag again, shrugged, carried his briefcase down instead. Emma strolled out of the parlor.

“Hey. I copped coffee from Mrs. G, so I thought I’d check the house flowers while I was here. Heading out?”

“Monday morning errands, then a consult at the bridal shop, and so on.”

“Dry cleaning.” Emma waved her hands.“Can you take mine?”

“If you get it here fast.”

“I’m practically back already,” Emma claimed as she dashed out the door.

Parker checked her watch, then walked back to pick up the weekly cleaning from Mrs. Grady.

By the time she’d loaded that in her car, Del came out with two more bags. “I can pick this up when it’s ready,” he told her. “But maybe I need to rent a truck.”

“Not done yet. Emma’s getting hers.”

He tossed the bags in. “You know, with the amount you have, they’d pick up and deliver.”

“Yes, but I’m going right by there anyway.” She took in a deep breath. “Fall’s coming.You can smell it. The leaves are starting to turn already.” Stupid, stupid, she thought, but couldn’t stop herself. “I guess when the weather turns, Malcolm must have to stow his motorcycle.”

“Mostly. He’s got a ’Vette, some vintage deal he restored. Pretty slick. He won’t let anybody else drive it. And he’s got a truck.” He shot her a look. “Worried about your transportation?”

“Not especially.That’s a lot of vehicles for one person.”

“It’s his deal. He picks up vintage cars at auctions, restores them, flips them like houses. Seems there’s a hell of a market for that kind of thing, done right.” He reached around to tug her ponytail. “Maybe he’ll teach you to rebuild an engine.”

“A useful skill, I’m sure, but I don’t think so.” She glanced over to see both Emma and Carter carting laundry bags. “Maybe we could use that truck.”

“Ran into Mac on my way.” Emma puffed out a few breaths. “So we’ve got the whole haul.”

“Are you sure you can manage all this?” Carter asked Parker. Didn’t she always? she thought but only pointed to the car. “Load it in.” And she’d make sure it was labeled on the other end.

“I can pick it up—” Carter began.

“Del’s on return detail. That’ll be Thursday,” Parker told her brother. “After two. Don’t forget. Full consult on the Foster-Ginnero wedding,” she said to Emma as she rounded the car.“Five sharp.”

“All over it. Thanks, Parker.”

She drove out, imagining both Del and Carter would be on their way close behind her. Jack, she knew, had already left for an early meeting on a job site. Emma would shortly begin processing the morning’s flower deliveries while Mac worked through the morning on photos—and handled an afternoon studio shoot, and Laurel baked for an outside job for Wednesday evening.

A full day for all, she mused. Just the way she liked it.

She dropped off the dry cleaning first, personally tagging each bag.

Systematically, she worked down her list. Banking, stationery store, office supplies, stops to replace the supplies she’d been called on to use during the past week’s events. She added to her in-house supply of emergency party favors, thank-you gifts, hostess gifts, loading all carefully in her car, in order.

And paused to take calls, answer texts from clients.

She got her weekly manicure and arrived at her consult fifteen minutes early.

She loved the bridal shop, the soft, female fragrance in the air, the sparkling displays, the flow and sheen of white gowns.

There were elegant or edgy offerings for attendants, lovely choices for mothers of brides or grooms all carefully arranged with pretty and plush seating areas throughout, with roomy and multimirrored dressing rooms.

“Parker.” The owner herself moved around a counter. “We’re all set for your client. First dressing room. Champagne, an assortment of cookies for the bride, her mother, and her two friends. We’ve got four gowns earmarked for the first round. You said ivory, elaborate, full skirted, lots of sparkle.”

“That’s our girl. She won’t want anything sleek or simple, and she’s got the build to carry a big dress. Monica, since I’m early, I want to look for something I think would work for Laurel.”

Monica clapped her hands together.“I was hoping you would.”

“More contemporary, but with just a touch of thirties glamour. Maybe a subtle sweep in the skirt. Fluid, but with a tucked waist.” She gestured to the gown on the nearest display.“That’s not quite it, but it’s the idea.”

“I’ve got a few minutes, too. So let’s play.”

There was nothing, to Parker’s mind, quite like the pleasure of browsing through wedding gowns. Studying the lines, the tones, the details. Imagining it all. And since Monica had an eye and an efficiency Parker respected, she spent a satisfying ten minutes.

“This one’s almost there.” She held up a gown, studied it from bodice to hem. “But I’d want a little more interest in the bodice. Laurel’s small-breasted. She’s also wonderfully toned, so I think she’d like strapless or spaghetti straps, especially as it’s going to be a summer wedding.And I’d want a touch of elegant fun in the back.”

“Wait! I have one in the back we were holding. The client went in a different direction. Shouldn’t have, if you ask me. I think it may be what you’re after. Let’s go back and take a look.”

She stepped into the back with Monica where more lovely gowns waited for the future bride to embrace or decline.

She saw it before Monica reached for it. She saw Laurel.

“That’s it! Oh, yes, that’s exactly it.” She studied it, top, bottom, front, back, eyeing every detail and embellishment. “Monica, this is Laurel.You’ve done it again.”

“I think that’s ‘we.’This is a four.”

“And so’s Laurel. It’s fate. Can I take it home for approval?”

“As if you had to ask. I’ll have it bagged for you.”

“Thanks so much. I’m going to make a quick call before our bride gets here.”

“Take your time. If they come in, we’ll get them settled first.”

Parker took out her phone as Monica went out. “Mrs. G? I’ve found Laurel’s wedding dress. Can you set things up for tonight? It is. It’s absolutely perfect. I’ll try to find the headpiece while I’m here. It’ll have to be after the consult at five. Thanks, Mrs. G. I’ll be home in a couple hours.”

She pocketed the phone and, after giving the dress another sigh, went out to meet her client.

If browsing gowns was a pleasure, helping an eager bride find hers could be fraught with peril or full of joy.

She dealt with a little of both with Emily.

“I don’t want to look like anyone else.” Emily brushed her palms over the flouncing layers of tulle.

“No bride ever does,” Parker told her.

The four earmarked gowns had been tried on and rejected, as had another half dozen.

And the second bottle of champagne opened.

The problem with selection by committee, Parker mused, was that often the committee couldn’t agree on anything, almost on principle. What the bride liked, the mother didn’t. What the mother liked, one of the friends dismissed.

“I tell you what.Why don’t you all take a break? We’ll have all these taken out, and you have a cookie, some more champagne. Clear your mind. Give me five minutes.”

She thought she had it now, and went into a huddle outside the dressing room with Monica.

“An overskirt of tulle would work, as long as there’s texture and sparkle under it. Let’s keep the midriff snug, and continue the sparkle. She needs something other than strapless or a standard neckline. I saw something with a delicate tulle halter. It had a silver jewel accent between the breasts and I think a lace hem with a demi train.”

“I know exactly the one.” Lips pursed, Monica nodded. “You may be right. I’ll have it brought in along with let’s say two others that may suit. I have one with a pick-up skirt big enough to hide an army under.”

“Excellent. One of the problems is the mother wants bride white.”

“The mother’s wrong. With her coloring Emily needs the warmth of the ivory. She’ll see it when we hit the right gown.”

Ten minutes later, Parker helped hook the back of the gown. “Nobody say a word.” She smiled as she said it, but the order was firm.“No comments until Emily turns around and sees for herself. Let’s get her thoughts and impressions first this time.”

“It feels good. I love the skirt.” She smiled nervously at Parker. “The lace and the tulle and the silk and the pattern of the flowers and beads. But I thought bigger, if you know what I mean.”

“Let’s see what you think when you see the full effect.There. The back’s gorgeous, by the way. Now deep breath, and turn around to the mirrors.”

“Okay, here we go.”

Emily turned, and Parker thought: bull’s-eye. She recognized the stunned, misty-eyed delight, the awareness, and the change of body language as Emily straightened, lifted her head.

“Oh, oh, look at me! Look at this.” She traced her fingertips down the sparkling midriff. “I love the halter style, the way it’s so delicate, not like straps.”

“You wouldn’t be able to wear a necklace,” one of the friends commented.

“But think of the earrings this dress would handle,” Parker said quickly.“Anything from subtle studs to long chandeliers.And with a headdress, a tiara to play off the gorgeous brooch-work on the bodice, you’ll sparkle for miles.”

From experience, Parker watched the mother’s reaction, smiled to herself. “What do you think, Mrs. Kessler?”

“I think . . . It’s just . . . Oh, Emmy.”

Parker handed out tissues.

The headdress, the underpinnings, took a fraction of the time already spent.At the bride’s request, Parker stayed to suggest gowns for the bridal party while the bride got her first fitting.

Parker adjusted her schedule, and pleased the two friends— one-third of the bridal attendants, with her choice of stylish, off-the-shoulder gowns in the bride’s choice of rose red.

She left her very happy client and carried what she hoped would be her friend’s wedding gown out of the shop.

“Parker Brown.”

She glanced over, faltered briefly. “Mrs. Kavanaugh. How are you?”

“Good enough.” Kay Kavanaugh’s wild orange hair blew in the light breeze as she tipped her green-framed glasses down her nose. “Buying a dress?”

“No, actually, taking one for approval for a friend. Laurel McBane. I think you’ve met Laurel.”

“She brought her car in for Mal to fiddle with. Seems like a sensible girl. She’s getting married to your brother, isn’t she?”

“Yes, next summer.”

“The other two you’re working with, they’re getting married, too.”

“Yes, Mac this December, and Emma next spring.”

“You’re dating my boy, aren’t you?”

The segue from weddings to Malcolm threw her off again. “We went out to dinner, but . . . Yes, I suppose I am.”

“I want coffee.You can meet me in there.” She pointed to one of the cafes along the main street.

“Oh, thank you, but I really need to—”

“You ought to be able to spare ten minutes for a cup of coffee when somebody asks you.”

She knew when she’d been neatly put in her place.“Of course. I’ll just put this in the car.”

“Need a hand?”

“No, no thank you. I have it.”

“Inside, then.”

Good God, Parker thought, what was this about? And it was ridiculous to be nervous about having a cup of coffee with a perfectly nice woman, just because that woman was the mother of a man she was . . .

Whatever she and Malcolm were.

She loaded the dress, locked the car, checked her watch. She had twenty minutes to spare.What could happen in twenty minutes over coffee?

Inside, she crossed to the booth where Mrs. Kavanaugh already consulted with the waitress.“They have good pie here. I’m having apple pie.”

“Just coffee for me,” Parker said as she slid in across from Malcolm’s mother. “Is it your day off ?”

“Afternoon off. I had some things to take care of.” Kay sat back. “My boy has an eye for pretty women, but he’s not stupid about it.”

“That’s . . . good to know.”

“I saw he had one for you the first time you came into the garage. It took him long enough to get around to it—that’s where he’s not stupid. It’s clear you’re not stupid either.”

Parker considered a moment. “I can’t think of anything to say to that except no, I’m not.”

“But you’re a different kettle than what we’re used to around our place.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“If you don’t, I’m going to think you are stupid. You’re a Brown, with the Brown name, the Brown status, and the Brown fortune. Don’t saddle up your high horse,” Kay warned as the waitress brought the pie and coffee.“I’m not finished.You act like a Brown, and by that I mean you act like the ones who raised you to be one. Your parents were good people, people who didn’t flaunt that name, status, and money. Didn’t shove it in anybody’s face. I worked some of the parties they threw back when you were a kid. To my mind you can tell what makes up a person by how they treat the hired help.”

Stumped, Parker added some cream to her coffee.

“I like your brother, too, even if he and the others won’t let me in on their poker nights because I don’t have the right plumbing.”

