Open Invitation? (4 page)

“Mr. Granger, I couldn't possibly—”

“Dan,” he said. “Just call me Dan, honey.”

That was another thing they needed to address: he couldn't walk around calling every female he met “sweetheart,” “darlin',” or “honey.” “Mr. Granger, I know that things are different down south, but—”

“Dan,” he repeated, squatting down with her and gently taking the dustpan from her hands. They spoke at the same time.

“—you mustn't use terms of endearment with women you don't know, as you risk—”

“Don't worry, in London I'll call the ladies ‘love.'”

“—offending them.”

They squatted on her rug, knee to knee and face-to-face. She could see the pores in his skin, the tiny lines on his lips, the intense, hungry look in his eyes.

He swept the shards back into the dustpan. “Besides bustin' your china and trashing your rug,” he drawled, “do I offend you, Lilia?”

She opened her mouth to say yes. Then no. Then yes.

His blue gaze engulfed her, spread over her skin like the soft sting of an astringent; cool and hot at the same time. After a moment, he reached out an index finger and stroked along her jaw to just under her chin. He tilted it up and angled his face over hers while her heart galloped around in her chest like a mad thing. He was much, much too close to her.

She was much, much too close to him.

And she didn't want to do a damn thing about it.

 

S
HE'S AN EXOTIC
porcelain doll.
Perfect, delicate features. Dark eyes full of foreign ritual and pageantry. Lips that whispered of mystery and private pleasures.

She's the kind of woman who was born on a pedestal, though
. An untouchable Audrey, full of silver screen mystique. A china figurine with a painted-on skirt that no man ever got beneath.

A damn shame. Dan would like to see what Lil's hair looked like tumbled around her face and neck, instead of in that sleek style she wore. He'd like to see that prim blouse of hers unbuttoned, skimming just over what he imagined were small, pink nipples. He'd love to see her barefoot, with her skirt hiked up to a point just shy of indecency.

And if he didn't stop his thoughts from wandering down this path, he was going to embarrass himself. He hadn't missed the self-conscious flush on her cheeks at their former position: him handing her money while she balanced on her knees in front of him.

And seeing how prim and proper she was, how utterly alien that position probably was to her, turned him on even more. He'd also seen her glance at places she shouldn't, which sent quick lust spiraling through him. He wanted to get primal with this exotic little Audrey; see if Miss Manners knew what to do with a real man.

Of course, smashing a woman's good china was gen
erally not the way into her bed. That had been a real smooth move.

He'd seen the sudden flash of anguish when the cup hit the floor, even if she'd quickly disguised it. He felt like a shit-heel.

Were you born in a barn?
Mama had yelled at him once.

I don't know, Mama, you tell me.
A rude response, one that did him no honor. But one that channeled his anger at her and her disappearance and her social climbing.

He still couldn't believe he was here at friggin'
charm school
. Dan reminded himself that he was doing this for Claire, and Claire alone.

And regarding this weird attraction to Lilia London? He'd taken Psych 101 in college. That old goat Freud would probably explain it as a rebel, subconscious urge. Was his lust for the china doll an instinct to literally screw manners? Yep. That's all it was. Dan was sure of it.

L
ILIA RETURNED
to her senses and backed away from the animal and his magnetism before he got any closer and…and…kissed her or something. God forbid.

Because kissing clients was not acceptable. And judging from this man's awful performance in her office just now, she needed to get right to work on him.

She sat in her Queen Anne chair and demurely crossed her feet at the ankles, knees together. She clasped her hands in her lap and smiled while Dan made himself comfortable—or tried to—in her visitor's seat. He dwarfed the antique, and she heard an ominous creak as he tried to lounge against the back of it.

Dan froze, hearing it, too. He shot her an uneasy glance. “This thing gonna hold up under my weight?”

“It should be fine,” Lilia told him, praying that this was indeed so. Like most of the pieces in her office, the chair had belonged to Nana Lisbeth, who hadn't believed in reproductions. She'd been terribly old-school and formal.

Dan spread his knees, ready to frog-leap out of the chair at a moment's notice. She hid a smile.

“Shall we get right to work, then?”

“Why not.”

“Fine. Then let's begin by going over your, ah, performance since you arrived.”

“My performance?” Dan seemed taken aback.

“Your…behavior. And ways in which it can improve.”

He shrugged and then nodded.

“Now, for starters, let me say that the correct way to behave is almost always what makes the people around you comfortable. I'm probably about to make you rather
un
comfortable, but it's in the spirit of learning, all right? And I apologize beforehand.”

“All righty.”

“Let's talk about greetings. When you came in, I believe you said, ‘howdy.' Is that correct?”

“Yup.”

“Let's change that to merely ‘hello.' And ‘yup' to ‘yes.' Then there's the issue of your Western hat. That absolutely must come off before you enter a building.”
In fact, it should be left behind in Texas or burned
.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, I did know that. I just lost my manners when I saw how gosh-darned pretty you are.”

