Wrapped Up in a Beau (6 page)

Greta had to endure watching Mason flirt with almost any woman, young or old, who batted eyelashes at him. Quite a few of them he knew.

They never could avoid running into each other because of the small space. Once, she bent over to retrieve a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie, and her butt bumped his. He sent her a wicked glance as if she'd done it on purpose.

She'd lost her balance because of some grease on the floor and found herself caught in Mason's arms. He chuckled, teasing, “You keep finding ways for me to touch you.”

She pushed him as though he burned her. Two women in line had exchanged looks of amusement. She straightened her apron and became frustrated when she rang up a customer for ten cappuccinos, instead of one. She could only imagine how her cheeks flamed. Mortifying. Where was the cool, poised, worldly Greta? Apparently, nowhere to be found when Mason was around, she thought sourly.

The rush was over eventually, and it'd lasted longer than usual. It was almost two o'clock.

“Holy cannoli, I need to sit down,” Leo stated as he plopped in one of the chairs. His chubby cheeks were red, face ashen, and he patted a rag to his brow.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked, concerned for the older man. She poured him a glass of ice water and brought it over.

“Don't fuss over me, doll face. These old lungs need a breather.”

Mason came from around the corner, wiping his upper lip with his sleeve. “I don't know how you do it, Rossi. I haven't busted my butt that hard since I worked on a farm in high school.”

“
You
worked on a farm?” Greta found it hard to believe.

“My grandfather insisted on it. Said nothing would make me appreciate sitting on my ass more than after getting the hell beat out of it. He was good friends with a farmer outside of town who always had more than enough humbling work for me to do. It was either work for his friend or stay home with him during the summer. Trust me, I chose the better end of the deal.”

She'd heard the eldest member of the household had been harsh and even harder to please, but he clearly instilled a sense of a work ethic into his grandson. “Well, it helped shape who you are, a hard worker. You should thank him for that.”

Mason met her eyes and smiled.

The door chimed. Anne Renclair stepped in first, followed by Sophie.

“Mason? What on earth?” His mother gave him a thorough once-over.

He wiped a hand on his apron. “Hi, Mother.”

While Anne gaped at her son, Sophie giggled and rushed over with her arms wide open. “I'm so glad you both came to help out Mr. Rossi! If you really want to make my day, you can read stories to the children at the hotel tomorrow.”

“Mason,” said Mrs. Renclair, “did it ever occur to you to ask
me
if I needed help with anything?”

“You always seem to have everyone and everything under control.”

Her blue eyes, the same color as Mason's, narrowed. “Very funny.”

Greta decided to intercede. “Sophie, what's this about reading stories at the hotel?”

Sophie grinned. “It's a service we offer during the holidays. Volunteers dress up in old-fashioned clothes, like from
A Christmas Carol
. Guests with young children sign up to have them tucked in and read stories at bedtime while the parents go out for the evening. It gives the in-house nannies a break, the parents love the service and the children have fun. A couple of my regulars got sick and I'm short some storytellers.”

“How fun! I would love to help out.”

“You would?” Sophie and Mason asked at the same time.

Greta laughed, untying her apron. “Are you kidding? Dressing up and reading to kids? Definitely count me in.”

“Perfect!” Sophie giggled, prancing over to squeeze her arm. “You're the greatest.”

“That's very kind of you, Greta.” Mrs. Renclair smiled tightly. “I admire anyone who is willing to spend time with other people's children. Mr. Rossi, may I bother you for a cup of decaf to go?”

“Coming right up.” Leo sprang from his seat to fulfill her request.

Greta disappeared behind the counter for her coat and belongings, and when she emerged to see Sophie clapping in delight at her brother's words, she had a suspicion what he'd done.

“I talked Mason into going with you to read to the kids, too,” Sophie exclaimed, confirming Greta's guess. “Now you have a partner!”

Greta was beginning to wonder if her friend kept putting her and Mason together on purpose. “Are you sure I need one?”

“Trust me, it's easier with two. Sometimes the children can be a handful. Mason, you continue to shock me this Christmas. Tomorrow night you and Greta come to the hotel. We start at seven. This is the last weekend we offer it, so don't worry, it'll only be for one night.”

