Loved Me Once (Love, Romance and Business) Page 9

  "A long time," she told him. "I had a sort of nervous breakdown. He was my first boy friend. I was very naïve and I guess I'd been way too invested in the whole thing. My mother sent me off to a private clinic run by a family friend in Italy, and I got better there. Then I went back to college, where I got a B.A. and M.A. in communication, and everything was more or less okay after that."

  "Have you seen him — the idiot — since then?"

  "Not personally. He makes the news sometimes."

  "But no lingering doubts about being well out of the relationship?"

  "In no way." She shook her head. "I rarely think of it. When I do, it seems like a bad dream. But it was very real at the time. Hasn't anyone ever exerted that sort of fascination for you?"

  "Just you," he said, tapping his fingertips on the tabletop, "and luckily I'm not naïve. Anything else?"

  "Anything else what?"

  "Any other reasons why we shouldn't get married?"

  "Lots," she told him. "I get too focused on work sometimes. I can be impatient and short-tempered. I don't make friends easily, and I often feel awkward in social situations in spite of the fact that it seems I've spent my whole life in them. When I said I wasn't sure if I was capable of a good relationship, what I meant was that I have what my former shrink used to call real commitment issues. Because my first serious relationship — my most serious relationship so far — ended badly, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to trust anyone else completely. That wouldn't be much fun for you."

  "There's more to life than fun," he pronounced. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that?"

  "Many times. There is the business of my mother too . . . As a reason for our not getting married, I mean. I'm an only child and I'm in the middle of a very complicated situation with my mother. I promised my father I'd look after her. She's had Alzheimer's for several years, and it's getting worse. Her doctor said I should leave her in the house where she's lived most of her life, but the financial part of it has become, well, difficult, and it was hard enough already and then today at lunch Bill Holmes . . . "

  She stopped, unable to go on, sudden tears clouding her eyes.

  "At lunch Bill Holmes what?" he demanded. "Did he do something inappropriate? Did he make a suggestion or lay a hand on you?"

  She was so astonished that her jaw dropped. "He fired me."

  "He fired you? You're the best thing about WHT."

  "It's nice of you to say so, but it wasn't personal, as he put it. He's sold the company, and the new owners don't want to keep most of us. Bill gave me an early heads up. No one else knows, so you can't tell anyone."

  "Well, I'll be damned." He shook his head. "That's a hell of a Christmas present."

  "So, you see, I'm not exactly a prize package," she finished. "That's why you shouldn't marry me."

  "I haven't heard anything that makes me feel any different," he said stubbornly, "so it seems to me that the negotiation should begin and end with your agreeing to marry me and letting me take care of anything that's worrying you. You haven't mentioned anything I can't manage."

  Maggie shook her head. "It doesn't seem fair."

  "Here," Miles said, reaching across the table. He took both her hands in his and looked down in surprise. "You're wearing red nail polish. I don't think I've ever seen you wear anything but clear nail polish."

  She laughed involuntarily and so did he, and for a moment the atmosphere in the room relaxed. Then he grew serious again. Holding her hands tightly, he stared into her face, and she shivered in spite of herself.

  "Let me tell you how this is going to come down," he said. "I am going to push this bell for the captain and they are going to serve us dinner. At dinner, we will not talk about this, but I want you to think about it because once they've served the champagne and strawberries, we're going to settle it."

  "Settle it? You make it sound like a fight," she said, trying to keep her voice light.

  "It is," he told her. "A fight for the future. And I'll tell you right now that it's a fight to the finish. Either you agree to marry me, or this ends."

  "What do you mean?" She was surprised at his vehemence.

  "I'm out of here. I've done the time, and I've reached a point where it's one way or the other. Either we take this in a different direction, or it — whatever it is — is done."

  "That sounds like an ultimatum," she told him.

  "No, it's a reality check."

  "For me?" she said, beginning to feel irritated at his assumption that she'd just go along.

  "No," he said seriously, almost sadly, "for me. It's time I learned if there's any way the two of us can go forward."

