Driving in Neutral (11 page)

“Well, you look very fit.” He shifted in his seat and tried to change his tone. “I mean you look like you…I bet you have lots of stamin…na.”

“Working for you, I’d better,” she quipped above the wind rushing through the open windows.

“You mean dealing with Ella you’d better. I couldn’t believe the way she went at Pete. Craig says she’s become quite a han—” The cell phone rang and vibrated in his pocket. Emerson fished it out. Finn’s number lit up the screen. He glanced at Olivia. “What is it?” he said into the cell. “I’m halfway home so he’ll have to bring it over because I’m not coming back… Is that so? Put the little larva on, Finn… Timmsy-boy it’s after hours, but Finn tells me you… Oh really? Well, I’m not the one you should… Quit your quacking and let me finish you fat-headed duck!”

The connection went dead. He stared at his phone. “That cockroach hung up on me,” he said in disbelief.

“Thank God.”

“What do you mean,
thank God
?” Emerson pocketed his phone and looked at her.

“Do you have to yell at everybody?”

“I don’t yell at
everybody
.”

“The hell you don’t.”

“I don’t yell at Pete and I’m not yelling at you, am I?” He watched her smirk. He liked the way it crinkled the little scar beside her mouth.

“No, but you have,” she said, “and you like animal names, don’t you? You gave me the full rodent treatment. Does the name-calling and making all that noise make you think…I don’t know, like you’re king of the jungle or something?”

“I don’t roar like a lion.”

“Who said anything about lions? You sound like a howler monkey.”

The laugh came from low in his belly and made his eyes water. It made Olivia laugh too and she glanced at him before checking the mirror to change lanes and exit onto Belmont Avenue.

“Can I ask you something?” He grinned.

“I suppose,” she said with more than a trace of mistrust.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Do
you
have a girlfriend?”

“I see a lot of women, but I’m not involved with any of them, much to my grandmother’s dissatisfaction,” he said, rubbing a hand through his blowing hair. “Can I ask you something else, something personal?”

She shot him another quick sidelong glance, one eyebrow arching high. “Asking me if I had a boyfriend wasn’t personal enough,
boss
?”

“How’d you get that scar?”

“Which scar?” She smiled and the crescent crinkled again. “I have a few.”

“I’m not talking about the figurative ones, Olivia. I mean that one.” He brought his finger up, nearly touching her, just feeling the heat of her skin beneath his fingertip. “Was it a racing accident?”

She shook her head. “No. I walked through a plate glass window trying to get away from a so-called journalist.”

“Ouch.”

“I got five stitches and a rather fat financial settlement from his magazine.” She smiled again. “Which one is yours?”

“Well, I stepped on a nail when I was fif—”

“No, I mean which house is yours.”

Emerson hadn’t noticed they had turned into Greenview Avenue and were slowly crawling north along his tree-lined street. “I’m on the right, three houses from the end, just before School Street. It’s the blue one with the chestnut trees in front.”

She stopped the car beside the curb and he opened the door, shifting to climb out, but swinging his stiffened right leg out of the small car was difficult, more difficult than climbing down from Pete’s Jeep.

He tried again, swearing.

Olivia switched off the Aston Martin’s engine. “Scoot over to the driver’s side and get out on the left,” she said, exiting the car.

Emerson scooted over with his legs straight. He braced himself on the open door frame as Olivia slid an arm around his waist to support his movement. Her touch shocked him, as if she’d shuffled her feet across a carpet on a dry winter day. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His “Thanks” came out hoarsely.

“Can you make it up the front steps?” she said, once he was standing on the curbside.

“I have been for weeks. I’m rather good with stairs.” He smiled and couldn’t help how his eyes slipped along the contours of her body. “You…want to come in? Have a drink? Orange juice? Coke? Water? Beer? I make great iced tea…”

Olivia didn’t remember him being so tall. She couldn’t recall his eyes being quite as verdant. His green eyes were ablaze with sunshine that spread over her skin, sinking in, infusing every vein and capillary in a solar glow. Good God, he smelled wonderful. The light breeze carried a hint of nutmeg, cardamom and the masculine essence of his sweat. Immediate heat moistened the crotch of her panties and she swallowed.