At Parker’s laugh, Kay smiled, and Parker saw Malcolm. “If you’re asking, both Del and I know and appreciate the privilege we were born into.”

“I can see that for myself. You don’t exactly sit around on your butts, do you? You know how to work and how to build something for yourself and who comes after. That’s a thumbs-up to your parents, and to you.”

“That’s a lovely thing to say.”

“Lovely or not, it’s how I see it. If Mal’s got his eye on you, it’s dead on you. It’s not on what comes with you—that name, status, or money.” Kay cocked a brow at the flash in Parker’s eyes. “And you just answered the only question I had about this.You already know what he’s looking at, so I could’ve saved my breath. Now I can enjoy my pie.”

“Mrs. Kavanaugh—”

“I think you can call me Kay after this. Or Ma Kavanaugh, if that suits you better.”

“If I thought Malcolm had ‘his eye’ on the Brown assets, I’d—”

“Have already given him the heave-ho. I’m not stupid either.”

“Do the two of you always interrupt people in midsentence?”

“Terrible habit.” Kay smiled again.“Want some of this pie? It’s damn good.”

Parker started to refuse, then picked up the second fork the waitress had laid, took a small sample. “You’re right. It’s damn good.”

“I hate to be wrong. Mal had a rough time as a boy,” she continued. “Some of that’s on me, and maybe why I hate to be wrong. Some of it’s just the way the cards got dealt. But it didn’t ruin him. I think he used it to make something of himself, to prove something. He’s got flaws, and I’m the first to point them out, but he’s a good boy. I figure you could do worse, and I figure you couldn’t do much better.”

Parker couldn’t stop the smile.“He loves you, too. In a way that shows. It’s one of the things about him I find appealing.”

“He’s never let me down, I’ll say that. Not once, not ever. We try to have a Sunday dinner at my house once a month.You come next time. I’ll tell Mal to work it out with you.”

“I . . . I’d like that.”

“I’m no Maureen Grady in the kitchen, but I won’t poison you. Have some more pie.”

Parker picked up the fork again, and had some more pie.

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AFTER THE EVENING CONSULT, LAUREL TUCKED HER FEET UP, stretched her arms. “I think this one’s in the running for Ditzy Bride status. Not only does she want her MOH to walk her two Siamese cats down the aisle rather than carry a bouquet, but wants to include them on the guest list.”

“Which means us providing, and her paying for, a meal—they’ll have the salmon—for each.” Mac rolled her eyes.

“Plus collar boutonnieres.” Emma only laughed. “And a cat sitter through the reception.Where are you going to get a cat sitter?” she asked Parker.

“I’ll talk to her vet. At least she didn’t insist on having them at the head table during dinner.”

“But it was close.Well, that’s a problem for another day,” Laurel decided. “What I want now is a nice glass of wine before I see what I can mooch from Mrs. G for dinner since Del called and has a late meeting.”

“Change of plans there,” Parker announced. “We have something to do upstairs.”

“Parker, I can’t possibly do a summit. My brain’s tired.”

“It’s not that kind of a summit.” Parker got to her feet. “And I think your brain will wake up for it.”

“I don’t see . . .” Realization dawned, clearly, in Laurel’s eyes. “You found a dress for me.”

“Let’s go see.”

Grinning at her friends, Laurel bounced in her seat. “It’s my turn! Is there champagne?”

“What do you think?” Mac demanded and hauled her up.

“Same rules as before,” Parker said as they all started up together. “If it’s not the one, it’s not the one. No hurt feelings.”

“I haven’t even decided on the style I want yet. I keep circling around. But I’m pretty sure I don’t want a veil, it’s so medieval. Apologies,” she said to Emma. “But maybe I’d just go for some sort of hair ornament or flowers, so I don’t think the dress should be too traditional. I don’t want to go ultracontemp either, so . . .”

“And so it begins.” Mac wrapped an arm around Laurel’s waist, hugged. “It’s Bride Fever, honey. Been there, done that.”

“I didn’t think I’d be here doing that, but I surrender. This is why Del said he’d be home late?”

“I called him when I found the dress.” Parker paused at the closed door of the Bride’s Suite. “He’s hanging out with Jack and Carter. Ready?”

Laurel pushed her swing of hair behind her ears, gave herself a quick shake. Laughed. “Absolutely ready.”

As had been done for Mac, then Emma, Laurel’s dress hung in full view. A bottle of champagne chilled in a silver bucket with a pretty tray of fruit and cheese beside it.

Mrs. Grady stood, pincushion and camera at the ready.

“It’s beautiful, Parker.” Eyes intent, Laurel stepped closer. “I haven’t been sure about strapless, but I love the way the neckline curves a little—softer—and the ruching and beadwork on the bodice adds that texture and sparkle.” Reaching out, she brushed the skirt—just fingertips. “I haven’t been sure about sparkle.”

“I like the way the material pulls in at the waist, soft gathers to that center silver work, then the drape down from there.” Mac angled her head, circled, nodded. “It’ll photograph beautifully.”

“The way it flows and folds down at the center of the skirt,” Emma added. “With the silver beadwork along the edges. More interest, but not fussy. And the way those lines and textures are mirrored in the back. It’s really lovely, Parker. Good work.”

“We’ll see about that once the girl’s in it.” Mrs. Grady waved a hand. “Get her going. I’ll pour the champagne.”

“No peeking,” Mac warned as she turned Laurel’s back to the mirror.

“Luckily it’s your size, so it shouldn’t need much fitting. So I picked up the underpinning. Even if you don’t like the dress, the underpinning will work with anything you end up with.”

Mac grabbed her own camera once they had Laurel covered up again, caught moments of Parker and Emma smoothing skirts, buttoning the back.

Mac clicked her glass to Mrs. Grady’s. “What do you think?”

“Lips zipped until the bride has her say.” But her eyes were damp.

“Okay, you can turn around, take a look.”

At Parker’s directive, Laurel turned. Her face stayed neutral as she studied herself. “Well . . .” Somber, she turned one way, then the other, with a slight shake of her head that had Parker’s heart dropping.

“It may not be what you had in mind,” Parker began. “What you’ve imagined wearing. It’s your day. It has to be exactly right.”

“Yeah, it does. I’m not sure . . .” Laurel turned her body so she could see, then study, the back.“I just don’t know . . . how you do it! Psych!” She laughed and threw her arms around Parker. “You should’ve seen your face. So damn stoic. I love you. I love you guys. Oh, it’s gorgeous. It’s so perfectly perfect. I have to look at me again.”

As she broke away to spin in front of the mirror, eyes sparkling, Parker just said, “Whew.”

“You’re three for three.” Emma tapped glasses. “And though I was going to make a pitch for one, you’re right about the veil, Laurel.”

“Thinking that, I picked these up.” Parker crossed over to open a box holding two jeweled combs.“I had this idea. If you can stop admiring yourself for a couple minutes, I want to try something.”

“Can’t I admire myself while you try it? Look at me.” Lifting her skirts, Laurel took another spin. “I’m a bride!”

“Then hold still. I was thinking if you swept your hair back from the temples with these, then we had the hairdresser do something fun in the back.”

“And we’d add some flowers—she might have enough for a French braid,” Emma calculated, “leaving the rest of her hair down.We have them wind some thin, beaded ribbon through the braid, and pin a small clip of flowers. Sweet peas, you said you wanted sweet peas and peonies primarily.”

“I do love sweet peas,” Laurel confirmed, then reached up to touch the sparkles in her hair. “I love the combs, Parker. It’s just exactly the sort of thing I was trying to visualize. Oh, the dress. The dress. It’s just a little bit thirties. Classic but not traditional. It’s my wedding dress.”

“All of you together now,” Mrs. Grady ordered, “before you get too sloppy on joy and champagne.There’s my girls,” she murmured as they lined up for the photo.

[Dalyia]

MAC SCANNED PARKER’S ENORMOUS AND TERRIFYINGLY ORGANIZED closet. “Maybe if I had a closet this size, I could keep it all neat and organized.”

Parker rejected a red shirt and moved on. “No, you couldn’t.”

“That’s cold.True, but cold.”

“If you kept your closet organized, you wouldn’t be able to buy another white shirt just because it’s cute, because you’d be perfectly aware you already have a dozen white shirts.”

“Also true, but there’s something to be said about knowing where your red patent leather belt is when you absolutely need your red patent leather belt.” Mac opened a drawer in one of the many built-in cabinets that held Parker’s collection of belts, neatly coiled in color groups.

“Since you know where everything is, and keep a detailed list on your computer of the entire contents and their specific location, why is it taking you so long to pick something out?”

“Because I don’t know where we’re going or how we’re getting there.” Frustration shimmied in her voice as she rejected another shirt.“And because it’s important I don’t make it look important.”

Understanding perfectly, Mac nodded. “Cashmere sweater, strong color.Vee or scoop with a white cami, black or gray pants. Heeled booties, color depending on the color of the sweater. It’s going to be cool tonight, so wear that excellent leather topper, the one that hits about midthigh and has the swoosh when you walk.”

Parker turned to her friend. “You’re absolutely right.”

“Image is my business. Wear some great earrings, and leave your hair down.”

“Down?”

“It’s sexier down, less studied. Go for some smoke on the eyes and pale lips. I don’t have to add, wear excellent underwear just in case, because you only have excellent underwear. I’m often struck with underwear envy.”

Parker considered Mac’s overall vision. “I haven’t decided if Malcolm’s going to get a chance to see my underwear.”

“Yes, you have.”

“I haven’t decided if he’s going to get a chance to see it tonight.”

“That just makes it sexier.”

“It just makes me more nervous, and I don’t like being nervous.” She opened another drawer. Shook her head, opened another. “This? Good strong plum color, V-neck, but with the mandarin collar, there’s a little interest.”

“Excellent. If you have a softer plum-tone cami, and you will, go for that instead of white. And the gray pants, stone, straight leg. Then . . .” She crossed to the wall of shoes, ordered by type, subcategorized by color. “Then you’ve got these truly delicious heather booties in suede with this great tapered heel. The colors and fabrics are all soft and rich, but the combination’s got a casual yet put-together Parker feel.”

“It’s good.”

“Oh, and wear those big hammered-silver hoops. You hardly ever wear them, and they’ll rock this outfit.”

“They’re so big.”

Mac pointed a finger. “Trust me.”

“Why do we go to all this trouble?” Parker asked. “Men don’t notice anyway.”

“Because what we wear affects how we feel, how we act, how we move. And that they do notice. Especially the move. Get dressed, smoke the eyes.You’ll know you look good so you’ll feel good.You’ll have a better time.”

“I’d have a better time if I knew what to expect.”

“Parker?” Mac skimmed a hand down Parker’s ponytail as their eyes met in the mirror. “Most of the guys you go out with, you know what to expect from minute one.They don’t make you nervous. I haven’t known you to get beyond a solid like or maybe a nice, safe care about since college.”

“Justin Blake.” Parker smiled a little. “I really thought I was in love with him then . . .”

“The world caved in,” Mac said, thinking of when the Browns had died.“He wasn’t really there for you, didn’t have it in him to be.”

“And that was that.”

“That stayed that, too. I really think Mal’s the first risk you’ve taken with a guy since Justin Selfish Asshole Blake.”

“And that turned out so well.”

Mac turned, laid her hands on Parker’s shoulders. “I love you, Parks.Take a chance.”

“I love you, too.” Parker let out a breath. “I’ll wear the big silver hoops.”

“You won’t be sorry. I have to get going. Have fun tonight.”

