Dream Trilogy (57 page)

“Yes. It matters.” Kate rose, wandered to the edge of the patio where the ground spread green and bloomed with colorful blossoms. The autumn sky was still brilliantly blue, ranging out to the rocking sea and beyond.

This was a home, she thought. Not hers, though she felt at home here as she did at Templeton House. It worried her that she’d fallen in love with the bent cyprus, the blooming vines and wood and glass of a house on Seventeen Mile that wasn’t her own.

“It was always Templeton House for me,” she said, putting an image of the towers and stone over the image of multilevel decks and wide windows. “The view from my bedroom, the way it smelled after the floors were polished. I never felt that way about my apartment in town. It was just a convenient place to stay.”

“Are you going to keep it?”

Puzzled, Kate turned back. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I thought since you were staying at Byron’s—”

“I’m not staying there,” Kate said quickly. “Not living there. I just . . . sleep over sometimes. That’s entirely different.”

“If you want it to be.” Margo tilted her head. “What worries you about him, Kate?”

“Nothing. Exactly.” Blowing out a breath, she came back and sat. “I was going to ask you—figuring you’d be the expert on such matters.”

Margo waited, tapped her fingers on the arms of the chaise. “Well?”

“Okay, I’m working up to it.” She braced, looked Margo dead in the eye so that she could detect any flicker. “Can you become addicted to sex?”

“Damn straight you can,” Margo said without a single flicker. “If you do it right.” The corners of her lips turned up. “I’d bet Byron does it very right.”

“Rake in your winnings,” Kate said dryly.

“And you’re complaining.”

“No, not complaining. I’m asking. I’ve just never . . . Look, it’s not like I haven’t had sex before. I just never had such an appetite for it as I seem to now. With him.” She rolled her own eyes, chuckled at herself. “Christ, Margo, five minutes with him and I want to bite him.”

“And since the taste suits you, what’s the problem?”

“Because I wondered if you could get too dependent on certain aspects.”

“On great sex?”

“Yeah, all right. On really great sex. Then people change, and move on.”

“Sometimes they do.” She thought of herself, and of Josh. Smiled. “Sometimes they don’t.”

“Sometimes they do,” Kate repeated. “Candy got me thinking—”

“Oh, please. Damn it, Kate, you said you didn’t buy that shit she was spewing.”

“About him using me? Absolutely not. It just made me think about our relationship. If it is a relationship. We don’t have anything in common really but, well, sex.”

With a long sigh, Margo leaned back, helped herself to another cookie. “What do you do when you’re not busy pounding each other into puddles of passion?”

“Very funny. We do stuff.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. Listen to music.”

“You like the same music?”

“Sure. Who doesn’t like rock and roll? Sometimes we watch movies. He’s got this incredible collection of old black and whites.”

“Oh, you mean the old movies you like.”

“Hmm.” She shrugged. “We walk on the beach, or he whips me through a workout. He’s tough about that.” More than pleased, she flexed her biceps. “I’ve got definition.”

“Hmm. I guess you never talk, though.”

“Sure, we talk. About work, family, food. He’s got this thing about nutrition.”

“Always serious, huh?”

“No, I mean we have a good time. We laugh a lot. And we play with the dogs, or he works on one of his cars and I watch. You know—stuff.”

“Let me see if I have this straight. You like the same music, the same kind of movies, which translates into being entertained together. You enjoy walking on the beach, pumping iron, share an affection for a pair of mongrel dogs.” Margo shook her head. “I can see the problem. Other than sex, you might as well be a couple of strangers. Dump him now, Kate, before it gets ugly.”

“I should have known you’d make a joke out of it.”

“You’re the joke. Listen to yourself. You’ve got a terrific man, a wonderful, satisfying relationship that includes great sex and mutual interests, and you’re sitting there looking for hitches.”

“Well, if you find them before they happen, you can work around them.”

“It isn’t an audit, Kate, it’s a love affair. Relax and enjoy it.”

“I am. Mostly. Nearly.” She shrugged again. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” And, she thought, it might be time to bring up the fact that she’d been offered a partnership at Bittle. “There’s some, ah, adjustments coming up,” she began, but was interrupted as Ann came out, carrying the baby.

