The MacGregor Grooms (23 page)

“Ms. Brightstone’s in her office on the second floor. Would you like me to send for her?”

Well-mannered, efficient staff were obviously still the order of the day. Ian smiled, shook his head.
“No, thanks. I’ll go up.”

“I’ll let her know you’re on your way, Mr. MacGregor.”

“Appreciate it.” He started up the sharply angled stairs and had a sudden, vivid flash of his mother grinning down at him and telling him they’d go for ice cream if he was very patient while she finished shopping.

“Rocky Road,” he murmured. He’d always gone for Rocky Road, and his mother had always held his hand firmly in hers when they’d crossed the street to order cones.

Good memory, he decided, then noted that the second floor was no longer dim and intimidating. He didn’t think it was only because now he was six feet tall rather than three.

Lights had been added and the shelves had changed from dark brown to a honey-toned wood. There was a pair of long, sturdy tables lined with chairs, creating a kind of study area. It was being used by what looked to be a high school couple more interested in each other than the books opened in front of them.

Now that he thought of it, he had some fine memories of study dates as well in the less-atmospheric corners of his school library.

Something else there didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day for just now, he mused. Not the studying, God knew, but the dating. He was going to have to get back in the swim before too long.

He missed women.

“Mr. MacGregor?”

He turned and watched the woman approach. She was a tidy little package, he concluded. Bandbox neat in her smart red suit and practical heels. Her hair was glossy black, subdued into a thick braid that hung down her back and left her quietly pretty face unframed.

Her lips were full, with just the slightest hint of overbite, and painted to match the suit. Simple gold hoops swung at her ears, and the hand she offered him was narrow and unadorned.

“Ms. Brightstone.”

“Yes.” She smiled. “I’m sorry I wasn’t downstairs when you got here.”

“I wasn’t able to be firm on the time. It’s not a problem.”

“Let me show you to my office. Can I get you something? Coffee? Cappuccino?”

“Is that cappuccino as good as it smells?”

This time the smile reached her clear gray eyes. “It’s better, especially if you add one of our hazelnut biscotti on the side.”

“Sold.”

“You won’t be sorry.” She led the way back through the stacks to a door over the café. “I’ll have someone bring it up. Please excuse the confusion,” she said, skirting around a stepladder and painting supplies. “We haven’t quite finished our face-lift.”

“I noticed the changes. Very nice.”

“Thank you.” She glanced back and opened another door. “We’re getting very positive feedback.”

Her office had the feel of recent remodeling. The walls were a soft pearly white accented with Boston street scenes done in soft, misty colors. The gleaming cherry desk was tidy, suiting her size and style. She gestured to one of a pair of cheerful striped chairs. “Let me just call for the coffee.”

He took a seat and the time to study her. He knew from the paperwork in his briefcase that she was the daughter of the owners—making her in his calculations the fourth generation of Brightstone Books.

He’d expected her to be older, starchier, he realized, but pegged her in her early twenties, efficient but stylish. And built, he added, as he noted just how nicely the red suit showed off her curves.

When she hung up the phone, she took the seat across from him, folded her hands in her lap. “It’ll
be right up. I want to thank you for agreeing to meet me here. The store’s taking all my time these days.”

Her voice, he noted, was as clear and quiet as her eyes. “I know the feeling. And I’m happy to oblige. You’re on my way home, anyway.”

“That’s handy, then. Your secretary said you had the papers for me to look over and sign.”

“The partnership agreement, yes. Pretty standard, and I think we have everything detailed the way your father outlined.” Curious, he opened his briefcase, stalling as he flipped through papers. “Can I assume your father’s retiring?”

“More or less. He and my mother want to spend more time in their winter home in Arizona, perhaps relocate there permanently. My brother and his family already have.”

“And you don’t have any yen to go west?”

“No. Boston is mine.” And so, she thought with a little flutter of the heart, was Brightstone’s. Or it would be. “I’ve been taking on more responsibility for the store over the last eighteen months.”

“The changes your idea?”

“Yes.” Ones she’d fought for tooth and nail. “The market changes, customer demands and expectations change. It was time to catch up.”

