Love Letters, Inc. (8 page)

In the kitchen she downed a tall glass of orange juice, then, between nose blowings, made herself tea and toasted a crumpet she couldn't eat. She sat at the table and tried to make sense of the morning crossword. No go. She shoved it aside and carried her mug of tea into her office. The Beachline manual stared at her from beside her computer. Darn thing was the size of a New York phone book. She sighed. It was after nine o'clock, and Jonesy was due at ten. She should get started.

Font ambled in and leaned into her side.

Together they blearily eyed the lump of manual. "We're gobing for a balk, Font. A log balk."

Font gave her a you-don't-have-to-ask-me-twice look and switched to puppy mode, everything twitching at once. With a better than hundred-pound dog, this wasn't cute. Rosie picked up her pace, and in seconds they were on the porch, just in time to see Kent's Audi pull up to the lower step.

Just what she needed—a heart rush to go with her head cold.

What was he doing here? He'd hardly said a word after her announcement about the family she planned to have someday. He'd turned quite surly in fact. She'd figured from there on their relationship would go completely electronic. But here he was, opening his car door in her driveway.

She watched him through a gray mist, stirred by an undeniable longing. Why couldn't he have been the one? But he wasn't. She knew that the moment he free-associated the word "kids" with a cost-benefit analysis.

Why couldn't he have looked out and imagined the pastures around her house filled with happy children, safe and loved? Why couldn't he have wanted what she wanted?

She blew her nose. Well, it didn't matter. Things were as they were, and she wasn't about to try and convince Kent Summerton, or any other man, they should have a pack of kids. Her future husband, whoever he might be, had to want them as much as she did. Otherwise, it would be a recipe for disaster.

Kent got out of his car and made a dash for the front porch. He shook the rain from his dark hair and a drop of it hit Rosie's cheek. He looked surprised to see her there.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I lib here," she said, poking at her nose with a tissue. One thing about having a cold: she couldn't smell his delicious aftershave. Every defense helped.

"I know that, Rosie," he said with an irritating lift of his eyebrows. "I mean what are you doing outside—" he waved a hand "—in this. Where are you going?"

Until now, Rosie hadn't noticed it was raining, really raining. She lifted her chin. "Bor a balk. Wanta gum?"

"Excuse me?"

Rosie sneezed and nearly blew what was left of her brains out. The top of her head definitely loosened.

Kent took her arm. "I'm going to enroll you in Nutcases Anonymous if you don't get your buns in there—fast." He opened the front door and steered her inside, his hand firmly in the small of her back. Font's tail dropped earthward. He gave them a baleful look before following them inside.

"Sorry, big guy, but the lady comes first."

Rosie sneezed again, but she took her jacket off. He was right. It was a deluge out there, and she couldn't afford to die of pneumonia. Jonesy would kill her.

"I'm going to make you a hot drink, and you're going to take it easy. Got that?"

"You're gonna bhat?"

"Make you a hot drink."

"Dobn't that neeb a stobe?"

"You have a stove, and for your information I know how to heat an element."

"Burrumph." Rosie blew her nose. Kent looked skyward.

"I take that—whatever it was—as an insult. But I
can
boil water, and that's what I'm about to do. Hot water, lemon, and honey." He steered Rosie to the kitchen. "And some time in bed. According to my mother, it never fails."

"Sounds goob." Rosie was thinking her mother would have bought her a box of tissues and headed to the office. Running a business and having to support a daughter on her own had never left her with any alternative.

The suggestion of time in bed sounded good, too, rolling as it did from a pair of lips that tasted like spearmint and midnight promises.

Kent commandeered her kitchen while Rosie watched dully. He was surprisingly efficient, and in minutes she was downing the Summerton cure for the common cold. Not exactly ambrosia, but soothing.

"What are you dobing here, anyway?" she finally asked.

"You sound better already," he said, looking smug. "Good thing I came along in time to save your miserable life." He took a drink of the coffee he'd made while Rosie sat watching him like a Monday drunk. "When did you go into self-destruct mode, anyway?"

"I neebed some fresh air."

Kent looked at the window where rain coursed over the glass as if someone had turned a hose on it. "Fresh, huh? Normal people would notice that it's a bit damp out there."

