Mine 'Til Monday Page 7

  She saw only the ball, the net, the arc of her racket as she returned every one of his shots. Mud, meanwhile, could barely keep his eyes off his opponent. Not that he’d stand a chance with her even if she hadn’t been wearing that little white thing, but he might have played slightly better...

  White cotton against that tanned skin. Mud groaned, then seized the bar of soap and began scrubbing his arms. Her shoulders were a deep bronze where the sun had kissed them; her legs an even copper, even where they disappeared under that tiny little excuse for a skirt. A white visor shielded her eyes from view, but he’d watched her mouth, parted slightly, her tongue now and then darting out to moisten her lips as she wound up for a serve.

  And the way she moved. Waiting for his return, she rested lightly on the balls of her feet, the muscles of her calves and thighs tensed and ready. And then she sprang into action, her arms gracefully arcing to prepare her shot, her compact body moving with such ease on the court that she seemed born to the game.

  She’d been like that the other night. As though she’d been born to make love with him. When she’d met his urgent need with her own, moving below him with her soft cries and splendid, arching rhythm, it had been as though every need he’d ever had was met. Every desire was satisfied, his emptiness filled. His heart, so long shielded, was warmed in the glow of their loving.

  He wanted that again. Wanted it now, and tonight, and tomorrow.

  But even as he scrubbed his skin raw he knew he couldn’t have her.

  Taylor men weren’t made to love women, not that way.

  Mud suddenly remembered a conversation he’d had with his father when he was sixteen years old. It wasn’t the birds and the bees—Simon Taylor had dispatched a wealth of information on that subject with perfect ease years earlier.

  This subject made Simon far more nervous, however. He’d summoned his son to join him after dinner one summer night. Mud had waited with uneasy curiosity as his father paced back and forth in the screen porch, smoking, hemming and hawing. Finally he dropped to one of the wicker chairs, bent forward with his elbows on his knees, and looked Mud in the eye.

  “Women are trouble,” he’d declared without preamble. “They have this way of knowing things. They can sense weakness. They— if you let them get to you, see, they’ll take you for a fool and then leave you standing there not knowing what hit you.”

  Though his father was speaking in general terms, Mud had an uncomfortable feeling he knew who his father was talking about.

  He certainly wasn’t describing any of the women who came around Galeworth House. And he only knew of one woman who’d left his father before his father could leave first.

  “I didn’t want to let her go, you know.” His father’s voice was deep and husky when he spoke again. Maybe it was the tobacco—maybe not. “I thought of her every day of that damn war. Wrote her letters. All kinds of crap, any thought I had during the day, I wrote it down and sent it off to her. You know, when I got back she told me she’d quit reading ‘em. Said they depressed her.

  “Course that was the least of what she had to say to me. I’d never met my boy. Never met you. Took one look at you, and...” Simon’s voice trailed off, but Mud knew enough to know that a declaration of love rested in the words Earl didn’t finish speaking, and it warmed him, even as he waited in uncomfortable anticipation for his father to finish the story.

  “Anyway she had everything all ready to go. Wouldn’t look at me, just showed me these boxes full up of your stuff, your diapers and bottles and whatever. Then she gave me my ring back and it was only then I saw she was wearing a different one. She was wearing another man’s ring when she gave me the heave-ho, and me having dreamed of this moment for months and months like some stupid jerk.”

  It pained Mud to hear his father tell this story, but it also fascinated him, because it revealed a side of the man he’d never seen before and, as it turned out, he would never see again. A man who took chances with love, a man who gave his whole heart.

  In a strange way it comforted Mud. Women, he’d come to understand, were not to be trusted. Not even his own mother had loved him enough to stay. But his father, at least, had once loved. And that meant something.

  But what?

  Simon had done okay. He’d been burned only once before he’d resolved never to let a woman get to him.

  Well, Mud would go him one better. He wouldn’t let it happen even once.

