JAKrentz - Uneasy Alliance (2 page)

"I suppose so."

There was a pause. "Abby, I know you came to class on the bus tonight. Will you allow me to drive you home?"

Abby blinked, startled. For a split second she let herself think about how pleasant it would be to have this strong, solid man beside her tonight when she opened the door of her downtown apartment. Then she pushed the thought aside. She was not going to let herself succumb to fantasy!

"That's very kind of you, but I…"

"Abby, kindness really doesn't enter into this. I'd like to take you home."

"It's thoughtful of you, but I don't need…"

"Are you nervous about me, Abby?" He sounded genuinely concerned.

"Of course not! Who could be nervous about a man who takes Japanese flower-arrangement classes?" Abby shot back bracingly, just as Mrs. Yamamoto materialized beside her with a distressed frown on her pleasant middle-aged face. Instantly Abby turned her full attention to apologizing for the out-of-control design of daffodils and Queen Anne's lace.

"I know, Mrs. Yamamoto," she began hurriedly, aware that Torr was listening quietly as he lounged against his own worktable. "I went crazy again. I just couldn't seem to get it balanced. I kept adding more bits and pieces of leaves and flowers and things, thinking I could sort of even up the overall design, but it ran away from me as usual."

"Abby," the older woman sighed, "you should have stopped a dozen daffodils ago. Look at this. It wanders all over the place. I thought that perhaps working alongside Mr. Latimer might help you control your impulsive design streak. Just look at how he limits himself to the barest essentials to convey the feeling of harmony and proportion." Mrs. Yamamoto turned toward Torr's design with pleasure and deep approval.

As the diminutive instructor moved to admire her star pupil's handiwork, Abby met Torr's eyes over Mrs. Yamamoto's head. Her sense of humor rose to the surface and unthinkingly she made a face at him—a perfect ten-year-old's grimace.

"Teacher's pet," she mouthed silently and knew he had caught the words just as he politely turned to discuss his creation with the other woman.

"You'll be pleased to know, Mrs. Yamamoto," Torr said smoothly, "that Abby has decided to let me give her some outside instruction this evening after class. I'm hoping that working on a one-to-one basis I may be able to explain some of the basic principles more clearly to her."

"Excellent." The instructor approved with a gentle nod. "You will make a very good teacher for her. Ail she needs is a little guidance and discipline."

Abby rolled her eyes beseechingly toward heaven as Torr nodded seriously.

"I'll do my best," he said.

Forty minutes later Abby found herself seated in Torr Latimer's gray BMW, her mood hovering between amusement and exasperation.

"Guidance and discipline," she mocked reproachfully. "Honestly, Torr, even you can't be serious about trying to teach me the fine art of Japanese flower arrangement! I don't know why I let you talk me into taking me home tonight. The bus would have been just fine."

"I wanted to take you home," he said simply, slanting her a quick glance as he piloted the car sedately through the drizzly April Oregon night. "Besides, it's raining."

"It does that a lot here in
Portland in case you haven't noticed."

"I've noticed," he countered.

"You say that as if you're a native," she said, smiling.

"No. I've only lived here for about three years." The words held a certain crispness, as if further questions in that direction would not be welcomed. Perhaps he wasn't the type to want to waste time discussing what he considered trivial matters, Abby decided. She began to wonder what one did discuss with a fellow flower-arranging student.

"Nice car," she tried brightly. "I've always wanted to buy a foreign car. But one has to worry so much about getting them properly serviced." She decided not to add that if she had been able to buy such a car it would have been something a bit more dashing than a BMW—say a Jaguar or a Lotus. But this car seemed to fit the man: solid, well-built, durable and tough.

"It's okay, Abby," Torr responded in quiet amusement, "you said yourself that you could hardly be nervous around a man you met in a class on flower design, remember?"

"I'm not nervous. But I guess I am a little curious about why you wanted to take me home tonight."

"Because you're like the flower arrangements you create," he told her whimsically.

She shot him a sharp glance. "Is this where I get my free analysis?"

"If you like."

She tilted her head in a challenging manner. "Okay, let's hear it."

He didn't hesitate. "You're interesting, impulsive, imaginative and intriguing."

"Amazing. You have a talent for alliteration as well as flower design."

"You even look a little like the flowers we've been arranging in class," Torr went on evenly. "A waist as slender as the stem of a daffodil, hair the color of clover honey, eyes like—"

"Don't say cornflower blue," she broke in, chuckling. "I hate cornflowers."

"Gentian?" he offered politely.

Abby's chuckles turned to outright laughter. "You're grasping at straws now!"

"You're right. No point carrying analogies to extremes. Actually, your eyes are sort of a smoke blue. Very unusual."

"Well, you've hit the high points. Better stop there."

"You're not taking me seriously, are you?" he inquired softly.

"Should I?"

He nodded once, no hint of humor in the craggy lines of his bluntly unhandsome face. "Yes, I think you'd better."

Abby shifted uneasily as she caught the certainty in his voice. It occurred to her that she didn't know much about Torr Latimer except that he had a talent for flower arrangement. It also occurred to her that he seemed to occupy a large portion of the interior of the BMW. His presence in the car was almost intimidating. He wasn't quite six feet tall but there was no denying the sense of potent strength in him. Still, she
had
met him in a flower-design class, Abby reminded herself resolutely.

"I live in the apartment house on the next block. You can park in front," she said quickly, infusing her voice with brisk friendliness. She didn't want to think about whether she really reminded him of a flower. It brought disturbing images to mind of being
arranged
by him. Perhaps arranged on a bed.

The BMW was brought to a purring halt beside a parking space that appeared much too small to Abby's eyes. She experienced a sense of relief at the thought that if he couldn't find a place to park on the street, Torr might simply be forced to let her out on the sidewalk and take himself home.

