Husband Wanted (6 page)

Clay stared back at her for a moment. What kind of nonsense was she telling him? That his father had turned to her because his son refused to have anything to do with him? None of it made sense. But neither did the rest of it. “And you think you’re the person to take my place?” he asked, trying to understand. “Forgive me, but you hardly fit the role.”

Her eyes flooded with tears and spilled down her cheeks. She swiped at them angrily. “I’m not trying to take your place,” she insisted. “But at least he accepted me from the very beginning. He didn’t judge me by my past.”

“I know how the boys made fun of me,” she went on, “of the clothes I wore. I could not have cared less.” It was a lie. She
had
cared, but even shopping the thrift stores took money that was desperately needed for her mother’s medication. That, and working to keep a roof over their heads had taken precedence.

Clay realized he was gritting his back teeth. It surprised him that he should feel sorry for her, but he did. “I never
once
made fun of you,” he said, reaching for the napkin she’d tossed beside her plate. He handed it to her so she could mop her eyes. She was literally sobbing, and he was glad there was no one to witness it. “Come on,” he said, prodding her toward the foyer and out the front door. “Let’s take a walk. It’s time you and I got a few things straight.”

Frannie was only vaguely aware she was being led to an area of hedges and flower beds. She smelled gardenia. Clay nudged her in the direction of a concrete bench, and she sat down. “I’m sorry,” she sputtered. “I can’t believe I fell apart.” The tears continued to stream down her face as she spoke. “I guess I’m under a lot of stress, what with my daughter coming and all.”

“It’s okay.” He sat there for a moment, quietly, waiting for the tears to subside. Finally, she seemed more in control. “Like I said, Frannie, I never made fun of you.” He remembered the rumors he’d heard about her and wondered about them. Why had she been singled out by the guys? “I know you had it rough,” he said at last. “I wish I’d been a better friend in those days,” he added, then reminded himself he hadn’t been a friend at all. In fact, he didn’t remember Frannie having many friends. “You probably could have used a few friends to support you, what with all you went through with your mother’s illness.”

She shrugged and wiped her eyes. “It wasn’t as bad as all that. There were good times as well. Anyway, I like to think it made me a stronger person. That’s why I decided to become a social worker.”

He studied her closely. “I didn’t know. Some people become bitter by so much adversity.”

“It’s a choice. I chose to make the best of what time my mother and I had together.”

“Now, when Mrs. Coleman was alive, she liked to entertain,” Greta told Frannie, lining silverware on each side of what looked to be priceless china. “People considered it an honor to be invited to her dinner parties.” She lowered her voice. “As I said before, I don’t normally discuss personal matters concerning the Colemans, but all that came to a screeching halt when Mr. Coleman brought that . . . that money-hungry slut into this house. Even old friends of the Colemans declined her invitations. Not that I blame them, what with the way she dressed and carried on, her boobies looking as though they would spill right out of her dress if she took a deep breath.” Greta paused. “You didn’t hear that from me.” She sniffed. “Thank goodness Clay took matters into his own hands.”

“He actually threw her out?” Frannie whispered, deciding the story sounded more interesting than trying to learn which piece of silver was to be used when.

Greta shot her a haughty look. “It is bad manners to gossip about one’s employer, Frannie,” she said, her tone as crisp as the linen table cloth and napkins. She drew herself up and cleared her throat as though what she was about to say would give Frannie the insight and wisdom she needed to make it in this life and the next one as well. “Now, you’ll note, forks to the left of your plate, knives and spoons to the right, lined up in order of use. Handles placed in a straight line approximately one inch from the table’s edge.” She measured it with a simple wooden ruler and smiled to find it perfect. “Some meals, depending on the number of courses, require more eating utensils, but I’m teaching you the basics.”

Frannie tried to hide her embarrassment at being called down by the housekeeper a moment before. “I’m sorry for prying,” she said. “We talk about our boss at the luncheonette behind his back all the time.”

