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from
HQN Books...
Chapter One Rosie sat at her newly assigned table on the herringbone brick terrace, her chin in her hand, watching appreciatively as Doug Llewellyn made his way through the crowd to the bar to get them each a cold beer. He looked as good going as he did coming, a tall, well put-together guy of about forty — a young forty. He probably played golf, maybe even tennis, and worked out three times a week. Maybe he sailed, or went sculling on the Schuykill, because she could remember that Bettie had told her that her Philadelphia cousin was to be one of the week-long guests. He'd gotten that tan somewhere outdoors, and not in a salon. She could tell, because he didn't have that tell-tale white around his eyes from those funny little plastic eye protectors. Rosie wasn't a judgmental person by nature, but there was something about seeing those small oval white patches on a man's face and then imagining him oiling up and lying in one of those coffin-like tanning tubes that ... well, that didn't exactly fit her idea of a fail-safe aphrodisiac. Back to her inventory. She liked his hair, which was thick, nearly pitch black, and just a little too long to be considered Ivy League. But it was his eyes that really got to her. Grey eyes. She was a real sucker for great eyes, and couldn't remember the last time she'd seen true grey eyes. They fascinated her, especially with those small laugh line crinkles at the outside edges. He dressed like an Armani model, but looked a little bit more like a Ralph Lauren model, now that she thought about it. Smooth, but not too smooth, then again, most definitely never rumpled. Casually, unaffectedly handsome ... the sort that didn't have to work at looking great, didn't seem aware of how good he looked. Effortlessly gorgeous. And he was a good kisser. Possibly even a terrific kisser. When she considered the thing from every angle, and right now she was considering his profile — that straight nose, the clean cut of his chin — she was pretty proud of her judgment. This could be an interesting week ... "Rosie Kilgannon — how could you?" Rosie reluctantly dragged her eyes away from Doug and turned to smile up innocently at Bettie Rossman. "How could I what, Bettie?" Bettie sat down with a little too much emphasis, and winced. "Damn that caterer for forgetting the cushions. Who wants to sit directly on cast iron? The chairs in the sun are too hot, the ones in the shade are too cold, and all of them are too hard. Well, he'd better be here first thing tomorrow morning, or he can kiss ten percent of his fee goodbye." Rosie selected a fat almond from the crystal dish on the table and popped it into her mouth. "No wedding ever goes completely smoothly, Bettie," she told her commiseratingly. "I think everything's beautiful." "You would. You have no idea of the chaos in the kitchen. Half the quail have burned and all they can find to replace them are chickens. Chickens! They're huge, not at all dainty, like quail," Bettie told her, picking up a pecan and stuffing it in her mouth. "Not that I'm going to eat dinner. I can't afford to put anything past my lips except yogurt and my usual egg-white omelets if I want to have a prayer of getting into my gown next Sunday. As it is, this pecan is probably going to go right to my hips." Rosie shook her head. Bettie Rossman was nearly as thin as the pole holding up the umbrella over her head. Thin, too tan, a shade too blonde, and probably only one or two facelifts behind Joan Rivers. "I shouldn't remind you, but I think you sat down here to yell at me." "God, yes, I most certainly did," the older woman said, glaring in Doug's general direction. "Him, I understand. But not you, Rosie. You know who he is, don't you? And I distinctly told you to stay away from him. Stay away from my cousin Doug, that's exactly what I told you. He's a confirmed bachelor, has women hanging on him all the time, and breaks hearts at least once a week. I love you, and I don't want you anywhere near him. You do remember me telling you all of that?" "I do, but I'm confused. You don't want me around him, but you do want him near Millicent Balfry? Don't you love her, too?" "Of course I love her. I adore her, she's been my friend since forever." Bettie flushed beneath her tan. "The thing is, Millicent's been divorced for nearly a year. She needs a little personal male ... attention." Rosie cocked her head to one side. "Why, Bettie Rossman, you dirty old woman, you. You're setting your cousin up as her bed partner?" "As her stud muffin, yes, I won't lie." Bettie leaned closer. "Nearly a year, Rosie. They can say what they want about C batteries, I'm here to tell you they're not the same. The woman needs a little fun." "And your cousin is supposed to provide that fun." Rosie rested her