2
“YOU STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU are, Gran.” Reed rose to his feet as he spoke. “Miss Moon and I can see ourselves to the door.”
Moira relaxed back onto the settee without even a token murmur of protest. “Thank you, dear. I’d appreciate that. These old bones of mine are a bit creaky and uncooperative these days.” She held her hand out to Zoe. “I’m looking forward to getting started on our project,” she said when Zoe reached out and clasped her fingers. “It’s going to be so exciting. As soon as Reed gets all the paperwork done we’ll have a little party to celebrate.” Her eyes twinkled at the thought. “A sit-down dinner, I think, with the men in black tie so we ladies can get all gussied up. And lots of champagne. Do you like champagne, Zoe?”
“I love champagne.” Impulsively, obeying her instincts as she always did, Zoe bent and kissed her hostess’s cheek. It was soft and papery beneath her lips, and smelled sweetly of expensive face powder and Chanel No. 5. “Thank you,” she whispered, and gently squeezed the fragile hand in hers.
“No, thank you.” Moira returned the squeeze with surprising strength from someone with creaky old bones. “I haven’t looked forward to anything half so much in a long time. It’s going to be such fun.” She smiled up into her great-grandson’s face, her own alight with an almost childlike joy. “Isn’t it going to be fun, dear?”
Zoe didn’t think fun was exactly the word Mr. Reed Sullivan IV would have used to describe the situation. Unless she was very much mistaken, he hadn’t been the least bit amused when he finally realized what his great-grandmother was planning to do. He’d been…well, appalled was the only word for the look that had flashed, ever so briefly, in his cool blue eyes.
“We’ll see,” he said stoically, confirming Zoe’s supposition. “It’s a little too early in the game to be making predictions.”
He reached out as he spoke, touching his fingers to the small of Zoe’s back as if to hurry her along, then drew back sharply. Zoe felt a small jolt and her skin rippled, chill bumps racing up her spine. She took a half step to the side, glancing uneasily over her shoulder. “Lots of static electricity in the air this time of year,” she said with a tight little smile.
“Yes,” Reed agreed as he took a step back from her. “That must be it. Static electricity. You should have Eddie check the setting on your humidifier, Gran. It might need to be turned up a notch or two. Miss Moon?” He extended his hand in a gesture that indicated she should precede him toward the double doors.
Though he was excruciatingly polite about it, the man obviously couldn’t wait to get her out of his great-grandmother’s parlor…away from his great-grandmother’s wallet. Oh, he hid his impatience behind a patrician air and the same sort of bland, noncommittal smile she’d seen on the faces of half a dozen bankers over the last couple of months, but she knew exactly what he was thinking. If it were up to him, she wouldn’t get the money. Thank goodness it wasn’t up to him.
“I hope,” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
Zoe shook her head at him. “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
“Then.” He extended his hand again, polite, implacable, expecting to be obeyed. “After you.”
Zoe abruptly decided it would do him good to be forced to hold his horses for a minute or two. She got the impression that he wasn’t often required to wait for much of anything, and patience was a virtue, after all. She dropped her heavy tapestry bag to the floor and unhooked one of the handles of the Betsey Johnson shopping bag from the crook of her arm, letting it swing open.
“Why don’t I leave a sample of my hand cream with you,” she said to Moira as she dug through the bag. “That way you can compare the two—the lotion versus the cream.” She extracted a small, squat, green glass container from the bag and presented it to Moira on the flat of her hand. “Use one on each hand for a week or so and see which you like better. Sort of our own form of, ah…” she glanced over her shoulder at Reed with a wide, guileless smile “…market research?” she said, all but batting her lashes at him. “Is that the right term?”
He gave her a slight nod. “It is,” he said civilly.
She had to hand it to him. The man really did have lovely manners and truly impressive self-control. He stood there in his understated silk tie and his expensive navy blue suit—custom-made, no doubt—looking all cool and unconcerned, as debonair as James Bond at the baccarat table, while underneath she knew he wanted nothing more than to grab her by the scruff of the neck and toss her into the street. She’d been aware of his gaze on her all during their oh-so-civilized tea, sensing the disapproval lurking just beneath the surface of his cool, unruffled calm even before he realized what his great-grandmother meant to do.
Which didn’t make any sense.
Zoe was well aware of her effect on most men. Just the sight of her was often enough to turn the weak-minded among them into slobbering, adoring idiots. Not that she thought Reed Sullivan was weak-minded but…well, even strong-minded men were usually inclined to look favorably on her, at least at first sight. It wasn’t something she exploited—not often, anyway, not unless she really had to—but it was something she counted on to be there, kind of like the sun rising in the east every morning. Fair or not, her looks gave her an edge she had come to depend on in her dealings with men.
Instead of looking favorably on her, though, Reed Sullivan had been suspicious and disapproving from the minute he walked into the cheery, sunlit parlor and saw her sitting on the settee beside his great-grandmother. Her initial offer of friendliness— “Call me Zoe, please”—had been rebuffed in no uncertain terms. Very politely, of course, and oh-so-charmingly, but rebuffed nonetheless.
His attitude had puzzled her at first, even beyond his lack of a favorable response to her physical self. What could she, a stranger, have done in those first few moments that he could possibly disapprove of? Maybe he was having a bad day and the disapproving air didn’t have anything to do with her, she’d thought charitably. Or maybe she’d intimidated him; it wasn’t unknown for a certain type of man to get shy and tongue-tied in her presence. Although, admittedly, Reed Sullivan didn’t strike her as either shy or inarticulate, she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. So she’d tried teasing him, gently, smiling to let him know she was harmless. Most men, strong-minded or not, went a little slack-jawed when she gave them her slanting, sideways glance, that whisper of a smile that tacitly invited them to share the joke. Reed Sullivan had narrowed his brilliant blue eyes and looked down his aristocratic nose at her, as if she were an impertinent employee who’d overstepped her bounds.
Zoe had distinctly felt her hackles rise. How dare he disapprove of her! Just because he was wealthy and pedigreed, and belonged to what she was sure were all the right clubs, and she was…well, okay, she was there with her hand out, more or less, hoping for a loan from his great-grandmother. But that was no reason for him to look at her as if she were some kind of panhandler who’d accosted him in the street. Moira Sullivan had invited her to tea specifically to discuss the possibility of investing in New Moon.
Zoe began to needle him subtly, mocking his pretensions with a provocative little smile, using her expressive eyes and her centerfold body in an effort to make him squirm, trying to find some way to pierce that polished facade of urbane civility. A couple of times there, she’d thought she’d succeeded. Almost. He’d looked distinctly guilty at one point, as if whatever he was thinking at that particular moment probably wouldn’t have borne the light of day. And then, a minute or two later, there’d been a certain betraying light in his eyes as he’d looked at her—not disapproving just then at all, oh no, but speculative, absorbed…fascinated, almost. She’d handed him his tea, wondering exactly what was going on behind that distant, glazed look, feeling the tiniest bit triumphant at having rattled him at last.
And then their fingers had touched.
And