Honeymoon For Three

The snow had melted and a pale, unconvincing sun was bathing the street in an equally pale warmth. He’d tell her that on reflection he’d decided against her proposal; this would save both of them the time and trouble of inspecting the two sites. Then he’d forget about her. In a couple of weeks he’d be back in Toronto, where he belonged.

Ten-thirty came and went. Ten thirty-five, then ten-forty. Anxiety began to gnaw at his gut; somehow he was sure she wasn’t a woman to be late. Then at ten forty-three a small green truck with “Haines Landscaping” emblazoned in gold on its side panels sneaked in between two cars and drew up at the curb with a jolt. Cory leaned over and unlatched the door. As Slade pulled it open she said incoherently, “I’m so sorry I’m late; I’m never late; my mother had a thing about punctuality and it’s ingrained in me. I can’t stand keeping someone waiting... I do apologize, Mr. Redden.”

He’d intended to stand firm on the sidewalk and deliver his speech and then go back to the office. Instead Slade found himself climbing into the truck beside her, his eyes glued to her face. She looked pale and distraught, a very different creature from the woman he’d watched at the squash club only three hours earlier.

Watched? Spied on would be more accurate. “What’s wrong?” he rapped.

“Nothing! I told you, I just hate being late.”

“What’s wrong, Cory?” he repeated.

It was the first time Slade Redden had used her first name. And it was quite clear he’d sit there until she answered him. Cory said rapidly, “The reason I’m late is because my best friend had a baby this morning—her second. I got the message when I got to work, so I had to rush to the hospital, and then I was late for my other appointment.” She gave a weak giggle. “A retired RCMP inspector whose ideas on punctuality would rival my mother’s.”

“And your friend? Was everything OK?”

“Yes! Yes, of course.”

“You don’t look particularly happy about it.”

Her head jerked round. He saw far too much, this man with the cool gray eyes. Trying to subdue the storm of emotions that had been rampaging through her body ever since she’d seen Sue at the hospital, Cory snapped, “Of course I’m happy for her.”

“Yeah? Could have fooled me.”

In a loud voice she said, “I’m very happy ... she has a lovely eight-pound boy. I’m extremely happy.” She scowled into her rearview mirror and pulled out into the traffic with scant regard for the clutch. “We’ll go to Cornell Street first.”

Slade had no idea what was going on, other than that she looked like a volcano about to erupt. He said mildly, “You know, that’s the first time in our acquaintance that you’ve been less than truthful with me.”

“Mr. Redden, I’m—”

“Slade, please.”

Cory was unable to think of any diplomatic way to get him off her case. She couldn’t possibly explain all her tangled and contradictory feelings to him because she didn’t understand them herself. She said in a clipped voice, “My personal life is just that—personal. I would never have told you about Sue if I hadn’t been late.”

Why did he feel as though she’d slapped him in the face when she was only verbalizing something he fully subscribed to? Business was business, and to mix the personal with it was a bad mistake; he’d learned that very early in his career. So what the hell was he doing sitting in this truck when all his instincts had urged him to cut the connection with her?

Not sure whether he was angrier with her or with himself, Slade said tersely, “What sort of time frame are you looking at for these projects?”

With evident relief she said, “I’d get at them as soon as possible. Spring is a really busy time for me, but I’ve hired a couple of extra helpers along with my right-hand man, so I’d be able to handle it.”

Was Joe Purchell her right-hand man? And what was that if not a personal question? “So the gardens could be available for this summer?”

“Absolutely.” She swung down a side street and parked near a corner lot decorated with rubble and a large “For Sale” sign. Her nerves vibrating like piano wire because the next half hour was crucial, Cory slid down from the truck in her neat khaki trousers and work boots and led the way across the street. “I’d make evergreens a priority, so the park would look good in winter,” she said eagerly. “But you can see how the maple would provide a lot of shade in summer. I think a couple of winding paths would be a good idea—with lots of benches.”

He glanced around. “Would vandalism be a problem?”

