The Fiancée Fiasco (6 page)

"Carruthers, this is gorgeous!" she exclaimed, taking it all in from the one lit lamp by the front door. "Did you have it built yourself?"

Winthrop grunted an answer. Apparently he didn't feel like small talk about his house. "The guest bedroom is down this way." Toting her bag, he started down a wood paneled hall.

Roseanne followed him into a neat, if antiseptic, room off to the right.

"Bathroom is down the hall, I'm afraid," Winthrop told her, dumping her suitcase just inside the door. "Please have enough clothes on to be decent when you come out into the hallway."

"I wouldn't dream of offending your delicate sensibilities."

Winthrop rounded on her. "This isn't funny, Miz Archer."

"I'm finding it rather amusing, myself."

"Then you have a definite sadistic streak."

Roseanne smiled serenely. "When it comes to men like you."

In the process of going out the door, Winthrop halted, then turned to look back at her. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Roseanne hauled the suitcase onto her bed and fit the key into the lock. Naturally, the old lock refused to work.

"Don't tell me 'nothing.' Is this some sort of personal vendetta against me?"

"No, just against your type." Roseanne struggled with the lock.

"What type is that?" Winthrop came forward and calmly brushed her hands from their task.

"The type who leave their young wives as soon as they make it big." She was tired. Otherwise she wouldn't have attempted explaining something she knew he wouldn't understand, much less care about.

But to Roseanne's surprise, Winthrop halted in the act of unlocking her suitcase. He raised his head to stare at her. She was very sorry to have turned those awful blue eyes in her direction. Then he dipped his chin again. Her suitcase clicked open with no further protest.

Straightening, he stepped back from the bed. "One thing before I go, Miz Archer."

"What is it?" Annoyance crept into her tone. She didn't care to hear him defend himself.

But he attempted no such thing. "How long is this going to take?"

It took her a moment to realize what he meant. "You mean the engagement business? So you're willing to go along with it?"

"No." Winthrop's tone was grim. "But I can see you're not going to give me much choice. The least I ask for is an answer to my question. How long?"

Roseanne's spirits soared. She was home free. "I don't know. How about two weeks?" This was the amount of time she'd wangled out of George, with the caveat she work on her files while she was 'on the case.'

Win pursed his lips, all business now. "The Sons of Texas dance is the Friday after next. We go to that together and it should end any nonsense about Sylvia forever."

"Sounds to become a memorable evening."

"And an even more memorable week and a half," Winthrop added dryly. "Would it be too much to try staying out of each others' hair during that time?"

"We're going to have to show ourselves together now and again," Roseanne pointed out, "if people are to believe this engagement."

"You show up at that dance with me," Winthrop promised, "and it'll be more than enough." His faint smile was bitter.

He started to leave again but Roseanne couldn't resist asking, "Why is the dance so important?"

Winthrop turned on the threshold with an innocent look. "Because that dance, ten years ago this year, was where I first met Sylvia."

Did he smirk as he closed the door after himself? Roseanne wasn't sure, though he'd sure earned the right to it. She hadn't seen that one coming.

Staring stupidly at the door after he'd left, Roseanne reflected that it was just possible she'd underestimated Mr. Winthrop Carruthers.

CHAPTER FOUR

"My, my, my." Upon opening the floor-to-ceiling cabinet in Winthrop Carruthers' kitchen, Roseanne found herself staring at the most complete pantry she'd ever seen. Neatly stored on the shelves sat a cornucopia of canned goods, every spice known to man, and more varieties of rice, flour, and sugar than she'd thought possible.

So. Point of information number one. Winthrop Carruthers liked to cook. Either that or he kept his housekeeper well supplied.

Roseanne knew he had a housekeeper because she'd already had a run-in with the blustery Hispanic woman earlier that morning. It had been an awkward moment, waking up in a strange bed to find an outraged face staring down at her. Then the outraged woman had begun jabbering in Spanish. Roseanne had feared she was a goner. Somehow she'd managed to explain that she was a guest and not a burglar who'd decided to take a nap. But it had been a close call.

