Open Invitation?
Karen Kendall
When cowboy Dan Granger hires etiquette diva Lilia London for a crash course in manners, she has no idea what she's getting into. His twang and his rough manners are foreign to the well-bred Lilia. Still, she's determined to polish him.Her task would be much easier if Dan wasn't so mouthwatering–the six-pack riding above his belt alone is enough to make her mix up her forks. And when he offers to teach her his own theory of sexual etiquette–Uncivilization 101–how can she resist?But is a sensual trip into hedonism enough to counteract a lifetime of proper behavior? As Lilia's professionalism reasserts itself, she realizes she has to let her sexy Texan go…unless she can convince herself to do an advanced degree in Uncivilization.
She wanted to lick him
And Lilia had never licked anyone in her life. She was quite sure that licking people was not good manners in any country. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to crawl all over Dan.
“I have to get my keys,” she said, turning away from him. You don’t like cowboys. You like your men supersonically civilized. Why do you have the hots for a man who rides horses? she told herself.
She didn’t know. She couldn’t explain it.
Lilia walked to her front door with the full knowledge that Dan’s eyes were fixed on her backside. Heat bloomed over her skin. Giving in to wicked temptation, she dropped her keys, then bent to pick them up, knowing that her skirt would pull tight as she did so.
She inserted the key into the lock and watched him, reflected in the glass of the door. He actually made a fist and stuck it in his mouth. She was pretty sure that was the man-sign for “hubba hubba” or something like that.
Lilia smiled and wondered what was the most proper, mannerly way to seduce someone.
Dear Reader,
If you love opposites-attract stories, then Open Invitation? is the novel for you! The third book in my THE MAN-HANDLERS trilogy for Harlequin Blaze, it features Lil, a Connecticut etiquette consultant who learns a few steamy lessons from Dan, her west Texas cowboy client. Lil’s got a lesson to learn: that an apparently “rude” cowboy is really the supreme gentleman.
Dan reminds me a little of my own husband, who could burp the alphabet when I first met him, and actually proposed to me in the bathroom while I was washing my face.
ME: (chip clip on head to hold hair back, soap lather on face) You cannot propose to me in the bathroom!
HIM: What, like there’s a rule about this?
ME: Well, if there isn’t a rule, there should be one!
HIM: Look, will you marry me or not?
But hubby is really Prince Charming—just undercover. I hope you enjoy Dan and Lil’s story as much as I did writing it. Come see me at www.KarenKendall.com, or you can write to me care of Harlequin Enterprises Ltd., 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
Happy reading,
Karen Kendall
Open Invitation?
Karen Kendall
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
1
LILIA LONDON, Connecticut etiquette consultant, grimaced as her bra strap fell off her shoulder and down her arm. She shoved it back up—for the third time—and ignored the throbbing of her left big toe, which ached to escape the sling-back she wore.
An etiquette consultant couldn’t run around in just her panty hose, and she shouldn’t be flashing her lingerie in public, either. Too bad, because the bra was really pretty. Someone besides her should see it….
Lil banished the thought, straightened her posture and edged closer to the eighteenth-century mahogany card table she used as a desk. She peered at her computer.
“In Chinese tradition,” she wrote, “the last half of the seventh lunar month is viewed as unlucky for weddings. During this time, the Hungry Ghost Festival is held. It is thought that the gates of Hell are opened, freeing lost spirits to wander the earth. No couple wishes them invited to their nuptials!”
She finished typing the last line of a report on Chinese wedding customs for a client and hit the save button on her computer just as the phone rang.
Now battling an itch in an uncouth place, Lil sighed. It was really tough to be a lady today.
She ignored the itch, crossed her legs and punched the speakerphone button with one tastefully manicured, medium-length nail. “Finesse, Lilia speaking.”
“Haaaaaaaaah,” said a man’s voice, deep and lazy and full of almost sinister sexual vibrations.
Haaaaaaaaaah? Since her mind was more focused on ni hao, or hello in Chinese, it took her a moment to process his accent.
“Haaaaaaaaaaah,” he repeated. “Maaaah nayme is Dayan Graaanger, Miz Lundun.”
My goodness. His Texas drawl was thicker than the peach preserves Nana Lisbeth used to put away each summer.
“Hello, Mr. Granger. How may I help you?”
“I gotch your nayme by way of a Mrs. Shane.”
Her partner Shannon’s mother. Interesting.
“And the dill is—”
Dill? The spice?
“—I need some emergency, uh, charm school lessons. Mah sister’s marryin’ some blue-blood Brit and she don’t want me to embarrass her at her own weddin’.”
Oh, the poor man. So the sister has humiliated him by saying so. Lil’s heart went out to him, even though his accent was almost comical. “When will the nuptials take place, Mr. Granger?”
“In two weeks.”
Lilia raised an eyebrow and looked at her gilt-edged, blue-leather appointment book. “I’m afraid that I’m out of the office on vacation starting Monday, a week from today. Could you come in tomorrow, perhaps? I think I can clear my afternoon.”
“Ahh think this is gonna take more than a single afternoon, Miz London, but I guess I can try to find a flight.”
“From where will you be traveling?”
“Amarillo, Texas.”
She’d surmised that he was coming from somewhere in the Wild West.
“I can probably give you two and a half days this week, but I’m afraid that’s all the time I have,” she said regretfully.
“Here’s the dill, Miz Granger. Because I’m guilty of procrastinatin’ on this, I’m willing to triple your normal fees if you’ll take me on. I need dancin’ lessons. I need fark lessons. I need—”
Lil paused. What on earth is a fark? “Fark lessons, Mr. Granger?”
“You know. Like knife ‘n’ fark. I’ve been warned there’s gonna be five farks at this damn dinner, and hell if I know what to do with ’em. Also, I need to learn ballroom dancin’—the waltz and that kinda crap. And I need clothes, plus a penguin suit.”
Penguin…oh, dear. He needs a great deal more than that, by the sound of it.
“I know it’s short notice, Miz London. But I’d make it worth your while. An’ I’m a real charmin’ guy. It won’t be no chore.”
Her lips twitched. “Yes, obviously you possess a great deal of ch—ah, charisma, Mr. Granger. But—”
“Ten thousand dollars a week. How does that sound?”
“I beg your pardon?” Lilia blinked rapidly. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”
“Okay, twelve. But that’s my final offer. Twelve thousand a week, for the next two weeks. And I’ll pay for your vacation that you have to reschedule, if I’m pleased with your work. A bonus, you could call that.”
Lilia’s brain didn’t require more than a nanosecond to do the math. Twenty-four thousand dollars for Finesse and a free vacation for her? They could hire a PR firm to make a push for more business. And even start anticipating actual salaries!
“Mr. Granger, your offer is very generous.” Lil hesitated, torn between wanting her vacation and wanting the business.
