Prelude to a Wedding (11 page)

He hadn't said anything, done anything when
she had wrenched away, hurriedly straightened her clothes and
snatched the keys from the ignition, barely pausing to say, "I have
to go, Paul. Good night." As a farewell it wasn't much. If he rang
the bell—demanding an explanation—would she have the strength not
to answer?

But he didn't ring. And in another endless
moment or two she heard his car pull away from in front of her
house. When that faded to silence, she let out a deep, long breath
and went to the door. She opened it cautiously.

There on the step sat a trio of pumpkins, a
round one, a tall one and a squat one. When she started laughing
she knew she was in trouble.

Oh, she was in a lot of trouble.

Chapter Five

Bette Wharton was everything Paul could ask
for in a business associate. Polite, professional, cordial,
accommodating. She was also elusive, unattainable and distant. She
was driving him crazy.

She managed to be tied up on another line
each of the four times he called Monday. Each time her assistant,
Darla, asked if she could be of help. Finally, Darla pointed out
they needed his decision on which secretary he wanted as his
permanent temporary. With less than his usual good humor, he
muttered that they should send him whomever they felt like.

So, starting Tuesday morning, he had Janine
Taylor to place his calls to Bette Wharton several times a day. And
he had Janine Taylor to tell him with polite indifference that Ms.
Wharton was not available at the moment, several times a day.

Wednesday, he had an appraisal to do for a
gregarious Lionel train collector in a small city about two hours
away, but he called three times with the same results. The fourth
time, when he'd finally pried himself clear of the collector and
was on his way back, he got the recording that said her office had
closed for the day. After quick calculations of train schedules, he
took a chance and called Bette's home number, acquired from
information.

On the fifth ring, he heard her breathless
"Hello," and his blood started moving as if it had been dammed up
for the past three days.

"Bette, it's Paul. How about some dinner
tonight?"

The pause was long and telling. He thought he
could hear her resolve hardening. "No, thank you, Paul."

That was all. No explanation, no nothing.
She'd left him nothing to grasp on to.

"You have plans?" He tried to make it sound
understanding.

"I'm sorry, Paul. I don't think it's a good
idea—" She broke off so abruptly, he knew she remembered Sunday
night and what else she hadn't considered a good idea. That gave
him renewed hope, which he needed after her next sentence. "I don't
care to see you, Paul. Good night."

The click was nearly as soft as her
voice.

He stayed irked all that night and the
following day. Irked enough not to get much sleep and irked enough
to resist the temptation to call her office again the next day. But
not irked enough to kill the urge to see her.

Part of him wondered at that. But it was a
small part, easily drowned out by the parts that wanted to discover
the secrets in her eyes, to make her laugh when she thought she
should frown, to feel the heat of her passion so it fueled his own
desire like a race car's high-octane. He'd be damned if he'd meekly
fade out of her life.

It was the challenge that attracted him, he
reminded himself.

When he arrived at Top-Line's office a few
minutes after six Thursday evening, he was told that Ms. Wharton
had left for a meeting with a client.

He looked from Darla's bland brown eyes to
the closed door of Bette's office, and back. He pivoted on one heel
and walked out. Marching out the blocks with punishing steps, he
reached the broad sidewalk of Michigan Avenue and turned right
toward Mama Artemis's with some vague intention of finding a spot
where people would be glad to see him.

A client. A meeting with a client. A client
like him? A meeting like the one they'd had a week ago, full of
laughter and exchanged glances and the implicit possibility of
more?

He startled a few people by stopping abruptly
in the middle of the sidewalk and swearing vehemently. "A
client
? She's meeting with a
client
?" Most of the
people kept walking, parting and passing him like a rock in a
stream, although he thought he noticed a few trying to hide smiles.
They were all women.

* * * *

"You can come out now. It's safe, he's
gone."

Darla clearly intended irony, but Bette had a
nasty feeling in the pit of her stomach that if Paul Monroe had
stuck around, she wouldn't have been safe.

