скачать книгу бесплатно
His scowl deepened.
If she was vying to become a candidate for the position of Mrs. Reed Sullivan IV, she was sure as hell going about it the wrong way. Not that she was in the running, anyway, of course. Not that anyone was in the running. But still… Didn’t she know that bank presidents and highly placed corporate executives had been known to tremble in fear when he scowled at them?
“I don’t think his teammates would appreciate the scent of lavender in the middle of a scrum,” she said to Moira, completely oblivious to Reed’s growing annoyance. “It would interfere with the smell of fresh blood and manly sweat.”
“Well…perhaps you’re right,” Moira agreed, not seeming to notice Reed’s annoyance, either. “But, still, it’s important that he be familiar with the products, don’t you think?”
“He could look at my formulas.”
“Yes, of course. That’s a splendid idea.” Moira picked up one of the shoe boxes near her hip, removed the lid and began shuffling through the contents.
Not shoes or cosmetics, Reed noted sourly, but papers. Untidy stacks of papers, shoved every which way into the shoe box.
“Now, where are they?” Moira murmured, half to herself. “I had the one for your wonderful lotion in my hand not more than ten minutes ago.”
“Why the he—” Reed caught himself before he uttered the profanity in front of his aged relative. “Why in the world would I need to look at the formula for some hand lotion?” he asked. “I’ll look at it, of course, if you want me to,” he amended when Moira glanced up with a delicately raised eyebrow that showed their kinship more clearly than the brilliant blue of their eyes, “but why would you want—”
The parlor doors opened. “Tea, ma’am.” Eddie rolled the two-tiered cart into the room.
“Oh, wonderful.” Moira beamed at her butler. “I’m sure everyone must be as parched as I am. All this talk of business has worked up a thirst in all of us, I’m sure.”
“Business?” Reed said. Had he missed something here? “What bus—”
“Put it right there, please, Eddie.” Moira motioned to a spot in front of the Adams mantel, halfway between Zoe’s end of the settee and the wing chair where Reed sat. “You can just leave it,” she instructed when Eddie began to fiddle with the delicate cups and saucers. “We’ll serve ourselves today.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Eddie bowed himself out of the room.
Moira gestured toward the tea cart. “Zoe, dear, would you mind pouring, please? I’m afraid my wrists aren’t up to managing that heavy teapot these days.”
“Yes, of course. I’d be glad to.” Zoe shifted the tapestry bag from her lap to the floor, shrugging the enveloping shawl from her shoulders as she rose to her feet.
The question Reed had been about to ask about his great-grandmother’s supposedly weak wrists died on his tongue due to a sudden and complete lack of moisture.
Killer body, indeed.
Zoe Moon was built like a goddess…an Amazon…a Playboy Playmate of the Year…. Hell, of the decade!
She was all lush, tempting curves and intriguing hollows: high, round breasts swelling luxuriantly against the front of the mannish tuxedo shirt; an impossibly tiny waist set off by a narrow, gold leather belt; sleekly rounded hips and slender thighs lovingly outlined beneath the caress of forest-green velvet.
What was the word Eddie had used to describe her?
Luscious.
Reed actually felt his mouth begin to water as he watched her pour tea into one of his great-grandmother’s delicate Spode cups.
He swallowed.
Twice.
“Sugar? Lemon?” Zoe asked, her limpid, brown-eyed gaze fixed attentively on her hostess. “Milk?”
Moira glanced up from the open shoe box on her lap. “Oh, nothing in the tea, thank you. But I will have one of those butter cookies on the side, if you’d be so kind,” she answered. “You can just put it on the table there.” She indicated a spot on the piecrust table in front of her with a nod. “There’s a dear,” she said approvingly before returning her full attention to the papers in the shoe box. “I know it’s here….” she murmured vaguely as she rifled through them.
“Just what are you looking for, Gr—”
“And you, Mr. Sullivan?” Zoe asked, turning to him with an empty cup in her hand. “What would you like?”
You, he thought in that split second before he could censor himself. Naked. In bed. Under me. Moaning my name in mindless ecstasy.
Zoe smiled and shook her head. “In your tea,” she chided softly, as if he’d spoken his desire aloud.
Reed Sullivan IV, scion of the Sullivan empire, financial wunderkind, experienced man of the world, suddenly felt exactly the way he had the time he’d been caught by Sister Madeline Marie, trying to look up Patsy Flannery’s dress on the jungle gym during recess. Now, as then, he opened his mouth to answer, but the words got stuck in his throat. He could only hope he wasn’t blushing, too.
