Mistletoe Over Manhattan. Barbara Daly

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СКАЧАТЬ her mother’s books had on her. A short session with that practical, unromantic voice had returned her to her normal, sane self. She would be fine on this trip.

      “I’m calling with a question,” he said. “Why pea-green? Why not just green?”

      Mallory blinked. “Well—” She was confident there was a reason, but the sound of his voice, the very fact that he’d called, was making inroads on her normal, sane self. It was maddening. “There are numerous shades of green, lime-green, forest-green, Kelly-green…”

      “Would you be less upset if your hair were lime-green instead of pea-green?”

      “Um. No, I suppose not.”

      “Then the use of ‘pea-green,’ which has a negative connotation, instead of just ‘green,’ which is more neutral, is a deliberate attempt on the part of the plaintiffs to make the green sound as disgusting as possible.” He sounded triumphant.

      “But I just said it wouldn’t matter if—”

      “Just something to think about. Okay. See you at the gate tomorrow.”

      “Okay, I’ll—” But he wasn’t there anymore. It was the first time he’d called her since law school, and all he’d wanted was to discuss the impact of pea-green over plain green on a potential jury.

      She whirled to stare at herself in the mirror. She might not be gorgeous, but why, exactly, didn’t her colleagues think of her as a woman? Forget the colleagues. Why hadn’t Carter ever seen her as a woman?

      She had to admit she looked none too sexy with her teeth clenched together. She whirled back, and her gaze fell on her suitcase. She still had room. What could she take that was a little more exciting than black and more black and a touch of white?

      With frantic fingertips she went through the sparse collection of clothes in her closet, wondering why she bothered. She knew what she owned. More black, more white, a small navy grouping and the thrill of one gray suit and one beige. No surprises were hiding in there.

      It was too late to go shopping, but not too late to call her friend Carol the Consummate Clotheshorse down on the fifth floor. Carol had flown back early from St. John’s, too, for a reason their friends understood, to make a raid on Marshall Field’s post-Thanksgiving, pre-Christmas sales racks. She’d have something old she’d be willing to loan.

      “Carol,” she began, “I’m going to New York.”

      “Mallory the Jet-setter,” Carol said. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

      Mallory clenched her teeth. “It’s business,” she said crisply. “I was wondering if I might borrow one extra jacket from you.”

      “Anything,” Carol said fervently. “If you’d wear something besides a suit and midheel orthopedic pumps, I’d give you rights to my whole closet. All my closets,” she corrected herself. “What kind of jacket did you have in mind?”

      “Something that goes well with black,” Mallory said, floundering in the alternatives and also realizing this wasn’t the first time a friend had commented on her penchant for suits and dowdy shoes. It was just the first time it had upset her.

      A dangerous thought ran through her mind. Herself in a low-necked, scarlet top, and Carter’s fingertips edging the cleavage, then dipping beneath the fabric…

      She stammered the words out. “I was thinking…red.” There. She’d veered again. It was getting easier each time. Not processing her mail, then wine, now red.

      “Ooh,” Carol said. “I’ve got a red jacket that would look great on you. I’ll bring it right up and hang it on your doorknob. I know you’re busy packing.”

      Mallory was already having second thoughts, but a red jacket seemed like such a tiny veer that it hardly seemed worth worrying about. “Thanks, Carol. I’ll return the favor as soon as possible.”

      “You can return it right now. Do you have any stamps?”

      “Of course.” She had every staple of everyday life in bulk, just as the efficient woman should. “I’ll leave them on the foyer table. And Carol?”

      “Um?”

      “May I leave you a copy of my itinerary?”

      “Sure. But you said New York. Just tell me where you’re staying.”

      “The St. Regis,” Mallory said, “but there’s more information than that. Flight numbers, who to call just in case….”

      “And the suit you’d like to be buried in,” Carol said with a sigh Mallory had also heard from more than one of her friends. “I’ll wait fifteen minutes before I bring up the jacket.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice had taken on a new tone. “You’re going to love this jacket.”

      Did Carol’s voice have a sly edge, or was she imagining it? She hadn’t been imagining it, a fact she learned when she unhooked the red jacket from her doorknob.

      Mallory looked it over, and then, dismayed, tried it on. Had she gained weight? She and Carol had always been the same size. But this jacket hugged her waist, pushed up her breasts and flared out over her hip-bones, ending much too soon to hide her rear end, which Mallory felt was the best reason to wear a jacket.

      Carol had undoubtedly meant well, but Mallory was sure she could never bring herself to go out in public in this jacket. Still, she didn’t want to appear ungrateful. She folded it in the “Ellen Trent fold” and used it to fill the empty space in her roll-on bag. If this insane craving for red lasted, she’d buy a proper blazer in New York.

      She closed her mother’s book and held it in her hand for a moment, then slid it into her suitcase. Having it with her would be like wearing garlic to ward off illness or holding a cross to shield herself from the devil.

      The devil being Carter.

      CARTER DRUMMED ON HIS desktop with the pen he held the same way he used to hold a cigarette. He’d thought the pea-green query had been a good question for Mallory, but he could tell from her hesitation that she’d thought it was a damned silly question and she would probably have said so if she weren’t such a well-brought-up girl.

      She wasn’t a girl anymore. She was all woman.

      Feeling as if he’d regressed ten years, he threw everything into his briefcase and went home to his Lake Shore Drive apartment. It was a mess. He was glad to be leaving it, and his cleaning service would deal with it before he got back. He’d forgotten to pick up the pizza and had to order one in. It didn’t arrive until he’d finished packing, so he ate it in bed while he watched the news. He reflected that he still had that spoiled rich kid inside him, and every now and then, he had to let him out.

      Feeling that the smell of pepperoni might follow him all the days of his life, he picked a thread of mozzarella cheese off his favorite pillow, pounded it into a comfortable configuration and tried very hard to get a good night’s sleep.

      Good luck. But exhaustion took over, and next thing he knew, he was at the airport waiting for Mallory.

      So where the hell was she?

      He’d СКАЧАТЬ