Enlisted by Love (2 page)

He smiled at her again and she took a step closer to him. He was what, a damned magnet?

There she went, blaming someone else for her weakness. It wasn't up to him to help her choose wisely. That was all on her.

“I'm not sure I can help you, Mr. Blake,” she said abruptly. Sometimes the wisest course of action was to walk away from a sale. Then there would be absolutely no danger of forest fires. No one could fault her for avoiding trouble. Wasn't that what the experts advised? Walk away from trouble if you can, live to fight another day, never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.

Good heavens. She was starting to sound like her mother. Worse, she was starting to
act
like her.
Tess
would jump into the fray with no thought as to how it might hurt. Although maybe taking Tess as a role model was a dumb idea. Surely there was a middle way between jumping into the river and refusing to get your toes wet.

Did Greta really want to find out? With Mr. Blake? What if she were wrong? What if thinking there was a middle way was the same mistake as thinking you could control the fire? Was she really going to take that risk?

No.
No
. She said, “My colleague Alison Scott, of Alison Scott Designs, could do an excellent job for you, Mr. Blake. She handles all tastes and budgets.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Please, call me Ian. I'm sure
you'd
do a great job — and you come highly recommended.”

Well. He left her no choice. “This is a very large job and unfortunately my schedule is quite full,” she said in the freezing tones Tess always teased her about but which she had found quite useful in her work. The tones were versatile, ranging from cool to icy, and on a scale of one to ten, this was an eleven. She stowed her notebook away in her leather bag and snapped the bag shut with a final-sounding click, then slung it over her shoulder.

“Ah.” Enlightenment dawned in his piercing gray eyes,
finally
extinguishing the spark. “I'll be damned. You're booked for the next three years — when it comes to me, is that it?”

“I didn't say that,” she responded. “I'm very busy,” was the most she would allow. “I don't know when I'll have an opening. I could give you a call.”
When I lose my mind
. She gave him a guileless look, the one Tess accused her of practicing in the mirror.

“On the twelfth of never?” he guessed. His mouth quirked, as though something amused him, and she was deeply suspicious that it was
her
. “I'm sorry if I did or said something that offended you. Thank you for your time.”

Wait a minute
, Greta thought, narrowing her eyes.
She
had dismissed
him
and here he was turning the tables. She tried to remember if it had ever happened before. Then she realized she had to seize command of the situation.

“I believe I have Alison's card here,” she said, showing him that she was always professional even though he'd implied that she wasn't.

“I'm sure she's in the phone book,” he said, ushering her toward the door. “Good day.”

• • •

Ian Blake closed the door behind Greta's very proper — and, as he'd noticed right from the start, very attractive — figure, resisting the urge to watch her walk to her car because undoubtedly she'd catch him at it. She was the type who would. He felt himself smiling. He wasn't used to being shut down quite so quickly and firmly. He generally had the opposite problem — although he didn't really consider it a problem, per se: when he wore his dress uniform, he had to shut women down. Which he did gently and kindly because he was an officer and a gentleman, although so far Greta had failed to notice this about him.

He raked a hand through his hair. Years of sporting crew cuts hadn't broken him of the habit. The challenge Greta had laid down piqued his interest. He'd been afraid that mustering out would mean his life would end up a little less exciting than he was used to it being.
Boring,
even. Had his buddy Michael guessed that steering Greta in his direction would be the equivalent of waving a red flag at a bull? That he would meet her and want to melt that icy reserve and muss up that understated elegance?

When Ian had agreed to sign on as a coach for business executives once his retirement from the service was final, and he had made the decision to move to Lawrence, a university town that was located near a couple of big cities where many of his clients would come from — his main client would be the university itself — he'd called up Michael Manning, who had lived there for some years. Meeting his friend for a cup of coffee early one morning, Ian had expressed his need to hire someone to do something with his newly purchased house, and Michael had immediately presented him with a solution.

But Greta hadn't exactly turned out to be a solution, had she? At least not to his furnishing-the-house problem. He again resisted the urge to peek out the front window and see if she'd made it to her car yet. She was not a woman who rushed anywhere. For some reason, that struck him as an invigorating change of pace, instead of being off-putting. He could take it slow, no problem.

Okay, so far he was at
stop
, but that had never daunted Ian before and it wasn't going to now.

He sat on the floor — he didn't have any living room furniture yet — and contemplated his situation. He looked around the empty room and tried very hard not to take it as an obvious metaphor for his life. Soon it would be full of furniture, and his life would be, too. So to speak. He could just drag the furniture from the storage unit and put it in place himself, get some curtains from J.C. Penney (he could imagine Greta's expression if he told her that), and call it good.

Still, he knew that calling it good and it actually being good were two different things. His new job required him to entertain regularly and to present himself as a knowledgeable, worldly man of some sophistication. He never doubted his ability to do the actual job, but he needed the house to showcase and reinforce the image he intended to project so that clients would be reassured that he could guide them through any difficulty.

Or at least those difficulties that did not require the intervention of the State Department.
Suave and sophisticated
would be a good start.
Inept and pathetic
was not the impression he wished to portray. Somehow he sensed that left to his own devices, he might not accomplish his goal, at least as regarded interior design.

He had great enthusiasm for his new job — his new purpose in life — and the Army had taught him everything he needed to know about the execution of a plan. He was certain, given enough time, that he could develop an appealing aesthetic sense, which had never been necessary before. But he was afraid that it was currently a little beyond his grasp. He didn't think “develop an appealing aesthetic sense” was something he could learn by pulling a couple of all-nighters, and time was not on his side. He had to have everything in place sooner rather than later. Having found the job, he was inclined to keep it.

