Uninhibited

“Sir?” he said in the same formal, sonorous tone he had used before. The word and the tone contrasted incongruously with the bright red shorts and red-and-yellow color-block rugby shirt he was wearing. No one paid any attention to the fact that he must have been listening at the keyhole to have opened the doors so promptly.

“Grab my things, please, Eddie,” Reed said he marched across the marble foyer, towing Zoe in his wake. She was nearly on tiptoes now, and the shawl had slipped entirely off of one shoulder and was dragging on the floor. “I’m running late.”

Eddie already had Reed’s things laid out in readiness, the overcoat draped across the top of a tufted velvet Victorian bench, the briefcase and gym bag side by side on the floor in front of it. He grabbed them up along with his own gym bag and fell in step behind the two scurrying figures.

“I take it you’re not going to change here as usual?” he asked pleasantly, as if the sight of his employer’s great-grandson quickstepping a guest out of the house wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

“No,” Reed said shortly. “No time. We have to drop Miss Moon off at her apartment on our way.” He yanked the front door open with his free hand before Eddie could maneuver around to do it for him. “I’ll change at Magazine Beach.”

I really ought to let him drive me home, Zoe thought vindictively as he all but dragged her over the threshold and out onto the front steps. Considering his final destination, a detour to the North End during rush hour traffic would make him really late. But it would make Eddie late, too, and Eddie wasn’t the one giving her the bum’s rush. And besides, she wasn’t in the mood to go anywhere with Mr. Stuffed Shirt!

“You don’t have to drop Miss Moon at her apartment,” she said between her teeth, digging in her heels and rearing back as he reached for the door handle of the sleek black Jaguar XJ6 parked—wouldn’t you just know it!—at the curb directly in front of the house. “You don’t have to drop Miss Moon anywhere, because Miss Moon will take the T. Now let go of my arm!”

She yanked her arm out of his grasp and turned to face him, there on the sidewalk in front of his great-grandmother’s Beacon Hill mansion.

“Boy, I sure don’t know what your problem is, mister.” Huffily, head down, Zoe wrestled with the handles of both shopping bag and purse, settling them securely over her arm. “And I don’t particularly care.” She hitched her shawl up over her shoulder with a jerk, draping the excess over her forearm. “But I definitely do not appreciate being treated like some kind of two-bit street hustler who’s out to make a quick buck off a sweet old lady.”

“If a quick buck was all you were after, there wouldn’t be any problem, would there?” Reed said mildly, his tone as urbane and civil as if he hadn’t just dragged her out of his great-grandmother’s house by the scruff of the neck.

Zoe found it really annoying that he could sound so cool, as if that mad dash across the marble foyer and down the wide brick steps hadn’t happened, while she was left feeling frazzled, put-upon and decidedly ill used. “Then just what is your problem?” she demanded.

“My problem is your brazen effort to bilk a sweet old lady out of a small fortune to finance some fly-by-night cosmetic company.”

“Fly-by—” Zoe’s mouth gaped open and she stared at him like a hooked fish for a full five seconds. “New Moon is not fly-by-night!” she exclaimed furiously, and then clamped her mouth shut. Shouting at the top of her lungs might be all well and good in the North End, but Beacon Hill called for a little more decorum. Besides, if she lost her temper, Mr. Stuffed Shirt would win. And she’d implode before she’d let that happen. “I’ve been selling New Moon products to individual clients for over three years, and commercially, on a commission basis, for almost two,” she said with quiet dignity. “I have steady retail customers in two shops in the Faneuil Hall Marketplace and several locations in the Back Bay, including one in a very exclusive boutique on Newbury Street, which, for your information, is where I met your great-grandmother. I’d hardly call that fly-by-night.”

“Regardless of what you’d call it, Miss Moon, you’re not getting any money from my great-grandmother to expand your little…enterprise.” His slight hesitation made the word sound distinctly unsavory.

“Why not?” Zoe demanded, truly puzzled by his attitude. “Moira told me she invests in all kinds of businesses. And with your blessing, too. So just what have you got against me and New Moon?”

“Let’s just say I have a constitutional aversion to con artists and leave it at that, shall we?”

