Divine Design (2 page)

Michael Ramsey was dog-tired and frustrated when he entered the cocktail lounge on the main floor of the Essex House Hotel. He’d taken the late flight out of Dallas the night before, and since nine o’clock that morning, he’d been discussing preliminary plans to buy out a company named Dobson Publishing. It was perfect for his needs—good reputation, moderate size, excellent facilities, superb staff. But Lord, those Dobson brothers could hem and haw. They quibbled and dickered over every point as if Michael, too, were haggling … and he wasn’t. He was very aware of what selling out meant to the two men and was more than willing to meet their demands. But after three or four hours with the picky old gentlemen, Michael’s patience and understanding had begun to wear thin. He’d be glad when he could turn the whole deal over to his lawyers.

He should have gone straight up to his room, but he needed to unwind—a lot—before he would be able to sleep.

After the waitress had come and gone, leaving his drink behind, Michael looked around the lounge. Not many unattached women were out tonight, he noted absently. The majority of the people present were men in ties and suits, and an occasional woman in a business suit or casual dress. There were also several couples who were obviously out for a romantic night on the town. Lucky them, he thought wryly.

His attention finally settled on the group of men in front of him and the woman who had been staring at him earlier. She seemed to be throwing out topics for discussion, and the men were responding with animated conversation. She was probably a secretary, he speculated. As he watched, the woman turned her head slightly, looking from man to man, and as she did so, to Michael’s bemused amazement, her hair changed colors.

As the soft lights in the darkened lounge reflected off the top of her head, her shiny red hair went from a golden copper color to chestnut, then to a flame red, and then to a deep, dark brick red. His weary, enfeebled brain found it fascinating. For several minutes he watched her in a daze.

His eyes narrowed slightly as the woman began to straighten her spine, sitting taller in her seat, her head held high. When she gave him a quick, sidelong glance, he knew she was still very aware of him.

He was amused. Women were one of his favorite sports. He tremendously enjoyed watching them use their tactics on men. He couldn’t count the times a woman had set her cap for him and then proceeded to maneuver and connive to get his attentions. It was almost like a game to him to set his wits against those of the formidable fairer sex.

With the survival of his bachelorhood in mind, he sized up his latest possible opponent. Well, maybe she wasn’t too much of a threat after all, he thought disappointedly. Considering the way she had quickly turned away when he had caught her looking at him, and the stylish but prim way she dressed, she was probably as shy as a church mouse. Too bad, he thought, because aside from her gorgeous hair, she also had incredible legs—beautifully shaped, and damned near as long as his.

As he examined her stems, the shy flower stood to take leave of the gentlemen. Michael’s gaze followed the long, shapely limbs up to the voluptuous curves and bulges barely concealed by the conservative skirt and jacket. “Good Lord,” he lamented out loud, thinking it was probably just as well that she was timid. Take down that hair, take off the glasses, and she could be a very dangerous woman.

He watched as she reluctantly turned toward him. She hesitated several seconds before she resolutely started walking toward his table. Nothing could conceal her lithe movements or the subtly seductive sway of her hips. For the first time he got a good look at her face. Her skin was creamy white, her high cheekbones flushed with a rosy glow. She had a pert, little nose that turned up slightly, and the way her chin was set at a stubbornly determined angle very much appealed to Michael.

Her eyes startled him. She looked at him straight on, and he was amazed that even through the glasses he could see how purely green they were. Her eyes were as green as her hair was red, not hazel or a mossy green, but almost a true kelly green. It fleetingly crossed his mind that she was indeed a “bonny Irish lass.”

“Excuse me,” she said softly. “Could I bother you by asking you a few questions?”

Michael had stood when she arrived at his table. She couldn’t be more than six inches shorter than I am, he thought with pleasure. At least if I kissed her, I wouldn’t have to get down on my knees to do it. The idea brought his gaze to her lips, which were soft and luscious looking. Pulling himself together as much as possible, he smiled at her.

“Certainly. What sort of questions?” he asked, offering her the chair opposite him.

