Grady's Wedding (7 page)

She turned to him then, steadily meeting his bland gaze.

“I thought you had business in Denver.”

“Changed my plans. Something more important came up.

“I see.”

“Leslie, c’mon in here and let me show you where to stow your bag before we all collapse in decadent abandon on the beach chairs.”

She started after Paul, but still heard Grady’s murmured response: “No, you don’t see yet. But you will. We both will.”

Chapter Four

They delayed Paul’s promised decadent abandon on the beach chairs to take a long, slow walk along the waterline. Clouds piling up on the horizon and blocking out the warmth of the sun discouraged any thoughts of swimming. But they splashed along the edge, occasionally wading deeper to gauge how much spring had warmed the water.

Leslie would have preferred not to have stated her plan to keep their relationship at the friendship level; the last thing she wanted was to set herself up as a challenge for Grady Roberts. But subtlety couldn’t stand up to that kiss at the reception. She’d thrown down the word “friends” to make Grady take a step back, and give her room to breathe.

It worked. For the moment.

She’d figured he’d be half a continent away in Denver and would find other targets for his attention. But he wasn’t half a continent away. He was right here.

And come tonight, he’d be right down the hall, sleeping on a couch in the living room.

Paul had cheerfully announced that arrangement when he’d shown her to her room. Not by a flicker did he indicate she might appreciate reassurance on that point. “With three bedrooms, we figured the latecomer should be the one to camp out on the couch.”

She would have preferred half a continent between them instead of a hallway. It struck her as ominous that Grady’s final words had gone from yesterday’s, “We’ll see,” which she’d optimistically interpreted as meaning he’d consider being her friend, to essentially saying today, “You’ll see,” which no amount of optimism could twist to mean that.

So Leslie braced.

And Grady did nothing.

At least, nothing objectionable. During the walk, he didn’t once try to touch her. He didn’t single her out to walk next to. He didn’t even make eye contact. It was darn annoying.

She lugged out the emotional sandbags in preparation for hurricane, then ended up with a drizzle.

Actually, they all ended up with a drizzle. The clouds completed their takeover of the sky as the six of them neared the house.

From the porch, they watched the drizzle turn to steady rain, and enjoyed the coziness of their shelter. Bette sat in the circle of Paul’s arm on the swing they shared. In a nearby chaise longue, Michael’s light hold drew Tris’s back against his chest.

Fighting a twinge of isolation, Leslie sank into a canvas deck chair. Rather to her relief, Grady didn’t take its twin, but returned to his spot on the railing.

“So, Tris, how did your talk with the potential donor go last night?” he asked as he settled comfortably with his back against the roof support.

“It went fine, but it didn’t go far enough.”

“What does that mean?”

From long experience, Leslie knew what it meant. The prospect was still a prospect, which was better than no prospect but not as good as a check. She’d already heard these details, so she let her mind and her eyes stray.

From a contemplation of the mesmerizing rain, her focus turned to the foreground—the man perched on the railing. The position emphasized the strong lines of his neck. The open collar of his shirt revealed a dusting of hair that showed golden even in the dim light.

Grandma Beatrice had long blamed curiosity for leading Leslie into numerous scrapes. Now that regrettable curiosity prompted her gaze to follow the line of his broad shoulders down a rolled-up cotton sleeve to his forearm. With his right foot on the railing, his bent knee propped up his left forearm. She had a clear view of a thicker covering of hair there, but of the same golden color, almost a delicate tint. His forearm was well muscled and his wrist thick with tough bone—nothing delicate there.

Below the ragged line of his shorts, the same golden glint was visible, but the long, defined muscles were just as tough as his arms and wrists. Maybe more so, she thought as she noticed a number of lighter-skinned scars.

His golden perfection being marred by something as mundane as scars seemed incongruous.

“Wondering where I got them?”

She looked up sharply and met his gaze. How long had he followed her survey? Her neck heated with rising color. She countered the embarrassment with wry humor.

“That’s all right. This way I can let my imagination run wild.”

