Enlisted by Love (11 page)

“Swing dances, waltzes, country dances,” Mrs. M was saying, a reminiscent smile on her face. “It was one of our favorite activities.” She moved smoothly to the fiddle playing that hurt Ian's ears. “
He
never stepped on my toes.”

“Sorry,” Ian said, trying to concentrate on the steps. “Mr. M was quite a man.”

“Indeed he was.” Mrs. M gave a little sigh. No one would ever measure up to that paragon of virtue. Not that many had tried.

That seemed to end that topic of conversation. Ian had liked Mr. M but there wasn't much to say about him. “Michael seems happy,” he ventured. It seemed like an appropriate comment to make at the man's wedding festivities, but you could never tell with Mrs. M.

“That woman,” she said, rolling her eyes but not missing a step. “The moment I saw her, I knew he didn't stand a chance.”

“Oh? How did you know?”

“I'm his mother,” she said tartly. Another sigh. She tapped her fingers on his arm, apparently trying to think of how to explain it to him. She still didn't miss a step, though her tapping was not in time to the music and it was confusing him. Her fault if he stepped on her toes again. “When I lost Mr. Manning, it was a tragedy from which I knew I would never recover,” she said simply. Although her words were melodramatic, the sentiment was heartfelt, and Ian squeezed her shoulder. “He was all I ever wanted in a man, and we had more than twenty-five years together.” Her eyes were dry and Ian knew she wouldn't cry, even if no one would comment at the sight of someone crying at a wedding. “When Michael's wife died so soon after my husband did, I believed that Michael and I shared that bond.” She hesitated, then added, “I thought that we had both lost the loves of our lives.”

“I see,” Ian said, because it seemed like he should say something. He had the strong sense that she wasn't talking to him at all, she was talking to herself.

“I was wrong,” Mrs. M said, lips pursed together. “
She
is the love of his life.”

“Tess?” That made him miss a step. Did anyone have a love of his life anymore? The very thought seemed old-fashioned.

“Yes.” She snapped the word out. “Even before he ever admitted it, I saw the way he looked at her and I saw the way she looked at him. And I knew.” She let go of his hand and tapped her heart for emphasis. “I
knew
.” Ian was startled to see tears glistening in her eyes. She wouldn't cry for herself but she'd cry for Michael. Lots of tears today, he thought, remembering Greta's eyes bright with unshed tears as he walked her down the aisle. Weddings and women, what did you expect? Turned even sophisticated, level-headed adults into raving lunatics. Look at how Mrs. M was babbling about true love.

Greta glided by with the blonde-haired man, who did not seem to be stepping on her toes. Ian shot the man a glare. Ian should have been dancing with Greta, if anyone was. Instead he was listening to Mrs. M bemoan the loss of her son to “that woman.” Greta and the blonde man danced on, oblivious.

“Then there was the day,” Mrs. M said, and Ian could hear the capitals in the words: The Day.

He wondered what Michael would think of his mother's version of his courtship. Not that Ian would ever tell him what she'd said. “What day was this, ma'am?”

“The day I was waiting for him in his office and she came in with coffee for him. And she showed me some whimsical fabric she'd designed.” Mrs. M shook her head. “Tess is a very whimsical person.”

“You bet,” he agreed, glad that no one could ever accuse him of being whimsical.

“And he had” — here she lowered her voice so only he could hear her — “she told me he had shown her his own whimsical side.”

Apparently the appropriate response here was
Oh, the shame
. But he didn't want to tease Mrs. M when she was feeling so obviously vulnerable, so he contented himself with saying, “I didn't know Michael had a whimsical side.”

“Precisely,” Mrs. M said, poking him in the shoulder with a bony forefinger.

“Huh,” Ian said, at a loss. He was missing something. Well, women and romance. How could a man be expected to keep up? “I guess I always figured Greta would be more his type.”

“That's what I thought at first,” Mrs. M agreed. “So appropriate. Such a credit to any man who won her. But does Greta know Michael has a whimsical side?”