“Well, I think so.”
She could take her vacation a little later. “I do hate to ask, but would you be willing to sign a contract with everything down in black and white?”
“I’ll sign my own ass in red permanent marker if you’ll take me on.”
Lilia tried not to choke. “That—that won’t be necessary, Mr. Granger. Why don’t you give me your fax number, and I’ll send a contract right over?”
“You betcha.” He recited the number, and Lilia immediately typed it straight into her computer, where she’d already opened up a file with his name on it. “Mr. Granger? Just for our records, how is it that you know Mrs. Shane?”
“My mother knows her. Some Paris fashion show they both attend? Or some charity event? The kind where you pay five thousand for a plate of rubber veal, soaked in champagne and topped with escargot? The type of thing where everybody there gets to show off their flashy jewels and plastic surgeon’s miracles, while feeling smug and righteous ’cuz every sip of their drink costs a hundred bucks.”
The man has a chip on his shoulder, that much is certain. Poor guy. It sounds like he really doesn’t fit in with his own family. She wondered why he was so different.
Lilia recaptured her thoughts and pressed her lips together, along with her silk hosiery-clad knees. She found something about this man’s Texas-accented voice very…carnal.
Which was utterly ridiculous, since she could barely understand that redneck drawl of his. Not to mention the fact that just during their brief conversation so far, he’d butchered the basics of Grammar 101 as she knew it. Still, his voice poured over her like sexual syrup—and she couldn’t help liking him.
“Thank you, Mr. Granger,” Lilia said. “I look forward to meeting you tomorrow. Will you confirm with me when you find a flight?”
“You betcha.”
Lilia smiled. “Goodbye, Mr. Granger.”
“Catch ya later, Miz London.”
She sat at her desk reflecting for a moment: was it realistic to think she could break his slang speech patterns or change his accent in two weeks? Probably not.
She could dress him and teach him basic table manners, dance steps and polite conversation. She could explain some of the peculiarities of the English language. But as for the rest, no.
She could suggest ways of capitalizing on his Texas heritage and demeanor. She could train him to be a charming eccentric: good-humored about his differences. If he was at all good-looking she’d show him how to kiss a lady’s hand and compliment her without smarm. The British women would swoon.
However, she was undoubtedly reading too much into that voice. Dan Granger might be gangly, have a prominent Adam’s apple and pizzalike skin for all she knew. She’d just have to wait and find out.
Twenty-four thousand dollars for two weeks of work, though! Lilia decided that she didn’t care what Dan Granger looked like. She stood up and pirouetted into the reception area. “Shan? Jane? I’m bringing in the big bucks!”
Shannon stuck her blond head out of her office. True to form, she wore tight, black, boot-cut slacks and an electric-blue leather jacket. “Huh? What’s this about big bucks?”
“This Texas guy is going to pay us twenty-four thousand dollars to turn him into Pierce Brosnan in two weeks.”
Jane stuck her dark, curly head out of her own office. “You’re kidding!”
Lil smiled at Jane. She could finally pay her back for bringing her into the business; identifying that she had a unique set of skills that were in demand in the marketplace. Jane had rescued her from a dead-end job as a receptionist in a law firm, and Lil still couldn’t believe she was now a professional and a partner in Finesse.
“How raw is the material, Professor Higgins?” Shannon asked, wryly.
Lil’s lips twitched and she met their gazes with a steady, even one. “Well…”
“Uh, oh,” said Jane.
“I wish you luck,” Shannon said.
“Thank you. I think I’ll need it, judging by how he handles himself on the phone.”
Lilia preferred to work with women. They were easier to mold and they did their homework. Most of the male clients she had were sent by their employers and didn’t take etiquette too seriously as a means to move forward in their careers. A mistake, to Lil’s thinking.
“So why is this guy paying you so much money?” Jane asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Because I’m having to clear my schedule and cancel my vacation in order to complete his transformation in two weeks. His sister is marrying into British aristocracy, and he doesn’t want to embarrass her with his crass, crude ways. Incidentally, Shan, we were recommended to him through your mother. She knows his mother from either charity events or fashion week.”
“Small world. Hey, I guess that means I get a kick-back, though, Lil. You can give me a shopping spree at Neiman Marcus.” Shannon winked.
“I think not,” Lil told her. “Good try, though. You’ll have to settle for a PR firm instead.”
“Done!” announced Jane.
Shannon frowned. “You’re so cruel.” She wandered into the small kitchenette they all shared. “Hey! Who ate all the crème doughnuts?”
Jane’s face was a study in innocence.
“Jane!”
“Who, me?” Then she gave up the pretence. “You ate them all last time!”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you should descend to my level…”
Jane laughed. Then she turned back to Lilia. “I can’t believe you’re giving up your vacation in San Francisco for this guy. But thank you.”
“It’s not a sum I think we should turn down, with the business being so new and all. And besides, he offered to pay for my rescheduled vacation—as a bonus, if he’s pleased with my work.”
Jane’s jaw dropped. “This guy must be either too loaded to care, or truly desperate. He’s probably a mess. Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
Lilia thought about the farks. About the dancin’ and crap. And about the penguin suit. She was probably in for a rough time of it.
Was she up to the challenge? “Yes.”
Well, it wasn’t as if she had a social life lately, since breaking up with her boyfriend of two years after he’d proposed.
She had considered marrying Li Wong, a terribly sweet Chinese man. But the awful truth was more than Shannon’s summary of things: that Li’s wong was not so long.
He’d wanted Lil to give him a full-body massage every night—without ever returning the favor—learn Cantonese and move to Beijing as his obedient wife.
Lil had very respectfully declined, whereupon Li Wong had informed her that she was ignorant of the great honor he had conferred upon her by even considering a mixed-breed wife. Half American and half Vietnamese? Why, he exclaimed, she wasn’t fit to scrub his floors.
That was the moment at which Lilia agreed with his highness: he should leave her disgraceful hovel immediately and never return. So much for Li’s beautiful manners and courteous demeanor. Jerk!
She felt a late-afternoon yawn coming on, and delicately covered her mouth with her hand. She’d been through tougher things than this; most recently the loss of her grandmother, who’d raised her. “I’m not afraid of cowboys, Jane. I can handle Dan Granger.”
2
A RED-BLOODED AMERICAN guy does not belong in some friggin’ charm school.
Dan wiped the sweat from his eyes, neck and naked chest. He stood in faded Wranglers and beat-up ropers at his kitchen sink in Amarillo, Texas, feeling pissed off and reflecting that time ran faster than the water from his faucet.
Lilia London’s voice had been like cool water, pouring down the telephone lines. Too bad he hadn’t been able to feel it on the back of his neck. Dan grabbed an old hand towel and soaked it under the tap. He wrung it out and pressed it to his face, wiping away some of the day’s grime.
