“No, you’re not.” Kent’s face creased in pain for a moment and then he said, “I’ll get the partnership papers drawn up this afternoon.”
“Works for me,” Nick said. Then he turned to Tess. “Stop harassing my biggest client.”
“Back off, Jamieson,” Welch said. “I didn’t hire you to protect me from her.”
“You’ll change your mind,” Nick said. “She’s stubborn as hell.”
“I’m getting married,” Gina said suddenly, amazement dawning in her voice.
“I’m not,” Tess said.
“Yes, you are,” Nick said. “The only person more stubborn than you is me. Besides, I just made partner, so now I can give this marriage thing all my attention.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Tess said.
Welch looked at both of them and laughed.
Tess transferred her attention back to him. “I want to talk to you.” She pulled him to one side, away from everyone else.
“If you’re going to yell at me about the book, forget it,” Welch said. “I like it the way it is.”
Tess put her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “That book is crap, Lanny.”
Welch closed his eyes and then, after a moment, he opened them and grinned at her. “Twenty-eight years and it seems like yesterday. Damn, I’ve missed you.”
“What?” Tess’s surprise made her scowl disappear. “You’re not paying attention here. I just insulted you.”
“Twenty-eight years ago I was stuck in that commune, trying to figure out why everything suddenly sounded so damn stupid,” Welch said to her. “There was Daniel, strutting around like an Old Testament prophet, and he sure as hell sounded like he knew what he was talking about. And Elise.” A smile eased onto Welch’s face. “Your mother was something else, Tessie. Feminism and free love. Hell of a woman, Elise.”
Tess blinked, and Welch returned to earth.
“But I just couldn’t buy it anymore,” he told her. “All that antiauthority-peace-and-love stuff. It sounded pretty, but I knew it wasn’t working, knew it wouldn’t work. It was all starting to sound like such garbage, but everybody there believed it, and hell, I was twenty-six. What did I know?”
“You knew everything,” Tess said, startled. “I thought you were God.”
“And then one day,” Welch said, “I was sitting off by myself, trying to figure out why I was so damn uneasy, and you showed up with your hair sticking up and a black eye. You said, ‘This turn-the-other-cheek stuff is crap, Lanny,’ just like you did now, and I knew you were right. You were the only one in the whole damn place who had a clue.”
“And that’s when you taught me how to pick my fights,” Tess said, remembering. Suddenly there was a lump in her throat. “And then you left me.” She was horrified to hear her voice quiver.
Welch looked startled by the emotion in her voice. “I had to,” he said. “You showed me the way out.”
“I did?” Tess swallowed the lump in her throat. “No. No, you just got bored and left.”
“No,” Welch said. “I got smart and left. The only thing I regret about leaving is not taking you with me.”
“Oh, hell.” Tess closed her eyes. “Oh, damn, I wish you had.”
Welch snorted. “Yeah. Your mom wouldn’t have batted an eye if I’d kidnapped you. Sure.”
“She probably wouldn’t have noticed,” Tess said. “I can’t believe you left because of something I said.”
“You were a touchstone, Tessie,” Welch said. “I always knew whether something was true once I’d floated it by you.”
“I was eight,” Tess said, dumbfounded.
“Yeah, and you were still smarter than everybody around you,” Welch said. “That’s why I went after Jamieson. I wanted to hear you laugh at that damn book with me. Validation.” He snorted at her in contempt. “I thought you would have caught on by now, but I was wrong. I should never have left you with your parents. They screwed you up good.”
“No, they didn’t.” Tess glared at him and then relented. “Okay, let’s try this again. Your book isn’t crap. It’s just too simplistic.”
“I’m not rewriting that book,” Welch said. “I’m tired of writing. I’m going into politics.”
“Oh, there’s a surprise.” Tess put her hands on her hips and frowned at him, and he grinned back at her. “Knock it off,” she said. “I’m not eight, so stop patronizing me. Here’s the deal.”
“There is no deal,” Welch said.
