Читать книгу Uninhibited - Candace Schuler - Страница 9

“YOU STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU are, Gran.” Reed rose to his feet as he spoke. “Miss Moon and I can see ourselves to the door.”

Moira relaxed back onto the settee without even a token murmur of protest. “Thank you, dear. I’d appreciate that. These old bones of mine are a bit creaky and uncooperative these days.” She held her hand out to Zoe. “I’m looking forward to getting started on our project,” she said when Zoe reached out and clasped her fingers. “It’s going to be so exciting. As soon as Reed gets all the paperwork done we’ll have a little party to celebrate.” Her eyes twinkled at the thought. “A sit-down dinner, I think, with the men in black tie so we ladies can get all gussied up. And lots of champagne. Do you like champagne, Zoe?”

“I love champagne.” Impulsively, obeying her instincts as she always did, Zoe bent and kissed her hostess’s cheek. It was soft and papery beneath her lips, and smelled sweetly of expensive face powder and Chanel No. 5. “Thank you,” she whispered, and gently squeezed the fragile hand in hers.

“No, thank you.” Moira returned the squeeze with surprising strength from someone with creaky old bones. “I haven’t looked forward to anything half so much in a long time. It’s going to be such fun.” She smiled up into her great-grandson’s face, her own alight with an almost childlike joy. “Isn’t it going to be fun, dear?”

Zoe didn’t think fun was exactly the word Mr. Reed Sullivan IV would have used to describe the situation. Unless she was very much mistaken, he hadn’t been the least bit amused when he finally realized what his great-grandmother was planning to do. He’d been…well, appalled was the only word for the look that had flashed, ever so briefly, in his cool blue eyes.

“We’ll see,” he said stoically, confirming Zoe’s supposition. “It’s a little too early in the game to be making predictions.”

He reached out as he spoke, touching his fingers to the small of Zoe’s back as if to hurry her along, then drew back sharply. Zoe felt a small jolt and her skin rippled, chill bumps racing up her spine. She took a half step to the side, glancing uneasily over her shoulder. “Lots of static electricity in the air this time of year,” she said with a tight little smile.

“Yes,” Reed agreed as he took a step back from her. “That must be it. Static electricity. You should have Eddie check the setting on your humidifier, Gran. It might need to be turned up a notch or two. Miss Moon?” He extended his hand in a gesture that indicated she should precede him toward the double doors.

Though he was excruciatingly polite about it, the man obviously couldn’t wait to get her out of his great-grandmother’s parlor…away from his great-grandmother’s wallet. Oh, he hid his impatience behind a patrician air and the same sort of bland, noncommittal smile she’d seen on the faces of half a dozen bankers over the last couple of months, but she knew exactly what he was thinking. If it were up to him, she wouldn’t get the money. Thank goodness it wasn’t up to him.

“I hope,” she muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

Zoe shook her head at him. “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”

“Then.” He extended his hand again, polite, implacable, expecting to be obeyed. “After you.”

Zoe abruptly decided it would do him good to be forced to hold his horses for a minute or two. She got the impression that he wasn’t often required to wait for much of anything, and patience was a virtue, after all. She dropped her heavy tapestry bag to the floor and unhooked one of the handles of the Betsey Johnson shopping bag from the crook of her arm, letting it swing open.

“Why don’t I leave a sample of my hand cream with you,” she said to Moira as she dug through the bag. “That way you can compare the two—the lotion versus the cream.” She extracted a small, squat, green glass container from the bag and presented it to Moira on the flat of her hand. “Use one on each hand for a week or so and see which you like better. Sort of our own form of, ah…” she glanced over her shoulder at Reed with a wide, guileless smile “…market research?” she said, all but batting her lashes at him. “Is that the right term?”

He gave her a slight nod. “It is,” he said civilly.

She had to hand it to him. The man really did have lovely manners and truly impressive self-control. He stood there in his understated silk tie and his expensive navy blue suit—custom-made, no doubt—looking all cool and unconcerned, as debonair as James Bond at the baccarat table, while underneath she knew he wanted nothing more than to grab her by the scruff of the neck and toss her into the street. She’d been aware of his gaze on her all during their oh-so-civilized tea, sensing the disapproval lurking just beneath the surface of his cool, unruffled calm even before he realized what his great-grandmother meant to do.

