New Way to Fly (4 page)

Not that all of it was a complete lie. The clothes she was talking about
did
exist, all right. But they were Amanda's own clothes, hanging in the bedroom closet of her apartment back in Austin.

Amanda allowed herself a brief flash of private humor, thinking how aghast her New York friends would be if they knew that Amanda was proposing, quite literally, to give this virtual stranger the clothes off her back.

But, Amanda told herself, they hadn't heard Mary Gibson's story. And they hadn't seen that small shining smile of yearning. Besides, Amanda wasn't being completely selfless. There was a plan forming at the back of her mind, a way that she might turn this generous impulse to her business advantage.

“I couldn't afford clothes like that,” Mary said finally, with a brief hopeless shrug. “They'd be far too expensive for my budget. Things are real tight around my place these days.”

“You might be surprised,” Amanda said. “You see, I'm just starting out in business, Mary, and things are awfully tight for me, too.”

At least
that
statement was the absolute truth,
Amanda told herself grimly, pausing to take a praline from a tray carried by Virginia Parks.

“So, what I'd be willing to do,” she went on, chewing the small sugary confection, almost overwhelmed by the delicious flavor, “is sell you a few of the outfits at cost, just to get them off my hands.”

Mary hesitated. “How much would ‘cost' be?” she asked after a moment.

“Well, it varies, of course. One of the outfits I'm thinking of particularly is a two-piece suit, kind of a longer Chanel style, in a really soft wool that would be just lovely on you.”

Amanda paused, feeling a tug of regret at the thought of parting with this particular suit, one of her personal favorites.

“And how much would it be?” Mary asked.

“Let me see…” Amanda pretended to calculate.

“My cost, plus shipping expenses, less dealer tax…I could probably let you have it for around a hundred, if you decided you liked it.”

Mary's weathered face brightened. “Really? That's a pretty good deal, isn't it?”

Damn right it is,
Amanda thought gloomily.
Especially since I paid more than nine hundred for it at Saks just a couple of months ago….

But her face betrayed none of these thoughts. “I think it's a pretty good deal,” she agreed quietly. “And if you liked, I could bring a few of the other pieces, too, sweaters and blouses and slacks, and you
could try them on in private at home before you made a choice.”

“Oh,” Mary sighed. “Oh, my, that'd be so nice. You know,” she added impulsively, gazing at the younger woman, “I think I really need something like this, Miss Walker. My life's been…”

She paused and flushed awkwardly, then continued. “The way things have been happening, my life hasn't been all that good lately. And I could really use a little lift like that. Something to make me feel…better about myself, you know?”

“I know,” Amanda murmured. “I know you could, Mary. Everybody needs a lift now and then. When would you like me to bring the things over for you to try on?”

“Oh, any time, I guess. Would it be…would you be coming fairly soon?” Mary asked wistfully.

Amanda nodded, considering the week ahead, reorganizing her schedule rapidly to accommodate another trip to Crystal Creek. If she could bring out the new winter outfits for Lynn McKinney on Wednesday, then she'd be able to…

“Miss Walker?”

Amanda smiled. “You'd better call me Amanda, if we're going to be doing business together. I was just thinking about my week, Mary. Would Wednesday be good for you? Say about two o'clock?”

Mary nodded, rummaging in her handbag. “That'd
be real nice. Just let me find a pen, and I'll draw a map so you can find my place.”

“No problem,” Amanda said, waving her hand in dismissal. “I'll be stopping off here and over at the Circle T. Someone can give me directions when I get there.”

“Oh, it's real easy,” Mary said. “I'm just a few miles out on the other side of town, bordering Brock Munroe's place.”

“What's this?” A cheerful male voice came from the other side of the archway, beyond Amanda's line of vision. “Mary Gibson, are you talking about me behind my back?”

Mary smiled and turned away to peer at the newcomer, who was still hidden from Amanda. “Hi, Brock,” she said. “My, don't you look spiffy, all dressed up in a suit and tie.”

“I feel like a trained monkey in this rig,” the man with the deep voice said, reflecting such rueful distaste that Amanda smiled and leaned around the archway to see what he looked like.

At the same moment he stepped forward to allow a server past him, and faced Amanda head on. His mouth dropped open, his dark eyes widened, and he stood rooted to the spot, staring at her with such obvious amazement that her pale cheeks became a delicate pink.

But she collected herself almost at once, gave the man a polite smile and calmly returned his gaze.

He was certainly an arresting physical specimen, several inches taller than six feet with a rangy muscular look and an impressive breadth of chest and shoulders to balance his height. His face was tanned and clean-cut, his dark hair disheveled, his eyes warm and alert as he continued to stare at Amanda. When she smiled, he grinned back automatically, one side of his wide mouth lifting in an engaging lopsided grin that showed a flash of beautiful white teeth.

Amanda always noticed people's hands. This man's hands were hard and brown, probably as callused on the palms as old leather, but they were beautifully shaped, with fine square palms and long fingers.

Amanda looked back to the man's shining dark eyes. She was beginning to feel uneasy. Apparently Mary Gibson was also becoming uncomfortable at the intensity with which the man was staring at Amanda.

“Brock, this is Amanda Walker,” Mary said finally. “Amanda, Brock Munroe, my nearest neighbor. He has a ranch right next to mine.”

The tall man broke his gaze with a visible effort and extended his hand. Amanda took it almost reluctantly and felt her own hand swallowed in his firm grip. Brock Munroe's hand was just as steel-hard and strong as she'd expected. And she was distressed by
the sudden tingle of sexual excitement that shivered through her at his touch.

