Enlisted by Love (12 page)

She raised a brow. He'd taken all this time to come up with that comment? Obviously her remark had rankled but the Ian she knew would have found a better come-back. If she wanted a worthy sparring partner, obviously she was going to have to wait until afternoon.

The doorbell rang again. Ian reached for the coffee pot and Greta headed to the front hall. This time it was a furniture delivery. Beckoning the movers to follow her, she glided up the stairs to show them where the bedroom was.

“Greta!” Ian called up the stairs after her. “I forgot my briefcase. Can you grab it while you're up there?”

So
that
was the way he planned to counter-attack. She supposed she could point out that she was his interior designer, not his wife. But men were so easily confused about such distinctions.

She explained to the movers how the furniture should be placed, then walked across the hall, glanced in on the home theater installation, and corrected a few errors. Remembering Ian's bellowed command, she went back to the bedroom. She looked around and spotted his briefcase on the floor near the closet. She picked it up and walked back downstairs.

“Here you go, dear,” she said in a smarmy voice with an overbright smile, coming into the kitchen and presenting him with the briefcase. “Did we forget that we'd need it?” She gave him a pleasant pat on his cheek.

A second cup of coffee had apparently not improved his disposition, because he snatched the briefcase from her and snapped, “Why, thank you, honey.”

It was so easy to get under his skin. He was hardly putting up a fight. She didn't know why she enjoyed it so much. It probably had to do with how he got under
her
skin so successfully. They could declare a truce — no burrowing under each other's skin — but that wouldn't be much fun.

An impish impulse struck her and she reached up to fix his collar, patting his shoulder as she did. “Can't let you go into the office like that, sweetie,” she said in that same saccharine voice. Then she stood on her toes to give him a peck on the cheek. “Have a good day.”

• • •

That evening, as Ian pulled into his driveway, he saw that Greta's car was parked at the curb. She was back — or maybe she'd never left. He grinned as he cut the ignition and climbed out of the car, pocketing his keys. She'd caught him by surprise this morning, but now he was ready for her. She wouldn't find him such easy pickings this evening. He squared his shoulders, ready to engage in battle.

“There you are,” she said, opening the front door like she was the one who belonged there and he was the guest. He frowned as she held the door open for him, not because he didn't like it but because he did.

“Come and see,” she said, stepping back to let him in. As he passed her, setting his briefcase down in a corner of the hall, he smelled her perfume, a light floral scent that he would always associate with her. He hoped he wouldn't start associating it with coming
home
.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Lead on,” he said. She'd ambushed him again. She was still winning. It didn't seem fair. But as long as he didn't let her know she was winning, that was the main thing, right?

She brought him up the stairs. He noticed how nicely the tailored pantsuit looked from behind but he was smart enough not to say so. She threw open the door to his bedroom, an expectant look on her face. “Tess will finish and hang the curtains later,” she said. “And the wallpaper still needs to be done — I couldn't get the paperhanger in on time. But we've got it mostly finished for you.”

He nodded. Dresser, window seat, bookshelves exactly as ordered. The fabric on the bed and the window seat looked a touch exotic. It was comfortable, attractive, masculine, and
him
. He was sort of surprised because Greta had seemed determined not to get to know him at all.

Apparently he didn't respond with praise quickly enough because she said in freezing tones, “If you dislike it, I would be happy to make changes. However, we did agree — ”

“It looks fine,” he said hastily. “It looks wonderful. I was just thinking about how it would look if I had done it myself.”

“It would have curios,” she said, and now it was her turn to shudder.

“You were right,” he said, offering the admission as an olive branch. What woman could resist a man who admitted when he was wrong? “It's perfect.”

She gave him a suspicious glance but seemed mollified. “All right. Let me know if you do want anything changed.”

“No. Don't change a thing.”

She nodded, then turned and left the room. Apparently he had not completely blown it.