“Not likely,” Ian snorted. If a man had a whimsical side, it wasn't the sort of thing he'd reveal to Greta, which was apparently Mrs. M's point. The thought of how Greta would react to the idea of her being a credit to any man who won her brought a smile to his lips. He could just imagine leaning forward and whispering in her ear, “You'd be a credit to any man who won you, Greta.” Would she punch him? Or just never speak to him again? Picturing the expression on her face made him laugh, a short bark that he quickly suppressed.

“Precisely,” Mrs. M said.

Then the explanation for Mrs. M cryptic utterances dawned on Ian. “You like her,” he said in amazement. “You really like Tess.”

“For heaven's sake, lower your voice,” she snapped.

“You old fraud,” he said affectionately, giving her a hug that she endured without protest. “Don't dare let that get out. Next thing you know, barbarians at the gate. You are a piece of work.”

“I am what I am,” she grumbled.

“I know,” he said. “She's so hard to approve of, isn't she?”

“Greta would have been easier.”

“Maybe for a mother-in-law,” Ian said. “But not for a man.”

Mrs. M lifted a brow. “Oh? I admit I don't know her very well, but she is always unfailingly polite and considerate. And she takes very good care of herself. I would think she'd make an excellent wife.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she is intelligent, organized, successful in business, and generous to the people she loves. So I would think she would be a willing helpmate to her husband, a fine and loving mother, and a contributor to the family's financial well-being. Which is what an ideal modern wife is, isn't it?”

Ian smiled at the faintly judgmental overtones of the word “modern” as a modifier of “wife.”

“Yeah, you're right,” he said. “She is all of those things.”

“Then why do you say she would be easy for a mother-in-law to get along with but not for a man?”

He looked down at the top of Mrs. M's carefully coiffed gray hair. Why was she giving him the third degree over Greta? A cold feeling gripped his belly. Had she guessed? Had anyone else?

“You could kiss her,” he said. “And really enjoy it. And then there would be consequences.”

“Such as?”

“She is the very definition of ‘can't live with her, can't live without her,'” Ian said. “Best just to avoid the agony.” That was the conclusion he had reached on realizing his desire to be the blonde man on the dance floor with Greta was going to keep him up late with insomnia. It was irrational. His conviction that he'd grow tired of her once he got her attention was merely juvenile posturing. If he didn't want her, why bother to pursue her? Better to just put her entirely out of his mind.

“I never thought of you as a coward,” Mrs. M said.

Nothing like Mrs. M to needle a man to act the way she thought he should. He drew himself up. “Then you tell me how I can kiss her and not have her drive me mad afterwards.”

“You seem to be holding your own.”

“But I'm not kissing her.” He couldn't believe he said the words though he heard them with his own ears. What was he doing, baring his soul? And to Mrs. M of all people?

“That's the essential point, is it?” Mrs. M asked. She gave him a considering look. “How long have I known you?”

“Since I was a young idiot.” He was still an idiot. Just not quite so young.

“And in all that time, I have never known you to not take the kiss because you were afraid of the consequences.”

He looked down at the perfectly dressed and coiffed woman in his arms, setting him straight on matters of the heart just like she always had.

“When this goes badly wrong, I'm blaming it on you,” he warned.

“Good morning, Ian,” Greta said when he edged open the front door, peering at her through the crack. He wore a ratty robe, exactly the kind of thing he would treasure and she would burn. No doubt they would argue over it if they were — but of course they weren't and Greta had no intention of ever sharing her closet again.

“Hello, Greta.” He didn't seem inclined to let her in. Instead, he stared at her through eyes still heavy with sleep, looking slightly bewildered, as if he couldn't figure out what she was doing on his front step. She gave him a minute to reach the appropriate conclusion. When patience did not produce the intended result — he continued to stare at her — she said, “They're installing your home theater today. Along with some of your bedroom furniture.”

He brightened at that. “My television is coming?” Still, he didn't move away from the door. She did not like to be aggressive, but short of main force, how did one go about shifting him out of the way?

She cleared her throat. Obviously someone had not had his first cup of coffee yet. “I'm here to supervise the installation.”