Of course she’d have fun. Why wouldn’t she? Parker thought as she swung on the leather topper Mac had correctly recommended.

She knew how to have fun.

She wasn’t all business all the time, as most, if not all, of her clients could attest. And all right, maybe having fun with clients was business, but it didn’t negate the fun factor.

She knew she was overthinking the entire thing, which meant she started overthinking the overthinking until she wanted to smack herself.

Nothing relieved her more than the ring of the front door. At least now she could get started on whatever she was doing for the evening.

“Casual,” she said to herself as she walked to the door. “Easy. No stress, no pressure.”

When she opened the door, he stood there, leather jacket over an untucked shirt the blue of faded jeans, thumbs tucked in the pockets of dark pants.

Casual, she thought again. He certainly knew how to be.

“You look good.”

She started to step out. “Thanks.”

“Really good.” He didn’t move out of her way, but into her. A smooth move, she’d think later, that put his hands in her hair and his mouth on hers.

“You didn’t say where we were going,” she managed. “Or how . . .”

She spotted the car now, a low-slung beast in shining black. “That’s quite a car.”

“It’s heading toward cold tonight. I didn’t think you’d want the bike.”

She walked off the portico and had to admire the lines. Del had been right. It was very slick. “It looks new, but it’s not.”

“Older than I am, but it’s a nice ride.” He opened the door for her.

She slid in. It smelled of leather and man, a combination that only made her more aware of being female.When he got in beside her, turned the ignition, the engine made her think of a fist, coiled and ready to strike.

“So, tell me about the car.”

“Sixty-six Corvette.”

“And?”

He glanced at her, then shot up the drive. “She moves.”

“I can see that.”

“Four-speed close-ratio trans, 427 CID with high-lift camshaft, dual side-mount exhausts.”

“What’s the reason for a close-ratio transmission? I assume that was transmission, and the close ratio means there’s not much difference between the gears.”

“You got it. It’s for engines tuned for max power—sports cars—so the operating speeds have a narrow range. It puts the driver in charge.”

“There wouldn’t be any point having a car like this if you weren’t.”

“We’re on the same page there.”

“How long have you had it?”

“Altogether? About four years. I just finished restoring it a few months ago.”

“It must be a lot of work, restoring cars.”

He slanted a glance at her as his hand worked the gearshift. “I could point out the irony of you saying anything’s a lot of work. Plus it’s a driveable ad for the business. People notice a car like this, then they ask about it.Word gets around.Then maybe some trust fund baby who’s got his granddaddy’s Coupe de Ville garaged decides to have it restored, or some dude with a wad of cash wants to revisit his youth and hires me to find and restore a ’72 Porshe 911 wherein he lost his virginity, which takes some doing in a 911.”

“I’ll take your word.”

He grinned. “Where’d you lose yours?”

“In Cabo San Lucas.”

His laugh was quick. “Now, how many people can say that?”

“A number of Cabo San Lucans, I imagine. But to return to the car, it’s very smart.The idea of a driveable ad for your business.”

It did move, she thought. Hugging the curves of the road like a lizard hugged a rock. And like the bike, it spoke of power in subtle roars, smooth hums.

Not practical, of course, not in the least. Her sedan was practical. But . . .

“I’d love to drive it myself.”

“No.”

She angled her head, challenged by the absolute denial.“I have an excellent driving record.”

“Bet you do. Still no.What was your first car?”

“A little BMW convertible.”

“The 328i?”

“If you say so. It was silver. I loved it.What was yours?”

“An ’82 Camaro Z28, five speed, cross-fire fuel-injected V8. She moved, at least when I finished with her. She had seventy thousand hard miles on her when I got her off this guy in Stamford. Anyway.” He parked across from a popular chophouse. “I thought we’d eat.”

“All right.”

He took her hand as they crossed the street, which gave her, she told herself, a ridiculous little thrill.

“How old were you when you got the car?”

“Fifteen.”

“You weren’t even old enough to drive it.”

“Which is one of the many things my mother pointed out when she found out I’d blown a big chunk of the money I was supposed to be saving for college on a secondhand junker that looked ready for the crusher. She’d have kicked my ass and made me sell it again if Nappy hadn’t talked her out of it.”

“Nappy?”

He held up two fingers when they stood inside, got a nod and a wait-one-minute signal from the hostess. “He ran the garage back then, what’s mine now. I worked for him weekends and summers, and whenever I could skip out of school. He convinced her restoring the car would be educational, how I was learning a trade, and that it would keep me out of trouble, which I guess it did. Sometimes.”

As she walked with him in the hostess’s wake, she thought of her own teenage summers. She’d worked in the Brown Foundation, learning along with Del how to handle the responsibility, respect the legacy—but the bulk of her holidays had been spent in the Hamptons, by the pool of her own estate, with friends, with a week or two in Europe to top it off.

He ordered a beer, she a glass of red.

“I doubt your mother would’ve approved of the skipping school.”

“Not when she caught me, which was most of the time.”

“I ran into her yesterday.We had coffee.”

She saw what she’d seen rarely. Malcolm Kavanaugh completely taken by surprise. “You had . . . She didn’t mention it.”

“Oh, it was just one of those things.” Casually, Parker opened the menu. “You’re supposed to ask me to dinner.”

“We’re having dinner.”

“Sunday dinner.” She smiled. “Now who’s scared?”

“Scared’s a strong word. Consider yourself asked, and we’ll figure out when it’ll work. Have you eaten here before?”

“Mmm.They have baked potatoes the size of footballs. I think I’ll have one.” She set her menu aside.“Did you know your mother worked for mine occasionally—extra help at parties?”

“Yeah, I knew that.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “Do you think that’s a problem for me?”

“No. No, I don’t. I think it might be a problem for some people, but you’re not one of them. I didn’t mean it that way. It just struck me . . .”

“What?”

“That there’d been a connection there, back when we were kids.”

The waiter brought their drinks, took their order.

“I changed a tire for your mother once.”

She felt a little clutch in her heart. “Really?”

“The spring before I took off. I guess she was driving home from some deal at the country club or wherever.” Looking back, bringing it into his mind, he took a sip of his beer. “She had on this dress, the kind that floats and makes men hope winter never comes back. It had rosebuds, red rosebuds all over it.”

“I remember that dress,” Parker whispered. “I can see her in that dress.”

“She’d had the top down, and her hair was all windblown, and she wore these big sunglasses. I thought, Jesus, she looks like a movie star.Anyway, she didn’t have a blowout. She had a slow leak she didn’t notice until she did, and pulled over, called for service.

“I’d never seen anybody who looked like her. Anybody that beautiful. Until you. She talked to me the whole time.Where did I go to school, what did I like to do. And when she got that I was Kay Kavanaugh’s boy, she asked about her, how she was doing. She gave me ten dollars over the bill, and a pat on the cheek. And as I watched her drive away I thought, I remember thinking, that’s what beautiful is.What it really is.”

He lifted his beer again, caught the look on Parker’s face.

“I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“You didn’t.” Though her eyes stung. “You gave me a little piece of her I didn’t have before. Sometimes I miss them so much, so painfully, it’s comforting to have those pieces, those little pictures. Now I can see her in her spring rosebud dress, talking to the boy changing her tire, a boy who was marking time until he could go to California. And dazzling him.”

She reached out, laid a hand over his on the table. “Tell me about California, about what you did when you got there.”

“It took me six months to get there.”

“Tell me about that.”

She learned he’d lived in his car a good portion of the time, picking up odd 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.”

[Dalyia]

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.”

He took her shoulders, jerked her against him. The hard, hot demand of his mouth helped. Quite a bit.

Even as she lifted her arms to circle his neck, he tugged her sweater up and off in one quick, impatient move. He tossed it on a chair.

“You can hang it up later.”

“You don’t hang sweaters.”

“Why not?”

“It—” Her breath sucked in when he skimmed his hands over the thin chemise, over her. “It ruins the shape.”

“I like yours.” He pulled off the chemise, tossed it on the sweater. “Nice.” He trailed his fingers over the lacy cups of her plum-colored bra. “It’s the kind of color coordination I can get behind.”

Her laugh ended on a shaky gasp as his hands slid down, his lips roamed down. As he knelt down. “Malcolm.”

“Better take off the shoes.” He tugged the short, inside zipper on the boots. “Wouldn’t want you to forget yourself and wear them to bed.”

“Are you making fun of me or seducing me?”

“I can do both.You’re not the only multitasker in the room.”

Once he’d pulled off her boots, he ran his hands up her legs. “Now these are the Holy Grail.”

“You’ve seen my legs before.”

“Not like this.” He unhooked her pants, slid the zipper down, then guided her pants down her legs with his hands. “No, not like this.” He lifted them one at a time to free them from the pool around her feet.

He ran his hands up, calf to thigh to tease the edges of plum-colored lace.

Her phone rang.

He looked up, his eyes sharply green, almost feral. “Not this time.”

She shook her head. “No, not this time.”

He sprang. His movement so quick both her vision and her mind blurred. His mouth didn’t merely take but possessed while those rough-palmed hands raced over her, setting off charges under her skin. The nerves that had ridden there exploded into pure, primitive need.

She tugged at the buttons of his shirt. Her hands wanted flesh, too.Wanted to take it, to own it.When she had it, the muscles, the ridges, the rough and the smooth, need leaped to craving.

She tried to satisfy it, her mouth on his throat where the blood beat hot, her teeth on his shoulder where muscles tensed like wires. But the claws of it only sharpened.

He could have taken her there and then, hard and fast. She wanted him to, heard herself tell him to, to feed and sate that craving before it ate her alive.

He swept her up. It wasn’t like being carried to bed but like being dragged into a cave. And she reveled in it.

When she was under him, she arched up, pressed urgently against him.

“Now. Now, now, now.”

He managed to shake his head. “You’re killing me.”

He couldn’t want so much and end it almost as it had begun. But the whiplash of lust was brutal, and she was a storm raging, slashing under him, around him, over him. Her body, so firm, so arousing with that silky skin over disciplined muscle, eroded control. He needed more of it before he took all.

Not to savor, since he knew savoring would drive him mad, but to devour in great gulps of greed.

Those perfect breasts possessed at last by hands and mouth while her nails dug into his back, his hips. Those incredible legs, open for him, winding around him, the muscles of her long thighs quivering as he did what he liked. All he liked.

And that face, the cool, classic beauty, flushed now, fierce now, eyes deep and blue, lips hot and avid.

He drove her up once, his hands rough, ruthless, for her, for himself. He wanted to see her break for him, rise and shatter. She cried out, her nails digging deeper. And as she broke, he plunged into her.

She cried out again, a strangled sound that gasped out pleasure. That pleasure, wild and whippy, blew through her like a gale, again, again, until there was nothing else.

Lost in the speed, drowned in sensation, she drove as she was driven, with a kind of dark fury.

He thrust deep; she rose high, their bodies sheened with the sweat of effort and greed. She saw his face above her, the tumble of dark hair around it, those feral eyes fixed on hers.

[Dalyia]

She tried to speak, to tell him . . . something. But all that would form was his name.

When the phone rang, she only heard the frantic pounding of her own heart.

She lay stunned under him, breathless from the storm and from the full weight of him that had dropped on her like a stone.

They’d torn each other to bits, she thought, in every way but bloody. She’d always considered herself open and responsive in bed—with the right partner—but this had been like a pitched battle with one goal.

Give me all you’ve got, then give me more.

Which, she concluded, explained the sensation of mild shock and smug satisfaction.

She liked to think he felt the same, or he’d just dropped into a coma. Not a heart attack, at least, since she could feel that beat slamming against her.