Claire can’t possibly be getting married. Wasn’t his little half sister still a ten-year-old tomboy?
Through the window over the sink, Dan watched two bay quarter horses nip at each other playfully and then swat flies from their flanks with their long black tails.
Beyond their coral, his father stood in paint-spattered overalls with one of the field hands, covering the barn in a fresh coat of deep red. They’d have to scrape and paint the house, next. Dan didn’t look forward to the work, but he wouldn’t avoid it, either. It was all for a good cause: his dream of starting a boys’ retreat out here. Next summer, they’d bring twenty at-risk urban teens out to take classes and work on the ranch. He’d show them a different way of life…and a good time, too.
The interior of the house was sorely in need of a woman’s touch, and had been since his mother’s departure twenty-two years ago. While Dan wasn’t inclined to shop for floral curtains or wallpaper borders, he did see to it that the house was well-maintained on the outside.
Inside they still had the same beat-up plaid sofa they’d had since 1977 and the same worn avocado-green recliner with the ugly crocheted afghan that his aunt Mary Beth had made. Dan had added an area rug he’d had in college, which lent the room a certain something: the smell of old beer.
The walls held nothing but a functional calendar, courtesy of John Deere, and some photos of Dan as a child and his parents. The bridal photograph of his mother in her long white dress was conspicuously absent.
The focal point of the living room was a massive forty-eight-inch wide-screen television, which he’d rather be watching than remembering the conversation he’d had with Mama three weeks ago. It still rankled.
Dan had been scrubbing the dirt out from under his fingernails when the phone rang. The sound was shrill and unrelenting, like a nagging wife. He’d been sorely tempted to ignore it. But with a sigh he’d knocked the faucet to the off position with an elbow and grabbed for the worn dish towel on the countertop. Then he’d picked up the phone and, by doing so, sealed his miserable fate.
“Yo, Granger here.”
The connection sounded fuzzy, thousands of miles away, and he didn’t need caller ID to know who it was.
Mama…calling from England. He took a deep breath and cracked his neck, his gaze resting again on the stoop-shouldered figure of his father.
“Daniel, really. What kind of greeting is that?” Her voice was peppered with disapproval.
It never ceased to amuse him that the former Louella Granger had trained her West Texas drawl, like some hardy vine, to climb a worldly trellis until it flowered into a British accent.
“It’s a functional greetin’,” he told her. “Brief, to the point, states who I am. No bullshit about it, Mama.”
“Mummy. Please, call me Mummy, dear boy. And don’t curse.”
Dan grimaced. Dear boy? Christ. Oh, I say, old chaps. Are y’all fixin’ to watch the telly? “Apologies, Mama. How are you?”
“Splendid! And you?”
“Can’t complain. Dad’s fine, too, by the way.”
She expelled an audible breath.
He added, “Salutations to dear Nigel, of course.”
“Daniel, your sarcasm is not appreciated.”
“Sarcasm?”
“Nigel is a lovely man. I’m very lucky.”
Uh-huh. Nigel-the-Lovely had broken up Dan’s parents’ marriage without a qualm and whisked Louella off to Merry Olde England without her fourteen-year-old son.
Nigel, being a real peach, hadn’t wanted a sullen teenager weighing down the bliss of his new marriage. And Louella had preferred the guilt of leaving her son behind to the realities of raising him. She was very sorry for the way things had turned out, but young Dan had been a little wild and needed the firm guidance that only his father could give him. He was to visit for a month out of every summer though. Wasn’t that just divine?
Nope. Dan couldn’t stomach tea and crumpets and Lovely Nigel. He’d lasted for exactly ten days on his first visit before announcing that he hated Nigel’s stuffy mausoleum, he couldn’t stand British food and there was no way in hell he’d ever call Mama “Mummy.” He’d taken the first available flight to Dallas. Hard to believe that was twenty-two years ago. Even harder to believe that little Claire, his twenty-one-year-old half sister, was now getting married in just three short weeks. Claire had been the only bright spot in his visits.
Mama waxed poetic and floral about the upcoming wedding, while all he could think about was how he’d adored his little barefoot hellion of a sister. In an odd arrangement, she’d come to visit a few times with Mama.
Claire the sweet, funny tomboy with the sunny personality and Nigel’s snooty accent. Dan had taught her to appreciate the value of a good peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich on Wonder bread instead of those vile crumpets. And as for tea—the only way to drink the stuff, as far as Dan was concerned, was cold and sweet, with a healthy dose of lemon. No fussy porcelain with curlicue handles. No silver sugar tongs. No milk.
“So, darling,” his mother said, her voice holding a note of determination. “I said you’d call her. You understand it’s only for Claire that I ask.”
Huh? He’d obviously missed something. “Mama, I’m sorry—my mind was wandering. Who am I supposed to call?”
“Lilia London, Daniel. Of Finesse.”
“And why am I supposed to call this woman?”
“Daniel! I may as well have been talking to a stump. Now listen to me this time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“As I told you, Claire’s fiancé is a gentleman of impeccable lineage, and the family is very prominent. His father has a seat in the House of Lords. He’s a viscount.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Well, the thing is, Claire wants to be sure the wedding and reception go smoothly. And she doesn’t want to…” his mother trailed off delicately. “She would like to avoid embarrassment. Not to mention that she’d like you to be comfortable—”
“I’ll be fine. I couldn’t care less about rubbing shoulders with the snoots. I’ll hang out with the common folk. The, uh, hoi polloi, I believe you call them.”
“Yes, well. I’m afraid that there won’t be any common folk at the festivities, Daniel. That’s rather the issue here, darling.”
Dan felt irritation spark somewhere in the region of his liver. Now what? “Would you like me to just stay in the kitchen, then, Mama? Wash the pots and pans?”
“Of course not, silly goose! What a mad idea.” She trilled with laughter. “It would never do for the bride’s brother to be working in the kitchen.”
Of course not. Bad for the family image.
“But you have to admit that you’re rather rough around the edges, and this will be a challenging social situation. Five forks at the sit-down dinner, you know. Ballroom dancing with a live orchestra. And a Sunday morning mini-steeplechase—it should have been a hunt, but the horrid government put an end to that—followed by a champagne luncheon.”
Dan tried to imagine what in the hell anybody did with five forks at one meal, besides use them to stab obnoxious dinner companions whose politics you didn’t agree with.
“…so I want you to call Lilia, dearest. She’ll work with you for the next two weeks. Teach you conversation, table etiquette and dancing. She’s going to outfit you with proper clothes, too.”
The irritation in Dan’s liver flamed into full-fledged annoyance, not to mention hurt. “You have got to be kiddin’ me. You want to train me like a chimp just for this blasted, stupid, redcoat wedding?”
