One Week in Your Arms (7 page)

She walked into the penthouse where fresh flowers scented the air and nothing seemed real. Not to her. It was like a stage where a farce was set to unfold, and she had the starring role.

With a sigh, she headed to the guest room.

It was time to unpack and get ready for her first performance.

C
arson strolled inside the Flamingo, the hotel's bar and lounge. Like most lounges, there was no overhead lighting. Spotlights cast a glow on the wall where recessed digital photographs featured the waterfalls, the beaches, and the caves of Kauai. Definitely paradise for island lovers.

He walked over to the glossy black bar and motioned for the bartender. He ordered a margarita to drink while he waited for Truman. Due to the early hour, the bar was quiet. A group of golfers had staked out a couple of tables, and three guys were watching a baseball game on the eighty-inch television screen attached to the rear wall.

Carson selected a table in a quiet corner. Sitting at the table, he took a sip of his margarita and considered his objectives. So far, so good. He thought he'd handled things well. She knew what he expected from her and what he didn't.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked his email. He had a couple of business emails he needed to answer when he got back to the penthouse. Nothing else was urgent. While scrolling through the latest figures from the stock market, his phone chirped and a text message from someone named Kristen appeared.

Carson thought a moment and he recalled a girl he'd gone out with a couple of months ago. She hadn't told him until after dinner that she was living with a guy. Shit, he'd forgotten to delete her number.

He answered her message.
I'm seeing someone now.

“Sure,” he muttered. He deleted Kristen's phone number and lifted his glass in a mock toast to himself and his fake girlfriend, Marla, before taking a drink.

“Hey, Carson.” Truman walked over to the table. Truman was one of those self-made men, who had been tough in his youth, but he'd mellowed out with time. He loved hearty meals, which had put extra pounds on him. His white hair was still thick and his skin had been permanently darkened by the Texas sun.

Carson stood and greeted Truman with a handshake and a hug. “It's great to see you.”

Truman embraced Carson. “It's been too long, son.”

“You know how it is. I'm always on the go,” Carson said as they seated themselves. “I just got back from Japan. I was in Italy before that. I've got several projects in the works.”

“You work too much,” Truman said. “Your daddy left you more money than you could ever spend in your lifetime. You could slow down.”

“I love my work.” That was true, and he had ambitious plans for Blackwell Designs. Besides, what else did he have to do?

“Sometimes, a man needs more than work in his life.”

Let's not go there
. Carson folded his arms on the table. “Speaking of work, what do you think of my proposal for the art center?”

“Outstanding.”

He smiled, pleased by the compliment.

“The Kathleen Blackwell Center for Fine Arts is a beautiful tribute to your mother. The concept is flawless, and the design is perfection. I showed the images you emailed me to Julia. She thinks Kathleen would be so thrilled.”

“I wish she were here to see it. Dad, too. I think he'd approve.”

“Gerald was always proud of you. After Kathleen was killed, I don't know what he would have done if he hadn't had you,” Truman said. “Raising you was what kept him going.”

“I still miss him.” Eight years had passed since Gerald Blackwell had died suddenly from a massive heart attack, but time hadn't altered Carson's fond memories of his robust father.

Truman motioned for a server. He ordered a vodka martini. “Do you want another drink?”

“No. I'm good.”

Truman's face sobered. “Like I said, your concept and design for the art center is flawless, but I have reservations. Carson, it may have to be much smaller.”

“What?” He hadn't been expecting that.

“Listen, you have a two-story central building, wings, a performance center, a courtyard, gardens, amphitheater, and a nature walk for starters. Not to mention the parking area that will be required. You'll need at least a hundred acres of land for a building site.”

“At least,” Carson concurred.

“For starters, acquiring that much land will be a problem. Especially in the Dallas area.”

“Yeah, but I feel that's a great location because Mom was a huge supporter of the artistic community there. I'm hoping that will be a plus when it comes to private donations and investors.”

“You are looking at having to buy property that is already developed. That also means buying out leases, as well as demolishing buildings. Just the cost of the site will be astronomical.”

The server brought Truman his martini and Carson asked for a scotch. He needed something strong as disappointment settled over him.

“Are you saying I should forget about it?”