“Mr. Sullivan?” Zoe prompted, as she stood holding a cup of tea in one slender, beringed hand and the silver sugar tongs in the other.
He had a sudden, searing vision of her standing there naked, in exactly the same position. No…not naked. In his mind’s eye she was wearing stiletto heels and a frilly little apron made of sheer net and black lace, and—
“Mr. Sullivan,” she said sharply, as if she had read his thoughts.
Or maybe it was just his guilty conscience that made her sound so much like Sister Madeline Marie had that day on the playground.
“One sugar, please,” he croaked.
“One sugar it is.”
She bent her head to her task, using the silver tongs to pluck a sugar cube from the bowl and drop it into his cup, lifting a tiny teaspoon to stir the hot liquid and melt the sugar, tapping the spoon lightly against the rim of the cup before placing it gently back on the silver spoon rest. The back of her hand brushed against a frosted petit four and she lifted her hand to her mouth, absently licking at one knuckle.
Reed sat mesmerized, watching every precise, delicate movement. Her tongue was nearly as pink as the frosting. And probably sweeter, too…
“Your tea, Mr. Sullivan.”
He snapped out of a brief, delicious fantasy of licking frosting off of her fingers—and various other places—to find her standing in front of his chair, the cup of tea held practically under his nose. He tried not to picture her naked again—he really did—but it was a hopeless endeavor; she was the kind of woman who inspired lustful fantasies. He wondered how she’d look in one of those skimpy bits of satin and lace that graced the pages of the Victoria’s Secret catalog. Something black with garters, he thought, decorated with little rosettes the color of the frosting on the petits fours.
“I hope it’s the way you like it,” she said.
“I’m sure it is,” he managed to answer suavely, years of good manners and lessons in deportment coming to his rescue despite the lascivious pictures forming in his mind. “Thank you.”
Their fingers touched.
Heat sizzled up his arm and straight into his brain cells, frying untold millions of nerve endings and sending alarm signals to points south. Her gaze lifted to his, eyes widened, startled, as if she felt something, too. And then she released her hold on the saucer and turned away. His fingers were suddenly so unsteady he had to reach up with his free hand to anchor the fragile cup in its saucer to keep from spilling hot tea in his lap.
“Ah, here it is!” Moira’s voice was triumphant. “I knew I’d seen it in this box.”
“Seen what, Gran?” Reed asked, without taking his eyes off of Zoe.
She stood with her back to him now, calmly pouring out her own cup of tea, as if that charged moment had never happened. Her wild tumble of hair was so long it brushed against the wide leather belt encircling her impossible waist.
“The formula,” Moira said.
“The what?” he murmured, wondering how all that glorious hair would look cascading down Zoe Moon’s naked back…wondering how it would feel if he reached out and grasped a handful…wondering if the curls between her slender thighs were the same flame-hot color as the ones on her head.
“The formula I want you to look at, dear,” Moira said. “I found it.”
Reed managed to tear his eyes away from Zoe long enough to glance at his great-grandmother. “What formula is that, Gran?”
“For Zoe’s wonderful hand lotion. Haven’t you been paying attention? Reed?” Her voice rose slightly in reprimand. “Reed, are you listening to me, young man?”
“I’m sorry.” He turned his head toward his great-grandmother, refocusing his attention with superhuman effort. “You have my full attention.” Or she would when Zoe sat down beside her again so he didn’t have to strain to keep her in his peripheral vision. “What do you want me to look at, sweetheart?”
“This formula, for starters.” Moira tapped the side of the shoe box with the tip of one finger. “And the rest of the papers, too, of course.”
“The rest of the papers?” His glance darted sideways as Zoe reseated herself in the corner of the settee.
She brushed a long, springy tendril of hair back with one hand, casually sweeping it behind her shoulder, and crossed her legs—her long, slender, velvet-sheathed legs—balancing her teacup and saucer on her knee.
“What, ah…” Reed swallowed and forced himself to look back at his great-grandmother. “What kind of papers?”
“Oh…” Light glittered off the sapphire on Moira’s right hand as it fluttered through the air. “Receipts and bills and things,” she said vaguely, finally claiming her great-grandson’s attention completely.
Moira Sullivan was never vague about anything. Ever.
“Zoe brought all her files as well as her formulas.” She smiled approvingly at the younger woman. “You did bring everything with you, didn’t you, dear?”
“Everything I thought might be useful to the discussion.” Zoe gestured at the tapestry bag on the floor. “What’s not in shoe boxes is in there.”
“Useful to what discussion?” Reed leaned forward and carefully set his teacup and saucer on the little piecrust table so he could give his full attention to the conversation. He had the uneasy feeling that he’d missed something vitally important in his libidinous preoccupation with the luscious Miss Moon. “Just what are we talking about here?”
