Читать книгу Texas Glory - Joan Elliott Pickart - Страница 11

Two

Bram sank onto the sofa in his living room and muttered a word his mother would never have allowed to be spoken under her roof.

It was totally unbelievable, he mentally fumed, reflecting on the mayhem that had arisen the moment the powers that be had given permission for the passengers of the airplane to leave their seats.

He’d leaned over to retrieve the panda and to tell Glory Carson that he wished to speak to her—his intention being the request of her telephone number—when a little old lady, who looked no bigger than an elf, had asked him if he’d please retrieve her parcel from the overhead compartment, dear boy?

Two more women tagged him for the same job, as well as one short, stocky man. When he’d finally been able to return to his seat, the panda was still there, grinning like an idiot, but Glory was gone.

His last hope had been the luggage claim area, but no Glory Carson appeared to snatch a suitcase from the rotating jumble of luggage. Apparently she had been in Austin for a short enough stay to have a carryon in the overhead compartment like the rest of the world.

“Damn it,” Bram said, then lunged to his feet. “The telephone book!”

Twenty minutes later, Bram smacked the large book shut and glowered into space.

Nothing, he thought, shaking his head in disgust. He’d looked up every spelling of Carson imaginable. He’d even called directory assistance and come up empty. The operator had found a Dr. G. Carson, but Bram hadn’t bothered to ask for the number.

No, Glory wasn’t a doctor, for Pete’s sake. They’d covered the Ms. versus Mrs. bit on the plane. If Glory was a doctor, she would have said so at the time.

Bram began to pace, the large living room accommodating his long, heavy strides back and forth across the chocolate-colored carpeting.

He’d decorated his apartment on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise in earth tones: brown, oatmeal, yellow, burnt orange and deep green. The knickknacks and pictures were of a Southwestern motif, the furniture oversize to allow for his height. The color scheme, he’d told his mother, represented Texas, which was exactly the way he wanted it.

He’d decided years before that even though he owned a construction company, he wouldn’t build himself a house until he was ready to marry and settle down. Then he would draw up plans with his wife’s input to create a home, not just a structure with the label of “home.”

But here he was, thirty-three years old, more than ready to find the woman of his dreams, have babies with her, build that special home.

Here he was, alone and lonely.

And he’d let a very viable wife candidate in the form of Ms. Glory Carson slip through his fingers.

“Man,” Bram said, halting his trek and dragging one hand through his hair, “this is frustrating as hell.”

He spun around and started toward the kitchen, realizing suddenly that he was hungry. As he passed the panda where it was perched in an easy chair, Bram glared at the toy.

“Knock off the smile, pal,” he said. “This is not a happy situation.”

In the kitchen Bram began to yank food from the refrigerator, shoving all and everything onto the nearest counter.

Tomorrow, he decided, he’d talk to Tux, who was a private investigator. After Tux finished laughing himself silly over Bram’s inability to obtain a telephone number from a woman held captive on an airplane, he would hopefully agree to use his investigative resources to track down Glory for Bram.

Whatever it takes, Bram vowed, as he pitched a moldy tomato into the trash. Yes, sir, he’d pull out all the stops, leave no stone unturned, and a whole slew of other clichés.

He would find Glory Carson.

Glory sank into bed with an exhausted sigh, savoring the feel of the marshmallow-soft pillow beneath her head.

Sleep at last, she thought. She’d unpacked her carryon, eaten a light dinner, sorted through the maze of papers in her briefcase, checked with her answering service for messages, then finally indulged in a long, leisurely bubble bath.

And now she was anticipating hours of blissful sleep before the alarm clock shrilled the announcement that it was Monday morning and the beginning of a new and busy week.

As she began to drift off into slumber, sudden images of a six-foot-tall panda began to dance before her mental vision.

Glory’s last conscious thought before sleep claimed her was that the human-size panda toy had gorgeous, sapphire blue eyes.

