Wrapped Up in a Beau (4 page)

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

She looked up. His mouth curved into a smile. My, he did make a girl's heart pound. It'd be so easy to give in and say yes to the invitation, but to what end? He was her friend's brother. Wisdom and desire rarely went hand-in-hand. “I can't.”

He cocked his head. “You're lying.”

“All right,” she conceded, setting down the menu to primly fold her arms. “I can. I just don't want to.”

Despite the disappointment in his eyes, he didn't give up. “Why not?”

“I don't date townies when I'm on vacation. Especially immediate relatives of my closest friends. Isn't one date between sunrise and sunset enough for you?” she asked, shifting her eyes to his empty table.

“She's a friend, not a date.”

“Men and women can't be friends.”

“According to whom?”

“Every male and female over the age of thirteen. If you can't see how much she wants you, then you're choosing to ignore it.”

Mason leaned down, resting one hand on the table, and the other on the back of her chair. With his mouth inches from hers, she went still, the hairs on her neck stood up from the charged air humming around her. She strained back, swallowing.

He stared at her lips, then raised his eyes again, his voice low. “And you're choosing to ignore how attracted we are to each other.” He paused. “Dinner. Think about it.”

Caught in his gaze, heart thundering in her ears, she managed to say, “All right.”

Slowly he smiled then straightened. When he walked away, his companion emerged from the restroom, and they left.

Greta let out the breath she'd been holding and reached for the sweating water glass.
Damn him
. Not a very polite thing to wish upon someone on Christmas.

Chapter Four

To give up would not be Mason's style.

As he gazed out the family room window of the main house with brandy in his hand, he pondered the enigmatic Greta Marcum.

He knew she was attracted to him—could see it in her expressive eyes, feel her tense when he neared. So why was she constantly turning him down? All he wanted to do was get to know her, spend time with her. Where was the harm in accepting a ride into town? In sharing a meal? Well, at least she'd think about it.

The friends he'd planned to meet in Bali were naturally disappointed he'd canceled his trip. Sophie was excited over his change of plans, hugging and thanking him, not even inquiring about what changed his mind. Probably didn't care; his being home for Christmas was good enough. She asked him if he would keep Greta company so she wouldn't become bored while Sophie was at work. Obviously he was happy to oblige. Too bad Greta didn't take him up on it.

The craggy voice of his grandfather broke his thoughts. “Don't you have a business to run?”

Mason turned, brow raised. “Pardon?”

Christopher Jerome Renclair shifted irritably in his wheelchair and glowered. He hated repeating himself, but it was wiser to ask Christopher to do it than dismiss him. The ninety-three-year-old grandfather made a frustrated sound. “I
said
don't you have a business to run? I'm sure Howard wouldn't approve of you takin' all this time off if the man was still alive. What the hell are you doing here starin' out windows and drinkin' my brandy? Pour me a glass if you have nothing better to do.”

Mason set down his glass, shaking his head. “You know you can't have any.”

“Oh! Suddenly you're my physician, too. Where did you graduate? Harvard Medical?”

“I'd love to share some brandy with you, but you know the rules.”

“Don't be a brat.” He waved his hand back and forth. “Pour me a little bit so I can rub it on my gums. I want a taste.”

Unable to deny the old man, who found very little to be pleased about, Mason started to hand the glass over.

Sophie strode into the room. Busted. “What are you doing? You know he can't have that stuff.”

Inches away from his grandfather's shaky reach, Mason paused as Christopher smacked his lips in anticipation. “A drop or two won't kill him.”

“Kill me! Nothing so far has. Damn it,” the old man grumbled.

Sophie sighed heavily. “I'm telling you I don't want to hear Mom have a conniption when she smells alcohol.”

“That's just her acting all high and mighty,” said Christopher. “Sometimes after a few glasses of wine she sets the whole bottle on the table to shut me up.”

Mason held up the glass. “It's barely a sip. I'm giving it to him.”

Christopher pounded a fist on the wheelchair arm. “Stop talking about me like I'm some kind of infant.”

Sophie shook her head and leaned down to kiss his cheek. “Fine. You win. You always do.” She took the glass from Mason and set it in Christopher's trembling hands. Straightening, she smiled at her brother. “How long have you been here?”

Mason shrugged. “Not long. It's too quiet at my place. Now that I've decided to stay, I don't really know what to do with myself. Thought I'd stop by.”

“Work! Work is the answer,” shouted their grandfather.