But the BMW fit into the tiny slot as if the car had been designed for it and Abby stifled a small sigh. Now he would walk her to her door. She was sure of it. Then what?

"Would you care for a cup of tea?" she heard herself ask weakly as he guided her through the main door and into the elevator of the handsome brick building. The apartment house had been built during the first half of the century, but it had been meticulously restored and it retained the spacious, high-ceilinged rooms that had been part of the original design. Abby's apartment was a comfortable one-bedroom plan on the fifth floor with a large kitchen and oversize windows to let in plenty of light.

"Tea might be a bit much on top of an evening of flowers and art," Torr said calmly. "Have you got anything stronger?"

"Well, yes, there's some cognac—"

"That will be fine," he interrupted positively, as they stepped from the elevator. Taking the key from her hand as they paused in the hallway outside her apartment, he opened the door with a cool familiarity that somehow managed to disturb her again. What was it about this man that kept sending mixed signals? One moment she was certain he was reassuringly polite and manageable; the next she was reacting with an almost primitive disquiet to his presence.

"I'll get the cognac," she said quickly as she stepped through the doorway into the eclectically furnished room. The cheerful vanilla-and-papaya color scheme, underscored with accents of black, reflected Abby's love of light airy colors and her occasional taste for pure drama. The overall effect of the style would have been one of witty sophistication if it hadn't been for the stacks of boxes standing in the hall, piled in every corner of the living room and filling the closet just inside the door.

"What the…?" Torr's muttered exclamation of surprise came as he accidentally struck one of the boxes with the toe of his Italian leather shoe.

"Sorry about that," Abby said, stooping down hastily to shove the pile of boxes to one side. "It's just that I'm rather short of storage space, you see."

"What's in them?" Curiously he glanced around at the endless stacks of boxes.

"Vitamins," she said succinctly, discarding her gutsy black leather trench coat. Abby had always liked the coat. She felt it gave her a certain bold cachet. The kind of casual aggressiveness that warned men not to try to encroach on her private space. Unfortunately, as far as she could tell, Torr hadn't appeared to notice this statement of hers. Maybe it was because he came by a state of quiet assertiveness so naturally. Ah, well, perhaps the coat wasn't the most effective method of making such statements, Abby decided. After all, she'd bought it the way she'd bought most of her clothes: impulsively.

"Vitamins?" Torr picked up one of the green-and-gold boxes and examined the label. "You must take a lot of them. 'MegaLife Vitamin Supplements, for the person who insists on living life to the fullest extent,' " he read. "You must live a very full life, judging by the thousands of vitamins stored in this room."

"Don't be ridiculous. Even I couldn't take this many vitamins. I sell them. Or rather I distribute them to people who sell them for me. Door to door." In the kitchen Abby located the cognac bottle and pulled it down from the cupboard. "It's amazing what people will buy on impulse when you show up at their door with a well-designed display."

"I would imagine you'd be fairly good at understanding impulse buying," Torr remarked behind her.

"Was that a nasty crack?" she demanded suspiciously.

"No, a joke. A poor one. It would appear that the business is a thriving one," he added with innocent interest.

"Very," she informed him dryly. "What's more, I believe in my own product." She poured him a glass of cognac and then reached for a green-and-gold bottle sitting on the counter. Casually she unscrewed the top and popped two of the tablets into her mouth.

"What's that?"

"B complex and vitamin C. Good for stress." She resealed the jar, her mouth full of vitamins, and poured herself a glass of cognac. She downed the tablets with an overlarge swallow of the potent brandy and wound up trying to stifle a choking cough.

"Water might have been more effective than cognac," Torr observed as he politely stepped forward and thumped her between the shoulder blades.

"Thank you," she gasped unevenly. "I, uh, was just trying to save a little time."

"Are we in a hurry?" he asked mildly.

"Well, no, I guess not. I tend to cut corners occasionally. Shall we go into the living room?" she added with determined politeness. How embarrassing. She should have taken the time to run a glass of water.

"Why are you taking tablets for stress? Are you under a great deal?" Torr asked pleasantly.

"Isn't everyone these days?" she retorted, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. Taking a seat on the papaya-colored sofa, she waved him airily to the black armchair. It was time to take a firmer grip on the conversation. "What about you, Torr? What do you do when you're not arranging flowers?" There, that sounded casual and brisk.

"I buy and sell," he said quietly.

She arched an eyebrow. "What do you buy and sell?"

"Stress." He smiled faintly as if surprised to realize he might have made a small joke.

"You'll have to be a bit more explicit, I'm afraid. I'm not big on subtlety, remember?" Abby said crisply.

"Sorry. It wasn't really all that subtle or clever. I only meant that in a sense I deal in other people's stress. I buy and sell commodities futures."

Abby's eyes opened very wide. "Like pork bellies?"

He permitted himself another small smile. "And gold and wheat and corn and several other products. I made the remark about dealing in stress because so much of the buying and selling that goes on is done under great stress. People panic, people despair, people get far too excited. In short, they often go nuts buying and selling commodities. Lots of stress."

"Sounds like a good market for me. Want to buy some vitamins?" Abby asked hopefully.

Torr shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't have much use for them."

"No ulcers? No hypertension?"

"No."

"You don't fall victim to all this buying-and-selling stress?" she demanded dubiously.

"No."

"Why not, if it's so common?"

He hesitated, lifting his amber eyes to meet hers in one of the direct, disturbing glances she was coming to dread. "Possibly because I don't get excited about the action. It's just a way to make a living. I'm good at it, but I don't get emotionally involved the way so many people do."