She rose at the knock on the door, and taking a tray from the boy delivering the coffee, murmured her thanks. “The café, for one,” she continued, setting the tray on the desk and offering Ian his frothy coffee in an oversize cup and saucer. “It’s the type of service that people want in a bookstore today. They no longer simply come for books, but for the atmosphere, a meeting place, a center.” She smiled again as she sat with her own cup. “And great coffee.”

“Well, I can vouch for the last of that,” Ian said after a sip. “It’s great coffee. And as I’ve gone over your files, your numbers, the profit-and-loss statements and so forth, it appears your alterations are working.”

“We increased sales by fifteen percent in the last nine months.” She wouldn’t think, just yet, about what it had cost to make those changes that had helped generate those increases. “I estimate we’ll be up another fifteen within the next six.”

“I always loved to come here as a kid.”

“And have you been a customer of Brightstone’s within the last year?”

He shook his head. “Got me. But I will be.” He set the coffee on the little table between them, then passed her the papers. “You’ll want to look these over. I’ll answer any questions you might have.”

“Thank you.” She retrieved a pair of wire-rim reading glasses from the desk. The minute she put them on Ian experienced a slow, inevitable meltdown.

Women in glasses drove him crazy.

He rolled his eyes, picked up his coffee and told himself to get a grip. She was a client.

Whose sober and intelligent gray eyes looked fabulous behind those lenses. Then there was that hotly painted and sexily flawed mouth. The lushly curved body in the trim, nearly military style suit. Sensible shoes. Great legs.

All that stop-and-go in one package would drive a saint crazy, he comforted himself. And the MacGregors weren’t known for being saints.

Still, he gave his coffee his attention and tried not to think that the thick neat braid and the subtle, all-female perfume was just one more combo to add to the whole.

Besides, what was the harm in asking her out? To dinner. No, lunch, he decided. Lunch was definitely better. More businesslike. They could have lunch. A very casual, perfectly acceptable lunch—where he wouldn’t give a single thought to nibbling on her neck to see if that was where her scent was warmest.

Her nails were short, rounded and unpainted. She wasn’t wearing a ring, so he hoped that meant she was unattached.

He sat, waiting while she read, and planning exactly how to broach the subject of a nice little lunch later in the week.

Naomi read every line, then allowed herself a long, quiet breath. It was a momentous event for her, what these coolly legal papers symbolized. If she’d been alone, she might have clutched them to her breast and wept. Or shouted with joy. But as she wasn’t, she laid them on the desk, slipped off her glasses.

“Everything appears to be in order.”

“Questions?”

“No, I understand them. I minored in business law.”

“Well then. You can sign them now if you’re satisfied. You’ll need a witness. Then I’ll send them to your parents in Scottsdale. Once they’re signed and sealed, it’s a done deal.”

“I’ll just get my assistant.”

Five minutes later, Naomi held out a steady hand. “Thanks so much for taking care of this for us.”

“Happy to help. Listen, I have a list here. My grandfather—you’ve met him.”

“Yes, many times.” Her eyes warmed again; the hot red mouth curved softly. “He and your grandmother often come in when they’re in Boston.”

“A couple of first editions he’s after. He asked if you’d see what you could do—since I was coming in.”

“I’d be glad to. We’ll go up to the third floor—and if we don’t have what he’s looking for, we’ll do a search.”

“Terrific.”

She stepped forward, and he stayed where he was. When her gaze flicked up to his, held, he smiled slow and easy. “You smell fabulous.”

“Oh.” Her gaze dropped as warm color surged to her cheeks. The hands that had been calm and graceful fluttered once, then linked together, and she visibly shrank back and into herself. “Thank you. It’s, ah, new. That is, I just … well,” she said, despising herself. “We should go up.”

Hell, he thought as he opened the door and let her scramble out ahead of him. Blew that one, MacGregor.

As far as Naomi was concerned, the Grand Canyon wasn’t a big enough hole to fall into. Only the fact that she was surrounded by books—always a comfort—and performing a set task had kept her from losing it until Ian was gone. After she’d located two of the books on his list and agreed to start a search for the third, she’d formally shaken his hand, thanked him again and politely seen him downstairs.

Then she’d walked back to her office, quietly shut the door and laid her head down on the desk.

