Нора Робертс - Bed of Roses

She stopped, turned. She recognized the legs, hips, torso she’d seen under the belly of the car in the garage. This view added chest and shoulders. The light spring breeze fluttered through dark hair—that needed a trim—disordered either from work or carelessness. She supposed it suited the strong, sharp lines of his face, and the dark stubble that indicated he hadn’t picked up a razor in a day or two.

She took it all in quickly, just as she took in the hard set of his mouth and the hot green of eyes that transmitted temper.

She’d have looked down her nose if she hadn’t been forced to look up when he stopped in front of her. She angled her head up, met his eyes with hers, and said in her coolest tone, “Yes?”

“You think all it takes is a key and a driver’s license?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your battery cables were covered with corrosion, your oil was sludge. Your tires were low and your brake pads damn near shot. I bet you slather yourself with some fancy cream every day of your life.”

“Excuse me?”

“But you can’t bother to get your car serviced. Lady, this car was a disgrace. You probably spent more on those shoes than you have on maintaining it.”

Her shoes? Her shoes were none of his damn business. But she kept her tone bland—insultingly bland. “I appreciate that you have passion for your work, but I doubt your boss would approve of the way you speak to customers.”

“I am the boss, and I’m fine with it.”

“I see. Well, Mr. Kavanaugh, you have an interesting business manner. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“There’s no excuse for the way you’ve neglected this vehicle. I’ve got it up and running for you, Ms. Grant, but—”

“Brown,” she interrupted. “That’s Ms. Brown.”

He narrowed his eyes as he studied her face. “Del’s sister. Should’ve seen it. Who’s Emmaline Grant?”

“My business partner.”

“Fine. Pass on what I said to her. It’s a good car. It deserves better.”

“Be sure I will.”

She reached for the door, but he beat her to it, opened it for her. She got in, placed her bag on the seat beside her, fastened her seat belt. Then froze the air between them with a “Thank you.”

He grinned, fast as a lightning strike. “You mean go to hell. Drive safe,” he added and shut the door.

She turned the key, found herself mildly disappointed when the engine purred like a kitten. As she drove away, she glanced in the rearview mirror, saw him standing, hip-shot, watching her.

Rude, she thought—absurdly rude, really. But he apparently knew how to do his job.

When she parked near the bridal boutique where she intended to meet her client, Parker pulled out her BlackBerry to e-mail Emma.

Em. Car is done. Looks and runs better than it has since you bought it. You owe me more than the bill. Will discuss tonight.

At home, Emma used the time between appointments to write itemized contracts. She loved the choices made by her last client, a December bride. Color, color, and more color, she thought. All that hot and bold would be a pleasure to work with in winter.

She sent the contract to the client for approval, copied Parker for Vows’ files. She smiled when she spotted an e-mail from Jack. Then snorted out a laugh as she read it.

“Trench coat and elbow pads. Good one. Let’s see . . .”

You’ll need to choose between my red lace elbow pads and the black velvet set. Or I can just surprise you. I’ll try them on later with my collection of trench coats. I have a particular favorite. It’s black and has a shine so it always looks . . . wet.

Unfortunately tonight won’t work for me. But that gives us both more time to think.

“That ought to give you a moment or two,” Emma murmured, and hit Send.

At six, Emma walked into the kitchen from the mudroom as Parker walked in from the hall.

“Good timing. Hi, Mrs. G.”

“Grilled chicken Caesars,” Mrs. Grady announced. “Use the breakfast nook. I’m not setting up the dining room when you girls are going to be coming in and out and picking.”

“Yes, ma’am. I worked through lunch. I’m starved.”

“Have a glass of wine with it.” Mrs. Grady jerked her head toward Parker. “This one’s in a mood.”

“I’m not in any particular mood.” But Parker took one of the glasses of wine Mrs. Grady poured. “Your bill.”

Emma glanced at the bottom line, winced. “Ouch. I guess I deserve it.”

“Maybe so. But I didn’t deserve the angry lecture from the proprietor who assumed I was you.”

“Uh-oh. What hospital is he in? I should send flowers.”

“He survived, unscathed. Partially because I was on a schedule and didn’t have time to hurt him. Your car was also detailed, expertly, inside and out—gratis to first-time customers. Which counted in his favor. Marginally.”

Pausing, Parker took another sip of wine. “Mrs. G, you know everyone.”

