How To Marry A Millionaire (For Richer, For Poorer) Page 5

  When the young tenor began the third verse, she called a halt to the concert.

  “Thank you very much,” she said firmly. “That will be quite sufficient.”

  He stopped in mid-phrase. “But I’m getting paid to sing six verses, ma’am. I’ve got them all memorized. Don’t you want to hear the rest?”

  “No.” She stood, took his shoulders and turned him like a recalcitrant child toward the door. “It will be our little secret that you only got through two of them before I threw you out on your ear. Or called the cops,” she warned. “Your choice.”

  “Well, sure, lady, I’ll go. But you gotta take the candy.” From a carryall bag slung over his shoulder he retrieved a giant, heart-shaped box. Five pounds if it was an ounce.

  “I don’t want the candy.”

  “Ah, come on, Kathryn,” argued a smiling secretary who had her eye on the way the minstrel’s legs were snugged into skin-hugging tights. “Be a good sport.”

  She stifled a groan. “The candy’s yours, Julia.” The guy, too, if that’s what she wanted. “Be my guest.”

  Amid much shuffling for position, the singer went off down the hall with a clutch of giggling women surrounding him. Only Marcy Higgins, the aging bookkeeper, remained outside Kathryn’s door, gazing longingly after those who had left.

  “That Mr. Creighton is the most romantic man in the world,” Marcy said with a sigh. “First roses, and now candy delivered by a minstrel. And Mr. Creighton is so handsome, too. If only my husband wasn’t such a couch potato.” She sighed again, her wrinkled face dissolving into a wistful expression.

  “Yes, well...” At the rate he was going, Curt would have the entire female staff of Weston, Lyman and Garcelli turned into his own personal fan club. Except for Kathryn. Somehow she’d have to put a stop to his antics. As soon as possible. “Do you by chance have Mr. Creighton’s phone number?” she asked Marcy.

  “Of course, dear. I know you want to thank him. Such a sweet man.” She smiled coyly, as if Curt could do no wrong. “I’ll just find the number for you in my files.”

  Fuming, Kathryn followed Marcy to her cubicle. Thanking Curt wasn’t exactly what she had in mind. Threatening him with a restraining order was closer to the truth.

  “By the way,” she said as she accepted the piece of paper with Curt’s number scribbled on it, “I made a phone call to Waverly, California, the other evening. To my sister. When the bill comes, let me know how much it is and I’ll write you a check.”

  “I’ll make a note,” Marcy agreed.

  With a resolute set to her jaw, Kathryn returned to her office, closed the door for privacy and sat down at her desk. She dialed Curt’s number.

  He answered on the first ring.

  For a moment, the familiar sound of his voice caused Kathryn’s throat to tighten with unexpected emotion. Even a simple hello from Curt Creighton had a seductive power over Kathryn, but she was determined to fight it.

  “Your candy delivery disrupted the entire office this morning,” she said abruptly.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied with a self-confident grin in his voice.

  “I’m going to bill you for the time lost.”

  “No problem.”

  It wouldn’t be for a millionaire, she realized. Her hourly charges were penny-ante stuff, pocket change for a guy like Creighton. “If you persist in this continued harassment, I’m going to get a restraining order.”

  “If you hadn’t ducked out on me this morning, I would have given you the candy in person,” he reminded her reasonably. “Then I wouldn’t have had to upset your office routine. You would have thanked me kindly, and I would have asked you out. Just like I was trying to do on the phone last night. How does this evening sound? About seven, for dinner?”

  “I have night class. Besides, I don’t—”

  “Tomorrow night, then.”

  “No.” The man was the most thickheaded, stubborn...

  “Let’s see...” He paused thoughtfully. “I know this rock group. Three or four guys. Big amplifiers. Guitars. Base fiddle. A great beat and they’re always looking for an extra gig. I suppose they could deliver—”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “That’d probably get the attention of everybody in the building. We could start ‘em playing as they come up in the elevator. By the time they get to your floor, the whole place ought to be rockin’.”

