His head lowered over mine, but he didn't try to kiss me, just stood looking into my face, and I stared up into intense blue. His fingertips explored the underside of my jaw and wandered to the crest of my cheek. The pad of his thumb was slightly callused, sandpapery like a cat's tongue. I was filled with mortified fire as I imagined what it might feel like if he —
No.
No, no . . . it would take years of therapy before I'd be ready for that.
"Give me your phone number," he murmured.
"That would be a bad idea," I managed to say.
"Why?"
Because there's no way I could handle you, I thought. But I said, "My family doesn't like you."
Hardy grinned unrepentantly, his teeth white in his tanned face. "Don't tell me they're still holding that one little business deal against me?"
"The Travises are sort of touchy that way. And besides," — I paused to lick a raindrop from the corner of my mouth, and his gaze followed the movement alertly — "I'm not a substitute for Liberty."
Hardy's smile vanished. "No. You could never be a substitute for anyone. And that was over a long time ago."
It was raining harder now, turning his hair as dark and slick as otter's fur, his lashes spiking over brilliant blue eyes. He looked good wet. He even smelled good wet, all clean skin and drenched cotton. His skin looked warm beneath the mist of droplets. In fact, as we stood there surrounded by the city, and falling water and lowering night, he seemed like the only warm thing in the world.
He stroked a sodden curl back from my cheek, and another, his face still, severe. For all his size and strength, he touched me with a gentleness Nick had never been capable of. We were so close that I saw the texture of his close shaven skin, and I knew that the masculine smoothness would he delicious against my lips. I felt a sharp, sweet ache somewhere beneath my rib cage. Wistfully I thought of how much I wished I had gone with him that night at the wedding, to drink champagne under a strawberry moon. No matter how it might have ended, I wished I had done it.
But it was too late now. A lifetime too late. A million wishes too late.
The taxi pulled up.
Hardy's face remained over mine. "I want to see you again," he said in a low voice.
My insides turned into a mini-Chernobyl. I didn't understand myself, why I wanted so much to stay with him. Any rational person would know that Hardy Cates had no real interest in me. He wanted to annoy my family and get my sister-in-law's attention. And if doing that meant screwing a girl from the other side of the tracks, so much the better. He was a predator. And for my own sake, I had to get rid of him.
So I plastered a disdainful smile over the panic, and gave him a look that said I've got your number, pal. "You'd just love to f*ck a Travis, wouldn't you?" Even as I said it, I cringed inwardly at my own deliberate crudeness.
Hardy responded with a long stare that fried every brain cell I possessed. And then he said softly, "Just one little Travis."
I went scarlet. I felt myself clenching in places I didn't even know I had muscles. And I was amazed that my legs still worked as I went to the taxi and got in.
"Where do you live?" Hardy asked, and like an idiot, I told him. He handed a twenty to the cabbie, a huge overpayment since 1800 Main was only a few blocks away. "Drive careful with her," he said, as if I were made of some fragile substance that might shatter at the first bump on the road.
"Yes, sir!"
And it wasn't until the cab pulled away that I realized I was still wearing his jacket.
The normal thing would have been to have the jacket dry-cleaned immediately — there was a service in the building — and have someone take it to Hardy on Monday.
But sometimes normal just isn't happening. Sometimes crazy feels too good to resist. So I kept the jacket, uncleaned, all weekend. I kept stealing over to it and taking deep breaths of it. That damned jacket, the smell of Hardy Cates on it, was crack. I finally gave in and wore it for a couple of hours while I watched a DVD movie.
Then I called my best friend, Todd, who had recently forgiven me for not talking to him in months, and I explained the situation to him.
"I'm having a relationship with a jacket," I said.
"Was there a sale at Neiman's?"
"No, it's not mine, it's a guy's jacket." I went on to tell him all about Hardy Cates, even going so far as to describe what had happened at Liberty and Gage's wedding almost two years ago, and then about meeting him in the bar. "So I just put on the jacket and watched a movie in it," I concluded. "In fact, I'm wearing it right now. How far outside of normal is that? On a scale of one to ten, how crazy am I?"
"Depends. What movie did you watch?"
