By Appointment Only (2 page)

He was breathing fast, too fast. His hands went to her hips, gripping her ass in an effort to get closer. He was pretty sure he was breaking at least nine of the commandments and maybe a few lesser ones he wasn’t aware of.

But he couldn’t stop kissing her. It was like a dream, a surreal but impossibly sweet image conjured up by the palette of muted, prism-spread hues that cloaked them like an intangible blessing.

He knotted his fist in her hair, testing its thickness, its softness. He’d waited his whole life for a woman like this.

He wondered if she knew how close she came to having him make love to her in front of God and a host of dead saints. But before their incendiary embrace reached its inevitable conclusion, the modest wedding party reappeared.

Hannah sighed and pulled back, her attention already lured away from him. She touched his face one more time, gently, as though fascinated by the feel of his skin. “You’re a great kisser, Morgan Webber,” she whispered.

And then his lovely, unexpected gift of a woman abandoned him without a backward glance.

He started after her, stopped, and glanced down at his watch with a curse. He had a very important meeting in exactly forty-five minutes. One he couldn’t miss.

Damn it. He took one more step toward Hannah and then halted with a groan. He had people depending on him. This incident was far from over. But the conclusion would have to wait. Even if he didn’t know her name.

It took him six months to translate that breathtaking moment into an honest to God, real proposal . . .

“Hey, boss. Julio says that load of block is screwed. Some accident out on the interstate. We’re going to have to wait until tomorrow.”

Morgan cursed beneath his breath and jerked his mind back to the present. He wiped his face with the back of his arm and squinted into the blinding sun. Orlando in August was a bitch. Even though he’d lived here his entire life with the exception of the six years he’d spent at Georgia Tech, getting his undergrad and then earning a master’s degree in civil engineering, he was as miserable as the next guy when the mercury topped ninety-five and the humidity was a numerical match.

He tried to concentrate on the expanse of rough, graded soil and filler that expanded in neat sections as far as the eye could see. The undertaking he faced required his utmost attention, and he’d do well to remember it.

He might be the project manager, but the big bosses were always breathing down his neck, and he’d never yet failed to bring a job in under budget and on time.

They were in the midst of reclaiming acres of spongy land south of the airport in preparation for the construction of a massive theme park that would provide competition for Disney and Universal. Time Travelers would eventually boast opportunities for visitors to experience medieval jousts, piratical adventures on the high seas, dragon slaying contests, caveman battles, and a host of other improbable but entertaining activities.

Morgan was thankful that his work would be finished long before the first gangly teenage fans appeared on site. Morgan’s responsibilities were far more practical than whimsical. His task was to make sure that the acres of pavement to come were well drained. So he had to build an underground detention system, among other things, to catch, control, and regulate runoff from heavy rainfall.

They’d had to wait almost a year for the state to approve the Storm Water Pollution Prevention Plan, and now all systems were go. His geotech guys had designed the foundations and were now preparing to inspect the footings. So far, everything was falling into place. It gave him a deep sense of satisfaction to wrestle an unappealing swath of land into a usable, even attractive, piece of property.

The unique Florida soil presented some problems that other parts of the country rarely had to deal with, but it helped that he was a native and knew what he was facing. He’d never yet met a project he couldn’t tackle with success.

Which wasn’t to say that his personal life was as easy or as smooth. After that first day in the church, he’d had a hell of a time locating the elusive Hannah. Fortunately the minister was amenable to swapping some nonsensitive info for Morgan’s sizeable donation. Hannah worked as a personal shopper for the residents of a trio of retirement communities, and as it turned out, she had a neat condo not far from Morgan’s apartment.

The spark he’d experienced during their initial, emotionally fraught wedding encounter was still there when he showed up on her doorstep a couple of weeks later and asked her out. They flirted, they dated, they kissed . . . they ended up in bed. Repeatedly. And the sex was phenomenal, even from the beginning.