“I’ve thought of that.” Enthusiasm warmed her voice. “Rather than beds of brightly colored flowers that might encourage people to rip them up or trample on them, I’d focus on foliage. Hostas and ferns. Low-growing junipers—some of them come in lovely soft blue-greens. Then some middle-height yews and flowering shrubs, plus three or four well-placed granite rocks—a bit of a Japanese influence. I might have a red-leafed Japanese maple as well; they’re slow-growing but very effective with evergreens. Here, I’ve done a computer mock-up.”

He perused the paper she had unfolded, which transformed the deserted lot into a peaceful and harmonious oasis in the city streets. “What about a fountain?”

She grimaced. “That gets pricey. Although it would be wonderful.”

“I have a friend who designs fountains that are both vandal-proof and beautiful,” he murmured. “The sound of water can be very soothing. I think your focus on foliage is brilliant, by the way.”

Cory flushed with pleasure; he wasn’t a man to hand out idle compliments. “The birds would appreciate a fountain, too,” she said pertly.

“Keep the pigeons and the people happy?”

She laughed. “Right! Have you seen enough? I don’t want to make you late for your next appointment.”

On the way to Dow Street, Slade studied her diagram for the gardens. When they arrived, the lot itself was so unprepossessing that he insisted they walk the length and width of it, Cory pointing out the proposed location of the garden plots, the sheds and the playground. He said dubiously, “You’d need tons of topsoil and compost.”

“I have access to both. The sheds would have to be pretty basic. But I’d ask one of the local service clubs to provide the playground equipment; they’re very good that way.”

The street was as unprepossessing as the lot. The wind, chill from the offshore ice, whirled a discarded candy wrapper into the air as the sun glinted on the splinters of glass that were scattered everywhere. “What about water?”

“Underground hoses. Best way to irrigate.”

“But not the cheapest.”

His doubts were all too evident. Cory said urgently, “All I’m asking you for is the land, Slade. I read a couple more articles about you last night, about your projects in the poorer sections of Chicago when you were studying architecture. Not all of them worked. But you tried.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s all any of us can do.”

He stated the obvious. “You care about this. Passionately.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“I’ll deed the land to the city,” he heard himself say, “on condition that you let me supply all the topsoil for both sites, and pay for the sheds. I’ll also donate some large trees for both places—that can run into money.”

“You mean you’ll do it?” she squeaked.

With a strange sense of fatality—he didn’t often do an about-face the way he had this morning—Slade nodded.

“The park and the gardens?”

“Both of them, Cory.”

She’d scarcely dared to hope that he’d give the land, let alone add all those extras. Seizing his hands, she danced up and down, her face lit with delight. “That’s wonderful! Oh, Slade, thank you; it’s so generous of you. I’m so excited!”

The wind blew an empty soda can across the ground; it rattled against the stones. Under Cory’s beige shirt with the logo of her company embroidered on the pocket, her breasts bounced up and down. Slade wanted to kiss her so badly that it took an actual effort of will to pull free of her grip and take a step away from her. “I’ll look after the legalities with the city,” he said formally. “Will you get your lawyer to draw up a contract for the two of us?”

“Aren’t you excited?”

Yeah, he thought. Sexually excited. Not what you want to hear, Ms. Cory Haines. “Of course I am. I’m just older and better at hiding it.”

“Pooh—you’re only thirty-four.” She stuck out her hand. “Put it there, pardner—we’ve got ourselves a deal.”

Her clasp was firm, her fingers cold. “You should be wearing gloves,” he said.

For Pete’s sake, he thought, you sound like her father.

“I always forget them. You should see my hands in summer—fancy fashion magazines are not clamoring to photograph them. Every year I buy a pair of gardening gloves, and every year I contrive to lose them the very first day I wear them.” She crinkled her nose; excitement was still bubbling along her veins, loosing the guard on her tongue. “It’s called regression—I like to make mud pies. The truck, the business cards, the computer designs—they’re all just excuses so I can get dirt under my nails.”

Amused, feeling her fingers begin to warm in his, he asked, “Weren’t you allowed to make mud pies when you were little?”

“Very strict parents. Frilly starched dresses and no dirt. My next job will probably be working in a spa slathering people with mud packs.”

“Your eyes,” Slade said in sudden discovery, “are the color of molasses—that wonderful combination of brown and black. Shiny.”

