Just Like a Man (6 page)

"The cleaning girl," Bitsy explained. "Came from Guatemala. Practices that Santeria. Mustn't cross."

Okay, Hannah thought, so maybe the Wainwright home was less an enchanted fairy-tale castle than it was a giant step backward for the civil rights movement. Lots of people got those confused.

Bitsy led Hannah through the massive foyer and what seemed like hundreds of rooms—never once straying from the carpets—until they arrived in a kitchen that was larger than Hannah's living and dining rooms combined. A kitchen that was also as empty of guests as the rest of the house seemed to be. The reason for that, however, was because the big backyard—or perhaps a more appropriate term in this case would be
the acres and acres of skillfully sculpted grounds behind the radiant and rambling Wainwright estate—
was crawling with people.

It was downright Gatsby-esque, Hannah couldn't help thinking as she gazed through the windows at the scene, the scores of people standing outside in their finery, sipping wine beneath a purpling sky and trees illuminated with tiny white lights. She could almost convince herself there wasn't another world beyond this one, a real world, one populated by real people who had real problems and could use real pronouns. Only the Wainwrights, she thought, could turn a potluck dinner into an elegant, F. Scott Fitzgerald affair.

"Such a nice evening," Bitsy said when she saw where Hannah had directed her gaze, "decided to move the party outside. So much more fun. Drink?"

"Club soda, please," Hannah replied automatically. Then she realized that amid all the Forgotten Generation imagery, she had forgotten her pronouns, too. Horrified by the idea of being Bitsified, she hastily amended, "I mean,
I'll
have a club soda, please.
It
would be great. Thank
you.
"

"Lovely," Bitsy said. "Go on out. Appetizers by the roses. Drinks by the pool. Dinner at eight. Feel free to mingle until then."

Mingling,
Hannah echoed to herself. Another revolting ritual practiced by the Emerson families at these heinous ceremonies. Bracing herself to shoulder the onerous task she was about to undertake, she headed out into the fray. And as she scanned the faces of the people dotting the patio and nearer reaches of the broad lawn, she told herself she wasn't looking for one face in particular.

She was
not
looking for Michael Sawyer.

Michael saw Hannah the moment she stepped outside, despite her conservative black outfit. Still, she was the director of the ultra-conservative Emerson Academy, so he could see how she'd want to reflect that. Or make herself invisible to the naked eye so she wouldn't be spotted by some of the other parents and drawn into conversation, since Michael was fast coming to realize that most of the Emerson parents tended to converse about really boring things like golf and Republican politics and 401 (k)s.

And, man, he really wished the word
naked
hadn't worked itself into that observation.

He had been thinking—besides the naked stuff—that he himself would be way overdressed for the fourth-grade parent potluck, having come to the Wain Wrights' house straight from work. But he'd figured he'd shed his claret-colored tie and dark pinstriped suit jacket—all right, so Hannah wasn't the only one who exuded conservativeness—once he arrived, and do his best to fit in with what he'd been sure would be an ocean of polos, khakis, and chinos on the male partygoers. He'd also assumed there would be loud eighties tunes blaring from a portable boom box, a couple of grills sizzling with burgers and brats, picnic and card tables loaded down with casseroles and brownies and pies, and an off-kilter volleyball net set up for a good no-rules, last-man-standing tournament. He'd been prepared for someone to toss him a brewski and yell, "Hey, Sawyer, go long!" before hurling a football at him from across the yard.

Never mind that he hadn't had time yet to cultivate friendships with any of the parents at his son's new school. Never mind that he didn't
want
to cultivate friendships with any of the parents at his son's new school. That was just the way potlucks were. At least, that was how potlucks had been done when Michael was growing up. Then again, he hadn't attended an overpriced private school like Emerson when he was growing up. He'd been a middling student in a midsized public school in middle-of-the-road, middle-class America.