“Con artists!?” She had to fight to keep her voice even. “But I just told you, I’m not trying to con any— Moira’s the one who invited me to tea and I— Oh, forget it! It’s obvious you’ve already made up your mind,” she accused, ignoring the fact that her little act in his great-grandmother’s parlor might have had something to do with his poor opinion of her. “And you aren’t about to change it, are you? No matter what I say.”

Zoe lifted her chin. “All I can say is that you’re cheating your great-grandmother out of a wonderful investment opportunity. New Moon is going to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars some day. Millions, even.” She picked up the end of her shawl and tossed it across the opposite shoulder, haughty as an affronted queen. “It’s going to be bigger than Estee Lauder. And you’re going to be very, very sorry.”

With that, she turned and stomped off down the street, her mass of fiery, corkscrew curls swaying against her back, her purse and shopping bag bouncing against her hip, the heels of her purple suede boots clicking like castanets against the venerable old Boston street.

For once in her life, she had come up with the perfect exit line. Perfect! She hadn’t said too much, or too little. She hadn’t lost her temper. She’d been cool, calm and composed. It took all of her willpower not to ruin it by turning around and rudely thumbing her nose at Mr. Stuffed Shirt Reed Sullivan IV.

“Well,” Eddie said. “That was certainly interesting.”

“Yes,” Reed said slowly, his eyes on her retreating back. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, wondering why it felt so hot and…twitchy. “Wasn’t it.”

3

“BUT I WANT TO INVEST in Zoe’s business, Reed.”

“Gran, sweetheart, be reasonable. Whatever New Moon is, it can hardly be called a business. She doesn’t have a business plan. Nor a P&L. Not even a simple, basic set of books to track income and expenses.” He dug his hand into one of the shoe boxes on the table between them and grasped a sheaf of papers to illustrate his point. “Just this disorganized mess.” Which, he noted, smelled disconcertingly of violets. He lifted them halfway toward his nose before he realized what he was doing, and stuffed them back into the box with a disgusted snort. “You can’t run a business, let alone expect people to give you money to expand it, if you don’t keep decent records.”

“Well, there, you see.” Moira smiled at him approvingly. “That’s just the kind of advice Zoe needs. I knew you could help.”

“Gran, you can’t really be serious about this.” He looked at her over the top of his reading glasses. “Can you?”

“Dead serious,” she assured him with an emphatic little nod of her regal head.

“Well, I’m dead set against it.” He took his glasses off and tossed them down on the table like a gauntlet. “I don’t approve of the idea at all. Not at all.”

Moira’s brows lifted at his tone. “May I remind you, young man, that it happens to be my money we’re discussing, not yours. And as I have been legally of age for quite some time now and am in full possession of my faculties, I am perfectly free to do as I please with it.” She lifted her chin and looked down her elegant nose at him. “Whether you approve or not.”

Reed abandoned his high horse. It never worked with his great-grandmother, anyway; nobody had ever been able to dictate to Moira Sullivan, not even her dear departed husband. “But why, Gran? Can you at least answer me that? Why on earth do you want to invest in that woman’s business?”

“Her products are wonderful,” Moira said promptly. “And I like her.”

“You hardly know her,” he countered. “You said yourself you only met her this past Monday and—” He broke off as a thought occurred to him. “How exactly did you happen to meet her, anyway?”

“She didn’t maneuver an introduction or try to ingratiate herself in any way, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Moira chided him gently. “I overheard her talking to the proprietor of The Body Beautiful about the difficulties she’s been having getting financing to expand her business, and I interrupted their conversation and introduced myself to her.”

“And you say she didn’t maneuver it,” he scoffed.

Moira stiffened ever so slightly and her chin came up again. “Despite my advanced years, I am not some poor senile old lady who doesn’t know which end is up,” she said with quiet, reproachful dignity.

Reed was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Gran. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I never meant to suggest that you—”

“Neither am I gullible or easily misled,” Moira went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “I know very well when someone is trying to pull the wool over my eyes. And when they aren’t. And I assure you, my dear Reed, Miss Moon had no idea I was listening to her conversation in that shop until I interrupted her.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Reed agreed. “You know I have the utmost faith in your judgment. I always have and always will. I just…” He paused and reached for his discarded glasses, twisting one stem as he searched for the words to say what he meant without insulting his great-grandmother again. “All question of how you met aside, the fact remains that you’ve known her—and I use that term loosely!—three days. Barely. And yet you say you like her. Three days isn’t enough time to make that kind of decision about a person. It’s not enough time to make any kind of decision about a person, especially if you’re contemplating lending that person a great deal of money.”