“Yes, well, that was before you asked me to teach you how to act like a lady,” the woman pointed out. Finally, she sighed. “But I may as well tell you for your own good, if nothing else, the whole affair with the second wife left a bad taste in Clay’s mouth. He thinks all women are nothing but a bunch of gold-diggers.”

“How sad,” Frannie said, thinking of the darkly handsome man with wide shoulders. “I imagine Clay Coleman would be a good catch, with or without his money.”

“I guess after watching that female manipulate his father all those months, he figured women were all alike.”

“I hope he doesn’t think that about me,” Frannie told her, although conversations with him suggested he did. “I manage quite well on my own.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know what Clay thinks,” the woman replied, her tone once again abrupt and unyielding. “As I said, I’m here to teach you good manners, and nothing else.”

“Thank you, Greta,” Frannie said, deciding she liked the woman despite her testiness. Walter’s second wife must have really gotten Greta’s goat. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

Clay arrived home early the following afternoon and found Frannie browsing through the family library. He leaned against the doorframe and watched her for a moment. The peach-colored dress she wore was smart while remaining feminine and sexy. Close-fitting and cut above the knee, it showed off her figure and long legs. Her hair cascaded well past her shoulders, leading him to wonder why she had hidden it in braids for so many years. In just a couple of days, she had blossomed.

“See anything interesting?” he asked after a minute, although he might have been asking himself the same question.

Frannie jumped at the sound of his voice. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.” She slipped a thick book of poetry back in place, then glanced around the large room with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and oversize leather furniture. It was definitely a man’s room, but with a vase of flowers, a couple of throw pillows, and a large afghan to cover her feet, she could imagine herself curled up on the large sofa in front of the fireplace with a book.

“Your father said I could look for something to read, but I don’t think I can concentrate right now. Besides, I have so much reading to do for school.”

“Then you need to find something entertaining. What do you enjoy reading?”

She blushed. “Love stories.”

“Aha!” He walked inside, crossed the room, and motioned for her to follow him to another section of the library. “You just haven’t been looking in the right place,” he said. “See, my mother thought we should all be well-read, but she also believed reading should be for entertainment, too. Here we are. Love stories, murder mysteries, spy novels.”

“Oh, boy!” Frannie checked the selection of women’s fiction and found a generous supply. She pulled one from the shelf and thumbed through it. “Thanks,” she said, suddenly uncomfortably aware of how close he stood. She took a step back. “At least it’ll give me something to do.”

“Something to do?”

“I feel as useless as a barrel with holes in it.”

“I thought Greta was going to spend time with you.”

“She did. I can now spot the difference between a cocktail and salad fork at fifty paces. Hardly seems like an achievement worth writing home about, though, does it? Why are you grinning? You look happier than a pig in slop.”

“I figured you’d get a kick out of playing lady of the manor.”

“Not if this is all there is to it.” She sighed and looked down at the linen chemise she wore with matching pumps. “I can’t really do anything because I’m afraid I’ll stain this dress. And if I walk too fast, these shoes will fall right off my feet. Oh, Lord, I’m whining, aren’t I?”

“What do you
want
to do?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. What do rich people do in their spare time?”

“It depends on what holds their interest. Some go boating or horseback riding. Others golf or play tennis. How about you? What do you like to do?”

She grinned. “I haven’t had much spare time. And I haven’t played much golf or tennis. The only thing I know how to do is to bowl, but I’ll bet you haven’t spent a lot of time in a bowling alley.”

“I’ve been in one or two.” He regarded her. He could sense her restlessness. “Look, if you want to go someplace, just say the word and I’ll take you. You’ll probably have to clear it with my father first.”

The thought of getting out of the house for a while was tempting. “Oh, why would he mind? Besides, I need something to keep me busy, so I’ll stop thinking about what I’m going to say when my daughter steps off that plane tomorrow. I keep telling myself not to be nervous, but that’s like trying to poke a cat out from under the porch with a rope.”

He nodded as though it made complete sense. “We can get out for a while after dinner.”