When she lifted her hand to his hair, he grunted.

Not comatose then, but a . . .

“You’re a flopper,” she told him, and his head shot up.

“What?”

“You’re a flopper, which is why . . .” The sheer insult on his face turned on the light in her brain. “Oh God, not that way.” Laughter bubbled up, fought to get past the anvil on her chest. She gasped with it, waved her hands in the air, fought to get words out through the uncontrollable giggles. “After.You flop after.”

“I’m a guy, which you should’ve figured out by—”

“Not that way either.” More laughter, helpless, finally rolling free when he shifted. She sucked in air, had to sit up, hold her own ribs. “ After-after. You just collapse.” She slapped one hand on the other.“Dead weight. But it was all right because I’d stopped breathing anyway somewhere between the third and fourth orgasm.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He shoved the hair out of his face. “You count orgasms?”

“It’s a hobby.”

Now he laughed. “Happy to add to your collection.”

She didn’t cover herself, and he admitted he’d thought she’d be the type to grab for the sheets once the heat of sex cooled a little. But she sat there, rosily naked, smiling at him.

“You’re full of surprises, Legs.”

“I like sex.”

“Really? I’d never have guessed.”

“I often forget I like sex during extended periods when I’m not having sex. It was nice to be reminded.”

She reached out, traced a finger over the cross-hashing scars over his hip and thigh. “That had to hurt.”

“That’s from the big one. Mangled me some.”

“And this?” She brushed the thinner lines over his ribs.

“Yeah.There, the shoulder. A few others here and there.”

“This?”

He glanced down at the sickle-shaped scar on his right thigh. “That’s from another gag. A little miscalculation.You don’t have any.”

“Scars? Yes, I do.”

“Baby, I’ve been over every inch.”

“Here.” She rubbed a fingertip a few inches above her hairline on the left side of her head.

He sat up, gave a rub himself. “I don’t feel anything.”

“Well, it’s there.” And seemed, ridiculously, a point of pride now. “Four stitches.”

“That many?”

“Don’t brag.”

“How’d you get it?”

“We were in Provence, and it had been raining all day. When the sun came out, I ran out onto the terrace. I was seven. I slipped and went headfirst into the iron railing.”

“Wounded in Provence.”

“It hurt just as much. How about these?” She frowned at the thin, almost even grouping of horizontal scars on his left shoulder blade. And felt his body tense this time when she touched them.

“No big. I got knocked into a locker. Metal louvers.”

She left her hand where it was. “Your uncle.”

“It was a long time ago. Got any water handy?”

Ignoring the question, she leaned over, laid her lips on the scars. “I never liked him.”

“Me, either.”

“Now I like him less. I’ll get the water.”

She got up, walked into the closet. He was sorry to see she’d pulled on a robe when she came back with two little bottles.

Cold ones.

“You’ve got a fridge in there?”

“A small one built in. It’s convenient. And . . .” She twisted the top on her bottle. “Efficient.”

“Hard to argue.” He saw her eyes slide over to her phone, had to smile. “Go ahead. No point in you being distracted.”

“I promise our brides round-the-clock availability. And even if I didn’t,” she added as she walked over to pick up the phone, “some of them would call whenever they got an itch. A wedding can and does take over the world when it’s yours. Clara Elder, both times,” she said when she checked the display. She switched to voice mail.

He heard her sigh, watched her close her eyes as she sat on the bed.

“Bad news?”

“Hysterical, weeping brides are never good.” When she listened to the second message, she opened the drawer of her nightstand, took out a roll of Tums, thumbed one off.

“What’s the problem?”

“She had a fight with her sister, who’s also her maid of honor, about the dress she wants her to wear.The MOH hates it, and according to Clara, the groom took the sister’s side, resulting in another big fight with him walking out of their apartment. I have to return her call. It may take a while.”

“Fine.” He shrugged, glugged down some water. “I get to see how you fix it.”

“Appreciate the confidence,” she replied, then hit the key to return the call.

“Want something stronger than water?”

She shook her head. “Clara, it’s Parker. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the phone quicker.”

She lapsed into silence during which Malcolm could hear the hysterical bride’s voice if not the words. High-pitched, full of angry tears.

So, he concluded, the strategy was to let her vent it out, pour out the anger and tears to a sympathetic ear.While Clara vented, Parker rose to open the terrace doors. Cool air blew in, lightly scented with the night. Malcolm appreciated the way it fluttered Parker’s robe.

“Of course you’re upset.” Parker all but cooed it. Cool air, he thought again, over hot temper.“No one can really understand the stress of all the decisions and the details but you. Naturally you were hurt, Clara. Anyone would be. But I think . . . Um-hmm. Ah.”

She continued to make soothing and agreeable noises as she closed the doors again, walked back to the bed to sit.And this time rested her head on updrawn knees.

“I understand exactly, and you’re right, it’s your wedding. It’s your day. My sense is that Nathan wanted to help—Yes, I know that, but let’s face it, Clara, men just don’t get it, do they?”

She turned her face, offered Malcolm a smile and eye roll. “And sometimes they just step in it, then can’t figure how to get out. I really think Nathan was trying to smooth things over with you and Margot because he hated for you to be upset. He just went about it clumsily.”

She listened again, and Malcolm could hear the bride’s tone clicking down several levels.

“It’s not that the details aren’t important to him, Clara, it’s that you’re more important.Anger and stress, Clara, on both your parts. You know he adores you, and he knows, too, how much you and Margot mean to each other. No.” She cast her eyes to the ceiling. “I don’t think you were wrong.”

She mouthed: Yes, I do.

“I think emotions got the best of everyone. And, Clara, I know how much you’d regret it if your sister wasn’t standing beside you on the most important day of your life.Yes, the dress is important. It’s very important. I think I can help there.Why don’t we all meet at the shop next week? You, Margot, and me. I’m sure I can find something that makes you both happy.”

She listened another minute or two, adding soothing noises, directing the solution in easy tones.

“That’s right.Why don’t you call Nathan now? Yes, I know, but how happy are either of you going to be if you let this fester between you? The dress is important, but nothing’s more important than you and Nathan starting your life together . . . I know you will.” She laughed. “I bet. I’ll see you and Margot Tuesday. That’s what I’m here for. Good night.”

“Good job.”

Parker blew out a breath.“She wants her sister to wear celadon, which the sister hated. Said it makes her look sallow, and having met Margot, I’m sure it did.”

“What the hell is celadon?”

“It’s kind of a celery color. A good sister shouldn’t want her MOH to look sallow, but a good MOH sucks it up and wears what the bride wants. It’s basic wedding rules. So, huge fight, which continues via phone, drawing the MOB in, who wisely kept her mouth shut.Then the poor groom tries to defuse the situation, telling the furious bride that it’s no big, just pick another dress. It’s all about you and me, baby. To which the bride explodes, and so on and so forth.”

“So it’s all about celery.”

She laughed. “The celery is the MacGuffin. It’s about power, control, emotions, stress, and family dynamics.”

“You got her to agree to a different dress and call the guy all without telling her she was stupid.”

“That’s the job. Plus she wasn’t stupid so much as too focused on the minutiae, which she should leave to me.”

“And the minutiae is why you keep Tums in the nightstand?”

“They help when furious, crying brides call at night.” She pushed her hair back over her shoulders, studied his face. “I have to get up early.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No, I don’t, but if you stay, you need to know I have to get up early.”

“It’s handy because so do I.” He set the water down, then reached out to pull her hair back over her shoulders. “Why don’t we take round two a little slower?”

She linked her arms around his neck. “Why don’t we?”

HE HEARD THE BEEP, OPENING ONE EYE TO THE DARK. HE FELT Parker stir beside him then reach over to turn off the alarm.

“I should’ve asked you to define early,” he mumbled.

“Full plate today, and I want to get my workout in before it starts.”

He opened both eyes to read the clock. Five fifteen. Could be worse. “I wouldn’t mind a workout. Next time I’ll bring some gear.”

“I’ve got extra gear if you want to use the gym.”

“I don’t think yours’ll fit me.”

She turned the light on low as she rose and, swinging on the robe, walked to an adjoining door. “Just a minute.”

In just about that minute, while he contemplated catching another half hour of sleep, she came in carrying a gray T-shirt, gym shorts, and socks.

“Del’s?”

“No. I keep a supply of various things for guests.”

“You keep clothes for guests?”

“Yes.” She dropped them on the bed. “And as you can see, it’s a useful habit. Unless you were just making noises about a workout.”

“Give me five minutes.”

She took little more than that to change into a sexy red tank and pants that hit just above her knee. She pulled her hair back into a tail. And hooked her phone on her waistband.

“How many days a week do you put in on that body, Legs?”

“Seven.”

“Well, from my perspective, it’s worth it.” He gave her ass a quick pat that had her blinking. “In memory of Uncle Henry.”

Laughing, she guided him to her gym.

He stopped in the doorway. He’d seen their setup at their beach house in the Hamptons, but that was small change compared to this.

Two treadmills, an elliptical, a recumbent bike, Bowflex, free weights, a bench press—not to mention the huge flat-screen and the glass-fronted fridge holding bottles of water and juice.Towels, he noted, neatly folded, alcohol wipes, killer view.

“Convenient,” he said, “and efficient.”

“For years it’s mostly been Laurel and me using it, with Emma and Mac making the occasional visit. But recently it’s been getting a lot more traffic. I think we’ll add another elliptical and bike, maybe a rower. So.” She took a towel from the pile.“I catch up on the morning news while I do a couple miles, but there are a couple of iPods if you want music.”

“Of course there are. I’ll take a run with tunes.”

Different world, he thought as he set himself up on a treadmill. It beat the hell out of the setup he had at home. Classy, sure, but it damn well was efficient. He had a fondness for efficiency.

Plus it wasn’t a hardship to take his run while Parker took her strides beside him.

He put in a solid three miles before moving on to the free weights. While she used the Bowflex, they sweat in companionable silence.

He hit the fridge for water while she unrolled a mat and started some sort of yoga deal and seemed to flow from one tricky position to another.

“You’ll have to show me how that works sometime.”

She rose from basically bending herself in two and moved into some sort of long, fluid lunge.“I’ve got a really good instructional DVD for beginners.”

“Of course you do, but I think I’ll let you do the instructing. You’re fucking beautiful, Parker. I’m going to grab a shower, okay?”

“I . . . Sure. I’m going to be about fifteen minutes.”

“Take your time.”

He walked out, his mind full of her, then spotted Del, dressed in sweats, heading toward the gym. Del stopped, an almost comical freezing of motion.

Here we go, Malcolm thought and kept walking. “Hey.”

“Hey?” Del goggled at him. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Nice gym. I slept with your sister, and you can take a swing at me like you did at Jack over Emma, but it’s not going to change it. It’s not going to stop me from sleeping with her again.”

“For fuck’s sake, Mal.”

“I gave you fair warning, and I didn’t push her. And I can tell you that part wasn’t easy. She’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met, and that’s on every level I can come up with. If you’ve got a problem with it, Del, I’m going to be sorry, but that’s not going to change anything either.”

“Just what the hell are your intentions?”

“Jesus.” Malcolm dragged a hand through his hair. “That’s a serious question? My intentions are to be with her as often as I can, in bed and out. She’s beautiful and she’s smart and she’s funny even when she doesn’t mean to be. And goddamn it, she’s got me by the throat.”

Del took a minute to pace back and forth. “If you screw this up, if you make her unhappy, I’ll do more than take a swing at you.”

“If I screw this up, you won’t have to take a swing at me. Parker would already have flattened me.”

He left Del muttering to himself and hit the shower.