“The little man woke up hungry. I’ve changed him,” Ann said, cooing as she carried him toward Margo’s open
arms. “Yes, I did. Changed him and put on one of his fancy suits. There’s a lad. There’s a darling.”

“Oh, isn’t he gorgeous?” Margo cuddled him, and smelling mother, J. T. sent up a call for dinner. “He’s more beautiful every time I look at him. Just like a man, can’t wait for a woman to open her blouse. There you are, sweetie.”

He settled happily at her breast, his small fists kneading, his newborn blue eyes intent on hers.

“He’s gained four ounces,” she told Kate.

“At the rate he’s going, he’ll be ready for heavyweight status in another week.” Charmed, Kate shifted to the edge of the chaise to stroke his downy head. “He has your eyes and Josh’s ears. God, he smells so good.” She drew in the powdery, milky scent of baby and decided to talk business another time. “I get to hold him when you’re done.”

“You’ll stay for dinner, Miss Kate.” Ann put her hands behind her back to end her struggle not to adjust the way Margo was holding the precious boy. “Mr. Josh has a late meeting at the hotel, and you’ll keep us company. Then you can hold our baby as long as you want.”

“Well . . .” Kate traced a fingertip over the curve of J. T.’s cheek. “Since you’ve twisted my arm.”
 

The Bay Suite of Templeton Monterey was elegantly appointed. Black-lacquered tables held huge porcelain urns filled with exotic blooms. A curved settee in icy blue brocade was sprinkled with pillows that picked up the tones of a floor-spanning Oriental rug. The drapes on both sets of wide glass doors were open to invite in the glorious bleeding colors as the sun slowly sank into the sea.

The table in the dining area was conference size, graced with high-backed, ornately carved chairs with tapestried seats. Dinner was served on bone-white china, accented with a Fumé Blanc from the Templeton vineyards.

The meeting might have been held at Templeton House, but both Thomas and Susan considered that to be Laura’s home. This, as pleasant as it was, was business.

“If there’s a weakness in the Beverly Hills location, it’s in room service.” Byron glanced at the notes beside his plate. “The complaints run to the usual—the amount of time for delivery, mix-up in orders. The kitchen runs well as a whole. Your chef there is . . .”

“Temperamental,” Susan suggested with a smile.

“Actually I was going to say frightening. I know he scared me. Maybe it was being ordered out by a very large man with a thick Brooklyn accent and a cleaver, but there was a moment.”

“Did you leave?” Thomas wanted to know.

“I reasoned with him. From a safe distance. And told him, quite sincerely, that he made the best coquilles St. Jacques it had ever been my privilege to taste.”

“That goes a long way with Max,” Josh commented. “As I recall, the line chefs there work like machines.”

“They appear to. They’re terrified of him.” Grinning, Byron sampled his tarragon chicken. “The problem doesn’t seem to be in the preparation, but in the servers. Naturally there are certain hours when both the kitchen and the servers are backed up, but the room service staff has become undeniably lax.”

“Suggestions?”

“I’d recommend transferring Helen Pringle to the Beverly Hills location, if she’s agreeable, in a managerial position. She’s experienced and efficient. We’d miss her here, of course, but I believe she would eliminate the problem in L.A. And she’d certainly be my first choice for a promotion.”

“Josh?” Thomas turned to his son for verification.

“Agreed. She has an excellent record as an assistant manager.”

“Make her the offer.” Susan picked up her wine. “With the appropriate increase in salary and benefits.”

“Fine. I think that closes Beverly Hills.” Byron skimmed down his notes. San Francisco had been dealt with and tabled. San Diego required a personal spot check but posed no immediate need for discussion. “Ah, there is a little matter here
at the flagship.” Byron scratched his cheek. “Maintenance would like new vending machines.”

Thomas raised a brow as he finished off his salmon. “Maintenance came to you about vending machines?”

“There was a problem with the plumbing on the sixth floor. Sabotage by a toddler who decided to drown his Power Rangers in the toilet. Hell of a mess. I went down to soothe the parents.”

And ended up sending them down to the pool while he helped the mechanic stem the flood. But that was beside the point.

“I supervised the disgorging, so to speak, and the matter of vending machines came up. They want their junk food back. It seems candy bars and chips were ditched a couple of years ago and replaced with apples and fat-free cookies. Believe me, I got an earful about corporate interference in personal choice.”