chin in her palm as she leaned her elbow on the tabletop. "That's ... well, that's fascinating." "Yes, damn it, it is. And it isn't as if she wouldn't be grateful. The thing is, Millicent tells me everything, and I've been dying to know what's so special about Doug. You know — does he have special tricks he does, that sort of thing? Maybe he's very good at certain things? Maybe, you know, that one very special thing? He's certainly never without women chasing him, so there has to be something. I know — money, good looks. But there's something more, I'm sure of it." Rosie didn't know whether to laugh or be horrified. Or intrigued; she was, after all, human. And Millicent Balfry wasn't the only one who'd had a slow year. "Oh, okay, I understand now — inquiring minds want to know. Doug takes Millicent into his bed, performs his tricks, and you get to find out what they are. Bettie, that's disgusting. He's your cousin." "Exactly, so I'll never be able to find out anything for myself, will I? I do have my limits. And you would never tell me, so I want you to stay away. Oh, shush, here he comes," Bettie said, getting to her feet and smoothing down her coral linen sheath before holding out her arms to Doug. "Darling, darling Douglas — I'd about given you up, you naughty man. Come here and give your cousin a kiss." Rosie watched as Bettie threw her arms around Doug a nanosecond after he'd deposited two glasses on the table and gave him a fairly un-cousinly kiss, then continued to look on with amusement as he untangled himself, taking hold of his cousin's hands, probably in self-protection. "Don't you look wonderful, Bettie — and much too young to be the mother of the bride. Where's George?" "George?" Bettie repeated, shrugging. "Knowing my husband, he and a few of his golf bum friends are holed up in his den, drinking Scotch and watching some tournament on the flat screen. He even played eighteen holes this morning, with everyone arriving today, and expressly against my wishes. I learned long ago that I don't need to know where George is, Doug. I just need to know where he keeps the checkbook." "There's nothing like honesty. You're such a breath of fresh air, Bettie," Doug said, letting go of her hands. "Once again, I've been instructed to tell you that my parents send their regrets." "Yes, your mother called the day they left. She's horrified to miss Lili-beth's nuptials — simply beside herself. But they did send the most lovely engraved silver compote for the happy couple. Oh, by the way, Douglas, you seem to be sitting at the wrong table." Rosie watched, amused, as Doug raised one expressive eyebrow. "You've assigned seats for a picnic? What's next, sweetheart — we all wear those large paper name tags plastered to our chests? Hi, I'm Doug — what's your name?" Rosie stuffed a knuckle in her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Bettie's mascared eyelids narrowed as she considered the question from the only angle she understood: hers. "Name tags? Don't be ridiculous, Douglas — most of these women are wearing pure, designer silk. Glue would stick to the fabric horribly, and pins would simply ruin good materials, so don't even suggest those. No, that would never work." Then she turned to glare down at Rosie, who had somehow refrained from banging her fists on the table in mirth. "What? What's so funny?" "Nothing," Rosie promised, quickly reaching for her glass of beer. "You only think I'm laughing." Bettie, one of those otherwise nice but unfortunate people born without a sense of humor — and definitely no ear for sarcasm — sighed and turned back to her cousin. "And why must you always be so contrary? I've worked hard on this wedding, Doug, harder than you can imagine, and seating charts are a bear — just the very worst. The least you could do is be cooperative." "Ah, but I know you. You tried to set me up with one of your friends today, Bettie. I'll never be that cooperative," he said quietly, "and you should know that by now. But thanks for the Bachelor Suite. There's a lock on the door, I sincerely hope?" "Bachelor Quarter," Bettie corrected. "You know, like the French Quarter? And I have no idea what you're implying. You're a guest at my daughter's wedding, and that's all." Doug bent down to kiss his cousin's cheek. "Now that's what I wanted to hear, Betts." "Don't call me Betts. I hate Betts. And ... and you've ruined everything! What am I going to tell Millicent? I promised her you'd be her escort for the week." "You shouldn't have done that, Bettie," Doug told her, no longer smiling. "Not for me, and not for Ms. Kilgannon, here, who has just agreed to be my companion for the week. We're considering ourselves rebels with a cause, I suppose you can say, as neither of us is interested in being one of your romantic experiments. Or we could both leave?" Rosie