“Amanda does clothes buying and TV commercials, things like that,” Mary explained.

“I know,” the man said abruptly. “I've seen her on television.”

He was staring again, as if trying to memorize every line and detail of Amanda's face.

Or, Amanda thought in warm confusion, as if they were already well-known to each other, lovers meeting again after a long, long separation…

Mary smiled at them and began to edge away, murmuring something about helping Virginia with the buffet, but Brock and Amanda were so absorbed in their sudden and surprising contact that they hardly noticed her departure.

“So,” Brock said with that same abrupt tone, “what exactly is a personal shopping service, Amanda? What is it that you do for a living?”

“I dress people,” Amanda said automatically. “I help them to select a balanced complementary wardrobe, and the proper accessories to achieve a total look. And then I price-shop the stores for them, over as wide an area as I'm able, as well as the catalogues from the better houses.”

The man beside her nodded thoughtfully. Amanda looked up at him with a cautious critical eye, noticing for the first time that his suit had to be fifteen years
old, at least, with its old-fashioned lapels and the awkward dated cut of the trousers. And that
tie…

Amanda couldn't help thinking what a shame it was to see a man like Brock Munroe dressed this way. With his beautifully-formed body, he'd look just wonderful in a really well-cut suit.

She stole another glance at his lapels.

“Eighteen years,” he told her quietly.

Amanda looked up at his face, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“This suit. I bought it eighteen years ago for my high school graduation. That's what you're thinking, right? That I look real tacky and out-of-date?”

Amanda flushed and then realized with annoyance that this reaction had been as much of a giveaway as her earlier expression of distaste. “Clothes are my business,” she told the man stiffly. “I can't help but notice cut and style. It's my job.”

“And you think I've failed to deal with all those tiny intangibles that add up to a total look?”

Amanda glanced up at him sharply again, recognizing her own words in his deep teasing voice. Was she being gently ridiculed by this handsome rustic?

“I wasn't really thinking about your appearance at all,” she lied, trying to keep her voice cool. “I'm just enjoying the party, and I was looking for my friends, actually. I think they're out on the patio.”

She began to edge away but the man put his big hand on her arm, just below her elbow. To her horror
and growing annoyance, Amanda found herself thrilling once again at the warmth and intimacy of that touch.

She jerked her arm and Brock released it instantly. He reached to lift a glass of white wine from a passing tray and handed it to Amanda.

“Thank you,” she said, pausing to sip from the crystal goblet, while struggling to compose herself.

“How do you know Mary?”

The question came as a surprise. Amanda hesitated. “Actually, I don't,” she said. “We just met today. I have some clothes she's interested in seeing.”

The man turned to stare at her.
“Mary?”
he asked in disbelief. “Mary Gibson is hiring a personal shopping service? A professional image-maker?”

Amanda felt another surge of irritation. “Look, Mr. Munroe,” she began, “you're certainly free to have any opinion you like about my job. But that doesn't mean that I—”

“What do you like to do?” he asked, ignoring her cool tone. “I mean, when you're away from the job? What kind of person are you, Amanda? You know, I've always thought…” He paused suddenly, looking embarrassed.

“What? What have you always thought?” Amanda asked, intrigued by his sudden discomfort.

“Nothing,” the big man said with a casual shrug.
“I've always liked to find out what interests people, that's what I was going to say.”

“You want to know what
interests
me?”

“Yeah. I want to know what you're like. I mean, do you spend all your time getting your hair done and reading fashion magazines, or do like to jet-set around the world, or what? When you're all alone, what do you dream about?”

Amanda bit her lip and stared at him in silence, thinking about his question.

What did she like to do?

The tall man watched her calmly, apparently prepared to wait all day for her response. But Amanda was slowly realizing, to her growing discomfort, that she had no answer to give him.

She didn't know what she liked to do. The truth was, Amanda Walker hardly knew who she was anymore.

There'd been a time, years ago, when she'd been far more definite about her likes and dislikes. She could remember herself at twenty-one, telling Edward with girlish happiness that she loved running barefoot on the beach, waking early to watch the sunrise across the lake, walking in the woods at twilight and listening to the hushed music of the night birds.

And he'd laughed, gazing at her with raised eyebrows and that wry sardonic grin that had always made her heart turn over.

“My, my,” he'd said with the flat New England
twang that sounded so sophisticated to her Texas ear. “What an intriguing little savage we have here. The face of an angel and the soul of a hillbilly.”

Amanda had flushed with embarrassment at her own naiveté. Instantly she'd resolved to be more the kind of woman Edward admired, more cultured and intelligent and in tune with the nuances and realities of his New York life-style.

And she'd certainly succeeded. During the years that she'd been in New York, Amanda Walker had become the toast of their small exclusive circle, a graceful arbiter of fashion, gifted with a sure knowledge of what was correct for every occasion. She was at ease in any group, comfortable with the casual witty patter that was so much in vogue, secure in the knowledge that she was the most elegant woman in any gathering.

But did she
like
that life?

And if she did, why had she decided to come back to Texas, left Edward behind along with all their friends and embarked alone on this terrifying project?

And it really was terrifying—throwing aside the security of Edward's arms as well as a large salary and expense account, for the dangers and uncertainties of opening her own business.

“I like to succeed,” she told the man in front of her with a quick defiant lift of her head. “I like the idea of making my own way in the world, taking on
something that's really difficult and making it into a viable and lucrative operation.”