His face seemed to tighten. “Don’t let it run too wild. They’re very prosaic scars.

She opened her mouth to repeat that she didn’t need to know, didn’t want to know how he got them. But he seemed to feel a need to explain them to her.

“I got them playing tag football.”

“Oh, with your family?” That surprised her, and she had no idea why.

“No.” He clipped the word uncharacteristically. “Tag football’s not their style.”

“No,” said Paul. “Mayhem on the lawn is more my family’s style.” Despite his humorous tone, Leslie thought she detected a bit of protectiveness in his interruption.

Grady said nothing. Without changing his relaxed position, he seemed to tighten. She wasn’t surprised Paul took over the conversation; it was clear the tense figure on the railing wasn’t going to continue.

“We used to have marathon games in our backyard. Dad swears he never could keep grass until I left for college.”

“Even after that,” said Michael. “I’ve played in some Thanksgiving Day games that came long after high school.”

“And not just football,” Tris added. “Volleyball and badminton.”

“Badminton! My sister’s a badminton fiend,” Paul said. “You met my kid sister at Tris and Michael’s wedding, didn’t you, Leslie?” She nodded. “Well, Judi may look like your everyday college student, but don’t ever get around her when she’s got a badminton racquet in her hand. She plays to the death.”

“Look who’s talking,” Bette interjected, then turned to Leslie. “I never knew sailing could be a contact sport until I went out with Paul last spring. He told me we were going sailing with Grady, but what he really meant was we were in one boat and Grady was in another and then each tried his damnedest to sink the other. I was expecting skull and crossbone flags to be unfurled any moment.”

“Just a little friendly competition,” said Paul, but with a grin lurking. “Right, Roberts?”

The odd tension had left Grady. Even before he chuckled and started an anecdote of the boyhood competition he and Paul had indulged in, Leslie knew the conversational diversion his friends had constructed had served its purpose; he was back to being himself.

She didn’t doubt that Grady had been disturbed. She didn’t doubt his friends had stepped in to both give him time to recover his equanimity and to direct the conversation away from whatever had triggered his reaction.

She was surprised by his reaction. And she had no clue what had triggered it.

* * * *

She’d outsmarted herself, and Grady took full advantage of it.

After a dinner that turned out surprisingly well despite the chaos of six chefs bumping into one another in a one-person kitchen, the rain-cooled air prompted them to settle in the living room.

He deliberately chose a corner of the love seat, then watched Leslie pick a chair at the opposite end of the conversation area—not far in the compact arrangement.

He recognized the exact moment she realized that sitting opposite him meant she looked right at him, and he looked right at her.

But he refrained from making obvious eye contact as the talk flowed. From plans for the next day—all agreed to let the day develop as it would; “Paul’s favorite kind of plans,” teased Bette, “no plans.”—to the success of Paul’s exhibit to Michael’s work as an aide to a senator from Illinois to Bette’s arrangement to make her longtime assistant a full partner in Top-Line Temporaries.

“It’s ideal. Darla says that with her youngest child going off to college this fall, she wants to go full steam ahead with her career so—”

“But she’s too smart to work the kind of hours you were working,” interjected Paul.

“Are you saying I wasn’t smart?”

“I couldn’t ever say that, since you picked me. Let’s just say you were in need of some diversion.”

“And you are very diverting, Cousin Paul,” contributed Tris, catching the peanut he tossed and popping it in her mouth.

“To get back to what I was saying,” Bette resumed sternly, but with a smile, “Darla’s going to run Top-Line full-time the first few months while I stay home with the baby. After the first of the year, I’ll go in a couple days a week, and work from home through the computer linkup Grady’s setting up for us.” Grady was aware of Leslie glancing at him, but when he looked at her, she’d already turned back to Bette. “That way I can spend more time with the baby.”

“Have you decided on names?” asked Michael.

Grady slipped away from the current of the conversation. Was Leslie surprised he knew enough about computers to help Bette set up? Not very flattering. Even less flattering, was she surprised he would help?