Mason slanted a look with a half-smile. “I already delegated the responsibilities for my absence, so I'd rather enjoy my two weeks off. Dad has everything under control. If they need me, they'll call. But now I'm twiddling my thumbs.”

His sister rolled her eyes. “There must be a dozen things you can do. Take Greta for example, she filled her day exploring downtown all by herself and by the end of the day got a job at Galore.”

“A job?” Mason exclaimed.

“Um-hm. Sort of.” Sophie took a seat on the chaise and grabbed a magazine. “She went in there for a slice of cake and a latte and came out with a pro bono position. You know ever since Leo's son joined the Army and his daughter moved away he's had to handle the place alone. Mom says he's too stubborn to hire an assistant manager. Anyway, Greta's volunteered to help till his high school part-timers are out for break. Then they'll be able to help him for the morning and lunch rush.”

“Well, she doesn't waste any time keeping busy,” he drawled. Barely here two days and she'd already made friendly with the locals.

“Busy. Unlike you two lazy turkeys,” mumbled Christopher, dipping his finger in the liquor.

Sophie flipped through the magazine and propped her feet up. “It's only for a few hours during the midday rush. She
loves
it. At lunch she gushed about how much fun she had, can't wait to go back. She told me if I had any free time during the day to come kill an hour or two and help. That'll never happen for me, but
you
should ask Leo if he needs another pair of hands. Since you're bored.”

Yeah, right. He'd bet Greta wouldn't appreciate it. But he'd do it just to bug her and at the same time help out a fellow business owner.

Down the hall, he could hear his mother listing off demands to their housekeeper Linda and he braced himself. “What's going on?” she asked, pausing elegantly in the doorway.

Sophie chose to answer. “Nothing, Mother. We're just talking.”

Anne Renclair sashayed into the room in her designer lavender suit with a cool lift of her brow. “I find it odd to have all three of you huddled in here. What are you discussing without me?”

“It's not as if we're committing espionage,” drawled Mason.

His mother gave him a brief hug and kissed his cheek, then smoothed the hair above his ear and patted it. Something she made a habit of doing ever since he could remember. “I'm so happy you're here for Christmas. I never understood why you ran off during the holidays year after year. Is it out of your system now? Do I have my old Mason back?”

Mason suppressed the need to sigh. Her patronizing attitude was also a habit he could date back to his elementary years. Long ago he'd learned not to call her out on it; she would only defend herself until he was blue in the face. “Nothing's changed except my itinerary.”

“Yes, Mom, let's not overanalyze it,” Sophie added.

“Very well. I suppose now you'll expect us to spend Christmas here instead of at the Spencers'?”

Sophie set her magazine down with a sigh. “You can still go to the Spencers' Christmas night. It'd be nice if we could spend Christmas Eve here at home. Don't worry, I already started a grocery list. We'll eat, open presents and play a game or something. Like we used to!”

“That'll be fine, dear.” Anne glanced over Mason's shoulder and gasped. “Who gave Grandpa liquor? You're both guilty for allowing it.” Marching, she snatched it away from her father-in-law, and he yelped.

“Can't a dying man have something in this world?” he complained.

“Yes,” she shot back, splashing the brandy into a plant. “He can have apple juice or water. No brandy, no whiskey, except on extra special occasions. Do I have to threaten you with a live-in nurse again?”

“If you can find a competent one!”

“Do you know how many I interview on a monthly basis? I find you the best money can buy and you manage to make them nearly homicidal in less than a month.”

“It's not my fault!”

“Florence Nightingale herself couldn't get your approval.”

Mason started to back out of the room, discreetly waving good-bye to Sophie as she narrowed her eyes at his exit.

Everything in moderation.

Mason shrugged into his coat by the east wing side door, but as he grabbed the knob, he paused, movement out the window catching his eye. He saw Greta trudging through the thick snow with a pile of wood in her arms. One log fell to the ground, almost tripping her in the process. His mouth curved to a smile.

When she emerged from the guesthouse again, he was standing in front of her, smug as a bug. She wore an oversized sweater, leggings and pink UGG boots. The tights could tell no lies, her shapely legs and hips inspiring images that could melt the snow on the entire ten-acre estate. “Need help?”

The beginnings of a smile twitched her mouth. “I can handle it.”

“You know, I'm beginning to believe you about being so independent.”

She raised her brows, trudging past him. “You don't get very far as an adult without knowing how to take care of a thing or two yourself.”

“True, but still,” he said, stomping through the snow behind her. “It's rude to turn down help when someone is more than happy to do it. For nothing in return.”