He knew Greta would give him exactly the sophisticated yet personal touch he was looking for. She was the walking embodiment of class, all high polished gloss and subtle elegance. Blonde hair in a neat bun — Michael's mother, Mrs. M, would call it a chignon. Greta probably did, too. He'd bet good odds she never allowed a strand to fall out of place. Carefully understated makeup, exquisitely tailored pantsuit, and blue eyes that dismissed him at a glance. What more could any man want?

The first thing was to define the problem. Then he could devise a solution. To do that, he had to figure out why she didn't want to cooperate. His ego, which was of a comfortable size and condition, wouldn't let him believe that the reason she didn't cooperate was because he personally repelled her. That was an unacceptable conclusion to reach, and Ian did not reach unacceptable conclusions, just as he did not fail when the Army sent him on a DNF mission. Besides, he had seen the spark in her eyes before she had blandly tucked it away. He knew she'd liked what she saw. So, what was the problem?

That chilly blonde elegance might be an unshakeable facade but something boiled under the surface, he'd bet good money. Her brush-off hadn't really been a reaction to
him
but to something he represented. Which meant that if she spent a little more time in his company, she'd have to see that it wasn't him she disliked. Ergo, she'd start liking him. She'd have to. Everyone did.

So what was the solution?

Time to call in the reinforcements, he decided, and picked up the phone.

• • •

“I can't believe you turned down Colonel Blake,” Tess exclaimed the next morning, coming into the command center — Greta's bedroom. Greta stifled an inward groan. She should have known Mr. Blake would not go quietly. But hope sprang eternal. “He's Michael's best friend,” Tess said, shutting the door with her foot while she juggled the coffee cups.

Her dark hair was piled on top of her head in a precarious knot that was already coming loose. Greta resisted the urge to offer to show her how it was done. It required a certain power of will that she wasn't certain her sister possessed. Besides, Tess looked cute with the curls falling out of the knot.
Cute
was not an adjective Greta would ever wish to have applied to herself, but it certainly suited Tess.

Tess handed Greta a cup of coffee, then plopped down next to her on the bed and snatched her laptop away. Greta supposed this was because she hadn't immediately responded.

“It's a favor for a friend of Michael's,” Tess reminded her. “I hardly ever ask you for favors.” She glared at Greta, though the glare wasn't very successful because Tess was trying not to giggle about something. She and Michael had probably met for coffee earlier, the way they often did, and Michael had probably kissed her senseless before sending her to work, a bad habit he had gotten into months ago.

“Michael owes
me
a favor,” Greta contented herself with saying, “not the other way around.”

Tess choked on a sip of coffee and raised a brow. “Is that right?”

“My dear, I gave you to him,” Greta said, knowing that would provoke Tess and hoping it would distract her from her complaint about Mr. Blake. “He owes me for the rest of his natural life.”

“You what?” Tess sputtered, just as Greta had predicted. Tess liked to think she had fought hard for her happiness — which she certainly had — but under no circumstances had she fought
alone
. “You gave me to him?” Tess was almost incoherent, which was one of the advantages of knowing your opponent so thoroughly.

“Gift-wrapped with my warmest regards,” Greta said tranquilly, taking the laptop back and making an elaborate show of scrolling through her notes. She had a great deal of work to do, and the sooner Tess believed that, the sooner they could drop the subject of Mr. Ian Blake.

“In other words, Michael did you a favor by taking me off your hands,” Tess said tartly. Which showed Greta's attempt at diversion had worked perfectly.

Greta gave Tess a look over the top of the computer. “You don't seem to have gone anywhere,” she pointed out.

“That's because we're partners,” Tess responded with a wicked grin. Greta had to smile back. She'd had a hard time convincing Tess that she was a full partner in the business Greta had started and Greta knew she still didn't believe it sometimes. But Greta couldn't have reached her current level of success without Tess — not just because of her ability to work hard at whatever Greta needed her to do, but because of her unquestioning faith in Greta.

The smile left her face when she realized that if Tess really were an equal partner — and it wasn't just something Greta said to be nice — then she had an equal say in running the business, including which clients they would work with. Which meant it couldn't be considered a favor if Greta did agree to work with Mr. Blake. She hoped Tess didn't reach this inconvenient conclusion, too.

Greta sighed. She didn't want to do it, but she was fair-minded. Too fair-minded for her own good, she thought sourly. Soft and squishy, especially when it came to Tess.

“Tell me why you care about this client,” she said, not wanting his name to pass her lips, as if that would somehow make him real, a person she had to deal with. Didn't you have to say the devil's name to summon him? Same principle.

“Michael recommended you to him,” Tess explained. “And now Colonel Blake says you're booked for the next three or four years and did Michael have any other recommendations? And I know for a fact that you are not booked for the next three years.” She tried the glare again, and although this time she didn't ruin it with a giggle, that didn't make it any more effective. “In fact,” Tess said, stressing the word
fact
, “business has been a little slower than usual because of your knee surgery.”

Greta winced. It was true that her ability to work had been affected by her annoying injury earlier in the year — caused by a
man
, she might add, however accidentally. Men should not show off complicated skiing maneuvers unless they knew what they were doing. Nor should women, she conceded, but they were less likely to be show-offs in the first place. At any rate, when incompetent show-offs started showing off, innocent bystanders tended to get run over. Afterwards, the show-off hadn't even had the courage to come visit her at the hospital. Of course, she'd been rather direct in her comments at the time. Still.

She considered the state of her bank account. If only she were independently wealthy. Even so, just because her bank account balance wasn't as fat as she liked, that didn't mean she would just throw in the towel and surrender. She worried her lower lip. What would convince Tess not to ask for this particular favor? She wouldn't find
I don't like him
a compelling argument. Greta had plenty of clients she didn't like and that had never stopped her for doing her best for them. She tried another tack.