“Well, it’s a survey actually,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. The man was magnificent. Meghan couldn’t remember ever feeling so nervous or self-conscious around a man. She didn’t care if he was from out of town or not at this point. If he was, he’d fit into her plan perfectly. If he was a full-blooded New Yorker … well, so what. Her first choice would have been to have a legal daddy for her baby, anyway; that he was big and gorgeous and sent her heart racing wouldn’t hurt, either.

He looked at her with a bold honesty that made her feel as though she had “phony” written across her forehead. His face was tanned and he had little laugh lines around his eyes, eyes which were an unusual steel gray, almost teal color. Knowing instinctively that, barring venereal disease or mental illness, he was the one, she gave him extra credit for his eyes. Meghan wouldn’t mind at all if her baby had his eyes and hair—it was time for a little color variation in the Shay family.

The woman was staring at him again. Poor thing. Wanting to help her, Michael prompted, “What sort of survey?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m working on a sociology thesis. There aren’t very many questions; it won’t take long,” she recited from habit.

“Okay. Ask away. Would you like a drink?” he added, trying to make her comfortable.

“No. No, thank you.” She cleared her throat gently and launched into the interview. “Your age, please?”

“Thirty-six,” he stated.

Meghan was writing feverishly on the clipboard and didn’t look up when she asked, “Your general health?”

“Healthy,” he replied. He watched as she continued to write. “Is it taking you all that time to put down thirty-six and healthy?”

“No. Oh, no,” she stammered. “I’m also writing down your general physical description.”

“Why?”

He was the first man to ask her a question, and Meghan was not prepared. She suddenly became more anxious. She touched her forehead and glanced at her fingertips to see if the paint was still wet on her “phony” sign.

“I don’t know,” she said as frankly as she could, not understanding why herself. She wasn’t likely to forget him. “Do you mind?”

“No, I don’t mind, if you’ll read your description to me.”

Meghan had written “gorgeous hunk of man, tall, wonderful big gray eyes, long black lashes, dark wavy hair.”

Truly flustered now, she responded, “I … I wrote tall, large frame, dark coloring, gray eyes. … Is that okay?”

“Will you relax? I’m not going to attack you, I promise.” He chuckled at her in a friendly manner. “It’s fine. Ask your next question.”

“How tall are you, and what is your weight?” she went on, giving him a brief smile.

“Six-four. Two hundred and forty-five, usually,” he retorted briefly. “How about you?”

“How about me what?” she asked, her green eyes round in startlement. Michael watched as even, white teeth nipped at her lower lip. It was a very inviting gesture.

“How tall are you?” he restated, his admiring gaze roving over the top half of her body.

“Five-eleven,” she said, watching him look at her, increasingly aware of her own femininity. Her heart rate accelerated and her flushed cheeks began to burn with a sensation she hesitated to identify.

However, his glance was not a leer, she noted. It was merely admiring. His eyes were friendly, and he had intended the look to be a compliment, not a lecherous advance.

Nervously, she cleared her throat once more and spoke before he could ask her anything else.

“Do you have a family or personal history of diabetes?”

“No.”

“Allergies?”

“No.”

“Mental illness?”

“Mental illness?” he repeated.

Meghan nodded, giving him the innocent look that had always worked on her father, except when she’d been caught red-handed.

“No,” he stated with a perplexed frown, as he motioned for the waitress to bring him another drink. “Are you sure you won’t join me?”

“No, thank you. Do you happen to know your I.Q?” she asked, beginning to feel a little more at ease with him. He was really a very nice man; she could feel it in her bones.

“No, I don’t. Sorry,” he apologized.

“That’s okay,” she said casually, before asking, “Do you take illegal drugs?”

He eyed her suspiciously now. “Does that have something to do with my IQ?”

“I’m not sure. I suppose it could, but it’s just one of the questions,” she informed him with a shrug.

“No, I don’t take illegal drugs,” he answered, still frowning. He was about to take a sip of scotch from his glass when she dropped her first bomb.

“Do you have a social disease?”

Michael coughed and sputtered after having gasped and inhaled part of his drink. A worried Meghan was instantly at his side, giving his back several well-intended blows. Gulping air to return the oxygen to his brain so he could think again, he scrutinized her with sharp eyes.

