Kiss A Handsome Stranger

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Daisy knew when she’d been outmaneuvered. Well, she could hold her own with Chance Foster and she was going to prove it to him.

Chapter Four

Chance hadn’t intended to corral Daisy into touring his house that afternoon. He’d gone by her gallery in a polite attempt to reestablish a friendly relationship and to ask for a professional consultation.

Something about the woman brought out the bossy side of him, he admitted as he finished making notes for a custody brief to write over the weekend.

Maybe it was the way she never gave an inch. And why did she have to employ a peppy young assistant who hovered over her adoringly?

She’d looked so cute in that demure long skirt, with a strand of auburn hair clinging to one cheek. And so surprised to see him, as if she weren’t sure how to react. Chance had instinctively seized the advantage.

He wished he knew what it was about her that he found so captivating. It seemed unlikely she would fit his standards for the ideal wife, in light of the way she’d run from him and then refused to give a credible explanation.

Reliability and communication. Those were two musts that he would include if he ever wrote A Lawyer’s Guide to Making Matrimony Work.

Probably no one would buy it, though, even if he did. In his observation, people were irrational when it came to marriage.

Chance copied his notes from the computer’s hard drive onto a diskette and dropped it in his briefcase. At his home office, he kept a library of legal references on CD-ROM, so he didn’t have to cart heavy books home.

It was a quarter to three, which meant that, if he left now, he should arrive at the gallery right on the hour. Perfect timing suited Chance.

In his front office he found Nell Beecham closing the books for the week. The secretary whipped around to regard him sternly.

“Leaving fifteen minutes early, Mr. Foster?” she asked. At sixty-seven, Nell brought nearly a half century of experience to the job, along with strong opinions about how people ought to behave. Including her boss.

“I’m picking someone up at three,” he said.

Her frown mutated into an approving half smile. “Good. You’ll be on time.” If he thought he’d passed inspection, however, Chance had congratulated himself too soon. “I don’t recall setting up an appointment for you.”

When he’d hired Nell, one of his friends had warned that he would be getting a mother figure in the office. Chance didn’t mind.

For one thing, top-notch secretaries were hard to find. For another, as the oldest of eight children, he’d filled the role of a quasiadult for so long that he was on more or less equal terms with his own parents, so he figured he could handle an office mother as well.

“It’s the owner of the Native Art gallery,” he told her. “I’m consulting her about my house.”

“Some of the objects they display are a bit odd,” she said. “I’m not a fan of modern art myself. However, they have an excellent reputation.”

“I’ll be the one who makes the final decisions,” he assured her. “Have a lovely weekend.”

“Don’t forget you’re due in court Monday morning,” she said.

“I won’t.” He didn’t have to remind her about locking up and depositing the week’s checks. Nell Beecham was as reliable as a bank president.

She kept her private life to herself, though. Although she’d mentioned her grown children, the only pictures on her desk were of her two Siamese cats.

He wondered what she did in her spare time. A woman as energetic and organized as Nell wouldn’t likely sit around knitting cat booties. Still, he didn’t intend to get nosy.

Traffic was heavy, Chance found when his sports car exited the parking garage, but he didn’t mind. He liked working in a high-rise, metropolitan area with easy access to suburbs.

In recent years Phoenix had become a haven for the winter weary, and while the migration was good for business, it resulted in L.A.-style jams. The inconvenience was worth the price, in his opinion.

Still, he didn’t have the big-city career he’d once aspired to. Although Phoenix was thriving, it couldn’t compare in significance to New York or the nation’s capital.

Sometimes Chance felt a stirring of regret at not having pushed harder to follow in his former fiancée Gillian’s footsteps. The last he’d heard, she’d made junior partner at her Washington, D.C. law firm and was handling a high-profile case against the government.

The thought of bringing his skills to a case like that gave Chance a jolt of adrenaline. It would be a great feeling, a rush almost like sex.

He double-parked in front of Native Art and was wondering whether to dash inside or go around through the alley when Daisy swung out with a farewell wave to someone inside. The youthful, devoted Sean O’Reilly, no doubt. If the young man ever quit, Chance wondered if Nell Beecham had a contemporary she could recommend as a replacement.

Daisy slid into the low passenger seat. The slit in her long skirt bared one shapely leg, until she tugged it into place and dropped a portfolio in her lap.