He’d just finished dressing when Parker came in.

“Should I apologize for my brother?”

“No. If I had a sister I’d probably punch first, discuss later. It’s cool.”

“Our relationship’s more complicated than most siblings’. When our parents died, he . . . Del feels he has to look out for me—for all of us, but especially me.”

“I get it, Parker. I can’t blame him. More, it’s part of who he is, and who he is is a friend of mine. He give you some grief?”

She smiled now. “In his Del way, and I gave him back some in my way.We’re fine. He’s your friend, too, Malcolm.”

“That’s right, so I think we’ll just get this one thing out there now, before we go wherever we’re going. I don’t care about the money.”

Her eyes chilled. He thought no one did cold disdain quite like Parker Brown. “I never thought you did, nor did Del.”

“The thought’s going to jingle eventually, so let’s just head it off. You’ve got a hell of a place here, and I don’t just mean the house.Your place, Parker, around here. I’ve got to respect the time, the effort, the smarts that earned you, the Browns, that place. But I make my own, and that’s how I like it. I take care of myself and my mother because that’s my place. I don’t see money or status or what’s it—pedigree—when I look at you. I just see you, and you need to know that.”

As she had the night before, she walked over to the terrace doors, opened them to the air.Then turned to him.“Do you think I’m slumming?”

He considered her a moment. Not just angry, but a little hurt. As he’d been with Del, he was sorry for it, but it didn’t change anything. “No. That’s beneath you. I’m clear on that. I want to make sure we’re all clear, on both sides.”

“Apparently we are.”

“You’re a little pissed.” He moved to her. “You’ll get over it. Want to catch a movie tonight? They’re doing a Hitchcock deal. I think it’s Notorious tonight.”

“I really don’t know if—”

“Well, I’ll call you, see what’s up.”

“You’re welcome to coffee and breakfast in the kitchen,” she told him, absolutely, perfectly civil.

“Sounds good, but I’ve got to book.” He grabbed her, just grabbed her and gave her a quick reminder of what they had between them. “See you later,” he said as he headed for the door.

He glanced back to where she stood in the center of the open doors, the sky and trees at her back. “Lay off the Tums, Legs.”

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THIS ONE WAS PERSONAL. SHERRY MAGUIRE WAS A FRIEND, AND SHE was Carter’s sister—that made her family.Adding to the impact and intimacy of the connection, Carter’s subbing for Nick during the previous January’s wedding planning meeting had brought him and Mac together.

This wedding, Parker determined, would not only go off without a hitch (one that showed, anyway), but would be one for the books.Vows would give Sherry and Nick the day, and the memories, of a lifetime.

And in a very real sense, Parker saw it as a prelude to Mac’s wedding in December.

Many of the same people would attend, she thought as she did a full sweep of the event areas. Her goal was to give the clients, friends, family, perfection, while whetting the appetite for the wedding of her childhood friend and partner.

It wasn’t the first time one or all of them had been guests as well as providers, and they had plenty of tricks up their sleeves to carry it off.

She noted Emma had mastered the quick change from business suit for the afternoon event and worked with her team to clear the formal roses and lily arrangements, the swags of white and burnt gold, the marble stands and urns. Emma wore running shoes, many-pocketed jeans, and a sweatshirt.

And would change yet again, Parker thought, in the family wing for the event.

Already the ambiance Sherry wanted came to life with the wide, cheerful faces of candy pink gerbera daisies, the saucer-size blooms of zinnias in bold, happy colors, the soft, almost sheer pinks of baby roses. Flowers crowded huge white baskets, spilled and tumbled out of enormous bowls in fanciful and fun groupings.

Nothing formal or studied, not for Sherry, Parker noted.

She lent a hand, carrying arrangements to the Bride’s Suite, setting them as directed among the candles already in place. She took the main staircase down, delighted with the twining of pretty lace with a bright rainbow of more baby roses.

It was exactly Sherry, she thought—sweet, fun, and happy.

From there she dashed outside to where Jack and Carter helped Tink transform the pergola into a frame of cheerful flowers. Her nerves jingled at the sight of Carter on the ladder. The man wasn’t known for his grace.

“It’s going to be just beautiful. Carter, maybe you could come down and give me a hand.”

“Nearly got this.”

She held her breath, tried not to think of broken arms and ankles as Carter leaned out to twine a swag. He nearly missed a step on the way down, but managed to do no more than bang his elbow.

“It’s looking pretty good, don’t you think?” he asked Parker.

“It’s looking great and just like Sherry.”

“I’m nervous.” He took off the glasses he’d put on for the close-up work, stuck them in a pocket.“I didn’t think I would be. The rehearsal last night went so well, was so easy and fun. Big thanks again for getting Di involved. She actually enjoyed herself.”

“Part of the job.”

“I have to keep busy.” His hands went in and out of his pockets. “If I don’t, I remember my baby sister’s getting married.”

“Well, I can do you a favor. I’m swamped, and if you could take this checklist in, go over it with the caterer, it would free me up and help with your nerves.”

And mine, she thought, as he wouldn’t have to climb any more ladders.

“I can do that. Have you seen Mac?”

“She’s helping with the changeover in the Solarium, but I’m going to have to break her away soon.”

Before that, she added her hands to the ones adding nosegays to the white-covered chairs. They were lucky with the weather, she thought, so Sherry could have her outdoor wedding. When the sun went down, it would cool off considerably, but the outdoor heaters would keep the guests comfortable enough if they wandered onto the terraces.

And the trees, she thought with one last look, were as bright and colorful as Emma’s flowers. After a glance at her watch, she hurried inside to check Laurel’s progress. And, she thought, to grab a couple quick slugs of coffee.

The bride and her party were due in fifteen.

“Please tell me you’ve got fresh coffee, and that you’re nearly . . . Oh, Malcolm.”

“Hey, Legs.” He paused from plating some of Laurel’s gorgeous cookies to give Parker a once-over. “New look for you. Cute.”

She wore a full white apron over the blue dress she’d chosen for the wedding. She wouldn’t have time to change later. She had shed her heels for Uggs.

Far, she thought, from her best presentation, however efficient. He, on the other hand, wore a dark suit, a snowy white shirt, and a tie in subtle stripes.

“You, too.” She’d never seen him in a suit, she realized.They’d been together nearly every night through the week, slept together, and she hadn’t been entirely sure he even owned a suit.

“I put him to work.” Laurel stood on a step stool, putting finishing touches on the five-tiered cake. “Del deserted me. Nice presentation,” she added to Malcolm. “I may keep you.”

“But you still don’t trust me with the pastries.”

“Baby steps.”

“Laurel.” Parker took a step closer. “That cake. It’s so damn happy.”

The square layers rose up, stacked like wicker boxes and drenched in color, with a combination of real and sugar-paste flowers blooming over it.

“It’s a winner, inside and out, but I think my favorite touch is the topper—and that goes to you, Master.”

“She didn’t want usual or formal.” And damn if the laughing bride and groom kicking up their heels in a dance on top of the cake didn’t make her smile. “The artist really captured them.”

“And we’re going to be getting requests for personalized toppers like this the minute this one’s unveiled.”

“Which is relatively soon. I’ve got to—”

“Coffee.” Malcolm handed her a cup.

“Oh.Thanks.”

“He’s handy,” Laurel commented.

“My middle name. Got anything else?”

“Actually, we’re right on . . . Crap.” Parker tapped her earpiece. “She’s just turned in. She’s early.The woman’s late for everything, but today she’s early.” As she spoke, Parker whipped off her apron, stepped out of the Uggs and into the heels she’d left beside Laurel’s. She pulled lip gloss out of her pocket, applying it as she ran.

“How does she do that?” Malcolm asked.

“Multitask, that’s Parker’s middle name.” Laurel stepped off the stool. “You two work out pretty well.”

“You think?”

“She’s happy, and she’s confused. A lot of things make Parker happy. Spreadsheets, for instance, and for mysterious reasons. But very little confuses her.”

Laurel paused to take a long sip from a bottle of water.“As her friend since always, I think, yeah, you two work out pretty well. I’m sure you’ve already heard this from Del, but if you mess her up, you will pay.We’re like the Borg on this kind of thing.”

“Resistance is futile?”

“I really do like you, Mal.” She gave him a quick and brilliant smile. “So I hope I don’t have to hurt you.”

He hoped the same.

With Parker busy helping the bride, he was free to wander around. He’d been to a handful of events now, and it occurred to him that the four women and their army of assistants somehow managed to make each one unique. Parker’s timetable might’ve been rigid, but under it, over it, around it, everything else reflected the personal. And from what he’d observed, the time and sweat that went into making it so.

He found Del, Jack, and Carter at the bar in the Solarium.

“Just what I was after.”

Del reached down, put a beer on the bar. “We’re keeping Carter sane.”

“Yeah? What’re you drinking there, Prof?”

“It’s tea. It’s a nice herbal tea.”

“Jesus Christ, your sister’s getting hitched and you’re drinking pussy tea?”

“That’s exactly right. I have to put on a tux, and I have to escort people, including my mother, down the aisle. I have to make a toast. I’m going to be sober.”

“He’s freaked,” Jack commented.

“Shows. If you’re freaked about your sister doing the I Do deal, how are you going to handle doing it yourself?”

“I’m not thinking about that yet. I’m going to get through today. I’d be better if I could be up there, helping Mac, but Sherry won’t let me. I just need to—” He broke off, pulled out the beeper in his pocket. “Oh, well, that’s me. I mean that’s Nick.They’re here. I have to go and be there.”

He downed the tea like medicine. “I’ll be fine,” he said resolutely, then walked away.

“We’ll get him drunk later,” Del said.

“Looking forward to it.” Mal lifted his beer, and the three men clinked bottles.

IT WAS PERFECT, PARKER THOUGHT. SHERRY’S LAUGHTER FILLED THE Bride’s Suite as she and her attendants dressed. The absolute joy proved infectious, and provided Mac with countless photos of happy faces, mugging faces, embraces—and the bride twirling exuberantly in front of the mirror.

Eyes watered up a bit as Pam Maguire helped her daughter adjust her headpiece, and when Michael stepped in for his first look at his baby girl.

“Sherry.” He stopped to clear his throat. “You’re a vision.”

“Daddy.” Still holding her mother’s hand, she reached for her father’s, pulled them together. Turned to the mirror again, her arms around her parents’ waists, she beamed like the sun. “Get a load of us.”

Get a load of you, Parker thought as Mac captured the moment. They were beautiful and happy and together. It made her ache, just a little, for what she’d never have. That moment would never be hers.

She took a breath, shook it off. “It’s time.”

The bride smiled her way down the aisle behind her pretty attendants.When she reached the groom, whose jaw had dropped satisfactorily at the sight of her before his grin burst out, she reached for his hand, laughed.

And Parker thought, yes, it’s just exactly right.

“BEST PARTY EVER,” MAC DECLARED. “AS ORDERED. HOW ARE WE going to top that?” She tipped her head to Carter’s shoulder.

They hadn’t managed to get him drunk—he’d held out and held up, and now slumped on the sofa in the family parlor, two fingers of whiskey in his hand.

“She sparkled,” he replied.

“Yeah, she really did.”

“Damn good cake.” Malcolm shoveled in a bite.“It’s my favorite part of these deals.”

“A man of taste,” Laurel said, and yawned. “Tomorrow’s is chocolate ganache.”

“Will I like it?”

“Yes, unless you go insane during the night. Haul me up, Del. I am so done.”

“Go, team us.” Emma, eyes closed, snuggled against Jack.“Can I just sleep here?”