“Okay.”

She couldn't very well do it from the front step. “Let me in,” she snapped, abandoning any attempt at subtlety.

Light dawned, chasing some of the sleep from his eyes. He belatedly stepped back and opened the door wide enough to let her into the front hall. “I'll just get dressed,” he said, making a vague gesture at the robe, which she was doing her very professional best not to look at. She winced at his bleary eyes and removed her gaze from his person entirely.

“I mentioned this,” she reminded him, although he hadn't complained. Yet. She suspected he would the moment his brain became fully operational. She might as well head him off before he got started. “I told you we'd be here Monday at 7:30
A.M.
”

He was already halfway up the stairs, on his way to change. Without turning to her, he gave an abrupt wave, as if he were shooing a buzzing fly away.

Greta smiled.

“You're not a morning person, are you, Ian?” she called after him.

The bedroom door slammed.

Smiling, she walked into the kitchen, her heels making a pleasing sound against the tiles, feminine in this bastion of masculinity. Not that you could tell who lived here by the furnishings, of which there were few. She would argue that the very lack indicated male ownership because even if she were waiting for a designer to assist her, a woman would at least have borrowed a couple of chairs from someone and added a vase of flowers.

She glanced around the mostly empty kitchen. It was clear and uncluttered. Knowing the habits of most men, she assumed this had more to do with the fact that there was very little in the kitchen to get dirty or to clutter the counter with, rather than any innate habit of cleanliness and orderliness.

She spotted the coffeemaker on the counter near the sink. Ah, at least he had brewed a pot of coffee. He just hadn't had a chance to drink any of it. She took a mug from the pile on the counter — did he not understand the concept of kitchen cabinets? — and filled it to the brim. Taking a liberty she wouldn't ordinarily take with a client, she went back outside and fetched the newspaper, then returned to the kitchen where she unfolded it and began reading, leaning her hip against the counter, mug in hand.

“Help yourself,” he said sourly. She started, glancing over her shoulder to see him coming into the room. He had his shoes in his hands, which he explained his silent approach. He tossed them on the floor near the refrigerator, the kind of habit that would annoy her beyond reason if they were — but they weren't, thank goodness.

He had traded the robe for business casual, which suited him better. His dress shirt hung open over a tanned and muscular chest, his belly flat and solid although many men started to go a little soft at his age. Fortunately he was too stunned with fatigue to notice her staring at him or no doubt he would have said something obnoxious. Quickly she dragged her attention back to the newspaper. At least, she dragged her gaze back to the newspaper. Her attention was another matter. It remained behind, fully aware of the crisp dark hair curling on his chest, inviting a caress —

She gulped scalding coffee in a futile attempt to distract herself. Fine. He was the embodiment of physical perfection. She could notice that. She didn't have to do anything about it.

“I thought Army men were accustomed to early rising,” she said unsympathetically, her tone a little sharp as he buttoned his shirt and tucked it in his pants, a little too casually and companionably for her taste. Did she parade around half-naked in front of her clients? She did not. She didn't allow other people to see her without every hair perfectly in place. She wasn't sure what it meant that he hadn't even bothered to button his shirt before descending the stairs. Maybe he thought of her as just one of the guys. Maybe —

Maybe she didn't want to know.

He didn't respond to her remark — not that she expected him to — and she took another sip of the bitter brew and turned to the Living section.

The doorbell rang. Ian made no effort to answer it but headed for the coffee pot, fumbling for a mug. She danced out of his way, then went to let the installers in because he seemed unable to cope on his own. She showed the two workers with their equipment upstairs to the home theater room, then handed over the plan she'd sketched, showing them what went where, everything neatly labeled in her clearest hand. They nodded, claimed to understand her directions, and started opening boxes. She would return in a little while to make them fix their mistakes.

When she got back downstairs, Ian was tying his shoes. They'd been polished until she could practically see her reflection in them. The mug of coffee he'd snagged was already empty. He gave her a look as he straightened up. “For your information, not all Army men, as you call us, are alike.”