“Whether I want to or not. Sit. Eat.” When they had, Mrs. Grady plopped down on one of the counter stools with her own glass of wine. “You want to know about young Malcolm Kavanaugh. Bit of a wild one. Army brat. His father died overseas when he was a boy. Ten or twelve, I think, which may account for the bit of wild. His ma had a hard time keeping him in line. She used to waitress at Artie’s, the place on the avenue. He’d be her brother, Artie would, and why she moved here when she lost her husband.”

Mrs. Grady took a sip of wine, and settled back a bit to tell the rest. “As you may know, Artie Frank is a complete asshole, and his wife is a prissy snob of a woman. What I heard was Artie decided to take the boy in hand, and the boy did his level best to snap that hand off at the wrist. And good for him,” she added with some relish. “He went off, the boy did, to race cars or motorcycles or something like. Did some stunt work in the movies, I believe. Did well enough for himself, from what I’m told. And made sure his ma got a piece of the pie he was making.”

“Well. That speaks well of him, I suppose,” Parker allowed.

“Got busted up on a stunt, and got some kind of settlement out of it. He used it to buy the garage out on Route One, about three years ago. Bought his ma a little house as well. He’s built up a nice business, from what I’m told, and still has a bit of the wild in him.”

“I’ll assume he’s built up his business through his skill with engines and not through his skill with customer relations.”

“Put your back up,” Emma commented.

“I’ll get over it, as long as he does the job well.” Parker glanced over as Laurel came in. “Cutting it close.”

“Coffee and cookies are set up. Some of us don’t have time to sit around eating and gossiping before a consult.” Laurel frowned as she combed her fingers through her hair. “Plus you’re having wine.”

“Parker was in a mood because—”

“I heard all about that already.” Laurel poured herself a scant half glass. “I want new juice. What’s the current situation with Jack?”

“I think we’re having virtual sex. We’re still in the early stages of foreplay, so I’m not sure where it’s going.”

“I’ve never had cyber sex. I’ve never liked anyone enough to have cyber sex.” Laurel cocked her head as she considered. “And that sounds odd. I like a guy well enough to have actual sex, but not virtual?”

“Because it’s a game.” Emma got up to give Laurel the remaining half of her salad. “You might like a man enough to go to bed with him, but you might not want to play with him.”

“That makes weird sense.” With a nod, Laurel stabbed at the salad. “You always make weird sense when it comes to men.”

“And obviously she likes Jack enough to play with him,” Parker added.

“Jack’s got a sense of fun, which is one of the things I’ve always liked about him. And found attractive.” Emma’s lips curved in a slow, easy smile. “We’ll see how much we like playing games.”

In the parlor, over coffee and Laurel’s Macaroons, Parker led the consult with the engaged couple and their mothers. “As I explained to Mandy and Seth, Vows will tailor our services to suit your needs. As much or as little as you want. Our goal, together and individually, is to give you the perfect wedding.

Your perfect wedding. Now, when we spoke last, you hadn’t chosen a date, but had decided you wanted evening and outdoors.”

Emma listened with half an ear as dates were discussed.

She wondered if Jack had gotten her e-mail yet.

The bride wanted romance. Didn’t they all? Emma thought, but perked up when she said she’d be wearing her grandmother’s wedding gown.

“I have a photo,” Mandy announced, “but Seth isn’t allowed to see. So . . .”

“Seth, would you like a beer?”

He looked over at Laurel, grinned. “I would.”

“Why don’t you come with me? I’ll set you up. When you’ve finished the beer we should be ready for you again.”

“Thanks.” Mandy reached into a large folder when Laurel led Seth out. “I know it’s probably silly—”

“Not at all.” Parker held out a hand for the photo, and her polite expression turned radiant. “Oh. Oh, it’s gorgeous. It’s just stunning. Late thirties, early forties?”

“You’re good,” the mother of the bride said. “My parents were married in 1941. She was just eighteen.”

“Ever since I was a little girl I’ve talked about wearing Nana’s wedding gown when I got married. It needs to be fitted, and a little repair, but Nana’s taken good care of it.”

“Do you have a seamstress in mind?”

“We’ve spoken to Esther Brightman.”

As she studied the photo, Parker nodded approval. “She’s a genius, and exactly who I’d recommend for this. Mandy, you’re going to look absolutely amazing. And we could, if you want, build the entire wedding around this dress. Vintage glamour with class, romance with style. Tails rather than the more expected tux for the groom and groomsmen.”