Man of Her Dreams (8 page)

“He's had some rough breaks, Maggie. Be patient with him,” Katie pleaded for her brother's sake.

“You mean because of your mother leaving?” Maggie asked, needing to hear her own theory proved right.

“Partly. Ry grew up not trusting women. Then something happened when he was at college. I know he was serious about a girl there, then he had to come home when Daddy died, and he never mentioned her again. I tried to find out what happened, but you know Ry. Getting a story out of him is like trying to pull a grizzly bear's teeth. I finally gave up. He's spent a long time nursing old wounds and protecting himself from new ones, Mag. Those kind of walls are hard to break down. I ought to know; Nick had to scale a bunch of them to get to me.”

Yes, Maggie thought, the walls Ry had built and fortified around his heart would be difficult to tear apart, but she was determined to do it. There was a man behind those walls who needed love and who had love to give, whether he realized it or not. She knew he did. In her heart, in her dreams, she
knew.

“I can handle it,” she said, tapping a finger to her lips as the wheels started turning in her head.

A fond smile split Zoe's thin dark face. “I recognize that scheming look, Maggie. What are you planning?”

A slow, self-satisfied smile turned up the corners of Maggie's lips. “When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. I'm going to drive up to D.C. and buy myself a dress for that party next week. A dress hot enough to melt granite. Then Lord have mercy on that big ornery brother of yours, Katie, 'cause I've set my sights on him, and I mean to have him.” Her smile broke into a full-fledged grin that glowed with mischief as she winked at Katie. “You know what they say, darlin': All's fair in love and war.”

Katie chuckled. “Which one is this?”

“A little bit of both, sugar. A little bit of both.”

         

The first herd of tourists had already descended on Poplar Grove when Ry pulled into the yard in his pickup. Cars from five different states and one province of Canada were lined up in the parking area. A group of about fifteen people stood on the lawn in front of the manor, their attention focused on Mrs. Claiborne as she spoke and gestured at the white columns and up to the carved pineapple finial that crowned her home.

Ry glanced at the little spotted dog curled up on the seat beside him. “You're home, Junior. I sure hope you like crowds.”

He was about to reach for the door handle, when he spotted Maggie hurrying across the forecourt. She was a vision out of the colonial past dressed in a long dark blue gown with a tightly fitted waist. Frothy lace trimmed the snug sleeves and edged the deeply cut square neckline.

Ry sat back and groaned in dismay. How men ever walked around in skintight breeches back then was beyond him, what with all the women running around in dresses that displayed a lady's charms to such perfection. To make matters worse, Maggie was wearing a pendant that swayed and bobbed just above her breasts and drew his gaze downward. As if her cleavage wasn't enough on its own.

She swung the passenger door open and climbed up into the truck with a wicker picnic basket. When she closed the door, the cab was immediately filled with the pungent scent of Passion's Promise.

“Jeepers cripes, Mary Margaret,” Ry said, coughing. “That perfume's enough to choke a horse!”

Maggie scowled at him. Somehow her hot shower had only served to make matters worse. Apparently it had opened her pores and let the perfume soak in. “Please, Rylan, all this flattery will make me light-headed.”

“That's not the flattery making you light-headed, you're being overcome by fumes.”

A minor detail only a mannerless swine would call attention to. She must be bonkers to love a man with so little couth, Maggie thought. But love him she did. A tired smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I had a little accident this morning. At least I don't smell ready to run for the roses anymore.”

“What are you doing in that getup?” Ry asked, fighting to keep his eyes off her breasts.

“One of the tour guides called in sick today. I'm taking her place.”

She glanced at the little dog curled up next to Rylan's thigh and frowned again. It hardly looked like the same animal they had found wounded and abandoned only a matter of days ago. He'd been bathed and fed. His coat was now snow white with mahogany-colored spots. He wore a collar with a rabies vaccination tag affixed to it. His injured paw was wrapped in a fresh bandage. Staring at her with shiny eyes, he perked his triangular ears up and barked at her. Maggie shook her head. Ry had worked a miracle with his skill and caring.

“We've got exactly fifteen minutes to sneak Junior here into the house,” she said. “So here's the plan—”

“Sneak? What do you mean, sneak?”