  She felt the hot press of tears at the back of her eyes. “Please, Curt...” Her voice caught on a sob. “Don’t you understand? You embarrassed me. In front of my friends. The people I have to work with every day. What must they think of me?” And what must they be saying behind her back. Those giggles she’d heard hadn’t been entirely because of the singer’s cute buns, she was sure.

  Her plea managed to silence him.

  She circled her temple with her fingertips waiting for his reply. She pressed her lips tightly together. Surely now he’d agree to leave her alone.

  “You’re right,” he said in a husky voice. “I apologize.”

  She closed her eyes and exhaled a relieved sigh. “Then you understand I don’t want any more gifts from you? Nor do I want you to call me either here or at home.”

  “No more presents? Not even one tiny little—”

  “No.”

  “Tell you what, pretty lady. I promise I won’t embarrass you anymore. How’s that?”

  She gritted her teeth. “Not good enough, Creighton.”

  “Then my efforts to seduce you are failing miserably? You’re not even the least bit tempted?”

  Her damn sense of honesty caused her to hesitate a beat too long. “I’m not going to admit to anything that might incriminate me.” Except those very words spoke volumes about his effective seduction techniques. Incriminate, hell, she’d just damned herself!

  The sound of his warm laughter reached out like a teasing caress. He’d heard the none-too-subtle nuances in her voice, the vacillation she’d tried to hide. The guy wasn’t going to quit. Not with the opening she’d provided. Kathryn knew she was helpless to halt his determined onslaught on her defenses. At some very deep level, one she was afraid to acknowledge, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted him to stop.

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING a discreet package wrapped in brown paper and marked Personal arrived on her desk. With equal parts curiosity and anxiety, she slipped off the wrapper. No card. No return address. But it didn’t take a genius to guess the sender.

  The silk scarf slid sinuously from the box, the fabric flowing across her fingers like a soft rush of warm water. Kathryn lifted the fabric to her cheek. The gentle caress stroked her flesh like the touch of a lover.

  Her heart lunged against her ribs as she imagined Curt selecting the scarf, palming it in his broad hands and folding it carefully into the slender box. Had he envisioned the length of his gift gently encircling the column of her neck? she wondered. Or draped across her hair?

  Dear God, she shouldn’t be thinking about things like that—images that made her contemplate temptations she didn’t dare consider. As a teenager she’d been foolish. She’d vowed not to repeat that behavior.

  The sound of Tom Weston’s voice jolted her out of her reverie. “Have you got the file on the Ikazawa tax case?” he asked from the doorway.

  “Yes.” The word scraped up her constricted throat. Hurriedly she stuffed the scarf back into the box and shoved it into her top desk drawer. She’d send the gift back to Curt. She simply wouldn’t let him tempt her that way. “I’ll bring it right in.”

  “Whenever you have a chance. I’ve got to see Garcelli about another matter first.”

  * * *

  THE DAY AFTER THAT a gold butterfly stickpin arrived, again in an unmarked box. The next day it was a slender book of poems, each verse speaking eloquently of romance. Thumbing through the pages, Kathryn sighed, fighting the smile that trembled at the corners of her lips. The man was determined to drive her crazy.

  By the end of the week,
the simple arrival of the mail clerk in her office brought a tightness to Kathryn’s chest, and a warm rush of wanting much lower in her body. Though she hadn’t spoken a word to Curt Creighton since the incident with the candy delivery, it was clear the man was a master of seduction.

  The fact that she had dutifully—regretfully, she admitted with a wry twist of her lips—rewrapped each present and mailed it back to him hadn’t slowed Curt down a bit.

  After work she eagerly headed for the gym and her jazzercise class. A good workout would keep her mind off the man.

  Dressed in her leotards and ratty leg warmers, she entered the mirrored room, glancing around to see if she recognized anyone.

  Her heart lodged in her throat.

  Across the room she spotted Curt...waiting for her.

