Best Laid Plans (7 page)

"From working at the campus
bookstore." Amanda interrupted his strangled rebuttal with: "By the
way, Crosse, even though my dad retired from the Army last month, he still
expects to be saluted twice a day."

Brigadier General (Ret.) William Wyatt
may have commanded troops during various wars, but it was evident he had little
say in the operation of his own home. Amanda's tall, slim mother, Anne, ruled
the sprawling white ranch house, filling it with little formality but lots of
food, laughter and easy conversation.

Instantly, Lucas felt at home. The
general did teach him the rudiments of golf, but they both preferred fishing in
Salem Lake. Between swilling cans of beer and hooking white perch, they swapped
Army stories and Amanda stories. "That daughter of mine is as independent
as they come. If she had ever enlisted she would have only seen the
stockade." Clouds of fragrant pipe smoke emphasized each word. "I bet
she's given you more headaches and indigestion than you thought possible."

Lucas could still feel the splinters
from the weathered boat seat stab through his clothes. "Amanda certainly
has kept me from being bored, sir." It was still true. You could accuse
Amanda Wyatt of many things, but she was never boring.

North Carolina and the Wyatt's'
became his home during the next three spring breaks. Later, Lucas enjoyed their
hospitality during his vacations from the district attorney's office. Amanda's
introduction to the Crosse clan came at the end of her first year.

"When are you heading home?"
Lucas had inquired while they were soaping up the side of his blue Mustang.

"Don't yell," Amanda
forewarned, bending to scour what were supposed to be whitewalls. "I've
taken my dorm room for the summer. Seymour's cousin - "

"Another cousin?"

"Seymour is smothered with
cousins," she said grinning. "Anyway, I've signed on to cut patterns.
It's great experience. I talked to my folks. And I mean talked. But they
finally agreed. When you come back for law school, you'll have a couple of
winter suits and I'll have a rejuvenated bank balance and lots of firsthand
knowledge."

He threw the sponge in the direction
of the soap-filled bucket. "Let me guess: This is all under the table, and
I bet it's sweatshop conditions."

"I'm counting on you to have
your law degree and defend me by the time the IRS catches on."

"I don't like it."

Amanda stood up and glared at him.
Her icy-gray eyes defied the authority in his voice. "
You
don't
have to like it, Crosse. I start in two weeks."

"Then you'll spend the next
fourteen days in Maine with me," he told her rudely. "At least you'll
get some type of vacation."

"There's still snow in
Maine."

"Very funny. I've got a job
working on bridge construction with my father's company. I'm sure my mother and
sisters would be delighted to have your sweet personality grace their
home." He gave a warning yank on her braid. "I expect you to be on
your best behavior. A little humble, a little meek, a little ingratiating and
no steamroller tactics."

Amanda picked up the green garden
hose, aiming it toward the soap-covered fender. "Don't you think I can be
all those things, Lucas?" He had made the mistake of shaking his head.
"You're absolutely right!" She turned on the nozzle, swung the hose
and caught him full in the face and chest.

Amanda had spoken the truth. She was
never anything but herself, yet his family was immediately captivated. His
mother, Vera, took him aside, telling him she wished his sisters, Kathy and
Margaret, respectively a year younger and two years older than Amanda, would duplicate
her maturity and capabilities.

His sisters became Amanda's pen pals,
trading letters full of girl talk and college woes. Three years later, when
Margaret was hunting for a wedding dress and bemoaning all the styles, she
unhesitatingly contacted Amanda. Amanda designed and sent a pattern plus satin
and lace (courtesy of another cousin of Seymour's) that was transformed into a
gown that was still talked about in Kennebunkport.

Days added into months, months
totaled into years - women had come into and out of his life - but time and
distance never eroded the relationship Lucas had with Amanda. Sample menswear
still filled his closets, while Amanda had never consulted any other attorney.

Four years ago, they had celebrated
the purchase of her boutique in New Orleans. "I have never signed my name
so many times in my whole life." Amanda whirled around the dark, silent
interior of her newly christened store on Royal Street,
Rags 'n' Riches
.
"You made it all so easy, Lucas."