The next morning the panda sat in a chair in the corner of Tux Bishop’s office. The huge toy now had a billed Houston Oilers cap balanced on top of its head. No respectable panda, one of Tux’s investigators had declared, would be seen without a cap announcing loyalty to the city’s football team.

Bram paced heavily back and forth across his brother’s office, finishing his tale of having found, then lost, Glory Carson.

“It wasn’t my fault, of course,” Bram said, slouching onto a chair opposite Tux’s desk.

“Of course not,” Tux said, then paused. “Whose fault is it?”

“Our mother’s. Mrs. Jana-John Bishop.”

Tux chuckled. “This ought to be good. What does our sweet mother have to do with the fact that you screwed up royally on that airplane?”

“She taught us to be polite gentlemen, you dolt. What was I supposed to do when those little old ladies asked me to get their junk out of the overhead compartments? Tell them to go find a Boy Scout? Tux, Glory has vanished. I need your help here.”

“Hmm.” Tux rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, made a steeple of his hands and tapped his fingertips against his lips as he stared into space.

There was a definite family resemblance among the Bishop brothers, each having nicely muscled physiques on six-foot frames, rugged, handsome features, and the same deep blue eyes.

Tux’s hair, however, was very blond, streaked nearly white-blond by the sun in places. Bram’s twin brother, Blue, had hair as black as midnight.

“You got absolutely nothing from the directory assistance operator?” Tux said finally.

“Nope. Isn’t that strange? If Glory had an unlisted number, the telephone operator would have said so. The only G. Carson was some doctor, but I know that isn’t Glory.”

Bram stiffened in his chair.

“Do you suppose Glory gave me a phony name?” he said. “Why would she do that?”

Tux shrugged. “According to you, she’s a very beautiful woman. Maybe she gets rid of hustlers like you by inventing a name, making it impossible for you to bother her.”

“I’m not a hustler!” Bram frowned. “Well, I was in my former swinging single life...sort of. But not now. I’m sincere, honest and trustworthy.”

“Brave, courageous and bold,” Tux added.

“Would you knock it off? Come on, Tux. You’re the private investigator in the family, so investigate, for Pete’s sake. Find Glory Carson for me.”

“Chill, little brother,” Tux said. “I’m leaping into action.”

“It’s about time,” Bram muttered.

Tux opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed the telephone book, placing it in front of him.

“Oh, man,” Bram said, “are you deaf? I already did that bit.”

Tux glared at Bram.

“Did you check the yellow pages?” Tux asked.

“What for?” Bram said, flinging out his arms. “Glory didn’t strike me as someone who might be a plumber or exterminator.”

“Bishop, shut up a minute, will you?” Tux said.

“I’m taking my bear back,” Bram said. “You’re worthless, Bishop.”

“You can’t have the panda,” Tux said, flipping to the yellow section of the telephone book. He began to turn pages, one at a time. “It now belongs to my son or daughter. Whew. Can you believe it, Bram? I’m going to be an honest-to-goodness father.”

Bram smiled. “It’s wonderful, it really is. You’ll be a great daddy, Tux, and Incredibly Beautiful Nancy sure will be a super mother. I’m really happy for you guys.”

“Thanks. We’re on Cloud Nine, that’s for sure. Well, actually, Nancy kind of came down off the cloud this morning when she was tossing her cookies. Morning sickness is really the pits.”

“Yeah, I bet it is. What did you do for her?”

“I suggested it might be a good idea to put something back in her stomach, you know what I mean? I offered to heat up the leftover pizza we had last night.”

“And you lived to tell about it?” Bram asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Just barely. I won’t do that again, believe me.” Tux leaned closer to the telephone book. “Man, I’m a top-notch investigator. I should receive an award for solving this case so quickly. Maybe I’ll settle for sending you a megabucks bill.”

“Why? What?” Bram said, getting to his feet.

