Prelude to a Wedding (12 page)

"You haven't done so badly in the
individualism department, Monroe."

Paul dropped the roller into the pan, not
caring about the spatters on the drop cloth, and took a deep breath
of the cool air. "I'm not going to let my life be run by somebody
else's rules, Michael. Not ever."

Michael said nothing. After a while, Paul
heard him return to painting and Paul took up the roller, though he
found less pleasure in it. The silence had changed.

"Who is she, Paul?"

"Who's who?" Michael didn't bother to answer
that, and Paul felt foolish for the evasion. "Bette. Bette
Wharton."

"And?" Michael prompted.

"And not much. Grand total of three dinners
and a few kisses." He felt no guilt at the understatement. "We went
out last Wednesday, Thursday and Sunday. Things seemed to click.
Then she avoided me Monday and Tuesday, said no Wednesday and
resumed avoiding me Thursday."

"What about Friday and today?"

"She wasn't around Friday and today."

"Ah."

"Ah what? What's 'ah' mean?" Irritation
spurted sharp and hot.

"What do you do when a woman turns down a
date?"

"Forget her, because . . . " He broke off the
familiar words. He'd said them to Michael and Grady maybe two
thousand times over the past fifteen years. Forget her, because
there're plenty who'll say yes.

"Yet,
this
woman you keep asking.
That's why 'ah.' "

Paul loaded paint on the roller and slapped
it against the wall, then had to roll like crazy to remedy the
drips, splotches and spatters. He was short on breath by the time
he re-wetted the roller, this time more cautiously.

"You've got another session at the
Smithsonian coming up, don't you?" Michael asked from behind him.
From the sound of it, he'd continued painting, too.

"Yeah."

"Made any decision about taking up the offer
to be a regular consultant?"

They were all after him about the damn
museum—Jan, his father, Michael. Bette would join them if she found
out about the opportunity. It was the sort of thing that would
appeal to her plan-ahead mind. Probably tell him what a step
forward this could he. If he were stupid enough to invite the
lectures by telling her. . . if he ever had the opportunity to be
that stupid, if he ever saw her again.

"No."

"All right, all right, don't bark at me. I'm
not the one inconsiderate enough to give you a flattering
offer."

"Shut up, Dickinson."

"All right."

That was one of the most annoying things
about Michael—he shut up when you told him to shut up. By the time
Michael spoke next, Paul had turned the corner to the next wall,
and his mood had subsided to low-level hostility.

"So, you're leaving for D.C. a week from
Wednesday and will be back the next Sunday?"

"Something like that. How'd you know?"

"The same way I ever know anything about your
plans—I hear it from your mother, your sister or your secretary.
This time it was Jan. I called her to congratulate her on the baby,
and asked when you'd be around."

"Why'd you want to know? You want to come
with me? I'm staying with Tris. I'm sure there'd be room for you,
too."

He regretted the words instantly. To Paul's
knowledge, Michael had never told anyone of his feelings for Tris.
Maybe never even admitted them to himself. But Paul knew him very
well, and the stillness betrayed him. "I was kidding, Dickinson.
Why'd you want to know those dates?"

"I'll have to spend some time up in Chicago.
I thought I'd make it coincide with you being in town if I
could."

"Before Thanksgiving?" Since the first year
of college, both Michael and Grady had spent most of their holidays
with the Monroes.

"Yes. I've just decided to make it the first
full week of November. Right after you get back from D.C."

Paul twisted around, but Michael remained
bent over the woodwork and the back of his head revealed
nothing.

"Why?"

Michael kept painting with even, steady
strokes.

"I think I should meet this Bette
Wharton."

* * * *

The rest of the weekend passed without
another mention of Bette.

Paul wished his mind had been as
cooperative.

Driving home Sunday night, he found himself
on I-55 instead of his usual meandering back roads, almost as if he
were in a hurry. When he swung north on the Tri-State, he justified
it as trying a new way back to his apartment. That excuse held
until he got off at the Elmhurst exit. In front of Bette's house,
he was out of excuses.

