Authors: Nora Roberts
Dream Trilogy (81 page)
The scoop paused, grain dribbled as he turned back to her. “That’s ridiculous. She was up all night.”
“She had an appointment this morning.”
“She was exhausted.”
“I know it.” She was surprised that he did and that he seemed so annoyed.
“Stupid.” He thrust the scoop back into the grain bin. “She could get her hair or her nails done later.”
“Get her hair done, her nails?” Disgusted, Ann slapped her hands on her hips. “If that’s what you think Miss Laura is about, you’re stupid. And I’ve never thought otherwise. She’s gone to work, you baboon, at the hotel. And this afternoon she’s going to work at the shop. Then, if she’s able to stand after you kept her up all night with your horse, she’ll tend her children, then she’ll—”
“She owns the damn hotel,” he shot back. “And the damn shop. And I imagine both could stand if she took a lousy day off.”
“She takes her obligations seriously. And she’s got children to raise, doesn’t she? Tuition to pay for, clothes and food to buy, bills to pay.”
“Templetons don’t work for paychecks.”
“Laura Templeton does. Do you think she’d live off her family? Do you think that even after that heartless bastard took all her money she’d go crying to her parents?”
“What are you talking about, took all her money?”
“As if you didn’t know.” Now she sneered. “As if all of Big Sur and Monterey and down to Carmel don’t know that that man all but emptied all their bank accounts, and the stocks and bonds and properties before the divorce.”
“Ridgeway.” His eyes flashed, dark, sharp, swords tilted for battle. “Why isn’t he dead?”
Ann sucked in a breath. On this, at least, she could agree even with a rogue. But she had said more than she’d intended. “It isn’t my place to gossip with a stablehand.”
“I’m not a stablehand, and you’ve never let your place stop you when it comes to me. Why did they let Ridgeway get away with it? Josh could have stopped it, the Templetons could have crucified him.”
“It’s Miss Laura’s business, and her choice.” Ann folded her hands and closed her lips.
“It doesn’t add up.” He took the grain to Max, who was waiting patiently. “She’s got to have family money to wade in. She’s got that house, and servants. Nobody lives like that and worries about pennies.”
Ann made a derisive sound. “Miss Laura’s financial business is none of yours, Michael Fury. But if you’ve been thinking to soften her into letting loose of some of her money in your direction, you’ll have to look elsewhere.”
She recognized black fury in a man when she saw it, and also the rigid control that prevented it from spewing out. She’d expected the first, but never the second.
“So warned,” he said and went back to feeding his horses.
She started to speak again. Had that been hurt beneath the boiling temper? No, she refused to believe it of a man like him. Still, she bit her lip, wondering how her words would taste if she was wrong and did indeed have to eat them.
“I’ll leave you to your business.”
When she left, he continued to measure grain, precisely. Then the scoop flew out of his hands, smashed against the stable wall with enough force to snap its handle off. In the stalls several of the horses stirred nervously. Max stopped eating long enough to look out and study his master.
“Fuck me,” Michael murmured and rubbed his hands over his face. “I’ve got enough to do. Goddamn woman should be in bed.” He picked up the scoop, threw it again. Then went to find a new one.
Chapter Ten
By two in the afternoon, Laura had entered a new phase of exhaustion. It was almost pleasant, the way she seemed to float just an inch or so off the ground and the way the air around her seemed rather soft and fluid.
She’d handled her meeting with the conference chair for the writers’ convention, had briefed her staff one last time for the influx of guests that would be arriving over the following two days, and had checked and rechecked the details with the banquet manager, maintenance and shipping, catering, room service, and housekeeping.
At one, she’d fueled herself with coffee and a candy bar and headed out to Pretenses. The one bright spot in the day had been Kate’s semi-hysterical call just as Laura was racing out of the shower that morning.
“It’s pink! It turned pink. I’m pregnant. Byron, put me down. Did you hear, Laura? I’m going to have a baby!”
She’d heard, and they’d laughed together, wept a little. Now Kate was wandering in a dream state around the shop.
“How about Guinevere if it’s a girl?” Kate wondered. “Byron’s family has this tradition of choosing names from literature.”