“You've dealt with investors often enough to know they can get skittish when the risk is high. A privately owned art center will need to produce enough income to pay its operating expenses plus make money for investors. With what it will cost to build it, I don't know that it will be profitable. Not for years to come. Maybe never.”

“You think it's a bad idea.” Carson couldn't reconcile himself to failure.

“You and I have both seen projects falter in time. Think of how many shopping malls and theme parks are deserted and overgrown now. Hmm?” Truman was always the voice of reason. “I know you want to do this for Kathleen. But I think you need to put aside your emotions and look at it practically. I don't want you to put millions into this project and end up with a turkey. Your mother wouldn't want that either.”

Carson downed the scotch. He certainly didn't want to build a turkey dedicated to his mother. “What do you suggest?”

“Son, I think you need to downsize the project. Go with something on a smaller scale,” Truman answered. “Think about it and we'll talk more while you're here. See what we can come up with that's viable. We'll work something out. Don't worry.”

The conversation shifted from the art center to family. The Blackwells and Crawfords had been friends for as long as Carson could remember. He and Truman talked about what was going on back in Texas with both families. They also talked about politics, the stock market, football, and golf.

Finally, Truman mentioned the inevitable. “Do you think this girl is the one?”

Carson rubbed the back of his neck. “You never know about that. Sometimes love doesn't last.”

“If she's the one, you have to make it last.”

Carson grinned. “When did you become an authority on romance?”

“Hell, boy, I've been married over forty years. Experience counts.”

They shared a laugh and decided to go to the driving range to hit a few balls before dinner.

A couple of hours later, Carson headed back to the penthouse. On the elevator, he envisioned the Kathleen Blackwell Center for Fine Arts as he had conceived it. Spacious buildings with Corinthian columns, beautifully landscaped grounds, reflecting pools, an outdoor theater for concerts, plays, and readings.

Yes, it was an extravagant monument to his mother.

But he wanted his mother's name attached to a wonderful place where artists, musicians, singers, writers, and actors could all come together and perform. She would have loved that. A frown marred his features as he considered doing away with all of the design except for the main building.

One puny public art gallery. Finance it himself and turn it into a tax deduction. It wouldn't take over a few acres of land and it would be quick to build. He could imagine a few tourists, mostly senior citizens, and school kids on field trips walking the silent hallways where ignored art hung on the walls.

No. That wasn't what he wanted at all. If he couldn't build a suitable tribute to his mother, he wouldn't build anything at all. Certainly not something mediocre.

At ten minutes to seven, he banged on the door of Marla's room. “Showtime.”

“Coming.” She opened the door and held to the knob as she stuck a high heel sandal on her foot. He saw she was wearing the emerald dress that had a sleeveless crossover bodice and a short gathered skirt. The one he'd bought because it matched her eyes.

Her hair brushed against her shoulders, and she wore a light fragrance, barely discernible.

“Let me get my purse.”

He studied her body as she walked across the room. He could have sworn her body was softer when they met at Royal Oaks. Her bare arms and legs were lean and firm. She had a sculptured body like that of a professional dancer.

“Do you work out a lot?” he asked as she fetched her purse and phone.

She turned and gave him what he considered the Marla smile. He'd never seen another woman produce that expression. Hers was a bewitching smile that bared her teeth and put a daredevil twinkle in her eyes. It still created a firestorm inside him.

“I can do twenty push-ups easy,” she boasted. “Never even break a sweat.” She gave him another one of her Marla smiles as she trotted past him.

He shook his head and followed her. “I'm impressed.”

“I have done fifty.”

“Fifty? When did you become the push-up queen?”

“When I became the director of a fitness program for policewomen,” she answered. “Girls in Blue. That's the name of my program.” She explained that she had become business partners with three other physicians in Lafayette Falls and they'd opened a wellness center.

“I thought Girls in Blue was going to kill me,” she admitted as they waited for the elevator. “The physical training was rigorous, but I didn't think I should ask the girls to do anything I couldn't do. They're still tougher than me.”

He smiled as they boarded the elevator. He let his mind wander into forbidden zones. “If you can do fifty push-ups, you've got a lot of stamina.”