“It’s not blasted and stupid! It’s the most important day—weekend—of your sister’s life. This is a very small favor to ask.”
“Uh-huh. And how much will this small favor cost? Is Lovely Nigel footing the bill?”
Silence. “Daniel, you’ve done very well for yourself with the ranching and the oil leases. There is no reason Nigel should be asked to…to…pay for your civilization.”
Dan stuck a finger in his ear and jiggled it, hard. “My what? Did I hear you right? Did you just say my civilization?”
Louella sighed. “It’s only a figure of speech.”
“It’s a figure of speech that implies you think I’m a savage!”
“Daniel, on my last visit I distinctly remember you eating some sort of vile pasta product direct from the can with a plastic spoon. You also slept in your clothes.”
“I was twenty-two years old! That’s how long it’s been since you’ve visited.”
“Well, I don’t have a great deal of confidence that things have improved much. You may now eat your food from the pot with a fork, that’s all.”
Dan hated to admit it, but she was right.
“You need some guidance.”
“This is insulting. And I gotta point out that you are the one who brought me up until you left. We never used five forks at our dinner table, Mama. One was good enough for you then. Dad and I were good enough for you then. So was Amarillo. But I guess all that has changed.”
An awkward silence ensued, and Dan was human enough to savor it. She felt guilty. Well, she should.
Her Southern accent came through more than a little as she said, “Danny, I’m sorry. But I don’t know how to fix it now.”
There is no fixing it now. But he didn’t say it aloud. He stared out at the sparse, dry Amarillo landscape, watching the sun set over the parched grass, scrub and mesquite. Unforgiving, this land was. But so beautiful in a rough, raw way. You couldn’t force somebody to appreciate it. They just had to feel it in their bones. And if their bones belonged elsewhere…
Dan sighed. How she could prefer cold and fog and miserable drizzle to the baked heat of Texas, he didn’t know. But he supposed she’d done what she had to do: escape. He’d have to forgive her one day.
“Just do it for Claire. Please, Daniel,” she said. “Her wedding is very important to her.”
“Why didn’t she ask me herself?”
“She was too embarrassed. She was afraid to hurt your feelings.”
Oh, I see. But you have no worries about that…
“Will you do it, Daniel?” His mother’s voice was insistent. She wasn’t going to take no for an answer. She’d just keep calling and badger him to death.
Dan sighed. “Who is this woman again?”
“She’s the etiquette consultant for a Connecticut-based company called Finesse. They’re excellent and come highly recommended. Now write this down.”
Dan’s mind returned to the present.
For Claire. Not for Mama. It’s for Claire that I’m doing this. He was damned if he’d embarrass her at her own wedding. And he didn’t know how to fix himself to her satisfaction.
Dan rubbed a weary hand across the slight fur of his chest when he hung up. He stared at the name and number he’d scrawled. Lilia London. What a priss-pot, pretentious name. He’d bet it was made up, like a stage name, to fit her profession.
He imagined himself calling her. Well, Martha Stewart was in jail, so I contacted you…
Claire’s request hurt. He’d never ask her to change one bit…but all the indicators pointed to the fact that she had. She’d become the sort of person who cared about forks and steeplechases and image. Well, tally friggin’ ho. He was off to Farmington, Connecticut.
DESPITE HER SNOTTY NAME, Dan entertained himself on the long flight by trying to imagine what Lilia London looked like.
Her voice was cool, elegant and pure. Like the finest vodka poured neat—straight from the freezer. It was the voice of a 1950’s movie star: an untouchable, impeccable but oh-so-sexy Audrey Hepburn. Audrey in sterling silver garters.
Dan couldn’t get Lilia’s crisp enunciation and continental accent out of his baked Texas brain. Truth to tell, her voice did strange and embarrassing things to him. His soldier had come right to attention; a missile at the ready, locking on target. The soldier eagerly anticipated five farks, but not the kind you set next to a dinner plate.
Dan told him to stand down. And at ease. Because though Lilia London’s voice still echoed in his head, she was over a thousand miles away and he didn’t even know what she looked like. She could be the size of a redwood tree, with a beard and manly hands. But somehow he didn’t think so. He had a feeling that her voice was bigger than she was. She’d be petite and porcelain, the kind of girl who got caught in a dapper hero’s fierce embrace by the end of an old film. The closed-mouth kiss was passionate enough to rattle her pearls, but Metro Goldwyn Meyer soon faded her to black, fully clothed.
The Audreys of the world wouldn’t know what to do in contemporary Hollywood. Dan tried and failed to imagine her in current love scenes. They would ruin her mystique. Tarnish the whole concept of a lady.
Dan closed his eyes and drifted off into a light, fitful sleep. He kept seeing a ten-year-old Claire walking down the aisle of a church, wearing jeans with holes in the knees. She got to the end and took the hand of a pompous ass in tails and a top hat. The kind of guy the English would refer to as a real “prat.” Ugh.
Dan awoke as the jet landed with a bump. The roar of brakes filled his ears while the flight attendants commanded everyone to stay seated until the captain had turned off the seat belt sign. They hoped he’d enjoyed his flight, had a pleasant stay at his final destination and would think of their airline again next time he traveled.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Dan pulled his overnight bag out of the overhead compartment, helped an older woman with hers and waited with the rest of the herd to get off the plane.
A walk through the terminal and a rental car later, he emerged from Bradley Airport’s roundabout and onto the highway. He was a forty minute drive from his destination of Farmington, Connecticut, home of the legendary Miss Porter’s preparatory school for young women. Maybe Farmington was chock full of Audrey Hepburns. It wasn’t such a horrible vista to contemplate, since she was a hot little babe.
If only he could meet the Audreys without taking classes in some friggin’ charm school.
LILIA LOOKED UP from her computer as the glass door of Finesse opened with a bit of a crash and something dropped to the floor with a thud. She left her delicate reading glasses on her nose as she got up and walked to the door of her office.
“Howdy!” said a tall, tanned, younger version of the Marlboro Man. He wore Western boots. He sported a belt buckle the size of a satellite dish, affixed to a hand-tooled leather belt that she was terribly afraid had his name etched into the back—the distressing equivalent of a dog collar, as far as she was concerned. And worse, far worse, he actually wore a Stetson on his head. The two-day stubble she could live with, since it was in vogue and somewhat George Clooneyish. The scarred, weathered hands might be a problem in his transformation. But his posture was good—excellent for such a tall man.
And the bulge in his pants was quite impressive…. Shocked at herself for even letting her eyes wander there, Lilia blushed. She ended her quick inventory with a gracious hello.
“Are you Miz London?”
“I am. And you must be Mr. Granger. How are you?” Lil extended her hand.
He stuck out a big paw and shook it. “Cain’t complain.”
He had the warmest, firmest handshake she’d ever encountered. It almost dislodged her arm from the socket, though. He was roughly twice her size. “Pleasant flight?”
