Fortune's Mergers. Bronwyn Jameson

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      And saw roses. Yellow roses. What appeared to be a field of them. Curious, she swung open the door and fell back a step, clapping a hand over her heart. “Oh, my word,” she breathed, stunned by the sheer size of the arrangement that greeted her.

      “Delivery for Ms. Gina Reynolds.”

      The male voice came from behind the roses and obviously belonged to the person holding them.

      She strained to peer through the blooms. “I’m Gina.”

      “Where would you like me to put these?”

      “I’ll take them,” she offered stretching out her hands.

      She shifted left and right, down and up, searching for something to grip, but finally gave up.

      “Maybe you better bring them inside,” she conceded. “Hang on a minute and I’ll guide you.”

      Stepping out into the hallway, she positioned herself behind the delivery boy and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Straight ahead,” she instructed, then warned, “Careful. There’s a large support column on your left. Good,” she praised as he shifted slightly to the right and avoided bumping into it. “My dining table is directly in front of you. You can set the arrangement there.”

      Heaving a sigh of relief, the young man deposited the roses on the table, then pulled an invoice from his pocket. “Sign here,” he said, pointing.

      “Who are they from?” she asked curiously, scrawling her name.

      The boy tucked the invoice back into his pocket. “Beats me. There’s probably a card in there some place. Usually is. If not, you can call the shop. Somebody there will probably know.”

      Nodding, she drew a five dollar bill from her purse. “Thank you,” she said. She handed him the tip, then eyed the arrangement dubiously and added, “I think.”

      After locking the door behind the delivery boy, she returned to the dining table and began searching for a card. Not finding one among the blooms, she squatted down to see if it was attached to the vase.

      “Oh, my gosh,” she cried, when she found herself staring into the jeweled eyes of a silver toad. Charmed by the intricately crafted creature, she spied the card and removed it, sure that she’d find her agent’s name there, along with his congratulations on her receiving the Newbury Award.

      “Toad Lover?” she read with a frown, straightening. She turned the card over and read the neatly typed message “Call me. 555-9436.”

      Not recognizing the number, she picked up the phone and punched in the digits. She listened to three rings, then heard the click of an answering machine engaging.

      “This is Case. Leave a message at the tone.”

      She clutched the receiver to her ear, too stunned to move. The tone sounded and she fumbled the phone, in her haste to disconnect the call.

      Case sent her flowers? she thought in dismay. And yellow roses, no less, her absolute favorite. How had he known? And the silver toad vase … it was adorable, perfect. She collected toads in every shape and form.

      But why would Case send her flowers?

      “Doesn’t matter,” she told herself sternly. Whatever his reason, she wasn’t interested. Not in him. Not in the roses. Not in the adorable silver toad he’d chosen to send them in. She was tossing it all out. She wasn’t keeping a gift from Case Fortune.

      She stooped to gather the arrangement into her arms and moaned pitifully when she found herself looking into the jeweled eyes of the silver toad. How could she throw away a toad? It would be like tossing out a friend.

      Straightening, she snatched up the card and tore it into little pieces. She might keep the arrangement, but she wasn’t calling him. She didn’t care how much she liked yellow roses or how adorable she thought the silver toad vase, she was not calling Case Fortune. Not even to say thanks. Emily Post might have a heart attack over the slight, but etiquette be damned. Gina wasn’t calling Case, nor was she sending a polite note of thanks.

      She wanted nothing to do with Case Fortune.

      Ever.

      “Your personal taxi is here!”

      Busy packing her briefcase for her trip to New York, Gina glanced up to find Zoie, her neighbor from across the hall, entering her loft. Zoie was the only person Gina had entrusted with a key to her loft, an honor Zoie took full advantage of by coming and going as she pleased.

      Today Zoie had her hair spiked with purple mousse and, if Gina wasn’t mistaken, was sporting a new tattoo on the back of her hand.

      Shaking her head at her neighbor’s bizarre taste, Gina set her briefcase on the floor. “All ready. I just need to grab my rolling bag.”

      Zoie stopped short, her eyes going wide, as she got her first glimpse of the flowers that filled the room. “Girl, have you given up writing and opened a floral shop?”

      Grimacing, Gina shrugged on her coat. “No, but it looks like it, doesn’t it?”

      Zoie flicked a nail over a petal in a bouquet of forget-me-nots, then turned to Gina, her lips pursed in annoyance. “Obviously you’ve been holding out on me. Who’s the guy?”

      Gina shuddered at the mere thought of a relationship with Case. “Trust me, there is no guy.”

      Zoie spread her arms, indicating the flowers that filled every available space. “Then why all this?”

      Gina heaved a sigh. “I wish I knew. It started with the yellow roses over there,” she said pointing. “They were delivered on Monday. Tuesday morning I received the bucket of daisies. Later that day, the orchids arrived. Wednesday, the gladiolas and the basket of peonies. Yesterday the forget-me-nots and that tall palm plant in the corner.”

      “Nothing today?”

      She tipped her head toward the screen that partitioned her bedroom from the remainder of the loft. “In there. I ran out of room in here.”

      “The guy must be crazy in love with you. Get a load of these orchids, will you? This time of year these things cost a small fortune.”

      Gina grimaced at the word fortune. “Trust me. He can afford it. And he’s not in love with me. Heck, he doesn’t even know me!”

      “Mm-hmm,” Zoie hummed doubtfully.

      “It’s true, I swear. We met for the first time last Saturday at my booksigning.”

      Zoie clasped her hands together in a dramatic plea of supplication. “Please tell me he’s legal and not one of your adoring under-aged fans.”

      “Yes, Miss Drama Queen, he’s legal.”

      “Does he have a name?”

      “Case Fortune.”

      Zoie’s eyes shot wide. “The Case Fortune?”

      Irritated СКАЧАТЬ