“You’ve known her—and I also use the term loosely—less than a day, and you’ve already decided you dislike her. Why is that, I wonder?”

“I don’t dislike her,” Reed objected, which was the strict truth. His reaction to the luscious Zoe Moon was a little more complicated than mere like or dislike. It was…well, he didn’t know what it was exactly. “And this isn’t about me, anyway. It’s about you. So quit trying to change the subject and answer my question. Please,” he added when she raised an eyebrow at him. “Give me a little insight into why you decided it’s a good idea to lend money to a woman you’ve known for barely three days.”

Moira sighed. “I decided I wanted to marry your great-grandfather after only an hour in his company.”

“That’s hardly the same thing.”

“True,” Moira agreed. “Marriage is a much more serious matter. With much more serious consequences if you’re wrong. But the basic principle is the same. Trust.”

“Are you telling me you trust Zoe Moon?”

“Yes, I do. She appears to me to be an eminently trustworthy young woman.”

“Good Lord, Gran!” Reed just barely managed to keep his voice at a reasonable level. One didn’t shout at Moira Sullivan with impunity. Not if one wanted to get anywhere with her. “Didn’t you hear a word she said this afternoon?”

“I’m not deaf, dear. Certainly I heard her. She has a lovely, soothing voice, don’t you think?”

“Oh, lovely,” he agreed with a snort. Soothing, however, it was not. Now, if she’d said arousing… He deliberately veered away from that line of thought. “But that’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“What did you mean, dear?”

“‘Women like you and your wealthy friends’,” he quoted. “‘All your lovely money…’ ‘With your money, you wouldn’t worry about that….’ The woman obviously came to tea today for one thing and one thing only.”

Moira gave a little gurgle of laughter. “Well, of course she did! For goodness sake, Reed, I asked her to tea specifically to talk about the possibility of lending her the money to expand her business. I expected her to talk about it. That was the whole point.”

Reed remembered Zoe Moon trying to tell him something along the same lines, out there on the sidewalk in front of the house. But he hadn’t bought it then, and he wasn’t buying it now. “It’s the way she talked about it that I object to.”

“The way?”

“As if it were a done deal and the money were already hers. Good manners, if nothing else, should have kept her from acting as if you’d already signed on the dotted line.”

“Well, perhaps, but…”

Reed jumped on her hesitation. “Come on now, Gran,” he cajoled. “Admit it. Didn’t she sound like a greedy, money-grubbing little mercenary out to take you for all she could get?” And why was he attracted to her, despite that?

“Really, dear.” Moira shook her head. “Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

“A bit, maybe,” he conceded, disposed to at least try to be fair now that he could see his great-grandmother starting to come around to his way of thinking. “But I notice you didn’t deny it.”

“She was nervous,” Moira said. “It made her babble and say things awkwardly, is all. She’s really a lovely, gracious young woman. And very sweet, too.”

“Nervous?”

“Well, anyone would have been, with you glowering at them across the tea table.”

“I don’t glower.”

“You’re glowering right now, dear,” Moira informed him. “If I were a sensitive young woman like Zoe, I’d be babbling, too.”

“You’ve never babbled in your life,” Reed scoffed.

She laughed softly. “Oh, I babbled a bit more than I like to remember in those early days with your great-grandfather.” The laughter faded into a fond smile. “You’re very like him, you know. It quite takes me back sometimes, just to look at you. He could be very intimidating, too, when he chose.”

“Are you saying I made her nervous?” Reed asked incredulously. The mere thought was almost laughable. The bold, red-haired gypsy who’d looked him up and down with that provocative gleam in her big brown eyes didn’t strike him as the nervous type. Lovely, yes, he’d grant her that. But gracious? Sweet? Nervous? His eyes narrowed. “Now wait a minute here, Gran. You’re not suggesting…” He leaned across the mahogany table, his expression wary and accusing, wondering if he’d been right in his first assessment, after all. “This isn’t some kind of crazy, harebrained matchmaking scheme, is it? Because if it is, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Matchmaking? You thought I was matchmaking?” A soft gurgle of laughter bubbled up and was quickly suppressed. “Well, really, Reed.” The look she gave him was full of amused indignation. “At least give me credit for having the sense God gave a goose. I know perfectly well Zoe isn’t even remotely your type.”