"I don't know why you don't just go out and
have some fun with the guy."

"I told you I—"

"Have a schedule to keep." Darla completed
the sentence in unison with her.

Bette frowned. "Besides, Darla, you were the
one saying just a few days ago that all Paul Monroe looked fit for
was funny business."

"I didn't say that's all he was fit for,
unless you include certain other activities under the heading of
funny business." Heat swept into Bette's cheeks, more in memory
than embarrassment. "A woman would have to be blind to miss that
man's potential in that area, and I may be married, but I'm not
blind. Besides," Darla added with a pugnacious tilt to her chin,
"I've never seen anyone in more need of funny business than
you."

"Really, Darla, I—"

"Really, Bette," she mimicked. "You work too
hard. You schedule your life down to the minute and you don't leave
any time for fun."

"That's not true. How about this weekend? I'm
going on a trip—"

"Only because your mother made you feel
guilty when you first said you couldn't go." True, but Bette wasn't
about to admit it out loud. "And if you can look me in the eye and
tell me you haven't already packed three days' worth of work and
arranged a couple business meetings up in Minnesota, I'll eat my
hat. Better yet, I'll promise to keep quiet about the whole
matter."

Bette said nothing. Did the Fifth Amendment
hold in dealing with scolding assistants?

"Humph." Darla produced a sound somewhere
between disgust and triumph. "All I have to say, young woman, is
you better start penciling in time on that schedule of yours for
exactly the kind of funny business Paul Monroe can provide, or
you're going to be old before your time."

Darla opened the door, then added a parting
shot over her shoulder. "And while you're at it, schedule in some
hanky-panky, too."

* * * *

"I'm sorry, Mr. Monroe, the office informs me
that Ms. Wharton has left for the weekend."

Left for the weekend by ten o'clock on a
Friday morning
?
Bette Wharton
? Paul wanted to snarl at
the voice on the intercom. But he restrained himself.

When Janine went on, he noted for the first
time all week a hint of humanity beneath her efficient exterior. "I
believe she flew out early this morning for a weekend trip." Janine
hesitated, then added in her usual tone, "Can I put through another
call for you, Mr. Monroe?"

Since she hadn't managed to "put through" the
one call he'd wanted, he thought that bordered on sarcasm.

"No. Thanks. I have a call to make, but this
one's private so I'll put it through myself."

Let her inform her cronies at Top-Line that
he didn't consider his calls to Bette Wharton as anything more than
business. And let her also tell them that he had private calls to
make.

"Grady, it's Paul," he said when he got
through. "What do you think about taking the afternoon off for a
last sail of the season?"

"I think it's too damn cold, for
starters."

Actually, Paul thought so, too. The three-day
rain that had washed away Indian summer had eased yesterday, making
the lingering cold all the more noticeable. But he needed something
to vent this restlessness, and the lake had always been good for
that.

"And it's supposed to rain again," Grady
added.

"Afraid your good looks will melt?" The taunt
about his friend's blond, blue-eyed handsomeness was too old to
hold much sting.

"I don't know, but I'm not going to risk it.
Not now. I've got a big weekend planned with Cindi."

"Who's Cindi? No, never mind. I'll just get
her confused with the two hundred other women you've dated this
year whose names end in 'i.' " Paul leaned back in his wooden
swivel chair and propped his feet on the edge of his desk. Maybe he
wouldn't go sailing, but talking to Grady reminded Paul that some
things in life don't change. "I'll bet you a pair of tickets to the
Cubs' opener that Cindi spells her name with an 'i' on the
end."

A slightly sheepish silence followed. "Yeah,
she does. But it's no bet," Grady protested. "I didn't bet."

Paul grinned at a photograph of Grady,
Michael, Tris and himself from their college days. "That's okay,
Roberts. It was a sucker bet, anyway."

He hung up, feeling more like himself than he
had all week.

* * * *

The sense of well-being lasted less than
twenty-three hours.

He couldn't find anything to do.

