The Heart of a Man

“Hey, take it easy,” Addison said with a deep, dry laugh Dustin immediately recognized. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I tried knocking, but you couldn’t hear me over all that racket. Sounded like the roof was caving in or something.”

Dustin chuckled.

Addison shook his head and laughed in tune with his brother. “The door was open, so I just let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.”

Dustin wiped his arm against his forehead, as his hands were still tightly gripping the drumsticks. “Naw. Guess I was pretty distracted, messing with this thing.” He popped a quick beat on the snare drum for emphasis, then clasped both sticks together and jammed them in the back pocket of his jeans.

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at his suit-clad big brother. “What are you doing here, Addy boy?” he asked in genuine surprise.

Addison rarely visited Dustin’s small house, which was located in Wheatridge, one of the many sprawling suburbs of Denver. In fact, he’d never been there without a direct invitation first.

He had shown little interest in Dustin’s hobbies, or anything else for that matter. They had never been close, even as children. Addison was the jock, and Dustin the artist. It had always been that way.

Addison wasn’t fond of anything artistic, from drama to Monet. Football, baseball, soccer—these had made up Addison’s teenage world.

And Addison had always been the brains in the family, in Dustin’s estimation. As the CEO for a major financial corporation, and an important person in the Denver social scene, Addison didn’t have time to dabble with anything beyond the walls of his chic, downtown penthouse condo and lush corner office. His only interest in the arts as a successful adult was as his business required, and nothing more.

“I’ve come about Dad’s will, Dustin—specifically, the terms of the trust fund,” Addison said tersely and abruptly in the crisp business tone he always used. Dustin sometimes thought Addison hid behind that tone in order to keep his emotions on a back burner. The two brothers certainly weren’t as close as Dustin would have liked, though he put the blame for that more on his father than on Addison.

Dustin clasped his hands behind his back. His father’s will was not something he really wished to discuss, though he knew it was inevitable. It had to be done, and sooner rather than later. Addison was right on that one point, anyway.

Their mother had died when Dustin was fourteen and Addison was sixteen. He remembered her as a sweet, delicate woman who always smiled and always had an eye and an open hand for the poor and needy. She had kept the house full of laughter and singing, and always had a prayer or a song of praise on her lips.

His father, on the other hand, was as cold as stone, a strict disciplinarian who practiced what he preached—that God helped those who helped themselves.

Never mind that that particular “verse” wasn’t really in the Bible.

Addison Fairfax, Sr., had worked long hours establishing the firm Addison Jr. now led and held a majority interest in.

Dustin knew his father had wanted him in the company, as well. Addison Sr. had been bitterly disappointed when, as a young man following his own strong, surging creative impulses, Dustin took a different career path.

To Dustin, being boxed up in an office all day would be like caging a wild beast; and the thought of spending all day crunching numbers—especially anything to do with money—made him shiver.

It was enough just to balance his checkbook every month. That was not the kind of life for him, caged behind a desk with nothing but figures on paper for company.

He wanted to help people, but in another, more creative fashion. One on one, where he could reach out and touch his customers, smile and encourage them to smile back at him.

He pinched his lips together to keep his smile hidden from his brother’s observant gaze. It was an understatement to say that math had never been one of Dustin’s better subjects.

And so now it came down to his father’s last wishes, laid out plainly, literally in black and white. Dustin had been at the formal reading of the will. He knew what it contained, especially in regard to what he was expected to accomplish in order to win the coveted trust fund, which Dustin desperately wanted, but for reasons he would disclose to no one.

At least not yet.

And that was no doubt why Addison was visiting him today. It was up to his big brother, as trustee of the fund in Dustin’s name, to see that Dustin cleaned up, became a pillar of society and made a real contribution to the world in some way not explicitly drawn out in the will, but legal nonetheless.

Dustin knew Addison wasn’t thrilled with the job. He had enough responsibility with his own work without burdening himself with his younger brother’s supposed faults. But there was one thing Dustin knew about his older brother—he would follow his father’s dictates to the letter without question.