“It’s right here,” Tux said, tapping the page. “Dr. Glory Carson is a psychologist specializing in marriage counseling. She has an office in a building about six blocks from here.”

Bram sank back onto the chair, an incredulous expression on his face.

“She is Dr. G. Carson?” he said. “Why didn’t she correct me when I called her ‘Ms’? A marriage counselor?” He raked both hands through his hair. “Oh, hell, that’s terrible.”

“Why? What’s wrong with her profession? Hey, it says the lady has brains, as well as looks. Dr. Carson is not a bubblehead.”

“I realize that, Tux, but, cripe, a marriage counselor? She spends her days listening to people with messed-up marriages, then suggests appropriate behavior, right?”

“I guess so.”

“Don’t you get it?” Bram said. “This is not an ordinary woman. This is someone with an indelible ink blueprint of how things should be done in a relationship.”

“Oh,” Tux said. “I see your point. Well, maybe she has an open mind regarding her personal life.”

“Then why isn’t she married? No, she’s a tough case. You should have seen the wall clank into place when I asked her how long her hair was when she didn’t have it pulled back.”

“You asked her that? The first time you talk to the woman, you ask her that? On an airplane? Bram, you’re hopeless. You’re doomed.”

“I wanted to know,” Bram yelled.

“It wasn’t the appropriate time or place, dumbbell.”

“Ah-ha!” Bram said, pointing one finger in the air. “See? There’s that word again. My blunders are going to be magnified tenfold by someone whose profession is centered on appropriate behavior.”

“Yep,” Tux said, nodding slowly. “I do believe you’re right, which is unusual for you.”

“This is going to call for finesse, expertise, a very carefully thought through approach.”

“That leaves you out. Forget Glory Carson.”

“Not a chance.” Bram got to his feet, reached across the desk and tore the page from the telephone book.

“Hey!” Tux said.

“I need this. Thanks, Tux. Hug Nancy for me. Don’t forget to feed the panda. He likes hamburgers and fries, no mustard, extra catsup. See ya.”

Tux watched his brother stride from the room, then turned to look at the bear.

“Count your blessings that you’re going to live with me, Nancy and our baby, kiddo,” he said to the panda.

Friday at noon, Glory sat at the desk in her office, eating the lunch she’d packed at home. She usually studied the files of her afternoon clients during the break, but today she found she couldn’t concentrate.

The week since she’d returned from the seminar in Austin had seemed especially long, the days dragging by. She’d recuperated energywise after a solid night’s sleep on Sunday, had typed the notes from the conference into a semblance of order and placed them into appropriate files in the cabinet.

Glory sighed.

What she had not managed to do during the week was to follow her own firm directives to put Bram Bishop out of her mind.

For some unknown and very annoying reason, Bram had hovered in her mind’s eye, the image so clear she could actually hear his rich voice and rumbly laughter.

She’d purposely scooted into the aisle of the airplane as quickly as possible when she’d seen that Bram was busy helping passengers retrieve their possessions from the overhead compartments.

While she’d chalked up her disconcerting feminine reaction to Bram’s masculine magnetism as bone-weary fatigue, she was still shaken, still felt vulnerable.

She had removed herself from Bram’s presence on the plane, knowing with relief she’d never see him again.

Ha, she thought dismally. Never see Bram Bishop again? That wasn’t quite how the week had gone. The man and his silly panda had followed her into her dreams at night, causing her to toss and turn.

It was so ridiculous. Bram was just a man. Well, okay, he was the best-looking male specimen she’d ever encountered in her twenty-seven years, but that was beside the point.

Also of no importance was the masculine aura that emanated from Bram, the blatant male sexuality, the crackling whatever-it-was that had woven over, around and within her with disturbing, heated intensity.

Glory covered the unfinished fruit salad with a plastic lid, replaced it in an insulated bag beneath her desk, then got to her feet and roamed restlessly around the office.

As if the strange week she’d just spent wasn’t bad enough, she fumed, she still had this afternoon to get through.

