The Fiancée Fiasco (8 page)

She stared at him. He had an excuse. A really good one. The phone number she'd been using didn't ring in the lab. This was perfectly reasonable. Which meant...he
had
been at the office. Not off barhopping or in bed with some secret girlfriend while she'd been worrying he might be on a slab at the morgue.

A strange, but no less powerful, wave of relief swept through her. He'd
been at the office
. Fast on the heels of her relief, though, rose a fresh blast of fury. "Well, dear Lord in heaven, Win! Why didn't you call to let me know where you were? I sat here most of the night wondering if I should start contacting hospitals."

He squatted down on his haunches, closer to her height sitting on the sofa. He listened to the rest of her tirade with an intent, concentrated expression, as though he'd never heard anything like it. "Are you through?" he asked, when she finally ran out of breath.

"For the moment," she grudgingly relented.

He nodded, then looked straight at her. "Please allow me to apologize. It never occurred to me you might be worried."

Roseanne scoffed and turned her head. "I wasn't worried."

From the corner of her eye she caught a shy smile tugging back his lips. "Yes, you were."

"I was not worried. I was...angry. Really, Win, there's no excuse for not calling—"

"There is one excuse." Win smiled gently as he straightened. "I had no idea you would care."

"Well, I don't." Roseanne was adamant.

"Yes," Win contradicted stubbornly, "you do." Saying which, he leaned over her. She was suddenly surrounded by man. Man scent, man clothes, man strength. A pair of velvet soft lips brushed against her own, their touch as light as a feather.

Roseanne's startled eyes flew to his.

His gaze was oddly sad. "Thanks," he murmured. "That's never happened to me before." Without another word, he straightened and walked off. She could hear his footsteps depart down the hall.

For a minute, left alone in the darkly shadowed living room, Roseanne thought he meant the kiss had never happened to him before. But that, although it had been soft and sweet, didn't make any sense. Only after she got up and let herself into her own bedroom did she realize what he'd meant.

No one had ever worried about him before.

Roseanne pondered this as she lay in her bed, suddenly unable to sleep. It was much better to ponder Win's mysterious statement than to consider her own still-trembly reaction to his chaste kiss. The man had two parents, two sisters, and had once had a wife. Surely among that lot someone had once cared.

People don't 'work' for me, Winthrop had told her.