“Well, I must say I’ve never been compared to molasses before. Gooey and sweet—is that the best you can do?” Suddenly Cory chuckled. “You know what? Your hair is the color of good compost.”

“Rotting vegetable matter? Thanks.”

“And your eyes,” she announced with considerable satisfaction, “are like slate. Gray with gorgeous undertones of blue.”

Slade rather liked this game. “Beech leaves in October—that’s what your hair reminds me of.” His voice deepened. “My stepfather used to grow pink peonies; your cheeks are that color right now.”

As if suddenly realizing that they were still holding hands, Cory pulled hers free and babbled, “We’d better go; you’ll be late.”

“If all the legal stuff’s done before I go back to Toronto, I want you to have dinner with me. To celebrate.” He hadn’t known he was going to say that. Too late now, he thought, with, for the second time, a curious sense of fatality.

“I—I guess that would be all right.”

“Good. I’ll call you.” He glanced at his watch. “Can you get me back to the office in seven minutes?”

They talked about commonplaces all the way back. Cory made no move to touch him again. But before he got out of the truck she gave him a singularly sweet smile and said, “Thank you, Slade. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” Slade said, and shut the truck door.

It had taken them ten minutes to get back to the office. Nevertheless, he stood on the sidewalk watching her drive away. So much for separating business from the personal. So much for saying no.

He was going to make use of every one of his connections to make sure there were no hitches with the city. Because he very much wanted to have dinner with Cory Haines. No matter what the consequences.

One week later at seven-thirty in the evening Slade was standing in the lobby of what he considered to be the city’s best restaurant. Cory hadn’t wanted him to pick her up at her house; instead she’d agreed to meet him here.

He was wearing his most expensive dark gray suit and a new silk tie. His hair was brushed into some kind of order and his shoes had a military shine his father would have been proud of. He was nervous.

While he’d had a couple of brief conversations with Cory during the week to sort out the details of their agreement, he hadn’t bumped into her at the squash club, nor had she come to the office. This hadn’t prevented him from thinking about her almost continuously, however, and dreaming about her with a sexual insistence that, when he woke up, dismayed him.

He wanted to take her to bed, no question of that. Maybe tonight he’d ask her whether she was attached or free. That would be a start.

A start to what? And would she be as beautiful, as full of life as he remembered?

At seven thirty-one the mullioned door of the restaurant swung open and Cory walked through. Slade’s heart began to racket around in his chest as though he’d been playing a tournament. He smiled at her, brushing her cold cheek with his lips. She smelled delicious. He said, he hoped casually, “You’re on time.”

“No more friends with newborn babies,” Cory said lightly, and slid her arms out of her coat. What on earth had possessed her to say that about babies? she wondered agitatedly.

They were on her mind, that was why. One particular baby—Sue’s—had caused Cory to have a week so full of ups and downs that beneath her surface calm she was as jittery as if she were on her first date. She’d visited Sue three times during the week—Sue was her best friend, after all. But visiting Sue had meant she’d had to bold little Jason in her arms; she’d been deeply upset to learn that pleasure and pain could be so intimately entwined. The last two nights she’d even cried herself to sleep. Her outfit and her makeup were valiant attempts to conceal this fact from Slade Redden’s all too discerning gray eyes.

She watched him survey her from head to foot. Her skirt was midnight-blue, slim-fitting and slit up one side; her blouse, of creamy silk, bared her throat and hinted at her cleavage. Her hair, shining with cleanliness, was looped on the back of her head; she only hoped it would stay there. As for her dark blue eyeshadow and matching mascara, she’d operated on the principle that the best defense was offense.

His mouth dry, Slade said, “You look very beautiful.”

Infinitesimally Cory relaxed: the mask was working. The maitre d’ arrived and led them to a corner table under a collection of old hunting prints, where, as they waited for their cocktails, they talked about the latest developments in their project. Then Slade raised his glass. “To parks and gardens—long may they flourish.”

Solemnly they clinked their glasses. With mutual determination they proceeded to discuss the menu, the changes on the city council and the drop in the Canadian dollar. They ate mussels and smoked salmon and drank white wine. Then Slade said, “Dance, Cory?”

