That Special Smile/Whittenburg (10 page)

Max scanned an advertisement for men’s cologne and flipped the page to an article on an upcoming documentary on the bald eagle. He wondered if Sylvie was interested in the plight of endangered species. More to the point, he wondered if she’d be interested to know that
he
was interested.

Probably not.

He had done a lot of thinking about Sylvie in the past four days, a lot more than he’d intended. There had been too much time to think about her, for one thing. With Miriam gone, he had been at the store more than usual. Luckily, the season was winding to a halt and in another few weeks he could close the shop for the winter. Usually, that meant trading one hectic schedule for another, but not this year. This year he’d planned to spend the winter months in Eureka, working on a few of the projects for which he never seemed to have enough time. This year he’d planned to relax, enjoy the fruits of his labor.

But that, of course, had been his idea before Juliette moved next door.

Max idly turned the pages of the eagle story. Juliette Smith was an endangered species, he decided. A bird with a broken wing, eliciting both sympathy and affection, destined always to need someone or something. She was, admittedly, a charming nuisance, delightful in small doses, but a nuisance just the same.

And just when he’d resigned himself to having a small blond crisis next door, Sylvie had arrived.

A diversion, he’d thought that first day. An attractive, intelligent, independent woman who made it quite obvious she wasn’t looking for romance. But the problem was, although she wasn’t looking, she was vulnerable to it.

He’d suspected it, but he’d known for certain when he kissed her. That kiss had put a different perspective on the game, at least in his mind, and in all the time he’d spent thinking about it, he couldn’t decide who was in the more vulnerable position, he or Sylvie.

“... so it shouldn’t be too complicated to have the lien removed. But it will take a little time.”

Max heard the soothing assurances as the inner office door opened. Sylvie stepped through the doorway, followed by Benton Prestridge, who was talking and smiling at the same time. Sylvie was smiling, too, and Max felt a nagging discontent stir to life inside him.

Sooner or later she would smile like that for him

Game or no game, he wasn’t going to quit until she did.

“Oh, am I late?” Juliette entered through the wide front doorway of the office and moved forward, her whole demeanor one of breathless hurry and innocent apology. “I’m sorry, Sylvie. The car stalled. I don’t know what happened, Max, but....”

Sylvie could well imagine what had happened. Juliette had a lead foot and flooded the engine as often as not.

Max should have known better than to let her use his car, anyway.

Sylvie glanced at him, still seated in the chair, apparently still comfortable, and showing tremendous patience by not demanding to know if the car was outside in the law firm’s parking lot or if it had been towed to the nearest police station. Not that he was likely to receive an answer anytime soon, Sylvie thought as she glanced at her sister.

Juliette was lost in her own little scenario, staring at Benton Prestridge as if he were a five-carat diamond winking at her from the middle of a twenty-pound bar of rich Belgium chocolate.

“Hello,” Juliette murmured. “You must be the one….”

“Yes.” Benton stepped forward, looking dazed, and Sylvie had to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud.

“...who wrote the letter,” Juliette continued, although it was obviously an unnecessary clarification.

“It was my pleasure.” As Benton took Juliette’s hand in a clasp that didn’t even resemble a professional handshake, Sylvie looked to Max to share her amusement.

His lips curved in answer and she was glad, suddenly very glad, that he was nearby.

* * * *

“A match made in heaven,” Max observed dryly.

“And set aflame in Arkansas,” Sylvie agreed as Max leaned back, placing his arm along the back of her chair. A pleasant warmth wrapped around her shoulders.  He didn’t actually touch her, though, so the feeling might be her imagination, or maybe just a vicarious heat from the couple on the dance floor. Juliette and Benton were generating enough electricity to heat Fayetteville for months.

It had been a matter of ten to fifteen minutes, certainly no longer than that, between Juliette’s late arrival at the law office and Benton’s won’t-take-no-for-an-answer invitation to dinner. And he’d known just the place, the private country club where the firm had a membership and where there was live music and a fabulous chef.

Sylvie had raised her eyebrows, fairly certain that such an invitation was not standard treatment for clients of Forsythe, Prestridge and Solomon. Max’s reaction had been more to the point: “What kind of music?” he’d asked.