raised her hand as if she wished to be called on in class. "I think Quint is looking for someone to hang on his arm and look at least half as interested in him as he is — would that make everything all right again?" Bettie looked at Rosie as if she'd grown another head. "Oh, you don't know, do you? Millicent took back her maiden name — Quint is her ex. They loathe each other. I couldn't possibly put them together and hope they wouldn't kill each other and ruin Lili-beth's wedding. And you can't leave, neither of you, or you'll upset all the numbers — they're perfect, and they can't be rearranged without unbalancing one of the tables. I planned for all tens and a few eights, but certainly not sixes — the tables aren't the right size for sixes. As it is, I'm going to have to rework all the seating charts. If only priests could marry — but it did work out, pairing him with Aunt Susanna, I suppose, as long as he doesn't mind when she falls asleep over dessert. Father Rourke shouldn't mind that, should he — don't they take vows of patience or something? Still, I don't have any extra singles, so I'll have to reshuffle the ones I do have, and keep Quint and Millicent at least three tables apart." She threw up her hands. "And I thought the quails were bad? This is a fiasco! Douglas Llewellyn, I will never forgive you for this — never!" "I'm so sorry, Bettie." Rosie asked, getting to her feet. "If you find out that you can't reshuffle the place cards to work out for you, I'll leave, if that helps." "Don't be silly. You can't leave — I told you, even numbers. If just you left it would upset things even more. What would I do with a table of seven? I forbid you to leave. As a matter of fact," she said, looking from Rosie to Doug and then back again, "this may be just fine. You two deserve each other. Just don't think you can change partners again. You're stuck which each other, both of you, for the entire week." Doug watched as his cousin flounced off, then sat down and turned to Rosie. "She sure got her shots in, didn't she? Now what do you suppose she meant by that deserve each other crack?" Rosie shrugged. "I'm not sure. She's always after me for dating too many men and not settling down with any of them. You wouldn't happen to be the love 'em and leave 'em type, would you?" "Some people might think so. I'd much rather consider myself merely as unattached ... and very friendly." "Then that's probably what Bettie was hinting at with her parting shot. Here's to being very friendly," Rosie said, lifting her glass so that they could clink them together. "Why can't people understand that not everyone is in a hurry to get married? Why must they always think they need to set us up with someone? What's so great about marriage, anyway? It doesn't seem to have done much good for Millicent and Quint — and Bettie and George sure don't come off as Romeo and Juliet." "I hope not — they both died, remember? Tragically." Rosie took a sip of ice-cold beer, shivering as it hit the back of her throat. "Good point. And I'm not knocking marriage. There's nothing wrong with it. If only I could get my friends to understand that I'm not ready for that sort of commitment, and stop throwing guys at my head. Especially newly divorced guys. Believe me, they're the worst, and who wants to be the rebound woman who gets to hear about the ex-wife every day — how she's bleeding him dry, how she never understood him, how she was so cold in bed, etc, etc?" "You don't believe them?" "Are you kidding? There are two sides to every marriage, and every divorce — and heaven save me from the men who refuse to figure out that they were at least half the problem. What about you? Millicent is divorced. Is that your usual date?" She watched as Doug seemed to be considering her question. Gosh, he had great eyes. "How honest are we going to be here?" he asked at last. "I don't know. We're allies, right, as well as prey? You and me against Bettie's matchmaking schemes? Watching each other's backs until the wedding's over and we can escape? I guess we should be honest with each other, maybe even share trade secrets." Doug looked at his half-full glass, then drained its contents. "All right. Honesty. I don't have your problems because I'm very ... careful about the women I see." "Do tell," Rosie said, resting her chin in her hand. He looked so serious. "So what you're saying is that I'm not careful enough? How does one go about being careful?" "For you? I don't know. It's probably different for women." "Maybe. If a guy has never married he's usually a mama's boy — present company excepted, I most sincerely hope — and I already told you about the divorced ones. As my friends love to remind me — the pickings are pretty slim once you've been out there on your own for more than five or ten years. So come on, give me Doug Llewellyn's