He chuckled, taking her veiled threat as a joke. “You’re tired.” Turning to the hovering proprietress, he said, “That will be enough. Have everything sent to my hotel this evening.”
Izzy was mortified. Though every item of clothing he’d purchased was hugely expensive, many were more suited for a mistress than a wife. At least not a wife about to meet the conservative Mr. Hugo Rufus.
Izzy knew she didn’t have a chance at winning an argument with her boss, so she decided to use a little trickery of her own. “Uh, Mr. Parish?”
He turned, his expression one of a man satisfied with the business of the day.
“I think I should stay a while. I’m sure a few things will need alterations.”
“Of course.” He stood, checking his watch. “Forgive me, Peabody. They are your clothes, after all. You should feel comfortable in them.”
She gritted her teeth. And I’ll have tons and tons of places to wear them, too! she threw back mentally. I go to so many coronations and White House garden parties!
“I need to get some work done. Take your time. I’ll send the driver back to wait.”
“Thank you.” She hoped her anxiety over what she planned to do didn’t show in her voice.
Once he was gone, she counted to ten, working up her courage to face the shop owner. With hands clasped nervously, she spun around. “I’m going to have to make some changes in Mr. Parish’s selections.”
The proprietress remained poised, with hardly a flicker of an eyelash to show either surprise or dismay. No doubt many husbands preferred to dwell in their own misguided fantasy that their wives adored their taste. Not that Gabriel Parish wasn’t discriminating. But he was a man—a bachelor. And hardly conservative! If they were taking an extended vacation on a yacht with Jack Nicholson and other glittery Hollywood types, the choices would have been appropriate. But not for a visit to conventional, family-oriented Mr Rufus.
“Shall we begin, Miss?” the unruffled shop owner inquired.
Izzy struggled to keep her gaze from wavering in embarrassment. It was evident the woman recognized that Izzy wasn’t Mr. Parish’s wife. No doubt the fact that Izzy called him “Mr. Parish” was a big hint.
This was an awful moment—one of many Izzy knew she’d have to endure now that she’d promised to go through with this farce. She hoped she hadn’t done a very stupid thing—that her foolish desire to be near her boss hadn’t run roughshod over her sensible need to leave him—rationalizing a reason for staying.
Riddled with guilt and self-doubt, she forced a smile. “Let’s start with that purple polo and poultry outfit.”
The flight to Tranquillity Island was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Izzy was exhausted from the long, trying day. She hadn’t finished making wardrobe changes and fittings at Tant Mieux until nearly eight. Seamstresses had stayed late, a clear indication that the bill had been substantial enough for special considerations.
Izzy brought most of the selections back with her, but the things that needed a bit more altering arrived at nine-thirty.
She took a shower before remembering the nightgowns were lost somewhere in the mountain of boxes and sacks piled around her room. The hotel’s white terry robe hanging in her closet caught her eye, saving her from having to dig in all that stuff, wrapped in a bedsheet.
Wearing the robe and matching slippers, she began to towel-dry her hair. A knock at the door brought her head up, then she remembered. Mr. Parish sent a hotel employee out to purchase suitcases for her. No doubt they had arrived. Wrapping the towel around her hair, she peered through the peephole. Unable to see anybody, she cracked the door as far as the security latch would allow. “Hello? Who’s there?”
The knock boomed again, this time from behind her. She spun, startled. The sound came from the door that adjoined her room with Mr. Parish’s.
“Peabody?”
“Yes, sir?” She wondered what he might want her to do at this hour. She wasn’t exactly dressed for dictation.
“I’ve ordered some food. I thought you might be hungry.”
Stunned, she sank against the door. It clicked shut. “Food?”
“Peabody, I can’t hear you. Let me in.”
“Oh—uh...” Accustomed to doing as he bid, she scurried to the door and threw it wide.
He stood there grinning, looking marvelous in beige slacks and a short-sleeved knit shirt, the same bright hue as his eyes. When he scanned her, his grin skewed wryly. “Bad timing?”
At first she didn’t register what he meant. Then she remembered she wore nothing but a robe. With suddenly restless fingers she touched her towel turban. “I—I just.” She motioned loosely toward the bathroom.
“I gathered that.” He indicated a dining table, set with two covered dishes and a big carafe. “Come. Eat while it’s warm.”
She peered down at herself. The big robe swallowed her from her chin to the top of her terry scuffs. She certainly wouldn’t show any skin he hadn’t seen before—and precious little of that. Deciding she could use some food, she stepped into his room.
“It was nice of you to think of me, Mr. Parish.” Usually on business jaunts he had dinner engagements with clients. On most of those occasions she went along, took notes, rummaged through files in his briefcase, whatever he needed to make the meeting go smoothly. After dinner, she went to her room and read herself to sleep. Never had he ordered room service for them to share.
“You’re doing me a favor, Peabody.” He pulled out her chair and she took a seat at the glass-topped table. “The least I can do is feed you.” He smiled, and she hurriedly turned to gaze out the window. His smiles were too disturbing to experience while wearing nothing but a robe.
She noted with some irritation that her lack of proper attire didn’t unsettle him in the slightest. Of course, being a worldly bachelor, seeing half-dressed women was no big event to him.
She concentrated on the view outside the picture window From their room on the twentieth floor, she scanned Miami’s meandering coast, lights adorning the shoreline like a brilliant crown. Farther out, on the dark water, scattered twinkling lights marked oceangoing vessels as they crept across the sleeping sea.
A sound caught her attention and she turned back. Her boss seated himself on the far side of the table—which wasn’t far enough. She crossed her legs, her foot skimming his shin. Her slipper fell off.
“Oh...”
“What?” He glanced up from placing his napkin in his lap.
She shook her head, feeling her cheeks heat up. “My slipper—it...”
He looked down. The white scuff was clearly visible beside his brown loafer. “I’ll get it.” He bent, ducking beneath the table.
“That’s not necessary, Mr. Pa—”
He took her ankle into his hand, cutting off her breath. As he lifted her foot, her robe skimmed off her knee, revealing a show of leg. She could see all this through the glass. And because it was glass, there was no stopping the light from passing right through. Mr. Parish had a good clear view, too. Izzy cursed the table for not being made of thick oak.
He remained bent there holding her ankle for a fraction of a second longer before slipping the scuff onto her foot. Did Izzy sense a momentary hesitation, or was it merely a hallucination brought on by the woozy feeling his touch generated in her