Seeking Single Male (12 page)

Joe had been a favorite hangout of mine since college, so when I found out it was for sale…" She shrugged. "It probably

sounds crazy to you, leaving a high-powered corporate job to pursue something so esoteric."

A slow wonder crept over him, and his mouth went curiously dry. "You might be surprised."

Their drinks arrived, and Greg did the pouring honors while his head swam with new revelations. "A toast," he said, raising

his glass. "To noble motivation."

He clinked his wineglass to her glass of cranberry juice.

Greg savored the dry wine on his tongue before swallowing. His senses seemed heightened, poised for stimulation. Lana

unwittingly obliged with her intense eye contact.

"Speaking of motivation," she said, "what's yours regarding the rezoning project?"

Determined not to reveal how squarely she'd hit a nerve, he shrugged. "I want what's best for the city."

"And your bank account?" Her fingers slid up and down her glass in a caress.

"My
family's
bank account. And in this case, what's good for one is also good for the other. I'm running a business, the same

as you."

"I wonder if it's the only thing we have in common," she said lightly.

Again their gazes connected, and the sight of her glowing in the candlelight stole the breath from Greg's lungs. The cranberry

juice had stained her lips crimson. Her earrings tinkled when she moved. The memory of their kiss hit him again, and he was

overwhelmed with the urge to touch her.

From inside his jacket pocket, his phone emitted a muted ring, breaking the moment. "Excuse me," he murmured, then

withdrew the phone and glanced at the tiny display screen. "It's Will," he said. "Otherwise, I wouldn't bother."

"Would you like some privacy?"

He shook his head as he flipped open the mouthpiece. "Hey, buddy, what's up?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, Gregory. Are you busy?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm having a meeting with Ms. Martina."

"Really? I bet she looks pretty, doesn't she?"

He glanced across the table where Lana was buttering a roll. She discreetly licked the tip of her index finger, then blushed

when she realized he'd caught her.

"Gregory, did you hear me?"

He cleared his throat. "Er, yes, Will. Yes, you're right. Did you need something?"

"Yvonne and I are decorating the Christmas tree, and I can't find the angel for the top. Do you know where it is?"

Greg smiled into the phone—Will and that angel. "When I was in the storage closet this summer, I believe it was on the top

shelf, behind the ski equipment."

"Thanks, Gregory, I'll go look. But I'll wait until you get home before we put the angel on top."

"Sure, pal."

"Tell Lana hello for me. And don't forget—you're supposed to be nice to her."

"I will be. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Gregory."

He hung up the phone, and accepted the bread basket Lana handed him.

"And how is Will?" she asked.

Her sincerity loosened his tongue. "He has a crush on you."

She grinned. "Ah, that's why he asked me the other evening if I had a boyfriend. He's a real gem."

"Yes," he said carefully. "I'd hate for him to be hurt by…anyone."

She tilted her head. "I could never hurt Will."

He could lose himself in her eyes. Did she realize the power she wielded with a flutter of those sooty lashes? "Maybe not

intentionally, but he's more sensitive than most people."

"I could see that," she murmured. "There's quite an age difference between you, isn't there?"

"Ten years."

She smiled. "I suppose you've always looked out for him."

Sediment swirled in the bottom of his wineglass. "Except for the time he followed me up a tree and fell twenty feet to the

ground—" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted them back. He never talked about the accident. When he

lifted his gaze to see the sympathy in her eyes, he considered leaving.

"When was that?" she asked softly.

In for a penny, in for a pound. "I was fourteen, he was four." In the silence that followed, he drained his glass and refilled it.

"It wasn't your fault, Greg."

He manufactured a dry smile. "Will has said that a thousand times."

She smiled so deeply, that elusive dimple emerged. "He knows when you're hurting. You're very lucky to have Will for a

brother."

Funny, but everyone had always said that Will was lucky to have
him.
Lana's words resounded in his heart. "Yes, I am." He

squared his shoulders, grateful for the graceful exit she'd given him. "Do you have brothers and sisters?"

"No."

The one word reverberated with a sadness that surprised him. "Are your parents living?"

She nodded. "But they're divorced. My father moves around a lot, and Janet lives in Florida."

"Janet?"

Her laugh was self-conscious. "My mother looks young for her age, so she doesn't like to be called 'Mom.'"

So she had one of
those
mothers. Maybe that explained why Lana was so…complicated.

"But she's coming to spend an old-fashioned Christmas Eve with me." Her voice was childlike in her mother's defense.

"How will you spend Christmas?"

He shrugged. "At home with Will and Yvonne." It was a quiet ritual he took for granted. If Will found a woman, all their

routines would change—holidays, vacations, perhaps even living arrangements.

"Yvonne?" She seemed intent on removing a spot from the side of her glass.

"Our housekeeper. She was also a friend of my mother's."

"Oh. Your mother is deceased, too?"

He nodded.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured, her voice catching in such a way that he wished they hadn't ventured into personal territory.

"You're very young to be alone."

"Well…I'm not alone," he said, flustered. "I mean, like you said, I have Will."

"And he has you."

"Yes."

"That's nice," she said, nodding. "Brothers should stick together. Have either of you ever been married?"

"No."
He hadn't meant to sound so vehement. "You?"

A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "No. The single life suits me. I love my business, and I spend most of my free

time on causes I believe in. I don't see marriage in my future."

One of those bald-faced lies that women told, he noted sardonically. Designed to trick a man into thinking he wasn't being

silently measured for a tux. He decided to call her bluff. "If that's the case, then why would an attractive, successful woman

like you place a singles ad?"

She stared at him for the longest time, her mouth pursing and unpursing, then she leaned her elbows on the table. "And why,

Mr. Seriously Confirmed Bachelor, would an attractive, successful man like you answer one?"

