reasonably attractive. Let’s swing the hammer and ring the bell.” She unfolded herself from the bed and plunged into Tia’s closet.
Carrie was a stockbroker. Tia’s stockbroker. Somehow during their six-year association they’d become friends. She was Tia’s image of the modern, independent woman, the type who normally would have intimidated Tia into muscle spasms.
And had until they’d discovered a mutual interest in alternative medicine and Italian shoes.
Thirty, divorced, professionally successful, Carrie dated a string of interesting, eclectic men, could analyze the Dow Jones or Kafka with equal authority and vacationed solo every year, selecting the location by sticking a pin in an atlas.
There was no one Tia trusted more in matters of finance, fashion or men.
“Here, the classic little black number.” Carrie pulled out a simple sleeveless sheath. “We’ll sex it up a bit.”
“I’m not looking for sex.”
“That, as I’ve told you for years, is your core problem.” She stepped out of the closet, then studied Tia. “I wish we had more time. I’d call my stylist, get him to squeeze you in.”
“You know I don’t go to salons. All those chemicals, and the hair flying everywhere. You don’t know what you might pick up.”
“A decent haircut, for one thing. I’m telling you, you’d really open your face up, accent your bone structure and your eyes if you’d just get that mop whacked off.”
Carrie tossed the dress on the bed, then gathered Tia’s long hair in her hand. “Let me do it.”
“Not as long as I still have a brain wave pattern,” she chided. “Just help me get through the evening, Carrie. Then he’ll go back to Ireland or wherever, and things’ll get back to normal.”
Carrie hoped not. As far as she was concerned her friend had entirely too much normal in her life.
MALACHI THOUGHT THE flowers were a nice touch. Pink roses. She struck him as the type for pink roses. He was afraid he was going to have to rush her a bit, and he regretted that. She also struck him as the type for slow, rather sweet seductions. And oddly, he thought he’d enjoy seducing her, slowly.
But he couldn’t spare the time. He wasn’t at all sure he should have left home, not before Gideon had returned. The fact that Anita had managed to track down the Toliver woman worried him.
Was it another case of her trailing their path, or were their routes just coinciding? Either way, he was absolutely sure that Anita would move on Tia soon. If she hadn’t already.
He needed to get his pitch in, to lure Tia over to his side before Anita could confuse matters.
So here he was, toting a dozen pink rosebuds to the door of Wyley’s ancestor while his brother was God-knew-where with one of White-Smythe’s.
He’d have preferred striding to Anita’s door, and leading with his boot there. If he hadn’t promised his mother—who had the good sense not to want her oldest son locked in a foreign jail—he’d have done just that.
Still, when it came down to it, spending the evening having dinner with a pretty woman was a better bet than dragging one all over Europe as Gideon was doing.
He knocked, waited, then was caught off balance when she opened the door. “You look fantastic.”
Tia struggled not to tug at the hem of the little black dress that Carrie had ruthlessly shortened a full two inches. Carrie had chosen the opera-length pearls, too, and was responsible for the hairstyle that added a few wispy bangs and whisked the rest away in a long fall down the back.
“Thank you. Those are lovely.”
“I thought they suited you.”
“Would you like to sit down? Have a drink before we go? I have some wine.”
“I’d like that, yes.”
“Well, I’ll just put these in some water.” She restrained herself from mentioning she was relatively sure she’d inherited her mother’s allergy to roses. Instead, she chose an old Baccarat vase from her display cabinet. She carried them back into
Carrie was a stockbroker. Tia’s stockbroker. Somehow during their six-year association they’d become friends. She was Tia’s image of the modern, independent woman, the type who normally would have intimidated Tia into muscle spasms.
And had until they’d discovered a mutual interest in alternative medicine and Italian shoes.
Thirty, divorced, professionally successful, Carrie dated a string of interesting, eclectic men, could analyze the Dow Jones or Kafka with equal authority and vacationed solo every year, selecting the location by sticking a pin in an atlas.
There was no one Tia trusted more in matters of finance, fashion or men.
“Here, the classic little black number.” Carrie pulled out a simple sleeveless sheath. “We’ll sex it up a bit.”
“I’m not looking for sex.”
“That, as I’ve told you for years, is your core problem.” She stepped out of the closet, then studied Tia. “I wish we had more time. I’d call my stylist, get him to squeeze you in.”
“You know I don’t go to salons. All those chemicals, and the hair flying everywhere. You don’t know what you might pick up.”
“A decent haircut, for one thing. I’m telling you, you’d really open your face up, accent your bone structure and your eyes if you’d just get that mop whacked off.”
Carrie tossed the dress on the bed, then gathered Tia’s long hair in her hand. “Let me do it.”
“Not as long as I still have a brain wave pattern,” she chided. “Just help me get through the evening, Carrie. Then he’ll go back to Ireland or wherever, and things’ll get back to normal.”
Carrie hoped not. As far as she was concerned her friend had entirely too much normal in her life.
MALACHI THOUGHT THE flowers were a nice touch. Pink roses. She struck him as the type for pink roses. He was afraid he was going to have to rush her a bit, and he regretted that. She also struck him as the type for slow, rather sweet seductions. And oddly, he thought he’d enjoy seducing her, slowly.
But he couldn’t spare the time. He wasn’t at all sure he should have left home, not before Gideon had returned. The fact that Anita had managed to track down the Toliver woman worried him.
Was it another case of her trailing their path, or were their routes just coinciding? Either way, he was absolutely sure that Anita would move on Tia soon. If she hadn’t already.
He needed to get his pitch in, to lure Tia over to his side before Anita could confuse matters.
So here he was, toting a dozen pink rosebuds to the door of Wyley’s ancestor while his brother was God-knew-where with one of White-Smythe’s.
He’d have preferred striding to Anita’s door, and leading with his boot there. If he hadn’t promised his mother—who had the good sense not to want her oldest son locked in a foreign jail—he’d have done just that.
Still, when it came down to it, spending the evening having dinner with a pretty woman was a better bet than dragging one all over Europe as Gideon was doing.
He knocked, waited, then was caught off balance when she opened the door. “You look fantastic.”
Tia struggled not to tug at the hem of the little black dress that Carrie had ruthlessly shortened a full two inches. Carrie had chosen the opera-length pearls, too, and was responsible for the hairstyle that added a few wispy bangs and whisked the rest away in a long fall down the back.
“Thank you. Those are lovely.”
“I thought they suited you.”
“Would you like to sit down? Have a drink before we go? I have some wine.”
“I’d like that, yes.”
“Well, I’ll just put these in some water.” She restrained herself from mentioning she was relatively sure she’d inherited her mother’s allergy to roses. Instead, she chose an old Baccarat vase from her display cabinet. She carried them back into
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