The music was lively and because she didn’t have to touch him—and was therefore safe—Cory danced her heart out; she had always loved to move to music. The fact that her fiery energy and evident pleasure might be as seductive as actual touching didn’t occur to her. Nor could she possibly have known that some of her movements would recall, with uncanny accuracy, portions of her partner’s dreams. As the final chord sounded she said exuberantly, “That was fun! Thanks, Slade.”

He nodded, his jaw a tight line, and followed her back to the table. But the medallions of pork and julienne vegetables they had ordered were cooked to perfection and slowly the level sank in a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Then the small band started a waltz. “Let’s try this one,” Slade said.

Normally Cory avoided what she called contact dances. But she’d had rather a lot to drink and more than once Slade had made her laugh until she cried. Confidently she threaded her way through the tables.

At the edge of the parquet floor Slade took her in his arms. Because she was wearing high heels, her chin nearly came to his shoulder; he dropped his head so that his cheek rested against hers. Curving an arm around her waist, he drew her closer, ignoring her slight resistance.

Dream and reality fused. The woman in his arms was the woman who had haunted his sleep for the last eight nights.

But Cory was suddenly and distressingly sober. As she automatically followed Slade’s lead, she was attacked by a host of conflicting sensations.

One of the buttons on his jacket was digging into her ribs. He smelted nice. Although she was almost sure he wasn’t wearing cologne, a faint scent of lemons overlaid the more earthy scent of clean male skin. She was enclosed in his embrace as a garden was enclosed, safe from the buffeting of wind and storm; yet, simultaneously, she felt as smothered as an evergreen wrapped in plastic, as constricted as a tree trunk girdled too tightly. So tightly that her lifeblood was cut off, she thought, trying to control her uneven breathing.

It was one of her unspoken policies to keep her distance—literally—from men. Because claustrophobia, of the emotional variety, had been Rick’s parting—and lasting—legacy to her.

Then the hand that rested on her waist moved lower, splaying itself over her hip and drawing her still closer. Against her groin she felt the involuntary hardening of Slade’s body, that indisputable and uncontrollable signal that he wanted her. Panic sliced through her illusive sense of safety; she froze, stumbling over his foot. Raising her head, she muttered, “Slade, I’m not—”

Cursing himself for betraying his need, Slade rested one finger on the softness of her lips and eased away from her. “I didn’t do a very good job of hiding that, did I? Sorry. I want you—sure I do. But this is a public place and you’re quite safe.”

She pulled free, and even in the dim lighting he saw that the emotion tightening her features was fear. Turning away from him, she hurried back to their table, pulled up her chair and buried her face in the dessert menu. Slade sat down across from her. “Come on, Cory. This is the twentieth century, and I’m obviously not the first man you’ve dated. Take it as a compliment, why don’t you?”

“Fine,” she said tautly. “I’ve been complimented. I’m not sure I want dessert; perhaps I’ll just have coffee.”

Nonplussed, because she was acting more like a Victorian virgin than the capable and confident woman he knew her to be, Slade drained his glass of wine. “So are we going to pretend that nothing happened out there? That I wasn’t entirely ready to make love to you?”

The menu slipped from Cory’s fingers. Her eyes widened and for a full five seconds she gaped at him as though she had never seen him before. Make love to you, make love, make love... The words echoed in her brain as all the pain and longing of the last week coalesced into an idea so simple and so outrageous that she was struck dumb.

“Now what’s wrong?”

She grabbed her wine glass and tossed back the contents. Then she blurted, “Are you married, Slade? Or engaged? Or living with someone?”

“No, no and no. What about you?”

His answer sank in; his question scarcely registered. It was a crazy idea. Crazy. She should be committed for even thinking it. “This wine is really excellent, isn’t it?” she gabbled. “Just a hint of oak and that glorious rubyred.”

Slade leaned forward. “Why did you ask about my marital status?”

“I was just wondering,” she said weakly, “that’s all.”

“Why don’t you try telling me the truth? You’re a lousy liar.”

“My mother used to shut me up in a cupboard if I lied to her—that’s probably why. Slade, I had an idea. But it was a totally insane idea and I want to forget about it—please. Let’s talk about anything from horticulture to horoscopes, and maybe I will have dessert. I adore key lime pie.”

