New Way to Fly (25 page)

She grinned briefly, then sobered and tapped her pencil against the desk pad, wondering what to do. She could call Mary and try to talk her into another color, but she hated the idea. She hated to disappoint her friend.

Finally, she took off her glasses, picked up the telephone and dialed.

“Hello,” she said to the crisp receptionist who answered. “Could I speak to Mr. Price, please?”

“May I tell him who's calling?”

“It's Amanda Walker.”

There was a moment's silence before Edward's voice came on the line, sounding cool and amused. “Angel, you could use the private number, you know. We
are
still friends, I hope.”

“I just thought it might be…sort of presumptuous,” Amanda said, feeling awkward. “Especially since this is a business call.”

“I see. What can I do for you?”

She described Mary's request. Edward listened with interest, warming to the topic as he always did when fashion was involved.

“I'll do my best,” he promised. “In fact, there's a discount house here in Manhattan that's moving out some high-quality things at fire-sale prices, and I seem to recall there might be something like that in the line.”

“Oh, Edward, that would be great,” Amanda said warmly. “My client doesn't have a lot of money because she's just starting in business.”

“Really? What kind of business?”

Amanda hesitated, contemplating the prospect of explaining to Edward all about Mary Gibson and her ostriches. “Just…well, actually it's…livestock,” she said weakly.

“Well, of course,” Edward drawled. “That's what y'all do down there, after all.”

“Yes, Edward,” she said, smiling. “That's what we do.”

“I used it properly, Angel,” he said, and she could hear the answering smile in his voice. “Y'all, I mean. I used it just the way you told me.”

Again she smiled, thinking that Edward made a much better friend than lover. She wondered how she could ever have been so confused and misguided as to think her future lay with this man, or that she loved him with any kind of passion. Now that Amanda knew what love really felt like, it was inconceivable to her that she might ever experience the same emotion with any man but one, and he was…

“Did you notice that bolero jackets are in, Angel?” Edward was saying casually. “Donato just had an entire show featuring them with business suits, evening wear, even slacks. A
very
nice look.”

“Really?” Amanda said. “What kind of fabrics, Edward?”

“Very heavy and rich. Damask, brocade, even some chintz for spring. An opulent look.”

Amanda felt her interest rise in spite of herself as she pictured the jackets.

“I have one here in front of me, and I was thinking of sending it to you,” Edward went on. “It'd be smashing on you, Angel. It's a design in full sequins, black and primary colors with gold braid. You'd look very Spanish and exotic in it. Shall I bundle it up and ship it down? Strictly a gift, for old times' sake?”

Amanda laughed. “Thanks, Edward, but I really don't think so. The way my social life is these days,” she said gloomily, “I'd get more use out of a bathrobe and slippers than a sequined evening jacket.”

“Poor Angel,” Edward said with a distinctly unsympathetic chuckle. “But then,” he added cheerfully, “we all make our choices, don't we? I'll call you about the silk pj's,” he added. “Ciao, Angel.”

She murmured goodbye and hung up, stared into the distance for a moment, then put on her glasses and started paging idly through the catalogues again.

Soon she was absorbed in the fashionable images, remembering what Edward had told her and wondering how she could have overlooked the number of snug cropped jackets appearing in the new collections.

When the little bell rang over the door Amanda hardly heard it. Finally she glanced up, then blinked in confusion. She'd distinctly heard the bell tinkle and the door open and close, even heard the brief patter of cold November rain out on the walkway.

But nobody was there.

Amanda took off her glasses and gazed across her desk at the empty doorway, feeling a rising tide of irritation followed by a cold little shiver of fear. She hoisted herself out of the chair and began to move toward the front of the shop. Then, abruptly, she paused in stunned amazement, her hand covering her mouth.

Alvin sat just inside the doorway, his fat little body tense with anxiety, his dark eyes gazing fearfully at the strangeness all around him.

When he saw Amanda, his look of terror changed to startled adoration. He barked joyously, wriggling all over, then hurtled across the room to throw himself against her legs.

“Alvin,” Amanda murmured, sinking back down into her desk chair. She patted the ragged dog, fondling his ears, submitting to a frantic onslaught of
licks and caresses. “Oh, Alvin, where did you come from?”