“The usual. Microscopic packets o’ trail mix and a weak soft drink over too much ice. Lots of orders to fasten my seat belt and enjoy the ride.” Granger grinned down at her, seeming unwilling to relinquish her hand. He looked deeply and frankly into her eyes and she felt something inside her melting.
She slowly disentangled her hand, unable to look away from his sardonic and wildly sexy mouth. Rimmed by unshaven stubble, his lips sat cockily over a cleft chin set in a strong, angular jaw.
“Aw, do I have to give that back, Miz London?” He was referring to her hand. “I thought maybe it was mine to keep.”
Again, she fell into that smile, even though it was a cheesy line. This cowboy was something else. Her heart did a slow roll in her chest, and she blinked.
The man may not have manners, but he does have magnetism—even if it’s all animal. “Nice compliment,” she said, by way of recovery. “Very good. We can work with that.” She nodded and smiled like a benevolent professor.
Granger shoved his own hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels as he looked down at her. His mouth twisted. “Thank you, ma’am. If I had a tail, I’d wag it for ya, in hopes of gettin’ a Scooby snack.”
Lilia tilted her head and evaluated him. Not stupid, in spite of the twang and the slang. He knew when he was being patronized. She’d have to be careful. “Why don’t we go into my office,” she suggested. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“Cream? Sugar?”
“Just hot ‘n’ black.”
She restrained herself from adding the words “please” and “thank you” for him, walked to the antique mahogany desk that had been her grandmother’s and retrieved a neatly prepared file. “While I get that for you, you may want to have a look at our contract.”
“All right. Uh, d’you have somewhere I can put my hat?”
“Of course,” Lilia said automatically, and found herself holding the Stetson without the faintest idea what to do with it. She cast a glance at the bronze bust of her grandfather Henry London, who had been knighted by the Queen of England for distinguished work in the sciences.
Sir Henry sat on a pedestal in a corner of her office. He was terribly dignified and wore a bow tie. A wicked impulse took hold of her. For the next couple of hours, he could also wear a cowboy hat. She took it over to him and perched it on his head at a jaunty angle.
Granger grinned. “Gives the old pompous ass a little personality, don’t it?”
Lilia froze. With silent apologies to Grandfather Henry, she aimed a genteel smile in the cowpoke’s direction and said nothing. It would be rude to embarrass him, no matter how tempting. She handed him the file.
Granger took the file and sprawled into her visitor’s chair, denim-covered knees spread wide. He began to whistle while reading. He cracked his knuckles.
Oh, dear. Lilia didn’t slap herself in the forehead for taking on this handsome yokel, but maybe she should have. Could she really transform him?
She made a beeline for the kitchenette to get his coffee. She poured a cup for him and one for herself, using her grandmother’s Royal Doulton china: very thin, very old, hand-painted.
She sang softly as she set a tray with the cups, saucers, cream, sugar and linen napkins. She added a plate of artistically arranged cookies and fresh strawberries and two silver spoons, also her grandmother’s. Nana Lisbeth’s third commandment was: Food should always look pretty. It tastes better that way.
With perfect posture, Lilia lifted the tray and glided toward her office, ignoring Shannon who winked at her and lifted her Diet Coke can in a parody of English manners, waving her pinky finger in an exaggerated fashion. Shan’s hideous rendition of “God Save the Queen” did make Lil laugh, though.
She swept into her office with a smile still on her face, though she felt it wobble when she beheld Dan Granger’s booted foot propped against the edge of her desk.
“What exotic-looking boots you’re wearing, Mr. Granger!” she exclaimed, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Elephant hide,” he nodded. “Check ’em out.” He slid the boot farther onto her desk for her perusal. “Cost me a damn arm and a leg, but well worth it.”
She kept her smile fixed in place as she moved around the other side of the desk and placed the tray squarely in the middle of it. “I do hope the elephant agrees with you.”
Dan guffawed and didn’t move his boot in spite of the proximity of the food.
Lilia squinted meaningfully at it, but he must have been convinced that she was admiring the awful footwear. She slid the tray closer to the boot, and then closer, until she actually nudged it and he took the hint. “Your coffee, Mr. Granger.”
He eyed the beautifully set tray uneasily. “The Sunday china, huh? I’m honored.”
“No, no. I use this every day. Here you are,” she said as she handed him his cup and saucer. He needed to get comfortable with this sort of thing.
His big paws dwarfed the delicate bone china and he looked at it as if it might bite. “I’m awful afraid I might drop this.”
“Of course you won’t,” she said with loads of cheer.
He lifted the cup by its tiny, finely crafted handle, which disappeared entirely behind his big fingers. He took a slurp and then gingerly set cup and saucer down on the corner of her desk, watching as she prepared her own coffee.
“Would you like a cookie? A strawberry?” She held the plate out to him. Granger snagged a cookie and popped the whole thing into his mouth while she watched, horrified and yet fascinated by the clean, no-nonsense appetite of the gesture.
She had to admire the even white teeth crunching down on the cookie, devouring it in a single bite. And the nod and grin of simple appreciation as he said, “Mmm. That’s good.”
She also couldn’t help but notice the heavily muscled, tanned arm that helped perform the gesture. In fact, his bicep was quite delicious. She nibbled delicately on her own cookie. And look, there’s a matching bicep right over there. Plus an intriguing, broad expanse of chest under the snug T-shirt, a flat belly underneath and…oh, dear. She was looking there again.
How could she? But just that tiny peek had revealed a…well, she really shouldn’t have noticed, but…it… went quite a distance down his right thigh from where it originated.
“Miz London? Your file?”
She blinked. He’d extended her manila folder to her, across the desk. “Oh, yes, of course. Excuse me.” She put out her hand to take it, her cheeks heating, and fixated on that sexy mouth and chin again. Suddenly an image of them right between her legs shocked her and she reared back, dropping the file. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her?
The papers hit the floor in a messy cascade, and she reached down for them at the same time he did, their faces almost colliding. “Excuse me!” she said.
“Pardon me,” he said. He straightened and took a step back, hip jogging the corner of the desk and then, most unfortunately, the Royal Doulton cup and saucer. They crashed to the floor and splintered while black coffee splashed onto her hand-embroidered cream rug.
“Oh! Oh, oh!” Lil repeated stupidly, staring at the mess.
“Dad gummit!” exclaimed Granger, his expression appalled. Then he peeled off his T-shirt.
“What! What are you—”
He dropped it onto her carpet and placed his boot on it, mopping up the excess coffee while she sputtered and stared at his naked, furred chest and flushed bright red and then sputtered some more. “No! Thank you. Don’t rub! Blot.” she finally managed to get out. Then Lil ran for the kitchenette and club soda and carpet cleaner.