But there was nothing middle-anything about the guests at the Wainwrights'. Michael had wandered into the backyard to find it peopled by individuals dressed in suits and cocktail ensembles, murmuring low in small groups, twisting wine and martini glasses in their fingers as muted jazz music flowed from what might very well have been heaven above, since he sure hadn't spotted any speakers anywhere. Nobody was playing volleyball or football. And the only thing in the pool was a bunch of floating candles—nobody was playing Marco Polo or having chicken fights. And in place of the picnic and card tables, a seemingly endless buffet—wearing a skirt, no less—circumnavigated the patio, filled with the kind of food that only came from a really nice restaurant. Evidently, to the Emerson Academy crowd, the term
covered dish
on the invitation really meant
elegant comestibles from the caterers'.

Great. Now he was going to have to go out and buy one of those Zillionaire/English dictionaries.

So much for the deviled eggs he'd picked up on his way over. He didn't even see them put out. Bitsy Wainwright must have deemed them unpotluckable, even though the woman behind the deli case at the supermarket had assured Michael they were just the thing. Though Bitsy probably would have had a better word than
unpotluckable.
But it would be one Michael wouldn't recognize, since it doubtless only appeared in the Zillionaire/English dictionary that he didn't own. And it wouldn't be a pronoun, either, since Bitsy seemed to have been absent from school the day they covered those.

Still, there was no reason for him to feel so uncomfortable, Michael told himself. This shindig was no different from a million other such gatherings he had attended in the past. The distant past, granted, but it never seemed distant enough. In fact, this alleged potluck was way too much like those dazzling, dizzying diplomatic dinners he'd been forced to endure with Tatiana as a young man. He'd always hated those damned things.

But then, they'd never had someone like Hannah Frost in attendance.

Friday night, he mused, and she was still at work. Not that he was surprised or one to talk. But he knew his reasons for his lifestyle, and they were good ones, by God. He couldn't imagine why someone like Hannah, someone beautiful and intelligent and successful—and okay, a bit anal-retentive, too, which maybe explained part of it—wouldn't be relaxing and enjoying her life on a Friday night. A life that surely included a man who appreciated beautiful, intelligent, successful—if a bit anal-retentive—women, because no way would Michael believe she was uninvolved.

Then he remembered she wasn't uninvolved. Though Hannah was certainly showing a profound lack of good judgment by seeing Adrian Padgett socially. And probably romantically, too, if Michael knew anything about Adrian. And, of course, he knew everything about Adrian. Even more, he'd wager, than Adrian realized he knew.

Without paying attention to what he was doing, Michael began to gravitate toward Hannah, but the nearer he drew to her, the farther away she seemed to be, almost as if she were avoiding him on purpose. Then he noticed she was moving from one group of people to another, obviously just doing her job, chatting with all the parents present. Except him. Then again, she might be reluctant to chat with him, what with him stalking her the way he was…

Stifling a growl of frustration that he could be so enchanted by a woman who should have been in no way enchanting, Michael made himself stop following her around like a lovesick puppy. Maybe she'd find him instead and engage him in a little one-on-one.

And, man, he really wished the phrase
one-on-one
hadn't worked itself into that observation.

What the hell was the matter with him? he wondered. How could he possibly be having libidinous thoughts about a woman dressed in a black getup that was all straight lines, her silky hair fashioned into the sort of 'do usually reserved for Mother Goose? She in no way invited libidiny—was that even a word?—the way she was outfitted.

As if she'd sensed him thinking about her—oh, sure,
now
she sensed him, when he was comparing her to Mother Goose—Hannah's gaze finally lit on Michael, her eyes widening in what he could only liken to panic. Oh, so it wasn't the Mother Goose thought she'd picked up; it was the libidiny one. Damn. Still, at least he'd gotten a reaction out of her. He'd take whatever looks he could get from her at this point, even a deer-in-the-headlights one. Before she had a chance to glance away and pretend she hadn't seen him—like he'd let her get away with
that
—he lifted a hand in silent salutation and began to make his way toward her. And she was polite enough to pretend she was happy about it.

"Mr. Sawyer," she said when he drew within speaking distance. It wasn't a greeting so much as an acknowledgment, but Michael decided not to take it personally. At least she hadn't bolted to hide behind the nearest shrubbery. "How good to see you here, taking an interest in your son's school," she added.