patented, surefire way to happy, commitment-free dating." "I just know what works for me." He shook his head. "And I don't believe I'm talking about this with you." Rosie deliberately batted her eyelashes at him. "You can't help it. It's this open and trusting face of mine — see? Everyone tells me everything, sooner or later. We just told Bettie we're going to be pals for the week, so you might as well make it sooner." "Pals? Really? I think I'm looking forward to hearing your definition of pals. But all right, here goes. Just remember — you did ask. It comes down to age. I've made it a rule to only date women between the age of consent and twenty-six." Rosie tried not to laugh because the man did look serious, and because she wanted to hear more. "You're kidding, right?" "No. Twenty-six. Lately, up to twenty-eight. But that's pretty much the cut-off." "Okay, twenty-eight. Would you mind telling me why? You have a theory here, right? I'd love to know how you arrived at it before I start robbing the cradle for my own dates. I mean, one of the valets out front is pretty cute, but I'm not sure he needs to shave more than twice a week. So you're going to have to nail this down better for me, Doug, if you don't mind. Do you think age of consent to twenty-eight would work for me, or should I have to operate within more limited parameters?" Doug used a single finger to root through the nut dish and came up with the last Macadamia nut in the assortment. "This is ridiculous. I can't believe we're having this conversation." "No, no, it's not ridiculous, and I'm loving this conversation. Not if this age thing is a theory you live by, one that's been successful for you. I'm considering it an intellectual discussion, even if I am laughing," Rosie pointed out, grinning at him. This was fun, this was a lot of fun — definitely more fun than listening to Quint blow his own horn. "What happens when a woman turns twenty-eight? Does she get too territorial? Oh, and that's the last Macadamia, and I want it." "Well, hell, as long as you're enjoying yourself. And I just turned forty — I might stretch that to twenty-nine now. The ages are just guidelines, but I can be flexible, in the right circumstances." Doug held up the nut as if inspecting it for flaws. "Macadamias are expensive. Do you suppose Bettie had her caterer count them out? You know, three per bowl, and everyone else has to be happy with pecans and peanuts?" Ah, wasn't that cute — he was trying to change the subject. "I don't know. I don't care. Be a gentleman like your momma taught you and hand over that nut." "If you insist. Open up." Rosie rolled her eyes but did as he said, then clamped her teeth lightly around his finger and thumb, ran the edge of her tongue across the tips before letting him go. His reaction was halfway between surprise and pleasure, just what she'd hoped for. "Don't panic. Bettie was looking, and I'm perverted enough to want to tick her off after what she tried to do to me — and to you, of course," she told him. "Now, one more time — why twenty-nine? Do we women turn into hags at thirty? I'm thirty-two, by the way, so you might want to think about that answer before you open your mouth and I have to hurt you." "Thirty-two? You don't look it." "Thank you, I guess." He grinned at her, showing off those sexy crinkles around his eyes. "Making you entirely too old for me." Rosie sat back against the cast iron that was, as Bettie had said, cold in the shade. Did she just hear what she thought she'd heard? "And you're an old man of forty. Maybe you're too old for me. Have you considered that one?" "To tell you the truth? No, I never considered that. Women are, as a rule, much more flexible when it comes to age. And it's not really age, Rosie — it's inclination on the woman's part, combined with the need for self-protection on mine. Look — women in their early to mid-twenties are just out of the uncertainty of their teenage years, they're on their own, they want to experience life without commitments." "Girls just want to have fun. I see. Fascinating. And after age twenty-six — or twenty-nine? Don't we want to have fun anymore?" He refused to look at her, probably because she couldn't stop grinning like a loon. "You still want to have fun, but you also want commitment. You start hearing your biological clocks ticking, and it's not just a good time you're looking for anymore. It's not fair for a man who doesn't plan on ever marrying — that would be me, Rosie — to date a woman who's ready to settle down. So I steer clear." "Gosh, how generous of you," Rosie said, finally losing her smile. "I'll bet you'll be up for some great humanitarian award any time now." He sat back in his chair. "And now you're angry. I knew this honesty business was going to backfire. Laying it all out upfront isn't everything it's cracked up to