"I dibn't look before I leabed." She blew again.

"Now why doesn't that surprise me? Drink up, O'Hanlon. Then go back to bed for an hour or so."

Rosie sniffed and stood. "Okay. But you dibn't answer me. What are you dobing here?"

He hesitated. "I can't find my... phone. I thought maybe I'd left it here."

Rosie shook her head. "Nob here. Guess you'll hab to geb along widout it, Hobshot."

His lips twitched. "Guess so. Now hit the sack, Red. If you don't mind, I'd like to make a couple of calls before I go."

"Be my best." Rosie headed for the bedroom. He'd called her Red, but then every man who ever spent more than ten minutes in the company of her hair usually did. Normally, she hated it. His using it should have irritated her. It didn't. Get a grip, Rosaleen, the man drove all the way out here in a monsoon looking for his dumb smart phone. There was no hope for him.

* * *

About an hour later, when Rosie got up—much improved—Kent was still there. So was Jonesy. They were sitting at her kitchen table, looking at each other as if they'd discovered a new candy—and were just now finalizing the distribution system. Rosie's heart slipped silently into her socks. She knew they'd like each other. Economically speaking, they were a perfect pairing. Like the Dow Jones and Warren Buffet.

"Better?" Kent asked, getting up when she stepped into the room.

Rosie breathed deeply. Her sinuses had unclogged at last, and her voice was back to normal.

"Much. Thanks. I added a cold tablet to your mom's cure-all. I'm almost human." She tugged at the brace. "Or should I say humanoid."

"Won't be long before it's off, Rosaleen," Jonesy said, sipping her coffee and looking back and forth between her and Kent.

"No, not long." Rosie didn't sit. Instead, she ran a finger along the edge of the table. "I take it introductions aren't necessary."

They nodded and smiled at each other. "Now you've got company, I'll head back to work." He walked over to Rosie, took her by the shoulders, and kissed her cheek, whispering, "Take care of yourself."

She swallowed, scarcely able to breathe. Her cheek was hot where his mouth had lingered. "I will." Was that thin, reedy voice truly hers? She cleared her throat.

"When do you expect to have the manual complete?" He shrugged into his jacket and headed for the door.

"I don't know yet. I need to have another look at it. I'll let you know."

He nodded, and for a moment it looked as though he were going to say something, then he smiled at Jonesy who'd come up behind them. "Nice meeting you, Jonesy."

With that, he was gone.

When the door closed behind him, Rosie went to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and watched him sprint through the rain to his car. He moved well, she thought, quick and fluid. Kent Summerton was a man in a hurry.

"Earth to Rosie. Earth to Rosie."

Rosie settled her gaze on Jonesy and blinked. "Sorry. Wool-gathering. What did you say?"

"I said who is that?"

Rosie headed for the kitchen and Jonesy followed her like a goose in formation. "I though you introduced yourselves."

"We did. I know his name, what he does, but that's it. I need more, Rosie. Much, much more."

"Like what?" She poured herself coffee.

"Like, for starters, how did you meet him?"

"Through
Cyrano, Inc."
Rosie could have bitten off her tongue.

"He's
one of the dating-impaired. I don't believe it."

"It's a long story." And Rosie wasn't about to tell it. Not only would she have to field a barrage of I-told-you-so's from Jonesy; she'd be violating Kent's confidence.

"So what's my accounting crisis of the week?" Rosie asked, deciding her best course was a change of subject.

Jonesy ignored her. "You're infatuated."

Jonesy didn't believe in love, so Rosie guessed this was the best description she could come up with. "Nope. I'm in lust. Nothing more and nothing less."

"So?"

"So, what?"

"So, this is great news. This is what you want. Right?"

"I want lust?"

"It's the usual jumping-off point."

"Not for me."

"Rosaleen, are you crazy? The man's spectacular. He's a partner in a thriving business—in a growth sector of the economy—has a solid work ethic, owns his own home, and has well-laid plans for his future."

Rosie's mouth fell open. "You got all that in twenty minutes?"

"Just tell me. What can possibly be wrong?"

