Wife for a Day (3 page)

I
f the tailor
had been a man instead of a pretty woman, Jack might have slipped into the terry-cloth robe the hotel provided. Instead, he'd completely redressed, found a comfortable place in the bedroom, and pored over a stack of restaurant-related papers.

The redhead and the way she hummed as she worked distracted him. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up the sleeves on his shirt as his eyes drifted from the contract in his lap to the toes of her left foot, which kept perfect time with her tune. In contrast, her right foot pressed against the lever on the floor, making the needle thrum as it moved up and down, in and out of the trousers she guided through her sewing machine.

Damn if there wasn't something intensely erotic about what she was doing.

He leaned back on the bedroom sofa, for
getting the legalese before him. Lifting his cigar from the ashtray, he clenched it between his teeth, savoring the taste, and watched her through the pungent smoke. She'd removed her coat nearly half an hour ago and settled down at the table to sew. He'd watched her long, slender fingers nimbly work with the fabric, plucking out old thread, snipping the material with small silver scissors, and adjusting seams.

Arabella had once tossed a white cashmere sweater into the trash because a button had popped off. “I don't have the faintest idea how to sew,” she'd told him. He'd offered to sew it on for her; she'd asked him to buy her a new one instead. Had that incident been the start of their relationship's demise? he wondered, or had they been doomed from the start?

He looked back at the contract, refocusing on the paragraph he'd read two or three times before. Arabella would have devoured the legal document in minutes. She would have offered opinions, made suggestions, and rewritten language she didn't find quite right. They would have talked for hours about mergers and acquisitions, the stock market, and the fiscal aspects of his ranch and restaurant chain. Business conversation came easy, their sex life was great, and he'd put a ring on her finger
because he thought she'd be the perfect partner.

Somehow he'd forgotten about the personal side, their likes and dislikes. He'd forgotten all about love.

He laughed at his oversight.

The redhead glanced up from her sewing and tilted her head toward him. She swept a curl behind her ear, smiled softly, and when he smiled in return, she went back to work.

He doubted the tailor would ever throw away a cashmere sweater. In fact, he found himself wondering if she'd ever owned one. He tried picturing her in pearls, a classy business suit, and black pumps, her wild hair pulled back in a tight bun, but that was Arabella's style. He could more easily picture the redhead in blue jeans, which was the way he'd wanted to see Arabella. But ranch living wasn't her style.

Arabella loved the opera and ballet, which he despised. She wanted to take vacations on the Costa del Sol or the Riviera; he preferred a tent in the mountains. He wanted two or three children; her work was the only baby she wanted to nurture. And even though she'd grown up on her father's sprawling Colorado ranch, she loved the city and had no intention of living or even visiting the Wyoming outback.

Never again would he ask a woman to marry him without being damn sure that she'd fit in at the ranch. Hell, he didn't want to think about marriage again. A sense of relief had washed over him when Arabella had ended their relationship. Right now, he planned to take full advantage of being a free man.

And the woman who interested him most was sitting in his bedroom. He had an eye for beautiful women—and this one was gorgeous, from her toenails—painted fire-engine red—to the long flaming hair that hung halfway down her back in a hundred springing corkscrews.

She was tall, slender, and had breasts that were every man's fantasy come to life.

But there was more to her than that. Sitting in front of the sewing machine like a symphony pianist caught up in her recital, was a woman with circles under her eyes. She'd tried covering the darkened skin with makeup, but hadn't succeeded. Her cheeks were a little too hollow, as if she didn't eat often or enough, and her jaw bore the traces of a small, jagged scar.

What had happened to her? he wondered. And why?

Shoving the contract into his briefcase, he walked across the room and leaned against the wall in a place where he could see the concen
tration on her face. Her gaze lifted from her labor again, and her smile met his stare. One flick from those hot green eyes could set a prairie on fire, he thought, or reduce a man to cinders if he didn't stay on guard.