Placated, Reed leaned back in his chair. “I’m glad you realize that.”

“Nor are you hers, I might add. Zoe is the kind of woman who would be drawn to someone with a little more…” one soft white hand fluttered through the air as if groping for the words “…joie de vivre.”

“I enjoy life,” Reed objected.

“Oh, I’m sure you do, in your own way. I don’t mean to suggest otherwise. It’s just that I’m afraid you’re a bit, oh…staid, shall we say?…for someone like Zoe.”

“Staid?” he murmured, vaguely insulted by the word.

“Dignified. Proper,” Moira clarified with a fond smile. “You’re a credit to the Sullivan name, Reed. I’ve always thought so, ever since you were a baby.”

“Well, thank you. I think,” he said, wondering why he suddenly felt like a priggish, self-satisfied boor. His great-grandmother had just complimented him, hadn’t she? “Now, if you don’t mind.” Reed rapped a knuckle against the papers on the table. “Could we get back to the subject at hand?”

“Certainly.” Moira folded her hands on top of the table, like an eager little girl at lessons. “What’s the next step?”

Reed sighed. “Do you really mean to pursue this, Gran? No matter what I say?”

Moira nodded. “I do.”

“And if I refuse to have anything to do with it?”

“I’ll be disappointed, of course. But I’m sure I can find someone else to handle the paperwork for me.”

“Not at Sullivan Enterprises, you won’t,” he warned her, his financier’s scowl firmly in place. “Not if I advise against it. And, be assured, I will.”

But Moira Sullivan wasn’t easily intimated, especially not by her own great-grandson. “Well, then, I’ll just have to go outside the family business, won’t I?” She tilted her head, giving him a considering look from under her lashes. “I’ve heard young Andrew Hightower is making quite a name for himself in financial circles these days.”

Andrew Hightower was Reed’s ex-fiancée’s youngest brother. A nice enough kid, but… It galled Reed to realize that the mere mention of the Hightower name struck a sore spot he hadn’t known he had. “You wouldn’t.”

“Yes,” Moira said. “I most definitely would. I intend to arrange for Zoe Moon to have the funds she needs to expand her business. I’d like for you to help me find the best way to do that, so that everyone’s interests are properly looked after. But if you can’t or won’t, well…” she lifted her shoulders in an eloquent little shrug “…I’ll find someone who will, be it Andrew Hightower, or someone else entirely. Or maybe I’ll just give her the money outright,” she said consideringly. “It might be simpler all around that way.”

Reed knew when he was beaten. “All right, Gran. You win. I’ll see what I can do about getting Miss Moon her financing.”

IT WAS NEARLY NINE-THIRTY that night before Zoe heard her next-door neighbor banging around outside in the hallway. Zoe put down the glass of pink grapefruit juice she’d just poured for herself and rushed toward the front door, nearly bursting with the need to vent.

A petite, slender young woman with a short, sleek cap of dark hair and even darker eyes looked up and smiled as Zoe all but exploded into their mutual hallway. “Ciao, Zoe. How’s it goin’?”

“Gina! I thought you’d never get home. Where on earth have you been this late?”

“Same place I’ve been every Wednesday night for the past couple of months. That new client with the arthritis, remember? I told you about him.” She set the edge of her massage table on the floor and let go of the handle, tilting it toward Zoe. “Hold on to this for a minute while I get the rest of my stuff. I left it at the bottom of the stairs.”

“You aren’t going to believe what happened today,” Zoe hollered at her friend’s retreating back. “I had tea with Moira Sullivan. Remember, the woman I told you about? The one I met at The Body Beautiful on Monday?”

“The one who’s going to lend you the money for New Moon, right?” Gina said as she came back up the steps with her equipment bag slung over one shoulder and a bulging sack of groceries in her arms.

Zoe leaned the massage table against the wall and reached for the grocery sack, freeing Gina so she could unlock her front door. “Well, she was going to lend me the money.” Zoe’s lush mouth screwed up in a grimace. “But I think we can kiss that idea goodbye.”