Now he'd painted himself into a corner. Once again he considered telling her the truth—that he'd been checking her out for

Will. Now that she'd met Will, surely she would understand his motives. But if he admitted he'd gone on Will's behalf,

wouldn't he also have to admit that he'd chucked his brotherly concern in the face of his raging libido? Debating the lesser of

two evils, Greg chose silence.

And by some miracle, their food arrived to relieve the awkward lapse.

She was either just as hungry as he, or just as reluctant to revisit the subject of their first meeting, because she ate in relative

silence, dividing the black olives from her pasta into a forlorn little pile on the side of her plate.

"I take it you don't like olives?"

She blushed like a schoolgirl. "Well, I don't lie awake thinking about them, no."

He leaned one elbow on the table. "What
do
you lie awake thinking about?"

She played with the stem of her glass. "Oh, the usual—world peace and clean air."

"Seriously?"

She nodded. "Sometimes." She smiled into her drink. "And sometimes I lie awake thinking about people I care about,

wondering what they're doing."

He held his breath, wondering who belonged in that privileged circle.

She turned a pointed look in his direction. "And sometimes I lie awake thinking about meeting my business loan payments."

Greg lifted his glass. "Then it's safe to say we lie awake thinking about the same things. Sometimes." Of course, for the past

couple of nights he'd lain awake thinking about her.

Lana pushed aside her half-empty plate and withdrew a notepad from her purse, the pages crammed with handwriting. "I

have to relieve an employee in an hour, so if you don't mind…" She leaned forward, inadvertently giving him a gut-clutching

glimpse inside her pink blouse.

He dropped his napkin in his plate. "I'm looking—er, listening."

Her smile was conciliatory. "First of all, I don't deny that I'm trying to save my business," she said. "But I also don't want to

see the character of the downtown area sacrificed for cookie-cutter condos and town homes."

He refilled both of their glasses. "The residential area doesn't have to be cookie-cutter. And I don't think you're looking at the

proposal objectively."

"Well, if that isn't the pot calling the kettle black."

He attributed her seductive laugh to the fact that he'd drunk too much wine. Greg's frustration climbed, partly because they

were getting nowhere, and partly because it was the first time in months he'd had dinner with a beautiful woman, and they were

talking business. "You'd prefer that I let my investment decay?"

"Of course not. The timing is lousy, but I'm glad the subject has been raised. You see,
I
live in the city, so I have a vested

interest in what happens to it."

"Yes, but
I
own property in the city, so I have more of a vested interest."

She cocked her head at him. "Is that so? Do you shop in Hyde Parkland?"

He shifted in his seat. "Occasionally."

Her laugh was dubious. "The day we met was the first time you'd even been inside my shop, wasn't it."

"Yes."

"And can you tell me what is on either side of my shop?"

He squinted, trying to remember, but it was so hard to concentrate when she was looking at him like that, her eyes on fire, her

color heightened. And that blouse—good grief, he was only human. "I don't remember."

She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. "I don't believe this. You're not even familiar with your own property?"

"The company owns dozens of parcels of property. I can't be expected to know about each one in detail."

"Oh, really?" Wearing a conspiratorial smile, Lana waved her hand and called, "Waiter, our checks, please."

"But we're not finished," Greg said, gesturing to his wineglass. In truth, he wasn't ready for the evening to end. Not even

close.

"We're finished here," she assured him. "Drink up. I'm taking you on a little tour."

12

"I DON'T BELIEVE
I'm doing this," Greg said near her ear.

Lana laughed at his self-consciousness. "Just try to blend. If the police see that you're not wearing a helmet, you'll get a

ticket."

"Oh, great. Why can't we just go in my car?"

"The gas-guzzler?"

"Dad left the Mercedes to Will. I drive a…"

"A what?"

"A Porsche," he muttered. "But it gets decent gas mileage," he added, as if the car's fuel economy made up for its obscene

price tag.

Lana threw a smirk over her shoulder. "Slumming will be good for you."

"I feel ridiculous."

"Relax," she said. "You
look
ridiculous, too. Hang on."

Not that the moped had an engine that would tear a person's head off, but balancing could be a bit tricky riding double. She

goosed the gas, and after an initial protest at the unaccustomed load, the cycle chugged forward. Carefully, she pulled from the

parking lot onto the quiet, dark side street, and soon they were humming along at top speed—around thirty miles an hour—with

a nippy wind blowing over them. Her cheeks stung and her eyes watered, but the night riding exhilarated her. At least she

thought
it was the night riding that had her blood pumping so efficiently.

"This is as fast as the thing goes?"

"What do you expect?"

"Somebody could practically run up beside you and have a conversation."

"Another plus," she agreed.

He was hanging on to the bar behind the seat, but his body was tucked up close around hers, emanating warmth she

consciously had to avoid sinking back into. At the first light she stopped for, he put his feet down to help her steady the bike.

But when the light turned, their push-off was so uncoordinated, Greg lost a shoe. Turning the moped around was difficult

because her arms were weak from laughing. He, on the other hand, had an expression that would have rivaled the Grinch's.

"Careful, your face will get stuck that way," she chided, as he leaned over to scoop up his shoe.

If possible, his scowl deepened.

"Of course, in your case," she continued dryly, "it might save you time in future." She zoomed off the minute he slid the shoe

onto his foot, gratified at the yelp he gave before he got a handhold.

Laughter bubbled in her stomach. The dour man was so easy to provoke, and doing so gave her the most wicked sense of

delight. But even as she smiled to herself, mixed feelings coursed through her—a faint pang of disappointment that this man

seemed too stiff and unwieldy to enjoy simple pleasures, and relief that if not for The Best Cuppa Joe, she might still be rooted