But Hannah was not easily won over, at least not when it came to things like commitment and permanence.

When Morgan first hinted at marriage, she had dragged him to six weeks of counseling with a priest who had to be pushing a hundred. The old guy kept nodding off in the midst of their sessions.

And although Morgan was fairly certain that Hannah was a nominal Catholic at best, she gave every semblance of being an earnest, well-intentioned bride-to-be. Which she wasn’t. At least not then. Because she refused to actually talk about marriage in any but the most ephemeral of contexts.

It was understandable in a way. Her parents had married only long enough to make Hannah’s birth legitimate. Hannah’s mom was a new-age version of a hippie love child, and from what Morgan had gleaned, flitted happily from one partner to the next. She didn’t believe in marriage, but at least she had spared a thought for her daughter’s situation and had tried to make things somewhat conventional.

Hannah’s father had never been in the picture after that, though he was apparently still alive and kicking somewhere not far away. Pulling personal information from the reticent Hannah was as difficult as finding an unbroken seashell on the crowded beaches. Despite her outgoing personality and the flashing smile that lit up a room, she had a deep vein of reserve that she wore like a protective cloak.

But Morgan was no stranger to challenges, and he’d been confident in his ability to win her trust. Finally, as of last night, Hannah Quarles wore his engagement ring, a large, square-cut diamond that seemed to weigh down her slender finger.

He should be feeling on top of the world. He should be crowing about snagging a woman who was everything he had ever wanted and more. He should be happy. Ecstatic. Justifiably proud.

Even for a man unaccustomed to spending much time on self-reflection, he was damn sure that something as simple as happiness was not even in the ballpark of what he was feeling at the moment.

The fact that he was having trouble concentrating at work was a red flag. His guts were twisted in a knot, and he felt like a jittery adolescent. He might have put a ring on Hannah’s finger, but he’d be a fool if he thought the race was won. In a sick little corner of his psyche, a place he almost refused to acknowledge even existed, he was afraid that she had accepted his proposal because she was too softhearted to say no.

And that made him feel like shit. If it was simply her aversion to the whole marriage thing, he could be patient. But it made him flinch inwardly to think that he might be head over heels in love with a woman whose emotions were not nearly as involved.

With one last oath that expressed a wide range of frustrations both professional and personal, he jerked his cell phone out of his pocket and proceeded to raise hell with the cinder block supplier. He needed to strip a layer off of somebody, and that poor sap had just been nominated.

Hannah held her hand up to the light and admired the way the brilliant stone nestled in a platinum band sparkled and danced. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry she had ever seen, much less owned. Unfortunately, she knew she had accepted it under false pretenses. She wasn’t ready to get married.

But Morgan’s dear face had been so boyishly jubilant when he popped open that damn velvet box, she hadn’t been able to do more than smile weakly and allow him to slide the costly bauble onto the appropriate finger of her left hand.

She studied the ring carefully and curled her fingers into a fist. Now that it was on her hand, it was hard to think about giving it up. Surely it couldn’t hurt to wear it for a bit. She might not be as naive or as idealistic as some women, but even so . . . she had dreams.

And Morgan was definitely the man to play the hero. She loved him passionately, though she was always careful to curb her adoration when they were together. He deserved someone far less screwed up than she was, and even though she might indulge herself in the short term . . . pretending they had a future . . . she knew the truth.

He was hers only temporarily.

But good Lord, it was hard to say no to that man. He was a steamroller, an affectionate, handsome, rugged steamroller. Everything about him from the dark wavy hair he kept cut short to the breadth of his powerful shoulders and the predatory gleam in his gray eyes, made her knees weak.

And in bed. She swallowed hard and her thighs tightened involuntarily. Just mentally reliving the first time they made love was enough to make her skin damp and to hitch her breath in a jerky gasp of remembrance. He was the most focused man she had ever met.