“Well, my goodness, Reed,” Moira admonished him, “haven’t you been listening? I want you to look at Zoe’s papers for me.”
“Yes, I got that part. Why?”
“Because I’m going to give her the money to expand her company, that’s why. And I want you to tell me the best way to do it.”
2
“YOU STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU are, Gran.” Reed rose to his feet as he spoke. “Miss Moon and I can see ourselves to the door.”
Moira relaxed back onto the settee without even a token murmur of protest. “Thank you, dear. I’d appreciate that. These old bones of mine are a bit creaky and uncooperative these days.” She held her hand out to Zoe. “I’m looking forward to getting started on our project,” she said when Zoe reached out and clasped her fingers. “It’s going to be so exciting. As soon as Reed gets all the paperwork done we’ll have a little party to celebrate.” Her eyes twinkled at the thought. “A sit-down dinner, I think, with the men in black tie so we ladies can get all gussied up. And lots of champagne. Do you like champagne, Zoe?”
“I love champagne.” Impulsively, obeying her instincts as she always did, Zoe bent and kissed her hostess’s cheek. It was soft and papery beneath her lips, and smelled sweetly of expensive face powder and Chanel No. 5. “Thank you,” she whispered, and gently squeezed the fragile hand in hers.
“No, thank you.” Moira returned the squeeze with surprising strength from someone with creaky old bones. “I haven’t looked forward to anything half so much in a long time. It’s going to be such fun.” She smiled up into her great-grandson’s face, her own alight with an almost childlike joy. “Isn’t it going to be fun, dear?”
Zoe didn’t think fun was exactly the word Mr. Reed Sullivan IV would have used to describe the situation. Unless she was very much mistaken, he hadn’t been the least bit amused when he finally realized what his great-grandmother was planning to do. He’d been…well, appalled was the only word for the look that had flashed, ever so briefly, in his cool blue eyes.
“We’ll see,” he said stoically, confirming Zoe’s supposition. “It’s a little too early in the game to be making predictions.”
He reached out as he spoke, touching his fingers to the small of Zoe’s back as if to hurry her along, then drew back sharply. Zoe felt a small jolt and her skin rippled, chill bumps racing up her spine. She took a half step to the side, glancing uneasily over her shoulder. “Lots of static electricity in the air this time of year,” she said with a tight little smile.
“Yes,” Reed agreed as he took a step back from her. “That must be it. Static electricity. You should have Eddie check the setting on your humidifier, Gran. It might need to be turned up a notch or two. Miss Moon?” He extended his hand in a gesture that indicated she should precede him toward the double doors.
Though he was excruciatingly polite about it, the man obviously couldn’t wait to get her out of his great-grandmother’s parlor…away from his great-grandmother’s wallet. Oh, he hid his impatience behind a patrician air and the same sort of bland, noncommittal smile she’d seen on the faces of half a dozen bankers over the last couple of months, but she knew exactly what he was thinking. If it were up to him, she wouldn’t get the money. Thank goodness it wasn’t up to him.
“I hope,” she muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
Zoe shook her head at him. “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
“Then.” He extended his hand again, polite, implacable, expecting to be obeyed. “After you.”
Zoe abruptly decided it would do him good to be forced to hold his horses for a minute or two. She got the impression that he wasn’t often required to wait for much of anything, and patience was a virtue, after all. She dropped her heavy tapestry bag to the floor and unhooked one of the handles of the Betsey Johnson shopping bag from the crook of her arm, letting it swing open.
“Why don’t I leave a sample of my hand cream with you,” she said to Moira as she dug through the bag. “That way you can compare the two—the lotion versus the cream.” She extracted a small, squat, green glass container from the bag and presented it to Moira on the flat of her hand. “Use one on each hand for a week or so and see which you like better. Sort of our own form of, ah…” she glanced over her shoulder at Reed with a wide, guileless smile “…market research?” she said, all but batting her lashes at him. “Is that the right term?”
He gave her a slight nod. “It is,” he said civilly.
She had to hand it to him. The man really did have lovely manners and truly impressive self-control. He stood there in his understated silk tie and his expensive navy blue suit—custom-made, no doubt—looking all cool and unconcerned, as debonair as James Bond at the baccarat table, while underneath she knew he wanted nothing more than to grab her by the scruff of the neck and toss her into the street. She’d been aware of his gaze on her all during their oh-so-civilized tea, sensing the disapproval lurking just beneath the surface of his cool, unruffled calm even before he realized what his great-grandmother meant to do.