Jane was there, peering into the refrigerator with a hopeful expression. “What’s the matter?”
“Spill,” Lil said. “Destroyed Royal Doulton, Nana Lisbeth’s. And he’s half-naked in my office! Give me the club soda, please.”
Jane looked at her as if she were an escaped lunatic. “Half naked in your office? Cow patty man?”
Lil nodded and rushed off with the soda, the carpet cleaner, a dish towel and the dustpan. Not surprisingly, Jane followed, unable to resist.
Dear God, the man’s back…a beautiful, bronzed jigsaw of perfectly placed muscle, moving with sinuous grace as he blotted her carpet with his own T-shirt—the savage. The sweet, helpful, magnificent barbarian. In that ridiculous leather belt with D-A-N carved into the back of it.
Despite the idiotic belt and the fact that he’d destroyed Nana Lisbeth’s china, a hot electric flash drove through Lil’s core. Part of her wanted to grab him by the belt buckle that ate Dallas and pull off his pants, too. She ignored the renegade impulse. It wasn’t at all ladylike.
“Thank you, Mr. Granger,” she said firmly, taking over. “Really, you didn’t have to use your shirt for cleanup.”
He moved aside and shrugged. “I got ten more in my carry-on bag. No big deal. I do apologize for bustin’ your dishes. I really, really do. Can I buy you a new set? I know how you women are about matched sets of things.”
You can’t replace a sentimental, family piece. Lil poured club soda over the soiled area of the rug. “No, no, of course not. These things happen. You’re very sweet to offer, though.” She forced herself to smile at him, set him at ease again, minimize his embarrassment and guilt. That was the polite thing to do.
But it was a bad idea, since she couldn’t seem to look away from his pectorals and that quite stunning abdomen and…no. She would not look lower again. There are some packages that are not meant to be opened.
As she blotted up the stain, he must have noticed Jane in the doorway. “Haaaaaaaaaaaaa.”
“Hi,” Jane said, a tremor of amusement in her voice.
“Dan Granger, ma’am. Klutz at large.”
“Jane O’Toole. You’re obviously not from around here.”
“Amarillo, darlin’. Pardon me while I grab another shirt from my bag.”
“Oh, feel free,” Jane said.
Lil and Jane both watched as he rummaged through a beat-up canvas duffel next to two large suitcases—Lil had told him to bring anything he planned on taking to London—and pulled out a spare shirt. They continued to watch as, oblivious, he raised his arms with a ripple of muscle and then stuck his head through the neck hole, with yet another ripple. Lilia’s mouth went dry and she found herself on the receiving end of an infuriating smirk from Jane. “Nice to meet you, Dan,” she said. “I’ve got to get back to work.” And with a knowing grin in Lil’s direction she did so.
Well, that settled it. Even if Granger spoke proper English, was the last virile man on the planet, and her life depended upon it, Lil would never “go there.” Because Jane wouldn’t ever let her live it down.
Granger was now digging deep into the pocket of his Wranglers, which only served to pull the fabric hard against his—that, uh, most interesting bulge. Lil pressed her lips together. She knelt down and concentrated on sweeping the shards of Nana Lisbeth’s cup and saucer into the dustpan.
“Here,” said Granger’s voice. “I’d really feel better if you’d take this.”
She looked up, straight into his crotch and dropped the dustpan. The shards scattered again. He held out a wad of green bills.
Soft laughter came from the hallway and she saw Shannon disappearing into the kitchenette. Lil had to admit that she and Granger must make an interesting vignette: she on her knees in front of him, while he held out a wad of cash.
“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.
SHE’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 generally 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.
3
LILIA 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 uncomfortable, 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 uncivilized.” 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.”
“Are you all right?” she asked. She extended her hand to help him up.
“Well, I still don’t have a clue what to ‘swash’ means, but I seem to have buckled the chair.”
“Perhaps it’s the masculine of ‘swish’? Lil suggested.
Granger laughed. Then he took her hand and got up. He continued to hold it as they both surveyed the remnants of the chair in silence.
“I’m real sorry,” he said.
“I do apologize,” she said at the same time.
A long, pregnant pause followed.
“That’s all right. I’m sure it would be impolite for me to sue you for damages.” He grinned to soften his words.
Lil drew her eyebrows together and tried to tug her hand from his, but he held on. Very unladylike and disconcerting sexual charges zipped from her hand to other parts of her body. Unmentionable ones.
“Tell you what,” he said, bending his head close to hers.
She swallowed, feeling dwarfed by his big body and mesmerized by his eyes. “What?”
“I won’t sue you if you’ll give me a kiss.”
4
REAL SMOOTH, DAN. You smash the woman’s chair, make an ass out of yourself, mock her and threaten her. Now you’re trying to blackmail her and kiss her, too? What in the hell is wrong with you, man?
But he still held her tiny, fine-boned hand captive in his, while she stared at him with those unbelievably hot, smoldering black eyes of hers. They were exotic, beautifully shaped and slanted down at the outside corners. They were framed by long, sooty lashes that, at the moment, stabbed upward like tiny black daggers toward his face.
“You’ve got a nerve, Mr. Granger,” she said. But her hand trembled in his and her lips—pale, perfect, prim—parted ever so slightly.
It was all the opening Dan needed. He angled his face over hers, inhaled her fragrance of jasmine and sweet floral soap, and ever-so-gently touched the tip of his tongue to her pale lips.
Hers parted even more, surprised. He continued to taste her in tiny degrees, taking in the fresh strawberry essence on those lips, the faint traces of Ceylon tea, the sweetness of butter-cookies.
Since she made no move of protest, he settled his lips on hers and kissed her hungrily, dominating her mouth with his own. She opened at his insistence and he explored her, feeling the smooth surfaces of her teeth, nipping at the plumpness of her bottom lip, and rubbing languorously against the tip of her tongue with his own.
She made a faint, ladylike noise of either submission or approval, and it drove him wild.
He wanted to see her naked skin, feel the flesh of her thigh, lick the curve of her breast. Tongue her nipple, hear her moan into his ear, plunge a finger inside her.
Dan wanted to penetrate that Audrey Hepburn coolness and take her from the gates of proper to the open field of thrashingly, screamingly improper.
He was scant inches away from closing his hand over her breast when some internal monitor in his brain informed him that it would be a very, very bad idea.
Lilia wasn’t a woman he could push into sex. He had to make her want it as badly as he did. He had to tease her until she couldn’t help herself.
He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. One wrong move, and he was toast. He pulled away from her and searched for her reaction.
She refused to look him in the eye, but her breathing was fast and uneven, just the way he’d hoped. After a moment she said, “I can’t believe you just did that, Mr. Granger.” And she smoothed an invisible wrinkle out of her immaculate skirt.
