My Fair Gentleman

“Ah, thank you, Irene.” His charming smile disappeared the instant he turned back to Mary Lou.

“Shall we go to your office now, Ms. Denton?”

She noted the interested stares of nearby truckers and silently groaned. This had to be a nightmare. “Yes, of course.”

Untying her apron, she tossed it into a hamper and slipped around the counter. She sensed his intense gaze while he followed her through the diner, the adjacent minimart, the unmarked door next to the beer cooler, the short hallway sprouting several rooms on each side. By the time she reached her small office she was ready to scream from the tension.

John entered behind her and all the oxygen left her lungs. As discreetly as possible, she placed her desk between them and settled in her high-back chair.

His eyes flashed. “Feel safer now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she bluffed, forced to dilute her advantage by craning her neck. “Please, have a seat.”

He placed the drinks on her desk, sat in the guest chair and crossed his leg with an elegance that should’ve looked sissy, but made her feel fluttery inside.

“Come on now, don’t play dumb. We both know you’re anything but. My portfolio manager says I should clone you to shore up my other weak investments.”

The compliment surprised and warmed her. She’d worked very hard to turn around a failing business and warrant this man’s faith in her.

“Why are you hiding behind four feet of wood? What’s wrong, Mary Lou?”

She wanted more than his faith, that’s what was wrong. “I think we should stick to surnames, don’t you?”

His surprisingly dark eyebrows lifted and fell. “Funny. Last month you called me John in this very office. If you insist on formality in front of the staff that’s one thing, but after two years of working together—”

“We don’t work together. I work for you. No, that’s not right, either. I work for your portfolio. I’m a weak investment, remember?”

His mouth quirked. “I’d hardly call you weak. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. Quite unusual for a beautiful woman, in my experience.”

Hot pleasure spilled through her veins. It was the first time he’d stepped from a traditional employer’s role, other than to brag about his college-age daughter. She reminded herself sternly he was out of her league.

“Do you take such a personal interest in all of your investments, Mr. Chandler?”

“It depends on the potential for return, Ms. Denton.”

She licked suddenly dry lips. “And what kind of return do you expect from me?”

“I expect nothing. I speculate that patience with you would be well rewarded in the long run.”

Oh, God. “What if you’re overestimating my abilities?”

“I don’t believe I am. I’ve given it a lot of thought.”

Her heart was thumping like diesel-pump 9. “You have?”

For an instant his eyes blazed. “Oh, yes, I have.” He lowered his lashes and tweaked the crease in his pants. “Perhaps we should discuss this more fully over dinner tonight.”

She wanted to say yes more than anything she’d wanted in a very long time. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You’ve got to eat, don’t you? When was the last time you had dinner in a nice restaurant?”

She smiled briefly. “I think I’m insulted.”

“Don’t be. I know how hard you work, that’s all I meant.”

What else did he know about her? “Mr. Chandler…John,” she conceded, amazed at the fierce triumph that crossed his face. “Thank you for the invitation, but I really don’t believe in mixing business and pleasure.”

His eyes widened innocently. “Did you think we would have fun? That this would be a date?” He wagged his head and hand. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’d like to discuss the quarterly profit-and-loss report if you don’t mind. And there’s an interesting treatise about the effect of religious cults on the price of oil and gas I’d like you to look at. You can take a peek over dessert if you’re a fast reader.”

By this time she was chuckling. He made her fears seem ridiculous. Still…

“You can pick the spot. What do you feel like eating? Chinese? Italian? You name it, you’ve got it.”

His boyish eagerness was irresistible. With a rush of defiance, she caved in. “Any place is fine with me—as long as it doesn’t smell like grease!”

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_e257fb0d-ed3c-59ff-a964-d89f27763733)

CATHERINE MEASURED coffee, poured water and started the automatic brewer in her father’s spotless white kitchen. Her new tenants had moved into the garage apartment the day before. Joe was due at nine o’clock for his “orientation” session. She’d no sooner returned from her morning swim about eight than she’d heard his Bronco back out of the driveway. Round trip, the drive to Allie’s softball camp at the Y shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes.

Father and daughter were very close from what Catherine had observed. Still, something about their relationship had nagged at her in the hours after she’d shown them the apartment. It wasn’t just that Allie called her father by his first name, although that indicated a disturbing equality between the two. No, there’d been something else. An interaction she’d recognized and responded to on a deeply personal level.

Then last night an image had crystallized in Catherine’s mind: Allie’s face, pleading with Joe to stay for the month.

The girl’s expression had been resigned, as if she’d experienced disappointment many times in her young life. She’d obviously expected her father to say no and reverse the plans they’d discussed. Yet she hadn’t been able to mask her trace of hopefulness.

Catherine paused now in the act of sponging stray coffee grounds from the counter. How well she understood the adoration, the sick disappointment, the renewed hope. In her case, she’d never been able to meet her father’s expectations. The adoration/disappointment cycle had continued until hope had finally died. The same would happen to Allie unless Joe’s pattern of behavior changed.

Glancing over her shoulder at the wall clock, Catherine winced and massaged her tender neck muscles. Curiosity didn’t always kill the cat. Sometimes it just injured.

Her tenants’ many trips up and down the apartment stairs yesterday had been clearly visible from her office window—if she twisted her head just so. When Joe had spun around unexpectedly and headed for her back kitchen door, she’d nearly sprained her ankle scrambling away from the closed miniblinds.

Foolish, really. He couldn’t possibly have seen her, despite the knowing glance he’d directed at her window.

She’d taken her sweet time answering his knock. Then wished she could slam the door on his cocky smirk. Instead, she’d invited him inside to wait while she retrieved the apartment keys he requested from her office.

Inhaling deeply, Catherine closed her eyes at the heavenly aroma of baking cinnamon rolls. The man couldn’t say her kitchen smelled like a hospital today. When Joe arrived for his lesson, every salivary gland in his mouth would activate. Just the ticket for establishing a cooperative mood. She hoped.

Humming under her breath, she set the smokedglass breakfast table and centered an arrangement of her father’s look-but-don’t-touch hybrid tea roses. The ones Carl had scolded her for picking just last night. A shrill buzz startled the frown from her face. The cinnamon rolls!

Five minutes later she fanned all twelve on a china serving platter and drizzled them with icing. Another glance at the clock sent her rushing to the refrigerator for a glass pitcher of orange juice. Setting it on the table, she stepped back and cocked her head. There. The stage was set. Where was the leading man?

Casting a hopeful look out the window above the sink, she sighed. No Bronco in sight. Perhaps he’d stopped for gas or a newspaper.

She refolded the linen napkins and angled them this way and that. Pulled an only marginally perfect rose from the vase and tossed it in the trash. Dashed into the bathroom and freshened her lipstick.

Time passed. Wandering to her office, she opened the miniblinds and settled behind her mahogany desk where she had an unobstructed view of the driveway. What could be keeping him? She forced herself to relax and decided to pay bills. When the last envelope was sealed, she sprang up and returned to the kitchen.

Could he have been in an accident? Surely he would’ve called her by now if he could, knowing she’d expected him an hour and a half ago.