Lil flushed. “Thank you. But that leads us into another issue. Your compliments are charming, but for Connecticut or England, they may be a bit effusive.”

“E-what?”

“Florid.” Seeing him look more confused than ever, she added, “Too much. Over the top.”

“I can't tell a woman she's pretty?”

“You can, but perhaps in a less familiar way. Now, when I offered you coffee, you said—”

“Don't mind if I do.”

“Yes, please,” Lilia corrected. “And you always say ‘thank you' when a beverage is given to you.”

“Okay.”

“When I offered you the plate of cookies and fruit, you put an entire cookie into your mouth. That's not acceptable. You need to make it last at least three bites, and of course you'll never talk with your mouth full.”

“No, never,” he said solemnly.

“Now, let's talk about your boots. While they are indeed very fine, they never, under any circumstances, belong on a desk or any other kind of furniture.”

He muttered an apology and looked slightly shame-faced.

Lilia forged ahead. “Breaking the cup and saucer was an accident, and it could have happened to anyone. However, you should never again disrobe in a place of business.”

“I was trying to save your rug!” he exclaimed.

“I do realize that, and I thank you. However, a paper towel would have sufficed.”

“You ladies sure didn't seem to mind the view.”

She blinked rapidly. “Regardless, no public shirt removal. Is that clear?”

“Yes, mistress.”

No mistaking the mockery in his voice. She glanced sharply at him. “You find this amusing, Mr. Granger?”

“Yes, ma'am, I do.”

“It's really no laughing matter.”

“Sorry, Miz London, but I can laugh at just about anything. It's a fault of mine.” His hazel eyes danced.

As faults went, she supposed that one wasn't too awful. One needed a sense of humor to survive in this world.

Lil studied his face, which was framed by short, wavy, chestnut hair—the same color as the sprinkling of it she'd seen on his bare torso. She had the oddest desire to tangle her fingers in it, rake them over his bare skin, burn her cheeks against the bristle on his own.

The man had a most disturbing effect upon her. She'd never wanted to rub herself shamelessly against Li Wong, or run her fingers through
his
chest hair. Probably because he'd had a total of three chest hairs, and was otherwise bald as a baby's…

“I wasn't laughing at you, Miz London. Just at your, uh, dedication to your job. And the fear on your face as you realized just how raw your material was.”

Lil raised an eyebrow. “The boots on my desk were a bit much. Even you know better than that. You were testing me.”

“Maybe,” he admitted.

“I may be small, Mr. Granger, but I'm not stupid or fainthearted. I'm not afraid to take you on.”

He grinned and openly evaluated her body. “You
are
tiny,” he said. “What size are you? Do they make a size that small?”

“Never, ever, ask a woman her dress size or her age, Mr. Granger. Or her true hair color. Those are not socially acceptable questions.”

“What if you're just asking in order to buy her a gift?”

“You make an educated guess. If the item doesn't fit, she'll exchange or return it. But a gift of clothing really isn't proper. Jewelry, yes. A scarf, a silver compact, chocolates or perfume—all perfectly acceptable.”

“How 'bout lingerie?”

“Out of the question, unless—” Lil felt heat warming her cheeks “—you've been, ah, intimate for quite some time.”

He looked at her boldly. “Intimate, huh?”

Impossible, but Lil could actually feel his gaze undressing her…unbuttoning her blouse, unhooking her bra, pushing up her skirt and discovering that she wore no panties under her stockings, because she couldn't stand thongs but considered panty lines utterly unacceptable.

Heat bloomed between her thighs, shocking her, and she pressed her knees even more firmly together.

“Mr. Granger, as long as we're on the topic—which isn't socially acceptable, either, by the way—”

“You brought it up.” He grinned that shameless grin of his.

To her horror, she realized that she had indeed brought it up…and not only the topic. Where was her self-control? She'd looked at him
there
again, and Granger's package had, ah, supersized, in fast food parlance.

She swallowed.

His lips twitched. He didn't appear to care! He swung one booted foot over another, crossing his legs.

Thank you, God
. “As I was saying, it's not proper for you to…openly evaluate a woman like that.”

“Like what?” he asked softly, a devilish smile now playing over his lips.

“You know exactly what I mean. You weren't discreet in the least.”

“Is it proper, Miz London, to stare at a man's equipment while he's in your visitor's chair?”

She opened her mouth as fire rushed along her cheeks. She shut it again. She searched for the breath his words had knocked out of her body. Finally she was able to speak. “I did no such thing, Mr. Granger.”

“Is that what you call a little white lie, Miz London? Because I call it a big ol' fib.”

“Mr. Granger!”

“Ma'am?”

She took a deep breath and steepled her fingers on her desk. “Even if I were lying, which I assure you that I am not, it is not socially correct to call me on the lie. Conversation should be smooth, and one steers away from topics which could be…”

“Sticky?”

Her nostrils flared and she did her very best not to glare at the man. “Difficult.”

Apparently he decided to give her a respite, for he asked about the framed pictures on her wall. “Who's the older couple?”