Now, despite the suspicious surveillance of the housekeeper, Roseanne was making a thorough study of Winthrop's house. If she were going to play the man's fiancée she'd need to know something about him. That drive last night with Boyd could easily have been her undoing. She'd known nothing!

Oh yes, right, Winthrop claimed all she had to do to look like his fiancée was show up at the Sons of Texas ball, but Roseanne tended to think he underestimated the Sylvia problem. Rumors gained traction over time. Better sooner than later to douse the idea Win planned to reconcile with his ex-wife.

With a sigh, Roseanne closed the pantry door. So far she hadn't learned much during her search of Win's house. He seemed something of a dull fellow. Instead of novels, Winthrop's bookshelves held such page-turners as "High Speed Neural Networks" and "Digital Analysis Processing." The videotapes by the television set recorded nothing steamier than National Geographic nature specials.

But he did have his shade of mystery. Take all those diplomas carefully stowed on the bottom shelf in the study. Quite a puzzle. Three bachelor's degrees and one or two master's. Plaques from several honorary fraternities were stuffed underneath them. Clearly, Winthrop had been a brilliant student. Just as clearly, he wasn't particularly proud of the fact.

Glancing at her watch, Roseanne cut her research short. If she wanted to catch Winthrop for lunch, she'd better hurry. He'd left bright and early that morning, trying to avoid her, no doubt. The man needed a lecture on the proper way to pull off a phony engagement. This whole thing was going to require a wee bit more togetherness.

~~~

The walls of Winthrop's private office were made entirely of glass. Roseanne noticed this detail with dismay while still a few feet down the hall in his corporate office building. If he saw her coming, he'd surely bolt. Not only would such flight be detrimental to their masquerade, but it would also be very insulting.

So she approached carefully. Once she actually caught sight of Winthrop, however, Roseanne relaxed. He wouldn't notice the approach of a herd of buffalo, let alone one troublemaking Yankee lawyer. His focus was entirely taken by a half-dozen computer screens. Seated before the monitors, he appeared utterly absorbed.

A pair of gold wire frame glasses sat on his nose. They looked rather cute on him, Roseanne admitted. His hands moved swiftly over a forest of keyboards, evidently manipulating the data he saw on the various screens. His fingers were long and well made. For a moment they intrigued Roseanne. They had the look of an artist, sensitive and deft—but she'd felt their steel strength. A contradiction, another mystery, like the diplomas at the bottom of the shelf.

Or the fact there was neither secretary nor receptionist to halt Roseanne's intrusion as she pushed on the glass door. Perhaps Winthrop liked to make himself highly available to his staff. Meanwhile, the high-tech hinges made no sound as the door opened.

Winthrop didn't look up from his computer screens, although he must have sensed someone come into the room. "Just put the coffee behind me on my other desk, sweetheart," he said in a distracted drawl. "Looks like I'm goin' to be a while here."

Sweetheart
? Amused, Roseanne parked her lean hip, instead of the desired cup of coffee, on the corner of his desk. "I hope you won't be too long,
darling
," she crooned. "I wanted to take you to lunch."

At her voice, Winthrop started. He turned slowly, scowling. "Huh. What are
you
doing here?"

Roseanne suppressed a grin. Apparently the 'sweetheart' hadn't been aimed at her. "Just what I said, taking you to lunch."

"I thought I was public enemy number one." Winthrop turned pointedly back to his computer screens.

It took Roseanne a moment to grasp his meaning. "Oh, right. Your type. True, I don't care for men who desert their wives, but I can put my feelings aside for the greater good. Especially since it's only 'til next Friday. Meanwhile, you are my fiancé."

He resumed typing on his keyboards, though not at the same lightning speed as before. "Don't you remember? I explained last night this sort of appearance is unnecessary."

"Apparently you and I disagree on what's necessary. Look, you're going to have to do more than simply install me in your house to make this engagement look like the real thing."

His shoulders visibly stiffened. His rate of punching on the keys almost slowed to a stop. "Do more? Like what?"

"Like appear with me in public." Roseanne began to lose her patience. "Like treating me with a bit of respect, if not affection, when we're in this fishbowl of an office of yours. Anybody passing by would think I'm trying to dun you for charity. They certainly wouldn't imagine we have a personal relationship."

With a sigh, Winthrop finally abandoned his computers. He swiveled in his chair to face her. "Why is it that the more I want to get out of this situation, the deeper I fall in?"

"Must be your giving nature."

"Wasn't aware I had one of those."

"Then maybe you're just no match for me," Roseanne opined.

"Now that sounds more like it."

"Don't be too hard on yourself." She grinned. "I've vanquished many a tougher specimen than you."

Winthrop's gaze fell to the side. "I'm sure you have," he mumbled.

"I can see you're busy." Roseanne got back to the subject at hand. "But I'll keep this down to one hour, I promise. Anyway, you could probably use the break. What time did you get into the office this morning? Seven-thirty?"

"Seven." Winthrop took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "We have a deadline tomorrow and some last minute technical problems came up."

"So," Roseanne figured, "you don't usually get into the office until...?"

"Seven." Winthrop smiled his swift smile at her. "Maybe you're right. I could use a break, and since you're buying..."

"Now, I like a man with a proper sense of perspective." "Don't knock it." Winthrop rose from his seat.

"Who's knocking? A girl always knows where she stands with you, Carruthers. As long as she's on the right side of your stomach and your pocket book."

"My stomach and my pocket book both happen to be very important to me." He put his hand against her back to lead her out the door.

Roseanne shivered at his touch—she couldn't have said why. There was just something...strong, and almost...secure about it.

Perhaps the impression came from the fact he was actually taller than her? Yes, that must have been why.

Smiling brightly, Roseanne turned, moving naturally away from Winthrop's hand. Even with an explanation for its effect on her, his touch made her uneasy. "Do you know a good lunch spot nearby?" she asked.

"Hmm?" Winthrop wasn't even looking at her. He appeared to be focused on something about a million miles away. Yep, Roseanne had a strong suspicion he was still in the world behind his computer screens.

She didn't have to worry he might have noticed her odd reaction to his hand on her back. He was gone.

Her make-believe smile turned amused.