Roseanne turned over in bed and determinedly closed her eyes. If no one worried about Winthrop Carruthers it was his own damned fault. He gave off an aura of remote independence, of not needing or wanting anybody. People didn't 'work' for him because he didn't let them. There was absolutely no need to feel compassion for him or his predicament. Even less of a need to think about that stupid kiss. So she didn't. Not at all. Roseanne finally fell asleep, convinced that this was true.

~~~

The sun streaming in through the white curtains of her bedroom window woke Roseanne gently the next morning. Yawning, she turned to look at the clock on the table beside the bed. Ten-thirty. Good Lord. She was getting downright indolent in this southern climate.

As she stretched, Roseanne wondered if Winthrop had slept in an extra hour or so himself this morning, since he'd worked until after two a.m. She doubted it. By now he was probably already downtown, happily ensconced behind his bank of computers.

Yawning again, Roseanne opened the door to the hall. She was immediately assailed by a delectable aroma of cooking food. It was the more sensational given the fact she was starving. Her TV dinner the night before had been less than satisfying.

Mentally forgiving Win's housekeeper for the poisonous glares of the previous day, Roseanne padded eagerly toward the scent of breakfast.

Once at the living room, she stopped abruptly. Beyond the counter separating off the kitchen stood Winthrop Carruthers. He looked fresh as a daisy in a pair of white jeans and a striped short-sleeved shirt. He was whistling. He was also whipping something, batter maybe, in a mixing bowl. A long white apron was tied around his waist.

Apparently sensing her stupefied presence, Win halted his mixing activities and looked up. An expression that was part amused and part annoyed rose onto his face. "I thought I told you to be decent when you came out into the hall."

"I'm not in the hall." Automatically slipping into legal-minded semantics, Roseanne meanwhile crossed her arms over the small, unrestrained breasts beneath her cotton nightgown. "And besides," she blustered manfully, "I'm decent."

Actually, she felt oddly vulnerable and less than fully dressed under Winthrop's assessing eye. His apron only emphasized what Roseanne had been trying to deny since first meeting him. His height, the strength apparent in his very stance—Winthrop was fully and undeniably male. He didn't seem aware of his virility, however, which only made the fact more alluring.

Win waved a batter-smothered spatula at her. "If you want breakfast, you better get yourself properly dressed."

"I'm on my way." Roseanne turned on her heel. She definitely wanted breakfast. Something told her stoves and ovens worked for Winthrop the same way chair wheels and computers did.

Ten minutes later, showered, with her hair slicked down, and dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a silk blouse, Roseanne reentered the living area.

By now the table was set for two. Orange juice had been poured into two large glasses and a Texas-sized slab of butter sat in a silver throne beside a heaping stack of pancakes.

"Have a seat," Winthrop told her, coming to the table with a pan of sizzling bacon. He put two strips on each plate and returned to the kitchen.

As she sat, Roseanne let the smell of bacon and pancakes pervade her senses. "I haven't had a home-cooked breakfast in ages." This cozy scene was light years from the hastily grabbed pastry and coffee that was her normal breakfast fare.

Win left his apron in the kitchen and came to the table. "Coffee?" He held a pot in the air.

"Please."

He leaned over the table, pouring easily from the opposite side. "There's cream in the refrigerator if you take it."

"No, thanks." She watched as he returned to replace the coffee pot in the maker. There was something different about him this morning. More relaxed. Getting that proposal out the door must have been a big relief.

"I thought you'd be in your office by now," she remarked as he seated himself opposite her at the wooden dining room table.

"Nope." He helped himself to four of the oversized pancakes. "I gave everyone the day off, including the boss. Can I give you some of these?"

"You sure can. Better make it two to begin with, Win. I'm not a Texan."

He smiled at her. "I'll keep that in mind."

Damn but his smile was nice.

"You must be happy with the way your proposal turned out." Taking some butter, Roseanne melted it over the top of her pancakes.

"Among other things that I'm happy about." The amazing smile appeared again.

Roseanne felt a twist of apprehension. She almost forgot her hunger. Surely Winthrop hadn't gotten any ideas about that little kiss last night...

"You wouldn't believe how the stock market opened this morning." Win nodded toward something past Roseanne's shoulder.

She turned to see the television set, tuned to a financial program, flickering noiselessly across the room from them.

"Our stock's up half a point from yesterday," Win cheerfully announced.

The stock was up half a point. Roseanne turned back from the TV to regard Win's grinning face. So that's what had put him in such a happy mood. Not that little kiss.

Well...
good
.

"Half a point," Roseanne repeated dryly.

"Yep. I'm wondering if word got out already that we're engaged." This morning he looked quite happy with the idea of people thinking he was engaged to Roseanne. Half a point of stock price had changed his entire perspective on the matter.

"I doubt word got out," Roseanne replied bluntly. "I can only think of two people in all of Houston who think we're engaged."