"I've got to give you
credit," he lifted his paper cup of Dom Perignon in silent tribute,
"your eight-year plan is right on target."

The last time he had actually
seen
Amanda was two years ago. Her phone call interrupted his work at the Dallas
district attorney's office. "I need your legal mind, Crosse. The IRS sent
me an I-want-you letter."

"It's a little late for them to
hit you with back taxes from working at Seymour's," he had told her with a
laugh. "When do they want to see you and for what year?"

"A week from Tuesday at 9 a.m.
sharp. It's for last year. Must be the purchase of the boutique and my
townhouse."

"I'll be there." He had,
and as a result of his efforts Amanda had ended up with a nineteen-dollar
refund from the IRS. Again they celebrated, this time on the balcony of her newly
redecorated villa that overlooked Lake Pontchartrain. Lucas could still
envision the gold-and-coral-ribboned sunset that mingled with the clear waters
below.

"You were marvelous,
Lucas." Amanda handed him a gin-laced lemonade before relaxing next to him
on the cushioned redwood porch swing. "Such a glib tongue. Points of law
explained without hesitation." She turned her head, the reflected crimson
sky setting fire to her gray eyes. "I was very impressed. What do I owe
you?"

"I could use some ties."
Her warm, full-bodied laugh echoed anew in his consciousness. It was strange
how his memories of Amanda were always fresh, crisp, timeless-tinged with
color, alive with sound and rejuvenated with emotion.

Lucas was a few seconds slower than
his table companions in getting to his feet for a standing ovation. His
applause, however, was the loudest and the most sincere. Amanda's fashion show
was an unqualified success, and the effect of the audience's appreciation was
obvious in the visible glow on her face.

To Lucas that exhilarated countenance
was the essence of Amanda - the girl of his memories and the woman he
encountered today. Suddenly Lucas was more determined than ever to see to it
that he would be the one responsible for restoring and renewing Amanda Wyatt.

***

"I can't believe you didn't see
Felicia drop her pãreu on the runway. It took her three tries to pick it up.
The silence was deafening!"

"You're exaggerating. No one
even noticed."

Amanda twisted the key in the lock,
pushing open the door that led from the garage into the kitchen. "And that
replacement model, Jennifer, with the piled-high burgundy curls, she arrived
with more bourbon in her than blood. I thought she would fall off her high
heels."

Lucas flicked on the wall switch,
sending a shower of light dancing across the crisp green-and-yellow breakfast
room. "I couldn't tell. There wasn't a wobbly leg in the bunch." He
caught Amanda by the shoulders and turned her toward him. Gone was the fiery
dress and the sultry makeup, replaced by a well-scrubbed face and the modest
suede outfit he had seen earlier in the day. "The major disturbance to the
audience tonight was you, Amanda Wyatt. Do you have any idea what high-voltage
shock waves you sent out?"

"Moi?" Her lashes
fluttered, a gentle finger came up to twist inside the dimple on his right
cheek. "Why, fiddle-dee-dee, Mr. Crosse," her manufactured accent
duplicated Scarlett O'Hara's, "I'm sure I wouldn't have any idea what you
mean." Quite suddenly the glint in her eyes faded. "Oh, Lucas, I just
couldn't believe all the mistakes tonight."

He gave her an impatient shake.
"You've already forgotten that standing ovation and the endless words of
congratulations haven't you?"

Her nose wrinkled. "You should
know by now that I have to complain about something. There's no learning in
perfection. The challenge comes in correcting the errors for the next
time."

"I'm counting on the fact that
you are always on the lookout for a challenge," he returned, his deep
voice shadowed with a subtle hint of intrigue.

Amanda stuck out her tongue. "Go
ahead, bait me, be mysterious. I'll just nag it out of you. Right now, you can
keep your secret. I'm trying to decide whether to take a hot shower or make a
peanut butter sandwich. The hired help did not partake of the scrumptious fare
that you enjoyed!"