She was laughing, her face wet with tears, her heart singing with a wild sweet joy that she was afraid to analyze.

“Did you drive, Alvin?” she murmured, rubbing the dog's belly as he rolled over and lay gazing up at her with slavish devotion. “Is that how you got here? Did you just get in the truck and drive in here to see me?”

She laughed again at the mental image of Alvin driving the big truck, sitting up importantly behind the wheel with his ears waving….

But she knew how the little dog had gotten here. The thought of it made her shiver, made her glance out at the silent rainy walkway with a kind of breathless tension that was almost more than she could bear.

Meanwhile, with the first joy of the meeting past, Alvin was beginning to recover his composure and think about other priorities. He rolled over and got to his feet, shook himself a couple of times, then began nosing around Amanda's desk drawers and glancing up at her wistfully.

“Are you hungry, Alvin? Did you make that big long trip to the city without a single bite to eat?”

She murmured and fussed over the dog, trying to postpone the moment when she would have to con
front Brock. She was afraid of what he would say to her. So afraid…

Alvin sighed heavily and wagged his stumpy tail.

“Oh, my,” Amanda murmured, pulling out a drawer and examining the remainder of her lunch. “Alvin, dear, I don't have anything left in here.”

Alvin's hopeful expression faded and he began to look so pathetic that she rummaged deeper, digging to the back of the drawer.

“Except for this carton of yogurt,” Amanda said, glancing nervously at the door. “I don't know if you like yogurt, Alvin. It's peach-flavored, but…”

Alvin eyed the little plastic carton with mournful skepticism, then indicated with a long-suffering look that it would have to do, since she obviously had nothing better to offer.

Amanda pried off the lid and set down the carton beside her desk. Alvin nosed at it, licked his lips thoughtfully and then dived in with sudden fierce energy, announcing by his wriggling body and vibrating tail that he did indeed like peach-flavored yogurt.

“Well I'll be damned,” a deep voice said nearby, making Amanda tremble. “I swear that dog'll eat anything.”

Amanda gazed up at the man beside her, the man of her dreams, tall and strong in his jeans and leather jacket, smiling down at her. His head was bare, and raindrops glittered in his dark disheveled hair.

Amanda got slowly to her feet and stared at him, loving everything about him. She loved the way his lopsided grin drove deep creases into his cheeks. She loved the warm crinkles around his dark eyes and the easy relaxed strength of his big body. She loved his hands resting casually against his broad leather belt, and the way his jacket fitted over lean blue-jeaned hips, and the look of his booted feet resting solid and confident on her shining parquet floor.

She wanted to open the door and shout her love to all the world. She wanted to fling herself into his arms, burrow against him and draw his warmth into her body, feel his arms around her and his mouth on hers in a kiss that would last a lifetime.

But she couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stand rooted to the spot and gaze at him with wide eyes and parted lips.

“I let Alvin come in first,” Brock said calmly, his eyes fixed on hers, “because he wanted a few minutes alone with you.”

“I…I see,” Amanda said, forcing herself to speak, hardly knowing what she said.

“After all, he's in love, the poor little fella,” Brock explained with a smile. “And I know how that feels.”

“You do?” she whispered.

“Yeah. You see, I'm so much in love with you,
Amanda, that I can hardly even remember my own name. So I can sure understand how…”

But he couldn't say anything else because she was in his arms, laughing and crying, kissing him and running her hands over his face, murmuring broken words of happiness, loving the feel of him, the cool rainy scent of shaving cream and leather, the warm tanned skin and the sweet hard lips that pressed on hers.

“Brock,” she whispered. “Oh, Brock, darling, I'm so sorry for all the—”

“Don't talk,” he murmured, his mouth moving against hers. “Don't talk, woman. How can I kiss you if you keep talking?”

She laughed and gave herself up to his caress again, knowing that it was all right, that everything was resolved between them and there was nothing more to forgive.

Again she had the dreamy sensation of being somewhere else, far from this dark little shop, this drab November day. She was on a hillside starred with flowers, warm and bright with sunlight and a rainbow that slanted across the green hills and ended at her feet, glowing in the mist, spilling golden riches on the man in her arms and the life that lay ahead of them.