As if she'd heard his thoughts and knew it was time to turn off her smile, she focused once more on the trousers.

He knew he should go back to his work, knew he should ignore the tailor, who was there to do a job and nothing more, but he was restless.

Arabella entered his thoughts again, an ounce of remorse flowing through him. Maybe he should have tried to meet her halfway, but he didn't want to live in Denver any more than she wanted to live in Wyoming. He didn't want to spend any more time with her society friends than she wanted to spend with his ranch hands, the people who were his extended family.

In the past few weeks, their conversations about the future had ceased. Long phone calls became a rush to see who could come up with the best excuse for hanging up. Their engagement had been a mistake, and he knew it.

The only one who thought it was wonderful was his sister Lauren. Over the years she'd introduced him to one socialite after another, hoping her big brother would find a wife.
She'd been ecstatic when Jack had found the perfect wife-to-be all on his own, and she'd been anxiously awaiting their first meeting tonight.

How on earth could he tell Lauren that his engagement was over?

Poor Lauren. Her mother and father had a bad habit of disappointing her, and now he was going to do it, too. He sighed, letting out some of his frustration.

“Is something bothering you?” the redhead asked. She'd stopped sewing. Her head tilted toward him again and all he could see were luminous freckles bridging her nose and soft, warm eyes that were the color of good whiskey. “You may not believe this, but I can listen as well as I can talk.”

“I don't make a habit of sharing my troubles.”

“Too bad. My mama always told me that storing trouble makes you feel all constipated inside.”

“I take it your mama's a pretty wise lady.”

“She was,” she said fondly. “She used to laugh at trouble, and believe you me, she used to laugh a lot.”

“What about you?”

She smiled, and Jack could swear the room brightened. “I've been constipated a time or two.”

The phone rang, interrupting the first light-hearted moment in his day. He answered on the second ring. “Remington.”

“Thought for sure I'd miss you.” It was Mike Flynn, his ranch manager. A call from Mike, when he was away from the ranch, could only mean trouble.

“Something wrong?” Jack asked.

“I suppose that's something you have to decide.”

“Don't beat around the bush, Mike. You wouldn't have called if there wasn't a problem.”

Silence stretched between them. Finally, Mike cleared his throat. “Beau is here.”

The name hit Jack like a bull kicking him in the gut. He'd seen his son only once in sixteen years. He'd given up all hope of ever getting to know the boy, and now he was at the ranch.

“Are you okay?” Mike asked but didn't stop talking long enough for Jack to answer “no.” “I hated to spring it on you so suddenly, but I didn't know what to say.”

Jack didn't know what to say, either. “Are you sure it's him?”

“Positive.”

“Is he alone?”

“Yeah.”

Jack plowed his fingers through his hair. “How'd he get there? Hell, how'd he find out
about me? There's no way his grandparents told him.”

“He found his mother's diary, saw your name in it, and put two and two together. Then he hitched all the way from LA.”

“Hitched? Damn it! He could have gotten lost. Killed.”

“He's safe, Jack. He just wants to see you.”

Jack crossed the room, poured a glass full of whiskey, then ignored the drink. “Why didn't he call first?”

“I didn't ask, but my guess is he was afraid you wouldn't want to see him.”

“I would have seen him every day for the past sixteen years if his grandparents hadn't told me to stay the hell away!”

And he had stayed away—for Beau's sake. The boy's grandparents had taken good care of him, he wouldn't dispute that. But he'd stayed away only because they'd promised a messy custody battle when Jack turned eighteen and asked for his child. He had enough money to fight for his rights, but there was no way he was going to drag his son through the courts and the press.

He didn't regret that decision; he only regretted giving up his son in the first place.

“Jack,” Mike said, his voice low, solemn, “the past is over and done. This is your chance to make up for all that happened.”

“How much time do you think his grandparents are going to give me? A day? Two?”

“Talk to them.”

