Almost A Honeymoon. Susan Crosby

used to design women’s clothing.”

      Lloyd’s firmly enunciated words drowned out whatever insulting tag Rye was going to apply to Paige. They both stared at him.

      “What did you say?” Paige queried.

      “I said I used to design women’s clothing. That’s why I could estimate your size easily.”

      Paige eyed him, noting the slightest show of tension and deciding their argument had made him uncomfortable. “I apologize, Lloyd. We always fight like this. It’s just the first time face to face. It’s harmless.”

      Rye snorted. “Oh, yeah. I know it always makes my day. I really look forward to our conversations.“

      Her gaze flickered to him as he swept up his notepad and stared at the words there. It struck Paige that she had enjoyed their discussions. In fact, the last few times she’d called him to request receipts for his expenses and more detailed information about his invoices, her heart had pumped loudly in anticipation. She had begun to enjoy hearing him say, “Oh, for God’s sake, Harry,” when she questioned a ten-dollar breakfast or a cab fare he couldn’t confirm with a receipt.

      She had forced him into a better accounting of his expenses, but, in truth, she didn’t want him to get perfect at it—so she occasionally changed the rules.

      Not that he didn’t get even once in a while. There was the time he had submitted a bill in paragraph form instead of an itemized list, forcing her to unearth the charges from a field of words. She’d paid the bill with forty-nine separate checks, one for each item, forcing him to endorse each check separately and complete several bank deposit slips. The bank had called her about it, curious and annoyed, but he had returned to a more standard statement format the next time.

      She always found fault with his bill, but she had never really questioned why, until now. She’d have to give it some thought tonight while she took her bubble bath.

      Paige and Rye ate in silence as Lloyd called housekeeping to request clean towels, then busied himself straightening the rooms before unboxing Paige’s printer and helping her set it up. She asked him if he could wait an hour or so until she finished the project she’d spent the morning working on and could print up a copy to send to the office.

      “I’m at your disposal.”

      “If you’d like something to read, I have a couple of magazines—”

      He held up a hand. “I just realized that I forgot something, miss. I’ll return in an hour.”

      “Oh. Okay. I hate putting you out.”

      “Think nothing of it, miss.”

      She watched him exit the room, the door closing on a whisper behind him, before she returned to the computer.

      “Was Lloyd telling the truth or was he just trying to distract us?” she asked Rye later as he hung up from his umpteenth phone call.

      “The truth?” He continued to write, her interruption barely breaking his concentration.

      “Did he design women’s clothes?”

      Rye looked up and grinned. “Again, I’ll leave the telling to him. He’s had a checkered career.”

      Paige leaned an elbow on the table and propped her chin on the heel of her hand, considering. “Why don’t you just leave me here with him and go about your business? It’s obvious that’s what you need to do.”

      He tossed his pencil down, stretched and rolled his neck. “Because I made a promise to your father.”

      “I’m sure he’s only concerned that I be safe.”

      “What’s going on, Harry?”

      “I’m just trying to make your life easier.”

      “I don’t think so. I think you’ve figured out you could manage Lloyd.”

      “I could?”

      “He likes you, that’s obvious. There’s no way I’m leaving you with someone you can wrap around your little finger. You’d have him out sight-seeing by tomorrow. We can’t take that chance.”

      “I wouldn’t—”

      “Like hell you wouldn’t.”

      She frowned. “Well, maybe I would. But I’d be really, really careful.”

      “There’s no such thing in this situation.”

      Paige pushed herself out of the chair and moved to the refrigerator. She pulled out two bottles of spring water, held one up to Rye in question, then passed it to him and opened her own. “I can’t believe I got myself into this mess. It seems so...so like a B movie.”

      “Even his name’s a cliché,” Rye commented. “Joey Falcon.”

      The same thought had occurred to her more than once, but she bristled at his rubbing it in. “That’s interesting. That was my impression of you at the airport.”

      “What was?”

      “That you were a walking cliché, with your black leather jacket and everything.”

      “Black is unobtrusive. Am I supposed to wear camouflage?”

      “Well, no, but—”

      “You seemed pretty interested in me, cliché or no.”

      “I was not.”

      “You weren’t checking out every inch of me by the baggage carousel?”

      His self-assuredness irritated her enough to circumvent any embarrassment at having been caught surveying him. “I noticed you because I recognized you from the plane. And because you stood motionless when everyone else was working the kinks out after the flight. And because you seemed so fascinated with the woman in the red minidress.”