Even if Addison didn’t necessarily agree with the terms. Besides, it was legal, drawn up and finalized by their father, who’d known exactly what he was doing.

“You want the money, don’t you?” Addison asked crisply, his golden-blond eyebrows creasing low in concern over his blue eyes, all traits of his father.

Dustin had his mother’s curly black hair and green eyes. It was a startling contrast between the two brothers, and just one more way they were different from one another.

Dustin took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes, I do,” he said solemnly. “You know I do.”

That was as much information as he was willing to offer, which no doubt perplexed his older brother.

“Hey, Addy boy,” he said, cheerfully changing the subject, “you want a soda or something?”

“I’ve asked you repeatedly not to call me that,” his brother responded through gritted teeth, shaking his head in warning.

“Why do you think I do it?” Dustin responded with a laugh.

“You little punk,” Addison said affectionately. He grabbed Dustin around the neck and scrubbed his knuckles across Dustin’s scalp, just the sort of roughhousing they’d done as kids. “Don’t forget I’m bigger than you. I can still knock your block off anytime I want.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Dustin challenged, grabbing his brother by the waist in what amounted to a wrestler’s hold.

Addison sighed and abruptly released his hold on Dustin. “As much as I’d like to monkey around with you, bro, I just don’t have time today. I’m behind on my schedule already just by being here. Can we just get this painful business settled as quickly as possible so I can return to work?”

This business. Was that all it was to Addison? Another piece of business to settle and then move on? It was only Dustin’s life they were talking about.

And so much more. If only Addison knew. But Dustin wasn’t ready to trust his brother with more information than he’d already given.

Dustin felt like no more than a thorn in Addison’s side at times, a trial to be borne through and just as quickly forgotten.

Addison was staring at him. “I’m sorry to say this, little brother, but you need a makeover,” he said soberly, though his eyes were gleaming with amusement at the prospect.

Dustin grinned and crossed his arms over his chest in an instinctively protective gesture. “Oh, like a facial and a mud bath, right? You want me to get a manicure and a massage?”

Addison cleared his throat and looked out the nearest window, gazing for some time before speaking. “This is a very serious matter. You joke about everything,” he said softly.

Dustin shrugged. “Of course. In my book, it’s better to go through life with a smile than to be grouchy all the time.”

“Grouchy? Is that how you see me?” He sounded genuinely surprised.

Dustin shook his head. “I was speaking in relative terms.”

“Yes, well, I’m not sure I believe you, but let us get back to the subject at hand. As it happens, per the will, I’ve hired a girl—”

“No way.” Dustin cut him off with his voice, and concurrently made a severe chopping gesture with the flat of his hand. “My personal life is mine. I won’t be set up, even by you.”

“I’m not talking about your personal life, Dustin,” Addison said, sounding as if he were straining to be patient, and yet with the hint of laughter to his voice. “I’m talking about your image. Who you know, where you go and especially how you dress. A change you and I both know would make our father happy.”

Dustin looked down at his old tennis shoes, faded blue jeans and worn gray T-shirt. “What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

“That’s exactly the point, my man. This woman I hired, Isobel Buckley, knows what’s in fashion and helps people change their image. She does it for a living, and I’m sure she could advise you better than I. Honestly, baby brother, you don’t have a clue. Admit it. You’re a world-class chump.”

Dustin felt pressure building up in his chest. Addison was forcing his hand, and they both knew it.

And they both knew he would cave, eventually, before it was all said and done.

He had to cave. For the sake of the money. There was no other way.

For a moment, he considered tackling his older brother and wrestling him to the ground, as they had often done as youngsters. It would serve his big brother right to give him the good pounding he had threatened and that he was now certain Addison deserved.

With deep restraint he denied the urge, knowing it would do nothing more than prove Addison’s point. Bad clothes and bad manners.

A chump.

“Frankly—” Addison continued in his best, solid business voice “—and you know I’m right in saying this, Father was concerned about the way you would spend your inheritance.”

