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“Change is the essence of life,” she said grandly. “Growing old, so someone told me recently, is not for sissies.”
“No one would call you a sissy,” he said, and suddenly remembered Cory Haines’s defiant brown eyes. She wasn’t one either. Lavinia, he was almost sure, would like Cory Haines.
Not that they’d ever meet.
“All this nonsense about golden years—I don’t see what’s so golden about arthritis and all your friends starting to die off. Poppycock.” Then she eyed him over the rim of her glass, hesitating uncharacteristically. When she spoke, her voice, for the first time, showed her age. “I probably shouldn’t say this ... but before too long I’d love to be a grandmother again.”
“Don’t, Mum!”
“It’s been two years now.”
“Yeah...” Slade shook his head from side to side, like an animal that had been hit hard and unexpectedly by someone it trusted. “It still seems like yesterday.”
“You can’t hide in your job for ever.”
“I suppose not.” He managed a smile. “If I meet someone, you’ll be the first person to know.”
“You won’t meet anyone until you let your guard down; that’s as obvious as—as that mirror in the hallway. And now I really will be quiet; I can’t stand interfering mothers. Please will you help me move the mahogany bureau in my room?”
The mahogany bureau weighed at least two hundred pounds. “Sure, I’ll help you,” said Slade, and drained his drink.
An hour later, having moved the bureau, put up curtain rails and unpacked some books, he was on his way, driving carefully down the slick, wet streets. His mother had never mentioned the lack of a grandchild before today. He wished she’d kept quiet about it. Pressure in that department he didn’t need.
Feeling unsettled and out of sorts, he decided to drop into the squash club, where he’d purchased a guest pass the day after he’d arrived. It was round robin night; he’d be bound to find a partner.
Before he changed, he checked the schedule by the desk. Tom MacLeod and Bruce Waring were here tonight; he’d played with both of them before. Then another name leaped out at him from the pencilled list. Cory Haines. She’d signed up for a court at seven tomorrow morning with someone called Joe Purchell.
He stood still, his memory calling up her face, so changeable and so vividly alive. Somehow he wasn’t surprised that she played squash, a game that demanded lightning-swift reactions, total concentration and a high level of fitness. Besides, she lived not far from here; he’d discovered that when he’d checked out her company before he’d left the office. Not to his surprise, her business was healthily in the black.
Frowning, he headed for the locker rooms.
At seven-thirty the next morning, on his way to the office, Slade pulled into the parking lot at the squash club. He’d slept badly again. His dreams had been blatantly sexual and when he’d woken at about six he’d remembered all too clearly the woman who had cavorted with him on peach-colored satin sheets with such enthusiasm and expertise. Cory Haines. Naked, beautiful and incredibly inventive.
He could control most aspects of his life. But he couldn’t control his dreams.
He slammed the car door and took the steps two at a time. Then he strode along the upper gallery that offered a view into the courts below. When he came to the end court he stood back, so that he could see without being seen.
They were rallying, both players covering the hardwood floor with speed and precision, the ball thwacking against the walls like miniature gunshots. Then Cory maneuvered her partner into the back of the court, raced for the front and placed a gentle drop shot into the corner. The man gave a yell of frustration that echoed off the white-painted walls and Cory laughed, a full-bellied chuckle of delight. “My serve,” she said, flipping the ball into the air with her racquet.
She was wearing regulation white shorts and T-shirt, her hair in a thick braid down her back. As she stood poised to serve, Slade could see her breasts heaving and the sweat trickling down her neck; her legs were long, their grace in no way lessened by the taut calf muscles. Involuntarily his body hardened in response.
Scowling, he flicked his gaze to her partner. Joe Purchell was taller than Cory, boasted a crop of black curly hair and was extremely good-looking. He was also several years younger than Slade and, by the look of him, in better shape. Slade disliked him on sight.
The rally began. The two players were equally matched, Cory making up in intelligence what she lacked in reach. When the score had been stuck at seven-all for nearly five minutes, Slade left as unobtrusively as he’d arrived.
She played to win. But she also played for the sheer joy of the game. And she was every bit as seductive in the squash court as she’d been in bed in his dreams.
He gunned the car out of the lot and drove to the office, his mouth set in a grim line. The smartest thing he could do was say no to her proposal. A flat no. That way he wouldn’t have to see her again. Because the last thing he needed was to be lusting after a woman who almost undoubtedly was involved with someone else. Especially a woman as intense, intelligent and heart-wrenchingly beautiful as Cory Haines.
A woman like that wasn’t on the cards for him.
CHAPTER TWO
ONCE in his office, Slade plugged in the coffee machine and spread out the plans for the harborfront, forcing himself to concentrate. Years of discipline came to his rescue; when Mrs. Minglewood tapped on his door to tell him it was ten twenty-five, he’d figured out what was wrong with the boardwalk and had come up with an inventive and ingenious way round the parking problem. Feeling well pleased with himself, he ran downstairs to meet Cory.
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.”