"Not a thing. He's perfect—for you, Jonesy. Go for it."

"Are you serious?" Her eyes narrowed in speculation.

"No, I'm not. Touch him and you're dead meat."

Jonesy smirked. "I thought so."

Rosie turned her coffee cup and stared at the delicate flowers painted around its base. "He doesn't like kids, Jonesy. I may lust after a man who doesn't like kids, but I could never love one."

* * *

Kent sat in the car and watched rain course down the windshield. He was thirty feet from the door of the club, but he couldn't make himself open the car door.

And what the hell had made him drive right past Beachline and land on Rosie's doorstep? He might as well have been on autopilot. That bit about his misplacing his phone was a crock. He'd wanted to see her. Had to see her. It was as simple as that.

Not simple at all.

The woman was a fertility goddess in training. He shuddered. Kids. She wanted kids, a whole scout troop of them. And she'd used them like garlic on vampire to ward him off. He admitted she'd been fair—and right. So why had he spent the whole weekend thinking about her? He had no intention of overworking a stork. They were about ten kids apart and would probably stay that way.

Unless...

Marlene rapped on the window. He opened it, and the damp air invaded the car like a sodden wind. "Kent, what are you doing sitting out here? Are you okay?"

She peered at him from under a huge golf umbrella. "Yeah, just thinking." And working up a Machiavellian plot to change a certain lady's mind about a bearing a child for every sign in the zodiac. He'd be doing her a favor. One good look at her "plan" in living, breathing color, and she'd backtrack faster than a tourist faced with a grizzly.

Marlene stepped back and he opened the door.

"Packard's waiting. He's threatening to walk off the project if you initiate the penalty clause."

She lifted the umbrella to accomodate his height, and he stepped under. "Let's go." He took Marlene's arm and headed for the door. Packard he could handle. Rosie he wasn't so sure of.

The meeting with Packard took less than half an hour, ending with the man's agreement to add more manpower and swallow some overtime costs. If he kept to his word, everything would be smooth sailing from here on in.

When he got back to his office, the first thing he did was rifle through his mail. Nothing from the mysterious Gardenia. And for the first time, he was disappointed.

He wasn't disappointed by his phone messages. Rosie had called. He picked up the phone and hammered in her number.

"Rosie?"

"Hey, Summerton, I just wanted to say thanks for the home remedy. It helped. I'm feeling better."

"I'm glad."

"In fact I felt good enough to crack open the Beachline manual. I've already got some questions and was wondering if I could call your pro shop. That's who manages tee times, right?"

"Right. But I'm sure I can answer most of them. Try me."

"Actually, I'd rather talk to the golf pro and the people who deal with the golfers on a day-to-day basis. If that's okay?"

"Sure, I'll let them know you'll be calling." He paused. "You know, it would be a good idea if you met the people here, got a feel for the place. Why don't I pick you up tomorrow—say around eleven. After you've made the rounds, I'll take you to lunch."

For a moment she was silent.

"Strictly business, right?" she said.

"Absolutely. You think I want to get myself tangled up with a woman who plans to spend the rest of her life in a delivery room?"

Another brief pause. "No. I don't think you do. Eleven will be fine."

He hung up, feeling smug. The plan—
his
plan—was in motion.

* * *

Rosie shoved a wayward tendril of hair behind her ear and watched Kent turn into her driveway. Font imitated a growl and glanced up at her. When she shook her head to tell him that guard dog duty wasn't called for, he lined up his gaze to match hers. Together they watched Kent Summerton drive the gravel path to the house, the sunlight bouncing off the polish of his high-powered car.

She waved and ignored the wobble in her knees, the rubbery muscles in her calves.

The car crunched up to the bottom step, and she started down.

"Are you always so prompt?" she asked, after he'd opened the door for her and she'd settled in the car.

"A failing."

"Me, too."

He glanced at her and put the car in gear. His look was disbelieving, but he grinned. And naturally she went all quivery inside. And naturally it made her mad as heck.

"I
was
standing on the step waiting, or didn't you notice?" Even to her own ear she sounded nicely bitchy and proudly chagrined. She'd always wanted to be chagrined. She hoped it impressed him.