  He reached behind him and pushed at a button mounted next to the mantel. Within a minute, the uniformed captain was in the room.

  "We're ready, Mr. Ramirez."

  Dinner was probably good. It looked good. Miles was as pleasant as usual. He was a better actor than she'd given him credit for, certainly better than she was. She was so psychologically drained by everything that had happened that day, so numbed, that she found herself unable to summon the mental energy to do more than respond sensibly to his comments.

  Then the moment she'd been dreading arrived. The champagne had been poured, the strawberries sat piled in a silver container in the center of the table between them, and the captain had closed the sliding doors.

  Miles ended the small talk at once. "Well?"

  "How do you know it's not about sex?" she demanded, pulling out her only trump card.

  He actually looked shocked. "I love you. Do you think I told you all this just to get you into bed?"

  She shook her head. "That's not what I'm saying. How do you know that the fact that we haven't had sex hasn't made everything seem more intense to you? My guess is you don't have any trouble getting females into bed, as a general rule. You probably flash those baby blues and grin and they run so hard toward the bedroom that they almost knock you over."

  He had the grace to redden slightly.

  "I thought so," she said. "Hasn't it occurred to you that at least part of the reason that you feel as strongly as you say you do about me is because we haven't, well, done it? Maybe that gives this more meaning than it would otherwise have for you."

  He gave her a look that made her toes tingle. "So what are you saying?" he asked.

  "Well, I'll admit that, all of a sudden, something about all this had already begun to feel different to me too, even before tonight, so I won't tell you I don't have any feelings for you. But we're not kids. We can't just rush into this like an elopement after the prom."

  He leaned so far across the table that she thought he was going to climb over, a happy grin on his face.

  She held up a hand, and he settled back in his chair, his expression more cautious. "I have two conditions. First, I won't commit any further until we've had sex. Second, if after we've had sex you still feel the same way, I'll consider it, but I get to say when."

  "When what?" he asked, holding his breath.

  "When we get married. I get to name the date, and you can't question it."

  "When do you propose we have sex?" he asked, somewhat sarcastically, as if he were calling her bluff.

  "You're the one in a hurry. Why not now?" She glared at him defiantly, disliking the fact that he hadn't taken her seriously.

  "Whose place?" he glared back.

  "You name it."

  "Mine. The bed is bigger." He stood up. She did the same. For a moment they stared at one another, then headed for the sliding door.

  Now that the thing that she'd first dreaded and then wanted had begun, Maggie began to feel awkward. She hadn't been to bed with anyone in months. She hadn't had a genuine affair since, well, forever — the English guy having returned alone to Herefordshire four years earlier. This was different. She had a feeling that this mattered, felt moreover that she was caught in some sort of spell that she didn't want to break.

  Miles evidently felt the same way, for he said nothing, simply hel
d firmly to her arm as he led her back the way they'd come, which took them toward the Tea Lounge, where the orchestra was again playing, this time Christmas music of the danceable sort. Miles hesitated, then led her inside, to the parquet dance floor, where he somewhat surprisingly put his arm around her and began a slow fox trot. It was the last thing she'd expected, but she let him pull her close enough to whisper in her ear. "Are you sure about this?"

  She looked up into his eyes, which even in this mellow light managed to remain a dark blue. "I'm sure," she said.

  He pulled her more tightly to him, and they danced until the piece ended, so intertwined that Maggie wasn't sure where her body ended and Miles' began. She shivered.

  "Are you cold?" he whispered.

  "No," she murmured into his ear.