“I actually think I'll enjoy myself,” Mason said smugly, fixing his sight on Greta.

You already are
. She sent a quick glare back.

Mrs. Renclair paid Leo for her coffee. “No time to linger, girls, we have shopping to do.” She brushed a kiss on Mason's cheek. “You should have dinner with your father while we're out. You know how your grandfather likes to push his buttons when I'm not around.”

“Grandpa pushes everyone's buttons regardless of who's in the room.”

She patted her diamond-clad hand on Mason's cheek. “Amuse me, dear.”

Sophie linked her arm in Greta's while her mother went outside to the waiting car. “I'm painfully happy you're here. Shopping with her can be so exhausting. We'll drive to Rochester, browse around Lord & Taylor, Macy's and wherever, then have lunch at Max of Eastman. Their steamed mussels are to die for.”

While Sophie talked, Greta heard Mason clear his throat behind her, and she turned. He mouthed the words “Good luck.” Despite her previous annoyance, she gave him a little wink.

Chapter Six

“Why the heck didn't you leave town?” asked his father, Daniel, as Mason walked through the dining room.

“I'm beginning to wonder that myself,” Mason murmured, taking a seat at the table.

His father had set out his usual dinner-time setting with several types of newspapers scattered around his plate, a tall glass of sweet tea, and a public radio broadcast on in the background. Even though his father had lived in Swan's Crossing all of Mason's life, the man was—forever until the day he died—a true Southerner. He never got used to the winters, and Mason had Daniel's complaints about the “northerners' ways” memorized verbatim.

Their butler Ben brought in Daniel's supper and he thanked him. He wearily took off his glasses, grabbed a fork and mouthed a little meal prayer. “Mason, are you going to eat or are you here to supervise?”

When Ben turned to him, Mason smiled. “Bring me whatever Amah has left on the stove, thanks.”

“So,” Daniel began as he started to cut through his beef Wellington, “I thought you were going to Bali or what-have-you. You could barely stand to be in the office the other night then Sophie tells me you changed your mind. After five years of you skipping on Christmas, I'm curious to know what made you stay this year.”

“No real reason.” A lie, but he didn't want to admit it was because of a woman. Though his father might find it funny, it wasn't so funny the woman was Greta, and so far she wanted nothing to do with him. “I didn't think you minded when I left. You haven't asked me to stay home for Christmas since I graduated college.”

Daniel shrugged. “You're thirty-five years old. I didn't mind either way, as long as the company didn't suffer. And it never has. I'm happy you're here, though.”

Ben returned and set down a plate of oxtail, vegetables and a thoroughly buttered piece of bread. Mason had almost forgotten how well he ate at his parents' home. Too bad the lectures and drillings about his life, mostly from his mother, often didn't make the meal worth it. He couldn't remember the last time he sat down with his father alone at home. If they met up for dinner, it was always in town at the hotel and they mostly discussed company business. Last year, his father had claimed a status of semi-retired, but spent almost as much time at the office as Mason did. Guess things like retirement were more of a weaning off than a sharp cut. Mason supposed when a man has worked most of his life, full retirement felt unproductive and dull. He didn't mind. They had a good working relationship and he knew that was a blessing.

“Careful!” His grandfather's hearty yell cut through the companionable silence. Linda pushed his wheelchair in the room and placed him at the end of the table where he always sat, even though it was too far down to have any normal conversation. Mason figured the eldest Renclair male just loved to hear his own voice when he shouted.

There were quite a few differences between his father and grandfather, but one of them was definitely their volume. While Mason couldn't recall a time where his father raised his voice, he had a hard time remembering when Christopher didn't.

“Can't eat with all that noise. Turn off that racket,” his grandfather commanded. Without protest—because really what was the point?—Daniel rose and switched the radio off. Ben brought his plate and waited while Christopher inspected it. He always found something to complain about, from the temperature of the meat to how his veggies were arranged. Too weak to walk around the enormous estate and with his wife gone for so many years, his grandfather's meticulous habits and sharp opinions were more due to a feeling of purposeless. He hated being waited on too, but with his physical frailty, he didn't have a choice. On several occasions, Mason tried to get him out of the house but Christopher only complained the whole way there and back. Mason didn't know what would make the man a little more pleasant to be around.