“Neither can I. But since I did, do you think you could call me Dan? And maybe, just maybe, I could call you Lilia?”
“I suppose that would be acceptable, now that you’re not going to sue me.”
“I was kidding about that.”
“I know.”
“But you kissed me anyway?”
She tucked her dark hair behind her ears and blushed. “Well, I felt guilty about the chair.”
Dan put his tongue into his cheek and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You sure know how to flatter a guy.”
She dimpled, flashed her gaze upward to his, and then bent to pick up the broken chair. He should have helped her, but he stood mesmerized by the way her skirt pulled across her sweet little hips and highlighted the curves of the most perfect derriere he’d ever seen. It was a shameful waste that she sat on that, and covered it with suits, because it rivaled any ass he’d ever seen twirling around a pole. But it was the untouchable quality of it that mesmerized him.
There wasn’t a panty line on it, either, and Dan’s mouth went dry wondering if that meant what he thought it did.
Miss Manners, commando? Bare to the air? Oh, get a grip, Granger.
Unfortunately that was precisely what he wanted to do: get a good grip. Each of her little cheeks would fit nicely in the palm of his hand. He’d squeeze. He’d stroke. He’d caress and then trail his fingertips inward to brush her intimate folds.
Granger. Do you need to buy the latest issue of Playboy and lock yourself in a bathroom? Christ!
“I, uh. I can try to fix that for you,” he said, gesturing at the chair.
“That’s all right. I’ll take it to a furniture-maker. Are you sure you didn’t hurt your back? Your tailbone?”
“I’m fine. I’ve fallen off a lot of horses, and they tend to be taller than your average dining room chair. Plus a chair don’t drag you by a stirrup or kick you in the head on its way back to the barn.”
“Very true,” agreed Lilia. “They smell better, too.”
“You don’t like the smell of a good, sweaty horse? Mmmm. I love it. Raw and salty and musky. Pungent. Laced with saddle-leather and liniment.” The only smell that comes close is…sex. But he didn’t say it aloud. That might send Miss Manners right over the edge.
She was already staring at him as if he had three heads. “Dan, if you think horses smell good, may I enquire as to what you think smells bad?”
He thought for a second. “Those candle shops, the ones where the fakey-fruit and sickly cinnamon and vomit-vanilla scents all combine to blow the hair right off your head when you walk in the door. Now those places stink to high heaven. I’d rather shovel out a horse stall any day than have to spend two minutes in a place like that.”
Lilia laughed.
He loved it when she laughed: the sound was simultaneously throaty and musical. Her pointed little chin rose, her sleek black hair a shiny curtain along her smooth, pale neck.
Then there were the eyebrows. Lilia London had the most flawlessly groomed, dark, winged eyebrows he’d ever seen. They added to her untouchable look, yet also projected exoticism and a challenging sexuality.
He was curious about her reaction to the kiss. He’d expected her to be flustered by it, shocked, uncomfortable in his presence afterward. Frankly he’d thought that it would put an end to their session today. But it had been a risk he took willingly, just for a taste of her.
“You’re an unusual man, Dan,” she said. “Now, we have a lot to do in two weeks, so let’s set up a schedule. We should start analyzing your wardrobe and replacing items today. My partner Shannon is an image consultant and she will help with that. She’ll take your measurements, get your shoe size and go off shopping on her own. We’ll get a tailor in here to fit everything perfectly. But I want to take you to be fitted for at least one custom suit and, of course, your evening wear. That cannot be off-the-rack for this particular wedding.
“I’m going to strongly suggest that you leave your boots, hat and belt…” her voice trailed off as she stared at it, “behind. Under no circumstances should they go to London with you.”
“Whoa. My boots are the most comfortable footwear I own. In Texas you wear ’em with a suit. I’ve even seen them worn with a tux.”
Lilia closed her eyes and visibly shuddered. “Never, ever wear boots with a suit of any kind. Please. Especially not outside of your home state. You will be the butt of jokes. You will most certainly embarrass your family at an English wedding if you do so.”
Dan sighed. “Well, what’s wrong with my belt? It’s custom-made.”
Her face became devoid of expression. “I strongly advise leaving that here. I’m sure the other guests will remember your name without having to read it over your backside.”
He didn’t particularly care for her dry tone. “It’s a Western tradition. In fact, I’m having two belts made for Claire and her new husband as sorta ‘stocking stuffer’ wedding gifts.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“One’s gonna say ‘bride’ and the other’ll say ‘groom.’ In script, which is real hard for the guy to do.”
Lilia opened her mouth but no sound came out. He guessed that meant she didn’t think the belts were a good idea.
“Of course, I’ll get them something silver as the real gift. I was hoping you’d help me choose.”
She nodded. “I’d be happy to do that. Anyhow, Shannon will help with wardrobe, as I mentioned, while you and I get down to work on polite conversation, correct table manners under all sorts of circumstances and ballroom dancing. You mentioned a steeplechase, I believe? I assume you know how to ride?”
“I was practically born in a saddle.”
“Yes, but have you ridden English style before?”
“Hell, no. Little velvet caps and silly britches aren’t my style. And I use a real man’s saddle.”
“Have you ever taken fences, Dan?”
“Taken ’em? I’ve mended fences.”
A frown marred her smooth forehead. “You do realize that during a steeplechase you’ll be expected to jump over obstacles? Very large obstacles?”
Dan scratched his head. “Yeah. I’ve never figured out that part. Seems dumb to me. Why not just go around ’em?”
“It takes a very good seat and firm hands and lots of practice…”
“I’m not too worried.”
“Riding lessons, English saddle,” Lilia said firmly, writing it down on a monogrammed notepad.
He curled his lip. “You’re not gettin’ me in those bun-hugger pansy pants or a velvet hat.”
She waved a dismissive hand at him and continued to write. “We’ll go see Jean Pierre for some dancing lessons, and then you and I can practice every day… Oh, and we’ll need to schedule a manicure for you.”
“Come again? Did you say ‘manicure’?”
“Yes, Dan, I did. Your nails are ragged and your hands are in bad shape. I’m even going to suggest a paraffin wax treatment.”
“Get outta here,” he exclaimed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re yanking my chain, right? I’m not going to some salon for a—”
“Yes, you are. And we’re also going to schedule you a haircut with Enrique right away. Plus I’ll set you up with some light reading—etiquette books that you’ll need to read and study every night over the next two weeks.”
“I watch ESPN at night, and COPS, and the History channel. Bad movies. True crime shows.”
“Not for the next fourteen days, Dan. Remember Cary Grant. Otherwise you’ll be wasting your money.”
He groaned.
She eyed him sympathetically. “You’re very sweet to do this for your sister, you know. You must love her very much.”
He looked down at the scarred hands that had proudly wielded shovels, hammers and rifles. Hands that had delivered calves and foals, mended fences and steered two-ton trucks. Beer-drinking hands. For Claire, they were shortly to be defiled by a manicure. Ugh.