Maxwell said something about making iced tea, but a full-blown production unfolded in her imagination and his voice became a hum. She saw herself going inside his tree-shaded house and following him to the kitchen. A few steps across the linoleum squares, he backed her against the sink, the stainless steel cool through the rear of her skirt. He sandwiched his bad knee between her thighs and shifted ever so slightly, creating a pleasant friction while his mouth set off tiny bonfires along her neck.

In one motion, he lifted her, sat her on the edge of the sink, and nudged her thighs farther apart. With his body pinning her, he pressed even more snugly into her. She wrapped her legs around his hips, locking her ankles, drawing him closer until he made a deep, low sound. The fire of his erection swelled against the surge of wetness between her open legs, teasing, promising. She gazed into the vivid, heated green of his eyes, and he tangled fingers into her hair, dragging her head up to sip from her parted lips.

Olivia was thirstier than she’d ever been in her life.

“I leave it out in the sun for at least eight hours,” Emerson said, and realized her eyes had glazed over.

Jesus, he thought he’d be polite and offer her something, some token of thanks for the ride home, but he’d droned on and on about teabags and filtered water, and it was hot outside. The shade of the trees did nothing to alleviate the Chicago summer stickiness. She was being polite standing there, pretending to be interested in how he made his iced tea, while sweating the same way he was. Well, maybe not exactly the same way.

He was acutely aware of her. He was hot all over. Every ounce of testosterone in his body had stood up and taken notice. Something else had wanted to stand up too, but he’d taken care of that stiffening problem with his idiotic blather. He, literally, bit his tongue, just to shut up, and blew out his breath through his nose. He said, “It’s really hot out here.”

She just looked at him blankly, a small sheen of perspiration on her face, the scar beside her mouth pink.

“You sure you don’t want a drink?”

She blinked and shook her head.

Well, this is awkward
. Emerson took two steps back, wanting to end the unwieldy silence. “Thanks for the ride, Olivia. I appreciate it.”
Yeah, awkward as hell, but at least you didn’t wink
. He took another step backward and half waved.

The sudden movement of his hand interrupted Olivia’s sexual hallucination and she exhaled softly, squeezing the car keys in her hand to clear away the waking erotic dream. “You’re welcome,” her dry throat managed to push out. After an attempt to smile, she turned and climbed back into her car and left him standing beside his mailbox. Stubborn bits of that little live daydream clung to unwanted areas of her body as she drove home to the apartment that felt nothing like a home.

Her furniture had finally arrived from Germany. Last Friday afternoon, three massive young men with bulging muscles and weightlifter’s belts had hauled everything up four flights of stairs in twenty-five minutes flat. During the transfer from street to apartment, silent grouch Mr. Peck had shuffled out of his place onto the landing. He watched the activity, his arms folded in disapproval. She’d said hello to him and was met by his usual silence, although his white moustache had twitched. She’d shrugged then and realized she’d grown accustomed to his noiseless disapproval the same way she’d grown accustomed to her empty apartment.

Her place was now full of familiar things—and the apartment still felt unfamiliar. With the exception of her bedroom, everything sat exactly where it had been dumped by the beefed-up moving guys, and therein laid the reason for the lack of hominess. Boxes remained unpacked, rugs were rolled up and the TV sat unhooked to the DVD player. Her clothes had been put away and she had a smattering of linens, dishes and utensils so she could make coffee, breakfast, and the occasional evening meal, which usually consisted of salads, toast, or cereal, but the apartment had so far failed to instill her with a desire to settle.

The only thing Olivia felt any real desire for was her boss.
Ring-a-ling-a-ling
.

She put an end to that brainless notion and disco music by rolling up her sleeves and systemically unpacking every box stacked in the living room.

The Georgian-style Hutton Estate was a bridal magazine dream location, and it was all Ella’s—for the weekend. Less than an hour north of Chicago, just outside Lake Forest, Hutton House sat on fifty-five acres of lush, manicured gardens and a private forest. The first weekend event was this evening’s cocktail party out on the topiary-dotted terrace. The wedding ceremony would take place beneath a wisteria-covered gazebo that sat in the center of a full-blooming rose garden. The reception would be held at the boathouse with Lake Michigan as a backdrop. If the weather turned uncooperative, the ceremony would be held in the glassed-in conservatory.