  What he’d started with Dorothy was dangerous. Their attraction was powerful, made even more so by their history, begun in innocence so long ago. He’d let the flames get out of control, until they threatened to burn down his resolve. But he’d take care of that.

  There was tonight, tomorrow, and he’d do his part. He owed her as much. But it was going to be a new man who escorted her, who pretended to be her fiancé. A man who knew how to keep his distance.

  And then it was going to be a quick good-bye.

  Mud cursed under his breath, and scrubbed harder.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dorothy closed her eyes, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and fixed a smile on her face.

  “Lovely party,” she gushed.

  Only then did she open her eyes and regard herself in the mirror.

  Nope. Still not right. The smile was all wrong. Inauthentic, overly—something. Oh, well. It was going to be hard work tonight, being “on” for the party when she felt like mooning around her room. Her own room, at home, where she could properly nurse a heartache.

  She tried again.

  “Oh, Miranda, the grounds are spectacular!”

  Casting a hopeful glance at her reflection, Dorothy was disappointed again. The grounds were spectacular, but the look on the face that gazed back at her was not an honest one.

  Dorothy was tired of pretending. Guilt had long since overcome her burning desire for the job, her commitment to do whatever it took to land the position at Finesse. In fact, Dorothy no longer felt nearly as certain that she was doing the right thing. Oh, the job was the right thing, certainly; the fulfillment of her professional aspirations, a chance to really put her talents to work.

  But the price suddenly seemed a little high.

  “Did you say something?”

  Dorothy spun around to see Mud’s lathered face peering through the door. Suddenly aware that all she wore was a skimpy silk slip, Dorothy grabbed a hand towel and clutched it to her chest.

  “No! Yes. I mean, I wasn’t talking to you.”

  Mud’s gaze roved slowly, taking in the small bathroom, her cosmetics strewn all over the counter, clothes hanging from the towel bar. Dorothy had been uncharacteristically indecisive, unable to pick which outfit gave the proper message.

  “You got someone else in there with you?”

  Dorothy felt her face flame, and jutted her chin out.

  “None of your business.”

  “Ah. Ten-four that.” The lathered face disappeared, only to pop back in. “You wouldn’t be talking to yourself, would you, Dot?”

  Only Mud’s eyes were visible above the shaving cream.

  And they were registering only a trace of humor. Some other emotion crowded the deep blue. Something darker. Fierce, almost.

  “Of course not.”

  Dorothy could not look away, even as she felt the intensity of his appraisal slowly burning a path down the swath of black silk that ended high on her thighs. Her stomach knotted with sudden desire, and she reached for the closest object she could lay her hands on. Her curling iron.

  She hefted it and poked it in his direction.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I need to finish dressing.”

  “No problem,” Mud said. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes myself.”

  “Wait,” Dorothy said. She bit her lip. “I think I’ll head over first, if you don’t mind. I think I ought to spend a few minutes with Miranda alone, you know, before the guests all arrive.”

  Mud frowned, the white lather exaggerating his expressio
n. “Afraid I’ll blow it with her again?”

  “No, of course not.” Dorothy said quickly. A little too quickly. “I just—thought we could talk business a little. Maybe I can get a feel for where I stand.”

  “You’re the boss. I’ll make myself scarce for a while.”

  “Thanks.” Dorothy faltered, fixing her gaze on the floor’s tile pattern. “For...you know.”

  Mud mumbled something unintelligible, and closed the door gently.

  Dorothy finished dressing hastily, selecting her most reliable black dress and slicking on her makeup. She clipped on a simple strand of pearls and matching earrings, ran her fingers through her hair, and gave the mirror a final appraising glance.

  “Good luck,” she whispered to her reflection.

  As she made her way across the now-familiar flagstone path, Dorothy added yet another lie to the column weighing heavily on her conscience. It wasn’t the prospect of talking business with Miranda that led her to ask for the time alone. Not entirely. The truth was that the thought of strolling through the late summer evening on Mud’s arm was just a little too much to bear. Alone, she could turn a deaf ear to the melody of the crickets.