“Hmm.” She stood in the corner of the elevator, wrists and ankles crossed, and looked at him as if she could read his thoughts. “Considering the situation, I think my stamina is irrelevant.”

He cut his eyes toward her. “The situation can always change,” he reminded her, his gaze lingering on her. “If you want it to.”

She sighed and brushed her hand over her skirt. Hope that seemed to spring out of nowhere surged inside him. He wanted her to give him one of the Marla smiles and say, “Let's skip dinner.” She would have done that in the past. She would have been in his arms, her mouth teasing his, her hand in his pants. He gave her an expectant gaze.

She tapped her fingers against her clutch purse. “Carson.” She didn't offer him a Marla smile. “All joking aside, our situation is good just the way it is. You in your room and me in my room.”

He bailed out of the elevator. First it was the art center. Now her.

“C
arson.” Marla hurried to catch up with him. Her heels clicked on the tile floor, and she hoped she didn't take a spill. She'd never been great walking in high heels, and walking fast was definitely not easy. Ahead, he finally stopped and waited for her.

She approached him.

Prince Charming
. Dressed in a well-fitting black suit that was probably Armani, he wore sparkling gold-and-diamond cufflinks and a matching tie clip. He was freshly shaven, and he'd managed to tame his dark hair. Yes, she wanted to grab him and drag him back upstairs, but her well-being and that of her child took precedence over her lust.

Besides, he looked like he was ready to kill someone.

“What is going on with you?” she asked.

“I'm fine,” he retorted sharply. “You hold up your end of the deal, and I'll hold up mine.” He offered her his arm.

Here goes nothing
. She placed her hand inside the crook of his elbow. He escorted her to the hotel's upscale restaurant, the Rain Forest. Earlier, the restaurant's menu had been brought to the penthouse for her to place an advance order. Nothing like being in the top two percent.

“Wait.” She had stopped him before they reached the entrance. “What are we? Are we a couple who are just getting to know one another or are we beyond that?”

“Oh.” He studied her for a moment. “We're madly in love.”

She met his rather innocent gaze. “You know, this is probably going to be a complete disaster, don't you?”

“I'm counting on you to be convincing. After all, you took drama in high school.”

“Could you be a little more cynical?”

The maître d' approached them. “Mister Blackwell, it is so good to see you again, sir.” The maître d' turned to her. “Doctor Grant, welcome to the Rain Forest. I am Kent Leland and I hope you will find your first dining experience exceptional.”

Mr. Leland ushered them to the dining room where the tables, covered in white linen, featured a centerpiece of tapered candles nestled in hibiscus. A string quartet provided tranquil background music, and vivid paintings of tropical birds hung on deep red walls. The Rain Forest was quite different from the last place she'd dined at home, which had been McDonald's with a troop of Daisy Scouts.

Such was her life compared to Carson's.

Truman and Julia Crawford were seated at the square table. Truman rose from his chair to greet them. His wife, Julia, looked to be in her late sixties. Traces of her once youthful beauty remained, and her hair was a beautiful shade of silver, pinned up in a chignon. Behind a pair of stylish tortoise-shell glasses, her blue eyes were alert as she watched Marla.

“We're delighted to meet you,” Julia said as the maître d' poured their wine. She was a lady of manners. One who'd navigated society all her life.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, too,” Marla responded with a smile.

Being the perfect gentleman, Carson pulled out a chair for Marla, and she gave him the most adoring gaze she could muster as he seated himself.

“How was your trip, dear?” Julia asked.

“Oh, it was great. And this is such a beautiful place, too. Breathtaking. I'm just so happy to be here,” she gushed. Time to make her drama teacher proud. She placed her hand on Carson's shoulder. “I was so excited when Carson invited me to come with him! This is just a dream come true.”

She smiled at Carson who sat to her left.
How about helping me out some?

“She's thrilled to be here,” he remarked rather tediously as he reached for his wine glass. “And I'm thrilled she came.”

He sounded about as thrilled as a patient who needed a proctoscopy.

“My life hasn't been the same since I met him.” Actually, that was true. She rubbed his shoulder. “When he walked in the room, I knew he was
the one
.”

“Marla's very smart,” he remarked coolly. “Graduated at the top of her class.”