Which didn’t make any sense.
Zoe was well aware of her effect on most men. Just the sight of her was often enough to turn the weak-minded among them into slobbering, adoring idiots. Not that she thought Reed Sullivan was weak-minded but…well, even strong-minded men were usually inclined to look favorably on her, at least at first sight. It wasn’t something she exploited—not often, anyway, not unless she really had to—but it was something she counted on to be there, kind of like the sun rising in the east every morning. Fair or not, her looks gave her an edge she had come to depend on in her dealings with men.
Instead of looking favorably on her, though, Reed Sullivan had been suspicious and disapproving from the minute he walked into the cheery, sunlit parlor and saw her sitting on the settee beside his great-grandmother. Her initial offer of friendliness— “Call me Zoe, please”—had been rebuffed in no uncertain terms. Very politely, of course, and oh-so-charmingly, but rebuffed nonetheless.
His attitude had puzzled her at first, even beyond his lack of a favorable response to her physical self. What could she, a stranger, have done in those first few moments that he could possibly disapprove of? Maybe he was having a bad day and the disapproving air didn’t have anything to do with her, she’d thought charitably. Or maybe she’d intimidated him; it wasn’t unknown for a certain type of man to get shy and tongue-tied in her presence. Although, admittedly, Reed Sullivan didn’t strike her as either shy or inarticulate, she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. So she’d tried teasing him, gently, smiling to let him know she was harmless. Most men, strong-minded or not, went a little slack-jawed when she gave them her slanting, sideways glance, that whisper of a smile that tacitly invited them to share the joke. Reed Sullivan had narrowed his brilliant blue eyes and looked down his aristocratic nose at her, as if she were an impertinent employee who’d overstepped her bounds.
Zoe had distinctly felt her hackles rise. How dare he disapprove of her! Just because he was wealthy and pedigreed, and belonged to what she was sure were all the right clubs, and she was…well, okay, she was there with her hand out, more or less, hoping for a loan from his great-grandmother. But that was no reason for him to look at her as if she were some kind of panhandler who’d accosted him in the street. Moira Sullivan had invited her to tea specifically to discuss the possibility of investing in New Moon.
Zoe began to needle him subtly, mocking his pretensions with a provocative little smile, using her expressive eyes and her centerfold body in an effort to make him squirm, trying to find some way to pierce that polished facade of urbane civility. A couple of times there, she’d thought she’d succeeded. Almost. He’d looked distinctly guilty at one point, as if whatever he was thinking at that particular moment probably wouldn’t have borne the light of day. And then, a minute or two later, there’d been a certain betraying light in his eyes as he’d looked at her—not disapproving just then at all, oh no, but speculative, absorbed…fascinated, almost. She’d handed him his tea, wondering exactly what was going on behind that distant, glazed look, feeling the tiniest bit triumphant at having rattled him at last.
And then their fingers had touched.
And their eyes had met.
And she’d felt as if every nerve ending in her body had been scorched.
She’d had to turn away, trying not to fumble as she poured her own tea, taking several slow, calming breaths while she tried to compose herself. And as she regained her composure, the budding feeling of triumph returned along with it. He’d shaken her, yes, but she’d shaken him, too. She was sure of it. He wasn’t as cool as he pretended. As unaffected. Not if that hot, glittering look that had flickered in his eyes when his gaze met hers was anything to go by.
Telling herself to be satisfied with that small victory, she’d reseated herself on the settee with what she felt was a convincing nonchalance, managing, finally, after a long, fidgety moment, to glance casually toward Reed to see how he was reacting to whatever it was that had flashed between them.
Mr. Nose-in-the-air Stuffed Shirt Reed Sullivan IV was leaning forward in his chair, his teacup on the gleaming piecrust table, his eyes focused intently on his great-grandmother, calmly talking business! New Moon business, true, but still…
Zoe wondered if anything had ever ruffled that insufferable, infuriating poise of his for more than a second. Wondered, too, what that anything might be. It certainly couldn’t have been a woman! Money, maybe. No, probably, she decided peevishly. He was obviously the bloodless, cold-fish type who couldn’t get worked up about anything except money.
Well, she could oblige him there.
“Why don’t you just take all my samples,” she said to Moira, as if the idea had just occurred to her. Which it had. “Use them yourself. Give them to all your friends and female relations.” She continued to dig through her shopping bag as she spoke, putting small jars and bottles and plump satin sachets back on the piecrust table from where she had picked them all up a few minutes ago. “That way we can expand our research and make it a real survey. After all, it’s women like you and your wealthy friends who have the money to spend that will make New Moon profitable.”