Which didn’t make any sense.

Zoe was well aware of her effect on most men. Just the sight of her was often enough to turn the weak-minded among them into slobbering, adoring idiots. Not that she thought Reed Sullivan was weak-minded but…well, even strong-minded men were usually inclined to look favorably on her, at least at first sight. It wasn’t something she exploited—not often, anyway, not unless she really had to—but it was something she counted on to be there, kind of like the sun rising in the east every morning. Fair or not, her looks gave her an edge she had come to depend on in her dealings with men.

Instead of looking favorably on her, though, Reed Sullivan had been suspicious and disapproving from the minute he walked into the cheery, sunlit parlor and saw her sitting on the settee beside his great-grandmother. Her initial offer of friendliness— “Call me Zoe, please”—had been rebuffed in no uncertain terms. Very politely, of course, and oh-so-charmingly, but rebuffed nonetheless.

His attitude had puzzled her at first, even beyond his lack of a favorable response to her physical self. What could she, a stranger, have done in those first few moments that he could possibly disapprove of? Maybe he was having a bad day and the disapproving air didn’t have anything to do with her, she’d thought charitably. Or maybe she’d intimidated him; it wasn’t unknown for a certain type of man to get shy and tongue-tied in her presence. Although, admittedly, Reed Sullivan didn’t strike her as either shy or inarticulate, she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. So she’d tried teasing him, gently, smiling to let him know she was harmless. Most men, strong-minded or not, went a little slack-jawed when she gave them her slanting, sideways glance, that whisper of a smile that tacitly invited them to share the joke. Reed Sullivan had narrowed his brilliant blue eyes and looked down his aristocratic nose at her, as if she were an impertinent employee who’d overstepped her bounds.

Zoe had distinctly felt her hackles rise. How dare he disapprove of her! Just because he was wealthy and pedigreed, and belonged to what she was sure were all the right clubs, and she was…well, okay, she was there with her hand out, more or less, hoping for a loan from his great-grandmother. But that was no reason for him to look at her as if she were some kind of panhandler who’d accosted him in the street. Moira Sullivan had invited her to tea specifically to discuss the possibility of investing in New Moon.

Zoe began to needle him subtly, mocking his pretensions with a provocative little smile, using her expressive eyes and her centerfold body in an effort to make him squirm, trying to find some way to pierce that polished facade of urbane civility. A couple of times there, she’d thought she’d succeeded. Almost. He’d looked distinctly guilty at one point, as if whatever he was thinking at that particular moment probably wouldn’t have borne the light of day. And then, a minute or two later, there’d been a certain betraying light in his eyes as he’d looked at her—not disapproving just then at all, oh no, but speculative, absorbed…fascinated, almost. She’d handed him his tea, wondering exactly what was going on behind that distant, glazed look, feeling the tiniest bit triumphant at having rattled him at last.

And then their fingers had touched.

And their eyes had met.

And she’d felt as if every nerve ending in her body had been scorched.

She’d had to turn away, trying not to fumble as she poured her own tea, taking several slow, calming breaths while she tried to compose herself. And as she regained her composure, the budding feeling of triumph returned along with it. He’d shaken her, yes, but she’d shaken him, too. She was sure of it. He wasn’t as cool as he pretended. As unaffected. Not if that hot, glittering look that had flickered in his eyes when his gaze met hers was anything to go by.

Telling herself to be satisfied with that small victory, she’d reseated herself on the settee with what she felt was a convincing nonchalance, managing, finally, after a long, fidgety moment, to glance casually toward Reed to see how he was reacting to whatever it was that had flashed between them.

Mr. Nose-in-the-air Stuffed Shirt Reed Sullivan IV was leaning forward in his chair, his teacup on the gleaming piecrust table, his eyes focused intently on his great-grandmother, calmly talking business! New Moon business, true, but still…

Zoe wondered if anything had ever ruffled that insufferable, infuriating poise of his for more than a second. Wondered, too, what that anything might be. It certainly couldn’t have been a woman! Money, maybe. No, probably, she decided peevishly. He was obviously the bloodless, cold-fish type who couldn’t get worked up about anything except money.