The entire bridal party was set to stay in the huge house, along with a full-time housekeeper. Olivia had taken pains with room assignments, making sure the bride and groom had the two adjoining master suites. Somewhat selfishly, she’d kept the other suite—the one with the big bathroom and the enormous bathtub—for her own use.

Entrusted with transporting the wedding dress, she’d placed the gown in the back of her Aston Martin and driven alone to Lake Forest. Arriving a few hours before Ella and Craig, Olivia shoved her cell phone into the DB5’s glove compartment, left her bags in the car, took the dress, and went to meet the housekeeper, Vivian.

With the wedding gown tucked away in the suite upstairs, Vivian took her on a tour of the household, paying particular attention to the kitchen, dining room, and vast upstairs linen cupboard. Pausing at the top of the back stairs that led down to the kitchen, the housekeeper smiled. It accentuated her pert nose and made her coronet hairstyle seem less old-fashioned. “I know it’s Ms. Thomas’ wedding,” she said, “but you’re the hostess for the weekend, Olivia. Let me know if you need anything you can’t find.”

“Thank you. You probably worked it out when you spoke to her about the couple in the gatehouse, but Ella’s a little high-strung these days. Here, I have to give these to everyone.” Olivia handed the housekeeper a photocopied list of weekend directives. “The bride’s got a list of demands.”

Vivian skimmed the page of yellow paper as they went down the stairs. “Okey dokey, I understand the no phone, no computer, and no smoking request, but what’s with the no onions clause?”

“She wants to avoid bad breath. The caterer has been informed nothing is to have a scallion garnish, chives are not to be sprinkled on anything, and if she finds a bottle of cocktail onions in the fridge she will absolutely lose it. There will be a spectacular volcanic eruption of Mount Ella.”

Vivian chuckled, head shaking. “Some of them get like that, don’t they? One bride didn’t want anything red in the house. No strawberries, no red wine, no red hand towels, nothing that might stain or transfer color. She was paranoid she’d get something on her dress. We had to use the boathouse kitchen for everything.”

“Thanks for being so accommodating with the boathouse this time too.”

“Not a problem. The caterer will organize the kitchen down there for the reception and you and I can sort out things in the house. If you need anything, more towels or something to mop up a spill, I’m in the big room at the end of the hallway, near the study. You just dial the H on the house phone.” Vivian grinned. “I know it’s all so very
Remains of the Day
English butler stuff, isn’t it?” She looked around and leaned over, saying quietly beneath her guilty grin, ‘Renting out the house during the summer is how the Hutton family pays the property tax on the place.”

Over the next few hours, they organized the rooms and readied the kitchen for the caterer’s return, so members of the wedding party could help themselves to late night snacks.

“The toaster is there on the counter. Dishes are here, the utensils in these drawers. Eggs, juice, and milk are already in the refrigerator.” Vivian pointed to one of two stainless steel Frigidaires. “You all can eat in the dining room or over there in the breakfast nook,” she nodded toward a brightly-lit recess where windows lined the wall. “The caterer is bringing the fresh bread later this afternoon. Now, if anyone needs table linens or more Worcestershire sauce for Bloody Marys, they can find those things in here.”

She led Olivia to the walk-in butler’s pantry across from a large wooden butcher’s block countertop. As she pulled open the door, a small skeleton key fell from the old lock. There was a red tassel tied to one end. Vivian bent to pick up the key, checking that its twin hung on a brass rack inside the pantry before returning it to the lock. She continued, “We keep spare room keys, extra glasses, fancy trays and condiments in here. As you can see, the liquor store has already made their delivery.” She pointed to several boxes beneath a shelf full of tablecloths and napkins.

Olivia crossed into the pantry. Crouching, she inspected the boxes, rummaging through them, checking the order for pretzels, macadamia nuts, and whiskey. She smiled, pulling out a bottle of Bailey’s, and sighed dreamily. “You know Vivian, if there was time, you and I would crack this open now.”

“You’ve got the room with the slipper bath, don’t you? That’s where I’d go to drink this and be alone with my thoughts of Robert Downy Jr.”