He called Tris, but got his cousin's machine
in D.C. Just as well, he decided as he paced his apartment. He
didn't want her asking nosy questions, anyhow. She'd read too much
into his answers, or lack of answers. The same went for his
parents. Grady was otherwise occupied. Michael . . . He'd go see
Michael.

He didn't bother to give the idea a second
thought, or to call ahead. He headed southwest to Springfield,
whisking between cornfields that hinted at next summer's fertile
crop even with last summer's reduced to brown stubble.

His mind followed its own track.

Unlike Grady, who often waged elaborate
campaigns for his lady of the moment, Paul had always simply let
relationships happen—or not happen—as the Fates decreed. And he'd
always been honest about looking only to the moment. He made no
promises, so none were broken. Obviously, he should follow that
path with Bette and forget her. He depressed the accelerator
another five-miles-per-hour's worth.

The outside of Michael's Victorian house
looked great, the scars of renovation nearly healed; inside was
still under reconstruction. Michael came to the door with a
paintbrush in hand. His slight frown metamorphosed into a grin when
he saw who stood outside the leaded glass.

"Boy, am I glad to see you."

Paul groaned. "Don't you think you got enough
free labor out of me? How many walls did I help you knock down?
Thirty? Forty? I don't think I'll ever breathe right again after
all that plaster dust."

"Free, maybe, but definitely unskilled
labor."

"You complaining?"

"Absolutely not. In fact, I'm offering you a
chance to hone those skills. Painting's very marketable these days.
And I need to get this done while I still have the time."

"Is that your way of telling me Joan's
running for the U.S. Senate?" With Michael on state senator Joan
Bradon's staff, Paul had paid close attention to the rumors.

"I'm not telling you anything, Monroe. Read
your morning paper."

"Real nice. And then you expect my help? Oh,
what the hell, lead me to that paint bucket."

As he outfitted Paul for painting, Michael
probed for the reason for this visit. Paul evaded and, though he
felt the weight of Michael's wondering, the questions ceased.

Spreading paint across the patched,
multicolored surface was definitely preferable to breathing plaster
dust. Windows, open to disperse the fumes, brought in the spicy air
of fall. He could hear drums from a marching band at a high school
football game in the distance, and an occasional roar from the
onlookers. His perfect swipes covered the wall in a clean expanse
of color.

The drawback was that his mind, free to
wander, returned to the topic he'd tried to drive away from
Bette.

A sound reminded him of Michael, painting
woodwork across the room. He could talk to Michael, tell him . . .
tell him what? That he'd met a woman he found attractive. So? Big
news flash.

He tried to divert his mind; the first topic
he came up with was the woman Michael had been seeing for some
months.

"So how's Laura these days?" He tossed the
question over his shoulder, then turned for the answer. "How come
you didn't rope
her
into this drudge work?"

The brush in Michael's hand went still. "I
believe Laura's doing very well."

Paul pivoted to face him. "You believe?"

"She moved to California at the end of last
month."

"Why?"

"She had an offer for a better position in a
senator's office there. Joan gave her a great recommendation,
so—"

"Don't give me that bull. What happened?"

At the rawness of the question, Michael
rocked back on his haunches, turned his head. The surprise in his
eyes quickly gave way to a delving, measuring look. That look had
always bothered Paul, because he never knew what Michael Dickinson
might pull out of him in such moments.

"We couldn't give each other what we both
wanted." Michael spoke with measured reluctance.

"What was that?"

"Forever."

The word was like a spark to Paul's
smoldering mood. "What's so almighty wonderful about forever?
Settling down, getting married, having a family, is that what
you're talking about? Why does everybody harp on that? What—"

He snapped the words off when the look in
Michael's eyes hit home. He should have remembered that Michael's
past had given him a different view of this subject.

"Paul, you take it for granted, and you
shouldn't. Family and stability—that's pretty damn rare, you
know."

"Stability,' Paul repeated with disdain.
"Yeah, so stable that at the age of twelve your life's mapped out
for you. Just follow the step-by-step instructions and you'll turn
out to be the perfect family clone."