“You rethink that book and make it balanced—”
“It’s satire, damn it. It’s not supposed to be balanced,” Welch snapped.
“—and I’ll campaign for you.”
“What?”
Tess grinned at Welch’s stunned expression. “Well, somebody’s got to look out for you, and obviously Henderson can’t watch you all the time. You ate steak last night. You need me, Lanny. Fix that book, and I’ll help keep you from becoming the Jesse Helms of Kentucky.”
Welch looked dumbfounded.
“I’m your touchstone, Lanny,” Tess said. “You said so yourself. We did all right together that summer. And I’m telling you straight on this, that book is too biased. Satire or not, it’s mean, Lanny. You’ve got to fix it.”
“No,” Welch said, but his voice was thoughtful.
“Come on, Lanny,” Tess said. “Think how much fun we can have in politics. And I’ve learned a lot about schmoozing from Nick. I can be a real asset. You need me. And I’ll have plenty of time since I’m not teaching at Decker now. I’ll need my afternoons to work at the Foundation, but my weekends are yours.”
“Jamieson might have something to say about that,” Welch grumped. “And you know damn well you’ve got the Decker job.”
“I think I’d rather be in politics.”
“No,” Welch said. “God, no. I insist you take the Decker job.”
“What about the book?” Tess said, and Welch closed his eyes for a moment in defeat.
“We’ll talk about it,” he said finally, and Tess leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.
“I love you, Lanny,” she said. “I’m really glad you found me again. And from now on, I’m going to take care of you.”
“Oh, God, no,” Welch said again.
“CHRISTINE, RENT A CHURCH,” Nick said without taking his eyes off Tess as she harangued Welch. “I’m getting married in two weeks.”
“It’s going to take you longer than that to talk her into it.” Christine picked up her steno pad. “Make it six weeks.”
“Let’s make this expensive.” Nick folded his arms and, ignoring Christine, watched Tess argue with Welch. “Might as well make it a big wedding and invite society. Should be good for the firm.”
“Tess will want a small wedding.” Christine made notes as she spoke. “Out of your house, not a church.”
“Fancy caterers,” Nick said. “Champagne fountains. The works.”
“Tess likes Chinese,” Christine said. “Rice wine. Fortune cookies.”
“And an orchestra.”
“It won’t fit in your house. Maybe a classical trio.” Christine looked at Tess. “No. Tess would prefer jazz.”
Nick watched Tess’s rear suddenly curve as she bent to kiss Welch on the cheek. “Order a wedding dress, too. A tight one. No hoopskirts.”
“Tess will want to find her own.” Christine thought for a moment and made another note. “There’s a vintage-clothing store on Twelfth Street.”
Nick suddenly transferred his attention back to his secretary. “Did you get all that?” he asked.
“Yes,” Christine said serenely. “You can rely on me.”
Nick shot her a suspicious glance, but when she gazed back at him without expression, he turned his eyes back to Tess.
“This is going to be a great wedding,” he said.
Epilogue
Six weeks later, when the orchestra was finally gone from the poolside, Tess wandered through her house in the white crepe wedding dress she’d found at the vintage-clo
thing store on Twelfth, sipping champagne and contemplating her future. She moved through the rooms loving all the color that she and Nick had poured into the house over the past weeks and yet feeling a little melancholy. She was married now. She was respectable. Responsible.
She sat on the stairs and looked out at the pristine pool. Angela climbed into her lap, and she stroked the cat and sighed.
“Excuse me?” Nick said from behind her, and she turned to see him scowling at her through the stair rails. He was as beautiful as always, impeccably dressed in his tux, not a hair out of place. “You just got married,” he told her with mock severity. “You’re supposed to be in ecstasy. If you’re short on ecstasy, I’ve got a master bedroom you should see.”
“I know,” Tess said. “I’m the one who painted it yellow.”
“I don’t mind the yellow,” Nick said. “But did you have to paint the ceiling blue and glue on all those glow-in-the-dark stars? I turned the lights off last night and almost had a coronary when I rolled over.”