“Guinevere was a weak-moraled round heel,” Margo commented. “She boffed her husband’s best friend. But if that’s the kind of thing you want—”
“I’ve always liked Ariel,” Laura put in. “From
The Tempest
.”
The Tempest
.”
“Ariel De Witt.” Kate took a notebook out of her pocket and jotted it down. Names were a serious matter, she thought, and had to be considered from all angles. Had to sound right, look right. Feel right. “Hmmm.” This one definitely had potential. “Not bad.” She pocketed her reading glasses as she looked at Laura. “Laura’s nodding off again.”
“I’m not.” Caught, she jerked her lolling head up, struggled to focus. What the hell had they been talking about? “Names,” she said quickly, as though it was a pop quiz. “Girl names for the baby out of literature. Hester, Juliet, Delilah.”
“And your prize for the correct answer is a complete home entertainment center.” Kate arched a brow. “Would you like to move on to round two and try for the trip to Honolulu?”
“Very funny.” Laura resisted rubbing at her eyes like a cranky child. “I rather like Juliet.”
“We’ll put it before our distinguished panel of judges. Laura, take five before you fall on your face.”
“And if anyone knows the consequences of over-extending herself,” Margo put in, “it’s our pregnant pal with the dopey look in her eyes. Why don’t you go in the back and catch a quick nap?” As she studied Laura, Margo polished glassware. “Spending the night with Michael’s bound to sap a woman’s energy.”
Laura winced and looked around to see if there were any customers within hearing distance. “I told you we were birthing a foal, not tearing up the sheets.”
“Which only proves you’ve got your priorities skewed. Kate, I think that customer’s ready for a little push.” Margo nodded toward a man contemplating snuffboxes. “He’s got his eye on you,” she added when Kate walked away.
“The customer?”
“Michael, Laura. Michael. If you don’t have yours right back on him, you need to visit your optometrist.”
“I don’t have time for . . . all right, maybe I’ve looked.”
Margo set down a Waterford water glass and turned away. Progress, she thought, at long last. “And are you ready for a little push?”
Laura blew out a breath. “He wants to—He wants me.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“No, I mean, he said it. Just like that. How do you respond to something like that?”
“There are a variety of ways. Let’s see, I believe I’ve tried them all.” Margo tapped a finger on her cheek. “Which of Margo’s ploys would you prefer?”
“I’m not looking for a ploy.” Because her knees kept disappearing on her, Laura sat down on the stool behind the counter. “Margo, I’ve slept with one man in my life. I was married to him for ten years. I don’t have any ploys, or ways, or answers.”
“No ploys, maybe, and good for you. But every woman has ways, and I think you have answers. Try this question. Are you attracted to him?”
“Yes, but—”
“The answer is yes,” Margo interrupted, and kept one eye on a pair of customers contemplating the jewelry in the display along the side wall. “You are a responsible, unattached adult female, who is attracted to an attractive unattached adult male.”
“That works fine if you’re a rabbit.”
“It can work fine for people, too. Laura, there aren’t any guarantees. You certainly know that. Yes, you could be hurt. You could also be happy. Or you could just get your oil checked.”
Snorting, Laura shook her head. “Sex has always been easier for you than me.”
“I won’t argue that, but I’m not particularly proud of it.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t. I’ve slept with more than one man. Some of them were married to someone else. Sometimes it meant something, sometimes it didn’t.” She could shrug it off now, without regret or recriminations, because she understood that everything she’d ever done had carried her toward where she was now. “Josh is the only one who really mattered.”
“Because you love each other,” Laura said quietly. “We’re not talking about love between Michael and me. It’s just plain lust.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“I can usually figure out what’s wrong with it, until he puts his hands on me, or kisses me.”
As far as Margo could see, that was an excellent sign. “And then?”
“Then I just want, and I’ve never wanted like that. Everything’s too hot, too fast.” She shifted uneasily—even thinking about it stirred something inside her. “It’s not comfortable.”
“Hallelujah!” With a chuckle, Margo leaned closer. “Surprise yourself, Laura, go down to the stables some night and jump him.”
“Right. That’s just what I planned. Really, Margo, I could use some sensible advice here.”