Addison paused, leaning one hand against a nearby table and pulling his brown tweed jacket back to put his hand in his slacks pocket.

To Dustin, it was like seeing his father all over again.

“You have no vision, Dustin. You own a small flower shop, you bang like an Aborigine on this drum of yours in the name of fun, and that’s all you have to show for yourself. For your time. For your life.”

“Is that you or Dad talking?” Dustin goaded through clenched teeth.

It wasn’t a fair question, and Dustin immediately regretted his hasty query. It was clearly his father’s intention to make Dustin into a different man. Addison was merely the messenger.

The urge to pounce on his burly brother and mess up his fancy suit was growing by the moment, but he knew better than to shoot the messenger, no matter how tempting it might be. It wouldn’t solve anything in the long run, and he needed access to that trust fund.

“It’s my life,” he complained, sounding as surly as a little boy. “What’s wrong with my flower store?”

“Nothing is wrong with your little shop. But have you ever thought about opening up a chain of stores? What about making a real name for yourself in the Denver social scene? Why not cater to a higher-level clientele, boost your own income?

“You spend as much time gallivanting around town, and who knows what else, as you do putting your strength and effort into your business.” Addison took an extended breath. “What you need is to go to the right parties and rub elbows with the right people. Build up relationships that mean something. Really make something important of yourself.”

Addison rubbed his palms together like sandpaper on wood. “I’ll help you. I have the connections, Dustin. But you can’t meet the right kind of people in jeans and a T-shirt.”

Dustin shook his head and grunted in disdain. “Relationships that mean something? Mean what, exactly? More money? More prestige? A nicer car? I’m never going to be like you, Addison. That’s not what I want out of life.”

“Perhaps not,” Addison agreed with a curt nod. “You and I have traveled different roads. Nevertheless, I do think Ms. Buckley can help you with this trust-fund issue, and I insist you meet with her.”

Dustin balked inside, but he didn’t let it show. He didn’t like being ordered around, especially by members of his family. “How long?”

“Six weeks. That shouldn’t be too much of a strain, even for you.” Addison began to pace, a sure sign he was losing his patience. Dustin knew his brother didn’t like this any better than he did.

And why should he? Dustin knew Addison wasn’t a bully at heart, childhood pranks notwithstanding. He was as pinched by their father’s will as anyone.

Better to wrap things up and let Addison get on his way. Back to work in his posh office, where he was more in his element.

“At the end of the six weeks, then, I get my inheritance money?”

Addison met his gaze straight on, staring as if trying to read his soul. Dustin let him look, knowing his own expression was unreadable. It was something he’d practiced.

“You know I’m taking a calculated risk here.” Addison cleared his throat and continued pacing back and forth in front of Dustin, his arms clasped behind his back. “And I expect a full return on my investment.”

“Meaning?”

“I want you to cooperate with Ms. Buckley fully. If she gives me a bad report, I will put your trust fund on hold and you won’t be able to touch it.”

Dustin opened his mouth to protest against these rules, but Addison held one hand up, palm out. He clearly didn’t want to be interrupted.

“If, however, you make a genuine effort toward your reform, the money is yours, with no limitations from me or anyone. I know that’s what you want. You just have to make an effort.”

He gave Dustin a genuine smile, but Dustin just winced at his brother’s stilted effort.

“This will work, Dustin, if you just give it half a chance.”

Dustin clenched his jaw tightly, still hardly believing his brother had set up such a scheme. Addison wasn’t married—he was as careful in dating as Dustin himself was. And for good reason.

Every woman in the world wanted to change a man; it was in their very nature to meddle that way. Every man alive knew that, and ran from it with his whole being until he inevitably got caught in some woman’s snare.

It was the extraordinary, seesaw-like balance between men and women that Dustin didn’t even try to comprehend, and generally attempted to steer away from.

That was at least partly the reason Dustin remained single at age thirty. His experience with relationships with the opposite sex had, frankly, made him more than a little world-wise when it came to women.

