The Dream Unfolds Page 6

  “Aren’t you worried about making the most of every minute?” he asked.

  “I am. Making the most, that is. Thinking is important.”

  “Yeah, but all I hear from people is that I could be answering phone calls, communicating with clients, even getting new jobs if I had a phone in my car. Don’t all those things apply to you?”

  Chris had heard the arguments, too. “If someone is so desperate for my work that they can’t wait until I get back into my office to talk with me, I don’t want the job. You can bet it would be a nightmare. Even the most simple jobs run into snags. But one where the client wants instant satisfaction? I’ll pass those up, thanks. I’m no miracle worker.” She tacked on a quiet, “I wish I was.”

  “If you were, what would you do?”

  She took another deep breath, a calmer one this time. She’d settled down, she realized. When he wasn’t yelling at her, Gideon’s deep voice was strangely soothing. “Wave my magic wand over you so that whatever it is that bugs you about me would disappear. I want to do a good job at Crosslyn Rise. I’m a perfectionist. But I’m also a pacifist. I can’t work in an atmosphere of hostility.”

  “I’m not feeling hostile now.”

  She thought about the conversation they were having, thought about the civility that they’d somehow momentarily managed to achieve. Her heart started beating faster, in relief, she figured. “Neither am I.”

  “That’s ’cause we’re talking on the phone. We’re not face-to-face.”

  “What is it about my face that bugs you, then?”

  “Nothing. It’s beautiful.”

  The unexpected compliment left Chris speechless. Before she had a chance to start stammering simply to fill in the silence, Gideon said, “You guessed right, though. That first time, I thought you were someone else. She’d been such a royal pain in the butt that I guess I took my frustration out on you.” Elizabeth had called the week before; he told her he was still seeing Marie. “After that, I couldn’t confuse you with her. You’re different.”

  Chris didn’t know whether that was a compliment or not. She was still basking in the first, though she felt foolish for that. What did it matter that Gideon thought she was beautiful? He was someone she’d be working with. By all rights, she should be furious that he was thinking of her in terms of looks rather than ability. He was as sexist as they came. And as deceitful, if indeed he was married.

  “Uh, Chris?” He sounded hesitant.

  “Yes.”

  “I think there’s something we ought to get straight right about now. What you said before in the truck about me and a wife or a woman or whoever—”

  Her heart was hammering again. “Yes?”

  “There isn’t any wife. I’m not married. I was once, for a real short time, years ago. But I liked having fun more than I liked being married. So it died.”

  Chris felt a heat in the area of her breasts that had nothing to do with her heavy cowl-neck sweater. She almost resented his saying what he’d said, though deep down she’d known he wasn’t married. But they had actually been getting along. Now, having his availability open and confirmed threw a glitch into the works. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I think it’s part of the problem. For me, at least. I’m single, and you’re single. Every time I look at you I get a little bothered.”

  “Bothered?” If he meant what she thought he meant, they were in trouble. Suddenly she didn’t want to know. “Listen, if you’re worried about me, don’t be. I won’t accost you. I’m not in this business to pick up men.”

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  “In fact,” she cut in, “I’m not looking for a man at all. There’s someone I’ve been seeing for a while, and he’s a really nice guy, but to tell you the truth, I don’t even have much time for him. I spend all my free time working.”

  “What fun is that?” Gideon asked indignantly.

  On the defensive again, she sat straighter. “It’s plenty of fun. I enjoy my work—except for those times when I get cut to ribbons by builders who take pleasure in making other people miserable.”

  “I don’t do it on purpose. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “Well, try something else. Try changing. Don’t assume things about me, or make value judgments. Just because I think or act differently from you, doesn’t mean that I’m wrong. I don’t tell you what to like. Don’t tell me what to like.”

  “I’m not doing that,” Gideon insisted. “I’m just expressing my opinion. So I express it in a way that you find offensive. Well, maybe you’re too sensitive.”

  “Maybe I’m human! Maybe I like to get along with people. Maybe I like to please them. Maybe I like to have their respect every once in a while.”