Jack rose, gathered her up. She smiled sleepily as she wound her arms around his neck. “I love when you do that.”

“You earned a ride. ’Night, all.”

“I, on the other hand, am pumped. I’m going to take a look at some of the shots before I turn in.” Mac elbowed Carter. “Come on, cutie, let’s go so you can hail my genius.”

He managed to unfold himself. “Parker, thanks for giving my sister a day none of us will ever forget.”

“Oh, Carter.”Touched, she rose to step over and kiss his cheek. “I promise you and Mac exactly the same.”

She watched them go.

“I can see the wheels turning,” Malcolm commented.

“I did get some ideas today. We’ll see if I can make them happen.”

“If anybody can.” He paused. “Am I staying?”

“I’d like you to.” She held out a hand.

ON A BRISK OCTOBER AFTERNOON WITH CLOUDS SCUTTLED ACROSS the sky, and tumbles of colored leaves scooting over the lawn ahead of the wind, Parker called a midday meeting.

To brighten the mood she lit a fire, as fires had always crackled or simmered in the library on chilly days in autumn. And as the flames caught, she wandered to one of the windows to look out on the roll of land, the shivering trees, the rippling gray water in the pond.

She didn’t often wonder where her life was going. More often than not her focus centered on the details, plans, contingencies, needs, wants, fantasies of others. Maybe it was the contrasts of the day, that soft and gloomy sky against the still brilliant trees.The leaves shedding themselves to dance and whirl in the air while the mums and asters stubbornly bloomed.

[Dalyia]

Everything seemed paused for change, but was she? Change was as much about loss as gain, about giving something up even as you reached for something new or different. And, she admitted, she prized routine, tradition, even repetition.

Routine equaled security, safety, stability. While the unknown often grew on shaky ground.

And that, she realized, was a line of thinking as gloomy as the sky. The world was opening up, she reminded herself, not closing in. She’d never been a coward, never been afraid to take those steps onto unsettled ground.

Life changed, and it should. Her three closest friends were getting married, starting new phases of their lives. One day, she imagined, there would be children tumbling like those colorful leaves on the lawn.That’s how it should be.

That’s what home was for.

Their business was expanding. And if after the meeting they were in agreement, it would expand again, in new, uncharted areas.

Then there was Malcolm—and that, she had to admit, was the crux of this nervy, unsettled feeling. God knew he was a change. She couldn’t decide if he’d just slid cagily, craftily into her life or kicked open doors she’d thought she’d cautiously bolted.

Most days, she thought, it seemed to be a combination of both.

However he’d gotten in, she still couldn’t quite figure out what to expect from him. An attentive lover, then a wildly demanding one; an amusing companion, then one who peppered her with questions that pushed her to think both inside and outside the box.The risk-taker, the devoted son, the bad boy, the shrewd businessman.

He had all those facets, and she felt she’d barely touched the surface.

She appreciated his innate curiosity, and the skill he possessed in digging out information, histories, connections. He ended up, she’d come to realize, learning a great deal about other people.

And was frustratingly stingy with personal data.

Most of what she knew of his history came from other sources. He had a way of skirting around the edges whenever she asked a question about his childhood, his early time in California, even his recovery from the accident that had brought him home again.

If their relationship had stayed a surface one, the reticence wouldn’t matter. But it hadn’t, Parker thought, so it did. It mattered because she’d gone past interest, swung into attraction, burst through lust, tripped over affection, and was now skidding out of control into love.

And she wasn’t altogether happy about it.

The rain began in thin, spitting drops as Laurel came in with a big tray.

“If we’re going to have a meeting this time of day, we might as well eat.” She cast Parker a look as she set the tray down. “Don’t you look pensive and perturbed.”

“Maybe I’m just hungry.”

“That we can fix. We’ve got some very pretty, girlie sandwiches, seasonal fruit, celery and carrot straws, kettle chips, and petit fours.”

“That ought to do it.”

“It’s nice.” Laurel crunched on a chip. “A fire on a rainy afternoon. Nice, too, to get off my feet for a while.” She opted for tea, then sat. “What’s up?”

“A couple of things.”

“A couple of things like here’s what’s up, or a couple of things like here’s a deal, let’s discuss it into many pieces?”

“I think the latter.”

“Then I need a sandwich.”

Mac and Emma walked in together as Laurel loaded a plate.

“So, we’d pick that up with the mini mango callas for the boutonnieres,” Mac said, obviously continuing a conversation. “And you’d, like, pop them out in the bouquets and arrangements. All mixed in, but popped.”

“Exactly.”

“I think I like that the best. I’m consulting with my wedding florist,” she told Parker and Laurel. “I believe she’s brilliant.”

“I completely am. Oh, pretty sandwiches.”

“I’m also brilliant,” Laurel reminded her. “If you’re still in florist mode, Em, I’ve been thinking of going with cool colors. Sherberty.”

“Don’t make me wear raspberry.” Mac tugged her bright red hair.

“I could, I could make you, but besides brilliant I’m also kind. I was thinking lemony. All three of you would look good in really pale lemon. Maybe chiffon. It’s kind of clichéd maybe. Lemon chiffon, summer wedding, but—”

“It’s good. And I can really work with a pale lemon,” Emma speculated. “Using zaps of bold blues, trails of minty greens. Keeping it all soft, but saturated, with unexpected snaps of deeper colors.”

“I want to get your engagement shots in the next week,” Mac said to Laurel.

“We haven’t decided exactly what we want there.”

“I have.” Mac bit down on a carrot straw. “In the kitchen.”

Instantly Laurel moved to sulk mode. “Talk about clichés.”

Mac just pointed with her carrot. “The counter heaped with gorgeous pastries, cakes, cookies, with you and Del in front of it. I want him sitting on a stool, and you wearing your baker’s apron and cap.”

And the sulk deepened. “Well, aren’t I glamorous?”

“What you’ll be when I’m done with you, ye of no faith whatsoever, will be sexy, adorable, cheeky, and unique.”

“She was right about doing Jack’s and mine in the garden,” Emma pointed out. “We looked gorgeous, and hot.”

“Also brilliant, but it did help that you’re both already gorgeous and hot. So.” Mac dropped into a seat. “What’s the what for?” Her eyebrows lifted as she glanced at Parker, saw her friend grinning. “And what’s that for?”

“It’s fun, it’s just fun to listen to all you talk about wedding plans.Your own wedding plans. Mac, I’ve asked Monica and Susan from the bridal shop to stand in for me—pinch running, we’ll say—on your day. They’re smart, experienced, capable. And if there’s anything that needs to be dealt with during the ceremony, I won’t have to excuse myself and bolt.”

“That’s really good thinking.”

“Which makes us four for four in brilliance.They’ll also help with guests while we’re up in the Bride’s Suite. Emma, I know you have a team, but—”

“Right there with you,” Emma interrupted. “I won’t be as available for the setup, and we won’t be able to draft Carter or Del or Jack. I’ve got two florists I’m going to work with on a couple of the upcoming events. And if they’re as good as I think, they’ll work with my regular team for Mac’s. We’re going to need extra and experienced hands for the Seaman wedding in April—and for mine, for Laurel’s.”

“Good. And Laurel.”

“Also on the same page. I’ve asked Charles, the pastry chef at the Willows, if he can take time to work with me on Mac’s wedding. I told you how good he is. He’s thrilled. I have to wheedle the time off for him, but I know how to handle Julio,” she added, speaking of the restaurant’s temperamental head chef.

“I think we’ve got that covered,” Parker told her. “We’ll need to have some strategy meetings, and all of these extra hands will need a tour of the event spaces, a tutorial on how we work. Mac, I’ve started the timetable for your wedding.”

“My timetable,” Mac said, and grinned. “Parker made me a timetable.”

“It’s varied from our usual, because it’s you, and it’s us. We’ll work out any time constraints during rehearsal, which I also wanted to talk to you about.The rehearsal dinner . . .”

“We’ll probably book the Willows, but . . .”

Parker met Mac’s eyes, read them, smiled. “I was hoping you would.”

“Oh yes!” Understanding the looks, Emma clapped her hands together. “Have it here. It’s perfect.”

“It is perfect,” Laurel agreed. “Even with the added work, the cleanup, it’s just right.”

“Settled?”

Mac reached across the table, squeezed Parker’s hand.“Settled.”

“New business. It would be oddly new business. I got a call from Katrina Stevens. Memory refresher. She was one of our first brides. Towering, pencil-thin blonde, big laugh. I believe one of her attendants was the first to have sex with a groomsman in the Bride’s Suite.”

“Oh yeah!” Mac held up a hand. “She was easily six feet tall, wore spikes that added another four inches.The groom was about six-eight.They looked like Nordic gods.”

“Silver Palace cake, six layers,” Laurel recalled.

“White roses, eggplant callas,” Emma confirmed.

“She and Mica are getting a divorce.”

“Can’t win them all. Too bad though,” Laurel added. “They made an impressive couple.”

“Apparently, at least according to Katrina, he didn’t mind impressing others, and when she caught him doing so with one of his clients, she kicked him out. There was some back and forth, separation, reconciliation, separation, and now she’s done.The divorce will be final in late February. She wants a divorce party. Here.”

“A divorce party?” Emma’s lips moved into a pout. “That doesn’t seem nice.”

“I don’t think she’s feeling particularly nice toward Mica, but she did sound as though she’s feeling energized and happy. She’s gotten the idea in her head that she wants to celebrate what she’s calling the new start of her life, and she wants to do it here—in style.”

Parker lifted the water bottle that was never far from her hand. “It’s not what we do, which I explained to her, but she’s got the bit between her teeth. She’s set on it, willing to book a full day in one of our slowest months, not counting the Valentine’s Day madness. I felt I had to put it out there for discussion.”

“Just how do we list that kind of event on the website?” Mac muttered.

“I think divorce should make you sad, or mad.” Emma frowned over her tea.“I can see going out, getting toasted with some friends, but this seems mean.”

“Cheating on your wife’s meaner,” Laurel pointed out.

“No question, but it’s . . .” Emma moved her shoulders to mime discomfort. “And here, where they got married.”

“It’s probably small of me, but I like the way she’s thinking.” Laurel shrugged and bit into a carrot straw. “Like she’s closing a circle, and instead of bitching or mourning—and maybe, probably she’s already done both—she’s marking it with food, drink, flowers, music, friends. I wouldn’t like to see us do this sort of thing regularly, but I can sort of see it for a returning customer.”

“Maybe we should have a package deal.” Mac snagged a sandwich. “We planned your wedding, now we’ll plan your divorce. Celebrate at ten percent off.”

“Did they have kids?” Emma wondered.

“No.”

She nodded at Parker. “Well, that’s something, I guess. You haven’t said what you think about it.”

“I had all the same reactions the three of you’ve had, in various degrees.” She lifted her hands, let them fall. “My initial instinct was just no.Then, the more she talked, the more I saw where she was coming from, and why she wanted it.Then I stacked all those instincts and reactions up and took a hard look. It’s business, and it’s really none of our business if a client wants to hire us to celebrate the end of a bad marriage.”

“You’re voting yes?” Mac asked.

“I’m voting yes because she told me she wanted to have this party, this new beginning, here especially because it would remind her that the other beginning had started out beautifully, and full of love and hope.That it would help remind her she hadn’t made a mistake. Things changed, and now she was going to start again, and by God, she was going to keep right on believing in love and hope. She sold me.”

“You have to admire her—what is it?—chutzpa,” Mac commented.

“I’m voting with Parker, and further vote that if anything like this comes up again, we take it on a case-by-case basis.” Laurel looked around the table.“It’s business, but if the client’s just looking to take swipes at an ex, even deservedly, I don’t think this is the place.”