“Come look at the pièce de résistance,” she said, gesturing toward the room across the hall, a smile playing about her lips. A smile that he didn't trust. What had she done to his spare bedroom? He hoped it wouldn't give him a heart attack because he wasn't sure she'd dial 9-1-1 if it did.

He followed her across the hall to the spare bedroom, which she kept referring to as the home theater room. He pushed open the door to look into the room, standing to the side in some trepidation, as if a tiger might leap out at him. You never knew what Greta might find amusing.

Nothing happened. It was quiet. Too quiet. He tensed as he stepped into the room. He spotted the recliner first. “A Barcalounger!” he exclaimed, all of his concerns vanishing in the space between one heartbeat and the next. He strode over and plopped himself down. The chair cushioned and surrounded him, perfect for viewing televised sporting events and the Antiques Roadshow. “Where did you find this?” he asked. He had traveled all over the world and had never found a chair as perfect as this one. He operated the lever, giving a contented sigh as the footrest popped up and the back reclined.

“The Barcalounger is a joke,” Greta said with asperity, her hands fisted on her hips, but he could forgive her that. She might have thought she was being ironic — apparently she didn't think he'd get the insult — but he didn't care. A
Barcalounger
. She really was perfect for him. It was worth any price to keep her. As his interior decorator, of course. He didn't mean she was perfect in any personal sense. Not at all. Personally, she was a pain in the posterior.

“Michael's dad had one exactly like this,” he said. “In fact, he might have owned this very chair. Where's the remote?”

She made a sound like a growl and he glanced over at her. He must have heard wrong because her face was perfectly calm as she indicated the side table next to his elbow.

“This is just so cool,” he said, picking up the remote in one hand, running his other hand along the fabric of the chair. “Where did you find it?”

“eBay,” Greta snapped. “It's a
joke
, Ian.”

“A joke?” he said, shaking his head. “No, no, no. It's perfect.”

“I'm not allowing you to keep that thing — ”

“You bought it for me!” he crowed. “You can't take it back. It's perfect.”

Greta eyed him as if he might be playing with her. In other circumstances he might have been, but in this case he was dead serious. “All right,” she said grudgingly. “You can keep it, but you must never admit you got it from me.”

“I'm telling you, all the men I know are gonna die of envy,” he said. “If you let me tell them — ”

“No.”

“You can never have too many clients.”

“Yes, you can,” Greta said. Although she didn't say it, he could practically hear her think:
You are a perfect example of one too many clients
. “Tess and Michael will be back from their honeymoon next week and they'll finish the job for you.”

Then she was gone. He heard her shoes on the steps, then the front door closing quietly behind her. He sat in the recliner. He aimed the remote at the television. He had a remark or two he would have liked to share with her but they occurred to him too late: she was gone. He clicked over to ESPN and settled back.

It was a great Barcalounger.

The flowers were beautiful — miniature roses and carnations, freesias, and even a tiger lily nestled in the vase — but she fully intended to throw them away. Every time she saw them, the sight would make her clench her teeth, and that was no way to go through the day.

She thanked the florist's delivery driver and set the vase on the hall table. She didn't even have to open the card to know who had sent them. She recognized the thick black scrawl on the envelope from the checks he'd written her.

She opened the card anyway.
Love the recliner
, he'd written, followed by his initials. She crumpled the note and tossed it in the trash. He had to rub it in, didn't he? At least he knew how to pick a good florist. Plenty of practice in apologizing to women he'd offended, probably.

Good riddance
, she thought, throwing down her bag and kicking her shoes off. Tess could deal with him from here on out, just as she'd promised to in the beginning. Greta padded barefoot into the kitchen to fix a cup of tea. That would help soothe her ruffled nerves.

It had been one of those days. The morning had started off with a phone call from an irate client who despised her proposed design ideas and instead of either finding a new designer or describing where the design had gone wrong, she'd attacked Greta personally, reviling her taste and antecedents. Though Greta knew the tirade said more about the client than it did Greta, it had still upset her, especially when she found herself wondering if the client might, after all, be right.