“Well, I figured I’d be spending a lot of time up there staring at it,” Tess said. “You know, on my back with the lights out.”
“I know there’s a message here I’m not getting,” Nick said.
“Now that I’m Mrs. Jekyll, I have to behave. Gina read me the riot act on this, and she’s right. No more risky sex.”
Nick started to laugh and then smothered it when he saw she was serious. “So now you’re planning on spending the rest of your life in the missionary position?” His grin broke through again.
“Hey,” Tess said. “I’m adapting. Give me a little credit.”
“I’d rather give you a wedding present.” Nick came around to the front of the stairs, took her hand and hauled her to her feet, dumping Angela to the floor in the process. “It’s in the dining room.”
“The dining room’s empty. We sold the table, remember? And then you refused to buy the red one I liked, so…” She followed him around the bottom of the stairs and then stopped, stunned.
The dining room was filled with the biggest grand piano she’d ever seen. And it was bright red.
Nick leaned against it. “I found it in a thrift shop, believe it or not.”
Tess walked toward it, her smile growing wider by the minute. “I don’t believe it.”
“Well, it was black when I found it,” Nick said. “I had it painted red. Like it?”
Tess stroked the lacquered red top as she slowly circled the piano. “I love it. Does it play the Minute Waltz?”
“Not unless you press the right keys,” Nick said. “This is a people piano.”
“I don’t play the piano,” Tess said.
“Neither do I.”
Tess stopped and looked back at him. “Then what are we going to do with a dining room full of a piano that neither one of us can play?”
“I was hoping you’d ask that.” Nick loosened his tie. “Let’s strike a blow for humanity.”
Tess was still laughing when he boosted her up onto the piano and climbed on top with her, rolling until he was under her.
“I love you,” Nick said as he pulled her close. “But if you ever turn into Mrs. Jekyll, I’m kicking you off this piano.”
“I knew you’d turn into a tyrant once I married you.” Tess straddled him and began to pop the studs from his shirt. “With you acting like this, how long do you think this marriage is going to last?”
Nick propped himself up on his elbows and met her eyes, and he wasn’t laughing anymore. “I think this marriage is going to last forever,” he said. “Is that all right with you?”
Tess caught her breath, suddenly swept up in the enormity of being married and the immensity of her love. “No,” she said, and then she leaned down into his arms. “Forever isn’t long enough. I’m going to love you longer than that.”
Nick wrapped his arms around her and closed his eyes for a moment. “Thank you for marrying me,” he said finally.
“Anytime,” Tess said. “Anytime, anyhow, anywhere.”
“Now and here, forever,” Nick said, and kissed her, and then they didn’t say anything at all
What the Lady Wants
by Jennifer Crusie
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
One
Mae Sullivan frowned up at the grimy old office building and shifted from one aching spike-heeled foot to the other, trying to keep the weight off her blisters. From the looks of the neighborhood, her chances of getting mugged were only slightly greater than the chances of the building falling on her. Only a loser would work in a place like this.
Good.
It hadn’t been easy finding an incompetent private eye on such short notice in a midwestern city like Riverbend. But now there was Mitchell Peatwick. She could picture him, leaning back in his office chair, balding and overweight, slack-jawed and beady-eyed, no brains to speak of.
He’d patronize her because she was female.
She’d play him like a piano.
All she had to do was convince him that he was investigating a real murder case, and he’d swing his paunchy weight around, creating noise and confusion until whoever had taken her uncle’s diary would be forced to either give it up or bury it forever if he didn’t want to be accused of murder. Yep, that was all she had to do. So go do it. She took a deep breath and winced as the waistband of her borrowed pink skirt cut into her flesh. Then she pulled the veil on her hat over her eyes and walked toward the cracked glass doors of the old building, watching her reflection as she climbed the steps.
Even through the dumb pink veil, she really did look sexy. It was amazing what clothes could do.