be, is it?" "Not on this subject, no, I don't think so," Rosie agreed, holding her beer glass between her palms, watching the foam as it disappeared bubble by bubble. "It's funny. I never thought of myself as being too old for a forty year old man. But it's good to know this, it really is. We understand each other now. So what do we do? Switch back the name cards? I mean, I wouldn't want to annoy you with the ticking of my biological clock." "I thought you said you weren't interested in marriage." "I'm not. I hate to skew your bell curve or whatever it is, but I'm still having fun. I'm building my business, I like living alone and being responsible only for me. I don't even own a cat. And I really can't dislike you because I'm very much like you — unattached and liking it. We're a good fit for the week, Doug, especially now that we ... understand each other. After all, neither of us can say we haven't been warned." "So we'll watch each other's backs in case Bettie's got some other matrimonial prospects she's thinking of dragging out for us, enjoy each other's company, and when the week is over, go our separate ways? Is that what you're saying? And why am I wondering if I've suddenly lost my capacity for beer and I'm drunk on one small glass?" Rosie thought this over for a few seconds. The plan seemed sound. And, damn, he was cute. And honest. Honest was something a woman didn't see a lot of out in the dating world. "It will make things easier. Unless you see some twenty-five year old bridesmaid or something and beg out of our bargain. Oh, and the same for me, just in case some gorgeous hunk shows up and winks at me. Agreed?" Doug leaned his elbows on the tabletop. "How ... how together are you thinking we should be? Sitting beside each other at meals together? Participating in pre-wedding events together? Spending all our time together? Do we fake a romance to keep Bettie away? Do we do more than fake it if we find ourselves so inclined?" "I don't know," Rosie answered honestly because, like Doug, she was nothing if not honest ... most of the time. "I'm still not sure I like you. You appeal to me, definitely, I won't lie about that one because you wouldn't believe me, and I'm fairly certain I appeal to you. But maybe you're a little shallow. I know I am, so I recognize the type. So, for now, I don't see any inclined stuff going on, sorry." Doug nodded his head slightly at her words. "So you think I'm shallow? I don't know, Rosie Kilgannon, but that sounded an awful lot like a biological clock I heard ticking just now. I thought you said you were still in the girls just want to have fun category. Shallow should work for you." Rosie longed to slap his handsome, smiling face. "Don't do that. Don't point it out when I contradict myself. I've ... I've just never had a conversation like this before. I doubt anyone has. Face it, how many times does anyone have a warts-and-all discussion like this, reveal this much of themselves to anyone else, let alone someone they just met — unless it's two strangers baring their souls on a plane just before it nosedives into the ocean? I feel ... selfish. I think you're selfish, too. Thinking of ourselves first, last, and always. It isn't a pleasant realization. I look at you, I listen to you, and I feel like I'm listening to myself as I look in a mirror." "All right," he answered, draining his beer glass. "You making sense, because I'm feeling pretty much the same way. Some things probably just shouldn't be said out loud — especially to the opposite sex." "Meaning that business about how you think I'm too old to be happy just dating, having fun? Meaning that any woman over the age of thirty should be thinking wedding gowns and white picket fences? Oh, and two-point-five kiddies?" "No, I don't mean — well, maybe. What seems perfectly normal and reasonable behavior for me just doesn't seem normal and reasonable for a woman, that's all I'm saying. Does that make me a male chauvinist pig?" "Very possibly, yes. Or just confused. Let's forget me for a minute, all right, and concentrate on you. You said you just turned forty, right? Doug, do you realize that Lili-beth is twenty-five? You're dating women the same age as your second cousin. It's not unreasonable, but what happens in another ten years, when you've just turned fifty? Then a twenty-five year old will be young enough to be your daughter, for crying out loud. Yes, I think you have a problem heading your way down the line, buddy-boy. Maybe not yet, but soon. I mean — forty? Don't look now, Don Juan, but you're not thirty-nine anymore. Play time may soon be over." Doug looked at her levelly. "You should meet my mother. You two have a lot in common." "No, thanks. I'm not interested in the meet-my-mother stuff yet, remember? It's like I told you — I'm still building my business and enjoying