“Sensible’s for retirement plans.”
“Miss.” One of the customers signaled. “Could I see this pin, please?”
“Of course.” Taking up the keys, Margo moved away. “Oh, don’t you adore Art Deco? That’s a fabulous piece. I found it at an estate sale in Los Angeles. They said it once belonged to Marlene Dietrich.”
Laura scanned the shop, stifled a yawn. They were busy, she noted, but not overwhelmed. Maybe she could sneak in a quick catnap. She slid off the stool, wandered toward a customer to ask if she needed help. Prayed the answer would be no. And then the door opened.
“Peter.” She stopped in her tracks.
“I called your office at the hotel. They indicated I would find you here.”
“Yes, this is one of my regular afternoons at Pretenses.”
“Interesting.” He hadn’t been in before, had purposely stifled his curiosity about his ex-wife’s little venture into shopkeeping. Now that he was here, he took a slow, measuring study.
Candy’s description of the shop as a jumble of secondhand junk hadn’t been quite accurate. Then again, understanding his fiancée’s feelings toward Laura and her partners, he hadn’t expected it to be.
Still, neither had he expected to find the place charming, peopled with well-to-do clientele as well as the tourist trade. He hadn’t expected to be intrigued by the displays and more than a little envious of the merchandise.
“Well?” She recognized the appraisal. “What do you think?”
“It’s different, isn’t it? Certainly a change of pace for you.” He looked at her again. Still cool and lovely, he mused. Odd, he’d never have believed Laura or either of her friends had the brains, the wherewithal or the imagination to create something so appealing, so successful.
“It’s not a change of pace any longer.” She refused to allow the way he studied her, and hers, to upset her. “It is the pace.”
“I suppose you’re enjoying the distraction.”
“It’s a business, Peter, not a distraction.” Why should she expect him to understand Pretenses? He’d never understood his wife. Perhaps, she thought, he would deal much more comfortably with the new wife he’d chosen. “I doubt you came in to pick up a gift for Candy. She doesn’t care for our stock as a rule.”
“No, I came to speak with you.”
He looked around again, noted the twisting staircase, the open balcony. Then he spotted Margo, watching him with a cold look of calculated dislike. He certainly didn’t have to tolerate silent abuse from the daughter of a servant.
“Do you have an office, a private office we can use?”
“We use most of our space for merchandise.” There was an office, of course, but she wasn’t willing to speak with him in the shop. It was hers; it was not to be soiled with personal problems. “Why don’t we take a walk outside? Margo, I’ll be back shortly.”
“If that’s what you want.” Margo smiled thinly at Peter. “Be sure to give our best to your fiancée, Peter. Kate and I were just saying how delighted we are you’ve found your match.”
“I’m sure Candace will find your sentiments . . . entertaining.”
Laura merely shook her head at Margo, to forestall another, pithier comment. “I won’t be long.” She opened the door herself, waited for Peter to step through onto the veranda.
He didn’t care for Cannery Row or what he considered its carnival atmosphere. It was crowded, noisy, inconvenient. “This is hardly private, Laura.”
She smiled at the people strolling on the sidewalk, the busy families, the snarled traffic.
“Nothing’s so private as a crowd.” Without asking him what he preferred, she moved to the curb to wait for a break in traffic. “We find the location quite a plus. We lure in a lot of browsers who come to the Wharf, or wander down after a tour of the aquarium.”
Idly brushing her hair back as the breeze teased it, she started across the street, wanting to be closer to the sea. “And, of course, it’s pleasant being able to take a break now and again and come out to watch the water, feed the gulls.”
“You’ll hardly keep a business afloat by daydreaming over the sea.”
“We’re managing.” She leaned on an iron rail, skimmed her glance over waves and boats. Gulls fluttered and sent a young girl into excited laughter when they landed one by one on her knee as she sat with a bag of crackers. “What do you want, Peter?”
“To discuss Allison and Kayla.”
“All right.” She turned to him, leaned back. “Allison is doing very well in school. Her grades are exceptional. I’m sure you’d approve. Kayla’s having a little trouble with math, but we’re working on it.”
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