She refrained from kicking him. “Thank you, honey.”

He smiled. “I'm so lucky.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and wrapped his hand around hers.

The moment her flesh touched his, a spark of affection radiated through her, confirming he was not a random guy. He was more than that. He was the father of her child. He was a man she once loved. She didn't have to act when she turned her gaze to his face.

Suddenly the years fell away, scattering into the shadows as if time did not exist. He clasped her hand and their fingers entwined like so long ago when they had walked under the oaks. When he had held her hand and that had meant everything.

The gesture of holding hands was as old as mankind itself. It was a way of saying
I'm here for you
, or
I'm happy to be with you
. It was a symbol of unity, support, trust, closeness, and even love.

What did their entwined hands imply? Nothing.

Nonetheless, the moment had convinced Julia of their romance. She fluttered in her chair. “I'm so happy that the two of you found each other. You make such a lovely couple.”

Truman nodded at Carson and groaned. “Where is the food? I'm starving.”

“Yeah. Me, too,” Carson said, releasing Marla's hand. Apparently, romance was one thing, food was quite another.

Thankfully, a waiter appeared with a tray of Hawaiian appetizers. Ahi Poke. Bacon-wrapped pineapple shrimp. Taro egg rolls. The men talked about their golf game in the morning as the appetizers were served. Marla was content to let them talk while she enjoyed an egg roll. She hadn't eaten in hours and she was actually starving, too.

Julia, who sat to Marla's right, leaned in that direction as she spoke to Marla. “Carson said you were a doctor.”

“I am,” Marla responded. “I completed my residency in internal medicine, but I work in a clinic where I practice general medicine. I see all ages, and I also work in the emergency department on weekends occasionally. I fill in when a doctor is off.”

“I suppose the ER must be quite exciting.”

“In a town like Lafayette Falls, it's not that dramatic. At one time, I considered specializing in emergency medicine.” She took a sip of her wine. “I changed my mind. It's very demanding, both physically and mentally.” Being a new mother had changed her mind about a lot of things.

“Of course. I've always admired doctors,” Julia said. “My brother is a doctor and I know how hard he's always worked. The education alone is daunting, much less the workload and sacrifice. You are to be commended, dear.”

“Commended?” Carson caught part of their conversation as his and Truman's ended.

“On being a doctor,” Marla answered with a grin and a flutter of her lashes.

“Oh, sure,” he responded with a grin, too. “Some men are threatened by a woman with a career, but I think that just makes her more interesting.”

She refrained from rolling her eyes. “Honey, I just love it that you're such a New Age kind of guy.” She pressed her napkin to her lips, and Truman stifled a cough. Marla glanced at him, and he gave her a huge smile.

He elbowed Carson. “She's a keeper.”

A server appeared with the main course. One of them set a neat plate of Hawaiian chicken with rice and apples before Marla. Then he presented Julia with an island salad and baked fish. “That salad looks scrumptious,” Marla told Julia.

Another server brought Carson and Truman's meal to the table. Her jaw dropped when she saw the thick, Pittsburgh rare steak Carson had ordered. The large steak almost covered the entire plate. Sautéed mushrooms and potatoes were placed on the side. Truman's plate contained two bacon-wrapped filet mignons. She could only imagine what the results of a lipid panel would be on them.

She spoke to both men. “Have either one of you ever had your cholesterol levels checked?”

“I have,” Truman spoke up. “It's been a couple of years ago.”

“Truman,” Julia scolded. “It was several years ago, and I've been telling you that you should go for a checkup.”

“I'm fine. I feel fine. I'll go to the doctor when I get sick.” He gave Marla a pointed look and she didn't argue. She had already learned a doctor could only do so much. The rest was up to the patient.

She glanced at Carson, who sliced into the charred steak as blood oozed from the rare meat inside. She shuddered and put her hand to her chest. “You're going to eat that?”

“Yes,” he remarked in an annoyed voice. He speared the piece of red meat with his fork. “I was raised on a ranch. I've been eating steak like this all my life.”

She pursed her lips in distaste. “It's a wonder it doesn't bellow.”

Truman chuckled and Carson shoved the piece of rare meat in his mouth.