myself. I don't have any room in my life for anything or anyone else, not on a serious level anyway. But you? I don't know, Doug, but it might soon be time for Peter Pan to grow up. But don't worry, the moment you do, Bettie will be right there with another Millicent for you." Rosie noticed that somewhere during that last exchange, Doug had winced, actually winced. What had she said that finally penetrated, hit him? Was it when she'd said that thing about Peter Pan? Yeah, that was the moment. Poor guy. Then again, hadn't more than a few female actors played the part of Peter Pan? Was she talking to Doug, but also looking at herself again in that mental mirror? How had they begun this strange conversation? How could it possibly end? "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind, but for now, let's change the subject. Tell me about your business." Ah, he'd been thinking the same thing: change the subject. Good! "Really? So we've still got a deal?" "We've still got a deal, with a few terms yet to be negotiated. Now tell me the truth — you're a divorce lawyer, right?" Rosie laughed out loud. "No, far from it. I design websites — lately, mostly for romance authors." He sat back in his chair and fairly goggled at her. "You're kidding, right?" "No, romance authors. And, wow, you're still not running. Maybe it's that old age thing, creeping up on you. Should I give you a head start? Count to ten, or something?" "Yeah, it's hard to run these days, dragging this oxygen tank around with me, and my walker. Or maybe I'm just too stunned to remember how my legs work. Aren't romance writers the champions of romantic fantasy and happily ever after?" "Only if you listen to people who don't read romances. The authors write about commitment to one person, about trust, honesty, and mutual respect." She grinned. "And sometimes about handsome vampires and sexy werewolves — but we won't go there, right?" "Vampires? You're right, let's not go there. I think I've had enough information, thank you. But you design websites for romance writers while you aren't looking for that commitment, trust, honesty, and — what was that last one you said?" "Mutual respect. And I'm not saying I'm against any of that. It's all good stuff. I'm just not in the market yet, that's all, even at the advanced age of thirty-two. There are exceptions to every rule, Doug, even yours. However, the bridesmaid making her way over here while pretending she isn't probably isn't one of them, as I'm pretty sure she meets your girls who still just want to have fun requirements." Doug turned in his seat just as a young blonde who must have gotten caps for her birthday and boobs for Christmas rounded the nearest table and headed their way. He looked back at Rosie. "Is she for real?" "Not all of her, I'm pretty sure," Rosie told him sweetly. "That's Ki-Ki — don't remember if I heard her last name when we were introduced. She's Lili-beth's maid of honor. I love the names some rich people give their kids — probably to punish them for ruining mommy's figure for nine months. Anyway, Ki-Ki's in her mid-twenties I'd say, just like Lili-beth, and well within the parameters you've set for your dates. Don't look now, partner, but I'm betting she thinks you're a perfect fit for her, too. Gosh, do you think she has a daddy complex?" Doug shook his head as he closed his eyes, sighed theatrically. "Please tell me you aren't going to make my dating preferences into a running joke for the rest of the week." "I can't promise, sorry. Okay, look again, she's expecting you to take a second look. Oh, what am I telling you that for? You know the rules. Heck, you're probably old enough to have written a couple of them." "See if I ever give you my last Macadamia nut again, Ms. Kilgannon," Doug said, grimacing. Then he did as she said and Ki-ki stopped, posed, smiled, and then continued on her way to the table. Doug turned his back on the smile and the hip wiggle. "Why do I suddenly feel so old? If I get down on my knees, apologizing for every stupid word I've said in the past hour, will you save me?" "Well, there still are some terms to be negotiated." "Anything you want. Anything. Lili-beth probably has a dozen more bridesmaids just like her. Thanks to you, I won't be able to look at any of them without thinking about Lili-beth. You found me in a weak moment, Rosie Kilgannon, and you've ruined me — now you have to save me." "In that case," Rosie said, leaning toward him provocatively, "kiss me, you fool." Doug grinned in obvious relief, the poor man. "Like I mean it?" Men were so easy. Rosie returned his smile as she breathed, a mere inch from his mouth, "Oh, I'm not worried about that. You will ..." -------- Order Everything's Coming Up Rosie online at Amazon.com or at BarnesandNoble.com. |
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