Win's smile turned knowing. "Is that all? I can think of about a hundred. And every one of them own or has owned stock in my company."

Roseanne halted in the act of reaching for the syrup. "A hundred! How do you figure that?"

"The owner of the Chinese restaurant we went to yesterday afternoon has a large and interconnected family, all heavy investors in the stock market. He saw us together yesterday, put two and two together, and spread the word." Winthrop looked vastly pleased with himself, as though the whole thing had been his own idea.

"So, it's working." Roseanne wondered why she felt more piqued than triumphant.

"It's working," Winthrop confirmed, "like a charm. Today I thought we should do something together. You know, something more public."

"Did you now?"

"Yes." Winthrop didn't seem to notice her distinct lack of enthusiasm. "I had an excuse yesterday because we had to get this proposal out. But a man has to do a better job of entertaining his fiancée than leaving her at home while he's at the office, doesn't he?"

"Hmm." Roseanne stabbed up a forkful of pancake. Win wanted to play engaged now—but only because it was helping his company's stock prices. Of course, that had been the whole idea, more or less, hadn't it? Why did she feel so perversely miffed?

She fit the forkful of pancake into her mouth. Then, sensing Win's intense stare, she looked up.

"Well?" he asked, all eagerness. "What do you think?"

He meant, she slowly realized, the pancakes.

"They're delicious." They really were. "What did you put in them?"

Looking every inch the gratified chef, Win was not shy to divulge his secrets. "Bananas and almonds. And a little vanilla. That's my secret weapon. You really like them?"

"Yes." She switched for a moment to her coffee. Even she could get fat eating Win's cooking. "Where did you learn how to cook?"

"I taught myself. Mostly in college."

"I can barely scramble an egg, myself." For no good reason at all, Roseanne wondered if Winthrop had cooked breakfast like this for his ex-wife, Sylvia. He probably had, she decided, but had probably served the luscious Sylvia her meal in bed.

"Oh, anybody can learn to cook," Winthrop remarked absently, cutting into his own stack of pancakes. "About today. What do you think we ought to do?"

Roseanne leaned back in her seat, cradling her coffee cup. "Good question. Let's see, what could we do that might drive the price of your stock even higher?"

Winthrop reached for more butter. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about the stock. It'll go up all by itself. Just think of something you'd actually like to do."

"How generous of you." The price of the stock would go up all by itself. "Anything I want?"

"Anything." Win smiled, all innocence.

Roseanne smiled, all innocence, back. But there was no innocence inside of her. She knew she was still operating on that perverse pique, but she also knew this wife-deserter deserved no mercy. "In that case, I'd love to go shopping."

His face immediately fell. "What?" His voice kind of quivered as he added, "Shopping?"

"That's right." Roseanne smiled smugly. "I need to buy a dress."

Winthrop looked disgruntled enough to pacify Roseanne's brief ruthlessness. "You
need
a dress?"

"Have you forgotten my grand finale as your fiancée is supposed to take place at the Sons of Texas ball? Something tells me this event is formal wear. Am I wrong?"

He shook his head morosely. "You're not wrong."

"Well, I certainly did not think to pack a formal gown for this little jaunt. I'm going to have to buy one." She paused, forked up some more delicious pancake, and added artlessly, "You're welcome to come along."

Chagrin battled with something less definable in Winthrop's eyes. "All right," he decided. "I'll come."

Roseanne nearly dropped her fork. "What?"

"It's perfect, really," Win went on, beginning to muse. His eyes drifted past her shoulder. "Man buying his fiancée a fancy gown. Very romantic, don't you think?"

"Oh, sure." Roseanne regarded him narrowly. "Don't try to tell me you'd enjoy shopping, Win. What's the deal here?"

"No deal." His eyes, which she'd once thought so cold, returned to gaze at her with warm laughter. "I think it might be kind of fun—with you."

"Right. Seeing as how you can imagine the stock points rising along the way."

Winthrop lifted his white coffee cup. "You have a rather limited view of my imagination."

Meeting his eyes, she suddenly wondered if this were true. There was something far too knowing in the blue depths of his eyes, as though he might have a way to turn her game against her.

But no, Roseanne thought. That was absurd. So far the man had barely given her a moment's competition. "Fine," she said aloud. "Let's go shopping. Right after breakfast." She took another bite of pancake. "I don't suppose you know where to go?"

Win dropped his gaze to his coffee. "Oh, I could guess."

It was no wild guess, however, that an hour later had Win pulling his Caddy into the vast parking lot of an even vaster shopping mall. Roseanne regarded the place with suspicion. This had been no 'guess' on Win's part. Sylvia had brought him here when she went shopping.

Her theory gained conviction as Winthrop silently, calmly led the way to the major department store anchoring one end of the mall. It took him a few seconds after he'd passed through the open wall of the store to notice Roseanne was no longer beside him.

He turned around with a querying frown. "Something wrong?"

With a wry smile, she shook her head. "I don't shop here."

"Oh." Wary, he started back toward her. "Why not?"

"Out of my league, mister. I'm not stingy but these prices are..." Roseanne let out a breath. "Right through the ceiling. Come on." She turned to go.