Well, she could oblige him there.

“Why don’t you just take all my samples,” she said to Moira, as if the idea had just occurred to her. Which it had. “Use them yourself. Give them to all your friends and female relations.” She continued to dig through her shopping bag as she spoke, putting small jars and bottles and plump satin sachets back on the piecrust table from where she had picked them all up a few minutes ago. “That way we can expand our research and make it a real survey. After all, it’s women like you and your wealthy friends who have the money to spend that will make New Moon profitable.”

She glanced at Reed out of the corner of her eye to see how he was taking it. His countenance hadn’t changed except for a slight narrowing of his eyes and a too-tight something about his jaw, as if he were clenching his teeth. Encouraged, Zoe rattled on.

“Maybe we could hold a sort of informal market focus group,” she said recklessly, tossing ideas out off the top of her head. “You know, invite your friends over some evening and let them sample the products and tell us what they think about each of them. I could even give minifacials or—oh, I know!” She snapped her fingers as inspiration struck. “How about massages with my scented body oils? My friend Gina is a massage therapist and she’d lend me her table. We could set it up right here in the parlor. Gina might even come along to give the massages herself, if she’s free. She’s very good. Very much in demand. In fact, she has scads of clients right here on Beacon Hill. Probably some of your friends, even. Maybe you’ve heard of her? Gina Molinari? No? Well, anyway, I’m sure she wouldn’t charge too much, as a favor to me. Although, with your money, I don’t guess you’d worry about that.”

Zoe tossed another quick look over her shoulder. Reed Sullivan was still standing there, a bland look on his face, seemingly at ease as he patiently waited for his great-grandmother’s guest to be ready to leave…but a tiny, telltale muscle in his chiseled jaw had begun to twitch, ever so slightly. Zoe smiled brightly and plunged ahead.

“If that goes well, we could do something more formal. Well, not exactly formal, but more, um…” she tapped a forefinger against her chin, parodying someone deep in thought “…businesslike,” she decided, the word forming on her lips as if she wasn’t quite sure of its pronunciation, or exact meaning. “We could widen the survey. You know, pay different people to come in off the street to try the products, with questionnaires afterward to see what they like and don’t like. I’ve participated in dozens of focus groups like that when I’ve been between jobs, and they’re all pretty much run the same way,” she said confidingly. “I even worked as a researcher myself once, on one of my temp jobs, so I know how it’s done. So. How does that sound to you? Just to start, I mean?”

“Well, ah…” Moira’s gaze flickered from Zoe’s flushed face to her great-grandson’s stony countenance and back again. She smiled. “That sounds like quite an ambitious plan, my dear.” She nodded emphatically. Approvingly. “Quite ambitious.”

“Oh, I’m ambitious, all right.” Zoe slanted another quick glance at Reed. The muscles in his jaw were bulging now, as if he’d gone beyond clenching his teeth to grinding them. Zoe felt a surge of pure adrenaline and went in for the kill. “Extremely ambitious.” She leaned over slightly, reaching out to clasp one of Moira’s hands in both of hers. “Why, with all your lovely money behind me there’s no telling what I can—” She broke off, startled, as Reed’s long fingers wrapped themselves around her biceps. She dropped Moira’s hand as he pulled her upright with something very close to a jerk.

“We can talk about what you can or can not do with all Gran’s lovely money at some other time,” Reed said quietly, through his teeth.

Zoe’s protest was automatic. “But I haven’t fin—”

“I hate to rush you, but I’m running late, Miss Moon.” He glanced pointedly at his watch, turning his wrist without letting go of her. “If you want a lift home, we’ll have to leave right now.”

“Late for what? Oh. Your rugby practice,” she said, realizing belatedly that her hostess’s great-grandson was actually teetering on the edge of losing his cool. He’d never have laid hands on her, otherwise. “Well, don’t worry about me, then.” She gave him a bright, saccharine smile meant to push him clean over the precipice. “I can take the T home when I’m ready to go.” She shrugged dismissively, trying to dislodge his hand. “Moira and I have lots more to discuss and—”

His fingers flexed on her arm. “I really must insist, Miss Moon.”