“Agreed,” Parker said instantly. “And if I’d gotten that sense, I would have steered her away.”

“Okay.” Mac nodded. “Case by case.”

“I’ll go along,” Emma decided,“because it sounds like she’s just closing a door, and wants to see what’s behind others. But it still makes me sad.”

“With that, I have other new business that I hope cheers you up. I’ve finished fine-tuning the book proposal.”

“Seriously?” Emma gaped.“I don’t know if I’m cheered up or just scared.”

“I’m going to e-mail you all the file. I want you to edit, adjust, suggest, bitch, moan, scoff. And in the portions that apply to the work you’d do on the project, double all of those. Like this event, this project has to be something we’re all agreed on, happy with. We all have to want it.”

“I have to say we all want it.” Again, Laurel looked around the table for confirmation.“It’s just such new ground. Sometimes you sink in new ground.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about new ground myself.” Parker frowned at her water bottle.“New steps, new risks. I like to think we’re tough enough and smart enough to risk taking those steps onto new ground.”

“Well, when you put it that way.” Laurel blew out a breath. “What’ve we got to lose but ego if we suck at this?”

“I choose optimism and not sucking,” Emma decided. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve already put together, Parker.”

“I think it’s got real potential. Mac, I inserted some of the photos from our files that show your skill set, and with the shots of Emma’s and Laurel’s work, theirs. It gives the flavor, in visuals, of what we do.”

“I’m somewhere between Laurel’s ego suck and Emma’s optimism. And from that position I really want to see the platform.”

“Good. When everybody’s gone over it, when you’re ready, we’ll hash it out. Then when, and if, we’ll send it to the agent. If, again, we’re all agreed.”

She let out a big breath. “And that’s that.”

“I’d like Carter to look at it. English professor,” Mac added. “Aspiring novelist.”

“Absolutely. He can also edit, adjust, and so on.That’s all I have. Anyone else have anything to discuss since we’re all here?”

Emma shot up a hand. “I do. I want to know what’s going on with you and Malcolm. Really going on, with details.”

“Seconded,” Laurel said.

“And once again, unanimous.” Mac leaned over the table. “Come on, Parks, spill.”

[Dalyia]

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PARKER SCANNED THE THREE FACES SURROUNDING HER. FRIENDS, she thought. Can’t live without them. Can’t tell them to mind their own business.

At least not these friends.

“What do you mean what’s going on? You know what’s going on. Malcolm and I are seeing each other, and when schedules and mood mesh, sleeping with each other.Would you like me to detail our sexual adventures?”

“I would, but hold that for Girl Night,” Laurel advised. “One that includes lots of wine and Mrs. G’s pizza.”

“Question A.” Mac held up a finger. “Is it mutual banging, an affair, or a relationship?”

Knowing she was stalling, Parker rose to pour another cup of tea. “Why can’t it be all three?”

“Okay, mutual banging is for fun and gratification. An affair is more in-depth, and something you may or may not think may lead to something else. But it’s generally what you have until the juice runs out or you move on.” Emma paused, glanced around the table for general agreement. “And a relationship is something you put effort into, it’s making and maintaining a connection.You can have elements of the first two in a relationship, but it’s more than the sum of those parts.”

“She should do a talk show.” Laurel raised her cup in toast.“So, going by our resident expert, are you just having fun, are you considering there may be more, or are you making a connection?”

Parker decided she wanted a petit four.“The problem with the three of you is you’re all in relationships, and more, you’re madly in love and about to get married. So you’re looking at me through that prism.”

“Which not only avoids the question, but turns it so it’s invalid. And it’s not,” Mac insisted. “We tell each other how we feel. It’s what we do. Not telling us says to me that you’re still chewing on it, and maybe a little bit worried. Just not ready. That’s okay. We’ll wait until you are.”

“That’s such a low blow.” Scowling, Parker bit into the pretty little cake.“We’ll wait—subtext—because we’re the good and true and loyal friends.”

Mac took a cake for herself. “Did it work?”

“Bitch.”

“It worked.” Laurel smiled.“And only Emma feels any sense of guilt. She’ll get over it.”

“It’s only a tiny bit of guilt, but I don’t think we should push Parker if she’s not ready to talk to us.”

“You, too?”

Emma lowered her gaze at Parker’s deadly stare.“They’re a bad influence.”

“Fine. The simple answer is I don’t know what it is, exactly. I guess I am still chewing on it. It’s only been a few weeks. I like him. I’m enjoying him. He’s interesting and smart without any of those pompous or overpolished or self-satisfied aspects that, well, either irritate or bore me. He understands what it takes to run a business, and respects what I do, how I do it. I respect what he does, even if I don’t really know too many of the details of how he does it.You almost have to pry him open with a crowbar to get him to talk about himself.”

“You have a whole toolbox of crowbars in various shapes, sizes, and colors,” Mac pointed out. “And you know how to use them so well people tell you everything.”

“Apparently Malcolm’s not people. Under-the-surface details, I mean, which is frustrating because I want to say if it was a long time ago and no big deal—two of his default positions—then why not just tell me about it when it’s obvious I’d like to know? Instead, I back off because I think it probably is a big deal, and that’s why he won’t talk about it. Then he redirects the conversation, something he excels at, or makes me laugh, or we have sex, and I really don’t know much more than I did in the first place.

“Plus, he’s cocky.” She swallowed a bite of petit four, gestured with the rest.“He’s got that attitude that shouldn’t be appealing, it just shouldn’t appeal to me at all, but at the same time he can be charming and just . . . just easy.And he looks at you—me—people, I don’t know. A lot of men don’t really look at you, but he does, so it’s like he’s not just taking in what you’re saying, but taking you in. And that’s powerful.”

She grabbed another cake.“How was I supposed to know how much that combination of powerful and easy would get to me? Really, I couldn’t be expected to know.”

“Hmm,” Laurel said, cutting her gaze to her two friends, hiking up her eyebrows.

“Exactly.” Parker bit into the cake. “Conversely, he’ll interrupt me a half dozen times when I’m trying to make a point or argue a position, which makes it hard to stay on target. So, obviously I don’t know exactly what this is because he’s slippery. He’s slippery,” she repeated, and reached for another cake. “What?” she demanded as her friends stared at her.

“You ate five petit fours,” Mac told her.“You’re going for six.”

“I did not.” Shock hit when Parker looked at the plate. “Five? Well . . . they’re petite.”

“Okay. Back away from the pastries.” Gently, Laurel took the cake out of Parker’s hand, set it on the plate, pushed the plate out of reach. “The problem is you’ve bottled that up, and once you popped the cork you instinctively fed the spew with sugar.”

“Apparently.”

“You’re in love with him,” Emma stated.

“What? No.” Parker shook her head, said it dismissively. “No.” More firmly.Then just shut her eyes. “God. I think I probably am, but if I am, where’s the lift, the tingle, the glow? Why do I feel just a little bit sick.”

“That’s probably the petit fours.” Mac glanced at Laurel. “No offense.”

“None taken. They’re meant to be savored, not popped like candy corn.”

“It’s not the petit fours.” Parker pressed a hand to her stomach. “Or maybe just a little. I don’t have my footing with him, not really.”

“Which is harder on you than most,” Laurel commented. “Love can kick your ass.”

“I always imagined it would be a kind of lifting, that everything got just a little better, and more . . . And more.”

“It does,” Emma insisted. “It can. It will.”

“But first it kicks your ass.” Mac smiled as she lifted her shoulders. “At least in my experience.”

“I don’t like it. I like doing the ass kicking.”

“Maybe you are, and don’t know it,” Emma suggested. “He might be feeling the same way you are. If you told him—”

“Absolutely no way in any circle of hell.” Parker swiped a hand through the air as if to banish the very idea from the face of the planet. “Things are fine, they’re just fine. Besides, let him tell me something for a change. I feel better,” Parker insisted. “I should have vented or spewed or whatever I did before.We’re both enjoying ourselves, and I started overthinking it. It is whatever it is, and that’s just fine. I’ve got a client coming in.”

As Mac started to speak, Emma squeezed her knee under the table. “Me, too. Hey, it’s poker night.Why don’t we have our version. Wine, pizza, movie?”

“I’m in,” Laurel said.

“Sounds good. Why don’t we—” Mac broke off as Parker’s phone rang.

“Somebody run it by Mrs. G. If it’s okay with her, I’m all for it. I have to take this.” Rising, Parker clicked on the phone as she left the room. “Hi, Roni, what can I do for you?”

She had to be grateful the call, the meeting with a client, two more calls, and an emergency consult with the caterer regarding last-minute menu changes took up her time and attention. She couldn’t overthink and obsess about Malcolm or her own feelings when she focused on the details, mini crises, and demands generated by clients.

In any case, she told herself as she finally walked downstairs, she probably wasn’t in love with Malcolm. It was more likely a kind of infatuation blurred by an undeniable sexual haze.

Infatuations were harmless and fun, and could be looked back on when the vision cleared with fondness, even amusement.

Yes, she much preferred the infatuation theory.

Lighter, steadier, she swung into the kitchen to confirm the proposed Girl Night with Mrs. Grady.

“Mrs. G, did you . . .” She trailed off when she saw Malcolm at the breakfast nook.

An old cloth protected the surface of the table, and on it were scattered various tools, various unidentifiable parts of what she assumed was the vacuum cleaner lying gutted on the floor.

“On the phone,” he said, and jerked a thumb toward Mrs. Grady’s rooms.

“I didn’t know you were here.” And that was another thing, wasn’t it? she thought. He so often gave her no time to plan, to prepare, to strategize. “What are you doing?”

“I had a Porsche to baby out this way, so I dropped by. Mrs. G was about to haul this to the household appliance graveyard.” He shook his hair out of his eyes as he loosened a screw, or a bolt, or something that connected a thing to another thing.

“I can fix it.”

Parker walked a little closer. “You can?”

“Probably. Worth a shot.” He tipped his head to smile at her. “It’s not as complicated as a Porsche.”

“I suppose not, but how do you know where everything goes when—if—you put it back together?”

“Because I took it apart.”

She’d have made a list, Parker thought. Drawn a diagram. She watched him fiddle with what might’ve been a motor or part of one. “What’s wrong with it?”

“According to Mrs. G, it started clunking.”

“Clunking?”

“Some clattering, too. You want a lesson in appliance repair, Legs? I can give you some basics, buy you some nice, pretty tools.”

She looked, very deliberately, down her nose at him. “I have tools, thank you very much.”

“Are they pink?”

She flicked the side of his head, made him grin.“Those are my tools.”

“Yeah? They’re good ones. Are you done for the day?”

“Hopefully.” Look at his hands, she thought. Naturally she was infatuated. They were so competent, so sure. Just as they were when he put them on her. She took a step back, decided she’d go ahead and have a glass of wine now.

“I thought it was poker night.”

“It is. I’m heading over to Del’s later.”

He hadn’t shaved, she noted, and there were tears and grease stains on his jeans. She supposed the dress code for poker was very, very casual.

“Do you want a drink?”

“No, I’m good.”

He worked in relative silence while she poured herself some wine. Just a muttered curse, a hum of satisfaction now and then. His foot tapped as if to some inner tune, and his hair fell in a dark, disordered mass that made her fingers itch to get into it.

Maybe she was a little in love with him, but that was as harmless as infatuation.Wasn’t it? It wasn’t as if she was planning the rest of her life around him, or with him.

God, why couldn’t she just relax and keep it simple?

“How’s that coming for you, Malcolm?” Mrs. Grady walked back in, winked at Parker.