~~~

The Chinese restaurant was dimly lit and smelled heavenly, redolent of garlic and sesame oil. The faded red wallpaper and hanging paper lanterns probably dated from two decades earlier and the waiters had faces as wrinkled as the upholstery in the booths. But Roseanne had a happy sense that the food would be excellent.

It wasn't as public a place as she'd have liked in order to display Winthrop's newly affianced state, but she felt she'd made headway simply getting him to do anything with her.

The host at the door seemed to recognize Winthrop and immediately began chattering at him in Chinese. Winthrop nodded and answered him in English.

"Yes, a special friend," he said. Even in the dim light, Roseanne could see he was blushing. "Any booth will be fine. Yes, tea, thank you."

"You understand Chinese?" Roseanne asked him as they seated themselves in one of the spacious booths.

"A little bit. Can't speak it though. Too hard to get my mouth around the words."

"What other languages do you know?"

He gave her a peculiar look. "What do you care?"

The question was so suddenly cold that Roseanne felt thrown. "Why, I need to know more about you," she explained. "If I haven't the foggiest idea of your past history, people are going to wonder, aren't they?"

He regarded her for another icy moment. "I know French, Spanish, a little Italian, less German, and kitchen Mandarin. Oh, and Latin."

"Really!" Roseanne was impressed. "That's fascinating. I've heard that people with an aptitude for mathematics are also good at languages."

"I didn't say I was good at any of them," Winthrop contradicted curtly.

"But you are good at mathematics." Roseanne pointed out the obvious. "And machines," she added thoughtfully. "Was that true, what Boyd was telling me last night—that they always obey you?"

"Always is a rather strong word."

Roseanne paused. Once again, she was getting the distinct impression that Winthrop did not appreciate this characterization about his relationship to machines. "Even 'sometimes' would make me happy. I can never get mechanical things to work. For example, as soon as I step next to it, the copier breaks down. Never fails."

Winthrop gave her a close look. "Yes, but when it comes to people, you have no problem at all, do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"People 'work' for you, don't they? The way mechanical things do for me."