“My grandparents, Sir Henry and Lisbeth London. He was British. She's American. They met during World War II.”

“Sir Henry?”

“Yes. He was knighted by the queen for distinguished
work in the sciences—meaning that he discovered a preservative for tinned meat. Not terribly glamorous, but useful.” She smiled.

“No sh—uh, kidding! He musta made a killing off that.”

“Mr. Granger, it's not at all polite to comment about someone's financial status—especially not face-to-face.”

“All I said was—”

“It can be construed as fishing for information.”

“Well, don't
construe
it that way, because I didn't mean—and why can't you say ‘take'? Nice, plain English.” He shook his head.

Lilia tightened her lips. “One, when words have left your mouth, you have no control over how they are taken. Two, what isn't plain English about the word ‘construe'? And three, Sir Henry didn't file a patent in time, so he never made much off his preservative, sad to say. Which is why I have a job.”

He folded his arms across his broad chest and uncrossed his long legs. His boot began to tap on the floor. “You're very formal, Miz London.”

“I'm an etiquette consultant, Mr. Granger. And I'm sorry if I'm annoying you, but you did come to me for guidance.” She gazed at him steadily.

He didn't growl, but he looked as if he wanted to. “Tell me about the younger couple in the other frame. The Asian lady and the officer.”

She nodded. “My parents, Lieutenant Bryce and Su Yi London. They met while my father was stationed in Vietnam. He finished his first tour, then brought her
home as his bride. They had six months together before he was called for a second tour. He didn't return.”

“I'm real sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you.”

“And your mother? Does she still live in the States?”

“No. She died of a rare blood disorder when I was small. My grandmother raised me.”
This conversation is getting too personal.
“More coffee, Mr. Granger?”

“Again, I'm sorry—uh, no thank you.”

“A cookie? A strawberry?” She held out the tray to him. He selected a butter cookie and two large strawberries, putting them on his plate.

He picked up a strawberry, cast a sidelong glance at her, and asked, “I don't have to eat this with a fark or somethin', do I?”

He looked so boyish and uncertain that she chuckled. “No. You may grasp it by the stem and eat it—preferably in more than one bite.” She demonstrated by taking a small bite of her own strawberry.

He brought the fruit to his lips and touched his tongue to it, rubbing the tip over the strawberry's texture. Then his even, white teeth sank into it, slicing through the delicate flesh and taking it for his own.

Lilia clamped her knees together yet again as a hot, unwelcome twinge occurred between her thighs.

Granger licked juice from his bottom lip and devoured the rest of the strawberry while she secretly envied it and squirmed discreetly in her chair. Heaven help her if she sprouted a little green stem and matching jester's collar.

He tilted his head. “Are you feeling all right, Miz London?”

“Why, I'm just fine, thank you.”

“You sure? You look kinda like you have gas. Did you have a lot of these strawberries for breakfast or something?”

Lilia didn't know whether to laugh or cry. “Mr. Granger! That isn't a socially acceptable thing to say, either. You must never, ever tell a lady that she looks as if she has indigestion.”

“Why not just plain gas?”

“It's not at all polite! Never, ever mention bodily functions or discomforts of that nature—that's simply appalling manners.”

“You think I'm appalling?” asked her horrifying new client, holding out an open package of Rolaids.

She shook her head. “No, thank you, Mr. Granger. I don't require one of those—”

“Well, I always take two. Used to have the constitution of a goat until I hit my thirties, but now…not that I was implying that you're, uh, aging or anything.” He stopped, seeming to realize that he was only digging himself in deeper. Then he began to laugh.

She stared at him in disbelief, fighting the urge to bang her forehead against the polished surface of the eighteenth-century card table.

“I guess that wasn't too smooth, was it?”

“Correct.”

“So you do think I'm appalling. That's okay, my
mother does, too. That's why I'm here. Do I have to go sit in the corner, wearing the social dunce cap, now?”

Lil took a deep breath. “Of course I don't find you appalling. Your manners do, ah, need some work. But instead of sitting here and correcting you all day, I think it might be beneficial for you to watch some Cary Grant films. That is the general demeanor we're aiming for, with you. We'll take you from crude cowboy to gentleman rancher. His civilized persona is perfect.”

“So right now I'm
un
civilized.” He winked at her.

“I didn't say that. You're a bit of a rogue, that's all.”

“Oh, I like that. Rogue is real nice and old-fashioned. Makes me want to grow a handlebar mustache and, you know, swashbuckle a little. Is swashbuckle a verb, Miz London? And if so, how do ya do it?”

“I don't have the faintest idea,” Lil said, a laugh escaping her at the ridiculous concept.

“To swashbuckle, or not to swashbuckle, that is the question…” Granger threw his arms wide and leaned back dramatically in her visitor's chair.

The ominous creak of before became a loud crack, and the Queen Anne disintegrated under his weight.

Speechless, Lilia jumped up, her hand over her mouth.

On his back, her client peered at her from between his airborn western boots. “You know,” he said, “I do believe it might be bad manners to seat your guests on ancient, decrepit furniture.”