Clover, he thought. Or honey, that was what she smelled like.

“Busy afternoon?” he asked.

“We had to lug a bunch of paintings around,” Daisy said. “We have an exhibit opening tomorrow night.”

He recalled seeing a poster inside the gallery. “Shakira Benjamin, right?”

“Yes. Some of her work might suit you,” Daisy said. “You’re welcome to stop by. We’ll have wine and cheese, and our regular clients are interesting people.”

She sounded all business. Chance respected professionalism in a woman. But he wished the invitation were for something a little more personal.

Daisy stared out her window as the flat, grid-pattern streets of the city flew by and they eased into the suburbs. She made no attempt at idle conversation.

Chance remembered what Elise had said about Daisy’s medical condition. He hoped she wasn’t in pain.

A man wanted to protect people he cared about. Especially women, and especially one as open-spirited and vulnerable as Daisy. He was particularly sympathetic to her fears about infertility.

Kids were precious. Chance didn’t have a strong urge to become a father anytime soon, but he treasured the future possibility.

Of course, Daisy and the man she married could adopt children if she were unable to conceive. In the adoption cases Chance had handled, he’d been impressed by how quickly love and bonding occurred.

Startled, he realized that he’d once again associated Daisy with marriage. Was there such a thing as a male biological clock?

This whole attraction might be a simple matter of timing. But he doubted it.

Twenty minutes later they reached the suburb where he lived. Custom designed on a large lot secluded by low walls, the home had been on the market a year ago and he’d had to outbid two other would-be purchasers.

They passed through the gate and followed the curving driveway between low granite boulders and clumps of desert vegetation. The low-lying house might have sprung up by itself, so naturally did its red-tiled roof and salmon stucco walls fit into the landscape.

“It looks different in daylight,” Daisy said. “I didn’t realize how well the colors blended with the desert.”

“I’ve had the landscaping updated around the front and in the courtyard.” Chance parked beneath a carport. “The previous owner had tropical tastes that wasted a lot of water.”

“I see what you mean about putting everything into a larger picture.” Daisy scampered out of the car while he was still unfolding his long legs.

He caught up with her in front of the house and they strolled past relaxed plantings of golden yarrow and white blackfoot daisies. Loose material crunched underfoot. One of the first things Chance had done was to tear out the stark sidewalk and replace it with a naturalistic path of crumbly decomposed granite.

“You could use a bit of height out here,” Daisy said. “I know several sculptors whose work would fit right in. In fact, we’ve got an exhibit in one of our galleries that might appeal to you.”

“I’ll take a look during the opening tomorrow.”

He unlocked the wide door and they stepped into the tile entryway, off which opened an expansive sunken living room. Beyond it, vertical blinds gave a striped glimpse of a walled rear courtyard.

“You’ve got a great setting for a sculpture garden,” Daisy said. “This could be a real showplace. I presume that’s what you have in mind?”

“Absolutely.” At least, it had been in his mind—until she walked into his home.

Now Chance found it difficult to concentrate on anything except her scintillating presence and the memory of a night two months ago when they’d made love, starting right here in the front room.

He forced himself to pay attention to Daisy’s insights about his home as they walked through the airy rooms. From time to time Daisy stopped to open her portfolio and show him photos of artists’ work. Paintings, weavings, sculpture, ceramics.

She understood the effect he wanted and was able to articulate it in a way Chance couldn’t, because he lacked the vocabulary of color and texture. She also noted where a love seat, small table or other furniture would fit into the scheme.

“If you want custom furniture, I know craftsmen who can make it for you,” she said.

“I’m impressed. Did you always have an instinct for art, or did you have to study?”

“Both.” Now that they’d completed their circuit, Daisy lowered the portfolio onto a table. They were standing where the family room joined the kitchen. “I studied design and ceramics at community college, but I’ve always been around artists. My mother designs and makes costumes. She dyes her own fabrics, too.”

“Let’s take a look at the rest of that portfolio,” he said, and pulled a chair out, offering it to Daisy.

Her cheeks flushing with enthusiasm, Daisy flipped open the heavy book. Beneath clear plastic sheets, the photographs showed artists, their studios and a sampling of available pieces.

Many of the sculptors, Chance learned, were willing to create a piece on commission to fit the scale of a space or environment. He would be able to approve preliminary sketches and models.