Bypassing any discussion, Juliette had accepted graciously for everyone present, arranged time, place, and transportation, and said that should give the mechanic who’d rescued her in the middle of the intersection plenty of time to check Max’s car.

“Would you like to dance?” Max put his lips close to Sylvie’s ear, sending a whispery thrill across her nape. “Rogers and Astaire out there have left a little room for amateurs like us.”

“Amateur? Speak for yourself.” Sylvie watched the almost nonexistent dance steps of the only couple on the floor. Blond head was bent to blond curls and Juliette was laughing up at Benton. “Do you suppose they have any idea what time it is?”

“Do you honestly think it makes any difference?” His fingers brushed against her shoulder and the whispery thrill slid down her arm “Relax, Sylvie. Juliette seems quite capable of falling in love without your assistance.”

Sylvie turned to Max, arching her brows in succinct skepticism. “Love at first sight? Come on, Max. You don’t believe in that. You’re too intelligent.”

“What does intelligence have to do with it?” His smile came with a low rustle of amusement. “Case in point….”

“My sister.” Sylvie pushed her glasses into place and noticed that even with the cozy shadows surrounding the table, Max’s eyes were an intense, recognizable blue. “This sort of thing happens to Juliette all the time. She walks into a room and the men form a line to the right.”

“You’ll notice I’ve been careful to stay on her left all evening.”

“You can’t take credit for that. Benton has had her pretty well covered from all angles.” Sylvie let her gaze stray to the dance floor and pensively return to Max. “I’ll confess that when I met him, I didn’t think he would be so susceptible. He isn’t really Juliette’s type.”

“I had the distinct impression this afternoon that you thought Benton was
your
type.”

Sylvie shrugged and again felt the warmth of Max’s arm along her shoulders. “Sometimes I’m more nearsighted with my glasses than without them.” A soft breath of laughter escaped her and she wondered, fleetingly, if she’d had more than one glass of wine. “Juliette says pinstripes create a blinding glare in the lens.”

Max furrowed his brow. “Makes sense to me. You ought to listen to her, Sylvie.”

“Oh, sure. Then I’d be up to my eyebrows in –”  She’d almost said
denim
. Wouldn’t Max have loved that? “– trouble,” she substituted after a pause only a mother would have noticed. “Taking Julie’s advice always means Trouble, with a capital
T.”

“And what kind of advice has she been offering you lately?” He moved closer, just a little, but his arm was undeniably around her now.

Sylvie decided not to notice. “Lately?” Pursing her lips as if she were trying to remember, she wondered what he would say if she told him the truth. “She’s been trying to match me up with you.”

He smiled. “With no better luck than I’m having, obviously.”

“You’re not really trying very hard, Max.”

“Would it be worth the effort?”

“Effort always makes one a better person.”

He began to rub her shoulder in a smooth, massaging caress. “You’re a tease, Sylvie Anne.”

“Only after two glasses of wine.”

“You’ve only had one.”

“Then it must be the intoxicating company I keep.” She knew she ought to order coffee or at least move away from his seductive touch, but it was relaxing and moving away seemed far too much trouble.

The warmth of his breath against her cheek was her first hint. Then his lips brushed hers, lightly, and she melted like ice cream on the Fourth of July. The kiss lasted hardly long enough to interfere with her pulse rate, but her heart didn’t seem to understand. Like a hummingbird, it fluttered madly against her rib cage, creating an intriguing sort of panic.

When he moved back, she moistened her lips and released a long, deep breath. “
Someone
has been topping off my wineglass.”

“You’ve been dating the wrong men, Sylvie, if they have to resort to getting you drunk.”

“No one has ever tried to do that,” she said, and then widened her eyes. “Oh my God, you’re right. I
have
been dating the wrong men.”

Max settled back in his chair, but his arm stayed around her shoulders. “Very funny, but probably closer to the truth than you think.”

“The truth, Max, is that I don’t think much about it either way. I’m not like Juliette. I don’t fall in love on the basis of a handshake. I’m not looking for a relationship, so consequently, dating the
wrong
man doesn’t cause me to lose any sleep.”