“I think I’ve got it.”

“Well, once you’ve got that thing back together, you wash up. You can have some cookies and milk.”

He glanced back at her, grinned. “Okay.”

“It’s nice having a handyman around the house.We’ve been a household of women for some time now. Not that we don’t muddle through, but the next time one of the washers gives me grief, I know who to call.”

“One of the washers?”

“We’ve a utility room with a set on every floor.”

“Convenient.” He cocked a brow at Parker. “And efficient.”

“It is that. I’m going out with some of the girls tonight. I’ll see to your pizza before I leave,” she said to Parker.

“We can just throw something together,” Parker began. “Just go have fun.”

“I plan to, but I can do both. I’ll be seeing your mother tonight, Mal.”

“Yeah? She’s going?”

“A bite to eat, plenty of gossip.Then who knows what trouble we’ll get into.”

“I’ll make your bail.”

Mrs. Grady laughed in delight.“I’ll hold you to it.” Lips pursed she walked to the table. “Look how you’ve shined up those innards.”

“Needed some adjusting, some cleaning, and the indispensable WD-40. How many of these do you have?”

“Only one like that. It’s an old one, but it’s handy for my rooms. Otherwise Parker’s brought in a fleet of new, spiffy ones so I don’t have to haul a machine up and down the steps if I want to do the floors between cleaning crews. Oh, I ran into Margie Winston. She told me you breathed new life into that rattletrap she drives.”

“That old girl’s got a hundred and eighty-five thousand miles on her.The Pontiac, not Mrs.Winston.”

Parker listened to them talk, easy conversation, as he put the machine back together. That was another point in his favor, she mused, the easy conversation, the way he knew and obviously interacted with his client base.

And the way, when he plugged in the vacuum, tested the suction, he grinned. “She sucks.”

“Would you look at that! And it doesn’t sound likes it’s grinding metal while it’s at it.”

“She should be good for a few more miles.”

“Thank you, Malcolm. You’ve earned the milk and cookies. Just let me put this away.”

“I’ll do it.” He crouched to wrap the cord. “Where do you want it?”

“Just in the utility room there, first closet on the left.”

Mrs. Grady shook her head as he carried the vacuum out. “If I were thirty years younger, I wouldn’t let that one slip away. Hell, I’d settle for twenty and try my hand at being a cougar.”

Parker nearly choked on her wine. “I didn’t hear that.”

“I can say it louder.”

Shaking her head, Parker caught her breath. “You’re smitten.” “Something’s wrong with you if you’re not.”

“Nothing’s wrong with me.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mrs. Grady said as she started putting tools back in the trim silver toolbox.

“I’ll get those.You promised your sweetheart cookies and milk.”

“I’ll see to that, then, and top off your wine. You keep him company awhile.”

She set out a plate piled with cookies, a tall, cold glass of milk while Malcolm came back to wash his hands.“Drink that milk, and I’ll tell your mother you’ve been a good boy.”

“She won’t believe you.”

After Parker stowed the toolbox, she found him alone in the kitchen.

“She said she had some things to do, and you’re supposed to keep me company. So what does the Quartet do after pizza when the guys are away?”

She sat across from him, took a sip of wine. “Oh, we have slow-motion pillow fights in our underwear.”

“Another fantasy come true.Want a cookie?”

“Definitely not,” she said, thinking of the petit fours.

“You’re missing out.We’ve been here before.”

She smiled. “Yes. But this time I’m not annoyed with you.Yet. Are you feeling lucky? Poker,” she said in mock scold when his grin flashed.

“Feeling lucky can make you sloppy. It’s better to be lucky.”

“All right. Here’s to being lucky.” She tapped her glass to his.

“While you have homemade pizza and sexy pillow fights.What’s a guy have to do to get invited to one of those events?”

“Not be a guy would be requirement one.Though we can arrange for the homemade pizza at some point.”

“I could settle. Listen, speaking of invites, my mother wants you to come to dinner Sunday.”

She’d lifted her glass halfway to her mouth, and now set it down again. “Dinner at your mother’s. Sunday? This Sunday?” It was odd to feel the tickle of panic, however slight, in her throat. “Oh, but we have an event, and—”

“She’ll work around it. I told her you had a work deal, but she knows it’s a day thing.” He shifted a bit, studied his cookie.“I think she and Mrs. Grady have started talking a lot, or hanging out or something.”

[Dalyia]

“Hmm,” Parker said, watching him.

“Anyway, Ma’s dug in on it. I think she’s got the idea that I . . . I’ve been spending a lot of time here, scrounging meals, and she should, you know, reciprocate.”

“Uh-huh.” Not what you were going to say, she reflected. And if she had felt a little tickle, she’d have to say Malcolm felt a deep scraping.

Wasn’t that interesting?

“So, she’s dug in, and believe me, there’s no budging her. I can tell her you can’t make it, but she’ll just keep at it until you do.”

Not just panicked, she decided. Considerably worried. He’d been maneuvered into bringing a woman home to his mother’s for dinner. And she had a feeling he hadn’t quite figured out how that worked.

“I’d love to come to dinner on Sunday.”

His gaze zinged back to hers—wary. “You would?”

“Sure.We should have everything wrapped here by five thirty. If there’s no holdup, I could be there by around six. I’ll just drive over when I’m done here, and call if I’m going to be any later than six.Will that work?”

“Yeah. Sure.That’ll work.”

The more discomfort she sensed in him, the more enthusiastic she became. It was, she admitted, small of her, but what the hell. “Ask her if I can bring dessert, or maybe a bottle of wine. Or, never mind, I’ll just call her.”

“You’ll call my mother.”

She smiled, eyes wide and calm. “Is that a problem?”

“No. That’s fine.You two figure it out.” He waved it off. “It takes me out of the middle.”

“I’ll get in touch with her.” She lifted her wine again, at ease now. “Is she seeing anyone?”

“What?” Pure, undiluted shock swept over his face. “My mother? No. Jesus.”

She didn’t manage to swallow the laugh, but softened it by reaching out, laying a hand over his.“She’s a vital, interesting woman.”

“Don’t go there. Seriously.”

“I only did because I wondered if she might have a friend there, or if it would just be the three of us.”

“Us.Three.That’s it.”

“That’ll be nice.”

“Okay. Okay, I’ve got to get going.”

“Have fun tonight.” She rose as he did.

“Yeah, you, too.”

“And be lucky.” She moved into him. “Maybe this’ll help.”

And kept moving, slowly, deliberately, until her body molded to his, until her arms twined like ropes around his neck. Until her lips brushed, retreated, brushed, then sank soft and warm against his.

She let a sound of pleasure—escape, seduction, surrender, a shimmer of promises to come. And felt her body yearn with that promise when his hand gripped a fistful of her shirt at the small of her back.

He forgot, nearly forgot, where he was. Forgot, nearly forgot, everything but Parker. Her scent, that subtle, unforgettable hint of fragrance that was woman and secrets and cool breezes all at once. It stirred him, tangled in his senses with the hot, velvet punch of the kiss, swamped him with a staggering flood of need against the firm, lithe lines of her body.

Then she sighed again, skimmed her fingers through his hair, and started to ease away.

“No.”

He yanked her back and took them both on a dangerous fall.

“Malcolm.” She’d opened the cage door, and now however much she wanted to fling it yet wider, she knew she needed to gentle them both. “We can’t.”

“Wanna bet?” He pulled her across the kitchen, his strides long and fast enough to have her scrambling to keep up.

“Wait.Where are you going?”

Her breath stuck somewhere between her lungs and her throat when he dragged her into the utility room, shoved her back to the door. Flipped the lock.

“We’re not going to—”

He smothered her protest with a ravenous kiss while his hands began to take and take.

He forced himself to flip open the buttons of her shirt rather than simply tear it off her, then tugged the cups of her bra down to rub calloused palms over her nipples.

She moaned. She trembled.

“God. Malcolm.Wait.”

“No.” He yanked up her skirt, then slid that calloused palm between her legs. “I’m going to have you here, right here. I’m going to watch you come first.” He skimmed a finger under lace, into her. “Then I’m going to make you come again, and again, taking you right here, against this door, until I’m finished.”

She had to grip his shoulders or fall as her knees trembled, as they buckled. As the vicious, battering heat assaulted her. His eyes, wildly green, captured hers, and she saw something flash in them—triumph, no less than triumph—when her body erupted.

She heard the swatch of lace rip, and could only moan again.

“Tell me you want me.” He had to hear it. Had to hear her voice, throaty with passion, tell him she was as crazed as he. “Tell me you want this. For me to take you like this.”

“Yes. God.Yes.”

He gripped her thigh as she lifted her leg to hook around his waist. Opening, offering. His mouth muffled her cry of release when he thrust into her. Hard and deep.

She let him ravage her—no other word came close—and she thrilled to it, rushed with him, beat by mad beat, to the final, breathless fall.

Even then she shuddered. Even when her head dropped to his shoulder, when his hand stroked down her hair, she couldn’t quite find her breath. When he tipped her face up, cupping it in his hands as his lips moved gently, gently over her cheeks, her temples, she thought: Who are you? Who are you that you can do this to me, take my body, take my heart?

Then she opened dazed eyes, stared into his, and she knew. Not all, maybe not enough, but she knew she loved.

When she smiled, he smiled. “You started it.”

She would’ve laughed if she’d had enough breath. “That’ll teach me.”

He dropped his forehead to hers, began to button her shirt. “You got a little wrinkled.”

He smoothed her skirt, her hair, tilted her head. “It’s no good. You look like a woman who just had sex in the utility room.”

“I guess I earned it.”

“I’ll say.” He bent down. “And I earned these. I’m keeping them.”

Her mouth dropped open when he pushed her torn panties into his pocket. “Like a trophy?”

“Spoils of war.”

She sputtered out a laugh, then just shook her head. “I don’t suppose you have a comb?”

“Why would I have a comb?”

She sighed, tried a little more smoothing and brushing with her hands.“That’ll just have to do.” She laid her finger on her lips, got that quick, cocky grin in response. “I mean it,” she hissed.

As quietly as possible, she unlocked the door, opened it a crack. Listened. “You’re going straight out, through the kitchen, out the door. And I’m—”

He grabbed her, giving her ribs a tickle as he pressed his mouth to hers. “Stop! Malcolm!”

“Just wanted to muss you up again.” He took her hand, pulled her out.

Relieved to find the kitchen empty, she nudged, pushed, shoved him at the door.

“I feel so used,” he said, and made her laugh even as she gave him a last push.

“Go play poker. Be lucky.”

“Got my lucky charm right here.” He patted the pocket holding her panties.

When her mouth dropped open again, his laughter rolled through the damp autumn air. “See you, Legs.”

She made a dash for her room, then couldn’t resist detouring to the window, looking out. She saw him change direction, walk to Mac’s to speak with a man—a boy?—who’d just come out.

They talked for a moment, exchanged fist bumps. Then the boy climbed into a compact, gunned the engine, and drove off as Malcolm backtracked to his truck.

She jolted when she heard the step behind her, and turned to see Mrs. Grady. “Oh.” And mortified to feel heat rise to her cheeks, Parker cleared her throat.

“Hmm,” was all the housekeeper said.“You certainly kept him company.”

“Ha. Well . . . Um, do you know who that boy was, over at Mac’s? Malcolm seemed to know him.”

“Well, he should as the boy works for Malcolm. Can’t read,” she added, “or only enough to skim by. Mal asked Carter to tutor the boy.”

“I see.” She stood there, looking out through the thin rain. Just when she thought she had a grip on the man, she found yet another angle, another layer.