Kiss A Handsome Stranger

Daisy knew when she’d been outmaneuvered. Well, she could hold her own with Chance Foster and she was going to prove it to him.

Chapter Four

Chance hadn’t intended to corral Daisy into touring his house that afternoon. He’d gone by her gallery in a polite attempt to reestablish a friendly relationship and to ask for a professional consultation.

Something about the woman brought out the bossy side of him, he admitted as he finished making notes for a custody brief to write over the weekend.

Maybe it was the way she never gave an inch. And why did she have to employ a peppy young assistant who hovered over her adoringly?

She’d looked so cute in that demure long skirt, with a strand of auburn hair clinging to one cheek. And so surprised to see him, as if she weren’t sure how to react. Chance had instinctively seized the advantage.

He wished he knew what it was about her that he found so captivating. It seemed unlikely she would fit his standards for the ideal wife, in light of the way she’d run from him and then refused to give a credible explanation.

Reliability and communication. Those were two musts that he would include if he ever wrote A Lawyer’s Guide to Making Matrimony Work.

Probably no one would buy it, though, even if he did. In his observation, people were irrational when it came to marriage.

Chance copied his notes from the computer’s hard drive onto a diskette and dropped it in his briefcase. At his home office, he kept a library of legal references on CD-ROM, so he didn’t have to cart heavy books home.

It was a quarter to three, which meant that, if he left now, he should arrive at the gallery right on the hour. Perfect timing suited Chance.

In his front office he found Nell Beecham closing the books for the week. The secretary whipped around to regard him sternly.

“Leaving fifteen minutes early, Mr. Foster?” she asked. At sixty-seven, Nell brought nearly a half century of experience to the job, along with strong opinions about how people ought to behave. Including her boss.

“I’m picking someone up at three,” he said.

Her frown mutated into an approving half smile. “Good. You’ll be on time.” If he thought he’d passed inspection, however, Chance had congratulated himself too soon. “I don’t recall setting up an appointment for you.”

When he’d hired Nell, one of his friends had warned that he would be getting a mother figure in the office. Chance didn’t mind.

For one thing, top-notch secretaries were hard to find. For another, as the oldest of eight children, he’d filled the role of a quasiadult for so long that he was on more or less equal terms with his own parents, so he figured he could handle an office mother as well.

“It’s the owner of the Native Art gallery,” he told her. “I’m consulting her about my house.”

“Some of the objects they display are a bit odd,” she said. “I’m not a fan of modern art myself. However, they have an excellent reputation.”

“I’ll be the one who makes the final decisions,” he assured her. “Have a lovely weekend.”

“Don’t forget you’re due in court Monday morning,” she said.

“I won’t.” He didn’t have to remind her about locking up and depositing the week’s checks. Nell Beecham was as reliable as a bank president.

She kept her private life to herself, though. Although she’d mentioned her grown children, the only pictures on her desk were of her two Siamese cats.

He wondered what she did in her spare time. A woman as energetic and organized as Nell wouldn’t likely sit around knitting cat booties. Still, he didn’t intend to get nosy.

Traffic was heavy, Chance found when his sports car exited the parking garage, but he didn’t mind. He liked working in a high-rise, metropolitan area with easy access to suburbs.

In recent years Phoenix had become a haven for the winter weary, and while the migration was good for business, it resulted in L.A.-style jams. The inconvenience was worth the price, in his opinion.

Still, he didn’t have the big-city career he’d once aspired to. Although Phoenix was thriving, it couldn’t compare in significance to New York or the nation’s capital.

Sometimes Chance felt a stirring of regret at not having pushed harder to follow in his former fiancée Gillian’s footsteps. The last he’d heard, she’d made junior partner at her Washington, D.C. law firm and was handling a high-profile case against the government.

The thought of bringing his skills to a case like that gave Chance a jolt of adrenaline. It would be a great feeling, a rush almost like sex.

He double-parked in front of Native Art and was wondering whether to dash inside or go around through the alley when Daisy swung out with a farewell wave to someone inside. The youthful, devoted Sean O’Reilly, no doubt. If the young man ever quit, Chance wondered if Nell Beecham had a contemporary she could recommend as a replacement.

Daisy slid into the low passenger seat. The slit in her long skirt bared one shapely leg, until she tugged it into place and dropped a portfolio in her lap.

Clover, he thought. Or honey, that was what she smelled like.

“Busy afternoon?” he asked.

“We had to lug a bunch of paintings around,” Daisy said. “We have an exhibit opening tomorrow night.”

He recalled seeing a poster inside the gallery. “Shakira Benjamin, right?”

“Yes. Some of her work might suit you,” Daisy said. “You’re welcome to stop by. We’ll have wine and cheese, and our regular clients are interesting people.”

She sounded all business. Chance respected professionalism in a woman. But he wished the invitation were for something a little more personal.

Daisy stared out her window as the flat, grid-pattern streets of the city flew by and they eased into the suburbs. She made no attempt at idle conversation.

Chance remembered what Elise had said about Daisy’s medical condition. He hoped she wasn’t in pain.

A man wanted to protect people he cared about. Especially women, and especially one as open-spirited and vulnerable as Daisy. He was particularly sympathetic to her fears about infertility.

Kids were precious. Chance didn’t have a strong urge to become a father anytime soon, but he treasured the future possibility.

Of course, Daisy and the man she married could adopt children if she were unable to conceive. In the adoption cases Chance had handled, he’d been impressed by how quickly love and bonding occurred.

Startled, he realized that he’d once again associated Daisy with marriage. Was there such a thing as a male biological clock?

This whole attraction might be a simple matter of timing. But he doubted it.

Twenty minutes later they reached the suburb where he lived. Custom designed on a large lot secluded by low walls, the home had been on the market a year ago and he’d had to outbid two other would-be purchasers.

They passed through the gate and followed the curving driveway between low granite boulders and clumps of desert vegetation. The low-lying house might have sprung up by itself, so naturally did its red-tiled roof and salmon stucco walls fit into the landscape.

“It looks different in daylight,” Daisy said. “I didn’t realize how well the colors blended with the desert.”

“I’ve had the landscaping updated around the front and in the courtyard.” Chance parked beneath a carport. “The previous owner had tropical tastes that wasted a lot of water.”

“I see what you mean about putting everything into a larger picture.” Daisy scampered out of the car while he was still unfolding his long legs.

He caught up with her in front of the house and they strolled past relaxed plantings of golden yarrow and white blackfoot daisies. Loose material crunched underfoot. One of the first things Chance had done was to tear out the stark sidewalk and replace it with a naturalistic path of crumbly decomposed granite.