Which was exactly what she'd wondered when Paul had abused her, and at that thought, she'd crisply fired the client and hung up the phone. Though ending the relationship was supposed to be an empowering act, the whole experience made Greta feel hollow inside. And she hadn't even had a cup of coffee to fortify herself because Tess wasn't working today.

Drat that Tess. Where was she when a person needed her? Off at Disney World on her honeymoon, Belinda in tow. Greta could use Belinda right now. Belinda always helped her keep things in perspective. But no, Tess had selfishly taken her to Disney World. Who took a kid on a honeymoon?

“We're a family now,” Tess had said. Sure, but what about Greta? What good was it to have a sister if she wasn't going to be there when she was needed?

The tea kettle whistled. Very well. She would fix a nice cup of tea and take a look at a new catalog that had come in from one of her suppliers. That would make a nice relaxing lunch break. She would throw the flowers away —

The phone rang before she could do anything. She glanced at the caller i.d. screen on the phone and frowned, not immediately recognizing the number. She picked up anyway.

“Greta?” The smooth voice made her relax. It was Donald, the lawyer she'd met at Tess's wedding. He wouldn't ruffle her in any way, shape, or form.

“How are you?” she asked pleasantly.

“I'm very well.”

She tried to imagine having an exchange like this with Ian. It wasn't possible.

“I really enjoyed meeting you at Michael's wedding,” Donald said. “I'm wondering if you'd be free for dinner on Saturday evening?”

“Let me check my schedule,” she said. She knew exactly what was on the schedule, but she enjoyed this part of the dating game, when both parties knew the rules and played by them. Unlike Ian —

“I'm free,” she said firmly. At the wedding, she hadn't found Donald all that interesting but she wanted to give him a chance. He was the opposite of every man she'd ever been attracted to before, which meant he was exactly the kind of person she should be dating. And then Tess couldn't say
Never dating is not breaking the cycle, Greta
anymore because Greta would be dating. So there.

“Shall we try Zen Zero for dinner?” he asked, naming a popular Thai restaurant. Appropriate for a first date, and not so expensive that it was obvious he was trying to impress her. Then he suggested a late showing of a new documentary film at Liberty Hall, the local independent theatre. The invitation showed he lacked imagination but Greta did not require her dates to possess imagination.

Irritatingly, after she hung up the phone, she wondered what kind of date Ian would plan if he ever called and asked her to go out with him. Not that she wanted to find out. Just that she would bet good money it wouldn't be dinner and a movie.

• • •

Greta smiled at Donald. It was a fake smile, one she had developed through years of dealing with stressful clients, but he didn't know that. Apparently it never occurred to him to think her expressed interest in him could be anything less than genuine. What ego. It would occur to Ian. Not that he didn't come fully equipped with an oversized ego. Just that he would know the smile was fake the moment he spotted it.
Well, good for him
, she thought, grinding her teeth together. Teeth-grinding made it hard to eat. She set her fork down. Forcing her jaw to relax, she took a sip of water and tried to remember why she'd agreed to the date in the first place. Oh, right, he was the opposite of the kind of man she was attracted to, so therefore he was safe. Or at least appropriate.

Donald continued his discourse on the efficacy of various types of trusts. How had he decided that her polite inquiry — “What area of law do you specialize in?” — required twenty minutes of explication? She glanced discreetly at her watch. Make that twenty-three minutes. She had, with her characteristic good sense, written her will some years previously and reviewed it annually. That was about as much as she wanted to think about the relationship between death and money. Her eyes glazed over.

It wasn't completely Donald's fault. After all, she'd encouraged it by trying very hard to appear interested in his conversation. She wondered if she ever bored anyone like this when she talked about interior design. Probably. What made up an interesting conversation was entirely in the eye — or the ear — of the beholder.