She was tempted to ask him to take her beforehand. Lord only knew what that fancy new chef was going to put on the table tonight. She’d already decided if it hadn’t been raised on a regular farm, she wasn’t eating it. “You think I could wear my old jeans when we go out?” she asked.

He chuckled softly. She had to be the first woman he’d ever met who didn’t like nice clothes. Was it an act? He didn’t think so. “You can wear any old thing you want. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll wear my jeans as well. Maybe we can even go bowling.”

“You’re a nice guy, Clay. Nice guys are as scarce as a chicken leg after a church picnic.” The way she said it, sincerely and with conviction, startled him, and he remembered his promise not to let himself be drawn in by her, and risk losing his perspective on the situation. “I thought I might move some of my things into your room tonight,” he said. “I may not have time tomorrow. If you like, we can go ahead and get it over with.”

Her stomach took a sharp dive. “N-now?”

“Your daughter is going to wonder what’s going on if I’m sleeping in a room down the hall.”

“She isn’t coming until tomorrow. Couldn’t we—?”

“We need time to get used to each other, Frannie. Otherwise, we’ll be uncomfortable with each other, and she’ll likely see right through it.”

It made sense, of course. It didn’t matter that he knew her favorite flavor of ice cream or the name of the movie that always made her cry; they had to appear as though they’d been living together as man and wife for a time. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “But I insist on helping you move your things. After all, you’re doing it for me.”

“Let’s go.” He started for the door, then turned. “By the way, have you talked to my father about this?”

She thought it nice of Clay to worry about whether or not something appeared improper to the rest of the household. Perhaps there was hope for father and son after all. “He was the one who invited me to stay here so he understands completely. After all, there’s nothing between us. We’re only doing it for Mandy’s sake.”

“You told him that?”

She felt confused. “It was his idea.”

“Right,” he said tersely. He exited the room, leaving Frannie behind. She wondered what had caused his mood swing, then shrugged it off. She had enough worries.

Frannie hurried from the library and up the staircase, where she found Greta carrying a stack of towels. Greta did a double take when she saw Frannie follow Clay to his bedroom door.

“Frannie and I are moving my things into her room,” he said as though it were an everyday occurrence.

“Of course,” was all the housekeeper said, as a red-faced Frannie followed him inside.

His bedroom smelled of citrus and woods, a strange combination but a nice one nevertheless, Frannie thought. “What do you want me to do?” she asked, feeling shy in his room.

He handed her an expensive-looking travel case with his initials stitched into the leather. “You can pack my toiletry items if you like.” He motioned her in the direction of the bathroom.

She nodded and made her way across the room into a cream-colored tiled bathroom that had been painted in a masculine-looking hunter-green. The glass-enclosed shower drew her attention for a moment, and she found herself imagining Clay on the other side, naked and wet.

She shook herself mentally, knowing she had absolutely no business wondering about such things. She was not that sixteen-year-old who’d shared a biology class with him and wondered what it would be like to have him kiss her, or walk her to her next class, or ask her to the school dance.

Finally, she opened the medicine cabinet, and then hesitated once more before reaching inside for a bottle of after-shave. There was something decidedly intimate about going through a man’s toiletries. She reached for the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and raised it to her nose. There was that smell again, making her stomach dip.

“Finding everything?”

Frannie jumped, almost dropping the bottle into the sink. She blushed and screwed the cap into place. She nodded quickly. “Y-yes. I was just . . . I like the way this smells.”

He looked amused.

“Yes, but you can’t really tell by smelling it straight from the bottle.” He stepped into the room, and then leaned close. “Here, take a whiff. Tell me if you think I’m getting my money’s worth.”

Frannie raised her nose to where his jaw intersected with his throat, and her stomach fluttered wildly when the tip of her nose grazed the warm, hair-roughened skin. Once again, she caught a woody scent with just a hint of citrus, only this time she smelled male flesh as well. The combination made her head spin. She shivered, then stepped away, unable to make eye contact. “I’d say you’re definitely getting your money’s worth.”

He continued to look amused. “Are you always this shy around men?” he asked.