She was so formal, so serious. There wasn't even a hint of casualness or whimsy in her. Had something—or someone—in her past caused her to be that way? It just wasn't natural to be that starched and pressed.

"So how's Alex done at school this week?" he asked without preamble. Or greeting, for that matter. Hey, she started it. "Have there been any more problems since our meeting on Monday?"

"No," she said, "Alex has been fabrication-free this week."

"Good," Michael said. "Hopefully, that will be the end of it, then."

She hesitated for a moment, clearly giving much thought to something, then began, "Actually, Mr. Sawyer—"

"Call me Michael, please," he interjected, trying to alleviate her oppressive air of correctness because it was threatening to wrap around him, too. He really didn't want to get formal with this woman. He hadn't been formal for years, and he'd been very happy.

But Hannah only continued where she left off. "I'm not sure the problem has been solved." And then, with extra coolness, she added, "Mr. Sawyer." Just so Michael would know where he stood with her. Which was ironic, since he actually felt like he was flat on his back. If anything, she was the one letting him know where she stood with him. Specifically, with the heel of her shoe over his esophagus.

Gee, this conversation really wasn't going as well as he'd initially hoped. He'd been thinking he'd walk over and strike up a harmless conversation with Hannah about Alex, then gradually move the subject matter into her work at the school, then ask what had gotten her interested in education in the first place, then follow that with a polite query into her background, and then segue logically into an invitation to meet him at a cheesy hotel later for hours and hours of unbridled sex. But, gosh, that unbridled sex was starting to look kind of unlikely. Where could he have gone wrong?

And what was the question again?

Oh, right. Alex hadn't been lying. What was up with that?

"But if he hasn't said anything inappropriate…" Michael continued, stepping forward, dipping his head toward hers because he wanted to lower his voice for the rest of this conversation. But Hannah immediately stepped back, a gesture he couldn't help noting. Jeez, it wasn't like he was stalking her. He hadn't done that for a good five, ten minutes, at least. So he decided to say nothing further, and hope maybe she'd conclude the conversation right there and move on to some other unsuspecting parent. Then, after she'd cooled off a bit, he could approach her again about that unbridled sex.

No such potluck.

"After you and Alex left Monday, Mr. Sawyer," she said, "it occurred to me that you never really did acknowledge the fact that your son lies." Her voice was lower, too, now, but not as low as his. Maybe she'd backed away, Michael thought, but she wasn't going to back down.

"Michael," he automatically corrected her again. Not that he knew why he bothered. She obviously didn't want to call him that, and there was no reason for him to encourage a familiarity in their relationship that wasn't there. For some reason, though, it bothered him to be called Mr. Sawyer by her. Probably because it bothered him so much to call her Ms. Frost.

"And I couldn't help wondering why you didn't," she added when he offered nothing in response. "Especially since Alex obviously does tell lies. You can't possibly argue with me on that score."

"I'd rather not argue with you on any score, Ms. Frost," Michael told her, telling himself he was
not
arguing with her by saying that. Especially since what he really wanted to do with her was get her alone in a cheesy hotel room for hours and hours of—

"Excuse me."

The interruption came not from Hannah, but from a third person who had intruded upon their argument… ah, conversation. Not that Michael minded, quite frankly. On the contrary, he was grateful for the reprieve, since at this point he neither wanted to argue with Hannah nor converse with her. Hell, he was even beginning to reconsider the hours and hours of unbridled sex. Well, a little. But then he turned his attention to the owner of the voice, and all he could do was stare dumbfounded at the tawny-haired, green-eyed man who seemed to have sprung up from nowhere. Well, stare dumbfounded and also battle the urge to tell the man to go to hell. Because hell was the only place that could have spawned Adrian Padgett.

"Excuse me, Hannah," he said again, adding her name to the interjection this time, his deep, rumbling voice edged with more than a little intimacy when he spoke it the way he did.

And Michael somehow refrained from grinding his teeth into powder when Hannah did nothing to correct Adrian's use of her first name. Nor did she curdle at his obvious affection for her. No, in fact, she spun around to smile at him with a warmth and regard that was unmistakable. The prick.