Each morning her secretary, Margot, placed the files of the day’s appointments on Glory’s desk. So what had she discovered at nine o’clock?

Bram Bishop had an appointment to see her at one, right after the lunch break.

Why?

Why would Bram make an appointment with a marriage counselor?

How had he even discovered where she was? She had not told him what she did for a living, nor corrected his use of Ms. to Dr.

Bram had somehow tracked her down, and in less than fifteen minutes he would be walking into her office.

What on earth did he want?

“Calm down, Glory Carson,” she told herself aloud. “You’re acting like an idiot.”

She marched into the small bathroom off the office, freshened her lipstick and smoothed back her hair. Her fingertips lingered on the figure-eight bun at the back of her head.

How long is your hair when it’s falling free?

Bram’s words spoken on the airplane echoed in Glory’s head, and she glared at her image in the mirror.

“Would you stop it?” she said to her reflection.

With a cluck of self-disgust, she left the bathroom and returned to her desk, placing Bram’s empty file squarely in front of her.

When Bram arrived, Margot would request that he fill out a new-client form, which the secretary would give to Glory when Bram was escorted from the reception area into the office.

At the moment, however, the file was devoid of paper, and was devoid of answers as to why Bram had made an appointment to see her.

Maybe, she thought suddenly, he’d lied when he’d said he wasn’t married. Maybe he was having problems in his marriage because he flirted with women other than his wife. Women, for example, who he encountered on airplanes. Maybe he needed professional help to be able to be faithful to his wedding vows.

Bram Bishop married? Yes, that was a definite possibility and would certainly explain why he wished to see her in her professional arena.

What didn’t make sense was why the thought of Bram being in a committed relationship was extremely depressing.

Glory pressed her fingertips to her temples where a stress headache was beginning to throb.

Bram Bishop was driving her crazy, right out of her mind.

She narrowed her eyes.

Actually, now that she thought about it, she was glad Bram was coming to the office today. Because she was no longer in a state of exhaustion, she’d be able to view Bram in a normal light.

Yes, he was handsome, but so were a multitude of other men. Yes, he had beautiful blue eyes, but so did millions of other men. Yes, he had a nice physique, a dazzling smile, a sexy laugh, but big deal. He was just a man—no more, no less. And now Bram Bishop was just a client—no more, no less.

Thank goodness, Glory thought, she’d gotten all that straightened out. She was under control, calm, cool and collected.

The telephone on her desk buzzed.

And she’d straightened out just in the nick of time, she mentally tacked on.

Glory lifted the receiver at the same moment she pressed the button with the blinking light in the row at the base of the telephone.

“Yes, Margot?” she said.

“Mr. Bishop is here for his appointment.”

Tell him I went home, Glory’s mind yelled. Tell him I died. Tell him... Glory, get a grip.

“Show him in, please, Margot.”

Glory replaced the receiver, drew a steadying breath, then got to her feet. She came around the side of her desk, as she did when she greeted all clients upon their arrival.

Bram was just a man, she mentally repeated. No more, no less.

The door to the office opened and Margot stepped back to allow Bram to enter.

Wrong, Glory thought frantically. Bram Bishop was more—much more—than any man she’d previously met. Her fully rested state was doing nothing to diminish the sensual impact he was having on her as he walked slowly toward her.

He was so tall, with shoulders so wide. His features were even more rugged, tanned and compelling than she remembered. He was wearing a white Western shirt and crisp jeans that were obviously quite new.

And those eyes...dear heaven, those gorgeous blue eyes of Bram’s were holding her immobile. Was she breathing? Oh, she hoped so. She’d be mortified if she fainted dead-out-on-her-nose from being in close proximity to Bram Bishop.

“Glory?” Margot said.

“Hmm?” Glory turned her head to look at her secretary, then blinked. “Oh, thank you.” She took the paper Margot was extending toward her.