“Did I hear you correctly?” he asked, dumbfounded, pushing his drink to the side of the table.

“It is one of the questions, but if you’d rather not answer …” Her best attorney’s voice was interrupted.

“Hell, no, I don’t have a social disease,” he almost yelled at her. “What …”

This time she interrupted him before she lost her nerve.

“Would you happen to know whether or not you’re sterile?” she threw at him, putting on a totally guileless expression.

“Who are you?” he asked, stunned and a little angry.

“Well, these questionnaires are usually totally anonymous. I don’t think that they include my name either. I’m just someone asking someone else a question.” She squirmed in her chair, hoping he’d find his sense of humor soon, before she had to cross him off the top of her list.

For several minutes he just sat still, his head cocked to one side, considering her. As the silence became uncomfortable, Meghan became flustered again. It wasn’t going right. She didn’t want to offend him, but there were certain things she needed to know. Trying to calm herself, she attempted a new approach.

“Look, mister, this is just a survey for a sociology thesis. I don’t want to pry into your life or offend you. Let’s just call it quits,” she bluffed, starting to rise from her chair.

He reached out and put a hand on her clipboard. “Sit … please,” he said, his thick Texas drawl gentle. “You are prying into my life, but in answer to your question, to my knowledge, it’s yet to be confirmed.”

The woman was a Chinese puzzle to Michael. How could she look like a wallflower one minute, and then without batting an eye, ask him intimate questions the next. Maybe he’d misjudged her. Maybe she was just extremely wily. He began to visualize how she’d look without the glasses, with her hair down. …

“Would you describe your education,” she requested, breaking into his reverie.

“I have degrees in American Literature and Journalism, and an MBA,” he rattled off, his mind on far more interesting things.

“And you teach physics?” Meghan asked, frowning in confusion.

He thought he must have missed part of the conversation. “I don’t teach physics,” he said simply.

“What do you mean, you don’t teach physics?” she questioned, panic rising in her voice.

“I mean, I don’t teach physics. I’m a publisher,” he clarified. As she sat gawking at him as though he had suddenly grown horns on his head, he tried to be helpful. “You know—books, magazines, newspapers.”

“Where?” she uttered.

“Where what?”

“Where do you publish?” she asked testily.

“Texas and California at the moment.”

She sighed audibly, visibly calmed by his answer.

“So you don’t live in New York?” she said, wanting it made perfectly clear.

“I live in Dallas,” he said thoughtfully, then added, “You know, this is the strangest survey I’ve ever heard … or answered. What’s this thesis about, anyway?”

“The Ramification of the Out-of-Town Convention Upon the Professional Male of the Species,” she said, grinning at him.

A deep chuckle rose from inside him. His eyes twinkled as he shared her enjoyment of the title.

“That sounds dry enough to put any sociologist to sleep,” he observed in his deep, fatigue-slurred voice.

Meghan laughed aloud as he nearly quoted her remark to Lucy that morning. “I didn’t dream up the title,” she confessed honestly, “I’m just asking the questions.”

“Well, I answered your questions, but I’m not attending a convention,” he pointed out to her.

She looked around, doing an excellent impression of a CIA agent, then leaned forward and curled her index finger at him. He looked from side to side, joining in the game, and came face to face with her across the table. His breath was warm on her face. They grinned at one another, their gazes locked. In the few seconds before Meghan spoke, they seemed to have exchanged something with their eyes. A secret? A promise? A sensation? A bond of some kind? She didn’t know what it was, but she knew they both were aware of it. She knew that if they parted in the next minute, they each would remember having shared something indefinable for a few brief seconds in the dim lounge of the Essex House Hotel.

“You know that. And now I know it,” she whispered. “But do you think anyone reading the thesis will?”

“Nope.” His grin widened. The amused twinkle in his eyes was intoxicating. Meghan willingly could have drowned in them. Why couldn’t he live in New York after all, she thought. She could forget this whole thing and do it the right way … with him.

“To tell you the truth,” she continued to whisper conspiratorially, “asking these questions of strange men is terribly embarrassing and not a lot of fun for me. So if you don’t mind being mixed in with a few physics professors, I’m just going to shuffle your answers in with theirs and call it a night.”