“Well…I've discussed this at length with the ladies, and Mrs. Claiborne isn't convinced now would be the right time for us to take a dog on at Poplar Grove,” Maggie explained diplomatically.

“When does she think the right time would be?”

“Oh…she said something about electing a red-eyed communist from Mars president first.” She shook a finger at him. “See the trouble you're getting me into, friend? I'm liable to get thrown out of my home.”

Then she could come and live with him, Ry thought, liking the idea a lot. He eyed the picnic basket. “What's that for? As if I couldn't guess.”

“Miss Emma thinks Mrs. Claiborne would come around on the dog issue if she didn't see the dog until he was in the house already, fitting in with the surroundings. But if she catches us trying to take a dog into the house, she's liable to take a switch to the pair of us.”

“So you've got Miss Emma in on the conspiracy.”

“In on it? Sugar, it was her idea! She has a naturally devious mind,” she said with more than a little admiration. A twinkle came into her sable eyes at Ry's look. He refused to believe little old ladies could think of anything but knitting and church. “Watch your back when you're around her, sugar. She pinched a man the other day.”

“She what?”

“Pinched him. She said he had great buns, so she pinched him right on the—”

Ry scowled at her. “You're making that up.”

“Am not, but we don't have time to argue about it now. Let's get a move on, Quaid.”

Mrs. Claiborne's tour group had moved into the house by the time Ry and Maggie made it to the front porch. Ry carried the picnic basket with Junior's wet nose poking out from under the lid. Miss Emma was on the porch, starting her tour off with a liberally embroidered history of the plantation. Maggie often wondered how many of Miss Emma's fibs were pure mischief as opposed to poor memory. Quite a few, she suspected, if the sparkle in the old woman's eyes was anything to go by.

They stepped into the hall just as Mrs. Claiborne and her group emerged from the dining room. Maggie swore under her breath. In another minute, she and Ry could have been up the stairs and home free. Now they would have to stop and chat as the guests browsed.

“Why, Mr. Quaid, what a pleasure!” Mrs. Claiborne smiled, crossing the room with a swish of her skirt and petticoats.

“Mornin', Miz Claiborne.” Ry ducked his head, shifting the picnic basket to his other hand.

She glanced at the basket. “It's a lovely day for a picnic.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Where are you going?”

“Umm…” Feeling as if he were ten all over again and lying to Miss Thornbrush about cutting Sunday school, he shot a desperate glance at Maggie, who leaned toward her landlady with a concerned look.

“Miss Emma is telling that story about being abducted off the veranda by a British colonel in her previous life again.”

Mrs. Claiborne rolled her eyes. “Excuse me, Mr. Quaid.”

“Ma'am.” He nodded, then heaved a sigh of relief.

“Quick,” Maggie whispered, giving him a shove that didn't budge him an inch, “get upstairs before she comes back.”

“Excuse me, miss?”

Maggie ground her teeth as she turned to face a balding bespectacled tourist with a nasal New York accent. Reminding herself about Southern hospitality, she plastered a smile on her face. “Yes? How can I help you?”

“Can you explain to me about the cut-glass lids on these liquor decanters in the dining room? I didn't quite get that business about the shapes and the kinds of booze and all that.”

“Certainly.” Maggie followed the man back toward the dining room, sending Ry a look over her shoulder.

He turned to go upstairs but was confronted by a couple wanting to have their picture taken at the foot of the carved walnut staircase. He set the basket down to snap the photo, then all hell broke loose. A crash sounded in the parlor, followed by angry barking and a shout for help.

Maggie, Ry, and Mrs. Claiborne all made it to the parlor at the same time, followed by Miss Emma and the tourists. Perched on a drop-leaf table was one member of Mrs. Claiborne's tour group. Snarling up at the man was Junior. Ry squeezed his eyes shut. Maggie pressed a hand to her mouth. Miss Emma covered her ears. Mrs. Claiborne glared accusingly at the three of them.

“Hey, will somebody call this mutt off?” the guy on the table demanded.

Ry stepped ahead and scooped up the dog with one big hand. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? Huh! Sorry's not going to cut it, pal.” The man slid to his feet, straightening his jacket and reaching up to comb his black hair into place with his fingers. One hand inched back to the table for his camera bag while he maintained a furious expression. “I oughta sue.”