“I tried that years ago. They ignored my phone calls. They sent back every penny of support money, every birthday card. They love Beau. They've given him the best of everything, but they don't want me interfering in his life. You know damn good and well they won't listen to me now.”

“Try again. He's your son, Jack. If you don't do something about it now, you'll lose him for good.”

He couldn't lose him. Not again.

Jack looked across the room. The seamstress was watching him, her eyes narrowed to a frown. He could imagine the same kind of frown on Mike's face. Preaching on Sunday wasn't enough for Mike. He had a habit of doing it all week long, and Jack was the one he targeted most. He had the feeling the tailor would do it, too, if she had any idea what was going on.

He turned away from the redhead and ended the silence between himself and Mike. “Tell Beau I'll be home tomorrow afternoon.”

“Anything else?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, tell him there's a lot we need to talk about.”

Jack could picture the smile of satisfaction on Mike's face. “I'll tell him.”

“And make sure Crosby doesn't run Beau off with one of his lousy dinners,” Jack said, forcing himself to laugh.

After hanging up, he went back to the sofa and his contract, but he thought about Beau instead. Did he look like his mother, Beth, who'd been pretty and petite, or was he tall and skinny like he'd been at sixteen? Was he just as much trouble?

What could he possibly say to a teenage boy, especially the son he hadn't seen since he was one month old? Could they build a friendship? Could he actually be a father to the boy? Where could he begin? So many doubts filled his mind. He'd failed at far too many relationships, but, for his son's sake, he had to make this one work.

Tomorrow, when he returned to the ranch, he'd start a new life with his son. Tonight—Hell! Tonight he was faced with disappointing his sister. He'd spent a lifetime trying to make Lauren happy, endeavoring to make up for their mother's forgetfulness, thoughtlessness, and genuine disinterest in being a mom.

It wasn't his fault that Lauren had gone with their mother after the divorce, while he'd remained with his father on the ranch. But he'd felt awfully guilty staying with a dad who doted on him, when his sister was stuck in Florida being raised by nannies and servants.
He'd always felt the need to make things right.

Tonight was no exception.

The redhead's humming, her movements, were the perfect distraction from thoughts that were weighing heavy on his mind. She'd gotten up from the sewing machine and stood beside the ironing board that had been delivered earlier. He watched her find the creases at the front and back of each trouser leg and smooth the pants out on top of the board.

“Have you always been a tailor?” he asked, leaning back on the sofa, once more enjoying his cigar and the view.

“Not always. A few months ago I was a waitress. Five months ago a Hollywood actress. Variety's the spice of life, or so I've been told.”

“Which do you prefer? Taking orders from hungry people, nipping and tucking men's clothes, or acting.”

“They all have their plusses, but acting's what I always wanted to do.”

“Why'd you give it up?”

She pressed the iron to the trousers, focusing on her work. “Hollywood and I didn't see eye to eye. Most people thought I did my best work lying on a dinner-theater floor playing a corpse.” She looked up, her radiant smile giving no hint at all about how she truly felt about leaving Hollywood. “Dead actors don't
make much money,” she said. “I was penniless when I got to Hollywood and in the hole when I left. Right now I'm trying to dig my way out of the mess I got myself into.”

“I take it you make good money doing this?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“How big a tip I get.” Her smile was infectious.

“That's the second or third subtle hint you've dropped.”

“There's nothing subtle about me, Mr. Remington.”

He'd already noticed and might have told her he didn't like subtlety in people, but the phone rang again.

“You're a popular guy,” she said. “You've had more calls in the last half hour than I had in my entire Hollywood career.”

“I don't like ringing phones. They bring nothing but trouble.”

But his sister's voice on the other end of the line was the welcome exception. Rich women, especially those who'd been married and divorced twice, weren't always bundles of joy. Lauren defied all the rules.

“Thank goodness you're in town,” she said. “I watched the Weather Channel and saw nothing but white over the eastern half of Wy
oming. I was sure you wouldn't be able to get a flight.”