He stared at her, and gradually awareness of her discomfort surfaced. Too bad, he thought, tuning in enough to know the talk still centered on the baby. On the creation of a family that Paul and Bette were embarking on.

A family. Paul and Bette having their own family.

A sourness trickled through him. He’d never felt this before. He wondered, dispassionately, if this was what envy felt like. If so, he understood a lot better the bitter expressions of some who’d looked at his money, his looks, his lifestyle. Not a pleasant sensation at all.

Not that he wanted to get married. He wasn’t ready. Far from it. Still, to have a family . . .

He jerked his mind away from the thought. He waited until Leslie looked at him, a faint belligerence in her expression, then he let his eyes trail down her. Throat, curve of her breasts under the cotton shirt, slanted torso as she sat on one hip in order to tuck those long, slender legs to one side. From her bare feet, he started the return journey, noting this time that her right hand clenched the arm of the chair.

When he reached her face again, he saw the expressive brows raised at him, the glint of anger in her eyes, and fought an urge to apologize.

Too bad. He didn’t care. Better to focus on sexual flirting—something he knew a damn lot about—than to think about other things.

* * * *

After a swim the next morning, Bette retired to the shade of the porch, proclaiming an itchy sunburn was the last thing she needed. Grady started a ball going among the rest of them. When Paul added a Frisbee, their five-pointed catch became a real challenge, especially when the ball, the Frisbee and a wave converged on one person.

Leslie felt something akin to relief that Grady seemed lighthearted, untroubled by whatever had caused, first, that odd moment on the porch and, later, that provocative survey of her. She’d been lost in her own thoughts—not of the cheeriest variety, either—when she’d caught his look.

It had surprised her. First, because he looked at her the way she would expect a man with his lady-killer reputation to look at a woman. Then a second jolt because she was surprised—because it wasn’t something she would have expected from Grady, no matter what his reputation.

Grady emerged, spluttering and streaming water from his body but triumphantly holding aloft the ball in one hand and Frisbee in the other.

When she stopped laughing, Leslie announced she was going to sit out for a while. “I didn’t come to the ocean to spend all my time in the water.”

“I’ll come with you,” Grady declared. “I didn’t come here to spend all my time drinking the water.”

They slowly made their way to the shallows, pausing to brace for enthusiastic waves that broke around them.

“Here comes one."

Just as Grady spoke his warning, Leslie caught sight of a small boy a few feet in front of them. He didn’t look more than five; he seemed to be alone, and he was facing the oncoming waves with eyes wide and mouth open.

“Look out!” she shouted as the wave hit her and rushed on toward the boy.

The boy didn’t move, but the man next to her did. Halfway to the boy before the words were out of her mouth, he still couldn’t beat the wave.

The force of the water caught the child, pulling him under and dragging him along in its race toward the shore. Leslie pushed her hair out of her face in time to see Grady scoop up the boy before he could be caught in the wave’s return trip.

The child came up coughing the water he’d taken in. But in the seconds it took her to reach them, he’d cleared his lungs sufficiently to get down to the serious business of crying.

Grady stood in water now placidly lapping his calves, holding the small body almost gingerly. The boy wasn’t as wary. He had his arms wrapped around Grady’s neck and held on with all his might.

“Is he all right?”

“I think so. I think he mostly got scrapes from being pulled along the bottom.”

Leslie saw angry red marks on the tender skin and several scratches. “That and a huge scare.”

“Brian! Oh my God, Brian!”

They looked up to see a man and woman followed by an older boy racing toward them.

“He’s all right,” Grady said, almost shouting to cover the distance and the panic. “He’s all right.”

The man reached them first, splashing into the water and skidding to a halt.

“Brian?” The boy lifted his head from where he’d buried it against Grady’s shoulder and stretched out his hands to his father without abating his crying.

The woman arrived as they all reached the water’s edge.

She ran shaking hands over the boy’s small body, reassured through touch that he was all right.

The older boy came up, pale faced and anxious. “Is he okay?”

“Yes, he’s okay,” his mother said firmly.

“We don’t know how to thank you—”