Margot stared at Glory questioningly for a long moment, then hurried across the room, closing the door behind her as she left.

“Well, we meet again,” Glory said, sitting down gratefully in the chair behind her desk.

Her legs were trembling, she realized. Her heart was racing. There was heat—pulsing heat—thrumming low in her body. This was absurd, ridiculous and absolutely unacceptable.

“Have a seat, Mr. Bishop.”

“Bram,” he said, settling in one of the chairs opposite her desk. “After all, we’re already acquainted, Dr. Carson. You might have corrected my use of Ms., you know.”

“It didn’t seem important at the time,” she said. “I’ll need a minute to look over this new-client form you’ve filled out.”

“That’s fine,” Bram said.

There she is, Bram thought, looking intently at Glory. Man, he was glad to see her. He’d been really rattled when he discovered he’d lost track of her. But now he’d found her again, and she was even lovelier than the image he’d been carrying in his mind.

She was dressed very much as she’d been on the airplane. Ultrabusiness—cream-colored slacks, a pale blue blouse and a navy blue blazer.

What would Glory look like in jeans and a T-shirt?

And, oh, man, what would Glory look like with her hair falling free?

“You didn’t answer any of the questions on the form, Bram,” Glory said, “beyond name, address, telephone number and age. There’s a whole section here on how long you’ve been married and so forth.”

Bram propped one ankle on his opposite knee.

“I told you on the plane that I wasn’t married,” he said, no readable expression on his face.

Glory slipped the paper into Bram’s file, then folded her hands on top.

“Yes, so you said. But I thought since you’d made an appointment to consult with a marriage counselor that perhaps you actually were married.”

“No.”

Hooray! Glory thought. No, forget it. Glory, just stop it. Get it together. Professional conduct at all times, remember?

“I’m planning on getting married,” Bram said.

“Oh, I see,” Glory said. “Well, that’s nice.” No, that was terrible, just awful, really depressing, and... Oh, Glory, please stop. “Congratulations.” She cleared her throat. “When’s the big day?”

Bram shrugged. “I have no idea. Soon, I hope.”

“So! What brings you here?”

You, Bram thought. But Glory had been more relaxed, more open, on the plane. In her professional setting, she was stiff as a board, her smiled forced and phony.

If he marched around the desk, hauled her into his arms and kissed her senseless, would she loosen up? No. she’d probably deck him.

Easy does it, Bishop, he told himself. Take it slow and easy.

“Well, here’s my theory,” Bram thought. “If a person consults a marriage counselor before he gets married, he stands a better chance of not gumming up the works after he’s married. Get it?”

Glory frowned slightly. “Well, I... Well, the idea has merit, I suppose. I’ve never done any prenuptial counseling, but... Don’t you think your fiancée should take part with you in these proposed sessions?”

A slow smile broke across Bram’s face, widening into a grin.

“I don’t have a fiancée,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want to get married. I fully intend to get married,” he said, his smile fading. “I just haven’t been able to find the right woman yet. In the meantime, I’m going to prepare myself to get married, sort of like boot camp. You know what I mean?

“I have a lot to learn about the appropriate behavior for being a husband, partner, the half of a whole. When I marry, it will be until death parts me from my wife. The Bishop boys believe in forever love.” He paused. “Yes, forever love.”

Oh, no, Glory thought, was that the ache of tears she was feeling in her throat? Yes, it was. Control. She had to gain control of her emotions. Right now.

But, dear heaven, what Bram said had been so touching, so honest and real. The words had obviously come straight from his heart, spoken in a voice low and reverent, with an echo of wistfulness.

Forever love.

What a beautiful way to express it, to define the essence of his hopes and dreams. Bram wasn’t strutting his machismo stuff at the moment, he was simply being a man, rendering himself vulnerable to her censure.

Bram Bishop was asking for her help as a professional, who had expertise in an area where he admittedly was lacking in knowledge.

How could she, in all good conscience, refuse his heartfelt request?