“Has any man?”

 “That’s a rather personal question. I haven’t asked you anything like that.”

“If you did, I’d tell you I’ve never lost any sleep because of a man.”

His smile teased her and the corners of her mouth lifted in response. “Well, neither have I.”

The music ended with a smattering of lukewarm applause from the dwindling number of listeners. Sylvie clapped her hands in belated and halfhearted acknowledgement. Max didn’t bother and neither did Juliette and Benton. They stood, close together on the dance floor, talking and waiting, Sylvie supposed, for the music to begin again. They seemed in no hurry to bring the evening to an end, and Sylvie frowned at her own restlessness

It was Max, she decided. Max and the way he talked to her, the way he’d kissed her, that made her feel unsettled, even a little reckless.

She turned toward him in sudden decision, ready to trade the disquieting tone of their conversation for the uncertainty of being in his arms on the dance floor. Max was watching her, his expression oddly serious.

“Let’s show them how dancing ought to be done, shall we?” she suggested, the words coming out breathy and uneven.

Max nodded and stood, keeping his hand on the back of her chair as she rose. “What happens, Sylvie,” he asked softly. “…if a relationship comes looking for you?”

His warm breath stirred her hair, and his husky voice created a low ache inside her. She denied the significance of both with a nonchalant lift of her shoulders. “I suppose I’d start losing sleep. Not an appealing prospect.”

“Oh, I don’t know. There could be certain advantages in that.”

As they walked toward the dance floor, Sylvie shot him a teasing glance over her shoulder. “Positive thinking is your forte, isn’t it, Max?”

He turned her into his arms. “Among many other things, Sylvie Anne.”

Dancing was one of them, Sylvie decided within a few minutes. His steps were smooth and effortless, and the deliberate distance she maintained seemed awkward and unnecessary. With a soundless sigh she relaxed into the rhythm of the music and the pleasant discovery that he was hardly an amateur.

“You constantly surprise me,” she said with a smile. “I would never have guessed you’d spent your adolescent Saturday afternoons at Miss Wattenbarger’s School of Dance.”

“In my hometown, it was Miss Harper, Miss Harpy to those in the know, and there wasn’t a boy within fifty miles who would have stepped foot inside her studio.” Max smiled wryly at the memory. “Elisa had no qualms, though, about sharing what she was taught. It was one of her favorite pastimes. Actually, I learned all I know about dancing under duress.”

“Elisa?”

“Mmm. A redhead, like you.”

“My hair isn’t red,” Sylvie corrected firmly. “It’s nutmeg blond.”

Max pulled back to look. “Oh,” he said dubiously. “Well, Elisa’s is the same color, but hers is red.”

Sylvie ignored that. “Was she your first love?”

“Worse. My sister.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.” It was an inane statement, and Sylvie frowned as she said it.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.” He pulled her close, but she had the oddest impression that he kept an intangible distance between them, as if he resented the fact that she didn’t seem to want to know more about him.

Her question came involuntarily in response. “Tell me, Max, how have you escaped?”

“Escaped?”

“A serious relationship,” she explained. “Why aren’t you involved in a matter of the heart?”

He looked down at her, but his expression and his smile were mysterious. “What makes you think I’m not?”

Max’s question kept Sylvie awake for some time that night.

It was her first conscious thought the next morning.

Then, like an annoying commercial jingle, it occurred to her at odd moments throughout the day ... and that night and the next morning.

It didn’t mean anything, she told herself. It was just a moment that had stuck in her memory.

By the end of the week, it had become a litany of sorts, a ritual that passed through her mind several times before she fell asleep at night and a riddle to start her thoughts percolating first thing in the morning.

What makes you think I’m not?

She had laughed at the time and said she could tell by the way he parted his hair.

But it had made her wonder about the type of woman Max would find attractive.

He seemed to find her interesting. After all, he’d kissed her.

Twice.

Ridiculous.
The whole thing was ridiculous. She didn’t care whether or not he was romantically involved with someone. As long as he wasn’t involved with Juliette or Juliette’s business, Sylvie was content to let Max do whatever he pleased.