  Ignore the glorious scent of the flowerbeds, carried on a gentle breeze. Pretend the last rays of sun didn’t caress her skin with warmth as they slipped behind the trees.

  Alone, she could manage. Barely. But if Mud had been with her, all those sensations with combine with the...others, the ones only Mud could ignite. And she wasn’t sure if she could stand it, not knowing what she knew.

  That he was only fulfilling a duty. That in twenty-four hours, he would be out of her life again.

  “Oh my dear, you look spectacular!”

  Miranda greeted her from the back patio, arms outstretched. Dorothy accepted a kiss and returned the embrace, grateful for the woman’s warm reception.

  “No, you’re the one who looks captivating,” she said, and it was true. Miranda’s still-svelte figure was draped in a long stretch of silver that ended inches from the ground, her only adornment eye-popping diamond stud earrings.

  “Oh, this old thing?” Miranda teased. “Come, dear, let’s see if we can scare up a bit of champagne.”

  Inside, tuxedoed waiters made final preparations. Small tables dotted the broad sun porch; to the side, a long table held a lavish buffet. Silver buckets laden with creamy white roses rested on each table, and a jazz trio was warming up in a corner, their soft laughter spilling into short bursts of music.

  “Oh, Miranda,” Dorothy breathed. “It’s...wonderful! “

  “Oh, my, it’s not all that,” Miranda replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “When Walter was alive, we’d have the whole house filled with people. We used to roll up the carpets, years ago, and dance...” For a moment her eyes lost their focus, softening at the memory.

  Then a passing waiter caught her attention.

  “Some champagne, please, if you wouldn’t mind,” she said.

  In seconds they each held a crystal flute of amber champagne. Dorothy drank deeply. “Delicious,” she said.

  “Now what have you done with that darling boy?”

  Miranda’s tone was teasing, but Dorothy’s breath caught in her throat. She had to be careful.

  “Oh, you know how men are,” she said, feigning humor. “Waiting until the last minute to get ready. He’ll be here soon.”

  “Well, I’m glad you came over by yourself, as a matter of fact, dear,” Miranda said.

  “You are?”

  “Yes. There’s something I was wondering about.”

  Dorothy felt her heart quicken.

  “About what Mud was saying earlier. I’m afraid he may have given you an inaccurate view of his business. He can be so modest, you know, and—”

  Miranda wagged a hand dismissively. “No, it isn’t Mud. He seems like a bit of a maverick, but I can respect that in a man. To be honest, making toilet parts is not something I would be particularly inclined to pursue either. And the fact that he’s already in the sporting goods business dovetails nicely with Finesse, don’t you think?”

  Dumbfounded, Dorothy could only nod.

  “What I want to talk about, dear, is you. Your motivations. Your family. Where you see yourself. How you might fit in at Finesse.”

  Dorothy gulped. “Working for you, Miranda, would be my greatest achievement so far,” she said honestly.

  “I don’t doubt your ability,” Miranda replied quickly. “I’ve kept my eye on you, and you’re one of a kind. I don’t doubt that you could take Finesse to the next level.”

  But. Dorothy waited, sure she heard some unspoken hesitation in Miranda’s voice.

  She was right. Miranda twisted her champagne glass carefully in her slim fingers, then regarded Dorothy thoughtfully.

  “Your parents are academics, Dorothy. Scientists. And you’re every bit intelligent enough to follow in their footsteps. Why haven’t you?”

  The question surprised Dorothy. She had been prepared to defend her qualifications, her track record, her career goals. But it never occurred to her that Miranda might question her desire, her motivation.

  As her mind raced to frame an answer that would most enhance her goals, something gave way in Dorothy. Suddenly she was weary of manipulating the truth, of twisting things around to fit the profile of what Miranda was looking for. The burden of the ruse with Mud had exhausted her, and she longed to tell the truth. The simple truth.

  But suddenly the truth wasn’t simple. Not really.

  “I—I did want to be like them. At first.”