“My sister was about the one bright spot in my life, growing up. And you know what’s funny? I thought I’d hate her. But I fell in love with that little girl the minute I saw her.”
“You thought you’d hate her? May I ask why?”
Dan sighed. “It’s complicated.”
She nodded and he stood up. “Well, it’s been a long day, Miz Lilia. I think I’d like to go find my hotel room and take a hot shower. Enjoy my last night of television before being brainwashed by Emily Post.”
Her lips twitched. “No such luck. I have reading material to give you right away.” And his elegant little tormentor pulled a fat three-ring binder out of a filing drawer. She handed it to him with a wry smile. “Let the brainwashing begin.”
Dan accepted it with a scowl and picked up his duffel. “It’s been real nice meeting you. I can’t wait to be transformed into a gentleman with a capital G. And I am sorry about destroying your china and your chair.”
“That’s all right. I’ll survive.” She smiled at him. “This won’t be so bad, you know.”
He scrubbed a hand over his bristly jaw and moved toward the door of her office. Then he turned and winked. “If I come in here tomorrow claiming whiplash, will it get me another kiss?”
She stared at him, an odd expression on her face. “No, Mr. Granger, it will not.”
AFTER WALKING HIM out to the front door, Lil stared after the man, watched his jaunty, confident stride and the way he swung the duffel by a couple of fingers on the way out to his rental car. She shouldn’t be ogling him, but she enjoyed the view of his broad shoulders and the quite magnificent male bottom under that dreadful belt.
His stance was cocky and casual. Nothing elegant or cosmopolitan about him. He had two inch-wide strips of hair growing shaggily down his neck in the back, evidence of how long it had been since he’d had a haircut.
He didn’t have a clue how to conduct himself outside of a barn. And she loathed the instant presumption of familiarity that he’d assumed with her.
Yet she found his sheer unselfconsciousness sexy. He was more than comfortable in his own skin, unfettered by convention. A normal man, after wreaking havoc in his etiquette consultant’s office and springing an erection (she even whispered that word mentally) should have run from there, mortified.
This man just took it all in stride and capped it all off by kissing her! He simply refused to accept the fact that he was a…buffoon. An extraordinarily handsome one, but a buffoon nevertheless.
He couldn’t possibly be serious about the matching bride and groom belts, could he?
Granger tossed his carry-on into the passenger side of the rented red Mustang he was driving. His biceps bulged, straining against the short sleeves of his T-shirt. He got into the car himself.
Good Lord. She couldn’t deny that she wanted to see him without his shirt again. She touched her lips, which were still sensitive after being scrubbed by that golden bristle of his.
From behind the windshield, he followed the gesture with his eyes and grinned, his white teeth flashing in the fading sunlight.
Lil dropped her hand as if burned, swung around on one of her kitten-heels and walked back to her office.
Shannon was on the phone and Jane appeared to be gone for the day, so Lil had a few moments to get herself together and think about how to proceed.
Why on earth had she allowed the man to kiss her? She hadn’t kissed anyone since Li Wong, and he’d been out of her life for months now. Kissing Li had been unexciting. He had cold, squishy lips that were always too moist. She’d imagined, toward the end of things between them, that her damp kitchen sponge would provide more of a thrill.
She got more of a charge out of just looking at Dan’s mouth than she’d gotten from touching Li anywhere. Li was smooth, hairless…flaccid. The man did have perfect manners—when one wasn’t rejecting his munificent marriage proposals—and lovely suits, however. He even wrote thank-you notes.
Dan’s bottom lip had a tiny indentation in the middle, a cleft just like the one in his chin. It was wildly sensual-looking, that split. His mouth looked uninhibited, casually wicked, and not squeamish about its destinations. Dan was a man who knew the secret of how to have fun.
Lil was starved for fun. That’s why I let him kiss me.
She scolded herself for it. You are a thirty-year-old business owner who specializes in decorum, Lilia! The age to have had fun was in high school, college—when everyone else your age was having it. This is neither the time nor the place to discover your inner hedonist…
But in high school and college she’d been taking care of a frail, exceedingly proper grandmother in her seventies. Nana Lisbeth had raised Lil apart from her own generation; teaching her embroidery and watercoloring and French while most girls her age played school sports, went to rock concerts and snuck out to bars with fake ID’s.
Nana had been Lil’s entire world except for Jane and Shannon…but now Lisbeth London had been laid to rest beside Sir Henry. Even so, Lil went home to her empty house each night expecting to find her sipping lemon tea sweetened by a half-teaspoon of honey and letting a fresh crumpet go stale on a Royal Doulton plate.
She simply could not believe that she’d never see Nana Lisbeth again, never drop another kiss on her powdery cheek or smell rose-water mixed with the scent of old wool. How had a simple knee-replacement surgery led to a life-threatening infection?
With all that modern medicine could do, when it was someone’s time, it was her time.
Shannon said goodbye to whomever she’d been talking to and Lil heard the click as she replaced the cordless phone in its cradle. Her modern rolling chair squeaked as she stood up. Seconds later she popped her head into Lil’s office.
“So how did things go…” her voice trailed off as she saw the fragments of Lil’s visitor’s chair. “Oh. Not well, I see. My God, what else did he break?”
Lil brushed a bit of dark thread from the sleeve of her white suit jacket. “Just every conversational rule in the book, most of the boundaries of good taste and almost his neck.”
Shannon laughed. “Got your hands full, huh?”
“You might say so.”
“Juicy details?” Shan begged.
“If we can go for a drink and you’ll take off that obnoxious, electric-blue jacket before I go blind.”
“My goodness, Lil, but that was downright rude.” Shannon chuckled and twisted her long, curly hair up into a knot on her head. She snagged a pen from Lil’s desk to secure it.
Lil opened her drawer, pulled out a green plastic ballpoint and handed it to her friend. “Give the Waterman back, please.”
“Oh, all right.” Shan pulled the high-dollar pen out of her hair and shoved in the el cheapo. She dropped the expensive one back on Lilia’s desk.
Lil picked it up, pulled two long curly blond hairs out of the pocket clip and grimaced. “You and Jane are rude to me all the time, anyway. So I have to return the favor. It’s part of the beauty of our friendship.” She dropped the hair into her wastebasket.
“Come on, I’ll buy the cosmos,” Shannon said, tossing her car keys in the air and catching them again.
“Is your car clean?” Lil asked. “Or does it still smell worse than the canals in Venice?”
“Hal had it detailed from top to bottom and it’s daisy-fresh now.”
“That man is a saint.” Speaking of which, why were her thoughts turning back to the mouth of a sinner? Lil had a feeling she’d see that mouth swooping down on her all night, in her dreams.
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