"Todd," I protested, wanting a serious answer from him.
"Haven, don't ask me to define the boundaries of normal. You know how I was raised. My father once stuck strands of his own pubic hair onto a painting and sold it for a million dollars."
I had always liked Todd's father, Tim Phelan, but I'd never understood his art. The best explanation I'd heard was that Tim Phelan was a revolutionary genius whose sculptures exploded conventional notions of art and displayed common materials like bubble gum and masking tape in a new context.
As a child I had often wondered at the perplexing role reversal of the Phelan household, in which the parents seemed like children, and their only child, Todd, had been the grown-up.
It had only been at Todd's insistence that the family kept standard hours for eating and sleeping. He had dragged them to parent/teacher conferences even though they didn't believe in the grading system. Todd had no luck, however, in curbing their wild house decorating. Sometimes Mr. Phelan would pass through the hallway, pause to sketch or paint something right on the wall, and continue on his way. Their house had been filled with priceless graffiti. And at holiday time, Mrs. Phelan would hang the Christmas tree, which they called a bodhi bush, upside down from the ceiling.
Now Todd had become an enormously successful interior designer, mostly because of his ability to be creative without going too far. His father disdained his work, which pleased Todd tremendously. In the Phelan family, Todd had once told me, beige was an act of defiance.
"So," Todd said, returning to the subject of the jacket. "Can I come over and smell it?"
I grinned. "No, you'd take it for yourself, and I have to give it back. But not until tomorrow, which means I have at least twelve hours left with it."
"I think you need to talk with Susan this week about why you're so afraid of a guy you're attracted to that you can't handle anything more than fondling his jacket. While he's not in it."
I was instantly defensive. "I already told you, he's a family enemy and I — "
"I call bullshit," Todd said. "You didn't have any problem telling your family to go to hell when you wanted to be with Nick."
"Yeah, and as it turned out, they were all right about him."
"Doesn't matter. You have the right to go after any guy who appeals to you. I don't think you're afraid of your family's reaction. I think it's something else." A long, speculative pause, and then he asked gently, "Was it that bad with Nick, sweetheart?"
I had never told Todd that my husband had physically abused me. I wasn't at the point that I could talk about it with anyone other than Gage, Liberty, or the therapist. The concern in Todd's voice nearly undid me. I tried to answer, but it took forever to force a sound from my tight throat.
"Yeah," I finally whispered. My eyes flooded, and I wiped them with my palm. "It was pretty bad."
Then it was Todd's turn to wait a while, before he could manage to speak. "What can I do?" he asked simply.
"You're doing it, you're being my friend."
"Always."
I knew he meant it. And it occurred to me that friendship was a lot more dependable, not to mention long-lasting, than love.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When an apartment at 1800 Main became available, it never lasted long despite the multimillion-dollar price tag. No matter whether your place was a thousand square feet — the size of my manager's apartment, which I loved for its coziness — or four thousand square feet, you got the best views in Houston. You also had the benefits of twenty-four-hour concierge and valet service, designer kitchens loaded with granite and quartz, Murano glass light fixtures, bathrooms with travertine floors and Roman soaking tubs, closets you could park a car in, and membership to a sixth-floor club featuring an Olympic-sized pool, a fitness center, and your own personal trainer.Regardless of all those amenities, Gage and Liberty had moved out. Liberty was not much on high-rise living, and she and Gage had both agreed that Matthew and Carrington needed to live in a house with a yard. They had a ranch north of Houston, but it was too far from the city and Gage's offices to be their main residence. So they had found a lot in the Tanglewood subdivision and had built a European-style home there.
Once the apartment was empty, our leasing agent, Samantha, began to show it to prospective buyers. But before anyone was able to see a place in 1800 Main, Samantha had to get a reference from a bank or law firm to make sure they were legit. "You'd be amazed," she told me, "how many weirdos want a peek at a big fancy apartment." She also revealed that about a third of our residents had paid cash for their apartments, at least half were business executives, and almost three quarters of them were what Samantha considered "new money" people.
About a week after I had messengered Hardy's dry-cleaned jacket to his office, I got a call from Samantha.