“No, thank you. I appreciate the gesture but—”

“I didn’t want to mention it, but I’m afraid Gran is getting tired.” The look he turned on Moira was one of filial concern. “Aren’t you, Gran?”

“Nonsense. I’m not the least—” Moira began.

“She’ll never admit it, of course,” Reed continued smoothly, talking over his great-grandmother’s protest, “but it’s been a long afternoon for her. She usually takes a nap right after tea, and we’re keeping her from it.” He lowered his voice, putting his lips very near Zoe’s ear as if to keep Moira from overhearing. “She is ninety-two, you know.”

“Oh. Oh, yes. Of course. How thoughtless of me.” Guilt pierced Zoe’s tender heart, instantly chasing away all thought of goading Reed. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. You’ve been so kind to me,” she said to Moira, “and here I am, keeping you up when you should be resting. Just let me grab my purse and—”

“Got it.” Reed bent down, scooped the tapestry bag off the floor by its braided leather straps with his free hand and swung it toward her.

Zoe grabbed at it awkwardly, fumbling to hold on to it without upending the precariously gaping shopping bag hanging from her arm. She felt her shawl begin to slip, and hunched her shoulder, trying to boost it back into place.

“Dinner here after practice?” Reed said to his great-grandmother as Zoe grappled with her belongings.

“Dinner? Well, actually, I—”

Reed stared down his nose at her and waited.

“Yes, of course, dear. Dinner here,” Moira agreed demurely. “If you like.”

“I like.” He bent and pressed a quick kiss on her cheek. “I’ll be back around eight-thirty, if that’s all right with you?”

Moira nodded. “Eight-thirty will be fine.”

“Good.” He nodded, once. “That’s settled, then.” His hand tightened on Zoe’s arm. “Miss Moon?”

Zoe braced herself against the pressure. “Thank you for a lovely tea, Moira. I really enjoyed it.”

“So did I, dear,” Moira said. “Immensely. I’ll call you about the market research party early next week and we can discuss the details at more length.”

Reed mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Over my dead body” under his breath.

“What was that, dear?” Moira asked. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

“I said, I’ll take care of all the details.” He looked down at Zoe, smiling at her through gritted teeth. “Ready, now?”

Without waiting for either assent or refusal, he propelled her into motion, steering her around the piecrust table and across the Aubusson. It was either stumble along beside him as best she could or fall flat on her face and let him drag her. Zoe stumbled along, the shopping bag dangling from her arm, her purse clutched to her chest, her soft, knitted shawl slipping farther and farther off her shoulder. She had to quickstep to keep up with his long-legged, no-nonsense stride as he headed toward the tall double doors. The doors opened outward just as they reached them, and Eddie stepped back, bowing them into the foyer with a nod of his head.

“Sir?” he said in the same formal, sonorous tone he had used before. The word and the tone contrasted incongruously with the bright red shorts and red-and-yellow color-block rugby shirt he was wearing. No one paid any attention to the fact that he must have been listening at the keyhole to have opened the doors so promptly.

“Grab my things, please, Eddie,” Reed said he marched across the marble foyer, towing Zoe in his wake. She was nearly on tiptoes now, and the shawl had slipped entirely off of one shoulder and was dragging on the floor. “I’m running late.”

Eddie already had Reed’s things laid out in readiness, the overcoat draped across the top of a tufted velvet Victorian bench, the briefcase and gym bag side by side on the floor in front of it. He grabbed them up along with his own gym bag and fell in step behind the two scurrying figures.

“I take it you’re not going to change here as usual?” he asked pleasantly, as if the sight of his employer’s great-grandson quickstepping a guest out of the house wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

“No,” Reed said shortly. “No time. We have to drop Miss Moon off at her apartment on our way.” He yanked the front door open with his free hand before Eddie could maneuver around to do it for him. “I’ll change at Magazine Beach.”

I really ought to let him drive me home, Zoe thought vindictively as he all but dragged her over the threshold and out onto the front steps. Considering his final destination, a detour to the North End during rush hour traffic would make him really late. But it would make Eddie late, too, and Eddie wasn’t the one giving her the bum’s rush. And besides, she wasn’t in the mood to go anywhere with Mr. Stuffed Shirt!