He liked being on his own, being his own man and answerable to no one but himself and God.

And for some strange woman to get paid for meddling in his private affairs, pushing her ideals on him—what kind of woman would take such a job?

This Isobel Buckley must be on a real power trip. He could only guess at what kinds of torture she would concoct for him.

Still, it was only six weeks.

What could happen in six weeks?

Chapter Three

Isobel was more than a little anxious about meeting the man she’d heard so much about. With all she’d been told, she had absolutely no idea what to expect when she actually met the real person.

Dustin Fairfax.

She had thoughtfully recommended a public venue for their first meeting, knowing both of them would feel a bit more comfortable with other people around, especially at this first encounter.

She admitted being nervous herself, at least inwardly, which was silly, really. She did this for a living, after all.

But this was different. The nuances weren’t lost on her, and she was certain they weren’t lost on him, either. Dustin wasn’t coming to her for her expertise and help—or at least it was not his idea to do so—and she wasn’t even certain he was coming willingly.

Camille and Addison had made the arrangements, and here she sat, in a quiet deli on 16th Street, waiting for Dustin to show up.

If he actually materialized.

She still wasn’t convinced he was a willing guinea pig in this experiment, and that fact was something she meant to establish before this day was over. She wouldn’t blame him if he found somewhere else to be and didn’t make their meeting at all.

He was already twelve minutes late to their appointment, not that she was counting. She tried to distract herself by watching the people around her, the usual eclectic hodgepodge of faces and accents that made Denver so interesting. Coffee shops were the best for finding interesting people to view.

But no matter how hard she tried, her gaze kept straying back to the front door, her adrenaline rushing every time the bell indicated a new customer was entering or exiting.

She had purposefully taken a seat at a corner table where she could easily see the entrance. She wanted to have a moment to watch Dustin before they were formally introduced.

She wiped her palms against her conservative navy blue, calf-length-split rayon skirt, ostensibly to straighten it—for at least the tenth time. She straightened her back and adjusted her posture, an incidental habit she was hardly aware of but often performed.

Suddenly a man burst through the door like a Tasmanian devil, lifting his hat and scrubbing his hands through his thick black hair. He looked around, his eyes sweeping across the tables with a glazed, harried look.

He was obviously searching for someone, and he definitely fit the profile she’d been given for Mr. Fairfax—six feet tall, medium build, black hair, green eyes.

Isobel froze, not giving any indication she saw him at all. She lowered her eyes to the table and pinched her lips.

She was afraid this was how it would be.

Her first impression wasn’t good.

Dustin’s black hair, what she could see of it from under a backward-faced, navy newsboy cap, was long—nearly shoulder length—and thick and curly. She wondered if anyone had ever told him his hair-style had gone out in the eighties.

Way out.

The thought made her laugh, and she politely covered her mouth with her hand.

His big green eyes were friendly, though, and he was smiling. Those were immediate pluses, in her book. Not many people faced life with a grin these days. It was a rare blessing to see.

Polishing up the outside of a man would be a piece of cake for her, but how could she ever hope to turn some weirdo into a socialite?

Apparently, that was one worry she could cross off her list. Kindness showed in every line of his face. Somehow, after seeing him in person, she felt in her heart she could work with him.

His clothes were another matter.

He was attired in faded, holey blue jeans and a navy blue T-shirt that had seen better days. She couldn’t even decipher the writing on the front. And his old tennis shoes—once white, as far as she could guess, but now a scuffed gray—were abominable.

She bit her bottom lip thoughtfully. Part of her screamed to duck under the table, however ungracefully, and hide from the man. Back out of the plan. Get away from it all.

But then she remembered her purpose here, and with this thought came resolution. This was a job like any other job, however different in form it—he—presented itself.

It was time to buck up and do what she was hired to do.

Of course, Dustin was an unconventional scalawag who was continually late to his appointments. Hadn’t she discussed this very thing with Addison and Camille? Why else would Addison feel compelled to hire an image consultant to clean him up and generally organize his life for him?