Also out of luck, he thought wryly as he
considered the dark windows. Either she wasn't home or she was in
bed.

Bette in bed
. The image appeared
instantly, hot and heady behind his eyes. The sheets cool and
serene like her voice, but with that promise under them of smooth
heat.

He shifted. Too abruptly. His right thigh
jammed against the steering wheel. He closed his eyes against the
thoughts, then opened them immediately. Closing his eyes made it
worse.

She probably wasn't home. Common sense said
ten o'clock on a Sunday night was a little early to go to bed,
unless . . . unless you weren't alone.

Sense drowned in unfamiliar jealousy. A
meeting with a client Thursday night. A Friday morning departure
for an out-of-town trip. Could one have extended into the other?
Could she be away with someone? Could she . . .?

No. Bette wouldn't have kissed him the way
she had if she'd been involved with someone else. The certainty in
his gut was stronger than common sense or jealousy. He relaxed.

So she wasn't home yet.

He could leave a note—and say, what?

A snatch of lyric from an old song entered
his head, something about the singer's determination to get his
girl, and his lips curved. Yup, that was exactly what he wanted to
say. But some things were better left unsaid—and simply acted
upon.

She might think she'd shaken him loose. She
might think he'd forget the laughter and teasing, the kissing and
the holding. She might think his ego would forget all that after a
week's worth of refusals. She thought wrong.

He turned the key in the ignition and pulled
away from the curb in front of Bette's house, still smiling and
softly singing to himself.

* * * *

Bette pushed open her front door and
automatically checked her watch. Nearly eleven o'clock, and she had
to unpack and go through files she hadn't finished reviewing this
weekend at her brother's house in Minneapolis.

It was a lovely house, and it had been
wonderful to see the whole family, with her parents up from Arizona
for two weeks to visit their new baby granddaughter—although Bette
didn't envy her sister-in-law a fortnight of houseguests on top of
a rambunctious two-year-old and a new baby. Still, Claire had
seemed to greet the chaos with equanimity.

Bette frowned as she maneuvered her suitcase
down the hall and around the corner to her bedroom. Perhaps there
would have been less chaos if there'd been less equanimity. It only
required some planning, some forethought. She knew that wasn't
Claire's strong point, but surely Ron had learned that at home, as
she had.

As it was, her decision to rent a car had
been wise. Otherwise she never would have made those business
appointments she'd set up.

She slipped off her coat and rubbed her
forehead, pushing against muscles tightened by the frown. The odd
thing was, her parents had seemed perfectly content to go with the
flow, no matter how undirected. She didn't remember them being that
relaxed when she'd been growing up.

She remembered them following the precepts
her mother had learned from her own parents—selecting a goal,
working toward it step by careful step and never wavering until you
reached it. That made for a very organized life. That was how she'd
always viewed her parents. Maybe they'd changed in the relaxed
atmosphere of her father's early retirement.

She pressed her fingertips harder against the
frown. Or could her memories be skewed?

Her hand went from her forehead to her mouth
to cover a huge yawn. She should go to bed.

Instead, she returned to the front table
where her neighbor had stacked her mail and newspapers. She flipped
through quickly, checking each envelope but opening only those she
couldn't immediately identify. Nothing. Nothing of interest,
anyhow.

Hitting the play button on her answering
machine, she listened to the neighbor who'd checked her mail ask
her to care for her cat the following weekend. A longtime friend
passing through the area called to say hello. Then came two real
estate brokers confirming appointments she'd made to interview
them. And Darla suggesting she take Monday morning off since her
return flight was so late.

The tape ended, the machine clicked and
whirred, resetting itself, and Bette sighed deep and long.

She'd been looking for something from Paul
Monroe.

The realization didn't startle her; she'd
been too busy all weekend trying not to think of him to be
surprised that she was thinking about him. But it did irk her.

She'd had relationships with men before. A
few. Each as carefully constructed as the rest of her life. She set
the parameters; she guided the pace. She knew when the first kiss
was coming, and she was prepared to stem or accept greater
intimacy, depending on her feelings for the man. But this was
something different. There was no predicting Paul Monroe, so there
was no preparing for him. Nor for her response. That frightened
her. No, disturbed her. Yes, disturbed was a better word.