“Oh, no.” Gina turned in the open doorway, automatically reaching out to offer comfort. “She turned you down, after all? I’m so sorry.” She squeezed Zoe’s arm, her sympathy swift and sincere. “I know how much you were counting on this.”

“Oh, she didn’t turn me down.” Zoe moved past her friend into a small studio apartment that was the exact duplicate of her own floor plan, except in reverse, and dropped the grocery sack on the kitchen counter. “He did.”

“He who?”

“Mr. Stuffed Shirt Reed Sullivan IV, that’s who.”

“Her husband?”

“Her great-grandson.”

“What does he have to say about it?”

“Plenty, apparently.” Zoe leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms, waiting while Gina deposited her equipment bag on the sofa bed and retreated back into the narrow hall to retrieve her massage table. “And none of it good,” she said, when the other woman came back into the room and deftly slid the folded table into its accustomed place behind the sofa.

“Tell me what happened while I put my groceries away,” Gina said, moving toward the kitchen area without bothering to close the front door.

Directly across the hall, Zoe’s door stood wide open, too. Theirs were the only two apartments above the family-owned Italian restaurant on the first floor. The bottom of the stairway was protected by a tall iron security gate that blocked any unauthorized access to the second floor apartments.

“Out.” Gina flapped a hand at Zoe, waving her away as she began to help unload the groceries. “It’s too crowded in here with two of us.”

Zoe moved to one of the two stools on the other side of the counter and plopped down with a dejected sigh. “Things were really going great at first,” she said morosely, watching Gina as she moved around the tiny kitchen. “Moira Sullivan is a wonderful old lady. Very charming and elegant, but really sweet and down-to-earth, too. Not snobbish or stuck-up in the least. She was interested in everything I’d brought her and was talking about what I could do when I had the money, not if. And asking how much and did I think it was enough. And then he walked in.”

“He being the stuffed shirt?”

“Yes. And right from the first…from almost the second he walked in and saw me sitting there next to his great-grandmother…I could tell he didn’t like me.”

Gina turned to face her, a package of spaghetti in one hand, eyes rounded in disbelief, her lips parted in astonishment. “He didn’t like you?”

“Nope.”

“But, Zoe, men always like you. They can’t help it. It’s—” she extended her free hand, palm up, moving it in an expressive gesture that encompassed the half of Zoe’s body that was visible above the counter “—hormonal.”

“He didn’t.”

“Well. My goodness,” Gina murmured, momentarily at a loss for words. She opened a cupboard and put the package of spaghetti away, then turned around with a thoughtful expression on her face, her hand still on the cupboard door. “Is he gay?”

“Definitely not,” Zoe said, shivering a bit as she remembered the way he’d looked at her, and the spark, or whatever it was, that had sizzled between them. She’d had a good long time to think about it, sitting alone in her apartment, fuming, as she waited for Gina to get home so she could discuss it with her. The conclusions she’d drawn left her almost as angry as she’d been when she’d stomped away from him that afternoon. Almost. “I’m pretty sure he’s got the hots for me.”

“The hots? Well, then…” Gina’s eyebrows rose into spiky bangs on her forehead. “You’ve lost me.”

“He likes my body—a lot—but he disapproves of me.”

“Aaah.” Gina nodded her head knowingly. “One of those.”

“Yes, definitely one of those. He practically undressed me with his eyes. Oh, very politely, of course—the man could give etiquette lessons to Miss Manners—but his eyes were anything but! Polite, I mean,” she clarified when Gina just stood there, staring at her. “They’re like blue laser beams. Very cool on the surface, but intense underneath, like a volcano. Very focused, you know? He gave me this one look that practically scorched me all the way to my toes.”

“Scorched?”

Zoe chose not to respond to the question in Gina’s voice. “And then he had the nerve to call me a con artist—me! a con artist!—and accused me of trying to swindle that sweet old lady out of a fortune.”

“In front of her?”

“No, not in front of her. Well,” she amended, “the hot looks were in front of her, but I don’t think she noticed. She’s ninety-two, you know. He waited until we were outside before he started calling me names. That’s when he called New Moon a fly-by-night operation—” her voice rose indignantly at the remembered slur on her company “—and said I could just forget getting any money from his great-grandmother to finance my little enterprise.” She curled her upper lip, giving the word the same unsavory implication he had.