  "Good," he said, leading her off the dance floor. From the main corridor, he took her into a short hall that led to an elevator much smaller than those in the main block off the reception area. It was no faster or smoother, however, and the ride seemed to take forever, a silent forever. When the doors opened, Miles — still holding her arm — led her into a small hall with a double door just opposite. Still saying nothing, he slipped the key card from a pocket of the dinner jacket and opened the door to reveal a dimly lit sitting room where velvet drapes had been pulled against the coldness of the night and the remnants of a fire smoldered on the hearth of the fireplace. The room was untidy – Miles obviously hadn't been expecting visitors. Once they were inside, he pulled Maggie to him and held her so tightly that she could feel the zipper of her dress cut into her skin. Then he began to kiss her, hungrily, and — zipper forgotten — she found herself gripped by the same fervor. It had been a long time, so long, forever, since she'd felt like this.

  He tugged at the zipper, and she helped him, then undid his waistcoat and began to work on the trouser buttons and zipper. He gasped and turned her toward the bedroom door. The undressing was completed in the dark, for Miles turned on no lamp here, and they fell onto the bed, reaching for each other.

  When Maggie awoke next morning, the drapes had been pulled back, and she could see without moving her head from the pillow that the snow continued to fall on another gray day. She stretched luxuriously, and something slipped from the pillow onto and around her shoulder. At almost the same moment, Miles came through the door, carrying a small tray, and she sat up in bed, holding the covers around her body.

  "You're awake," he said, putting the tray on the bedside table.

  "What time is it?"

  "9:30. I went to your room and checked your schedule. You don't have to be anywhere for another hour. You've got time for coffee." He looked quizzically at her as she began to squirm, still holding the covers around her with one arm while, underneath, the other was feeling about her body . . .

  "What's wrong?"

  "Something's slipped between the covers."

  "Let me," he told her.

  She blushed, and then thought how foolish that was. They'd done everything together but swing from the chandelier before finally falling asleep just a few hours ago. She glanced upward and noted absentmindedly that this room actually had a chandelier, just not quite large enough to add further variety to the evening's proceedings.

  Miles pulled his hand from under the covers. In it was a beautiful velvet box of deepest blue. "I think this is what you're looking for. At least, I hope it is." He handed it to her, and she held the closed box in the palm of her hand, puzzled.

  "You said I could change my mind. I didn't, so there's the ring." He spoke lightly, but there was nothing frivolous about the expression in his eyes. "I didn't really think you'd say you'd marry me last night, but I was ready just in case."

  She opened the box to find a diamond solitaire in a diamond-encrusted setting. "It's beautiful," she said quietly.

  "It was my great-grandmother's. My great-grandfather gave it to her when he asked her to marry him. When I told Mother I was going to propose, she let me have it to be reset for you."

  "It's beautiful," Maggie repeated, "but I can't take this."

  "I didn't change my mind," he said stubbornly, looking like a little boy denied something he'd been promised. "Did I do something that made you change your mind?"

  "I'd be a hypocrite if I said so," she told him honestly. "Last night was wonderful, but I have so much baggage, Miles. It just wouldn't be fair to you."

  "You told me all that before. I said it didn't matter to me then, and it still doesn't. We'll get it all worked out."

  She looked at him speculatively.

  "At least try it on," he insisted, "and see if I got the size right. I had to guess."

  She slipped the ring on her finger. "It's perfect," she admitted.

  "I love you so much." He leaned over to embrace her where she still sat on the edge of the bed, naked save for the covers she held around her.

  "And I love you," she murmured. "At least, I think I do. This is a lot newer to me than to you, remember."

  "We don't have to get married right away," he told her. "I agreed you could name the date. Fair's fair."

  "Fair's fair," she repeated after him. "All right, give me a year to see what I can work out about all this. I am not bringing the mess I've made of things into your life, not if I can help it. A year gives me enough time to make some adjustments."

  "A year?" he asked doubtfully. "You mean exactly twelve months? That's a long time."

  "That's what would make me feel best," she told him, and he reluctantly agreed. He really had no choice, but he was clearly displeased.

  In the living room, she began to gather clothing, one piece of which had mysteriously ended up under a book on Marc Chagall which Miles had evidently been reading since it lay open to the Le Cirque suite of lithographs.

  Then, in spite of help that was actually more hindrance, she managed to throw on the velvet dress and heels and make her way back to her room where, as she tried to shower, Miles insisted on soaping her back.