With his father absorbed in his meal and reading the stocks, obviously intending to keep to himself, Mason decided to move his chair closer to Christopher. The old man appeared startled as Mason plopped his chair at the corner of the table then picked up his plate and sat down.

“What are you doing?” Christopher muttered, poking a fork at his meat. “I don't like to talk when I eat.”

“I didn't say a word.”

“Then why the hell did you bother sitting so close to me?”

Mason rested his forearms on the table. “I was at Galore this afternoon, that café downtown, and I thought of you today. Told everyone how you made me work at the MacIntyre farm during high school.”

The old man cracked a smile…or close as he could come to it with a twitch of his wrinkling lips. “I remember when you used to come in the house smelling like a pile of manure. Made your mother green in the face.”

“And drove many cute girls away.”

His grandfather gave a dry chuckle, then a robust cough. “It made you tough, you know. Your Grandpa Howard was an indoor man and even though I respected him, he was soft for a Northerner. And there was no way
he
,” he declared pointing to Daniel, “was ever going to make you do any hard labor.”

“I heard that,” Daniel murmured.

“I got the best of both worlds, Grandpa,” Mason stated, reaching for his knife. “You showed me how to sweat and Dad showed me how to build. It all worked out.”

Christopher continued to glower—did the man know any other expression?—but as he started on his boiled vegetables, there was a twinkle in his eyes.

It was close to eight o'clock when Mason's mother, his sister and Greta returned from their shopping trip in Rochester. Their feminine voices rang high and spirited through foyer, and he smiled. He heard his sister's rapid speech followed by Greta's cultured, much softer words, punctuated by his mother's low, condescending tone, the rustle of shopping bags being handed to Linda and the sound of heels clicking on the marble floor.

But when he came out to greet them, he caught Greta walking out the side door.

Damn. Missed her
.

“How did it go?” he asked his sister. “Anything for me?”

Sophie sent him a smile, countless bags hanging off her arms. “Maybe. Did you have fun bonding with Dad and Grandpa?”

“Actually, we had a nice meal together.”

His mother raised a brow, plucking an earring from her lobe. “Oh? You didn't give Christopher any whiskey, did you?”

“How much is too much? Are we measuring in spoons or cups?”

His mother sighed. “You do notice you and your father's kind of humor never actually makes me laugh.”

“But that won't stop me from trying until you do,” he retorted with a smile. “Since everyone is back, I think I'll head home.”

“Before you go,” Sophie called as he headed to the door, “can I talk to you for a minute? It's about you helping me out tomorrow at the Chamberlain.”

“Sure.” He bid good night to his mother, then joined Sophie in the den.

“All right, so that was just a cover,” she began, crossing her arms. “I didn't want Mom to wonder why I wanted to speak with you in private.”

Tucking his hands in his pockets, he leaned back against the desk. “What is it?”

“Greta.”

He asked cautiously, “What about her?”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Please. It took me a minute or two to figure it out, but I know she's the reason you canceled your trip.”

Man, he liked it better when Sophie wasn't so perceptive. His first instinct was to deny it, but what for? Sophie was partly the reason Greta wouldn't go out with him. Maybe this was the perfect time to ask for a little sisterly blessing. “How did you figure it out?”

Her expression said,
Are you kidding?
“It's been pretty obvious from the get-go. At the party, when you said you had to go to the airport, you looked as if you were announcing your escort to prison. The way you were ogling Greta made it clear your decision to stay had a bit to do with her. I saw you two talking and dancing as if no one else was in the room. Your eyes haven't left her since.” She slowly smiled, seemingly proud of her observation skills. “I always, in the back of my mind, wondered how it would go when you two actually came face-to-face.” She sighed. “I had a feeling this would happen.”

“That what would happen? Sis, if you're against—”

“Let me finish. I had a feeling this would happen, and…I was sort of hoping it would.”

He regarded her a few moments. He hadn't seen that coming and had a hard time believing it. “Really?” he asked skeptically.

“Sure. Why do you think I told you to keep her company? You're single, she's single. You like smart, pretty women and she thinks sarcasm is sexy. I would like to see someone enjoy a little holiday romance. But I know how she thinks and I had a little talk with her this afternoon. At first, she completely denied being interested in you, but then I did my little test to make sure.”