Now, if she could just get this damn interview over with before the waistband of June’s skirt cut her in two and June’s heels made her lame for life, she’d be on her way to solving all of their problems.
Please let Mitchell Peatwick be dumb as a rock with a weakness for women in tight skirts, she prayed as she rang for the elevator. Please let him be everything I need him to be.
THE WINDOW behind him was cranked wide-open, and the ceiling fan above him stirred the air, and Mitch was sure if he got any hotter, he’d die. As it was, he was pretty sure that the only thing that kept him alive was the fact that he wasn’t moving. If he moved, his body temperature would rise, and he’d melt right there in his office chair.
He didn’t want to move, anyway. He was too depressed to move. He leaned back in his cracked leather desk chair—sleeves rolled up, hands laced behind his head, heels crossed on his battered metal desk—and thought about the way he’d planned things and the way they’d turned out. Big difference there. Anticipation was a lousy preparation for reality. That’s why he was giving it up for fantasy. Fantasy was not particularly productive, nor was it lucrative, but it beat reality hands down.
Reality sucked.
Fantasy was leaving a prosperous career to become a private detective. Reality was regretting it. He closed his eyes and tried to recapture the dream, the part where he’d be the Sam Spade of the nineties. Then the elevator cables rumbled across the hall and Mitch knew another divorce job was coming his way. He hadn’t had many illusions about relationships before, he thought sadly, but he had absolutely none now. Even the people who weren’t married had him investigate to see if the people they weren’t married to were telling the truth. And of course, they weren’t. That was the one irrevocable truth Mitch had learned in a year, the only thing, he realized now, that he’d taken away with him.
Everybody lied.
Sam Spade would have understood that part, but he would have spit on the divorce work. Mitch had the uncomfortable feeling that he should be spitting on it, too, instead of making a precarious liv
ing at it. Too precarious. He had one week left in the year, one week to earn the last of the twenty thousand dollars and win his stupid bet and go back to his regularly scheduled life, but to do that he needed a client who would shell out $2,694 before Friday.
It wasn’t going to happen. Prying money out of clients was the second least favorite thing he’d learned about this job.
So when he heard the elevator cables rumble in the hall opposite his office door, he didn’t leap to his feet with enthusiasm. It wasn’t just because the heat would kill him if he moved. It was also because it had been a long time since he’d done anything with enthusiasm, and he’d forgotten how it worked.
If I was Sam Spade, this would be Brigid O’Shaughnessy. The ancient ceiling fan creaked above him, and buttery sunlight spattered over him, and in spite of himself, he began to feel optimistic again. Maybe hope wasn’t dead yet. Maybe this was a Brigid heading his way, a woman uninterested in marriage and commitment, willing to seduce him to get what she wanted.
He was sure as hell willing to be seduced.
She would come into the office, cool, slender, lovely and lethal, in one of those white suits with the wide lapels and a tight skirt that was slit to the hip. She’d have incredible legs. And maybe she’d be wearing a hat over her glossy red curls, a dark veil that dusted over blue, blue eyes and a straight little nose above moist, pouty lips. And in between the lips and the legs would be the best part. Her jacket would be tight under her breasts. Round breasts. Full, round breasts. High, full, round breasts.
With an effort, Mitch pried his mind off the breasts.
And she’d come in and say, “I need you to find the Maltese Falcon,” and her voice would be throaty and soft. And somewhere along the way, she’d take off her hat, and they’d have passionate, steamy, slippery, sweaty sex…
Mitch lingered for a moment on the sex…. and then he’d find out that she’d been the guilty one all along. “I won’t play the sap for you, baby,” he’d say, and they’d take her away for murdering his partner. Okay, he didn’t have a partner unless he counted Newton, and nobody ever counted Newton, but still…. No wonder that book was a classic. Sam Spade got to nail her without a commitment and still feel good about himself when he dumped her. First, great sex, and then he walked out on her, free as a bird, a hero instead of a schmuck.