Lucas aimed her toward the hallway.
"Head for the showers, Mandy, and I'll make you something very gourmet. It
will give you the extra energy you need for nagging."

Warm needles of water were directed
over a stiff back and shoulders. Amanda exhaled in relief under the soothing
waterfall as she lathered the tension from her body. It had been a very long
day and normally she would have collapsed into bed, but Lucas proved to be the
vitamin pill that counteracted her malaise.

Hadn't Lucas Crosse always been the
dispenser of aid and sustenance? Amanda smiled as a wave of pure affection
washed over her. Lucas was her "piece of the rock," her "beacon
in the night," her "life preserver" - he was all those trite,
clichéd phrases that were the very essence of a true friend.

Amanda inched a quarter-size dollop
of emerald shampoo into her palm, then sudsed life back into her dripping hair.
Soap swirled down her temples, over her cheeks and under her nose. When she wiped
the bitter soap from her upper lip, she thought about Lucas' moustache. What a
difference that dark wedge of whiskers made! To her designer's eye, Lucas had
more visual impact.

Amanda shook the water off her face
and blinked rapidly. It was strange that she had never realized just how
attractive a man he was. As a matter of fact, her eyes squinted in
contemplation, she never really thought about Lucas being a man. Being the
opposite sex!

Turning off the shower, Amanda slid
open the butterfly-etched glass doors and reached for a white bath sheet. In
the twelve years she had known Lucas this was the first time she had ever been
conscious of him physically. Of his rather…hunky male anatomy. Her mother had
once called him
cute
, but that was a decade ago, and
cute
was
decidedly the wrong adjective for such heightened virility.

Amanda buffed her body with the
thirsty terry, her thoughts still focused on Lucas. He was a man of many
dimensions. When she had first met him in college, Lucas had been a cocky, swaggering,
big man on campus, flashing his little black book and giving a macho analysis
of every coed.

She had ignored his juvenile lapses
and gradually he stopped showing off. To Amanda, Lucas' mental and emotional
maturity was always the attraction. Brick by brick, incident by incident, a
friendship was formed. Bonded with mortar that had been able to withstand time,
distance and other people. They ceased to have sexual identities. She was not a
woman. He was not a man. They were confidants. Comrades. Each other's second
self.

In the past two years, Lucas had
matured even more. Age, sunlight and the moustache had weathered his features,
making the
cute
face more tough, rough-hewn and compelling. His body had
changed, too. He was, her head tilted, more like a football player - broader,
stronger, tougher. The entire effect was blatantly masculine. But Lucas was
more self-assured than self-centered, quiet and low-key rather than arrogant.

Suddenly, a primitive urge torched
her body. Her toes rubbed against the tiled floor. But the coolness of the
tiles didn't suppress the erotic twinge that shocked Amanda's pelvis. She
hastily thrust aside the mental acknowledgment that if Lucas Crosse wasn't her
best friend, she no doubt would take dead aim!

Shrill, staccato blasts pierced the
air. Amanda scrambled into a lilac kimono, yanked open the bathroom door and
sprinted toward the kitchen. "Lucas!" she shouted, tying the cord
belt around her slender waist. "Lucas!" Amanda found him standing on
a step stool, pulling the smoke detector off the wall. "How could you burn
peanut butter?"

"The damn smoke alarm turned
traitor. I was trying to surprise you." He kicked the metal stool into a
corner, wiping his hands on the dish towel that was tucked apron style into the
belt of his dress slacks. "The cheese on the eggs is browned, not
burned."

Amanda inspected the contents of the
plate on the stove. "We'll christen it eggs Benedict Arnold." She
winked and smiled. "You really didn't have to go to all this
trouble."

"Don't be silly. Peanut butter
and jelly would never go with Pouilly Fuisse." Lucas picked up a
dew-kissed wine bottle from the counter, tapping the label. "Rich and
full-bodied," he said, his brown gaze lingering over her tall figure
draped in a column of shimmering satin, "like my hostess."