“But…”
“I want the whole effect carefully thought out. It’s going to involve getting a few items of new furniture, too, and repainting if necessary. I realize you’re not an interior designer, but the sculpture and paintings will be the focus.”
Daisy wanted to refuse. She didn’t like being railroaded, and she didn’t want to venture into Chance Foster’s house again.
Sitting across from him in her gallery, despite the nearness of Sean and the customers, her whole body sparkled with the man’s energy. The restraint in his gray eyes and elegant suit only emphasized the contours of his body and the potent sexuality she remembered all too vividly.
She wasn’t sure she could stay out of Chance’s bed. Alone in his house…
“We’re talking about a large expenditure,” he went on. “When I bought the house, I budgeted a considerable sum for art. It’s time I spent it.”
Unfair! she wanted to cry. Even a successful gallery like Native Art operated on a thin profit margin. She couldn’t afford to pass up this opportunity. Besides, Daisy owed it to her artists to do her best for them.
And, she recalled, that night when she entered his house, he’d apologized for the sparse furnishings and mentioned that one of these days he was going to buy paintings. So he wasn’t simply manipulating her.
She assumed an impersonal tone. “I represent dozens of artists. I’m sure we can find special pieces for you.”
The couple made a purchase and left, and Sean rejoined them. “What did I miss?”
“Miss Redford is going to take a look at my house this afternoon and make recommendations.” Chance wiped his hands on a napkin and stood up. “I leave work early on Fridays. Pick you up around three, all right? Nice to meet you, Sean.” With a friendly nod, he departed.
Daisy sat motionless, stunned. She hadn’t agreed to go to his house so soon, or to ride with him, either.
“Seems like a nice guy.” Sean took another bite of pizza. “Hey, don’t worry. Using your outline, I can get the show mounted by myself. Fridays are always slow anyway.”
“Let’s see how much progress we can make before three o’clock,” she said.
Daisy knew when she’d been outmaneuvered. Well, she could hold her own with Chance Foster and she was going to prove it to him.
Chapter Four
Chance hadn’t intended to corral Daisy into touring his house that afternoon. He’d gone by her gallery in a polite attempt to reestablish a friendly relationship and to ask for a professional consultation.
Something about the woman brought out the bossy side of him, he admitted as he finished making notes for a custody brief to write over the weekend.
Maybe it was the way she never gave an inch. And why did she have to employ a peppy young assistant who hovered over her adoringly?
She’d looked so cute in that demure long skirt, with a strand of auburn hair clinging to one cheek. And so surprised to see him, as if she weren’t sure how to react. Chance had instinctively seized the advantage.
He wished he knew what it was about her that he found so captivating. It seemed unlikely she would fit his standards for the ideal wife, in light of the way she’d run from him and then refused to give a credible explanation.
Reliability and communication. Those were two musts that he would include if he ever wrote A Lawyer’s Guide to Making Matrimony Work.
Probably no one would buy it, though, even if he did. In his observation, people were irrational when it came to marriage.
Chance copied his notes from the computer’s hard drive onto a diskette and dropped it in his briefcase. At his home office, he kept a library of legal references on CD-ROM, so he didn’t have to cart heavy books home.
It was a quarter to three, which meant that, if he left now, he should arrive at the gallery right on the hour. Perfect timing suited Chance.
In his front office he found Nell Beecham closing the books for the week. The secretary whipped around to regard him sternly.
“Leaving fifteen minutes early, Mr. Foster?” she asked. At sixty-seven, Nell brought nearly a half century of experience to the job, along with strong opinions about how people ought to behave. Including her boss.
“I’m picking someone up at three,” he said.
Her frown mutated into an approving half smile. “Good. You’ll be on time.” If he thought he’d passed inspection, however, Chance had congratulated himself too soon. “I don’t recall setting up an appointment for you.”
When he’d hired Nell, one of his friends had warned that he would be getting a mother figure in the office. Chance didn’t mind.
For one thing, top-notch secretaries were hard to find. For another, as the oldest of eight children, he’d filled the role of a quasiadult for so long that he was on more or less equal terms with his own parents, so he figured he could handle an office mother as well.
“It’s the owner of the Native Art gallery,” he told her. “I’m consulting her about my house.”
“Some of the objects they display are a bit odd,” she said. “I’m not a fan of modern art myself. However, they have an excellent reputation.”
“I’ll be the one who makes the final decisions,” he assured her. “Have a lovely weekend.”
“Don’t forget you’re due in court Monday morning,” she said.
“I won’t.” He didn’t have to remind her about locking up and depositing the week’s checks. Nell Beecham was as reliable as a bank president.
She kept her private life to herself, though. Although she’d mentioned her grown children, the only pictures on her desk were of her two Siamese cats.
He wondered what she did in her spare time. A woman as energetic and organized as Nell wouldn’t likely sit around knitting cat booties. Still, he didn’t intend to get nosy.
Traffic was heavy, Chance found when his sports car exited the parking garage, but he didn’t mind. He liked working in a high-rise, metropolitan area with easy access to suburbs.
In recent years Phoenix had become a haven for the winter weary, and while the migration was good for business, it resulted in L.A.-style jams. The inconvenience was worth the price, in his opinion.
Still, he didn’t have the big-city career he’d once aspired to. Although Phoenix was thriving, it couldn’t compare in significance to New York or the nation’s capital.
Sometimes Chance felt a stirring of regret at not having pushed harder to follow in his former fiancée Gillian’s footsteps. The last he’d heard, she’d made junior partner at her Washington, D.C. law firm and was handling a high-profile case against the government.
The thought of bringing his skills to a case like that gave Chance a jolt of adrenaline. It would be a great feeling, a rush almost like sex.
He double-parked in front of Native Art and was wondering whether to dash inside or go around through the alley when Daisy swung out with a farewell wave to someone inside. The youthful, devoted Sean O’Reilly, no doubt. If the young man ever quit, Chance wondered if Nell Beecham had a contemporary she could recommend as a replacement.
Daisy slid into the low passenger seat. The slit in her long skirt bared one shapely leg, until she tugged it into place and dropped a portfolio in her lap.
Clover, he thought. Or honey, that was what she smelled like.
“Busy