  “How can you have my respect,” he threw back, “if you don’t hang around long enough for me to get to know you? You got upset by what I said, so instead of sticking around and fighting it out, you took off. That doesn’t solve anything, Chris.”

  Her hand tightened on the phone. “Ah. I knew we’d get around to that sooner or later. Okay. Why don’t you say what you think, just get it off your chest. I’m already feeling crushed. A little more won’t hurt.”

  He didn’t say a word.

  “Go on, Gideon. Say something. I know you’re dying to. Tell me that I’m a coward. Tell me that you were being overly optimistic when you abstained in that vote. Tell me that you seriously doubt whether I have the wherewithal to make it through the decorating of Crosslyn Rise.” She paused, waiting. “Tell me I’m in the wrong field. Tell me I should be doing something like secretarial work. Or teaching. Or waitressing.” She paused again. “Go ahead. Be my guest. I’m steeled for it.” A third time, she paused. Then, cautiously she said, “Gideon?”

  “Are you done?”

  She was relieved that he hadn’t hung up. “Yes.”

  “Want to meet me for lunch tomorrow?”

  That wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. She was taken totally off guard. “Uh, uh—”

  “Maybe you were right. Maybe what we need is a neutral place to talk. So you choose it. Wherever you want to go, we’ll go. I can drive down there, you can drive up here, we can meet somewhere in the middle. But we both have to eat lunch. We can even go dutch if you want. I’m perfectly willing to pay, but you women have a thing about a man treating you. Heaven forbid you might feel a little indebted to him.”

  “That’s not why we do it. We do it because it’s the professional thing to do.”

  “If that’s so, why is it that when I go out for a business lunch with another guy, one of us usually pays, with the understanding that the other’ll do it the next time? Sometimes it’s easier just to charge it rather than split the bill in two. But modern women have to make things so hard.”

  “Then why do you bother with us?”

  “I don’t, usually. On my own time, I steer as far away from you as I can get. Give me the secretary or the teacher or the waitress any day. They’re not hung up on proving themselves. They like it when a man opens the door for them, or helps them with their coat, or holds their chair. They like to be treated like women.”

  “So do I.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “You were the one who suggested we go dutch. If you want to pay for lunch, be my guest. You probably make a whole lot more money than I do, anyway.”

  “What makes you think that?” he asked.

  “You’ve invested in Crosslyn Rise, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah. With every last cent I had to my name. As far as cash flow goes, I’m just about up the creek.”

  “Was that a wise thing to do?”

  “Ask me that two years from now and I may have an answer. I’ve got a whole lot riding on—” The telephone clicked, cutting him off. He came back in ripe form. “Damn, I’m out of change. Look, Chris, will you meet me or not?”

  “Uh, tomorrow?” She looked at her calendar. “I wouldn’t be able to make it until two. My
morning’s wild.”

  The phone clicked again. “Two is fine,” he said hurriedly. “Name the place.”

  “Joe’s Grille. It’s in Burlington. Right off the Middlesex Turnpike.”

  “Joe’s Grille at two. See you then.”

  She wasn’t sure whether he hung up the phone or the operator cut him off, but after a minute of silence, she heard a dial tone. As the seconds passed, it seemed to grow louder and more blaring, almost like an alarm, and well it might have been. She’d arranged to see Gideon again. Granted, the conditions were more to her liking this time, but still she felt uneasy.

  He was a very, very confusing man, annoying her most of the time, then, in the strangest ways and when she least expected it, showing charm. Not that she was susceptible to the charm. She’d made it clear that she wasn’t available, and it was true. Still, she wished he was married. She’d have felt safer that way.

  But he wasn’t. And the fact was that they’d be working together. It helped some to know how much Crosslyn Rise meant to him. If he was telling the truth about his financial involvement, he couldn’t afford to have anything go wrong, which ruled out his sabotaging her work. And he hadn’t suggested that she pull out of the project. She’d given him the chance, had all but put the words into his mouth, but he hadn’t used them.