“That would be Ridgeway,” Josh decided.

Susan made a dismissive sound, but held a napkin to her lips to disguise her grin. She had an image of Byron, elegant in a suit and polished shoes, wading through water and listening to a mechanic’s gripes about snacks. “Recommendation?”

“Keep them happy.” Byron shrugged. “Let them eat Milky Ways.”

“Agreed,” Thomas said. “And is that the biggest staff problem here at Templeton Monterey?”

“Just the usual hitches, nothing that isn’t typical day-to-day. There was the dead woman in 803.”

Josh grimaced. “I hate when that happens.”

“Heart attack, died in her sleep. She was eighty-five, led a full life. Gave the maid a hell of a start.”

“How long did it take you to calm her down?” Susan asked.

“After we caught her? She went screaming down the hall. About an hour.”

Thomas topped off the wine, lifted his glass. “It’s a relief for Susie and me to know that California is in good hands.
Some people believe that running a hotel means sitting up in the fancy office and pushing paper—and people—around.”

“Now, Tommy.” Susan patted his arm. “Peter’s no longer our problem. We can hate him for strictly personal reasons now.” She beamed at Byron. “But I agree. We’ll go back to France at the end of the week knowing things here are well looked after.” She tilted her head. “Professionally, and personally.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Our Kate’s looking very happy,” Thomas began. “Very healthy and fit. Are you making plans?”

“Uh-oh, here it comes.” With a grin, Josh leaned back, shook his head. “Sorry, By, I’m just going to sit here and watch you twist in the wind.”

“It’s a reasonable question,” Thomas insisted. “I know what the man’s prospects are, obviously. I want to know what his intentions are.”

“Tommy,” Susan said patiently, “Kate’s a grown woman.”

“She’s my girl.” His face clouded as he pushed his plate aside. “I let Laura rush off her own way and look what that got her.”

“I’m not going to hurt her,” Byron said. He wasn’t as offended as some might have expected by the probing. After all, he’d been raised in the old school, where family interest and interference went hand in hand. “She’s very important to me.”

“Important?” Thomas tossed back. “A good night’s sleep is important.”

Susan sighed. “Eat your dessert, Thomas, You know how you love tiramisu. Working for Templeton doesn’t require you to answer personal questions, Byron. Just ignore him.”

“I’m not asking as his employer. I’m asking as Kate’s father.”

“Then I’ll answer you in that spirit,” Byron agreed. “She’s become a major part of my life, and my intentions are to marry her.” Since he hadn’t fully understood that himself until this
moment, Byron fell silent and frowned into his glass.

“Well, then.” Pleased, Thomas slapped his palm on the table.

“It’ll be news to her,” Byron muttered, then let out a breath. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me deal with your Kate in my own way. I haven’t quite worked it out.”

“I’ll have him out of your way in a few days,” Susan assured Byron. “Six thousand miles.”

Thomas forked up creamy cake. “But I’ll be back,” he warned and shot Byron a wide grin.
 

He was a detail man, after all, Byron reminded himself when he let himself into his house. He knew how to handle sensitive problems. Surely he could handle something as basic as a proposal of marriage to the woman he loved.

She wouldn’t want anything flowery, he decided. Kate wouldn’t go for the down-on-one-knee routine. Thank God. She’d prefer the direct, the simple. It was all in the approach, he concluded and tugged off his tie.

He wouldn’t put it as a question. Phrasing something as “will you” opened up too much leeway for the answer to be no. Better to make it a statement, being certain to keep it short of a demand. Because it was Kate, after all. And it would be wise, because it was Kate, to have at the ready a list of rational reasons why it would be sensible.

He only wished he could think of a single one.

He’d pulled off his shoes before he realized something was wrong. It took him another minute to pinpoint it. It was the quiet. The dogs always set up a greeting din when he pulled into the drive. But there was no barking. When he raced to the deck door, wrenched it open in panic, he saw that there were no dogs.

He called, whistled, hurried down the steps to check the fence that kept them safely in the backyard. His frantic mind whirled with the possibility of dognappers, newspaper articles about stolen pets sold for experiments.

The first happy bark weakened his knees. They’d gotten
through the safety gate, he thought as he strode toward the beach steps. That was all. Somehow they’d gotten through and gone for a run on their own. He’d have to give them a good talking-to.