  His cocky gaze was an indecent assault on her senses. He gave her a slow, satisfied perusal, a look that raised Kathryn’s temperature by several degrees. Every exposed inch of her skin flushed, along with a fair amount of her flesh duly hidden beneath form-revealing, stretchy fabric. He didn’t try to disguise his intentions. The glint in his eye was there for anyone to see. It said he was willing to play any game she chose, but eventually she’d lose...or surrender. Whichever came first, he’d be around to collect the prize. Her.

  Wearing shorts, he sauntered toward her in an easy, athletic stroll. His bare legs looked tanned and muscular with a fine roughening of cinnamon brown hair. A faded T-shirt that used to be blue tugged across his broad chest. Kathryn thought that with his brawny arms Curt would look more at home in a weight lifting room, rather than in a dance class.

  “So how’s your week been?” he asked with a casual air of interest.

  “Busy.” The word nearly stuck in her throat. “How did you know where to find me?”

  He shrugged. “Coincidence. Pure coincidence that I decided to do a little aerobics and just happened to pick the same gym where you’re a member.”

  “Right. Like Mr. Booth just happened to be at the Ford Theater the same night Lincoln had tickets? Do you have spies everywhere?”

  “Are you suggesting I’m in such good shape I don’t need a little exercise?” His grin was a masterful combination of amusement and male ego.

  She studied him critically, letting her gaze rove over him in much the same way he had looked at her. “I suppose some women like men with little ‘love handles,’” she suggested straight-faced, knowing from the way his shirt fit that his stomach was rock hard—all muscle with little extra fat.

  “I don’t...” he sputtered. Frowning, he felt around his waist. “Do I?”

  “You do know this is an advanced class, don’t you?” she warned. “The instructor gives a real cardiac and lung workout. Most beginners prefer—”

  “I can handle it. I’m in pretty good shape.”

  He was such a hunk, half the women in the class had already given him the once-over...and been duly impressed. So was Kathryn, but she wasn’t about to give away that little secret. Or let on that at the first sight of him she’d experienced the forbidden thrill of excitement. “I wouldn’t want you to damage yourself by overdoing. Strained muscles are a frequent injury for someone who isn’t in top-notch condition, or who tries to do too much too soon. Cardiac arrest is possible, too. Particularly for a mature man. That is a little gray I see at your temples, isn’t it?” Just a touch that made him look distinguished rather than totally boyish.

  His frown turned into a scowl. “I’ll manage.” A muscle rippled at his jaw. “I’m not exactly over the hill, you know.”

  “Of course not.” With that, she pirouetted away, taking her place near the front of the class as the energetic instructor called them to order. She hid her smug smile.

  “Well, hell...” Curt muttered. He found a spot where he could keep an eye on Kathryn and tried to follow the directions of the pixielike instructor. He ran his hand across his sideburns. He wasn’t that gray, was he?

  The stretching part went reasonably well. Maybe he wasn’t as flexible as all these lithe women were—Kathryn included—but he could at least keep up. The few guys in the room weren’t all that agile, either. And they were wimps, he thought with satisfaction.

  One, two, three...he grunted as he bent to touch his toes. Kathryn had a great tush, he noted. Four, five, six...he raised his arms as directed, liking the feminine curve of her back, the soft slope of her shoulders. As she swayed from side to side, the outline of her ribs visible, he wished he could circle her waist with his hands. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail that shifted with each movement. The effect was hypnotic...enticing.

  He began to breathe a little harder as the rhythm picked up.

  Kathryn, he noticed, had hardly broken a sweat yet, while he could already feel a trickle of moisture edging down his face. The muscles in his calves yelped with the unfamiliar strain. Maybe women were made differently than guys in more ways than the most obvious.

  The music seemed louder and faster. He struggled to keep up.

  His lungs burned; his arms felt as if they’d been injected with a ton of lead. His legs weren’t doing much better.

  With the tail of his shirt, he wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. How the hell had he gotten himself into this mess?