“Mr. Quaid,” Mrs. Claiborne said sternly, her gaze directed at Ry, then Junior, “did you bring this animal into this house?”

Ry swallowed hard. “Yes, ma'am.”

Maggie's eyes suddenly went wide. “And it's a good thing he did,” she said, stepping forward. Glaring at the tourist, she snatched away a polished pewter candlestick that was poking up out of his camera bag. “Would you care to explain how this came to be in your possession, sir?”

Mrs. Claiborne's hand went to her heart. “The Revere candlestick! That's been in this family for over two hundred years!”

The thief flung his camera bag at them and bolted for the back door. Ry shoved Junior into Mrs. Claiborne's arms and charged after the man, who made it to the bottom of the steps before Ry flew off the porch and tackled him. The thief was sandwiched between the ground and two hundred sixty-five pounds of solid muscle. Ry sat up, digging a knee into the man's back, and lifted the thief's head by a handful of hair. The culprit spit out a mouthful of grass and dirt and shot a glare over his shoulder at his captor.

Ry gave him a nasty smile. “You're in a world of hurt, slick.”

Behind them, people came spilling out of the house. Maggie and Mrs. Claiborne hurried down the steps, Mrs. Claiborne clutching Junior to her breast.

“Oh, Mr. Quaid, you caught him. Thank heaven!”

“And I caught this one, sister!” Miss Emma called.

The crowd on the porch parted like the Red Sea as Emma marched a second rascal through the double doors at sword point. Maggie gasped as she recognized the man as the one who had lured her into the dining room on the excuse of gathering information about antique bottles.

“This coward thought he'd make a getaway while y'all were after his partner,” Miss Emma said, swirling the tip of the sword under the man's nose. She was a peculiar sight—a tiny old lady in a colonial dress and high-top sneakers, wielding a relic from the War Between the States. “Granddaddy's pigsticker and I have persuaded him to stay until the police arrive.”

         

“My hero,” Maggie said with an impish grin and a melodramatic sigh. She clutched Ry's arm and leaned into him, bosom first. They stood in the yard, watching as the police car drove away bearing the would-be thieves.

Ry looked down at her, his eyes instantly drawn to the creamy globes straining the confines of her costume. Heat rose from his groin all the way to the tips of his ears. He tore his gaze away and fixed it on the crowd that was filing back to the house.

“Me the hero? Shoot. What about Miss Emma? I swear, I never saw anything like that. I thought she was gonna lop that guy's head off.”

“Isn't she something? I keep telling you, sugar. Miss Emma is full of surprises. And you keep thinking all old ladies are interested in is drinking prune juice and tatting doilies.” She shook her head in reproach as she stepped back from him. “We are going to have to do some serious work on your mistaken impressions about women.”

Ry looked away, his expression dropping into his characteristic scowl. His impressions of women had been based on experience—bad experience. With the exception of his sister, the women he'd trusted had betrayed him. Maggie had her work cut out if she thought she could erase those harsh lessons from his memory.

“I think it's safe to say Junior has a home here now,” she said.

“Aren't you glad I let you have the little guy?” Ry asked, letting go of his dark thoughts as Maggie led him by the hand into the old laundry building.

Maggie laughed. “
Let
me have? Ha! You'd better thank your lucky stars that man was a thief, friend. You should've seen the look on your face when Mrs. Claiborne asked if you were the one who brought that dog in the house!”

“My face?” Ry laughed. “How about yours? I thought you were gonna lose your breakfast when you saw that guy sitting on the table with Junior yapping at his heels!”

They laughed until Maggie had tears rolling down her cheeks and Ry was holding his stomach. When they finally stopped to catch their breath, Ry leaned back against a work table piled with antique linens and shook his head in wonder. He hadn't laughed so much with a woman since…ever.

He hadn't given it much thought when he'd hatched his “just friends” scheme, but Maggie really was his friend. He liked her as a person and enjoyed her company; they could plot together and laugh together. Suddenly the idea of spending the rest of his life with her took on a whole new dimension, one he wasn't entirely sure he should trust.