Storing in the back of his mind the image of a small, chestnut-haired girl being confined in the dark, Slade said implacably, “Tell me about your idea. Because it’s something to do with me, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” she said wildly. “Very definitely.”

“When you first arrived, I thought you looked tired. That’s not considered much of an opener for impressing your dinner date, so I didn’t mention it. What’s up, Cory?”

So much for mascara. “I don’t have to tell you,” she said defiantly. “In fact, I’m not going to tell you.”

“The restaurant doesn’t close until midnight and it’s only nine-thirty. I can wait. I could even order another bottle of the wine you so much admired.” He gave her a charming smile. “I’d enjoy having to carry you out.”

He’d do it, too. She knew he would. And if she kept the idea to herself certainly nothing would come of it.

With the sense that she was embarking on a very flimsy bridge across an extremely deep gorge, Cory said, “All right—you asked for it.”

Who knows? she thought. He might even say yes.

CHAPTER THREE

CORY held out her glass to Slade for a refill, shadows dancing over her features from the candle that flickered on their table; she was rather proud to see that her hand was entirely steady.

“I want to have a baby,” she said, and heard the words coming from a distance, as though someone else were saying them. “I’d like you to be the father. But I don’t want to get married or live with you or even see you again once I’m pregnant.”

There was a moment of silence, a silence so charged with tension that Cory frantically wished her request unsaid. Then Slade bit out a single word. “No!” His voice was raw with pain, and she watched as wine sloshed over the edge of her glass.

The stain on the cloth looked like blood. With a superstitious shiver, Cory looked up. The same pain had scored deep lines in his face; his eyes looked like those of a man in hell. She felt as though, rough-handed, she’d ripped a dressing from a wound not yet healed. Yet she’d had no inkling of the presence of the wound, and no idea as to its source or meaning.

Appalled, she whispered, “Slade, I’m sorry.”

Briefly Slade closed his eyes, knowing he’d revealed something he’d have much preferred to keep hidden. With a superhuman effort he clamped down on himself, forcing breath through the tightness in his chest. Picking up his serviette, he mopped at the spilt wine and said, more or less evenly, “You took me by surprise—that’s all.”

“Come off it! You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but kindly don’t pretend that nothing is. I’m not blind and deaf.”

Hard-eyed, he said, “Mind your own business, Cory.”

She plonked her glass down and said with more vigour than tact, “I bet you’re not often taken by surprise, Slade Redden. Especially by a woman.”

Pain translated itself to anger. “You take the cake, I’ll grant you that. Here’s a guy who’ll donate a park ... might as well get him to make a baby while I’m at it.”

“There’s no need to be crude.”

“I feel crude.”

“I told you it was a ridiculous idea!”

“Ridiculous comes nowhere near describing it. And the answer, in case you’re wondering, really is no.”

The expression on his face when she’d first spoken had given her that message right away. Bright patches of color staining her cheeks, she said, “OK—the answer’s no. So let’s forget about it. Why don’t you order the chocolate pâté? Then I could try it too.”

Slade’s anger went too deep to be so easily defused. “You drop a bombshell like that and then expect me to discuss desserts?”

“You’ve given me your answer—there’s nothing more to discuss!”

“That’s what you think.” He’d been ambushed by an old agony, there was no question of that; but now that he’d subdued that particular feeling Slade was aware of other emotions, none of them pleasant. “If you didn’t want anything to do with me afterwards, why should it matter to you whether I’m married or engaged?” he demanded. Because that, he thought with ugly accuracy, was where she’d knifed his self-esteem. In the cold-blooded way she was prepared to dismiss him. As if he didn’t exist.

Faintly surprised that he should even have to ask, Cory said, “Oh, that wouldn’t be moral. To cheat on another woman, I mean.”

“Whereas bringing up a fatherless child would be?”

Her temper rising, Cory said, “I don’t want to talk about this any more; I thought I’d made that clear.”

“We’re going to. Whether you want to or not.” Viciously he stabbed at the cloth with his fork. “How many other men have you asked?”

“None!”

The odd thing was that he believed her instantly. “So why me? Why don’t you ask your squash partner? You must know him a whole lot better than you know me.”