  That was the up side of the situation. The downside was the lunch that she’d stupidly agreed to. A meeting at the bank would have been better. Being in a restaurant, having lunch with Gideon seemed so … personal.

  But she was a professional with a job to do. So she’d meet him, and she’d be in full control, and she’d show him that she was done being bullied. She could stand up to him. It was all a matter of determination.

  4

  Gideon was looking forward to lunch. He felt really good after their phone conversation, as though they’d finally connected, and that mattered to him. Despite everything that he found wrong with Chris, she intrigued him. She wasn’t what he’d first assumed her to be. He suspected she wasn’t what, even now, he assumed her to be. She was a mystery, and he was challenged.

  He was also excited in a way that had nothing to do with making progress on Crosslyn Rise and everything to do with having a date with an attractive woman. Because it was a date. Chris could call it a professional lunch, and it was, a little, but in his mind it was first and foremost a date. His motives were far from professional. He wanted to get to know Chris, wanted to start to unravel the mystery that she was. “Start” was the operative word, of course, because he envisioned this as only the first of many dates. She had already proclaimed that she wasn’t looking for a man, so clearly she wasn’t going to be rushed. But there’d be fun in that. Gideon was anticipating the slow, increasingly pleasant evolution of their relationship.

  This first date was very important in that it would be laying the groundwork for those to come. For that reason, he was determined to be on his best, most civil and urbane behavior. He would have liked to add sophisticated or cultured to that, only he wasn’t either of those things. Pretending might have worked with Elizabeth, but it wouldn’t work with Chris. She’d see through him in a minute. She was sharp that way—knew damn well that he hadn’t been waiting at the duck pond for ten minutes and caught him on it, though he’d only exaggerated a little. But he didn’t want to be caught again, not when he wanted to impress. So he’d be himself, or that part of himself that would be most apt to please her.

  For starters, he dressed for the occasion. Though he was at Crosslyn Rise at seven-thirty with the rest of his men and put in a full morning of work, he left them on their own at midday and drove all the way home to clean up. After showering and shaving, he put on a pair of gray slacks, a pink shirt, a sweater that picked up variations of those shades, and loafers. It was his yuppie outfit, the one he’d bought in Cambridge on the day he had decided to invest in Crosslyn Rise. He figured that he owed himself a small extravagance before the big splurge, and that he could use the clothes. He hated shopping. But he had to look the part of the intelligent investor, and so he’d bought the outfit, plus a blazer, two ties and a blue shirt. But he liked the pink one, at least to wear for Chris. She’d appreciate the touch.

  After all, rednecks didn’t wear pink.

  He also put on the leather jacket that his mother had sent him several birthdays ago. It was one of the few gifts she’d given him that he liked. Most of the others were too prissy, reminding him of all she wanted him to be that he wasn’t. The leather jacket, though, was perfect. It was conservative in style and of the richest brown leather he’d ever seen. He wore it a lot.

  Leaving his truck in the yard, he took the Bronco, allowing plenty of time for traffic, and headed for Burlington. The route was the same to Crosslyn Rise. There were times when he felt he could do it in his sleep, except that he liked driving. Chris used her road time to think; he used his to relax, which was why he resisted getting a car phone, himself. A phone would interfere with his music. With sophisticated stereo setups in both of his vehicles, his idea of heaven was cruising along the highway at the fastest speed the traffic would bear, listening to Hank Jr., Willie or Waylon.

  He didn’t listen to anyone now, though, because he was too busy thinking about Chris. She really was a knockout, pretty in a soft-as-woman kind of way, despite the air of professionalism she tried to maintain. She turned him on. Oh, yeah. There was no mistaking the heat she generated. He was old enough and experienced enough—and blunt enough—to call a spade a spade. Sure, he was a little nervous to see her. Sure, it was cold outside. Sure, he hadn’t eaten since six that morning. But the tiny tremors he felt inside weren’t from any of those things. They were from pure, unadulterated lust.