Moron. Idiot.

Would she always turn into a babbling fool when an attractive man so much as hinted at a personal interest? Wasn’t that supposed to be one of the benefits in the changes she’d made in herself? The transformation from the pudgy, awkward and dowdy girl to the sleek, stylish and confident woman.

The one who’d made a fool of herself because Ian MacGregor had complimented her perfume.

A full week later, and she still wasn’t over it.

She’d found the book. It sat on her desk, neatly wrapped, ready for delivery or pickup. She’d yet to work up the courage to lift the phone and tell Ian his order was now in stock.

Moron, she thought again. Idiot.

After all the work she’d done, all the effort she’d put in. Brightstone’s wasn’t the only project she’d taken on with a vengeance. Naomi had systematically and effortfully given herself a face-lift over the past year.

Not just the weight loss, which had started when she’d finally convinced herself to stop feeding her shyness, her social clumsiness and her dissatisfaction with her self-image by going on eating binges, and had begun a search for the woman inside.

A woman she’d found she could like and respect.

A reasonable diet, healthy exercise, had become habit once she’d understood that all she’d been doing through her miserable teenage years had been hiding.

It wasn’t just her wardrobe, she thought, mentally reviewing the process, though it had taken her months to finally cull the dowdy out of her closet and replace it with flattering and attractive styles. Incorporating color for a change, she reflected, sighing as she looked down at her new teal suit. Gone were the days of sensible navy, unobtrusive brown and self-effacing gray. Of boxy styles and baggy jackets.

But that was just surface, she mused, just like the cosmetics she’d carefully learned to select and apply. She no longer faded back into crowds. She’d taught herself how to present a reasonably attractive, competent and professional appearance.

And she had, for the most part, managed the metamorphosis from socially awkward to socially adept on the inside as well. She wouldn’t allow herself to be shy, to hide in corners, to avoid people as she’d done most of her life simply because she couldn’t be as beautiful or sophisticated as her mother, as outgoing and confident as her brother.

Brightstone’s required a savvy, personable manager, and she had become one.

And she’d been doing so well, she thought in despair. She’d been so proud of herself. Look how nicely she’d been handling that one-on-one meeting with Ian MacGregor. Who was, she mused, just the kind of man who usually tied her tongue into slippery, tangled knots before she managed to say hello.

The Harvard Hunk. Oh yes, he definitely rated the title, she thought. He was so handsome, so smooth, and when he smiled … well, she doubted hers was the only woman’s heart that beat a bit faster.

But she’d been fine. They’d shared coffee, had conversation, done business.

Then he’d given her one quick, casual personal compliment, and she’d babbled like a fool. Stuttered. Blushed, for Lord’s sake. And all because he’d commented on her new perfume.

And why do you wear perfume, Naomi? she asked herself viciously. You wear it so people notice you, so that you feel both feminine and confident.

A man like him, she mused, with his looks, his background, his charm, would be well skilled at offering casually flattering comments to women. And would expect them to respond in an easy, sophisticated—or perhaps liberally flirtatious—manner.

All she’d done was blush and stutter.

She could only imagine that Ian had laughed about her ridiculous and juvenile reaction all the way home. Or worse, much worse, he’d felt sorry for her.

Even the thought of it made her wince. She’d spent too many years of her life being the object of amusement or pity.

Even from her family—though they had always loved her. But when you were the lone duckling in a family of swans, you knew it.

Just as she knew how pleased they all were that she’d finally begun to make an effort to present a more polished exterior. Why, her mother had been almost giddy when Naomi had asked her for opinions on fashion, on cut and color. Just before they’d left for Arizona her father had given her his usual bear hug. But this time instead of calling her his sweet girl, as was his habit, he’d called her his pretty girl.

It had made her feel—foolishly, Naomi was sure—like a princess.

They’d trusted her with Brightstone’s because they knew she had brains, knew she would work until she dropped. And because she’d fought a long, difficult battle to win them over to her side. Her father hadn’t wanted to make the changes she’d outlined. He hadn’t wanted to go to the expense, or take the financial risk. He’d wanted—quite reasonably, Naomi mused—to retire and let the store, something that had been as much burden as livelihood, slide quietly into oblivion.