“You don’t have to drop Miss Moon at her apartment,” she said between her teeth, digging in her heels and rearing back as he reached for the door handle of the sleek black Jaguar XJ6 parked—wouldn’t you just know it!—at the curb directly in front of the house. “You don’t have to drop Miss Moon anywhere, because Miss Moon will take the T. Now let go of my arm!”

She yanked her arm out of his grasp and turned to face him, there on the sidewalk in front of his great-grandmother’s Beacon Hill mansion.

“Boy, I sure don’t know what your problem is, mister.” Huffily, head down, Zoe wrestled with the handles of both shopping bag and purse, settling them securely over her arm. “And I don’t particularly care.” She hitched her shawl up over her shoulder with a jerk, draping the excess over her forearm. “But I definitely do not appreciate being treated like some kind of two-bit street hustler who’s out to make a quick buck off a sweet old lady.”

“If a quick buck was all you were after, there wouldn’t be any problem, would there?” Reed said mildly, his tone as urbane and civil as if he hadn’t just dragged her out of his great-grandmother’s house by the scruff of the neck.

Zoe found it really annoying that he could sound so cool, as if that mad dash across the marble foyer and down the wide brick steps hadn’t happened, while she was left feeling frazzled, put-upon and decidedly ill used. “Then just what is your problem?” she demanded.

“My problem is your brazen effort to bilk a sweet old lady out of a small fortune to finance some fly-by-night cosmetic company.”

“Fly-by—” Zoe’s mouth gaped open and she stared at him like a hooked fish for a full five seconds. “New Moon is not fly-by-night!” she exclaimed furiously, and then clamped her mouth shut. Shouting at the top of her lungs might be all well and good in the North End, but Beacon Hill called for a little more decorum. Besides, if she lost her temper, Mr. Stuffed Shirt would win. And she’d implode before she’d let that happen. “I’ve been selling New Moon products to individual clients for over three years, and commercially, on a commission basis, for almost two,” she said with quiet dignity. “I have steady retail customers in two shops in the Faneuil Hall Marketplace and several locations in the Back Bay, including one in a very exclusive boutique on Newbury Street, which, for your information, is where I met your great-grandmother. I’d hardly call that fly-by-night.”

“Regardless of what you’d call it, Miss Moon, you’re not getting any money from my great-grandmother to expand your little…enterprise.” His slight hesitation made the word sound distinctly unsavory.

“Why not?” Zoe demanded, truly puzzled by his attitude. “Moira told me she invests in all kinds of businesses. And with your blessing, too. So just what have you got against me and New Moon?”

“Let’s just say I have a constitutional aversion to con artists and leave it at that, shall we?”

“Con artists!?” She had to fight to keep her voice even. “But I just told you, I’m not trying to con any— Moira’s the one who invited me to tea and I— Oh, forget it! It’s obvious you’ve already made up your mind,” she accused, ignoring the fact that her little act in his great-grandmother’s parlor might have had something to do with his poor opinion of her. “And you aren’t about to change it, are you? No matter what I say.”

Zoe lifted her chin. “All I can say is that you’re cheating your great-grandmother out of a wonderful investment opportunity. New Moon is going to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars some day. Millions, even.” She picked up the end of her shawl and tossed it across the opposite shoulder, haughty as an affronted queen. “It’s going to be bigger than Estee Lauder. And you’re going to be very, very sorry.”

With that, she turned and stomped off down the street, her mass of fiery, corkscrew curls swaying against her back, her purse and shopping bag bouncing against her hip, the heels of her purple suede boots clicking like castanets against the venerable old Boston street.

For once in her life, she had come up with the perfect exit line. Perfect! She hadn’t said too much, or too little. She hadn’t lost her temper. She’d been cool, calm and composed. It took all of her willpower not to ruin it by turning around and rudely thumbing her nose at Mr. Stuffed Shirt Reed Sullivan IV.

“Well,” Eddie said. “That was certainly interesting.”

“Yes,” Reed said slowly, his eyes on her retreating back. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, wondering why it felt so hot and…twitchy. “Wasn’t it.”