Collecting art wasn’t as simple as walking into a store and making his selections, he realized. It was far more exciting and personal.

Daisy lived and breathed art and understood her business. Chance would have been grateful to find her even if she didn’t make his heart beat faster.

But despite his interest in the portfolio, he had a hard time not focusing on the fullness of her lips as she spoke. And on the swell of her breasts beneath the ivory blouse, close to where his hand rested on the table.

Daisy’s presence and the lingering June sunlight made him forget the time, until his stomach reminded him. It was, Chance saw by his watch, nearly six o’clock.

“I’ll contact the artists,” he said. They’d decided on half a dozen people whose visions suited his taste.

“Just let me know what you order so I can follow up. Some artists have a tendency to get distracted,” Daisy said. “I’ll handle the billing, as well.”

“Of course.” It was time to take her home, but he didn’t want to. “How about dinner? I’ve got salmon steaks we could grill, and I’ll make one of my famous salads. Did Elise tell you about them?”

She shook her head. “I’m intrigued. But you don’t have to feed me, especially not twice in one day.”

“I’ve got to eat, too,” he said. “And I prefer company.”

Apparently he’d hit the right offhand tone, because she smiled instead of beating a retreat. “What can I fix?”

“How are you at microwaving baked beans?” he asked. “That’s what I had in mind for a side dish.”

Daisy flexed her forefinger. “I work out on the microwave daily.”

Chance took her hand on the pretense of examining her finger muscles. It felt warm and dry and small in his big one. “You’re in prime shape, I can see.”

“Speaking of prime shape…” Her gaze lingered on the white shirt clinging to his chest. He’d removed his jacket and tie earlier, relieved to be free of the constraints. “I didn’t see a home gym, but you must work out.”

“I wear weights while I jog every morning,” he said. “And I’ve got a routine of push-ups and sit-ups. You don’t need special equipment for that.”

She tore her attention away. A pinkish tone to her cheeks indicated she realized she’d been staring at him.

Chance’s body responded with an infusion of heat and tension. It seemed so artificial, this gulf between them, when they were already lovers. Yet anything he said or did to change the situation was likely to spook her.

“Let’s start cooking,” he said. “I’m starved.”

“You and me both.”

They worked together companionably. Instead of asking where things were kept, Daisy examined his drawers and cabinets for herself until she found the can of Boston beans, a microwave-safe casserole and a serving spoon. Chance liked her initiative.

While he grilled the salmon in the courtyard, he reflected that he hadn’t cooked with a woman other than one of his sisters since he’d moved into this house. He’d had a few girlfriends at his previous place, a tract home, but had found it awkward trying to cook as they peppered him with queries.

The food tasted delicious, and for once Daisy didn’t give the impression of trying to edge away from him. As they talked, she wore the same rapt expression as on their first night.

“I’m amazed at how much you’ve accomplished. Buying this house, for instance,” she said. “Elise told me you put yourself through law school and helped pay for your younger sisters’ education as well. It can’t have been easy.”

No, it hadn’t been. “I didn’t mind the long hours,” Chance said. “And, as you can see, I’ve come out well enough. There’s only one thing I regret.”

“What’s that?”

He’d never admitted this to anyone before. “I wanted to get top grades and make the law review, but I couldn’t quite manage it while working so many hours. That bothered me for quite a while.”

“What if you had made the law review?” Daisy asked. “How would your life be different?”

No wasted sympathy, no superficial reassurances that it didn’t matter. She’d cut right to the heart of the matter.

“I’d probably be in Washington or New York right now, handling cases on which the future of a company or an industry was riding,” he said. “That’s what my former fiancée is doing.”

She finished a forkful of salmon before asking, “Is that what you really wish you were doing?”

Chance leaned back in his chair. “I envy Gillian sometimes. Remember the Robert Frost poem about two paths diverging in a yellow wood, and how he could have taken either one?”

Daisy nodded. “We read it in school.”

“Sometimes I think it’s still there, that fork in the road, that path I might have taken,” he admitted.

“Are you tempted to go back and take the other path?”

He supposed he was, but high-stakes careers didn’t land in a man’s lap. “The opportunity will never arise unless I fight for it,” he said. “And I’m too comfortable to do that.”