  Miranda encouraged her with a small nod and keen attentiveness in her eyes.

  “They were always so excited about whatever they were working on, it was hard not to get caught up in their enthusiasm. When they were in the middle of something, everything else suddenly fell between the cracks. They’d be up late into the night talking, off to the lab early in the mornings. It all seemed so exciting.

  “But as I got older, I started to understand I wasn’t cut out for the lab. Some days I would have traded every beaker in the lab for a real live human to talk to. That’s how I got into sales.”

  Miranda nodded her approval. “You like working with clients. I can tell. It’s impossible to fake something like that.”

  Dorothy nodded vigorously. “I do. At GilTec I had a good product and I really enjoyed growing its market. I can do the same thing for Finesse.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Miranda murmured, tilting her head slightly and regarding Dorothy with open curiosity. “But I would still like to know...maybe I’m prying, Dorothy, but there is something unique about your drive. Very few folks in the industry, women or men, seem to me to be likely to put their heart into something the way I hope someone will care for Finesse. You love your work, don’t you, my dear? It’s in the blood?”

  Dorothy flushed. Miranda saw into her so well. She felt exposed, frightened; but at the same time safe because she was with Miranda, who she trusted implicitly.

  “My parents have passion,” she said quietly, staring at the bubbles that slowly drifted up from the bottom of her glass. “I always envied that. It seems to make their lives so rich. I don’t remember a day that either of them wanted to stay in bed rather than get out and live.”

  “And they were passionate for each other, as well?”

  Dorothy simply nodded. Of course, Miranda had guessed at the truth...though perhaps she didn’t see quite how much Dorothy envied the consuming devotion her parents had for each other.

  But she also understood that such a bond was rare. Like so many scientific breakthroughs, that once-in-a-lifetime kind of love was the result more of luck than of determination, of being in the right place at the right time, of fate smiling for a fraction of a second.

  Dorothy knew instinctively that she would never know such love.

  “Such a gift, that is. Walter and I had that. Truth be told, that is the secret to the success of Finesse. It was built on a foundation as
solid as our own bond, fueled through the tough times by the commitment we had to each other.”

  “You were lucky,” Dorothy said wistfully.

  “We were. So we were.” Miranda zeroed her gaze on Dorothy and smiled a crafty smile. “And now you will be the lucky ones. It’s your love, you and Mud, that will ensure that Finesse continues to thrive.”

  Miranda reached for Dorothy’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze. Guilt seeped in and silenced whatever response she might have managed. She returned Miranda’s squeeze and tried to smile, averting her eyes so Miranda wouldn’t read the betrayal written there.

  A melodious chord rang, giving her a reprieve. Miranda’s eyes lit up.

  “Guests!” She exclaimed. “Come, I must take up my hostess duties and I do so want to show you off.”

  Dorothy allowed herself to be led through the house, following the older woman and, she was sure, trailing her own cloud of deception behind her.

  An hour later the house was filled with the sounds of laughter and warm conversation, and men in tuxedoes paired with women in evening gowns. Despite a couple of glasses of champagne, Dorothy’s nerves were taut. She felt very much alone, even as Miranda kept up a steady supply of introductions, and her many friends and associates professed their delight at meeting “the woman Miranda talks so much about”.

  Everything was all wrong, somehow. She wasn’t a part of this crowd. Her black dress, with its long, fitted sleeves and simple neckline, couldn’t compete with the jewel tones and luxurious fabrics draped on the women. Diamonds and gold flashed in abundance. She recognized several attractive people from the society pages; other familiar faces she’d read about in the business pages, high level executives in the companies that supplied Finesse Sportswear or carried their products.

  Who was she fooling? She didn’t have the polish, the credentials to mix in this crowd. There must have been dozens of more-qualified candidates for the job that Miranda was, in her own unique way, looking to fill. That Dorothy was under consideration spoke more about her willingness to go to questionable lengths to land the job, than to Dorothy’s ability to do it.