And whether that meant bullying his crew and the elements into submission or wooing a woman so sweetly she thought she might actually melt from longing, he made things happen. His way. On his terms. And the results were so satisfying, she couldn’t find it in her heart to protest.

Her phone rang suddenly, and she snatched it up with a guilty look at the clock. She’d been dithering in front of her closet, and now she was about to be late. She spoke briefly to the caller on the other end, hung up, and dressed rapidly.

Engagement ring or no engagement ring, life went on.

Thirty minutes later, she pulled into her customary parking place at the grocery store and headed inside armed with seven different shopping lists. Mr. Potter wanted salt substitute and dried apricots. Mrs. Petersen had listed and underscored a bottle of chain-brand cologne. Two others wanted beer and cigarettes.

All of her clients had access to the cafeterias on site where they lived, but even so, they liked knowing they could have the little odds and ends they had enjoyed before their infirmities made them dependent on others. And it made Hannah feel good to know that she provided a service.

Several years ago, she had dropped by the various retirement centers on a volunteer basis. At the time she’d been working in a real estate office, later earning her license. But after completing only a handful of deals, she realized that she wasn’t cut out for the hard sell. She wanted to spend more time with the feisty, garrulous, oftentimes stubborn men and women who reminded her so vividly of her beloved Grammy and Papaw.

Both of her maternal grandparents were gone now, one to heart disease and the other to cancer. She missed them daily, and it eased the pain to be close to others of their generation. She fell into the habit of helping out by shopping for clothing, gifts, food, or any other items that weren’t readily available to those with limited mobility or simply the disinclination to brave the roads.

After a while, several of her elderly friends urged her to make her service a legitimate business. Between them they found her enough tasks to keep her gainfully employed from week to week. Several of the center administrators realized how valuable her assistance was and rounded up some grants to supplement the small percentages her patrons were offering as payment.

Now, after several years, her situation was permanent, and it made her happy and energized to know she was doing something meaningful with her life. Grammy and Papaw had been her touchstones. In her mother’s absence, she had made her home with them, and she had never felt any lack of love and caring. They were her family.

Now she had adopted a wider, extended family in their stead. A family whose idiosyncrasies might be frustrating at times, but a family who loved her unconditionally and who would do anything for her, as she would for them.

She pulled her little green Prius to a halt inside the front gate of the Fluffy Palms and got out. Hoisting two bags from the trunk, she made her way down the walk to the eighth apartment on the left, now a most familiar address.

When her knock yielded no results, she used her key and let herself in. “Elda . . . where are you, darlin’? I’ve brought you some things to try on.”

A short, heavyset woman with improbably orange hair appeared around the corner, her gaze guilty as she rubbed what looked like brownie crumbs from her chin. “You’re early,” she mumbled, wiping her hands on her ample, polyester-covered hips.

Hannah dropped the bags on the table and rolled her eyes. “You were on the phone badgering me thirty minutes ago . . . remember?”

Hannah slid past her hostess to peer into the small kitchenette area. The incriminating evidence sat on the counter, a steaming square pan of goodies still warm from the oven.

She frowned slightly. “Elda, you know what the doctor said. Your blood sugar can’t take this. It’s important, love, that you stay on your diet.”

Elda harrumphed and headed for the sofa. Her favorite soap opera played quietly as she gazed at the television screen mutinously. “Might as well be dead if I can’t eat,” she sulked.

Hannah leaned over the back of the cushion and pressed a kiss to her wrinkled cheek. “Quit pouting. Your handsome suitor may have ideas about that. Come on into the bedroom and try on this stuff. I bought you a dress that will knock his socks off.”

Elda snickered, following her down the hall. “What if I want him to stay completely dressed?”

When Elda disappeared into the bathroom, Hannah plopped on the bed. “You know it’s okay to fall in love again. Right? It’s been a year and a half. You aren’t betraying your husband’s memory.”

Elda poked her head around the corner. “Have you been watching too much
Dr. Phil
?”