She shifted in her chair and gave Julia a look of dismay. Julia leaned toward her, patted her wrist, and whispered, “Dear, ignore the Neanderthals and enjoy your dinner.”

Marla smiled. She liked Julia. As the string quartet played pop hits, Marla focused on her meal and her thoughts wandered far from the exclusive resort. Had Sophie remembered to brush her teeth and say her prayers before bedtime? What had happened at the medical staff meeting this week? There was always a flare-up of tempers and egos. She thought of random things. Her house. She needed to get an estimate for a new roof. The storage shed was a mess. She had so much junk in there. Her neighbor, Mrs. Nelson, had promised to water the marigolds.

“Marla?” Carson's voice interrupted her thoughts. She looked his way. Thankfully, the server was taking away his plate and other dishes. “Do you want to see the dessert menu?”

“They have a delicious orange sorbet,” Julia said.

“Orange sorbet will be fine.” Marla wasn't certain she had much room left in her stomach after the chicken and rice, but she could probably manage a few bites of sorbet.

Carson ordered a slice of pineapple haupia pie and Truman wanted the coconut bar swimming in molten chocolate. “Mine and Rick's favorite,” he announced.

“Rick is our son,” Julia told Marla. “We have two boys. Rick and David. And five grandsons. The fifth one was just born four months ago.” Julia dug a leather photo holder out of her purse. “I'm not one of those phone people.”

Marla smiled. She also carried a small brag book in her purse. Some of her elderly relatives and patients preferred to see printed photographs of Sophie.

Between spoonsful of orange sorbet, Marla looked at the photographs in Julia's album. David was their eldest son. Forty-one, he was the CEO of Crawford Oil and Gas in Houston. He looked very much like his father. There was a family shot of him and his wife, Caroline, along with their three boys, plus several candid shots of the boys.

She looked at an old photograph of a little boy and Julia told her he was the child they had lost. Their second son, Matthew, had died when he was five from influenza. Marla stared at the photo of the little boy holding a puppy and thought of Sophie, who was the same age. There would be no words that would ever comfort her if she lost Sophie. No matter how many years had passed. So she simply said, “I'm sorry you lost him,” and Julia nodded.

Marla flipped the page to see a photograph of two young boys on a horse. She glanced at Carson. “Is that you?”

He looked at the photo. “Me and Rick.”

“Rick is our youngest,” Julia said. “He's only nine months older than Carson. Kathleen and I used to call them our twins.”

Marla smiled and flipped the page. There was a photograph of Rick with his bride. The following snapshots were of a cute little boy around three years old.

“That's Rick's son, Andrew. He's such a mess.” Julia beamed with the pride of a grandmother. Marla came to a photograph of a smiling, round-faced baby with huge blue eyes. “That's our latest addition to the family. Eli.”

“He's a doll,” Marla said. “He looks like his father.”

“Let me see,” Carson said and she handed him the album. “I haven't seen Eli since he was three weeks old.”

He looked at the four-by-six photo and laughed. “Whoa. He's grown a lot,” Carson said. “He does look like Rick.” Carson flipped the pages, smiling as he looked at Eli's photographs.

Truman clasped his shoulder and looked squarely at Marla. “We're counting on our godson here to produce some granddaughters one of these days,” he said with a wink. “Not that we have anything against him having boys. We want him to have a son. But a little girl would really be special.”

“Yes, a little girl would be perfect.” Julia beamed at Carson, who smiled back as he handed Julia her brag book.

Marla froze. Her heart practically stilled as the color drained from her face. She stared at the melting sorbet, unable to function.

“Maybe a couple of little girls and a boy, too,” Carson said, much to Truman and Julia's delight. He glanced at Marla. “What do you think?”

She gulped. “About what?”

“About kids.”

God help me
.

“You do want kids, don't you?” Carson asked, sounding surprised that she had not gushed over the prospect of having children.

Truman and Julia waited for her response.

It was like they were all waiting for her opinion on the subject.

She cleared her throat. “Yes.” She twirled her spoon in the sorbet. “But I would not take on the responsibility of parenthood without serious thought.”

Julia nodded in agreement. “I think far too many people are irresponsible when it comes to having children.”