  That was the last thing he wanted Chris to know. And since it got worse the longer he thought about her—and since she was probably sharp enough to see that first thing, if he didn’t do something to cool off—he opened the windows, turned on the music and began to sing at the top of his lungs. By the time he turned off the Middlesex Turnpike into the parking lot of Joe’s Grille, his cheeks were red from the cold, his voice faintly hoarse, and his hands, as they pushed a comb through his windblown hair, slightly unsteady. He pulled on his jacket, checked the rearview mirror one last time to make sure he looked all right, took a breath and stepped out.

  He was early. They were supposed to meet at two, and it was ten before the hour. He went into the restaurant just to make sure she hadn’t arrived, gave his name to the hostess, along with a five for a good table and a wink for good cheer, then entered the adjoining mall and, hands stashed in his pockets, started walking around. With less than three weeks to go before Christmas, the holiday season was in full bloom. One store window was more festive, more glittery, more creative than the next. Almost as an escape from tinsel overload, he found himself gravitating toward the center of the mall, where a huge tree stood, decorated not with the usual ornaments, but with live flowers.

  He stood there for a while, looking at the tree, thinking how pretty it was and that he didn’t think he’d ever seen one quite like it before.

  “I’m sorry,” someone gasped beside him. He looked quickly down to see Chris. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was trying to catch her breath, but there was the hint of a smile on her face, even as she pressed a hand to her chest. “I got here a few minutes early, so I thought I’d pick up a gift or two, only the salesperson messed things up at the register and didn’t know how to correct it, so I had to stand around waiting while he got his supervisor. The store was at the other end of the mall. I had to race back.” She barely paused. “Have you been here long?”

  “Not long,” he said. He wondered if she was babbling because she was nervous, and hoped it was a good sign. “I was just wandering around. Everything’s so pretty.” But Chris took the cake. She was wearing a navy sweater and slacks and a long beige coat with a wool scarf hanging down the lapels. She might have pulled off the business look if it hadn’t been for her cheeks and her hair, a f
ew wisps of which had escaped its knot and were curling around her face, and her mouth, which looked soft, and her eyes, which were blue as the sky on a clear summer’s day.

  It struck him that she was more beautiful than the tree, but he wasn’t about to say it. She thought she was here on business, and business partners didn’t drool over each other. So he looked back at the tree. “I’ve never seen one decorated this way. The flowers are pretty. How do they stay so fresh?”

  He hadn’t actually been expecting an answer, but Chris had one nonetheless. “The stem of each is in a little tube that holds enough water to keep the flowers alive. If they’re cut at the right time, lilies last a while.”

  “Those are lilies?”

  “Uh-huh. Stargazers. I use them a lot in silk arrangements for front foyers or buffets or dining room tables. They’re elegant.”

  He eyed her guardedly. “You do silk arrangements?”

  “No. Someone does them for me. She’s the artist, but whenever I see an arrangement of fresh-cuts that I like, I make a note and tell her about it later.”

  “I hate silk arrangements. They look fake.”

  “Then you’ve never seen good ones. Good silks are hard to tell from the real thing.”

  “I can tell. I can always tell.”

  “You’ve seen that many?”

  “Enough to know that it’s a matter of moisture.” His gaze fell to her mouth. “I don’t care how good the silk is, it doesn’t breathe the way a real flower does. It doesn’t shine or sweat. A real flower is like human skin that way.” He brushed her cheek with the pad of his thumb, feeling the smoothness, the warmth, the dewiness that her run down the mall had brought. He also felt his own body responding almost instantaneously, so he cleared his throat, stuck his hand back into his pocket and said, “Are you hungry?”

  She nodded.

  “Wanna get lunch?”

  “Uh-huh.” She sounded breathless still.

  Gideon wasn’t rushing to attribute that breathlessness to anything other than the most innocent of causes, but he hadn’t missed the way her eyes had widened just a fraction when he’d touched her face or the fact that she seemed glued to the spot.