  But he sure wasn’t going to quit. Not a chance; not with Kathryn cruising along in what looked like overdrive.

  The woman was too damned perfect! Everyone ought to sweat.

  He stumbled and some gal caught him before he could make a fool of himself by falling on his face.

  “Maybe you ought to rest a minute,” she suggested in dulcet tones.

  “I’m okay,” he said between gasping breaths. Actually, he was probably out of his mind and just didn’t know it yet. Maybe next time he would think twice before bribing Tom Weston’s bookkeeper with a box of chocolates to find out where Kathryn went after work.

  His lips pulled back into a forced grin when the workout finally ended. Not for a minute would he let his classmates know the next breath he drew was likely to be his last.

  Trying not to stagger, he made his way to the side of the room, leaned back against the mirror and felt his knees give out. He slowly slid to the floor. Blackness threatened.

  “Are you okay?”

  Kathryn’s voice was sweet and concerned, like the feel of rose petals skimming across his aching body. If he’d had the strength, he would have reached out to touch her, perhaps caress her soft cheek with his fingertips, or brush back damp tendrils of hair that softened the oval of her face. But his arms appeared to have become disengaged from his body. At least, they were unresponsive to his simple commands. His focus seemed a bit off kilter, too, since he seemed to see Kathryn actually smiling at him. She had great teeth—white and even. Maybe the whole excruciating experience had been worth the effort, he mused.

  “Pretty lady...”

  She used a towel to wipe the sweat from his face. He liked a nurturing woman. Then from somewhere she produced a container of water. He drank eagerly.

  “Not too fast,” she warned.

  He coughed and sputtered. “It was probably too hot in here for all this exercise. They oughta turn up the air-conditioning with so many people.”

  “You’re right.” With her hand, Kathryn brushed a lock of his damp hair back from his forehead. The man was crazy. He could have really hurt himself, overexerting like he had. Though he was in good physical shape, aerobics required more than solid muscle. “Rest a minute and you’ll feel much better.”

  “I’ll be able to go another round or two in a minute.”

  “Sure.” Perspiration darkened his shirt in a wide V. She doubted he had an ounce of energy left. But she certainly wouldn’t call him a quitter. “Truth is, I’m worn to a frazzle,” she said, offering him an opportunity to save face. “I need to cool down and take a shower. How ‘bout you?”

  He raised a lecherous eyebrow. “If that’s an invitation to join you, I’d be happy to accept.”

  “Not a chanc
e, fella.”

  “Okay. Let’s consider an alternative. I’ve wiped myself out enjoying your fun and games, and pretty much made a fool out of myself in the process. It’s only fair you give me a chance to redeem my good name.”

  She gazed at him suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’m a hell of a lot better on the tennis court than I am at aerobics. How ‘bout a match. Tomorrow. My place.”

  “No, thanks.” She stood and backed away. His Hollywood Hills home was definitely a dangerous place for a woman to visit alone.

  He struggled to his feet, leaving a damp sweat mark on the mirror where he had leaned back. “Where’s your sense of justice?”

  “It has nothing to do with—”

  “Then I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll play you left-handed. You beat me two out of three sets and I’m gone. History. I won’t darken your door again. I promise.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I may not be a spectacular tennis player, but you can’t beat me if you play with the wrong hand. That’s a terrible bet.”

  “Then we’re on for tomorrow?”

  The niggling voice of reason warned Kathryn she was being conned. But how? “You’re willing to stop harassing me if I beat you at tennis?”

  “That’s the deal. And in return, if by some miracle I win, you agree to go out with me.”

  She scowled.

  “Once. That’s all we’re talking about. One little innocent date. What could it hurt?”

  She mentally humphed. Nothing about Creighton was innocent. Even so, she was sorely tempted to take the bet. She had little to lose, she rationalized. And to be rid of Curt once and for all might be worth an afternoon of her time. That didn’t, however, mean she was willing to take him at his word.