She wasn't accustomed to it, she didn't
understand it. Not that she was in danger of really falling for the
guy. She saw his flaws too clearly. She didn't view him the way,
say, her sister-in-law saw Ronald's faults as somehow endearing, or
the way her mother took her father's worst habits in unblinking
stride.

But what kind of namby-pamby person spent
several days giving a man every clear signal she could to keep
things strictly business, then turned around and hoped he'd call or
write? She'd made her decision, and it was the right one. Paul
Monroe was not her kind of man.

A tingle along her spine shivered her skin.
Her lips parted in memory.
Not your kind of man
?
Oh,
really
?

All right, in the realm of moonlit kisses on
urban beaches or embraces in a darkened car, he was most definitely
her kind of man. That made it worse.

The blank red stare of the answering machine
reminded her that he'd listened to her signals. He'd taken his
moonlight kisses, darkened embraces and their accompanying danger
and, for all intents and purposes, disappeared from her life. Other
than sending him bills from Top-Line Temporaries, she'd finished
with Paul Monroe.

She sighed again, then slapped down the pile
of mail and headed along the hall with firm steps. It was good that
he hadn't tried to call or write. In fact, perfect. She'd get her
life back to normal. All her spare time this week would be devoted
to searching for the right house. She had gotten behind on her
timetable, what with unexpected dinners, unscheduled pumpkin buying
and a full week of avoiding the telephone when it rang, then
listening for it to ring when it didn't.

She might actually get some work done
tomorrow with him out of her life.

* * * *

At fifteen minutes before four o'clock the
next afternoon, he re-entered Bette's life, if somewhat obliquely,
when Janine Taylor walked into her office and announced she would
rather quit Top-Line than spend another second as Paul Monroe's
temporary secretary.

Chapter Six

"I can't work for that man. Bette, you know I
have handled every assignment you've given me. I have worked with
demanding bosses, with disorganized bosses, even with sexist
bosses. But I can't and won't work for Paul Monroe."

"I don't understand, Janine. You seemed to be
getting along fine last week."

Janine Taylor shook her head, and if Bette
thought there was confusion in the gesture she also recognized
rock-solid determination.

That was one characteristic Bette had
considered when she'd assigned this particular secretary. She
figured it would take someone determined to keep a rein on Paul.
She had told herself Janine's plainness had not been a factor in
selecting her.

"From the beginning, I knew he was a little
different. After all, look at all those calls to you." Bette felt
her cheeks sting. "But today. . . today! He was . . ." Janine
hesitated. "Odd. Very odd," she repeated, putting great emphasis on
the word. She seemed to be trying to communicate some greater
meaning with her eyes, like the player in a TV quiz game hoping to
get her point across without giving away the clue.

Bette stared across the desk at the woman
who'd been among her most reliable employee, and tried to reconcile
Janine's reaction with the man she'd come to know. Perhaps Paul was
not the run-of-the-mill Chicago businessman, but she couldn't
imagine him doing anything to elicit such an extreme reaction from
a woman, unless it involved the feel of his lips on hers, the rasp
of his skin against hers, the draw of his mouth—and then the
woman's response would be very different from Janine's.

"Can you tell me what, specifically, he did
that made you walk out before the end of your assignment, before,
even the end of a day?" She couldn't prevent astonishment from
creeping into her voice. The whole thing was so unlike Janine.

"No schedule," Janine jerked out. "He
wouldn't give me a schedule, even when I practically begged. And a
curator from the Smithsonian—the Smithsonian! —called, and Mr.
Monroe said, no, he wouldn't take the call right then. He didn't
feel like talking. He just didn't feel like it. And that's what he
said to tell them. I didn't, of course, but . . .
And
he
said— He didn't . . ." Her fluttering hands, which seemed to be
trying to finish sentences her mouth couldn't accommodate, floated
back to her lap and she set her jaw pugnaciously, allowing just one
word to escape. "No."