  Miraculously, they made it to the Lakeside Room before Kimberly arrived. "I've got to go into the Media Room to get everything set up," she told Miles, but she had just begun to open the WHT materials box when he came over to her, put his arms around her waist and turned her toward him.

  He was a wonderful kisser, an obviously experienced kisser, and with his tongue halfway down her throat she was so wrapped up in him physically and emotionally that she was not aware that someone had come into the room until she heard a knock on the inside of the door. Without disengaging, she opened her eyes.

  Over Miles' shoulder, she was surprised to see that it wasn't someone who'd entered but several somebodies — the obnoxious Miss Broad in a yellow blazer and black slacks, along with three men: one large and rather burly in a standard-issue corporate suit; the second a tall, slender double for the late, lamented Mr. Rogers, wearing the sweater and slacks long familiar in the Neighborhood; and the third a trim, athletic, somewhat older man with the kind of faint facial stubble that suggested exposure to a stylist. This last man, a cowboy hat in his hand, was dressed very differently than the others, in jeans, a denim jacket and cowboy boots. Even in her confusion, she knew he was familiar, and she reluctantly pulled away from Miles.

  "Hello, Maggie," Tom Scott said. "Long time, no see."

  Mistaken Assumptions

  "Hello, Tom," Maggie said, surprised at the coolness of her voice. She squeezed Miles' hand. "Sorry to interrupt," Tom Scott said, not sounding particularly sorry at all, "but we need to talk."

  Miles was looking suspiciously at Tom. "Is this someone you know, Maggie? Or should I call hotel security?"

  "I know him," Maggie said irritably. "At least, I knew him once upon a time, a long time ago."

  "A very long time ago," Tom agreed, shaking his head and grinning slightly. "I know you have commitments this afternoon. How soon can you get away?"

  "What's this all about?" Miles asked, putting a protective arm around Maggie's waist.

  "Nothing that conc
erns anyone but Maggie and me," Tom said, not taking his eyes off her face.

  "This is Miles Brewster," Maggie told him. "We're engaged." Miss Broad was looking at her so unpleasantly that she couldn't resist holding up her left hand, on which the diamond solitaire gleamed and glittered in even the flat fluorescent light of this interior space.

  Tom sent a quick glance in the direction of the burly man in the corporate suit, who shook his head and shrugged apologetically.

  "Impressive," Tom said noncommittally. "I take it the engagement is a recent development?"

  "This morning," Miles interjected. "But how would you know?"

  "Ms. McLaurin was thoroughly vetted by my people," the burly man said. "There was no fiancé as of last week."

  "This is Jack Holt, of my staff," Tom said, nodding in the besuited man's direction.

  "You vetted me?" Maggie flushed in anger as she looked from Tom to Jack Holt. "Why?"

  The Mr. Rogers look-alike interrupted in a soothing voice. "Now, Miss McLaurin. I fear we've gotten off on the wrong foot. I'm Jameson Halbrooks. I'm one of Mr. Scott's corporate advisors. The vetting and the meeting were my idea. I've suggested that Mr. Scott meet with you in connection with a new venture of his. Perhaps we should have explained that better up front, as I imagine this is something of a surprise."

  There was something soothing about Jameson Halbrooks, and it was with relief that Maggie felt the rigidity in Miles' body relax. All she needed at this point was for her new fiancé to throw a punch at her old boy friend — not that anyone in this crowd knew about that former relationship. Or did they? She didn't think so. Now that she took a closer look at the three with Tom, she saw that they were almost certainly a corporate entourage, which made the others Tom's employees, hardly privy to his personal history. Anyway, Tom had never struck her as the type to kiss and tell. As for Miles, she hadn't shared — and had no expectation of any need to share with him — the identity of the man who had broken her heart all those years ago, when she was just seventeen.

  She put on her corporate face. "The session today is a short one, just three hours. I'll be through at four. Would you like to meet here?"