She sounded tense and distracted. "Haven, I can't make it in today. My dad had some chest pains over the weekend, and he's in the hospital and they're doing tests."
"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes." She gave a groan. "Would you please tell Vanessa for me? I feel terrible. She made it clear we were supposed to give twenty-four-hours' notice before taking a day off."
"Vanessa's gone," I reminded her. "She took a long weekend, remember?" From what I knew, Vanessa was having a long-distance affair with a guy from Atlanta, and she went to visit him at least once a month. She wouldn't tell anyone his name or what he did, but she had dropped heavy hints to me that he was extremely rich and powerful, and she had him wrapped around her finger, of course.
I couldn't have cared less about who Vanessa was dating, but I tried to look impressed to keep from offending her. Vanessa seemed to expect me to be fascinated by the mundane details of her life. Sometimes she repeated the same stories, like the one about being caught in traffic, or what her masseur had said about what great shape she was in, two and three times, even when I reminded her she'd already told me. I was certain it was deliberate, although I couldn't figure out why she did it, or why I seemed to be the only one she did this to.
"Is there anything else, Sam?" I asked.
"I would really appreciate it if you could go to my computer and print out the latest marketing plan file for Mr. Travis — he was coming by today, and he really needs to take a look at it."
"I'll make sure he gets it," I said.
"And one more thing . . . there's a guy coming to the office at nine to look at the condo. Could you show him around for me? Tell him I'm sorry I couldn't make it, and I'll be available by cell to answer any questions."
"Sure. Is he qualified?"
"He's so qualified it sort of makes me dizzy to be in the same room with him." A dramatic sigh. "Single and loaded. Damn it! I was really looking forward to this showing. The only thing that makes me happy is knowing Vanessa won't get to meet him either."
I chuckled. "I'll make sure to say some nice things to him about you."
"Thanks. And make sure he has my cell number."
"Got it."
As I mulled over the phrase "single and loaded," a funny shiver chased down my spine, and somehow . . . I knew. I knew who Mr. Single-and-Loaded was, and I wondered what the hell he was up to.
"Samantha," I asked suspiciously, "what's his — "
"Call waiting," she said. "It's Dad — I gotta go."
The connection terminated, and I put down the phone. I went to Samantha's computer and pulled up her schedule, just as the concierge, David, beeped on the intercom. "Samantha, Mr. Cates is here in the lobby."
As my suspicion was confirmed, I found myself out of breath. I was simultaneously stunned, worried, and oddly amused. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. "Samantha's not here today," I told David. "Tell Mr. Cates that Miss Travis will be doing the showing. I'll be down in just a minute."
"Yes, Miss Travis."
I did a quick, discreet check in a compact mirror, applied some tinted lip balm, and pushed the long bangs back from my forehead. I was wearing dark brown wool trousers and a matching V-neck wrap sweater. Unfortunately I had chosen flats for comfort that day. If I'd known I would see Hardy Cates, I would have worn my tallest heels to give him less of a height advantage.
I looked into Samantha's file on Hardy and skimmed the prequalification report, and nearly dropped it as I saw the numbers. When Hardy said his company was doing "okay," he had neglected to mention that he was in the process of becoming obscenely rich. That property in the Gulf they were getting "good play" out of must have been a major find. A really major find.
Hardy Cates was on his way to becoming a big-time oilman. I was certainly the last person who could hold that against him. My father had huge ties to the oil industry. And even my oldest brother, with his alternative energy company, hadn't cut fossil fuels entirely from his repertoire. Sighing, I closed the file and took the elevator to the residential lobby.
Hardy was sitting in a black leather chair near the concierge's desk, talking with David. He saw me and stood, and my heart began to thump so hard that I felt a little light-headed.
I put on a business face, a business smile, and extended a hand as I reached him. "Mr. Cates."
"Hello, Miss Travis."
A hard, impersonal grip of our hands, and we stood facing each other. We might have been strangers. But there was a glint in Hardy's eyes that drew heat to the surface of my skin.
"I'm sorry Samantha wasn't available this morning," I said.
"I'm not." He swept a quick, thorough glance over me. "Thanks for returning the jacket. You didn't have to have it cleaned."