“Nothing? Yeah, right.” She stopped, hands on hips, and he took a brief moment to steal a glimpse of her derriere. When she looked back at him, he met her eyes. Hers narrowed.

He raised his hands in defense. “Listen, I know you don't need a man around. You've made that abundantly clear. Have you considered what it does to my pride every time you snub me?”

She resumed her march through the ankle-high snow. “I think you'll recover.” As they approached the back of the guesthouse, she gestured to the pile of logs. “But I guess it would be great if you could take a bundle for me. My fingers are numb.”

“Was that so hard? Go back inside. I'll bring the rest in.”

Once he had an armful, he made his way back to the door, kicked the snow off his shoes and headed toward the fireplace. While Greta moved around in the kitchen, he took his sweet time arranging the logs. “Would you like me to start a fire? Or would that be too macho?”

He could hear the smile in her voice as she answered. “You might as well finish what you started.”

A small triumph. A minute or so later, he had a healthy fire going, and when he rose to turn around, he was offered a steaming mug of tea. “Thanks.”

He noticed a small portable radio on the mantel, set to a local station. It was old and outdated, the speakers scratching out the tune “Blue Christmas”. Lifting a brow, he glanced at the petite state-of-the-art system built into the wall. “I could show you how to use the stereo. I know it appears a little complicated, but the remote does everything.”

Greta flipped a hand. “Oh, don't bother. I prefer my radio.”

“Really? The sound doesn't come in that well.”

“I know it's old fashioned, but I like it,” she replied. “Reminds me of the record player when I was little.” Moving to the sofa, she got comfortable, tucking her legs beneath her and leaning on the arm.

Mason sat down in the loveseat opposite her. “Where were you before you came here? If that's not too personal of a question.”

She shrugged. “It isn't. Before London, I was in Croatia. Spent the entire autumn there. I have a friend who owns a restaurant in Istria.”

“Wow. Croatia. What's the longest you've stayed anywhere?”

“Hmm…since I was on my own? Six months. In India. And I still didn't do all the things I wanted to do. The country is saturated in tradition, culture. I loved it there. Knowing people who live there was a major perk, though.”

“Sophie said you were born in the U.S.”

“Yep. Originally from Utah. No matter how long I live abroad, I'll always come back to visit the U.S. when I can. But after this trip it'll be a while before I jet off again. I've finally decided to settle down and stay put somewhere. I'm going to buy this little cottage in a village called Willowcombe when I get back. It's a start.”

The beautiful nomad tired of moving from place to place. Too bad she lived a world away. “Where does this globe-trotting itch come from?”

She gave this some thought. “Well, basically a couple years after high school, I became a nanny for a wealthy family. They lived in New York but I traveled with them all over Europe. I took care of two adorably rambunctious twins. The Hamiltons were good to me. Every time we went someplace new, I'd write down what I wanted to see, where I wanted to go. Over time I built up a good savings. Took forever. I wore the same clothes for years, never got a manicure or splurged on anything but the essentials. I saved almost every penny of my pay for five years then decided it was time to break away and start my own life. I've been living on the run, so to speak, ever since. I take small jobs here and there, save up and move on. Once you figure out what things should cost and how to get around, it's not that hard.”

So that's how she afforded it. Truthfully, he'd thought she was a trust-fund girl all the way. Knowing she'd earned her comfy, wayfaring lifestyle heightened his admiration for her. Not only was she intelligent, beautiful and self-reliant, she knew what she wanted and went for it with seemingly no financial assistance. He could only respect that. “Quite the story. What made you decide to come to Swan's Crossing for Christmas? I mean, I know my sister can be persuasive, but there has to be a reason you finally said yes.”

Pressing her lips together, she leaned in and set the mug on the coffee table. “I suppose I longed for an old fashioned Christmas in the States. Paris, Bruges, London—they're all wonderful and amazing this time of year, too. But there's nothing like spending the holidays the American way. And Swan's Crossing seemed as perfect as any place.”

“It's far from perfect, believe me.”

She gave a small smile. “It's close enough.”

“What about family?” he asked, and instantly wished he hadn't at the way she tensed.

“You ask a lot of questions. No family. No brothers or sisters. Not even a distant cousin. Look, it's getting late.” She pushed up from her seat, and he felt the proverbial walls rise with her. “Thanks for your help,” she told him, walking to the door.

Chagrined, Mason got to his feet, regretting his barrage of questions. It was a natural thing to ask about family. The more he found out about her, the more he wanted to know. Not to judge or grill, but because he was fascinated by her. Now, it seemed, he'd offended her.