And how hard could it be, really?

Her mind was already envisioning a sharp pair of scissors in her hand, lopping off great handfuls of his thick black hair. Her smile widened.

“Mr. Fairfax,” she called, waving her hand. “Over here.”

The man turned at her voice and smiled as he approached. “Please, call me Dustin,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “All my friends do. And you must be Iz-a-belle,” he said, pronouncing her name with a crisp Italian accent. His emphasis was strongly on the last syllable. “Belle. It has a nice ring to it.” He laughed at his own joke, but Isobel just shook her head.

She stared at him for a moment, trying to get her bearings. No one had ever, in the whole course of her life, called her Belle before.

Everyone, even her mother, called her Isobel. Camille called her Izzy sometimes, but they had known each other forever.

“Isobel Buckley,” she corrected subtly, hoping he’d take the hint.

“Dustin Fairfax,” he said, turning his chair around and straddling it. “But of course, you already know my name.”

“Yes,” she agreed mildly, linking her fingers on the tabletop to keep from fidgeting. It was important that Dustin have confidence in her dignity and refinement if he was going to take any advice from her. It wasn’t his problem she was feeling as if she were walking on shaky ground at the moment.

“Don’t feel awkward on my account,” he said with a wink.

Despite herself, her heart fluttered. The man was certainly a charmer, if a badly dressed one. And how had he known she was feeling off-kilter? Had he seen it in her expression? She determined then and there to take better control of herself and the situation.

She cleared her throat and looped a lock of her deep brown hair around her index finger, twirling it in lazy circles. “Let’s start at the beginning,” she suggested.

“Sounds reasonable,” he agreed. That he was genuinely amicable was clearly apparent to Isobel and worked immediately in his favor. He appeared unusually relaxed and free of the usual stark brassiness most men his age wore about themselves like a cloak.

Dustin was simply himself, and he offered that openness willingly to her; and, she suspected, to all those he encountered in the—what was it?

Oh, yes. Flower shop.

If she was successful in her endeavor, she very well could be about to change all that. It was one of the things his brother had mentioned—in the negative category of Dustin’s life.

One small shop was all he owned. He didn’t even have a second one located across town at one of the many available malls and outlets.

She felt a shiver she couldn’t identify as anticipation or warning.

“You were late,” she said without preamble. She had to start somewhere.

“I had the worst time finding a place to park,” he explained with a shrug and an easy grin. “You know how Denver parking can be.”

“You drove your car?” Isobel asked, surprise seeping into her voice.

“Doesn’t everybody?”

She knew he was teasing her, but she couldn’t resist answering him. “I assumed—well—that you could walk here from your shop. Or take the mall bus, although I admit that doesn’t appeal to me, either.”

His grin widened. “I did walk. My shop is only a few blocks down from here. But what would have been the fun in telling you that?” He chuckled. “I drove my car to work, though, since I live in the suburbs. I’m telling you this in case you want to tool around in it later.” He gave her a wide, cheesy grin.

Dustin was clearly on the far side of sense. What had she gotten herself into?

“As I’m sure you’ll quickly learn,” he clarified, “I’m not everybody. Run-of-the-mill does not apply to me. I often walk, but I have a nifty little sports car and I like to drive it.”

“Oh,” she said lamely.

“And you came in…?”

The question dangled before her, taunting her silently for an answer.

She blushed. “A Towncar.”

“Yeah? Huh. Well, what do you know? That doesn’t surprise me in the least. You look the type. You wouldn’t catch me dead in a Towncar, though.”

“Why is that?” she asked, intrigued despite wondering if his attitude might be condescending to her. It didn’t show in his tone or facial expression. His smile was genuine and kind. He had a strong, masculine smile that made her heart beat faster in response.

He was pulling her under his spell and she knew it, but she was helpless to stop herself. Maybe that was exactly what he wanted, and she was playing right into his hand, but she’d never been as cynical as she oftentimes thought she should be.