“What test?”

“I told her if she wasn't interested in you, then she certainly wouldn't care what you said about her, and I immediately changed the subject. It never fails. When she demanded I spill, I knew I had her.” She beamed with pride.

“I haven't said anything about her to you.”

“She didn't know that.”

Leave it to his sister to trick the truth out of someone. “Well, this is good. Being your brother was sort of cramping my style. That, and she claims she doesn't date
townies
.”

Sophie giggled. “I bet you can change her mind. And who am I to stand in the way? You're both adults. All I ask is that you don't dominate her time. She's my guest first.”

With a smile, he chucked his sister under the chin. “Thanks, Sophie. Never thought I would need your permission to get a date.”

“And I never thought you'd stay home for Christmas again! Life is full of surprises.”

Mason headed to the guesthouse, grinning. For most circumstances, he was a very patient man, but when it came to Greta, that attribute didn't come into play. Not only was time not on his side, neither was the woman herself. He had to act now.

When Greta opened the door, she smiled with a sigh, shaking her head. “You talked to Sophie, didn't you?”

“Actually, she talked to me.”

“You know, just because she's encouraging us, doesn't automatically mean I'll change my mind.” She stepped aside to let him in. Again her nostalgic, ancient radio was on.

“You were only using your friendship with Sophie as an excuse.” He closed the door.

“I'm here to enjoy the festivities and relax. I don't want to start anything complicated.”

“I don't even want to touch complicated. I promise to keep it simple. We'll have fun. Whatever you want to do, name it. We can volunteer our asses off.” Her soft laughter made his stomach dip in pleasure. “Come on, you're tempted. I know you like me.” When her eyes shot to his, he raised his brows. “Don't you? Throw me a life raft here. I'm drowning.”

“It's more like I find you—amusing.”

“Good enough. I'll amuse you all night long.”

She laughed again, a musical sound. He found it contagious, and he knew he'd won. She bit her lip, gave it another moment of consideration then nodded. “All right, I'll go out with you. But on one condition.”

“Let's hear it.”

“You promise to spend time with your family, too.”

“Done.” He came toward her. “Shake on it?”

She eyed his hand with suspicion before reaching out. He snatched it, yanking her to him, and kissed her. In the instant their mouths met, electric desire blindsided his original intention to be playful, to catch her off guard. But she caught
him
off guard as she combed her fingers behind his head, arching into him. His need met hers, and he moaned, their tongues tangling.

Heat speared upward, ignited by the taste of her, the urgency in her kiss. Then her mouth softened, slowed, and he slid his hand from her hip, over her round butt and up her back, the ends of her long hair tickling his forearm. A woman so feminine and sweet, she struck possessiveness in him he didn't know he had. As if she was made for him exclusively. Perfectly curved and scented just right to make him forget all others.

He fastened his mouth on her neck, and pushed her to the wall. Wanting to feast on more, he stretched the collar of her sweater to expose her shoulder, moving to sample her there. Smooth, silky, sweet skin. He licked with a gentle bite. When she fisted her hand in his hair to drag his mouth back to hers, he went in rough, greedily. His hand skimmed down her arm, moving to grasp her hip, digging his fingers in. He pushed against her; he was hard, and he wanted her to know it. Swirling his tongue over hers, hearing her moan, he barely registered the shrill ringing cutting through the quiet room.

The phone. She broke the kiss, pushing him back, blinking as if coming to her senses. Mason straightened, out of breath, keeping his eyes locked with hers while the phone rang. Raking a hand through his hair, he stepped away, giving her space. Greta righted her sweater, cleared her throat and walked over to the phone. She picked it up, answering the call a little winded. “Hi, Ben…yes. Spaghetti would be great. I'm—famished.”

Whoa. Saved by the butler. Now would be a good time to go. Or else he'd want more from her, and didn't want to push his luck. Mason opened the door to leave and she covered up the receiver with her hand. “Mason…”

He shook his head with a smile then pointed to her, finding his hand shaking. “The next time we kiss,” he uttered, his voice rasp, “it'll be because
you
came to
me
.” With that, he gave her a wink and walked out the door.